Today’s my 35th birthday. I think it’s supposed to be some kind of a milestone. It’s quite annoying to look for an image for this blog and find the internet full of things like “Trying to keep calm – I’m 35” or “I’m too sexy to be 35.” But I’m happy. I think there can now be no more doubt that I am actually an adult and that surviving this long is quite an accomplishment. Although it’s an odd day. I’m sitting on the couch in my pj’s at 4pm, my leg still a bit jacked up, thinking about how birthdays are less and less of a deal every year. Maybe this is why people have kids… so that days like this will be more exciting. Regardless, I have thoughts. I thought it would be hard to come up with this many, but hey… have I met myself? Here are 35 lessons I have learned, epiphanies I’ve had, or life philosophies I have come to embrace in the last three and a half decades… There are so many I left off… I’ll save them for my 40th birthday… when I will probably give you 80…
Embrace your weirdness.
Don’t apologize for enjoying food. If you don’t want it, just don’t eat it. Don’t try to make me feel guilty about enjoying mine. Gosh, that’s annoying!
My story is different than your story. That doesn’t make it easier or harder or better or worse. It just makes me different from you. But we’ve all felt the same feelings.
I know of nothing more powerful than a good hug.
Feelings come and feelings go, and they never ask permission. This applies to the good and the bad.
There are relatives and there is family. Hopefully the former is embraced in the latter, but the two are not interchangeable.
The older you get, the younger you realize you actually are.
The more you learn, the more you realize how little you know.
Don’t be afraid of time.
Work with your flaws. Use them to find creative solutions. I can’t tell you how many compliments I’ve gotten on my bathroom shelves that are intentionally designed so that “put away” means “leave out.”
Define success in terms of people. The happiest people I’ve ever met all have one thing in common: they all live their lives to invest in others. Most of them are dirt-poor, but somehow that doesn’t matter.
Parents don’t know everything, but they sure do know a lot.
Legacy is a ripple-effect, and you might never know what yours is. Don’t worry about it – just live how you want to be remembered.
Teenagers are very often difficult grumpy mouthy know-it-all little humans who want to grow up. Parents of teenagers are very often difficult over-reacting lecturing NO-it-all big humans who (75% of the time) worry too much. It’s okay. Everyone’s doing their job. (And there’s always that 25% outside chance your difficult grumpy mouthy know-it-all little human is actually quite stupid.)
God has better ideas than you. If your life is turning out like you expected, then you need to figure out what the heck went wrong.
If you want to be an explorer, stay off the sidewalk.
Learn about love languages, and learn to speak them all. Fluently. Love others with wild abandon. The way Jesus did. Just remember that true sacrificial love always hurts in the end… that’s why it’s called a sacrifice. But yours will never hurt as much as Jesus’ did.
British English is bloody brilliant. Especially in Harry Potter and Doctor Who.
Exercise, eat healthy, sleep well, keep your house clean, obey your budget, and don’t work too much. And if you can figure out how to pull off more than 2 of these things simultaneously for more than a week you are a hero.
Keep an eye on the people nobody notices, the ones who keep their head down and just do their thing. These are the people who change the world.
Seriously, girls, date the nerds.
Don’t expect people to be as honest as you are unless you want to get burnt to a crisp, and forgive them ahead of time. Unless you are not honest; then expect most people to be just like you.
Life really does get better after 30. So much better.
Don’t spend your life waiting for “that thing” to happen. If it does, great. If it doesn’t, you just wasted your whole life waiting. Go kill that bug yourself.
Let your yes be yes and your no be no. Be that person who is shockingly transparent and honest. Be that person others can count on to actually keep their promises and not pass the buck and do what they say they will do. Be that person that makes everyone mad when you actually do what you said you were going to do because they ignored you because they didn’t think you would and then they weren’t ready. But if you’re going to live with this kind of integrity, stay out of any work environment where there are more than 3 supervisors above you… unless the guy on top takes the time to know and respect you as an actual person with feelings and ideas and stuff.
Resting your mind is not the same as resting your body.
Don’t confuse honesty or integrity for good intentions, professional conduct, or a smile.
Mistakes are only failures if you don’t get back up and keep going.
The only thing in all of His perfect creation that God said was not good was that Adam was alone. So God made Eve so more humans could be made. Because God made us with a need that He could not fulfill Himself. Love people – you need them.
Everybody matters, but everyone seems to think that rule applies to everyone except themselves. Or that it ONLY applies to themselves.
Life is tough. So what? Embrace it. Cry and feel sorry for yourself sometimes. Ask for help if you need it. If you give yourself permission to simply be, being will have a lot less control over you. And it’s okay. Feelings really do come and go, and they mean you are a living beautiful textured vibrant multi-chromatic feature of humanity.
If you are the kind of person that has to obsess about things, embrace it and allow yourself to choose your obsession. Pick something silly and unnecessary that makes you smile. It’s much better than worrying about everything all the time.
God is. This encompasses all. My favorite stanza of my favorite hymn, written by a madman: Could we with ink the ocean fill and were the skies of parchment made, were every stalk on earth a quill and every man a scribe by trade… to write the love of God above would drain the ocean dry, nor could the scroll contain the whole though stretched from sky to sky. Amen.
For it’s tenth anniversary, Facebook made these awesome videos for everybody:
I have been a Facebook user since March 5, 2008 (as the above short video has informed you). My Friends List is a moderate 505… more than my mother, but a lot less than the maximum 5000. I’m guessing this is because I have actually MET 99% of the people on that list (a few are affiliated with organizations that interest me, and 1 or 2 I added in a desperate attempt to have more help during a specific game addiction phase). I acknowledge that despite being voted “most likely to sing the national anthem at the Super Bowl,” I have never been popular in this country. Never. I’ve never been competitive and my self-esteem has never really hinged on whether or not people like me, so it’s all good. I post and share all kinds of stuff, and don’t usually get that much attention. Sometimes I’m disappointed when a picture I’m really proud of or an issue I really care about doesn’t get liked, but whatevs.
