the expectation gap...

So last week I shared a bit with you about how we were willing to face multiple layers of disaster in the name of obedience in relation to our housing situation. And the elation we felt when the situation worked itself out in our favor; even though the results weren’t exactly what we were hoping for.

But that sense of elation only lasted a short while before reality crashed back in. Not so much that I was unhappy about staying in our house, but more like feeling that God promised me one thing and delivered something else.

And here I am, staring down a gigantic chasm. A chasm spanning the gap between my God honoring expectation, and the reality of my life experience.

So what then? What happens when you go out a limb and dare to believe that God has made you a specific promise, and you pray circles around that promise, attacking it from each side, just so you make sure that you really understand all the ramifications that come with it. And it’s not all some fantastic daydream that your entitled suburban heart just wants to believe.

And it isn’t indigestion either.

What happens when you’re embarrassed when your friends ask about it, and praying about it is too hard. So you just pretend that you’re still elated. But really you’re confused, and tempted to think that God is the world’s biggest scam artist.

This isn’t the place where you throw some well worn cliché like everything happens for a reason. Because that’s just dumb. And it doesn’t fix anything.

This is the place where you make a decision.

Is my faith strong enough to get through this little quandary, or is this God thing some sort of elaborate joke.

I think God drops these circumstances on us just to see what we'll do. To see if we really mean it when we say we're in this relationship, no matter what.

 Or if we really just came to Him for a handout.

 If He sends us away empty handed the first time, will we have the faith to come back again. Will we come back a second, third or millionth time without a guarantee that we'll get what He promised us in the beginning.

And even if we never get what we originally wanted, will we still love Him anyway.

So I don’t know what is in store for our family in the future. I don’t know if we’ll decide to pursue a new house in the spring, or hold off for another year or two.

What does matter is that I’ve breached the expectation gap with my faith intact. And if I’ve done it once I can do it twice. I can continue to ask for things and know that the world isn’t ending when I don’t get them.

Staring down Tsunamis

You may or may not have been following the housing saga that our family embarked in last summer. If not, let me just summarize by saying it was three months full of wave after wave of the uncertainty of transition.

Leading up to the anticlimactic day that we decided to take our house off the market. But even after we made that decision, God had one last crushing wave to drop on us, just to see how we would respond.

Two weeks after we made that decision we received a very respectable offer. Two weeks after we decided the promise of transition was no longer worth the emotional uncertainty. Two weeks after we said ain’t nobody got time for this amount of crazy.

Two weeks after school started and fall activities caused my schedule to implode. And there was nothing on the market we wanted to look at, which meant that accepting the offer might have led our family into a season of homelessness; a season of perpetual transition without a clear finish line.

But in my heart, refusing the offer would have been an act of disobedience.

Saying yes = homelessness. Saying no = disobedience.

So here I am, staring down this wall of water that is going to crush me no matter what I do. If I stay, I get soaked. If I run, I get soaked. Either way, something bad about to happen.

So we accepted the offer. Accepted the fact that Jesus might want us to celebrate Christmas in a hotel room. Accepted the fact that our special needs child might be out of school for a month and therefore a hot mess-screaming disaster for at least two months. And even better, that our special little boy who spent 7 years of his life being homeless was about to be homeless again. If this is where our obedience leads us, so be it. SO BE IT.

We marched right up to that tsunami of potential disaster and laughed in the face of its threats. Oh yes we did.

And then the annoying buyer backed out.

I have never been so thrilled to not get what I wanted.

Death to perfectionism. Don't tell my realtor.

God has been showing me so much as we’ve been in the transition to a different house these last few months.

A big part of the moving process is making your house presentable enough for other families to come and look at it. To see how they would live their lives in your space. Which presents interesting challenges when your family obviously does not fit in the space they’re confined to. And you have a special needs child who doesn’t have the slightest clue about how the process works.

So a challenge was thrown down. The challenge to find the balance between maintaining show ready perfection and the reality that we are real people living real lives. That balance is going to be different for everyone, but when I prayed over the quandary this is the answer I got.

 Let people into your imperfect house. Not because they’re going to buy it, but because it’s ok to call perfectionism a trap. I don’t need your house to be perfect to sell it, so just trust Me on this one.

