I want to build a hospital

I’ve been working on this post for a month.  Seriously.  The scariest part of both of my trips to Uganda was the fundraising because I hate asking people for money.  But the thing is, I really believed in those trips to Musana — and both times ended up funded with time to spare! — and I really really really believe in what Musana is doing and I want to see their hospital get built.

So enough beating around the bush.  Here’s the deal: I want to build a hospital.  Or, rather, I want to get a hospital built.  And I want to ask for YOUR help to do that. 

The outpatient wing of the Musana Health Center (photo courtesy Musana CDO).

The outpatient wing of the Musana Health Center (photo courtesy Musana CDO).

It was one month ago today that I got home from Uganda.  That’s hard to believe — in some ways it feels like yesterday and in other ways a lifetime ago.  Afterwards people asked me how the trip was and my response was almost always, “Completely amazing.  And also really hard.”

Soon after I returned, a friend posted on Facebook, “If Disney is the happiest place on Earth, what’s the second happiest?”  Without hesitating I replied, “Musana.”  Maybe I’m biased, but it’s the happiest place I’ve ever been.  Including Disney.  In the local language, Musana means sunshine — and indeed Musana is bringing light into darkness.  Musana is reaching out in love to some of the poorest, most vulnerable people on the planet and providing them with dignity, hope, and joy.  I am honored to have been able to witness what God is doing through them in Uganda.  So from that aspect it was — once again — completely amazing.

But when I was there this year the Musana staff did something for us that they have not done with any other visiting team.  They took us out of the Musana bubble.  Because Musana is a bubble.  They’re doing amazing things, but there are still so many in need in Uganda.

Sure we’d seen people as we walked through town or from the windows of our bus.  But we didn’t know them or their stories or how they lived their lives; we really only saw the Musana school children and Musana staff and Musana projects.  So one morning we were split into four groups.  Two groups went to visit people at their homes and hear their stories — some homes being families of kids who are at Musana school.  One group went to visit some other schools — that didn’t have near the resources of Musana.  When we came back afterwards to share our experiences, it was hard.  Really hard.  

The need is great.  The need is so so so great.  For rescuing children.  For providing education.  For helping widows.  And also, as I learned, for healthcare.

My group went to the hospital.  There is one hospital in town (along with a few small clinics) serving a population of about a million people.  Compare that to Colorado which according to Wikipedia has just over five million people and over 100 hospitals.  From the moment the hospital was put forward as an option I knew I had to go.  Mentally, I tried to prepare myself.  I knew the conditions would be nothing like those I’ve seen in the eleven years at my job.  I knew it would be crowded.  I knew it wouldn’t be clean.

It didn’t matter; I still wasn’t prepared.  I had tried to prepare myself for the conditions, but I wasn’t prepared for the patients.  I wasn’t prepared for the reality of so many suffering people.

It was silent when we walked into the first room — the pediatric ward for those age five and under.  It was crammed with a hundred cribs bearing dirty mattresses.  On the floor by most of them was a straw mat with one, two, even three family members sitting or sleeping on the concrete floor to be near their children.  Every head turned as five white girls walked into the room.  We initially stood by the door, but the nurse told us to walk through.  I could barely meet the eyes of anyone.  Most stared at us in silence the whole time we were in the ward.  All I saw in glances of faces was pain and exhaustion and fear — what you would probably expect from anyone watching their child die in a hospital.

At the debrief later that morning, one of my teammates said that at the home of a severely disabled mother she asked the Musana social worker, “What are you doing for her?  What can we do for them?”  The reply was, “We stand with them.”  In that first moment in the pediatric ward, that is what I wanted more than anything.  To go to each family in turn and pray with them, hug them, cry with them, stand with them, love them.

It was the same scenario as we walked through the other wards, all eyes on us.  In the men’s ward, I couldn’t help reaching out my hand to squeeze the shoulder of a patient who lay skeletal and motionless on a bed except for eyes that followed me.

We were taken to the labor and delivery room where three women in active labor moved about a space the size of my living room.  Other very very pregnant women sat outside the door on the floor.  We were told ten to twenty babies entered the world each day in that room, most by C-section.  From there, to a ward where dozens of women lay recovering from birth.  We noted most did not have a baby with them; I think none of us wanted to ask if the children had been taken home or hadn’t survived.  A few years ago one of Musana’s staff members gave birth in that hospital to a beautiful, healthy baby who caught a fever and died shortly in that same hospital because there was no doctor or fever-reducing medicine.