As you saw in the video, my most popular posts don’t usually even have anything to do with me. I went through every single one of my posted pictures today. At the time the video was compiled in February, my most popular pictures were my parents at Barnaby’s and a re-posted internet picture of magnified sand (28 likes each). There was one picture of me with 3 other people that got 30 likes, but 12 of them were from people I’d never met so I’m not counting that one. That record was broken on Mother’s Day, when I posted a picture of my great-grandmother’s diamond ring: 30 likes, probably because of the eloquent caption about being the 4th generation of strong women… plus, it’s diamonds (I’m just sayin’).
I think my status updates about earning my Master’s Degrees and my job change to Catholic Charities got quite a few responses – FB doesn’t make it easy to sift through status updates. But I am actually very happy to say that my Mother’s Day status update blasted the record with 42 likes and 13 shares. This is because I tagged 17 women (23 of whom I did not know); I was thrilled because the whole point was to honor a specific type of woman who never gets any credit.
So because I’m not really that Facebook popular, and because my most-liked posts generally have little to nothing to do with me, something happened yesterday that floored me.
First, let’s talk about the selfie. It’s a thing now. It has a Wikipedia page, a definition in Urban Dictionary, a definition in the Oxford Dictionary, a TV show, and a song. I find no admirable reason to take a picture of your forcibly curved slightly (or mostly) naked body in the bathroom mirror, nor am I impressed when someone is slapping these all over their profiles. I really hope we’ve all seen the light about the Duck Face… People also don’t pay nearly enough attention to what is behind them when they take selfies. Really, the subject of the pictures can get real old real fast, but I find great enjoyment in figuring out what garment of clothing is wadded up on the floor or how someone decorated their bathroom. That said… someone, at some point, figured out that taking a picture of yourself at a 45 degree angle with a suspended camera (that is NOT visible in the picture) is by FAR the most flattering way to record your image. Seriously. God bless that person. May he or she have extra rooms in Heaven. Not kidding. There is no better way to make your face look way thinner and highlight all the right things than to look up at the camera. And, if done properly, no one can even tell that your phone is an arm’s length over your head.
Now, yesterday morning. I’m gonna be real here so you get my point. I woke up late. I was much more groggy than usual. I dragged myself to the bathroom in my oversized blue t-shirt, brushed my teeth, dunked my hair, and turned on my Kindle to listen to my daily Bible dose on YouVersion (Isaiah 53-55, Mark 13) as I proceeded to “do” my hair and makeup while fighting to keep my eyes open. Despite my usually very successful nighttime coconut oil regiment, the weather has not been agreeing with my skin. My skin is also tanning a bit, so my makeup is a little pale. I wasn’t thrilled with the result of my efforts. About to go get dressed, I was struck with a sudden desire to “use it” (as a kid I had many years ago used to say).
Although running late, I was so groggy and still half-asleep. I realized I hadn’t checked the Amazon Free App of the Day yet, so I reached for my Kindle and started perusing the app store. I happened upon a photo ap called Rhonna Designs that looked pretty interesting, so I downloaded that. At this point I realized that I still hadn’t really tried out the camera on my Kindle. I switched it on and opted to use the Perfectly Clear Intelligent Image Correction camera app that I downloaded when it was the free app a few weeks ago and also hadn’t tried yet. So I take a few pictures. The app didn’t save the original shot of the one I chose to use, but here is another one of the photo shoot (keeping in mind I’m still relaxing in the bathroom):
Please notice the following:
My skin looks pale and kinda gray.
My décolletage (because that’s such a fancy word even though it is not usually used in the context of pajamas) is covered in freckles and – dare I say it – age spots (which I only imagine they are because that big one on the left sure didn’t used to be there).
If you zoom in you will see my textured skin, large pores, puffy un-awake eyes, quasi-hidden pimples, and all the lines that are getting deeper despite all my efforts to keep plumping up my cheeks (sure… that’s why).
My hair is awfully dull without highlights. And all those highlight-y streaks? Gray. So much gray.
My eyebrows are (as usual) out of control.
I do have great teeth. And eyes, but they aren’t really feeling it today.
I chose to take another one because this one (obviously) is too straight-on, and a little close. I’m also not looking into the camera (another common mistake often evident in selfies is looking at the screen instead of the camera, which are not lined up). I really had no intention of doing anything with these pictures, I was just testing out the camera and apps.
So I took a picture I was happy with, using the Perfectly Clear app. Once I had the picture I first did a general autofix, then I clicked on the “beautify” feature. Because who doesn’t want to be more beautiful?
Here is what happened, INSTANTLY:
The lighting in my bathroom became professional. You can almost see the little white umbrella in the corner.
My skin is bright and monochromatic. It somehow has a glow. My makeup is perfect. So natural you can’t even tell it’s there.
All freckles and age spots are completely erased. Completely gone. Every. Single. One.
The sleepy bags under my eyes? Also gone.
Fine lines? Ironed away.
Large pores? What pores?
My hair is suddenly dark again. My hair reflects bright sunlight instead of being filled with gray streaks.
All those stray eyebrow hairs? Poof!
And I still have great teeth and eyes.
But it couldn’t erase the necklaces on the wall or my shower tiles.
So on to the next app. Rhonna Designs. I like this one because of the cool quotes and designs you can add. I wasn’t quite sure where I was going to fit those into this picture, but I was just playing anyway. The app has several filters. I choose “Desaturated,” which tones everything down a bit more. Not black and white, not sepia, but on the edge of both. Subtle. Sort of a 20s look, like those Kim Anderson photos that used to be so popular. And result of that single change was so nice that I thought, “What the heck?” And I felt a slight twinge of guilt as (from the lounge in my bathroom) I replaced the fun profile pic I took with my BFFF Michelle at Petraglyph with this masterpiece:
My record for a profile pic is 19 likes for a picture of me and my mom when I was TWO. The next (at 18 likes) is a great picture from last November that I framed to cut off half of my face (another great trick for slimming down – do it literally). The profile picture that was the “big reveal” that I had lost about 60 pounds only got a whopping 2 likes. Keep in mind that these totals are after years of being posted.
