Looking for Emmanuel

 We were asked at church to submit a photo and caption answering this question, “How do you want Christmas to be different this year?”  This was my response:

I want to stop white-knuckling my way through December long enough to actually slow down and enjoy it.

And then, it happened.

I was forced to loosen my death grip on my precious calendar December 4th.  I had been asked to speak to some students and mentors at church about disability.  So I spent much of Thanksgiving weekend preparing, delighting in the anticipation of sharing on a topic that is very near and dear to my heart.  If any of you speak, you know what it is to carry a message; you live with it; it grows in you until it’s time to deliver.

But, it snowed that night and the event was cancelled.  I spent the evening by the fire writing, pondering my disappointment. 

I’m still learning from this situation, but among other things, I’ve been asking these questions:
 

What if I let myself be interrupted? (Yuck.) 

What if I was willing to loosen the grip on my calendar creating space for God to do work in my life that I can’t plan, and maybe, at first glance, don’t even like? (Let’s be honest, this still feels uncomfortable.  I’m cringing as I write it.)

What would it be like to slow down this season and actually look for God at work in my life; to experience Emmanuel?

It happened when I didn't want to go for a walk that afternoon because it was so cold, but my body seemed to groan from all the sitting I did that day, so I relented. I pulled on extra layers, but they didn't seem like enough as my fingers were still chilled 20 minutes in. Gradually, my body started to warm. The sun peeked through the clouds in an encore of brilliance for the day. It shown down; I felt warm and embraced. My heart poured forth a spontaneous expression, "Thank you God for this moment." 

This is Emmanuel: God with us bringing light and warmth.

It happened late Sunday afternoon while grocery shopping at Target. I was headed home to eat dinner alone as I prepared to face another week.  My cell phone rang: Teresa.  “Come over for dinner!  I’m making your favorite, cheesy potatoes.”  Suddenly my loneliness was interrupted by company: my niece’s smiles, warm dinner conversations, and a walk through the neighborhood to see the lights. 
 

This is Emmanuel: God with us bringing comfort and joy.

It happened in church on a Friday night.  I had had a disappointing week, so while everyone stood to sing, I remained sitting. I didn’t have much praise inside of me.  My throat was dry from crying that afternoon, so I let myself be silent. Grief has introduced me to the Man of Sorrows, and in that moment, I turned my face towards Him. I imagined Jesus sitting in the chair next to me, holding my hand, whispering His truth.  Light has come into the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.

This is Emmanuel: God with us bringing us the Light of His Word.

It happens in the morning when I steal just a few more minutes wrapped in my prayer shawl while the candle is lit.  It’s like an extra hug from the Almighty before heading out the door.  It happens while driving to work. I turn the music up loud. My car transforms into a sanctuary.  The space fills up with sound as my heart fills up with joy.  As I finish up singing, We’ll praise your name forever..and put my car in park, I’m ready to face a new day. 
 

This is Emmanuel: God with us bringing His presence into our praise.
 

Where have you seen Emmanuel this season?

Waiting: The angst of growth we cannot see

Advent is the season of waiting.  It’s pregnant with expectation and hope.  Eugene Peterson puts it this way:

All around us we observe a pregnant creation. The difficult times of pain throughout the world are simply birth pangs. But it’s not only around us; it’s within us. The Spirit of God is arousing us within. We’re also feeling the birth pangs. These sterile and barren bodies of ours are yearning for full deliverance. That is why waiting does not diminish us, any more than waiting diminishes a pregnant mother. We are enlarged in the waiting. We, of course, don’t see what is enlarging us. But the longer we wait, the larger we become, and the more joyful our expectancy.

One winter night, the phone rang waking me from a distant dream.  My nephew was about to make his entrance into the world.  I pulled on some clothes and drove through the night to the hospital.  The morning was filled with bad coffee, fast food, and walking the halls with excitement.  It was like I had just boarded a plane:  I hadn’t showered, my sleep had been interrupted, and my heart ached for the moment when a loved one would be in my arms.


As the Today Show wrapped up, Calvin emerged.  Watching a human being enter the world was the most amazing thing I have ever seen.  It is unbelievable how the body changes, making space for new life.  (Watch this video of a crab shedding its old skin.  It’s remarkable!) I witnessed a miracle that day; Calvin is so beautiful!