The good news is that the hospital wasn’t entirely dire.  There was an HIV clinic — unlabeled due to stigma, the nurse wouldn’t even say it but wrote it on her hand — that was pretty nice and clean and well-staffed.  In another room, hundreds of women held infants waiting for vaccines.  I asked which vaccines they were getting and the nurse rattled off an impressive list.  Throughout the hospital the walls were plastered with posters hoping to spread as much health education as possible.  All of the services at the hospital were offered free of charge.

Our visit had started in the superintendent’s office.  On his desk were displayed two plaques presented to the hospital for being the top performing hospital in the country.  Yes, this was the top performing hospital in the whole country.  And even he told us with frustration in his voice how they didn’t have near the resources to treat all the patients that come to them.  In this burgeoning country, the need is just too great and the resources just too few.

So Musana is building a hospital.  Last year when I visited the newly-purchased site it was spoken of as a clinic; I guess they decided that the town needed more.  This year we saw a nearly-finished two-story building that will be the outpatient center; they hope to open in November.  The inpatient hospital will be built next door for a price tag of $300,000.  Yeah, that’s it!  About the cost of a house here in Colorado.  A hospital for the price of a house.

A short side story: while on the trip (I think even the same day we went to the hospital) one of my teammates and another volunteer at Musana each got an insect bite.  The bites swelled up to the size of marbles, were painful and full of puss.  As we crowded around trying to figure out what to do, I realized how much I take my health care system for granted.  We had minimal options to try to treat these bites — whatever OTC meds we had in our suitcases.  I for one never even considered going to that hospital; besides not being completely clean, they had hardly any resources and there were people dealing with much worse conditions than a bug bite.  But the seriousness of the bites did make me wonder what the outcome would be if we hadn’t had even those meds.  And sterile gauze pads.  And clean water to wash the wounds.  And enough nutritious food for their bodies to heal.  Could a simple insect bite like this become a crippling or fatal infection if received by a Ugandan without those resources?  Possibly.  (By the way, they both got better — with the intervention of some fancy antibiotics.)

My first day back at work, I found myself a bit stunned walking through the beautiful halls of my workplace.  A clean health center full of quality equipment and hundreds of caring people.  The American healthcare system is far from perfect, but it’s light years beyond what my friends in Uganda have to experience.

But the need is so great.  Have I said that enough times in this post?  Because it’s true.  Uganda is currently the lowest in the world on the median population age at 15.  Survival is hard in Uganda.  I read a book recently that described trying to help in Uganda as emptying the ocean with an eyedropper.  I admit I felt a sense of paralysis.  While I’m excited about the Musana hospital, it still won’t be enough to meet the need.

Then I thought of one of my favorite stories that sums up not just Musana but ministry and even how God asks us to work: the starfish story.

A young man is walking along the ocean and sees a beach on which thousands and thousands of starfish have washed ashore. Further along he sees an old man, walking slowly and stooping often, picking up one starfish after another and tossing each one gently into the ocean. “Why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?” he asks. “Because the sun is up and the tide is going out and if I don’t throw them further in they will die.” “But, old man, don’t you realize there are miles and miles of beach and starfish all along it! You can’t possibly save them all, you can’t even save one-tenth of them. In fact, even if you work all day, your efforts won’t make any difference at all.” The old man listened calmly and then bent down to pick up another starfish and threw it into the sea. “It made a difference to that one.”

Without a doubt, Musana is making a difference in Uganda.

Children were huddled abused and malnourished in a [supposedly Christian] orphanage praying, “God, save us!”  And he spoke to the hearts of some random young adults who started Musana Children’s Home and got them out.

Parents were praying, “God, our children need to go to school so they can have a better life!”  And he moved and created Musana Nursery and Primary School, exploding with brilliant children and caring teachers.

Widows were praying, “God, I don’t know how I’m going to feed my family!”  And he sent Musana to start women’s projects giving women skills and small business loans to provide for their families while also giving them dignity and standing with them in love.

