Category Archives: Sacred Mundane

I am such a homebody.  It’s no wonder that Dutch is too.  He can only sleep well in his own bed.  When we’re traveling or out and about with a busy day, he just gets all out of whack.  But the moment we’re home, he’s happy, relaxed — he eats well, sleeps well.  He’s just a homebody like his mommy.

This week is Spring Break.  And amazingly, all our our activities are on break this week.  No seminary classes, no Foundations class at church, no Cornerstone classes in Corvallis, no TA papers to grade, and no tutoring for Jeff in Gervais.  It’s a break–a real break.  And mom and dad are leaving tomorrow morning for Salt Lake City to visit Kris and Nikki, so we have a five days home by ourselves with nowhere we have to go.  Ahhh…can it be true?!  This morning I woke early with a splitting headache (I think I’ve discovered that my head is a place of precarious balance.  And this is related to my being a homebody to the core.  When I am in a routine, getting good sleep, eating healthily, and relatively calm, I am headache free. But as soon as you toss in a plate of mashed potatoes, white bread, chocolate cake, and a fabulously fun family extravaganza (read: Easter), my body decides that the teetering balance if off and will therefore throw me a headache.)  At any rate, when I woke with a headache, I got up and realized I had a glorious option in front of me–taking tylenol and going back to bed!  No class, no needing to get my quiet time in before Dutch got up because of the busyness of the day ahead.  And so I did, sleeping in longer than I have since Dutch was born–8:20!  And because my son is such a homebody, when he’s in his own crib, he will sing or talk to himself contentedly in the morning until I go in and get him.  So we started our day off with a great night’s sleep.  Then we all had breakfast together.  Jeff and I cuddle on the couch watching Dutch play until 9am, relishing the fact that we could.  THen we all took a long walk together, going down to the river, talking, praying, talking some more.  After that it was bathtime–leisurely letting Dutch splash and play while we talked and watched.  Before we knew it it was lunch time, and a delicious zucchini, brown rice, and chicken meal tasted heavenly and nutritious.  Now Dutch is in his crib or a nap and Jeff and I are savoring the pleasure of reading and working on seminary homework, working side by side doing what we love.  I’ve vowed not to wear makeup all week, and not to leave the house if I can help it.  My headache is gone.  I’m caught up on laundry and somehow all things are in balance.  Ahhh…Spring Break.  Thank You, Lord, for the wisdom of taking seasons for rest.  You’re so smart. 

There is something about Corvallis.  This weekend Jeff and I spent a whirwind two-day weekend in Corvallis where he performed a wedding for a long-time friend.  Some things never change.  I just can’t help it–I think Corvallis will always be home to me. 

 Corvallis is where I really started walking with the Lord, 18-years-old and too skinny, rooming with my dear friend Janae.  Naive beyong belief, hanging out at frat parties, asking half-drunk frat guys, “Do you love Jesus?”  Oh how God protected me.  McNary dorm, 6th floor, where we started a little make-shift Bible study with the other girls down the hall, most of which weren’t believers, not because we “should” but because we were just so preciously clueless we didn’t know enough to attend a campus ministry but we wanted to love Jesus and wanted other people to too!  Campus Villa apartments, where we did a weekly Bible study with our brothers, Jeremy and Kris, and their friends, studying everything from the rapture to dating.    The ultra-ghetto house on 5th street where Janae and I took over my brother’s rent when he graduated, sharing a room the size of a closet, in a house with a bunch of older guys (what were we thinking?) who drank a lot but protected and looked out for us like burly older brothers.  Campus Crusade for Christ, where I first saw this frat guy emceeing and thought, “My mom would probably want me to marry a guy like that.”  His name was Jeff Patterson. I wasn’t interested. 

Corvallis is where I graduated from college, went on staff with my church’s college ministry, and discovered Jeff again for the first time.  This time he was funny and handsome and loved God so much it intrigued me.  Real Life, where we were trained and mentored and discipled.  Where we baptized and led people to Christ, saw lives changed, and gave every ounce of ourselves to the college students in the ministry. 

Corvallis is where Jeff and I fell in love, dated, got engaged.  Where we bought our first house, giddily taking the keys and painting walls the night before we moved, sipping sparkling cider and walking through the rooms dreaming of how we’d make it our own. 