Ugh. That was a hard pill to swallow. Laughing in the face of the natural inclination towards perfectionism. Choosing to be above having a perfect house, when every fiber of my being screamed that my rational was insane and demented. Intentionally leaving those tiny Legos in the crevices of my house because God said I could. Such a rebel. I know. Don’t tell my realtor.

So from the home owner who’s probably a bit too far on the “anti show ready” end of the spectrum. Well. What can I say,

Besides screw you people who made fun of the Lego’s on my floor.

Ok, that was mean. Maybe what I want to say is I would prefer not to manipulate you into thinking that we are perfect people living perfect lives with children who never touch anything. Thank you for not noticing the stray Legos that are EVERYWHERE. We’ll take them with us when we leave, but until you put in an offer, it’s really not worth it to try to get every single one off the floor. So there. God bless.

the rest of the mower story

So last time I told you the mower story. A story about how I almost gave up on life because I couldn’t start the stupid mower.

Which wasn’t so much a story about having a tidy yard as much as it was a testament to the fact that God uses funny things to show us the Truth.

But in the days that followed that little showdown, in the moments where the tears came back each time I considered what had really happened that sunny summer morning on my driveway, I had to wonder why.

Jesus and me. We’re like this. Thick as thieves. So why on earth did He let the failure chatter get so thick that I was ready to give up over something so silly? Where were the warning lights? Caution tape? A quick “hey lady you’re being silly. Stop it.” would have gone a long way.

So a few days after that little stunt I was standing in my new “sanctuary” (aka that spot on my driveway where that stupid mower finally started up) trying to get a sense of why things had gone down the way they had and got a moment of revelation.

Satan had permission to call me a failure until I hit my breaking point so that Jesus could show me that I wasn’t. End of story.

Working mowers don’t lie. A freshly mown lawn is proof that everyone can see. A flashing beacon if you know the story behind it. Jesus was here. Satan is dumb. Don’t believe him.

the infamous mower story

Over the last couple weeks I’ve been sharing with you about how the transition to a new house has affected me and the things that I’ve learned from the process. I hope in some odd way you’ve found a way to connect to our situation. Or at least laugh about it.

So this last one is a bit personal. The kind of personal that makes me guard it fiercely because I don’t want to be that vulnerable with you. But those are the best stories. Am I right?

So here we go. Eek.

Our house has been on the market for 4 months. 4 agonizing months. Which is normal. I know. But for some reason I thought we’d be special and get an offer in the first 3-5 days. Which we did, but then they walked away. Long story.

So 4 months in to the process I’m feeling rather vulnerable and angry that this isn’t what I signed up for, because I’m the mother of a special boy and I’m ENTITLED to an easy transition. So GIVE ME WHAT I WANT. OR ELSE.

Ha ha, I know. I’ll give you a moment to get your chuckling under control.

Ok, so that’s where my little heart is, all angry and frustrated about the slowness of the transition. And I’m vulnerable with a capital V.

When Satan tries to tell me that this is my fault because I’m a failure.

This little “I’m a failure” bubble followed me around for at least a week. Subtle at first, but the more I listened to it the more I heard it. I’m a failure at moving. I’m a failure at special needs parenting. I’m a failure at… fill in the blank with your own topic, because I fail at everything.

Which sounds funny to you, because you aren’t the one who was vulnerable.

So this is the storm that’s raging in my head and I refuse to tell anyone about it and I’m just trying to breathe in and out (because I obviously am not a failure at breathing) and I go out to mow the grass.

 And can’t get the mower to start.

And the world's biggest liar whispers in my ear: See I told you that you were a failure. You can’t even mow. Just sit down and accept your failure.

Cut to the image of the girl crumpled up on the driveway this close to admitting defeat. This close to believing a life crippling lie once and for all.

When truth whispers. “Wait! Wait! One. More. Just try one more time.”

So with a face soaked in tears, and a heart full of doubt, I give the stupid thing one more yank (pulling a muscle in my shoulder, thank you very much).

And the mower starts.

These are the things that only happen in the movies. Am I right?

Let’s just sit a spell and let the glory settle. The stupid mower started. But only after I chose to listen to the Truth. Even though I thought it was a really dumb idea. And I sort of only did it so that I could call the Truth a Lie. No joke.

And I have a strained muscle in my shoulder. Not because I yanked too hard on that stupid mower, but because I had an arm wrestling match with Satan. And I won. Which is a bit predictable when you think about it. But it didn’t seem like it at the time.