When the five of us returned to the guest house after the hospital visit, we put our arms around each other and cried and prayed for the people we saw in the hospital.  We prayed God would be powerful and present in their lives.  We thanked God that he had led the staff of Musana to start building a hospital and asked him to bless it.  And I wondered how many people in Iganga had been praying for health care long before we got there.

God is answering prayers through the work of Musana.  Musana staff are faithfully following God’s leading, and inch by inch God is using Musana to change lives.  Making a difference one at a time.  Saving starfish, one might say.

And God is faithful, too.  Watching, protecting, blessing, growing Musana.  Even just the stats from my trip last year to this year: 500 students to 670 students.  Seriously guys, they’re making a difference!  This is an organization to watch.  More than that, this is an organization to get involved with.

I’ve been thinking of a quote I heard that basically says that God doesn’t ask us to save the whole world, but to act where we are with what we have and be obedient in what he asks us to do.  Did the women who founded Musana realize when they went to Africa one summer that they’d start an orphanage?  No.  They didn’t know how to start an orphanage.  But they heard God’s call and followed it and he provided.  And they kept listening.  They didn’t know how to start a school.  They didn’t know how to start a farm.  They didn’t know how to build a hospital.  But they were faithful each time God led them, following even though they were probably uncertain where he was going to lead and how exactly he was going to do this.  God doesn’t call the equipped, but he equips the called.

On the way home to Colorado I was convicted.  Not to move to Uganda and start an orphanage / school / farm / hospital.  I don’t believe God is calling me to do that at this time.  But I was convicted to be faithful with what God has given me.

I told a friend about the hospital and its $300,000 price tag, and she scoffed, “There are rich people that spend that much to have private jets and second homes; they should give their money to do things like this instead!”  I initially agreed, but then thought for a moment, “Why does it have to be the rich people that do it?  I don’t have $300,00 but I can still give something.”

So I made a donation to Musana toward getting that hospital built.  Of course it’s not near enough to finish the hospital, but it was big enough to be a sacrifice and make me panic and almost not go through with it.  Yet I’ve rarely been so convinced that a course of action was necessary.  And I could think of no better investment than putting that money in the hands of Musana.  That money will go SO much farther and make MUCH more of an impact there in Uganda in those lives than it ever could here in America spending it on myself.  It will quite literally change lives and save lives.

* * * * *

I suck at wrapping up blog post, but here goes.  I’ve read countless stories from people about organizations doing charity work around the world and asking people to give money.  Why is this any different?  Why do I want you to support Musana?  It’s not just because there’s a need.  There are needs everywhere!  It’s not just because I believe they are good stewards of the money they are entrusted with.  Even though they are!

It’s the mindset behind what they are doing and why.  It would take far too long to explain here (though I’d be happy to talk with you over ice cream about it), but they do everything thoughtfully.  They approach each project incrementally.  They are not afraid to say something isn’t working and redirect the resources elsewhere.  They are always focused on sustainability, desiring to eventually eliminate all outside funding for their day-to-day operations.  They have great respect for the local culture, and work within it rather than westernizing everything.  And they do everything with incredible love and compassion.

There are other organizations out there that do this too, no doubt.  I admit I don’t know them and there’s too many to go out looking try to find them.  But I’ve found Musana.  Actually, rather than “I’ve found” I’ll say that God led me to Musana.  He’s put this community on my heart and made me passionate about it.

In one of our team meetings after we got back we talked about if just giving money to an organization instead of physically doing something like a missions trips or volunteering is a cop out.  ABSOLUTELY NOT.  It’s a way to release your brothers and sisters onto the world to do ministry.  Your ministry — and mine — can include empowering others to do ministry.  There’s this awesome verse in 2 Corinthians:

So two good things will results from the ministry of giving — the needs of the believers in Jerusalem will be met, and they will joyfully express their thanks to God.

When I give to ministry, it doesn’t just impact my relationship with God by showing faith and acting selflessly.  It also impacts others relationships with God: they thank God for his provision and trust him more!  Growth happens on both ends of the giving stream.  It’s not just that financial needs are met, but spiritual needs are met too.