But this picture… THIS digital deception taken in my pajamas when I was exhausted and sitting in my bathroom… got 8 compliments and 48 likes in under 24 hours. Forty. Eight. That’s a lot. I got likes from people who rarely – if ever – acknowledge my posts. People with whom I share that complicated never-acknowledged-but-socially-essential “You’re on my friends list because I’m vaguely interested in your life even though I haven’t seen you in 20 years and we weren’t really even friends in the flesh but you don’t insult me so if FB chooses to pop you into my news feed I’ll read what you posted but probably not give any response” relationship. BOYS liked it (Sorry, pal, you’re either too young, too old, or married now).
So what do I think of this? I’m not insulted at all. I love it. Heck, that’s the whole point. Who doesn’t like compliments? When I walk away from the mirror this is how I imagine myself, so I’m glad you see it, too.
I won’t be changing my profile picture for awhile.
But it does say something about us as humans, doesn’t it?
When I think of this word I think of imagination and fantasy. I think of lofty and most likely unrealistic goals. I think of red Nyquill-induced sleep punctuated by psychedelic animations; or better yet, those dreams that leave behind a sense of a pending something… that feeling that you have just been privy to some great knowledge but you’re not quite sure what.But in most cases, when we think of “dreaming” I think most of us immediately think about the things we always wanted to do and are sure we never will. We think of John Lennon’s “Imagine,” detailing the ideal world of peace and love that we all know simply can’t be. Those of us who are older gaze compassionately at idealistic college students, shake our heads wistfully, and think about how much we could have accomplished if real life had never happened. We call someone a Dreamer while simultaneously feeling pity and jealousy. Maybe annoyance. But I think we’re wrong.
Last year I met someone who is the dreaming trifecta. He is the triple-threat that all Dreamers aspire to be. Have you ever seen “The Magic School Bus?” That cartoon where a class of kids gets into a yellow school bus which is imaginatively transformed into whatever type of transport is necessary to vividly explore whatever their minds think up? Everything from purple aliens on a warm planet to Mayas in the Yucatan jungles? This guy can do that; he can keep you entertained for hours with vivid descriptions of whatever world he dreams up. But because of this unbelievably advanced imagination he sees the world differently. Things as ordinary as a piece of furniture become vibrating molecules and electrical charges. And because he sees the world as this thriving habitat of law and electricity and music… he can imagine what these building blocks might become… and what he might be able to do with them. He has big dreams. On top of that, he dreams dreams. I believe in prophetic dreams – I have them. But what he dreamed about me was so random until it happened, and that’s pretty crazy. I know the Super Dreamer. And in getting to know him I learned that the power behind his dreams is his imagination, that thing in the back of our head that defies all reason, that voice that is shushed by logic and learning and common sense, the best friend that most of us leave behind when we grow up. Somehow, he kept it close. And because he kept his imagination alive he can resist all the people who try to turn his dreaming into a joke… because he can imagine the day when his dreams will be reality and what all their faces will look like when that happens. I am beyond inspired by his imagination, and would do almost anything to have such a protector of my dreams.
I’ve been thinking a lot about dreams lately. About how my own dreams are like a roller coaster. They come and go and change and twist and shift. They excite and disappoint, they fly and crash. Exactly one year ago today I was in Oakland learning how to help severe trauma victims who cope through dissociation, a retreat into imagination to protect the mind from traumatic memories (loosely speaking). That evening I had a session with one of my favorite clients of all time. I really thought I finally found my spot. The dream job I never knew I dreamed of. Yeah, that didn’t pan out, either. But now another dream is slowly forming. It’s confusing, this whole evolving process of dreaming. You think you’re aiming for one thing, and you end up in the one place you never wanted to be… and realize you’re exactly where you need to be. God is weird like that.
The more I’ve thought about it, the more I think about Joseph. The iconic Dreamer of the Bible. Joseph, the 11th of 12 sons of Jacob. While he was Jacob’s favorite, he was still a baby brother with pretty much no power except to annoy. You can find the story in Genesis 37-50. I shall share with you my interpretation, in five acts.
ACT I: Joseph is working for his half-brothers, shepherding out in the field. (This, by the way, makes me think that he had a great imagination and faith. Think of King David – the quiet great outdoors is the very best place to develop an imagination and an awareness of a Great Creator.) Then this 17-year-old daddy’s boy tattles on his big brothers. There is only one sentence about that, that sticks out like a sore thumb. No real point of that sentence except to call him out as a narcking suck-up brown-noser. To top it off, Dad gives Joseph a super-special, VERY expensive, fancy coat of many colors. He has 10 older brothers, and it’s no surprise they hate him. Maybe Joseph is a brat, maybe he isn’t. We don’t know. What we do know is that his brothers “couldn’t say a kind word to him.”
You’d think that the hated baby brother would at least learn to keep his mouth shut. Not Joe. He has a dream and has to tell everyone about it: We were all tying up bundles of grain and all your bundles bowed down to mine! Now I’m a big sister, and I know that if my obnoxious little brother came up to me and told me something like that all I would hear (regardless of what he said) is “Nanner nanner, I’m better than you-oo!” No surprise, Joseph’s brothers hate him even more. But does he learn his lesson? Nope. He has another dream and runs right over to tell his brothers again: The sun, moon, and eleven stars bowed down to me! Good lord. Saying that to 10 angry big brothers is practically suicide. This time Joe tells his dad, too. Something about how he was telling the story got him in trouble. “What kind of a dream is that? Do you think we’re actually going to bow down before you?” If I was his therapist, I would have thought that Joseph spent a little too much time outside feeling inferior to his brothers.