I lived in Corvallis 6 years and Jeff 8, but what strikes me is that I feel most known there.  We step foot in the church office and instantly we see at least half a dozen people jump up to greet us, eyes lighting up, hugs all around.  Today I went to Red Horse, the little coffee shop that was my home away from home — where Darcy would meet me for discipleship times, where I spent innumerable hours meeting with college girls talking about God.  As I walked in this morning John, the owner, instantly ran over and gave me a huge hug and kiss on the top of my head.  He demanded I tell him all about life and Dutch and what was going on — even though I’d not been in there in over a year.   I couldn’t help but hum the Cheers song for the rest of the day, “You wanna be where everybody knows your name.”

I supposed Corvallis is so precious to me because of the rich history there.  I feel like I can just be.  I don’t have to prove myself, don’t have to peform, don’t have to try to fit in.  It’s just right. I guess in that way I can’t help but describe it as anything other than home.  I don’t know where we’ll end up — probably many places. I am content being wherever God leads us.  By choice home is wherever my boys are.  But they’ll always be a place inside that that finishes the song, Sweet Home Cor-vallis.  It’s just the way it is. 

Today we celebrate Good Friday.  In a free moment today between taking Dutch for his 15-month check-up, getting a tetanus shot (how did 12 years go by so fast?), ironing Jeff’s shirts, putting Dutch down for a nap, finishing the laundry, and packing our bags for a weekend in Corvallis, I sat down and asked God to help me contemplate Good Friday.  With a day this busy, I didn’t want to blink and realize the day was gone without remembering what the day is all about.  But why good Friday.  Germans call this day “mourning Friday” (in German of course), and some think perhaps Good Friday came from God’s Friday, the same way that goodbye came from God be with you.  But whatever the reason, Good Friday has stuck.  Of all Fridays each year, this one is designated as good.

But how can it be good?  What strikes me about its name is how paradoxical and perfect it is at the same time.  We call it good because we know about Sunday.  We know that the day after tomorrow is Sunday, and so we know that Jesus rises, we know that our sins are forgiven, we know that sin, death, and the grave have been conquered and we will live eternally with God in glory if we put our faith in Jesus’ finished work on the cross.  Hallelujah! 

But consider just for another moment what this means for us today, what this means for our perspective.  I can guarantee that Peter, John, Mary, those who watched Jesus, didn’t think it was good.  Jesus, disfigured from beatings, strips of open, oozing, flesh hanging from his tattered back, stumbling with exhaustion, pain, and dehydration.  Jesus, their hope, their only hope crucified like a crook right in front of their eyes.  Jesus was their only hope.  They’d given their lives to follow Him.  They’d left their livelihood, believed His words, trusted in His promises.  Jesus, God made man, perfect, holy, righteous, subjected to a torment fit for the worst of sinners.  They did not think it was good.

Good Friday is good because of we know the end of the story.  Why could Jesus subject Himself to the torture of the cross, bearing the full wrath of God poured out on Him for the sake of a world who had rejected Him?  Because He knew the end of the story.  It didn’t make the pain any less real.  The anguish was the same, but He endured because of the joy set before Him (Heb 12).  Fifteen months ago, when my water broke, I was excited to go to the hospital.  I was knowingly headed toward the worst pain I have ever experienced in my entire life, but I entered into it gladly because I knew the end of the story (or at least hoped–trusting I’d have a healthy baby).  I knew that the pain was worth it because of baby Dutch.  The pain accomplished a far more glorious end.  It didn’t make it any less painful, and I’m still not quite ready to have another baby (!), but as any mom can attest–it’s well worth it.

The example is weak because in giving birth the end result is so clear, so vivid.  But in life our pain is so much more confusing, and emotional pain is world’s worse than physical pain.  I am still haunted by the death of my friend Sara Stokes, who was taken to be with the Lord at just 25 years of age last June.  Just yesterday I ran into her dad, and after hugging him, my whole being ached in tasting just a drop of the unfathomable grief he must daily encounter.  Ron Hordichok’s family, with open and raw wounds still from his sudden death … I can’t even fathom the pain and loss.