So then, what can I say, besides let my perfectly mowed lawn stand as a tribute to the Truth. Every time you drive past it (this week because surely I’ll just have to mow it again before too much longer) you’ll praise your God because He started that mower when I wanted to quit.

And each time the failure chatter starts again I just go stand in my yard. In that little spot where my arm wrestling match took place.  And I look at the grass. It’s a nice spot, really, right up by the road. You should come stand there sometimes too.

Jesus is in the boxes

We’re talking about transition these days. We’re elbow deep in cardboard boxes, eager to find our way to the next house that God has for our family.

But the reality of this move is that it’s not so much about having more space as it is about having the guts to laugh at the uncertainty of it all. It’s easy to believe in God when things are going good. When people leave awesomely encouraging feedback about my cute kitchen (that’s sadly in the wrong part of town for their family).

But what happens when the chips are down. When no one is coming to see what we’re selling. When the timeline isn’t going according to plan and I probably won’t be done with the transition in order to start school in the new house.

The house that has our names written all over it, but someone else is probably going to snatch up before we can put an offer on it because no one will buy the house we’re in. And it would be stupid to try to own both, even for a tiny little while.

Then I have the worst day ever and my special boy is a complete monster and someone asks if they can have a showing in an hour and a half. And then those stupid last minute people don’t even write an offer. Probably because my house is a hot dirty mess. Just like I am. For real people.

This is where Jesus really is. Where Jesus really wanted me to go. Where I’m gritty and dirty and raw. And fed up with the senselessness of it because this house isn’t really that bad. And whose idea was this anyway.

Where I still choose to believe that this is all a part of the plan. Even though I feel like I’m either crazy or brilliant because I continue to cling to a plan that’s so insane that I’m not even sure I can pull it off. But frankly I’m just a bit too defiant to give in just yet. Because God does funny stuff like this all the time.

When God leads you well past your breaking point just so you can laugh at what a wimp you were on the other side of that barrier.  

And He shows you that all of this really has nothing to do with the house anyway.

That is where Jesus is.

And it makes me wonder why we pray for God to make things easy. When things are so much more interesting out where Jesus is. The stories are so much more fun to read out here. And way more fun to write for that matter. Because if you’re going to go through the insanity, you might as well come through it with an interesting story to tell on the other side, am I right about that?

Finding God in the transition

So we’re in a bit of a transition around here. We put our house on the market last May and have been on the moving tidal wave ever since. Up down, up down, down a bit more, crash. Pick yourself up and repeat the cycle all over again. Eye roll.

There have been so many beautifully sweet lessons during this time I can’t begin to remember them all. But over the next few weeks I have a handful of moving inspired posts to share, I hope you’ll find a healthy take away from my troubles.  Or at least find the humor in this big fat cardboard box headache.

So the main reason we’re moving is that we’re a family of 6 living in 1300 square feet of cute little house. Did you catch that LITTLE part of that discription?

Jory and I have been avoiding this conversation for years, tried to make it work for years. We like small. Small is efficient. And easy to keep clean. And find things. Minimal living. That’s us. We’re happy with less. Really.

But this year homeschooling 3 students on my side of the master bedroom – an area that’s about 6 x 8. Computers, textbooks, chairs, desks, and people. Use your imagination. Eye roll.  

We did it, it worked. But it was horrible. The kind of horrible that makes you take a real look at life and say is this worth it? What is my priority here, educating the kids or making the house work for just a bit longer?

Sounds a bit silly when I say it out loud.  Why would I put my house above my children?

But the whole transition to a new house thing has really been so much more personal than simply saying “we’re moving because our house is small”. If that’s the only reason I had for the transition, then I probably would have given up a long time ago. Not sure the process is worth it just to get more space. Not for me anyway. This house isn’t that bad.

So stick with me over the next few days as we unpack all the stories and take aways from the move across town that I’m affectionately calling “it’s not because my house is too small”.

I think I'll sing anyway

So, we’re moving. Or at least we’re trying to move. You know how that goes. The highs and lows of negotiating with people who may or may not be trying to do what’s honorable.   Mix that with a whole lot of helplessness  while you wait on imperfect people. It’s pretty much a powder keg of stress and emotion. Especially the first time you do it.

One of those things that makes me wonder if moving a mile up the road to a bigger house as an act of obedience is really what God wants or if I’m just plain crazy because this house really isn’t that bad.   

