{English Camp: The Music and the Message}

My sister and I grabbed each other's hands and began to twirl around the living room, dancing and laughing hysterically. We had the bare bones of a routine choreographed, but in our teen hearts we were convinced it was phenomenal. At the approach of the chorus, our dad turned up the volume. We pulled out all the stops and kicked our legs up as high as we could, duly impressing our family:

But I would walk five hundred miles 
And I would walk five hundred more; 
Just to be the one who walks a thousand miles 
To fall down at your door.

Never would I have guessed that this song would bring tears to my eyes. But, three weeks ago, that's exactly what happened.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

By Thursday morning, we had this whole camp gig down pat. We also had the whole hostel gig down pat, which was rather ironic: it was time to leave. There was a period of three or four days where the rooms were unavailable to us, so it had been arranged that we'd stay in the homes of the JV missionaries for a time and then return to the hostel.

Thus, my Thursday morning tea took the slightest turn. "May I have it in a paper cup? To take with me?" Once again, our hostess understood, and my tea was ready to go. Along with our assorted 50 lb. bags and suitcases. By 7:20 a.m. (We were very thankful for our brawny young men who eagerly shuttled our bags down the flights of stairs and into the awaiting van.)

Once at the church, we began as usual. Our combined team shared in morning devotions, and when the campers arrived, each team member fell confidently into their various roles, whether describing a game, leading an activity, or displaying song motions.

One of the highlights of camp was the music. Music brought us all together -- and quite literally, too. Some songs were meant to draw us into the same room (we had a camp song that, when played, was our signal to gather together, which we did with much dancing a laughter). Other songs were played for all-out fun and community, such as "Lean on Me" and "I'm a Believer." Still other songs filled the void in order to enhance hilarious games like "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles."

Our camp song, "Reign Forever," was a partner song with choreography, which everyone learned. By the end of the week we had those moves down (although I never could manage to make my twirling grapevine land in the right place). We also knew who to partner with in order to achieve a successful trust fall. This was important, for obvious reasons.

But for me, it was "500 Miles" that caused a lump to form in my throat. I hadn't heard this version of the song -- "We Have This Hope," it was called -- but I sure did know the tune. As soon as Johnny started to lead us that first day, we caught each other's eye. This song had a history. Years of images flashed through my mind in an instant. I pictured dancing in the living room with my sister. I pictured the many theatrical performances we coaxed our brother into joining. (Some of which included signed contracts; we just couldn't risk his fatigue or boredom, inevitable at age 8.)

We never could have imagined that, one day, he would be standing on a stage in a country called Slovenia, strumming that recognizable beat, teaching it to a crew of students and leaders, with a heart that beat wildly for Jesus. I was proud of him. Tears filled my eyes, and I was in awe of the way God faithfully -- and often unexpectedly -- lavishes the sweetest grace upon grace.

And I would walk five hundred miles
And I would walk five hundred more
Just to be the one who walks a thousand miles
To stand firm in my Lord.

It's a riotous, fun song. (And not really a tear-jerker at all, I suppose, unless one happens to be terribly sentimental. Like some people I know.) But the message is one we hoped to introduce to the campers that week: it is worth it all to stand firm in the Lord. And it's a message I've proudly watched my brother, sister-in-law, and niece live in their home in Celje: it is worth it all to stand firm in the Lord.

Jamie and Johnny both had opportunities to share this message throughout the week. Our late afternoon program included a session in which they introduced the Bible, King David and, ultimately, King Jesus. The talks were followed by discussion groups, which were entirely conducted in Slovene, the heart language of the students.

We all came to camp with our own heart languages that week. It was an honor and privilege for Jamie and me to lead a group of young adults who learned more and more to listen to that language, to understand more and more what it means to walk a thousand miles for our Lord. Sometimes the miles are swift and beautiful, traversing lush meadows and fragrant forests. Other times those miles are dusty, uphill miles, filled with ruts and boulders. But, with our Lord, they are all good, good miles with breathtaking vistas and marvelous landscapes we never would have encountered on our own.