So the question is the same. How can it be good?  In The Hawk and the Dove right now, Father Peregrine is going through unimaginable suffering.  At times I want to quit reading because it just seems too much.  Too horrid. Too unthinkable.   How can it be good?  It only scratches the surface of what Christ suffered, and yet somehow we call it good.  Because of what it accomplished.  Because we know the end of the story.

What is the end of our story?  We don’t know the short-term end. We don’t know if our sick parent will live, if our wayward child will return, if our sorrow will be relieved.  But we do know that Christ has said, “Behold, I make all things new.”  We know the end of our story.  We know that He wipes every tear from our eye, creates a new heaven and and a new earth, and that we will live for eternity with Him.  The end of our story was accomplished on that day so long ago that we can accurately call Good Friday. 

I always wonder when I go to a retreat and have some awesome spiritual experience, Is this the real thing or just some spiritual high?  It’s not uncommon to come back from a retreat levitating, hovering above the ground of common life, only to get in your car and get stuck in traffic, or arive home to whiny children, or open the mail and find an overdue cell phone bill, which somehow seems to crumble your little spiritual tower of peace into shambles. 

Well, I thought of this too, with regards to all that God did (See Amazing Grace (my chains are gone)).  Was it the real thing or just a retreat high?  Monday we hit the ground running, and after an insanely busy Sunday and a hectic Monday morning (including Dutch’s explosive save-it-up-for-days poop), we arrived at Multnomah for our 10-hour day of class.  Now school is probably the place where I feel the most free, interestingly enough.  I genuinely love being there and dont’ think I’ve ever not looked forward to going to class.  But looking back I still realize that there were a lot of ways I was bound by those chains.  Telling myself I shouldn’t speak up in class because what if people thought I was showing off or trying to get attention.  Being afraid of saying something dumb, or at least “unprofound” in my comment.  Trying to be meek and quiet by abaonding my own personality.  But this Monday was different. Yes, it was true.  Unwittingly I had a bounce in my step.  When our visiting professor asked for volunteers willing to look silly and do a funny communication game in the front of the class, I found my hand up in the air — why not?  It was so fun!  When I had a question or comment, I just said it, rather than overanalyzing it to death. Now that doesn’t obviously mean that I dominated discussions or just spouted off every thought–please don’t think that’s what I’m saying. But what I’m saying is that I didn’t filter my actions through the fear filter.  I just lived. 

But the real test is Tuesdays.  Some of you probably read my depths-of-despair blog from a few months back about “stupid Tuesdays” and how much stress I was feeling.  A lot of my fear/chains/anxiety was centered around feelings at church. NOT because of the church as if it was their fault in any way, but through a couple of situations I’d somehow felt that people thought we were just seeking some position or status, and so I let myself be chained by worrying about what other people thought, and obsessing over “doing it right”.  Besides that, I felt like we didn’t belong or fit in right, so I tried to figure out how to make it all fit.  It was like walking around in size 7 shoes–close, but not quite right. 

So tonight, without even knowing it, I got ready for Jeff’s class in anticipation–joyful expectation.  Instead of being worried about people thinking we’re too young or judging our motives, I was just excited to be with God’s people and be me.  I dressed like I wanted to dressed.  And I haven’t felt that kind of joy in church in SO LONG.  I realized, I was me!  I enjoyed people like never before because I was thinking about them, instead of somehow worrying about whether I was measuring up or not. During class, Jeff asked me to share about a sermon I’d recently shared in seminary, and I did, joyfully and enthusiastically and happily, without saying “You better act meek and only say two sentences or less because people will think you’re trying to get attention.”  What ridiculousness!  Instead, I let the words flow from a free and enthusiastic heart.  After class, I went around to find different people to talk to, enthusiastically greeting them, instead of cowering in a corner with Dutch, wanting to be quiet little Kari who shouldn’t draw too much attention.  Anyway, it may all sound like small things–but they were huge things in my heart.  And you know what–I felt like I belonged more tonight than ever before! I didn’t feel like an outsider, I felt right at home, with people I could simply love and with whom I could give my whole free self and not worry about what they thought. 