I wonder about Joseph. I have to assume that he must have been a bit cocky. He was 17, the favorite, and had the cool clothes. It’s very possible that he had recently lost his mother, who died in childbirth to the youngest brother. As a therapist, I can imagine how confused and angry he must have been. How lonely he must have felt. Big brothers are supposed to protect you, not hate you – even if you are annoying and cocky. I imagine that he was clinging to something that would make him special besides just being a daddy’s boy. How could he compete with so many big strong brothers? These dreams were all he had. They were cartoons, really – grain and celestial bodies don’t bow down to each other. I think he knew they meant something but the only feedback he got was ridicule. He was rejected and hated because he had dared to hope there might be some truth in these silly ideas that could never be.
Then the world comes crashing down around him. Joe’s brothers decide to knock him off. “Here comes the Dreamer… let’s kill him… Then we’ll see what becomes of his dreams!” In the end they decide to sell him to a caravan of traders on their way to Egypt – after stripping him of his trophy coat, which they drench in blood to convince their dad he was killed by an animal. So Joseph walks across a desert and gets sold as a slave in Egypt to Potiphar, captain of the palace guard.
ACT II: So our Dreamer Joe is a slave in a house he’ll never be able to escape from in a foreign country where he’s all alone, can’t speak the language, and probably doesn’t like the food. He’s not 20 yet (probably). Dreams crushed, heart broken, all alone, just a kid. With no special coat. Stripped of everything that matters or makes him remotely significant. Not his best day.
So much for the “My grain is better than your grain” dream.
But somehow, he pulls it off. Things go really well. Joe gets noticed, not because of his coat or his dreams, but because he’s really good at his job. His boss likes him and makes him a personal assistant. He’s a good guy, smart, responsible, well-liked. I bet that when he goes to bed at night and remembers his brothers there is definitely a part of him that sticks his out tongue and sings, “Nanner Nanner!” (Except now he can do it in another language!) And a part that wishes his dad could see him now. He’s still a kid, very early 20s. Of course he’s tempted to be cocky. Regardless, he is blessed and because of him Potiphar is blessed. Joseph is given more and more responsibility until he’s in charge of administering the entire household. Things couldn’t be better! The dream is coming true!
Oh yeah, he’s also good looking. And the boss’ wife is a cougar. She goes after him every day but he has integrity and says no; he will not betray his master’s trust. But one day she actually grabs him. He wriggles out of his cloak and races out of there… only to have her say that he tried to rape her but got scared when she screamed, so he ran away and left his clothes behind. Good grief. Joseph – responsible, appreciated, trusted, respected, handsome – defeated because someone was selfish and dishonest and took no consideration of the fact that he was a person, too. But wait. He wasn’t. He was just a slave. Disposable Hebrew trash.
And because he was just a slave, and because of another dumb coat used as proof of a lie, Joseph was thrown in prison and forgotten. So much for the good food and the nice bed… traded for bread, water, and a blanket on the floor. So much for that stupid dream. Not his best day.
ACT III: If I was Joseph, at this point I’d be curled up in the corner of my cell and ready to give up on the world. All I would be asking is WHY. Other than bragging about his dreams (that seem so silly now), he hadn’t done anything wrong. What is this great price he must pay? He’s bright, responsible, a fast learner, everything he does turns out great. For crying out loud, two days ago he was in charge of EVERYTHING in the house of the captain of the Egyptian palace guard! If he had just given in and slept with the woman he’d be in his nice bed in the nice house with his nice job and nice reputation. But he had to have integrity and now he’s in prison, hatefully rejected by the very important man who had trusted him completely.
And maybe Joseph did get depressed for a bit. But it didn’t last. I’d like to think that his imagination saved him from the darkness. That the days he spent in the fields, studying flowers and watching ants be magnificent, came back to him in that dark place and gave him strength. Maybe Joseph was catching on to reality: it bites. Maybe he was giving up on his dream. But he didn’t cower. He knew that a fall is only failure if you don’t get back up.
Next thing you know, Joseph is Head Prisoner, in charge of all the prisoners! The warden kicks back and relaxes, because he knows that Joe’s got this. And he does well, and finds success in everything he does. Think about it: that means he has the respect of all the prisoners and guards. The guys down there are real criminals, but they trust him. Prisoners can be troublemakers, but Joseph kept it all under control. (On a side note, there’s mention in Genesis 40:3 that Joseph is in Potiphar’s prison. The authority he was given implies to me that he never lost the respect of his old boss, and makes me wonder if Potiphar always knew he was innocent but had to keep him in jail to make it look right.)
So then there are these two important guys, direct servants to Pharaoh, in prison under Joseph. They both have weird dreams. They tell Joseph, who interprets them. Correctly. The one guy dies, and the other gets his job back. The lucky one promises to tell Pharaoh about Joseph and hopefully get him out of jail. Hope, again! The whole “bow down to me” thing probably seems pretty distant and silly by now. At this point, I’m guessing Joe’s dreams have shifted to simply living in daylight, feeling full, and sleeping in a decent bed. It’s amazing how our dreams can change.
But the dude forgets all about it in the blink of an eye and never tells Pharaoh. Sorry, Joe. Not your day. I don’t think there would have been any way for Joseph to really know what happened. So he waits. And waits. And waits. A full two years go by. And he’s down there in the prison, doing his thing (and doing it well), with that little voice of doubt in his head wondering if he has been forgotten or rejected or if simply nothing he can accomplish will make him more than a slave. He is owned, and it sucks. But again, he’s no coward. He keeps going, and I must imagine that his imagination is still his salvation. Does he remember his childhood, running around the fields with the animals, picking fruit from the trees, playing with his brothers (before they hated him)? Is he angry? Has he forgiven? Do their names make his skin crawl? We can’t know. But my guess is a little bit of everything.
ACT IV: Finally, two years after the guy gets his job back, Pharaoh himself has a couple of dreams. Disturbing dreams. Not exactly nightmares, but so real and vivid; the kind you wake up from KNOWING that they mean something important. But none of the smartest and wisest and most magical advisers have a clue what they mean. Suddenly things click into place for the ex-con. Ummm… whoops. There was that one guy… he got my dream right.