Expectation and arrival can be a gift, but it can also be painful.  Desire can propel us, filling us with excitement and hope.  But unmet, the fire of desire can nearly ruin us. 

The bible seems to be full of this story: People who see the promises of God, but are asked to wait for long periods of time before becoming recipients.  Sarah knew God was going to give her a baby, but she was 90 before that promise came to pass.  Along the way came a baby named Ishmael fathered by her husband and her concubine and a whole lot of family drama.

Joseph found himself in a similar fix.  Early on he had visions of leadership, but the road to Egypt was long and winding.  He became a slave and then a prisoner before he was ever brought to Pharaoh. 

Waiting is hard because it delays the thing we so desperately desire.  When what we want gets put on hold, we are poignantly reminded who really is in control.  This reality can propel us to finally confess our deepest desires not just to our friends but also before a loving God.  We feel the angst of growth we cannot see.  We hold on to the hope that Henri Nouwen was right, “Waiting is a period of learning.  The longer we wait, the more we hear about Him for whom we are waiting.”

Enjoy this piece I wrote called Sensing Hope
 
Taste
I think of communion; God declaring that He is the Bread of Life, extending an invitation to come and eat because He offers everything we need.  But sometimes….
It tastes like losing your appetite because your stomach is full of ache.
Eating too much, too often, to try and fill a void.

Touch
It’s the feeling of being held and needing to be held when no one is around to embrace your skin.  It’s the feel of tears falling down your cheeks and dropping into your lips.
Holding your breath.
Holding on.
Feeling weighty.  Needing to grasp something heavy to grapple with the heaviness of life. 

Sight
It looks like Dr. Seuss’ The Waiting Place.
Praising God in church with reckless abandon.  People confess to staring.  You do it anyway.
Checking your e-mail to find no response.  No messages on your phone…again.
Coming home to an empty house.
Empty handedness.

Smell
Hope smells like rain.  A remnant of a storm to be sure, but also the promise that new ground is being watered to bring fourth life.  Spring will come again with the unexpected delight of new and beautiful things growing out of the dirt.

Sound
Tears.
Screams.
Sobs.
Laughter.
The song: Strangely Dim, by  Francesca Battistelli

Photo by  C. Hill
Waiting Place Source

Confessions of a Christmas Grinch: How Looking Through the Lens of Advent has Helped to Enlarge My Heart

I have a confession to make: I’m a Christmas Grinch.  I honestly don’t like the holiday season.  As I watch my calendar fill up with expectations and demands, I find myself wanting to white-knuckle the kitchen table, close my eyes tight, and hope with everything in me that somehow when I open my eyes, it will magically be 2014.

It’s a season where I struggle with the music.  I’m constantly flipping stations and feeding my CD player so I don’t have to listen to Frosty the Snowman, Jingle Bells, or Santa Claus is Coming to Town.  “It’s NOT the most wonderful time of year!”  I’ve found myself yelling while driving to work after shoveling my driveway, scraping my car window, and leaving 20 minutes early so I can arrive on time.

Snow and ice are not my friends.  Darkness and I aren’t on friendly terms either.  I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder and I usually fall about once a month on the ice; sometimes resulting in lingering pain. 

Winter driving is also not one of my favorite activities.  One New Year’s Eve I found myself in the passenger seat as my mom was driving me home from college.  We hit a patch of ice and the car began to swirl around and around like a tilt-a-whirl. In desperation, my mom reached out her hand to protect me and cried, “Oh Jenny, what are we going to do!?”  I sat up straight in my seat and silently said to myself, I guess this is the day I meet Jesus.  It’s amazing how much peace God gives you the moment you think you are about to die; I’m now convinced death is a beautiful thing.  Even though our car landed safely in the ditch and we went home that evening unscathed, I’ve lived in fear of the weather ever since. 

Unfortunately, I don’t fully understand the love language of gift giving.  I’m learning that a present is a way of saying to another person, “ I see you, I know the things you care about, and I want to reflect it in this gift,” but my primary love language is physical touch. I want to be held.  I want those I love to open their arms wide and receive me in their embrace.  No need to pick up something from Target—just sit next to me on the couch. 