I know–most of you probably learned all these lessons in middle school, huh?  My dad said he learned this when he was 19.  Well, I’m a little slow in the maturity department.  Maybe I’m going through spiritual puberty–no, that sounds too weird.  More like a baby bird learning to fly.  Whatever it is, I think it’s the real thing.  And I’m glad. 

… When brethren dwell together … or families.  Tonight I just have to say that I’m so thankful for living with Mom and Dad.  Yes, I know — you think I’m schizophrenic.  I know I’ve devoted an inordinate amount of real estate on this blog to whining about the woes of multi-generational living, but the truth of the matter is, I’m thankful in a million genuine ways.  For example, the amazing, wonderful, life-changing prayer retreat that Jeff and I were so privileged to go to.  How do you think that was possible?  Because my parents were willing to give up their three days to take care of our son, including driving out twice to the remote retreat center where we stayed, once so that I could nurse Dutch and then at the end so that we could get Dutch and hurry over the mountain to Bend without backtracking.  Yes, they did this–exhausting themselves and their gas tank, so that we could do that prayer retreat. While we were worshipping and soaking up the presence of the Lord, they were wiping Dutch’s poopy bottom (although it is such a cute poopy bottom!), and sleeping next to the monitor so they coud hear every whimper at night.  Saints.  Yes, they are saints. 

Then, after a quick recovery over the weekend, Monday rolled around and it was once again their turn with the Dutcher.  This morning, just minutes before Jeff and I were racing out the door, Dutch pooped one of his I’ve-been-saving-this-up-for-days poops, which wound up everywhere from his armpits to his knees somehow.  We quickly wiped him down, turned on the bathwater, and handed our naked little sleepy-headed boy over to mom and dad to begin their 12-hour day of Dutch duty.  As we drove to class, I just had to marvel at how thankful I was.  If it were not for them, I could not get a seminary education.  There is no way we could make this all work.  Yes, their house, garage, and shop is absolutely teeming with all of our stuff.  Yes, there are a few too many of us living in close quarters. Yes, we’re all looking forward to the day when we have at least a few miles between us.  But for now, we are making some memories we will never forget.  The days of Dutch escaping from my dad during diaper changes and running around the house naked, then squatting in the corner of the wood floor and pooping (yes, he did that!).  The days of Dutch obsessed with playing outside, to the point that whenever a reference to “outside” was made, he’d grab his shoes and go stand by the door like a puppy.  The days of letting Dutch sit in the driver’s seat of the Jeep for 45 minutes at a time while he made motor noises, kicking his legs in sheer contentment.  The days of Dutch going for walks “by himself” pushing away Papa’s hand from helping him, exploring the grass and flowers and rocks and bugs.  Yes, it’s a crazy adventurous season, but I’m so thankful.

So, thanks Mom and Dad, for all your help.  How about taking next week off (spring break) — you can escape to Salt Lake City where Kris lives and actually get some rest! 🙂

Ahhhhh … it’s so good to be with you again!  Many of you probably didn’t even know I was gone, but Jeff and I just returned from a 3 day prayer retreat.  We’re now snuggled in over in Bend, visiting Jeff’s mom, and after a much-needed hot shower, a delicious dinner (Jeff’s mom is my favorite cook in the world), and a bit of a difficult time getting Dutch to sleep, I had this rush of anticipation as I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and sneaked away into our bedroom.  Finally–alone with … you!  Yes, it is true.  I love this blog that much.  And, I have learned in the last few days — that is wonderful!   John Piper’s son, who has a blog featuring only 22 words each day (some of you wish my blog were that brief!) boldly asserts that he blogs because he enjoys it, and we don’t take that pure sort of enjoyment seriously enough.  Well, that is true of me too.  I enjoy, deeply enjoy, writing and being with you.  And, as opened my laptop and scanned my emails, I found perhaps one of the most encouraging emails I have ever read … from you.  From you, a precious reader who I have never met, whose words have convinced me that sharing my thoughts and journey here, though ugly at times, is valuable.  Thank you for that letter.  You know who you are and you’ve blessed me profoundly.

So, we’re back!  Three days spent at a Christian Retreat Center with twenty other men and women from seminary who set aside this time to simply request, “Lord, teach us to pray.” 