Boom! Joe gets a shower, shave, clean clothes, and an audience with the most powerful man in the world. Can you imagine what’s going through his mind? THIS was his day. I can hear his thoughts… Seriously? Pharaoh? Don’t get your hopes up. I’ve been burned – no, fried – before. Not worth it. Maybe someone lied about me again and they’ve called me to kill me. But maybe not… there was that dream. Stop it, don’t be silly. Just breathe. Egypt doesn’t like me no matter what I do. The fields of his homeland flood his senses, and his imagination brings holy peace. The air and warm breezes, the smell of the fields and the sheep, the voice of his father and grandfather… honor God. Your great-grandpa left everything to honor God. This is your purpose. Cool beans.
So Joe makes it clear that only God interprets dreams, Pharaoh tells them, and God answers. The dreams are not happy dreams. Egypt will have 7 years of great prosperity, but then there will be 7 years of great famine. Famine that will devastate Egypt and all the surrounding lands. But Joseph doesn’t stop at the interpretation. This bold young man tells the greatest king in the world what to do about it. He needs to find someone to collect all the food for the next 7 years so there is enough to eat during the famine. Pharaoh talks to everyone important, and they all agree that Joseph is the only one intelligent and wise enough to do the job. So he puts Joe in charge of his court and makes him second in command. The only person in the entire country who doesn’t have to obey Joseph is Pharaoh himself. Pharaoh takes his signet ring (essentially his personal signature that makes any order official), puts it on Joseph’s finger, and lets him know that he’s in charge of Egypt (no biggie). Again, a fancy new robe. Oh, and a wife. Joe gets a wife.
For those of us Sunday School graduates who have this story memorized and animated in our minds, let’s pause. Think about it. Joseph is 30 in a world where people live to be over 100. He’s a baby. He’s not Egyptian. He’s not even free. He’s a slave with a criminal record of attempted rape of the wife of the captain of the guard. He has been betrayed by his brothers, horribly accused by the man who most trusted him, forgotten by the one so grateful to have his dream interpreted. He’s been in prison for more than 2 years because of a lie. And in one day he went from prisoner to ruler of the whole land of Egypt, because Pharaoh thought he was good enough. The realistic grown-up part of me wants to scream at Joseph not to do it because it’s political and they probably just want a good fall guy. The therapist in me says “See, good things can happen if you hang in there and make good choices” (ugh, could I be more sycophantic?). But the dreamer of faith buried deep within me just says, “Duh.”
ACT V: So Joseph keeps on keepin’ on. He does his thing and he does it well. He stored up so much grain he can’t measure it all. Which tells us that even though this convict from another land suddenly got an awful lot of power… people respected him and followed the rules. That’s sayin’ somethin.’ Seven years later the famine hits, but things are okay because there’s a plan and everything is right on track. Then the famine spreads to the land of Joseph’s dad. This is where things get interesting. All of Joe’s big brothers get hungry.
So they travel to Egypt, and bow before the tall man in charge of distributing the food. They have no idea it’s the baby brother they think is dead, the victim of their jealousy and bitterness. I can imagine this… Joseph is standing there in his fancy robe and suddenly those dreams of 20 years ago zoom back into his head as if he just woke up from them. Those pesky little dreams. Suddenly, in one moment, looking at 10 brothers on the ground before him, it all makes sense. The dreams and the adventures and the purpose all clunk into place to answer why. Can you imagine what’s going on in his head??? The fury, the joy, the relief, the wonder, the shock. The triumph of faith within him. The little brother who wants to shout “BUUUURN!” The abandoned, sold, betrayed slave who seeks revenge. The love at seeing family for the first time in over 20 years. What a boiling mix that must have been.
Joe, your day has come.
Like every good little brother should do when given such a golden opportunity, Joe messes with them. Badly. They don’t have a clue, and he milks it for all it’s worth. He accuses them of being spies. He threatens them. He uses an interpreter so they don’t know he can understand them. He puts them in jail for a few days. Then he lets them take food home (they are family, after all), but hides their money back in their bags so that they’re scared of him the whole time they’re back home. He keeps one hostage… how much you wanna bet it was the meanest one? It is the epitome of sibling rivalry, and Joseph is the champion of little brothers everywhere.
So the brothers (minus the hostage) go home but, of course, eventually run out of food again. They have no choice but to go back and beg for more, terrified that they will be accused of stealing that money since they were already accused of being spies. This time Joseph is much kinder. He invites them to a banquet at his house, which freaks them out even more. But Joseph feeds them well and is nice to them. He cries a lot – hearing their voices must bring up so many memories and emotions. He messes with them a little more until they are all properly intimidated. Finally, he breaks down and there is a beautiful reunion. Joseph brings his father and whole family to Egypt, where they are honored by Pharaoh and given a beautiful giant piece of the fertile land of Goshen. Lots of years go by, and their dad dies. The big brothers are really scared now, afraid that with their dad dead Joseph is about to go all Pharaoh on them. Finally, so many years later, they apologize. When Joseph hears this he breaks down and weeps. I imagine this had been his new dream – to hear an apology. I imagine he often wondered how he would respond, that sometimes he fantasized about chopping all their heads off and other times about joyful restoration. When the day finally comes, forgiveness washes over him and through tears he says those famous words: “Don’t be afraid of me… You intended to harm me, but God intended it all for good. He brought me to this position so I could save the lives of many.”
EPILOGUE: So Joseph died when he was 110 years old, and embalmed in Egypt. I don’t know much about embalming, but I do know that it was a long and expensive process reserved only for royalty or the very rich. So we know one thing about this ridiculed Imaginative boy, the Dreamer of impossible dreams, the betrayed brother, the falsely accused man of integrity, the forgotten champion… one thing we know without a doubt:
It strikes me that we have nick-named him “Joseph the Dreamer.” The man lived 110 years, saved the whole part of the world from starvation, and was second in command over all of Egypt… but we remember him most for two weird little dreams he had when he was a teenager.