Okay folks, I think I’ve said enough.  If you want to help get that hospital built faster, here’s the link about the project.  If health care isn’t your passion, you can also help Musana out with their other big capital project: building a secondary school and technical school (The land is purchased and graded! Time to build…).  To learn more about Musana and donate visit their website; you can follow along with what they’re doing by checking them out on Facebook; and you can see beautiful faces with amazing joy by following them on Instagram.

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Two weeks

Two weeks from today I’ll be doing my final packing before one final night in my bed and getting on a plane (well, three planes and a bus) to head for Musana.

I alternate between feeling incredibly excited, and rather ho-hum.  I mean, on the one hand, I’m going halfway around the world!  I’m going to be away from the ever-present distractions of technology and my work!  I’m going to eat the most delicious pineapple on the planet! I’m going to spend a week teaching Bible stories to children who are just plain thrilled that I am there!  And even though I thought there was no way that another Musana team could come close to being as awesome as last year’s team, somehow God brought another incredible group of people together this year.

And yet I’m ho-hum because I’ve done it before.  I’ve gone to Uganda, been free of the internet (except for spotty WiFi every day or so), I’ve eaten the pineapple, I’ve spent a week playing with kids, and I did it with a group of people so amazing we refer to each other as our “Musana family”.

I know what the long hours of travel will be like.  I know what the adventurous driving will be like.  I know about chicken-on-a-stick.  I know how the children will greet us with giggles and hugs.  I know how incredible it will feel to sing worship songs in the chaos of the Musana chapel.  I know how the village women will dance and dance and dance.  I know how the rains can come suddenly and torrentially.

Or, rather, I think I do.

The truth is that I don’t know.  Because I’ve been there once before, there’s a tendency for my brain to switch to know-it-all mode.  I have points of reference from last year.  And many things will probably be the same.  But not all of them.  And if I go into this trip thinking that I know what it’s all about and everything that will happen, it will be even harder than last year.

Last year was hard because I didn’t know.  Everything was new, and it was scary.  I had never traveled so long or so far with a dozen people I didn’t know.  Never been to Africa or experienced its rains and its people.  I sat in the front of the bus on every ride, enraptured with everything I was seeing.  I sat among piles of children feeling amazing joy, too overwhelmed and dumbfounded to know what to say.  I pulled a notebook from my bag every five minutes jotting down things I didn’t want to forget.  I fell into bed each night mentally and physically exhausted.

This year is hard and scary because I do know.  And I might not readily feel wonder.  I might not so easily feel joy.  And thus I may not be as ready, willing, and able to experience God’s love and power in Uganda.

Like last year, I find myself turning over and over this year to the same verse in Galatians 3:  “Now all glory to God who is able through his mighty power at work within us to accomplish infinitely more than we might ask or think.”  (Emphasis mine.)

Infinitely more than I can imagine.  God can do more than last year.  God can do more through me.  God can do more through my team.  God can do more through Musana.  God can do more in Uganda.  God can do more in me.

God, be present with us on this trip.  Open our eyes to see your creation and your people as you see them.

And do more.

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Brokenness and pocket knives

I took a deep breath as I stepped off the stage and out of the lights, disentangling my microphone.  I had just finished telling the story of Peter walking on water to my Sunday school class — and it went surprisingly well considering I forgot to prepare the lesson until the day before.  As another leader took the stage to lead the kids in songs I stood at the back of the crowd and sighed, exhausted as I always am after trying to keep 100 kids engaged for 20 minutes.

“I can’t believe I have to stay for two services.  I hate this!”  I turned to find the source of the voice, a first grade boy a few feet away who was staring at me with narrowed eyes.

Kids stay for both services if they have a parent helping at one of them — at the info desk, handing out programs, directing parking.  Kids that stay for two services always have a bit of a tougher of a time because they have to hear the same story twice, sing the same songs twice, do the same small group twice.

I may be good at telling Bible stories on stage, but my weakness in kids ministry is definitely unruly kids and discipline challenges.  The attitude of this boy was clearly one of I’m testing you, what are you going to do about it?

I started with an attempt at redirection and re-engagement.  “When I’m frustrated, I like to sing” (which is true, and conveniently what the rest of the room was doing right then) “and dancing helps get my wiggles out.”

It was a stretch, and I could see in his glare and posture that he wasn’t going to fall for it.  Besides, there was something in his demeanor that said this wasn’t just a kid having a bad day.  Okay.  Distraction, then.  “I like your hat.”  It was ball cap, black and white plaid.