I hesitate to even begin to try to express what God has done these past 3 days.  In some ways it feels too personal, like telling a stranger about making love with your spouse.  In some ways it feels too profound, too enormous to try to sum up in some neat little package to share.  But, perhaps some little nugget of it will be valuable.

First of all, God had me wrecked before I even went to the retreat, which proves that the key factor in transformation is not a retreat, it’s God. As I progressed through The Hawk and the Dove, I read a chapter with a story surrounding Holy Poverty, and what it truly meant for the Benedictine (I mispoke earlier, they are Benedictine monks) to practice the discipline of poverty, as a means of following Christ.  In the story, Abbot Peregrine (the main character) is having an ongoing conversation with a well-intentioned friend who is criticizing the Abbot’s insistence on such a brutally low standard of living for himself and his brothers.  The friend’s critique is that poverty simply means renouncing ownership, dressing in simplicity, and to say of nothing “this is mine.”  But, he insists, certain pleasures are simply the bounties of God’s immense kindliness, for there must be some pleasure in life!  The line that grabs me is this: 

—

His friend says, “Moderation! You ask too much! Your self-imposed penury is not holy poverty.  It is like the poverty of the world.  It is …” 

“Too must like the real thing, you mean?” Abbot Peregrine interjects wryly. 

—-

Too much like the real thing.  Too much like the real thing.  Am I bothered by believers who are too much like the real thing?  As I read the dialogue between these two men, I could identify with the friend much more than with the Abbot.  The Abbot was the real thing. Practiced the real thing.  Perhaps not all are called to poverty in following Christ.  But can we at least, if we are called to something, do it genuinely?  The friend’s plea was moderation!  Moderation.  Moderation.  While I believe all things in moderation is a great plan to follow in dietary habits, it is nowhere given as a prescribed manner of living for Christ.  In fact as I consider it, my stomach turns when I realize how much of my life is lived in the sickly bed of Christian moderation.  I want just enough of God, but not enough mean anything drastic for my life.

So this is the state of my heart before the retreat. I couldn’t sleep the night before.  All I wanted to do was repent of my sick state of selfish moderation. My heart that is honestly more concerned with having a nice house, enough money, people who admire and like me and think I’m godly but not too crazy, health insurance, and a successful comfortable life.  Even as I write those words it makes me feel sick in my stomach.  How on earth can I have those values, truly in my heart those values, and call myself a Christian–a follower of Christ.  How can I call myself a Christian if my life has no semblence whatsoever to His?  Please don’t get me wrong — this is not a sad depressing state to be in.  For the first time in a long time I felt alive.

So we arrived after a crazy day of attack.  The brakes went out on our car, Dutch got sick and was puking, and I almost got in a car wreck driving home from class.  But by 6pm Dutch was on the mend, we had new brakes in the car (and less money in the bank:-)), and we were driving to the retreat. 

The retreat itself was amazing.  I think I will save much of what happened to put upcoming posts.  But we opened with some prayer and worship, led out by whoever had a song on their heart.  Amazing Grace was sung by someone who’d been in a severe car accident that literally sliced off half of his body.  He now only has one arm and one leg, and is a walking (sort of walking) miracle.  After singing, we shared stories of amazing grace.  You know you think you know people, but you don’t.  For privacy I won’t share their stories, but Jeff and I sat back shaking our heads in amazement at God.  Amazing grace.

Thursday, we spent much time alone in prayer, then came together in the afternoon and watched Chris Tomlin’s How Great is our God tour video, featuring Louis Giglio speaking on the miracle of the universe and of human life.  Afterwards we all sang along with Chris Tomlin’s Amazing Grace (my chains are gone). 

My chains are gone, I’ve been set free.  My God, My Savior, has ransomed me.  And like a flood, His mercy reigns. Unending love, amazing grace.

