Just Follow and Point; Follow and Point

Once a week I have the privilege of hanging out with some of the best women I know. We are diverse in many ways, but share one, very significant love: Jesus. Some of these women have endured hardships like no other, some give of so much time and talent it is hard to believe. You would never know by looking at them.

Because when you look at them, you see Jesus.

And that's the way they want it.

We recently had a discussion about conversations with those who do not know Jesus or have fallen out of relationship with Him; specifically those who are living a lifestyle that goes against God's Word and the character of God revealed in it.

(I believe God has given us our personalities, experiences, talents and quirks to use for His glory. We all approach ministry as differently as we approach our relationship with Him. That being said...)

I tend to use a "non-invasive" approach. I've often wondered if, when it comes to telling others about Jesus, I punk out. I don't pull the "World's Tiniest Bible" out of my watch pocket and begin flipping pages; I don't rattle off verses; I don't carry a sign with "John 3:16" in big, bold letters; I don't blast K-Love from my basement; I'm not going to visit your house and suck my teeth when I see your Bible gathering dust, or a copy of the Quran lying open on the arm of your couch. I simply say, "Hello." I start a conversation; I try to establish a relationship; I try to serve others. I don't refer to "The Man Upstairs," or hide behind my role in church as my "Sunday gig" either. I make no bones about who I am or what I do. I just don't expect you to follow me, or Jesus for that matter.

You see, I am a Christian. Following is my job. I am a follower of Jesus; that's what being a Christian means. By God's grace, I chose this. You make your choices. I hope and pray to show you a better one. But following, at least for right now, is what is expected of me.

And I point. If you ask, I will tell you precisely what God says about ___. I will debate you; if you question my beliefs, if you try to sell me your bill of goods, I will not hesitate to tell you the truth. If you and I have known one another for a while, if we are comfortable engaging in some tough dialogue, it's on. Whatever it takes, whatever the situation calls for, whatever our relationship allows, wherever the Holy Spirit leads, I will point. To Jesus. And nowhere else.

Learning to Let Go

Two weeks ago I participated in the Walk to End Alzheimer's. It was not what I anticipated. I had planned to walk with a friend. Two days prior, I picked up the phone to firm up our plans; her text message awaited: she had to cancel. I was disappointed. Saturday morning was beautiful; a perfect day for a walk. I made it to the site in plenty of time to visit vendors and get a sense of what this was all about; but the tables were staffed by home health care companies and assisted living facilities (not applicable), and walking my neighborhood alone is a far cry from walking alone in a group of hundreds of people. "I could just go home and walk the dogs. The money's been raised; there's no need for me to be here." I was bored and disappointed. It was the knowledge that I'd not posted here in weeks that kept my feet planted firmly in that lot and set my mouth to moving. Maybe I could find an adventure, but to do that, I had to let go.

It was then I noticed a couple holding an orange flower. An orange flower, according to Alzheimer's Association "rules", designates someone who has no personal connection to Alzheimer's, but is simply lending their support to the eradication of this menace. This young, upwardly mobile couple seemed to have stepped out of an ad for Prius or Morgan Stanley. Our brief chat was pleasant, but indeed, brief. I thanked them for their support.

I had my "team" picture taken. Don't judge; I was trying to make something happen here.

Then I saw someone who, like me, was alone. She had with her a purple flower. A purple flower is Alzheimer's Association code for a walker who has lost someone to Alzheimer's. My internal debate went something like this:

"You can't just walk up to her and ask her. No one is going to tell you about someone they lost to Alzheimer's. You are a total stranger."

"But that's what these people are here for."

"So what if she just lost the person recently, and she has a meltdown?"

"She looks pretty well-adjusted. Besides, most people love to tell their stories."

I finally convinced myself she was about to walk away any second, and I would miss an important opportunity, so I spoke. "I noticed your purple flower. You've lost someone to Alzheimer's?" And there it began. Our lives had included many of the same chapters, though the circumstances were very different; it was the fusion of divergent and parallel that caused the conversation to flow so freely. It ended two and a half miles, several minutes on the pier, a walk to the parking lot, several more minutes there, a ride to her car, the exchange of numbers, and a promise of lunch someday, later.

Such a simple thing, to approach a fellow human being and ask them about them. And yet, I almost allowed apprehension, disappointment, and expectations to block the path to friendship.

DO. NOT. GET DIRTY!

If you were born before 1980, chances are sometime before the age of eight you were poured into a pair of ridiculously stiff, scratchy, lacy tights, or garroted by a torturous element of fashion called a bowtie. Once properly checked and in check, you were given the directive: "DO. NOT. Get dirty." And by "get dirty", what was meant was muddy, dusty, rumpled, wrinkled, smudged, undressed, stained, or otherwise altered from your present state of discomfort. If you were sitting, you stayed seated until you had bed sores. If you were standing, you stood until your legs swelled and varicose veins formed. But, you DID NOT "get dirty." It is my understanding there was an island of exile for children who chose to ignore this command. I never had the guts to personally validate this; the fear of reprisal was quite enough.