My struggle with the Christmas season is why I love the gift of Advent.  It’s an opportunity to view the season from a whole different perspective. It’s the invitation to look through the lens of the gospel and remember three things:

Christ came:  Last December I found myself trying to grasp the threads on my bedroom floor carpet as I lay there shrieking with sobs and tears.  (I wrote about this in a post titled When Words Fail.) Children who attended Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newton, CT had just been murdered and I couldn’t make sense of it.  The only thing that brought me comfort in the coming days was the knowledge that Jesus was born into a similar terror.  My Savior knew my pain.

Jeremiah 31: 15 A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.

Christ will come again:  Last week I wrote about the hope of heaven.  My heart fills joyful expectation as I wait for that great day.

Revelation 21:4  “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

Christ is with us even now!  Whether you like this season or not; whether December brings you good news of great joy or a keen awareness of sadness and pain, God is with us now, near to us in the midst of this season.

"The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel" (which means "God with us").  Mathew 1:23

What’s Advent all about?  Check out this 2 minute video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S02KOlw7dlA

How do you envision heaven?

Revelation 21:4
4 ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’[a] or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

Do you ever wonder about heaven?  I let my imagination wonder.  Here’s what I envision:

I hope my room in heaven looks like the main reading room at the Library of Congress.  Rows and rows of ancient books line dark wooden shelves.  There are ornate ceilings, and lots of nooks and crannies with inviting views where I can snuggle up and read.  The lake is at my doorstep.  There’s a dock and a fishing boat and beautiful sunsets.  The Great Blue Heron soars across the water, and because it’s heaven we can talk to each other; he tells me about fishing and I tell him about my day.
 
There’s lots of time to spend with loved ones.  My little nieces and nephew come over every day.  We have story time together and then go out and play in the sand.  My childhood dog is there, tail whipping around and tongue hanging out as he pants a wet smile. 

Heaven is a place where disability doesn’t exist.  Personal care attendants will have to find a line of work.  No one is fed with an IV or syringe. No one eats alone.  No one knows what loneliness is.  Shame is no longer something people carry.  No one wears diapers or uses a wheelchair.  My friend Kris who was injured in a car accident is out playing football once again and my friend Krista, born with a rare genetic condition causing her bones to fuse is out winning beauty pageants; not just because her new body is stunning, but because her character is too.  My students who once had intellectual disabilities are earth are now solving math problems and teaching me things.  My students with autism haven’t lost their childish charm, but in heaven, they can finally speak!

 I have a whole closet full of high heels: hot pink, leopard print, but I think I’ll wear the red ones, at least for the first 100 years.  My feet will match because they will no longer be deformed.  No scars will line my legs.  I won’t have to manage fatigue any longer, suffer from back pain, or have an awkward posture.  My balance will be perfect; my gait will be flawless.  Maybe I’ll even take up running.  Maybe I’ll do it in my red heels.

I hope there will be lots of time for learning.  I want to sit down and have private tea with all my favorite English authors: C.S. Lewis, Paul Brand, J.K. Rowling, and Agatha Christie.  I want to pick their brains about their wonderful imaginations, plot lines, and spend time thanking them for the way their words carried me through life.  I want to take a graduate theology course from Paul the Apostle.  I want to learn about animals from the animals themselves.

I think there will be lots of time to meet people.  I hope we all have a reception line where we get to greet the people that impacted our lives and the people we in turn impacted.  I hope I’ll get to meet my ancestors as far back as I want, and spend lots of time with Grandma who left my life abruptly in 1998. 

In heaven, I won’t have to worry about seasonal depression any more.  There won’t be clouds or darkness to drag me down, but plenty of sunshine and endless light.  There will be times of quiet intimacy with God that are precious and also lots of time to worship together.  I think there will be lots of music and dancing.  Our pitch will be perfect and song will be rich and deep when we sing alone, but everything will come together when we sing as a choir, every voice fitting together like pieces in a puzzle, creating a masterpiece that fills the expanse of heaven.  We’ll want to sing and praise Him forever and ever.

And God finally will be with us.  We will touch him and he will hold us.  We will look into His eyes and He will stare back at us and in that moment we will finally know what it is to know and be known….how I long for that day!

In case the thought of heaven makes you want to sing, may I recommend this song?  Yours will Be (The Only Name) by Big Daddy Weave:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WnDTDLOM0rY

 1 Corinthians 13:12
12 For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

Photo Credit

Here's to Teachers Who See the Awesome!