Thursday night we had a communion table set up, and a “prayer chair” set up in front, open for anyone who wanted to come confess of sin or seek prayer from the group.  Within 5 seconds I was surprised to see Jeff, who’d been quiet and reserved for most of the retreat, get up and go sit in the chair.  He prayed and repented of being so anxious over our future, what we’re going to be doing, of buckling under the pressure of needing to be “successful”.  He poured out his heart expressing his desire to trust God and follow the path laid out for us, even without knowing what it is.  People began to surround Jeff, and I knelt down at his feet and could feel the tears flowing down my cheeks, the words of repentence feeling like they were being wrenched out of the very depths of my being.  I choked them out, “I repent here, with my husband, for my anxiety over the future, of being so scared and unsure.”  I shook as the tears poured down my cheeks.  Dozens of hands rested on our backs and shoulders as the group surrounded us.  In the next ten minutes of prayer, I think I have never felt so loved in all my life.  Every word, every prayer, was God’s loving and tender arms expressing his love, his approval, his pleasure in us.  One woman said, “God is so proud of you” over and over. That broke my heart, because I realized that I had felt for so long that somehow Jeff and I just didn’t quite measure up, compared to the success of others around us.  While others are off with directed, well-put-together lives, we were struggling to manage part-time jobs and seminary and parenthood, interning at a church where we don’t get paid.  That’s how it felt.  And all of a sudden I realized that this anxiety had me chained.  Chained by trying too hard. Chained by trying to be what I thought people wanted me to be or what I thought I should be. Chained by trying to make all the pieces fit into the life I somehow thought I was supposed to have.  I guess you could say God just turned my vision upside down. 

And I realized that at this retreat, I was free in a way that I’ve not been in along time.  I was my true, free, joyful self.  I was so free from self-consciousness there.  I played the djembe with my heart and soul, something I’ve neglected to do ever since leaving Corvallis.  I realized that I’ve neglected things, like playing the djembe, because I’m so afraid people will judge my motives or think that I’m just trying to get attention.  So instead of letting God use my passion for playing, I hide it away in fear.  As I contemplated this, I had let two encounters put that root in my heart.  Small things–but I had let the enemy use them to make me cower in fear. First, when I was pregnant, someone said to my mom, “You better tell Kari to beware because as soon as that baby’s born everything’s not going to be about her anymore.”  I know it was meant to be a joke, but it struck me as a slap in the face because all I could think was, “Do people really think that I want things to be all about me?”  Yuck.  Yes, as a human I am focused on myself, but as a pregnant mom the last thing in the entire world that I’m craving is for things to revolve around me. It made me sick, and the thought plagued me–do people see me as trying to get attention?  Then, last summer Jeff and I attended a certain church service where we love and know the pastor very well.  As he referred to something, he said, from the pulpit, “Jeff and Kari, it’s not all about you this time.”  I sat there in my seat stricken.  What?  Did he or people there think that we were somehow there for us?   We were attending to show support for our family.  Because I was already in a vulnerable place, the passing comment devestated me.  And I know these were such small little incidences, but the reason they’ve plagued me is that I DID used to be like that, and would continue to be like that but for the grace of God.  That’s why I absolutely cringe if someone jokes about how my friend Megan and I used to dance on tables at our high school dances.  It makes me want to run to my room and cry, because I WAS like that.  But I’m not anymore.  And I don’t take it lightly.  The idea of wanting to get glory and attention on myself literally makes my stomach turn, and so somehow, in the last year, because of this, I’ve let myself somehow believe that I shouldn’t do anything that would draw attention to myself or be “visible” in any way because people will think that I just want attention.  And oh how I’m so scared of being misunderstood!  I don’t want the glory, the attention. Yes, that is probably my sinful default mode, but I don’t live in that now.  I just want to be alive again.  When I think back to experiences with speaking, acting, playing the djembe, dancing.  I would no more do those things right now than fly, because somehow I’ve gotten in my mind that I’m just an “attention seeker.”  But this is a lie. Yes, of course I can fall prey to that sin, and it’s not an “all or nothing” type of thing, but just because something can make us vulnerable to sin doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it!  Pastors who preach the gospel are vulnerable, but they should preach! 