So here I am in my not-so-happy little powder keg using all the stuff God has taught me about keeping my head every time the inevitable disaster hits. And I’m mostly fine. Not caring about the hills and valleys, not caring about how people respond, only caring about my own obedience.

Then yesterday we got a triple whammy of losing a contract on this house, losing a sure bet on another house, and a septic guy telling me I need to spend $500 to put ugly markers all over my yard – right in a high traffic area where people are going to trip on them.

Yeah. It was a good day.

Eye roll.

So my head and my heart had a little disagreement. It sounded something like this.

Heart: wahhhhhhhh!

Head: Stop being a crybaby. You’re fine.

Heart: Did you hear me? I said WAHHH!

Head: I think it’s time to sing.

Heart: I don’t like singing. I only like crying.

Head: La la la. I can’t hear you. I’m singing. You should try it. You’ll feel better.

Ok, so the illustration was a bit on the comical side. But I hope you can hear what I’m saying. My head and my heart are not always on the same page. My head knows the truth, logic and reason. My heart only knows emotion -happy or sad.  And there are so many times that my crybaby heart ruins my day because it will just not listen to the voice of reason.

So yesterday when I was driving around, tired of listening to my crybaby heart that wouldn’t shut up I decided to sing. Out loud. Louder than my heart was crying. I totally pulled the “la, la, la, I can’t hear you” card on myself.  

And it totally worked. My heart tried to shout over the singing for a while, until it realized it wasn’t doing any good because my brain was too busy trying to remember what words were next in the song to listen.  And finally it gave up and started singing too.

Confessions of a church not pay attention-er

Yep. It’s time to come clean to a truth my children have known about me for some time now. You may have guessed it already. But if not, here goes:  I don’t always pay attention in church.

No, I wasn’t the lady two rows behind you having a conversation with her neighbor about lasagna during the pastoral prayer. You should know me better than that.  

I was the one with a pen and paper scribbling madly away before the pastor even put his first bullet point on the screen. And just between you and me, my furious note taking had nothing to do with Pastor Andy’s sermon. (Even though he’s fantastic, and you should totally listen to him. Like every word.)

The truth is, God meets me in church, and He meets me with words. And the words that He tends to dump upon me in profusion aren’t necessarily the words that are coming out of the pastor’s mouth. Eep. I know.

For way too long I tried to tell God to just shut up already so I could hear what the man up front was saying. But now that I’m older and smarter I realize just how silly that sounds.

Can’t talk now Jesus, I’m listening to Andy. Your truths are just going to have to wait. How’s 7:30 pm sound? I can talk then…

Yeah. That doesn’t really work, does it?

I cannot tell you how many of these blog posts are the fruit of my tendency to not pay attention in church.

You can count this one as one more.  

Tell me I can’t

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This month we’re talking about a contest I’ve entered. A fiction contest with the prize being a publishing opportunity in a book. A real book. With chapters, and contributors, and a royalty check. Not that I’m in it for the money. Cause I could really care less about that part. You should know that about me by now.

Anyway.

As I contemplate this season of anticipation. Of waiting to see whether the chips are going to fall in my favor or not. Of whether I really understood that not so gentle tug on my heart to put a bunch of made up words together into a somewhat coherent story line.

All I can do is think back to the last time I challenged God to put up or shut up. The last opportunity I had to stand on a rather precarious perch and announce that God was about to do something big.

That day I walked in front of a Russian judge and dared her to say no to God’s plan for my son.

You know how that story ended. The proof is here for you to read.

When I stepped in front of that judge on that cold November morning over two years ago, I knew in my heart that God had made a promise. Max was already my son. All I had to do was jump through the proper bureaucratic hoops to make the Russians know I wasn’t kidding about claiming him as my own.  

And today I stand on another precarious perch and tap hesitantly on my mic to see if anyone can hear me. Is this thing on? Because my God is about to do something big, and He wants you to be in the front row to see the whole thing.

So pull up a chair already. 

Here  I am. Not only am I about to win this dang contest, but I’m about to plop myself into a new job description. I’ma take that whole industry by storm. Just you watch. 

Not because I’ve always wanted to be a published author. Not because I’ve daydreamed about it since I was little and wished upon a star and all that crap. Because it’s mostly the opposite of that. Obviously.