Thursday evening, in our various missionary homes, we had opportunity to share more of this heart language with one another. It was a blessing to be welcomed into their homes, to talk about the deep things, the things that matter. The week of English camp may have been winding down, but we knew our hearts were still on the path of life-long loving and learning. A thousand miles stretched before us, our Savior beckoning, our Savior welcoming. And we wanted to be counted among those who would walk 500 miles, and 500 more.

{So You're Forty Today}

So you're forty today. And you know what? It looks good on you. Decades ago, when I was just a little slip of a girl in Keds and you were that mysteriously intriguing boy in high tops, I never would have guessed that I'd be sitting here, writing to you today. It would have bowled me over to even consider that we'd grow up, get married and talk about being forty, our own kids being the ages we were when I first took a shy glance your way.

I've continued to glance your way for almost thirty years now, and I'll say it again: forty looks good on you. Yeah, you've always had that confident grin that melts me and a sense of humor that makes my sides ache, but I'm talking about something else. I'm talking about the beauty that comes when two people grow up together, hang out in their teens, marry when they're super young and don't think it's at all unusual.

Because those are the kids-turned-adult that actually get to see what forty means. They watched it happen, they watched it become.

I see it in the grey streaks you've earned over the years. Years of joy and ache, every streak tells a story. This patch, just above your ear? I'm pretty sure you developed those flecks when you rushed our Bethie to the hospital, her tiny toddler body gasping for breath. It was croup, and oh, how my heart found rest when I later heard your reassuring voice on the phone. Or perhaps the grey made its way during the graveyard shift you took to support your young family and a wife who was still in college.

This grey streak? Probably the year you started your own business and worked yourself to the bone to make it work. You didn't give up. You fought for your passion and it worked. This grey is most likely from the year our basement flooded (yeah, we laugh now), and you and I spent an entire night trying to keep the water from destroying our home. It worked. Our home wasn't destroyed.

Our homes have never been destroyed.

That's why forty looks good. Because forty works hard and loves like mad and remembers what it was like to work dead-end jobs at 3:00 a.m. and empty the coin jar to buy diapers for the baby and a bag of pasta for dinner. Forty has learned how to really build a home, not destroy it. Forty has earned that grey. And it looks good.

I see the lines around your eyes. You've earned those, too. And yeah, they look good. They remind me of the way you laugh with your brothers about sending your little brother down the stairs in the rocking chair. The story makes us laugh every time. Or the laughter around the campfire when you tell Moscow Pie and we can't wait to hear the ending (even though we already know it), and the way you Lawsons can make a game of cards (or jacks or horseshoes) both fierce and hilarious.    

And they remind me of the way your face lights up when you talk about your kids. Our kids. You would light up when little Drew used to point out over a hundred countries on the world map and we were sure he was the most brilliant child to ever live. He gave us all Thomas the Tank Engine names (I was James and you were Duncan) and planned to dress up every Halloween as a different animal from his encyclopedia. Starting with Aardvark. 

Your eyes crinkled with laughter at my horror when Bethie chopped off her hair and the three-year-old chided, "Mom, it's only hair!" You beamed as she flitted about in her leotard, tutus and tiaras with her rosy cheeks and big blue eyes that had a way of going straight to your heart. 

They light up when you tell the story of racing me to the hospital (you still won't tell me how fast we were going), hoping to make it in time. The story continues to unfold and your eyes shine brighter when you get to the part about those nurses just not believing that I was really that close. I was. And Aidan was born three minutes later.

Your eyes dance every time Avery walks into the room, her defiant chin jutting forward, eyebrows raised (likely wearing a feather boa and sunglasses) saying, "Artists can get away with anything!" You're up for the challenge (because you know you were one, too), and you help her make tin can stilts so she can stomp around the house like Ramona Quimby shouting, "Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall."