“My dad sent it to me.”

Sent.  Dad wasn’t at home.  “That’s nice.  Where did he send it from?”  Did he live in another state?  Was he deployed?

For the first time he broke my gaze and turned away, glaring into the noisy crowd of kids and leaders singing along to a video.  “I don’t want to tell you that.”

Jail, I thought.  It’s not the first kid I’ve had in class with a parent in prison.  I remember once sitting at a table full of kids coloring pictures who were talking about their moms, and one girl’s lip trembled as she said, “My mom’s… in jail.”

“That’s okay, you don’t have to.”  Privacy is allowed.  “It’s cool that he sent it to you.  Means he’s thinking about you.”

With fire in his eyes, he turned back and yelled, “My dad’s in jail!  He’s been in jail 15 times!”

Whether the number was truth or hyperbole didn’t matter.  The point was dad had been making bad decisions for a while, and consequences were falling on this kid.

I’m a problem-solver.  I’m not great at listening sometimes, jumping straight to wanting to find a solution.  If a friend tells me they’re sick I’ll immediately ask about duration and symptoms, mentally trying to come up with a diagnosis.  God’s been reminding me that I can’t solve everyone’s problems, and moreso that solving them isn’t the point.  Sometimes it’s just about being present with people in their struggles.  Here, certainly, was a problem I couldn’t solve.  There was nothing I could say or do that would come close to addressing the pain and anger this boy felt.

I looked at him in silence for a few seconds.  “That sucks.”  What you are feeling is completely valid.  I know I can’t fix it, and I’m not going to pretend I can.  “That really really sucks.”  I meant it from the bottom of my heart.

“I hate my dad so much.”

I sat down next to him.  “Do you think your dad hates you, or that he loves you?”

He looked away and exhaled forcefully through his nostrils.  “I think he loves me.”  Then he turned back and put out his arms in a pleading gesture, dropping his tough guy mask for the first time.  “But if he loves me then why does he keep doing things that get him sent to jail?”

Damn, this kid is smart.  And asking the real questions that matter.

This week in my Bible study we were talking about conditional grace.  We were talking about how God doesn’t offer conditional grace, but as humans we rarely offer anything else.  We draw arbitrary lines in the sand.  “I’ll forgive you / let you stay in my life if you mess up this much, but no further!”  Our lines are in different places, but we all have drawn them somewhere.

One woman in the group talked about a group of friends that judge her daughter for having tattoos.  It made her mad that these people gave conditional grace.  In the next sentence, she said she couldn’t stand it when parents didn’t take care of their kids.  (She’s an interventionist at a low-performing school, so she’s seen a lot of abuse and neglect.)  I’m not sure if she realized that she was complaining about conditional grace in one breath and justifying conditional grace with the next.

When she said it I thought about this boy I had met a few days before.  I don’t know what his dad is in jail for, but ultimately it stems from brokenness.  The kids my friend sees at school who are being abused or aren’t given enough to eat, it ultimately stems from their parents’ brokenness.  That’s not an excuse for the things the parents do.  It’s just true.  And until that brokenness is addressed, nothing will change.  And brokenness isn’t something that’s fixed overnight.

One of the things that’s awesome about kids is their honesty.  Especially about their own brokenness.  As I sat with this boy he told me more about himself.  “I have anger problems.”  He straight out said those words, and I wondered who had said them to him.  As he said them he stared at me with those narrowed eyes, like it was a challenge.  Like I’m warning you now, lady, if you want to continue this conversations this is what you’re getting into because this is who I am.  He continued, “I lie.  And sometimes I steal.  I like to beat up my sister.”  He told me about the five other people living at his house.  He said he’d get sent to his room when he acted out, but that he actually preferred that — being alone in his own space.  He kept a treasures chest in his room.  He softened a bit when I asked what he kept inside and he told me it was his pocket knives (the ones that hadn’t been taken away from him yet).

As I listened, I was reminded that Christ is the only one that can heal our brokenness.  Period.  He’s the only one with the power to take the messed up junk in our lives and use it.