I grew up thinking that being a Christian was a lot like being etched into submission by lacy tights, or threatened into obedience by a mother very close to the edge. Jesus would die on a cross for me, clean me all up, and I would just get dirty again. I'd let Him down. It was an endless cycle: collapsing in repentance and surrender, bathing in a pool of cleansing blood, putting on my new duds, and mucking it all up before breakfast. Nothing He could do could keep me from Parental wrath and the isle of exile. Eventually I gave up trying.

But "no longer trying" was just how God wanted me to be. He never intended me to try to stay clean. In fact, throughout His ministry, Jesus had compassion on the worst of sinners, but for those pretending, those trying to justify themselves? He hid the meaning of His life-saving words from them. He knew their hearts, and knew they were so busy being their own god and observing their own religion, they refused to see their need for relationship with Him. The minute I stopped trying, I came face to face with the consequences of my decisions; He opened my eyes to the Goodness that only He is; He dealt with me, not the spit-shined, dolled-up image of me I had manufactured; He put the horse right back in front of that cart, and changed my heart. The willingness to strip off my tights and scuff up my shoes a bit -- even in front of my friends in the church -- brought me to a place where Jesus could fix me for good. Sure, He'd cleaned things up a long time ago, but as long as I wanted to tell Him what to do with it and how to do it, He'd never been able to change me from the inside. Tip-toeing lightly and not getting wrinkled might make for great appearances, but gets very little done in the Kingdom. The last thing God wants is a wax museum of cleaned up, rank and file Christians sitting lifeless, trying not to get dirty.

And the best part is that freedom has given me the desire to want to stay clean. God's Spirit -- if I allow -- works in me, changing me, even taking over sometimes, so that as I go about my day praying, reading God's Word, seeking His direction and His will, looking for openings to serve and  worship Him, being yielded to what He is doing, I find myself "staying clean" without even trying.

I won't be squeezing into scratchy tights anytime soon. I'm not even sure I'll stay clean until Sunday.  But I really want to, and I know I no longer have to try.

Lean Back

A couple years ago someone came up with the most revolutionary catch phrase of the twenty-first century: Moving forward. It was the more concise "from this point on," and it took the business world by storm. Marketing giants missed the mark, however, and never capitalized, fumbling their "Where's the beef?" moment. "Moving forward" became the most overused two words in corporate history:

"Moving forward, there will be no more smoking in company vehicles." So, you can only smoke when stopped?

"Moving forward, avoid backing in traffic." Isn't that redundant?

My mom has dementia. She came to live with us a few months ago. Usually on days off, I try to get at least three miles in with the dogs, do some writing, a couple hours of Bible study, lots of cooking, or some volunteer work; I am addicted to achievement. While Mom is usually content to spend hours sitting out back in the fresh air, watching the trees sway, I'm trying to figure out my next big thing; the next project that will give me the sense of accomplishment I crave. Sick, I know. And wrong. But thanks to Mom, these days, "moving forward" no longer applies.

This morning was rainy; no outdoor woolgathering for her. I left for an hour or so, making sure the TV was on downstairs. Columbo! When I got back, Mom was sitting in a chair at the kitchen table. Books, catalogs, puzzles were well within reach, but she was just sitting there petting the dogs. I went to shut off the still flickering TV, and found every light in her room on, as well. In the kitchen, she'd merely rinsed off her cereal bowl and spoon, leaving them on the drain board with the clean dishes. She was wearing a heavy sweater although the temperature had risen to about seventy-some degrees. I say all this because with dementia, there is rarely progress. No matter how many times I urge Mom to work the "muscles" of her brain with a puzzle or some reading material, she will not do it without prompting. No matter how many times I ask her to ensure the lights are turned off, it does not occur to her the room is unusually bright when she leaves it. Nor does she hear the TV still droning. Asking her to use soap to wash the dishes, leave the door unlocked when we're outside(!), take your shoes off in the house, clean her dentures, or dress in layers in this weather, is pointless. Even mothers raising children cling to the promise of "moving forward", progress, maturity. With dementia, not so much. Day after day we have the same discussions -- or not; we go through the same routine, with little to no change whatsoever. And if there is progress in an area, chances are something else has slidden back. For someone who measures her value by the good she's done, the volume of work she's produced, or even the quality of the relationships she has, that can be disastrous.

I am guilty of buying into the lie that "moving forward" is synonymous with winning. I'm not used to having the Judi Train derailed by ten minutes of explaining which pair of shoes to put on -- especially when I know I will be having the same conversation again tomorrow. The second the delay is over, I want those cars right back on track: laundry, post office, cleaning, bill paying. With dementia, the next derailment could be minutes or hours down the track. No predicting a meltdown; no heads-up on a "redo." But taking this ride too seriously can lead to frustration, depression, and a lot of other "-ions" we don't need. Instead of expecting more than good sense allows, I am learning to stop thinking like a corporation, place my value squarely in My Savior, and take some time out to watch the trees sway. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to dial back my slightly twisted brain, but I can stop it from believing "moving forward" is the best measure of success.