Joseph always mattered, because God had a plan for his life. But for many many years it sure didn’t seem like it and it didn’t make sense and there were no answers. But Joe somehow held onto these dreams, these silly crazy impossible dreams. I choose to believe that his imagination fueled his faith. It is only with imagination that we can find the light and hope and purpose in the middle of prison darkness. Joe hung in there. He kept doing his best even though no one could tell him why his story was so painful. Even though he got interpretations to every dream but his own. Could I do that? Would I be so strong? Would I remain so faithful and live with such integrity? I hope so. I don’t know.
When I look behind me, my path is littered with bits and pieces of once-beloved dreams. I think back over my own adventure… I have been rejected, kicked out, betrayed. I have failed miserably. I have excelled and felt like I was finally on the brink of “making it,” only to be knocked back down again. At this point in my life I have immense respect for Joseph. I’m just a few years younger than he was when he got his answers. And I’m learning. The longer I live the longer I realize life really is. I feel less rushed and more patient. The energy behind my dreams is slowly fading, but my passion and determination is growing. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be. The youthful energy propels us through the stupidity and foolishness we must endure to gain experience and wisdom… which really can only come through making mistakes (and lots of them). Joseph learned to dream as a child. He learned to administer as a slave. He learned to command the respect of others as a prisoner. Each chapter felt like a failure, but without these experiences he would not have been a good ruler. And it was as a ruler, with the power to imprison and punish, that he learned to forgive. He never guessed that his dream would turn out the way it did. There was no way, as a kid watching the sheep in the field, he could have ever in a million years imagined that things would have fallen into place the way they did. You just can’t make that stuff up.
So may we dream long. May our imaginations protect our fragile dreams through the tough times. May we never forget what it was like to play barefoot in the dirt under a hot sun. May reason never overpower our hope. May we never give up on the impossible. Most things were impossible once. But above all else, may we never trade our dreams for apathy. Because maybe today isn’t your day, but tomorrow might be the day that everything suddenly makes sense.
I’m sitting in my Grandma’s kitchen in South Bend, Indiana, trying not to feel sorry for myself. My brain is swimming with so many thoughts, conflicting and colliding…
This was supposed to be THE vacation. The one time I’ve taken vacation all year where I actually got to use my vacation hours because I didn’t end up working through it. I planned an extra week after my parents left to spend time with my Grandma, my brother, my friends from college, maybe my uncle if he’s in town. I’ve been looking so forward to this trip for months.
Then I got laid off. Off. Laid. Off. 30-day notice, with this 2-week vacation smack in the middle. This sucks more than words can say. If really Christian people didn’t read this blog, I’d use a lot stronger language. I could just blow stuff off, but I’m not like that. I could never live with myself if I didn’t use every waking moment to do everything I can to make sure my kids have everything in place when I leave. I just can’t. So I will work as much as I can.
I feel guilty. I feel guilty about not working when I’m spending time with my family. I feel guilty about not spending time with my family when I’m working.
I’m worried. I’m worried about my life, my income, my cat. Mostly I’m worried about my kids who have taken such a risk to learn to trust me, who have dared to hope that I’ll really be there, only to be ripped away through no fault of theirs or mine.
I’m scared. I left my whole world for this job, and now I’ve lost it. I’ve worked an average of about 50 hours a week for the past year, and I haven’t taken the time to really build relationships outside of work. It’s a very lonely feeling. I’m terrified I will lose this new passion that I have for foreign-born youth. My ADHD hyper-focuses me, and it’s so easy to just move on; the idea of losing this scares me to death.
I’m grateful. I’m pretty sure I have a job. I’m so grateful. And I have peace about being employed. I truly do.
I’m so irritated that this layoff happened right at Christmas. My greatest Christmas joy is giving gifts, and this privilege has been ripped from me this year. My mom says I should write – give the gift of words, she says. She’s probably right. But it doesn’t feel good enough for me. I don’t write well on command, and I’m not feeling it.
I’m happy. It is so good to see family again. My brother is doing better than he has in years. His house is clean and healthy. He has staff who actually do their job and care about him. I got to see my aunts and uncle and 5 cousins and my two little cousin-nieces.
I got to sit around a table on Sunday with 5 dear friends from college, meet their families, children. Awkward at first, everyone staring at each other. I think I would have been happy just staring at them for 3 hours. I love them so much. Why don’t we keep in better touch? MK problems.
I’m in awe. God provided miraculously for my dad’s party. Miraculously. The generosity He showed for a simple birthday party is a display of his great Fatherly Love. I see Him up there with a party hat on and organizing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, just throwing His kid a birthday party.
Mom’s passports disappeared, two days before her flight back to Mexico. She was seen today at the US Passport Office without an appointment (anti-policy), and will have her new passport in a couple of hours.
I’m sad. I had to say goodbye to my cousins and nieces for the last time before they return to Korea and Kenya. I don’t know when I’ll see them again. That’s the missionary life, it’s part of the “system,” but I’m still sad. And I said goodbye to my parents this morning, who knows for how long. Again, part of our system, but no fun at all.
So here I am, sitting at this table, trying to focus on work, unable to pull out of this melee of thoughts and emotions happening inside my echoing mind, when suddenly I remembered. I remembered one of my first unofficial blogs that I wrote in the form of a FaceBook Note five Christmas Eves ago. My situation was very different then, but the general idea was the same: things were frustrating, overwhelming, and out of my control. I was crying a lot that day. Then God said, “Girlfriend, I’m not a baby in a manger anymore. Choose peace.” And I did. And I got an A.