But God has given us an opportunity to help in that process of healing and restoration.  It seems that everywhere I turn lately I run into verse after verse about loving each other:

“No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.” (1 John 4:12)

It all comes back to love.  Expressions of love to each other over and over and over and over and over.  God showing his love to people through us.  Our words, our actions, our listening, our giving of our time and resources.  A crop doesn’t come to harvest from one rainstorm or one sunny day.  It comes from a good season and from being watered over and over and over and over again.  We rarely see results when we try to love people.  Each action is just one more cupful of water poured over a thirsty plant that’s still growing.

Part of it is working on erasing the conditional grace lines that we’ve drawn.  As long as we have boundaries, we’re going to encounter people who keep pushing them.  And the people that most need love usually ask for it in the most unloving ways.

Before I left the room for second service I fished something out of my purse.  My pocketknife.  I usually keep my purse in the car during church, but for some reason I brought it in today and stashed it in the closet.  I went to where this boy was smashing a wall of giant Legos.  Normally I might have told another kid to play nicely with the toys, but I decided to ignore it.  (Plus those blocks of plastic are nearly indestructible anyway.)

I called him over and showed him my knife.  I told him how much I loved my pocketknife, too, and that I take it with me wherever I go.  That my big boy cousins always got pocket knives for Christmas when we were growing up and I always wanted one, so I finally went out and got one for myself.  I flipped open the scissors and told him they were my favorite part.

“Are those tweezers?” he asked.

“Yup.  It has tweezers.  And a toothpick.  And a little knife over here.”  I pulled each part out in turn.

“That’s cool,” he grunted.

I put it in my pocket and turned to go.  “I’m glad I got to meet you today.  You’re a cool kid.”  And you taught me something.  He huffed and turned back around to kicking the Legos.

One cupful of water at a time, I thought.  I hope I have a chance to give you buckets and buckets.  

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Reclaiming Valentine’s Day

Okay, I’m about to write a SUPER cheesy post in which I admit something SUPER unpopular:

I like Valentine’s Day. 

*ducks as people hurl conversation hearts at me*

Yeah that’s right, I said it!  It’s one of my favorite holidays!

I’ll admit, I didn’t always like Valentine’s Day.  I loathed it.  Like many, it just seemed a painful annual reminder that I was single.  But over the last few years it’s really grown on me.  And then it became one of my favorites.  I didn’t flip flop because I found myself in a relationship.  Hallmark didn’t finally convince me.  And it’s not because I wanted an excuse to eat candy — who needs an excuse to eat candy?  🙂  Admittedly, maaaaybe I like it a bit because of red.  I do like red after all…


It’s because a few years ago, I inadvertently reclaimed Valentine’s Day.

As I sat sulking about another year without a significant other, I thought about all of the other single people also out there wishing they weren’t single mid-February.  Part of me wanted to go find all of these people and give them a hug and remind them that just because we’re single doesn’t mean we aren’t lovable and don’t still have value — something I was struggling to remember about myself.

And I wanted to do something, though I wasn’t sure what.  So, while watching TV I started cutting out hundreds of colored paper hearts.  And then on Valentine’s Day morning I scattered them in the snow on a busy pedestrian path near my home.  Sure, it was technically littering and some people probably saw it and scoffed at the sentiment.  But I also prayed that others would see it and feel loved and valued and special — even if just for a moment.  That it might brighten their day that there was someone out there thinking of them when setting up this colorful mess.

After I did it, I realized something.  Valentine’s Day didn’t just annoy me because I wanted to FEEL loved.  It also annoyed me because I want to EXPRESS love.  God is love, and we were made in his image.  Therefore I think we all desire to have avenues where we can express affection to others.  I was surprised how much joy I discovered creating an expression of love for random strangers.

Ever since then, I’ve discovered that I like Valentine’s Day because it reminds to me to be grateful for the people in my life and my community.  If Thanksgiving is being thankful for everything, for me Valentine’s Day is being thankful for people specifically.  And also to remind them that they are loved — directly or indirectly by me, and absolutely and thoroughly and completely by God.