I remember when our parents and their friends were turning forty. They had parties and decorated with black and laughed about that hill and how they were goin' over it. I believed it. I thought they really were old and that's what it would mean to be forty. But I know better now. All those years before forty? Those are really just the prelude. Those are the years that get us ready to be who we are. The years that prepare us to be okay with the grey, okay with the wrinkles around our eyes, okay with the fact that we just can't keep up with the twenty-somethings anymore.

Those are the years around which we set up stones of remembrance. They point, again and again, to God's faithfulness. And that remembering, that steady faithfulness, gives us confidence in who we are. In who God has made us to be. It's that confidence which allows you to hop over the ocean to join my brother in Slovenia because you're passionate about reaching students through video ministry.

It's that confidence that burns in your heart until you can't stand it any more and you just have to find a way to teach God's Word again. It's that confidence which jumps at opportunities to join a poet in ministry who is crazy about his God, and it's the same force that will send you to Haiti next month. We look back and we look ahead, and we have confidence. Not because of who we are, but because of who Christ is in us.

So yeah. You're turning forty today. And when I stroke those grey streaks around your temples and kiss the corners of your eyes and tell you I love you, it's because forty looks good on you. And I could give you a thousand reasons why.    

     

{Slowing Down}

I'd forgotten how life is both slow and fast when little ones are in the home. Slow because everything with little people takes a long time, fast because you have to be so on the ball to make sure basic needs are met in a timely fashion.

This week I watched -- on two separate days -- my sister's and sister-in-law's kids for a bit. Both have toddler and/or pre-school age kiddos among their broods, and in both situations I was caring for them away from my own home. (Home just wasn't an option this week as they were paving our street!) This meant that I was able to focus totally on the kids and not be distracted by the things that needed to be done around my home.

I found myself walking through the park at a much more leisurely pace. I found myself putting together a 25 piece puzzle . . . for a long time. I helped little ones climb, I read stories in my best little bear or little deer voice (as necessary) and took it very seriously when I learned that the Cabbage Patch doll was called Boolah and the stuffed deer was named Window. 

I marveled at these little people, finding joy and delight in the slower pace. It felt good to sit on the floor and look at books (well, that is, until my back and knees started to complain), to watch chubby little legs clamber up the playground equipment, to clap when a little one zipped down the slide. It's been a while since I've clapped at the bottom of a slide.

Since then I've been thinking over two things. One is this: I know there are many of you reading this who are in the trenches right now. You have little ones and everything seems both slow and fast and you're not sure if you can stand reading that book (that you now have memorized) for the twenty-fourth time today. Your voice is sore, you have spit-up and snot on your shoulder, you know the dishes are waiting in the sink and you're not sure what's for dinner or whether or not you'll have time to take a shower.

But you are doing the right thing. Every time you look into your child's eyes, every time you sit down on the floor and roll a matchbox car across your child's leg and giggle together, you're doing the right thing. Every time you read another book, color another page, smile over another fistful of dandelions, wipe up another spill, you're doing the right thing. You will never regret slowing down for your child.

The other thing I've been thinking is this: For those of us no longer in this season, we would do well to remember it -- it doesn't keep. We would do well to remember how good it is to connect with our children in intentional ways. To seek out specific experiences that help maintain the bond that was forged long ago, when our days were filled with Goodnight Moon readings, Thomas the Tank Engine adventures and stuffed animals named Cake and Chair. Because this, too, is the right thing. This intentionality wherever we are, this slowing down and looking into our child's eyes -- even if the eyes happen to be on a body that is taller than our own.  

Because we will never regret slowing down for our children.

One good deed is worth more than a thousand brilliant theories. Let us not wait for large opportunities, or for a different kind of work, but do just the things we "find to do" day by day. We have no other time in which to live . . . we never shall have any time but time present.