So here I share with you my thoughts of Christmas Eve, 2008, unabridged. May they encourage you as you face whatever your holiday season holds for you. May you be challenged along with me to trust, shamelessly and fearlessly, that God is great and grown-up and bigger than whatever giant boulder stands in our way today. And may this season prepare us for the mountains that will come later, as my academic pebble prepared me 5 years ago for today…
December 24, 2008
I am NOT a fan of school. And yet, I’m working at this feverish pace to finish my master’s degree in May. In September my cousin got engaged; I immediately bought a ticket to Albuquerque, requested the week of Christmas off of work, and focused on nothing but this week. For the last two months my one motivating drive has been Eliot’s wedding and a week of nothing but resting and enjoying Christmas at my mentor’s house. And two weeks without any homework. My parents have been wonderful about purchasing my textbooks for me. . . I am so incredibly grateful, there aren’t enough words. But my mom goofed when she ordered the book for my December class. The book ended up sitting in Kansas City for a couple of weeks, then she mailed it to me book rate which meant that I’d eventually get the book the day before all my papers had to be turned in. I tried to stay calm and make the best of it, but I was pretty mad about the whole situation. I ended up borrowing some older books from a friend, using the internet, doing my best, and getting my assignments done in time – even though I had to take an extra day off work to do it. I worked really hard and I was really proud of myself.
The wedding was wonderful. I came back feeling more rested and relaxed and happy than I have in a very long time. Yesterday was very nice. I helped my mentor run some errands and clean out the garage, and we watched 3 Christmas movies. It is SO WONDERFUL to be here without having to do homework. Then last night I got a phone call and email from my professor telling me that 4 of my assignments were way off-base and that if I didn’t redo them my grade would be barely passing. The semester was over on Sunday, but she’s giving me the opportunity to redo them because of my textbook situation. I should be grateful, but I’m not. This means that after all of my excruciating work I have lost the vacation that was my main motivation for the last three months. Pissed is an understatement. I have spent most of the last six hours sitting on my bed alternating between trying to figure out how to decipher whether a WAIS-III subtest score is significant based on the mean standard score of the category and furiously crying my eyes out because it is so incredibly confusing and I was not given the WAIS-III Standard Report Form that tells me clearly how to do it. Tomorrow will be more of the same. I was thoroughly hating this Christmas.
Then this evening I got an email from an old friend (whose new blog you can visit here – definitely worth the read!) sharing his conflicting thoughts about Christmas. His words triggered many of my own philosophical musings. . . Forget the horrors of materialism, why must Christmas be such a warm fuzzy time? Why does culture dictate our emotions and behaviors so much at this time of the year? Jesus was born and laid in a manger, but He didn’t stay there. The focus of Christmas seems to be on being and staying comfortable, on having things be just so, preserving tradition, feeling good. Christmas doesn’t “feel right” if we don’t feel happy and peaceful. It’s almost like constantly seeking that “first high,” and the “feeling of Christmas” seems to become more elusive each year. It really has become such a self-serving time.
Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas. It is my favorite holiday. I love the music and the food and the families and the shopping and the presents and tradition. I so love the tradition. When I think about it, though, I love Christmas because of the memories it conjures, and I am repeatedly disappointed every year when the experience falls short of the memory. Christmas is no longer about Christ. Christmas is about tradition and memories and eating sugar and watching “White Christmas” and opening presents. It’s about dressing up for a meal and taking pictures and looking at colored lights. And setting up a manger scene that – every year – returns Jesus to his little bed. Christ is a TRADITION of Christmas, but He has been relegated to the position of a supporting actor rather than the main hero. I have fallen into this trap of focusing on the feeling rather than Christ. The main thing I have noticed this year: I have said several times that Christmas isn’t Christmas without snow; the irony is that only 11 of my 29 Christmases have included snow.
And then there’s the manger thing. Oddly, I am reminded of Harry Potter. (Stay with me, it will make sense in a minute.) In the 5th book, Harry and his friends enter the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic where they find abstract concepts such as death, love, thought, and time tangibly studied. Time is represented by an hourglass full of a sort of sandstorm. The sand swirls down: this is time progressing. Then a wind comes and blows the sand back to the top: this is time regressing. A chick hatches from an egg at the bottom of the hourglass and begins to grow until the storm swallows it up; when the storm calms the chick has returned to an egg and the process repeats itself. Over and over and over again. Every December our culture puts Jesus back in the manger in a big way. What a sneaky way for Satan to fix in our minds an idea of Jesus as a helpless homely infant. We are such a visual instant-gratification society. . . the mighty words of Gabriel are nothing compared to the timeless image of the manger.
So. . . I make the following proposal: the meaning of Christmas is “hope in hardship.” How foolish we are if we neglect to imagine the hardship of that miraculous yet dreadful night. The rocky barren trek from Nazareth to Bethlehem. Mary’s sheer uncomfortableness. Joseph’s frustration at the timing of the census. Mary’s disappointment at having to put her brand new baby to bed in a feeding trough. Joseph’s fury at having no better option than a stable for Mary to give birth to this Son of God, with whom HE had been given the responsibility to provide for and protect. How weak and ashamed Joseph must have felt; I can only imagine the knot in the pit of his stomach, the overwhelming powerlessness as he watched things unfold so very utterly against his plans. How clearly God gave the message that He would be the ultimate provider. Yet through it all there was hope: rugged, but sheltered; hungry, but warm; tired, but safe; anger, but joy; fear, but comfort. Hardship, but hope.
And I am no longer angry. I hate doing homework on Christmas. I hate having to give up my vacation for this stupid 2-unit class. But I have been given the opportunity to preserve my 4.0, and that gives me hope. This whole thing will be done in May, and that gives me hope. And those things that make it onto our Christmas list: a car, a good job, a spouse, degrees, enough money, friendships, nice bookends to hold up my Middle Earth collection. . . those desires are symbols of hope, too. As long as we are not focused on the things themselves but on the blessings that they are. They come from a God who focuses not on the gift but on the blessing. A God who provides a manger when it is enough and gives great wealth to those who seek wisdom. A Lord who chooses shepherd boys to lead His people and fisherman to lead His church. A Lover who touches the heads of children and notices the longing reach of the desperate. A Father who recognizes the hardships – no matter how petty – and extends hope to pull us through while He chuckles quietly about our desperation to claim the rock He sat on and our frustration at not being able to find the perfect Christmas cards from the wall of them at Target.