It’s a shame that we hear the word “love” and default to associating it primarily with romantic relationships.  No wonder people abhor Valentine’s Day and have given it the nickname Singles Awareness Day!  We’ve been brainwashed to think that the only love that counts is love between significant others.  That’s great, but we sure need to broaden our perspective to see and appreciate and celebrate all of the other great relationships around us.  (The advertising industry doesn’t help at all in this by bombarding us with messages that Valentine’s Day is all about chocolate and flowers and diamonds and sex and — above all — not optional if you’re in a romantic relationship.)

Don’t get me wrong: being in a loving relationship with a significant other is amazing.  But it CANNOT completely fulfill your need to BE loved and TO love.  And it isn’t meant to!  Thank goodness because that’s ENORMOUS pressure.

There are many ways that people have shown me love and kindness.  Like the coworker who left a doughnut on my desk a few weeks ago just because she knows I like doughnuts.  And another coworker who gave me a cute little Angry Birds Valentine today.  Like the friend who was driving past my house and stopped to rearrange some rocks on my front porch into the shape of a heart, just because.  Or another friend who randomly bakes cookies, cakes, and truffles and shares them with me.  Like when staff at church send me a card in the MAIL (yay, fun mail!) just to say thank you.  Like how every year for over a decade my dad sends me Valentine’s flowers to remind me that he loves me.  #parentingdoneright


All of this is just a cheesy post to say that — like so many things — Valentine’s Day is what we make it.  And like Jackie DeShannon sang: “What the world needs now is love, sweet love.  It’s the only thing that there’s just too little of…  No, not just for some but for everyone.”  We’re doing a great injustice to one of God’s greatest creations if we hold our ability to love in reserve, or only direct it at our significant other.  Take a risk, unstopper your heart, and sprinkle some of that love around.  The more you give, the more you’ll find you have to give.  And you might find some joy as a bonus.

“There is more hunger for love and appreciation in this world than for bread.” -Mother Teresa

Random citizens of Boulder, if today you encounter some rocks painted with hearts on a bridge it’s a message from me to you:  You are special.  You are valuable.  You are loved.

End of cheesy post.

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Secretary Tales, Issue #14 — bacon and doughnuts

Me via email: “Hey guys, we have that 8:00 meeting coming up on employee empowerment.  There’s little money in the budget for catering, what should we get?  I know you all are going to say ‘BACON!’ but there’s still some vegetarians in the building, too.”

V: “Bacon… and carrots.”

Boss: “Bacon… and beets.”

L: “Bacon, bagels, and fruit.”  <– a bit more helpful

D: “Em-Power-Ade.”

Me: “D wins.  You all fail.”

L (who is new to the dept): “Clearly I need to work on developing my sense of humor.  Maybe eating more bacon will help.”

V: “It will come with time, bacon or not.”

Boss: “But bacon will hasten the process!”

* * * * *

Boss: “A reminder there’s that two-hour presentation this afternoon, and all of you are invited to attend if you wish.”

L: “I have a meeting.”

T: “I’m presenting at her meeting.”

D: “I’m supposed to attend that meeting, too.”

V: “I need to work on the budget.”

Me: “I have work to do… and I just don’t want to.”  Everyone laughs.

L: “Besides, I mean, you haven’t told us anything about if there will be snacks.  Food increases our likelihood of attendance.  Like bacon.”

D: “Yeah, or doughnuts.”

V: “You know, every time I eat a doughnut I’m disappointed.  I’m like ‘that wasn’t as good as I was expecting it to be’.”

Me: “I completely and totally disagree with that statement.”

L: “Me too.”

V: “Okay, fine, maybe if it was a high quality doughnut.”

Me: “No, not even then.  I think everything except three-day-old stale doughnuts.  Doughnuts are amazing.”

L: “Yeah, I guess we just have lower standards than you.  And we’re okay with that.”

(An hour later, L sets a box on my desk containing a doughnut.  She’s my new doughnut soul sister.)

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Perfect pressure

I like rules.  I suppose that’s weird.  Maybe it’s because I like things black and white, good and bad, right and wrong.  At work when our compliance coordinator gave me a list of 100 criteria we’re required to meet for our accreditation, I jumped into it.  I liked knowing where we were doing well and what we needed to fix.

And then during our accreditation survey last year we got marked for partial compliance on two criteria.  Three years ago we got partial compliance on a few dozen and still passed with full accreditation.  Only getting dinged on two out of 594 is basically unheard of.  It was the best survey result my boss had seen in decades of work in the industry.