C.H. Spurgeon 

{Ten Things I Learned at VBC}

This week I hauled my children to the church for our annual Vacation Bible Camp. It's always such a highlight and, as exhausting as it is, it's rewarding and exciting, too. I've worked at VBC for a number of years, but this year I learned some very interesting things about myself.

I Spy Aidan in the red shorts!

1. I am capable of getting up before 7:00 a.m. Folks, I am NOT a morning person. Many years of prayer have enabled me to simply be civil in the morning, but I was still convinced that it would be impossible for me to ever embrace anything that happened before 7:00 with enthusiasm. So it was very exciting to think that I could actually be productive in that strangely quiet six AM hour.

Sometimes being early means that Little Miss is wearing brother's old Converse shoes. 
But she didn't forget her favorite sweatshirt!

2. I am capable of getting somewhere on time. With four children. Before 8:00 a.m. Our dear team leader made it very clear that we were to be on time for VBC this week. This benefits the team and ourselves and allows us to spend quality time in prayer. I hate rushing through the morning and I hate rushing through prayer even more. So we did it, folks. And on a few days . . . we were even early.

So proud to see Drew serve with the second grade team! (Third from right.)

3. I am not capable of making wise choices in the morning. Especially when it comes to clothing. Thankfully, this didn't apply to me. Leaders wear team T-shirts, so it was a no-brainer to just grab the lime green shirt with the decal and wear it again. And again. And again. But with the kids I had to be somewhat on the ball. I was so on that ball on Monday morning. Their clothes were ironed the night before and I knew they had clean socks. By today they were wearing dirty clothes (pretend like we're camping!). But the crowning moment was when I realized that my Little Miss looked half naked when I actually paid attention to what she was wearing. Unfortunately, this didn't take place until I saw her walk into the sanctuary with her class this morning.

(This day she was wearing clothes, including the aforementioned tie-dyed sweatshirt. It appeared daily.)

You see, she had this certain tank top she really wanted to wear. The straps were way too long, and I had  planned to detach them and refit them to a more modest length. With a needle and thread. At 7:00 this morning. This didn't happen. So I came up with the brilliant plan of just cutting the straps and tying them behind her neck. Yep. Like a halter top. She was still fumbling with it in the car, and Bethie dutifully tied it into a cute bow. Alas, her back was against the seat so I had no idea what was going on. Suffice it to say, there just wasn't much fabric back there. At all.

4. I am also not capable of keeping my house clean during VBC week. The end.

5. Or making dinner. (Hello, Costco pizza.)

6. Sometimes I break the rules. On purpose. One of our VBC rules is: No Texting during camp. I agree with this decision. Most of the time. But when my friend sends me the message that she's just given birth, well, it's like this: Reverend Mother, I have sinned. And I really hope it's okay to scream out a hooray text even if it's right in front of the director. Which it was.

7. I have a difficult time walking when children are hanging from my limbs. Those campers sure get cuddly by day five.

8. I am getting older. During game time? I was not running. I was not jumping. I was not holding a balloon between my knees. I was the lady with the clipboard.  

9. I am an introvert. (You will see why #7 was an issue.) I already knew this about myself, but it's always interesting to see how this plays out in various ministry settings. I found that my most meaningful moments this week were not necessarily those in which I was interacting with children, but when I was with other women, sharing, praying and learning from God's Word. It was extremely exciting for me to see that, as I spent time in God's Word outside of VBC, He gave me opportunities to share those very words with others at camp. Isn't He good?

My daughter is not an introvert. She's a chicken. And super fun to serve with. Her first year as Miss Lawson!

10. Speaking of His goodness . . . I still doubt. This week, our camp missions goal was to raise $2,000 for some missionary friends and their work in Uganda. By Thursday we had raised about $800, and I thought, "We're never gonna make it." I turned into Eeyore right there in that sanctuary. Our fun, enthusiastic missions-emphasis leader came out this afternoon to announce the results, and I found myself becoming more Eeyore by the minute. She built it up wonderfully (without knowing the results herself), getting the kids excited, ready to reveal the total with a countdown and everything. Friends? We raised over three-thousand dollars. My eyes filled with tears. I had doubted. But God was good. God is good.