But at this retreat, something happened.  My chains were broken.  The first night, a student from Rwanda, pulled out a djembe and started playing.  Now our professor had told us that we should bring any instruments that we play so that we can use them for worship. So Jeff said, “make sure you take your djembe.” ANd what did I say?  Of course. “No, I don’t want to play.”  Of course I want to play!  Of course I want to play!  That was the stupidest lie of the century, but that is what I’d bought. So this student pulled out his drum the first night and I realized then what I’d been doing.  Chained up because of a fear that people would think I was seeking attention.  So afterwards, with sweaty palms and my heart racing, I casually started a conversation with him about how Africans and Brasilians play a different beat.  “You play?”  He asked.  “A little.” I said.  He broke into a huge grin–“You play next time!”  He insisted.  And I did. In fact I played the rest of the retreat. A little rusty, but I played with all my heart, I played with the passion that I had missed for so long. I could feel God’s Spirit resting on me.  I could sense Him letting me loose of the chains I’d had.  And as the retreat progressed I realized that Kari, the true Kari, the free and fun and true Kari was slowly coming alive again, slowly laying down chain link by chain link.  I realized that I am not an attention-seeker any more than someone who came out of a life of drugs is currently a drug addict.  Yes, I am suseptible to that the same way the past drug addict is.  Yes, they can fall into that sin, but that is not their current identity.  I love my Lord Jesus and want to be used in any way shape or form, whether that is in a spotlight, in the shadows, in the privacy of my home with my precious son, or in a public arena.  Either one, any way, and all of the above. I want whatever God has, without fearing what people think.

My chains are gone, I’ve been set free.  My God, My Savior, has ransomed me.  And like a flood, His mercy reigns. Unending love, amazing grace.

I’m free for what?  For a life of radical devotion to Christ.  Lord, change my dreams.  Pull me from the sickly bed of moderation.  Give me radical love, radical faith.  Help me to live here, in the trenches, away from mountaintop retreat experiences, with the same freedom that You gave me there.  Change us, God.  Help us to live as Christ-followers, freed from the chains that bind.  We love You, our precious Lord.  Thank You for Your amazing grace.

—

PS  I lay awake in bed last night thinking about this post, and realized, once again–that again the problem lies in pride. Humility, again, is the answer. A truly humble person would say, “Who cares of people think that I’m trying to get attention? My job is to please God alone and it’s not about me anyway.  My worth and identity is not based on what others think of me.”  But of course, I am not that truly humble person. I do still care what others think of me, far too much.  My plea is that God would let my heart be pure before Him and He’d give me the humility and grace to seek to please Him alone. Once again, the key is … humility. 

I don’t pray, “Lord, give me a home.” I pray, “Lord, be my home.” 

I’m sitting down here because it’s the only thing I know to do.  For the first time in … I can’t remember how long, I’m at home with myself.  I mean, my mom’s here, but she’s quiet as a mouse sitting downstairs engrossed in her Bible Study.  See, Dad had OSU basketball tickets for today and asked Jeff is he wanted to go along.  Of course he did, and Jeff thought it’d be a grand adventure to take Dutch too–for a man’s day out.  At first I dragged my heels. Did they know what they were getting themselves into?  Our son does not sleep in the car–ever–so in essence they were braving a 7-hour adventure with a napless fourteen month old little boy who never sits still.  But I could tell Jeff was excited about it–and of course it would be a memory for all time.  The day the boys all went to watch the Beavers, Dutch’s first OSU athletics experience.

So, after packing Dutch’s food, sippy cup, extra diaper and wipes, I gave him an early nap, then nursed him and put on his shoes and hat and jacket … he was ready to go. After clicking the straps on the car seat, I stood back and waved goodbye as they drove off. And now…what?  I walked back inside, not sure what to do next.  Lunch. We’ll that’s easy enough.  A roasted yam, a plate of roasted carrots, and a plate of potstickers and my tummy’s happy.  Then a big cup of tea with lemon.  But where should I snuggle up with my tea?  What should I do? 

I don’t remember the last time I had an afternoon alone at home.  Not since Dutch was born.  Even when he’s napping there’s still that sense that he is here, and I quickly do what I can before he wakes back up, staying quiet lest he hear me.  But today, he’s not here.  Back in my old home, I would have a dozen projects just waiting to be tackled … but here I don’t. I suppose I could clean my closet, but it’s not really that bad. I feel like I should do something really significant, I mean–7 hours all to myself!  I’m caught up on homework, the laundry is done, and the fridge is full of food.  The house is clean, I’ve already walked.  Wow.  In a way it’s a great feeling, but it’s kind of strange too. A part of me wants to go shopping, since it’s so rare that I can do that alone. But my practical side reminds me that we have no money and that I don’t need anything … so what’s the point?