While I was proud that we had improved, I was also sad that we weren’t perfect.

I’m that annoying person who got As in basically all her classes.  I wish I could say that it was only As, but a couple of Bs did sneak in there.  And I was so disappointed with myself when they did.  (Even over a decade later, I can still list which classes they were.)

I took a logic class in college and I got every homework question right the entire semester… except one.  I went to the teacher afterwards and asked how to solve it, he showed me, I facepalmed, and when the identical question showed up on the final I got it right.

In my first performance evaluation in this job, I got a 390 out of 400.  Despite the fact that it was my first year learning a job, that my boss didn’t believe in giving perfect scores, that it landed me in the top performance category, AND that I got a promotion, I sulked over those ten little points.

I know.  I’m sick.

This desire to follow the rules and be perfect bleeds over from my school life and my work life into my spiritual life.  I put pressure on myself to be a super Christian.

Just believing in Christ isn’t enough for me.  I also need to go to church every week.  And serve in kids ministry.  And read my Bible regularly.  And lead a team each year at Fall Fest.  And volunteer at other events.  And tithe at least 10%.  And and and and and and…

…and this is all incredibly stupid.  I don’t know what I think I will prove.  Yeah, there is a part of me that wants to prove something to God.  As though my doing all these things will gain me more favor — not necessarily more than other Christians, but more for myself just for me not in a competitive way.

Last year in addition to all of that, I was also helping out with high schoolers.  It was fantastic and I really enjoyed it.  But I was also exhausted.  Even though it was only one night a week, I felt frazzled and worn out and over-scheduled.  It wasn’t the high school ministry stressing me out; it was my life pace.  (The fact I was running / training more than I ever had before probably didn’t help — even if it did result in a year of great performances.) When my seniors graduated in the spring, I didn’t sign up to continue this year.

This year, my life is very quiet and my schedule is much less full.  There’s a part of me that really wants to go back to high school ministry because it was great, but there’s a stronger voice in my head telling me that I NEED to go back and berating all this free time I now have and how I should be filling it up with things to serve Christ.

Never mind that I can NEVER do enough things to serve Christ!  That my feeble little works and gifts and acts of service don’t amount to a hill of beans compared to how much Christ has done for me!

Why am I doing this to myself?  What am I so reluctant to accept grace?  Why do I think that God’s grace got me INTO salvation, but it’s my works that KEEP me there?

Unlike last year’s no-spending challenge, I have no resolutions or challenges this year.  Instead I’m spending the month of January doing a type of fast.  I went into the fast with the idea that it would be a good time to listen to God and get direction from him on what he wants me to do next.

Now I’m wondering if that’s actually the opposite of what’s supposed to happen.  Maybe this time of refocusing needs to result not at all in ideas about things that I could do or should do, but entirely in redirecting myself to deeper life of worship for what Christ has already done.

Maybe I need to learn to be still.

Maybe I need to learn that God loves me through and through and through regardless of what I do or don’t do.

Maybe I need to let grace envelop me and seep into my bones like wrapping up in warm towels hot from the dryer.

Maybe instead of a year of challenge, I need a year of grace.

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Discipline of Celebration

I didn’t make any formal resolutions this year.  But one informal one is to embrace the discipline of celebration.

It’s hard to celebrate the day-to-day.  Wake up, brush teeth, pack lunch, go to work, schedule meetings, type reports, go home, make dinner, read, crash, repeat.  But there are million little moment crammed in there that are worth celebrating if I just pause.  Breathe.  Look around.  Mindfully relish the moment.

Yesterday one moment was this.


Seeing the spectacular sunset outside my window at work, and just pausing for five minutes to watch the colors change as the clouds rolled in over the mountains.  Being grateful for a God who made the skies but also made US with a sense of beauty to appreciate his creation.

Today it was bidding adieu to my old old old mattress that makes my back hurt.  But first this had to happen.

oldI only hit my head on the rafters once.

And then in under five minutes the AFW guys dragged it away and replaced it.

So then there was this.


And tonight I will sleep like the happiest person on the planet.

God, make me grateful.  Help me celebrate the little moments in life.  Because life is all little moments strung together like a series of pearls on a string, and each is here one moment and gone the next.

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