"Nothing is too difficult for Thee!"

I have such a short memory! Just this morning I had read this precious reminder from Psalm 27:

I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

I wasn't very confident at 12:15 this afternoon. But I'm so very grateful that my God shows His goodness regardless of my limits. I think of the hundreds of kids who sat in that room today, screaming at the tops of their lungs because the impossible had been achieved. Why even yesterday, my own son had said, "It's impossible. This might be the first time in VBC history that we failed."

It's true. We might fail. But our God is greater than our failures and weaknesses. He's greater than our inability to get up in the morning, He's greater than our tendency to be late, He's greater than our introverted characteristics which make us think there's something wrong or less "useful" about our personalities, and He's greater than our doubts -- even our doubts about His own glorious goodness.

My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.

2 Corinthians 12:9

(All photos: Lamont Robbins.)                 

{The Brother}

"They go through the brother," my dad teased, a knowing look in his eye. My sister and I giggled. We supposed that it was sometimes true. That boys would befriend a brother in order to get to know the sister. But not my boyfriend. Not my Jamie. He truly enjoyed being with my brother. I loved watching them shoot hoops and play catch, loved the way Jamie made him feel special, loved the way my brother looked up to him.

Sometimes I wonder what I would have thought had I been able to take a glimpse into the future when I snapped this picture. If God had whispered a secret to come, a secret that waited down the road about twenty years, I would have seen another picture.

A picture of these boys -- now men, now truly brothers -- in another country.

It would have both baffled and delighted me. (I would have blushed. So we do end up getting married?) Yes, and one day Jamie will go to visit Johnny and his family in a country called Slovenia. The whisper would have filled out the story: Her name is Brooke, and they have a darling little girl named Kinsley. You will love them. You'll get to visit with them often using home computers. It will be called Skype. (You mean like the Jetsons? I'd marvel.) Yeah, kinda like that.

(Why does Jamie go?) The whisper would continue: He'll bring his video equipment to capture the vision. To bring home a picture of the love that Johnny and Brooke have for their God, for this country, for these people. And he'll bring home a heart full of love for your brother, his brother.

And I'd shake my head in joyful astonishment, marveling at the future.

* * * * *

I close the photo album and come to the present, to the now. Here they are before me, proof. The two pictures -- and many more -- each whispering a thousand words. Among those words are the most true, that God is good.

Yes, sometimes they go through the brother. And sometimes they go to the brother. Because that's what brothers do.

{Caption}

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words.



Which words would you use to capture this one? It's just begging for a caption. Don't you think?

Upon Reaching One Thousand

Like many around the globe, I've been mesmerized by the tally of grace. For the last few years, Ann Voskamp has challenged thousands to seek the thousands: To chronicle one by one the beauty in every moment, the grace in every heartbeat.

Last week I reached the big mark. One thousand.

When I started my notebook months and months ago, I was convinced that reaching the thousandth gift would be a huge milestone and worthy of much celebration. I couldn't wait for the joyous penning of #1000.

I was a rather inconsistent chronicler, but as the numbers soared and the gifts poured, I indeed felt the joy. I loved having a record of God's goodness in my life. My heart raced as I entered the 900s. I was almost there. I knew that my day of celebration was just around the bend.

But I was wrong.

You see, my gratitude journal is also a scrapbook of sorts. Each page contains not only my list of gratitude, but also my kids' memorable quotes, event ticket stubs, programs and brochures, pictures and sketches.

But this page in particular, this page on which I reached #1000, happened to hold just one piece of paper. A program from a memorial service. For a baby. Dear family friends whose daughter lived for a mere twenty days.

How could I record praise alongside death? How could I express gratitude when life seemed so unfair?

When I first started my gratitude journey, it was easy to focus on the beauty. The sunset glow on apple blossoms, the verdant forests, the taste of summer strawberries. What's not to love? It's easy to give thanks when "God's in His heaven and all's right with the world."