I was an awkward teenager.  I didn’t know how to style my hair; I didn’t own any make-up, and I was completely clueless when it came to boys.  They simply weren’t on my radar screen.  It’s as if I have always been a “librarian in training.”  I wore sweaters to school, had glasses on my face, and I spent too many quiet evenings at home reading books.

I spent a lot of time in the library too.  I was a great student, but what motivated me above the thrill and joy of learning was shame.  I felt like a failure for having a physical disability. I hated my body.  I wanted to weave something to cover all of the awkwardness up, so I made a robe from my perfect academics, except they weren’t perfect; I only had a 3.9 G.P.A. in a line-up of several people with 4.0s.  

I remember not liking high school.  I remember wanting the whole experience to be over.  I remember wanting to be an adult.

I also remember that moment sitting in Mr. Olsen’s English class as a junior when he stood in front of us and said, “You all need to learn how to speak.  This class is very talented and I know there are many of you who will one day make some very important speeches.  I want you to be prepared.”

I squirmed in my seat; hopeful and disappointed at the same time.  I knew that I would never address my classmates at commencement, but somehow I knew he was talking to me.  Mr. Olsen was a unique kind of teacher—one who taught beyond the curriculum and considered the whole student.  He wanted to know my name as much as he wanted me to enjoy The Great Gatsby.  He saw me a whole person; he dared to see my talent in the midst of my awkwardness.

I remembered him throughout college as I pushed myself to do better.  When I stood before 7,000 people at St. Cloud State University on Mother’s Day 2006, delivering my valedictory speech, I smiled, not only because of my achievements and honors, but because Mr. Olsen was right—I was making that very important speech.

I always wanted to thank Mr. Olsen for believing in me, and this summer I got my chance.  I ran into him at Perkins one morning and thanked him.  He turned to me, smiled, and said, “I knew you had it in you kid.”
 
Did you have a teacher along the way who helped “reveal the awesome” potential in you?  This week is American Education Week.  What better time to e-mail your alma matter, hop on to Linked In, or look up your teacher on Facebook.  Tell them what an impact they have made; you will be glad you did.

Enjoy this video by Kid President.  (If you can't see the video below, visit this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RwlhUcSGqgs)

Finding the Courage to Be Myself: My reaction to being seen on WCCO

There are moments in my life when, because I have cerebral palsy, I don’t like being myself.  I feel inadequate, awkward, and tired.  I wonder how people perceive me and if they like what they see.  But, after this happened last week, I found the courage and confidence to like being myself.  I realized it was okay to let myself be seen, even though my butt sticks out when I stand, my arms get spastic when I'm excited, and my feet are covered with Reeboks because of the inserts and AFO that holds me up each day. Seeing myself on screen, helped me see, that even in the midst of all that awkwardness, I am beautiful.  I like what I see and so do other people.  For the first time, in a long time, I was happy about the place I am at in life, the work God is doing, and the people He has called me to.  I finally wanted to be me! 

Thank you for the tremendous outpouring of support over the past few days.  I am secure in my conviction that I am loved.

Please enjoy the letter and videos that follow.  I did receive permission to share this letter in its entirety from Aimee Libby. Aimee, this is one of the most beautiful letters I've ever read.  Thank you for taking the time to write it and for honoring me.

From: Aimee Libby
Subject: Excellent Educator nomination
Date: October 4, 2013 at 3:56:42 PM CDT
To: morning@wcco.com

Hello,

 My name is Aimee Libby and I have two kids who attend St. Michael Elementary (STME) in St. Michael, MN. My oldest child (Peyton) has special needs from an injury at birth, and is in 3rd grade at STME. Peyton struggles with Expressive & Receptive Language Disorder and Global Apraxia (both neurological planning/processing disorders). We have been at STME for three years, and while we have met and interacted with countless amazing staff members there both in the regular ed and SPED classrooms, there's one person in particular who has had a huge impact on our family – and who is making a HUGE impact on our entire community. Her name is Jenny Hill. She is the Media Specialist at STME, and she was born at 29 weeks gestation with Cerebral Palsy. The very first week our daughter, Peyton, was at STME, she came home raving about "Miss Hill". I had no idea who she was, so I looked her up on the school staff directory online. I remember thinking, "Weird, she's just the librarian". When my husband and I asked Peyton why she liked Miss Hill so much, her response was, "She's different. Like me." Little did we know that Ms. Hill was very actively teaching so much more than simply how to check out a book.