So tonight I skipped the turkey (ah yes, the traditions of others) so I’d stay awake and I’ll miss the Christmas movies, and I’ll muddle through the WAIS-III and the MMPI-2 and the MCMI-III and the Rorschach into tomorrow. But I’m not angry anymore. I marvel at the creativity of a God who confuses my mother’s ability to select appropriate shipping options so that I would remember this Christmas that HE is in control and that HE is the One who provides hope in the midst of my most minor hardships. And I am grateful for my wise friend who had the courage to share his controversial ideas about Christmas so that God could use them to pull me out of my reverie of self-pity.
Merry Christmas. May God reveal to you great hope in the midst of the hardships and trials that persist, even at Christmas. May you know His joy and peace, and may you find blessing in the most unexpected of places.
With the hope and overwhelming joy that comes from knowing that Jesus is no longer in His manger,
I grew up with the sense that cut flowers were to be special gifts of love, and that the absence of gifts of flowers is sad. I’ve been given picked flowers by lots of kids (and probably a couple of boys back in the day). To my recollection I have been given gifts of cut flowers by exactly three people: my mother, my father, and one client. Maybe the flowers I carried in my cousin’s wedding count. And myself. One year I sent myself flowers at work on my birthday.
A couple of months ago I rebelled. I bought a vase, and I decided I would keep flowers in that vase. So every couple of weeks I go to Safeway or Trader Joe’s (which has surprisingly inexpensive and lovely cut bouquets) and pick some up. I change the water, rinse the stems, and pull out the ugly stuff every few days. I keep them over my TV, so no matter how I’m feeling or how my house looks at least once a day I see them and feel good. It’s called self-care. It’s a good thing, and I’m grateful to live in a country and have the means to do this.
Today Pastor Abel preached a powerful sermon on ALLOWING ourselves to be recharged and renewed. He compared beautiful cut arrangements with less stunning potted plants: the most “appealing” dies and will not be renewed. The other has dirt, but with that comes roots and life.
As I put my new flowers in my vase today, carefully mixing the plant food with lukewarm water, trimming back leaves so they wouldn’t be below the water line, arranging them for optimum viewing pleasure, I had few thoughts:
1. I am preparing these flowers to entertain me by dying as slowly as possible. If they were human, this would be a crime against humanity.
2. This particular self-care technique is meant to make me feel better in the place where (because lately that’s just how exhausted I am) I do most of my recharging: right in front of the tv. How toxic!
3. I already know this, but there is precious little “rooted” recharging happening in my life right now. I’m in survival mode, doing what I can to make it successfully through the next week, day, even hour. It’s trimming the leaves, keeping the water fresh, making sure there’s plant food. It works just fine in the short term, but all too soon it will die. It comes on you gradually, until suddenly you realize that the charge just doesn’t hold anymore.
4. I think the easiest way to know you’re running on this short-term energy is that you can’t even think seriously about anything long-term anymore. It’s all about surviving NOW. It’s really tough on so many levels for a Christian who’s a therapist who prays and chews Scripture on most days to admit she’s in survival mode.
5. I remember what I told a client on Thursday: this is part of your journey. We all go through desperate dark deserts in our adventures where we are cold and wet and take whatever food and drink and shelter we can find, no matter how disease-ridden or dangerous. I know I’m right about that. The Bible promises it. I just don’t like being there. It’s exhausting.
6. I have no intention of taking my slowly dying flowers out of my living room. They do make me happy. But now they also ask me a question…. Do you REALLY have no energy except to look at me? Have you DONE something today to recharge? Am I REALLY the best you can do today? Sometimes the answer is yes. But I bet that most days it’s not.
Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. ~ Matthew 11:28-29
My heart goes out to Adrian Peterson. No parent should have to bury their child. No toddler should be intentionally harmed, let alone killed.
But can I be real for a second? What about all the other children who are killed every year? What about the ones killed by their actual parents? What about the millions of American children who are physically, sexually, and emotionally abused in this country – maybe even right next door in your rich educated neighborhood – Every. Single. Day.
You know those commercials about foster kids? Those kids are foster children because their lives were at risk as a result of how their PARENTS treated them.
So yes, pray for Adrian Peterson. And thank God that it wasn’t him who murdered his son. Thank God that the child’s abuser has been identified and held accountable. Thank God that Mr. Peterson has the financial means to pursue justice for his son.
But don’t stop there. Pray for the children dying slowly behind closed doors. The ones who are afraid to go to bed at night and the ones afraid to wake up in the morning. The ones who are safer in their dream worlds while hell rages around them. The ones whose brains have been damaged so that they can’t control their emotions, reactions, or moods. Pray for the kids squatting against a wall for hours because they spilled something, or the ones forced to drink hot sauce because they interrupted, or the ones wearing long sleeves to hide scratches and cigarette burns. Pray for the ones who fear death so much that they are afraid to ask for salvation. I’ve called almost 150 of these children “my kids,” and I know the gritty details of stories that would haunt your dreams… they haunt mine… the stories of real, live, small, beautiful, amazing, unbelievable, resilient, powerful young lives.
Pray for the children no one hears. The ones no one even suspect have a problem because they are clean and like to laugh, or because they get good grades. Pray for the children who will never be noticed because they are invisible, who will never be redeemed because there are no resources, who will be blamed because no one speaks for them, who will be lost because no one has the courage to look, who will be broken because no one takes the time to properly love them.
Pray for all the kids watching all the attention this story is getting and wishing it was them, just so someone would care and fight for them.
And then look, if you dare. Because these kids are all around you… in every store, every restaurant, every classroom, every neighborhood, every church, every playground. They are there waiting, watching, wondering if YOU might finally be the person who sees them.
I looked, and it has been the scariest and most rewarding adventure I could have possibly imagined. It has been my honor to know and see and fight and love with and for them. I am stronger and tougher and more forgiving and more resilient and more passionate because of them. They are my heroes.
May this precious lost child be the window that allows us to see them all.