This is the story of Mama who used to be totally happy wasting her days away in her beloved garden, taking way too many pictures of her precious children. A Mama who was dragged kicking and screaming into a roll that’s bigger than herself, her camera, and her garden. A Mama who’s willing to look like a big doofus by making a rather ridiculous claim on victory well before the winners are announced because her God made a promise. And she believed it.

But.

I do need votes.

Here’s that link again.
Leave a comment voting for #2 (me!) and #7 (my writing buddy Suzanne)
or you can send an email to the host: 
thequestfortruthbooks (a) gmail (dot) com

Just you wait. God’s going to do something big. BIG I tell you.

The day I didn't stab my eyeballs out.

As it was for many mid-western families, it's been a long month in the ol' Peterson abode. The kind that makes you want to stab your eyeballs out with a fork.

For those of you who aren't midwesterners, here's the scene: It's the tail end of a very long Christmas vacation, and a crazy snowpocolypse / polar vortex plops itself over your house. For four days the roads were closed to all unnecessary travel, leaving us trapped at home for way longer than any sane family should stay in close proximity.
.
Did you catch that? 5,760 minutes. In my tiny house. With my family of six. Which yes, includes a special little boy who doesn't like it when you mess with his schedule. At all.

And I can't even send the kids out to play in that lovely winter wonderland, cause it's like -30*.

And my three homeschoolers still have school work to do, so they are not free to play with that bored, off kilter rascal who would rather lay on the floor and scream for an hour than pick up a toy to play by himself for fifteen minutes.

Eye roll.

So when I say it's been a stressful month, you can nod and smile and say "bless your sweet heart," when I confess that I actually drugged my youngest nine year old to get him to sit and watch a movie for an hour so I could think. Don't laugh. My doctor told me I could.

And I'll let you guess just how whiny and desperate my prayers sounded during those rough moments. Those moments where stabbing my eyeballs out sounded like a very good idea. Have you been there? Please say yes.

But as we all know, those are the moments where God comes closest, and this time was no different. I think I was on day three of my imprisonment when He interrupted my crazy stream of whining to ask me this:

Do you want Me to change the situation, or do you want Me to change YOU?

And in my finite human wisdom I countered with: Do you want me to answer that like an overly stressed out human being, or do you want me to answer it like a child of God? Because to be honest, right now I just want You to change the situation.

Which of course He didn't.The winds kept blowing, and the cranky boy stayed cranky.

He changed me. By the grace of God I didn't stab my eyeballs out. Nor did I feed my children to the snow drifts. I took it one moment at a time. And we got through it.

I'll bet you saw that one coming.

This is not my shirt...

Raise your hand if you’re familiar with the whole “armor of God” thing, you know, the breastplate of righteousness, the belt of truth, so on and so forth.

If not, you can read about it in Ephesians 6:10-18 – the whole idea being to go into your daily routine prepared to battle the schemes of the devil.

Anyway. As I go through my morning routine, I not only put on my regular plain-jane clothes, but I also attempt to pick out a cute spiritual outfit as well. I like to imagine myself layering up with as much God as possible. When I pull on my jeans, I imagine myself sliding truth through my belt buckles. Then I snap up my righteousness, and tug a little salvation helmet over my obnoxiously thick hair.

And then I go to work.

So with all these little preparations, you’d think I’d be all set to face an entire days worth of “challenges”.

Not always.

The other day I was sitting in church grumping about something so silly I won’t even tell you about it, and God told me to open my eyes. Not metaphorically, like really open them, so I could see the clothes I had on.

I thought it was weird, but I did it anyway. Cause I know that sometimes God asks you to do things that are weird.

And then He says to me “this spirit of whining. It’s not yours. You put on faith, salvation, truth and a bunch of other stuff this morning. I was watching. You did not put on any cranky pants, grumpy socks or sour shirts. These pickle-puss clothes don’t even belong to you, so why are you wearing them?

Hmm. Good point. Looking down at my attire that morning I could imagine myself wearing a ridiculous get up of clothes that were 2 sizes too small, obnoxiously flashy, and obviously not mine. They looked like something that should be on its way out to the burn barrel.

I took out my mental eraser and erased all the ill fitting clothing that was making me so uncomfortable and redrew my clothing as it should be. This time I secretly added a robe of splendor just for my own amusement. And because Jesus said I could.

And you can think it’s silly if you want to, but I totally felt better after my little wardrobe swap.