 Over the past few years, we've gotten to know Miss Hill and have been amazed at what a great asset she is to STME and to our community. She's very open with the kids about her disability. In talking with her, we have been so encouraged to hear her mission as an educator - to make sure every student knows they are loved, appreciated, and respected. I once asked her how she's able to so freely discuss her disability after having such a difficult time growing up, feeling as though she was alone and without any friends. I know for myself, it's often difficult to talk about or explain my daughter's disability to others, but Jenny does it with grace and ease. Her response blew me away, she said, "I have seen that sharing my story has the power to provide hope, inspiration, and encouragement to others who are struggling". Wow.

About a year and a half ago I helped start a Special Olympics team here in St. Michael-Albertville…and Jenny has been one of our biggest fans! She invited my daughter and I to be a part of the daily "morning news" at STME during "Acceptance Week" last April to help inform the kids what Special Olympics is all about, she has helped promote fundraisers for our team, she has also been doing an amazing job encouraging kids to look beyond people's disability (whether physical or cognitive). Through sharing her story and being transparent to both students and staff at her building, she's trailblazing a beautiful path for all current and future students with special needs/disabilities to walk down – one that is filled with cheerleaders along the way and even friends walking ON that path with them, hand-in-hand. Jenny is promoting acceptance, but more importantly, she is working so very hard to teach each student she comes in contact with that "different" is good. Because deep down, we're all "different" in one way or another.

 We can't say enough good things about Miss Hill! And we'd love for her to be recognized for all that she's doing (much of which she probably doesn't even realize) simply by being herself and being open with everyone regarding her disability. She is truly one in a million and we're so lucky to have her at STME!

Thanks for your time and consideration!
 Sincerely,
Aimee Libby

On Thursday morning, Edward Moody from WCCO showed up in the middle of my first class to hand me an award and name me their Excellent Educator of the Week.
If you cannot see the video embedded below, visit this link: http://minnesota.cbslocal.com/video/9505775-excellent-educator-jenny-hill-at-st-michael-elementary/




I also want to express my gratitude for Steve Wiens in how he honored me this weekend at Church of the Open Door.  If have time, please watch this message in its entirety.  It is very good.  Steve tells my story around the 20 minute mark.  Here is the link: http://vimeo.com/79120409

Jesus Wept

The fellowship of suffering….I experienced it last week when I opened up about the pain of being stared at in public.  Many of you who responded were people who have experienced this pain yourself.  Your reaction was not one of pity or encouragement, but rather expressions of understanding, “Well said.” “Thank you.”  “I’ve had similar experiences.”  This is the fellowship of suffering—when what we read points to our pain with such pressure we can feel it, and at the same time brings relief because the words have brought friendship to our grief.

This, however, leads to a good question.

How do we react when we haven’t had similar experiences?  What do we do when our friends and family are facing the unbearable?  What do we say when all of our words and information seem cheap and wrong and the best option it would seem, is to say nothing, yet it is these situations which cry the loudest for our concern?

This is not the time to try to fix things.

It’s not the time to offer friendly advice or a story.

Please don’t send a message to “think on the bright side.”

I think these are the times when we must learn to sit with one another in the midst of pain and weep.

This is not an easy thing to learn.

Let’s face it; many of us are reserved native Minnesotans, myself included.  I also have Norwegian roots.  I’m not a crier.  It’s like Tom Hanks  has been two inches away from my ear my whole life screaming, “There’s no crying!!”

But, as I continue to interact with people who are suffering, I am slowly learning how to weep.  It’s like I hold it all inside until it’s pressing down on my chest.  When I sit down alone to pray, it all comes out with so much force I can hardly breathe.  I’ve learned to thank God for these moments, to ask Him for tears and to thank Him when they come because a hard cry seems to be the only release and the only authentic expression I can offer.

Jesus did this.

In John 35:11, upon hearing of Lazarus’ death, we read the famous line, “Jesus wept.”  Jesus, who had just boldly proclaimed to Martha that He was “The Resurrection and the Life,” the only One who could really fix the situation, was reduced to tears when he saw other people’s pain.  He wept with them.  He joined with them in their suffering.  It was this act that caused the crowd to cry, “See how he loved him!”

Want to read more?  Tanya Marlow is a minister, blogger, and a person who lives with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.  Read what she has to say in an article written for Relevant Magazine.

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