But what about when things aren't at all right with the world? Where is the joy in that?

This, dear reader, is the great paradox. The mysterious shift. The kingdom that makes no sense at all but is somehow absolutely perfect.

How do I know this? Because I've seen the greater, deeper joy that comes through loss. The joy that comes out of brokenness. Perhaps even a sliver of the unexplainable joy that Christ wraps around His children as they work their way through the agony of death.

You see, this thousand-mark page also recorded another series of events in my life. Time shared with my grandparents.



Just months ago, my grandmother lay in a hospital bed in Southern California with a dangerously low heartbeat. I cried and prayed and wanted desperately to hop on the next flight out. But I couldn't. So I kept on praying.

God intervened. Her heart and body miraculously gained in strength. As she healed, she ministered to those at her bedside, giving God the glory. We rejoiced to hear that she and my grandfather would indeed be able to make their annual trip north.



So for the past two weeks I truly reveled in the moments my Nanee and I shared together. As she recounted the events surrounding her hospitalization, she drew special attention to a word that the Lord used again and again throughout her healing.

The word? Joy.

My eyes filled with tears. There it was again. The eucharisteo that Voskamp writes about. The grace we receive from our Father, the thanks we give because of it, and the indescribable joy that fills our spirits when we dwell in a spirit of gratitude.



Because of my grandmother's experience, I was that much more aware of how precious our time was together. We came too close to not having it. So for the whole two weeks, we crammed in as much togetherness as we could. We lived in the moment because we knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that every single moment was a gift.

My eyes were wide open, that I might not miss a single gift. Especially the gift of now.



Throughout their visit, my grandmother demonstrated yet again the way she has perfected the art of living in the moment. I watched the way her eyes sparkled as she wove stories for my children. I watched the way she deftly pulled together darling outfits on our annual girls shopping trip. I watched the way she engaged in conversation with others, treasuring their company.



I watched her live and delight in the moment, the way she always has and the way she always will.

This, my friends, is the only way to live. In moment by moment gratitude. This is the lens through which we must view life in order to experience true joy. Yes, even joy in brokenness, even joy in loss. The lens that goes so far as to enable a young couple to treasure every single moment of twenty priceless days with their daughter. To treasure the little fingers, the little squeaks, the little pink bows and the little pink dresses. To store up in their forever memories the snuggles in mama's arms, the last waltz with daddy. And to count it all joy.

It's true that as I recorded my one thousand gifts I wasn't counting on brokenness. I wasn't counting on loss. But because of them, I've tasted the true depths of joy.

And the result? I simply cannot stop at one thousand.

And Now We're Five

I blinked, and my baby turned five. This child who is full of life, energy and a thousand questions, this child who leaves laughter in her wake.



This child who is content -- as long as there's . . .

A snack in her hand . . .







An animal to love . . .





A brother to torment . . .



A Daddy to hold . . .



A bowl to lick . . .



A project to start . . .



A sister to admire . . .



A book to read . . .



A doll to dress . . .



A world to explore . . .







A knife to handle . . .



And a host of admirers . . .



Yes, she's really very low maintenance . . . .

Even so, my prayer for her -- and each one of my babes -- ascends to our Father each night:

Lord, would you bless my Little Miss Avery Kate. I pray that she would grow to love and serve you with all of her heart, soul, mind and strength. Would you grow in her the fruit of Your Spirit, which is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control. I pray that she would be like a little lamb who would hear Your voice and know it, and that she would trust You all the days of her life, knowing that one day she will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Would You put your hedge of protection about her, and guard her coming in and going forth from this time forth and forever. Would You grant her wisdom, Father -- wisdom to make good choices out of her love for You. Would you bless her with the heart of a servant, that she might look for ways to help those in need. And now may she lie down and sleep in peace, for You alone, oh Lord, will make her to dwell in safety.