So, I’ve narrowed it down to either reading a book, writing a book, or organizing every inch of our little upstairs abode.   I’ll probably do all three, knowing me.  Oh, and I’ve already decided that I’m having chocolate chip cookies for dinner.  If that sounds heavenly to you too, come on over. 🙂

Higher education is higher than ever … cost-wise that is.  Tonight Jeff and I received an email from Multnomah’s president that tuition rates will be raised 4% next year to $423 per credit hour.  That means that one semester of classes (16 credits) will be $6,768 or more than $13,500 for the year.  Jeff’s is a 3-year degree and mine is a 2-year degree. Yeah, do the math.  Seminary totals around $65,000 for the Patterson family and that’s before books and transportation and regular living expenses.  Ouch.  Now, obviously this is a choice, I’m not complaining here.  We consider ourselves incredibly privileged to even have the opportunity to set foot on Multnomah’s campus.  We love it there.  We wouldn’t trade it for anything. But it definitely has a cost. 

We have also been blessed by generous scholarships.  My dad asked me the other day what he thought I’d received in total academic scholarships through my undergraduate and graduate studies.  I’d guess it’s around $52,000 total.  Now THAT is something to be thankful for!!!  Thank you God for generous Foundations like the Ford Family.  Jeff has also received scholarship dollars.  We both graduated from OSU absolutely debt free.  Thank you, God!

So anyway, I bring all this up because rising tuition costs and the rising inability of students to obtain education loans is a hot topic right now. (Click here for an interesting article on this topic) Tonight the news ran stories of Ivy League schools offering free tuition to students holding 4.0gpas who come from families making 100K/year or less and free tuition AND free room and board to students with the same average from familys under 65K/year.  Wow!  Many state schools offer free tuition to students with certain academic standing within that state.  But more and more the cost of higher education is prohibitive for a larger number of students.  When my dad was in college, he worked part time and was able to pay for school with that income.  To do that today is impossible.  The cost of school continues to skyrocket while salaries stay the same. 

So, Jeff and I went ahead and took the plunge and took out school loans this past year to pay for seminary.  Before that, we had both worked full time and paid as we went, with the help of scholarships.  But adding a son to the mix, as well as the desire to finish seminary before we retire (!), means finding other means.  But now, as we listen to the news, consider the catastrophic housing market (the money we plan to pay for school with is invested in houses), we’re considering that perhaps school debt is not the wisest decision … especially for a degree that will place us in a lower paying vocation than we’ve ever had before!  (When Jeff left his engineering job to go to seminary the guys asked him, “Wait, you’re paying how much money to go to school so that you can get a career where you make less money than you do now?!”  I don’t blame them; it doesn’t make much sense.)  But I will say this, even if we decide that we have to go back to the slow route–and Jeff has to plod through seminary at a snail’s pace in order to pay the bills, it is still the most lifechanging experience we have ever had.  School is not the same as experience, and I know that much of ministry is learned through the hard knocks of rubbing shoulders with the dirty greasy realities of life, but the practical, wise, humble, biblical instruction and mentoring that we’re receiving is invaluable–no dollar sign could ever describe its worth.  

So, while I am sad about the rising cost of seminary, and sad to know that it may mean that we can’t continue on for as long as our heart desires (I would LOVE to go back and get an Mdiv which would mean that perhaps someday I could teach at such an institution and Jeff would LOVE to go back someday and get a DMin which would do the same), I am thankful for every ounce of wisdom, every prayer at the beginning of every class, every class discussion, every conversation with professors and students, and every moment I’ve walked hand in hand with my husband across campus.  I’m thankful for the godly, humble men and women who have gotten their hands dirty and waded into life’s messes with us.  I guess what I’m really grateful for is God.  Thank you God, for my college and seminary experience.  It’s been anything but merely cerebral … it’s been devotional and formational.  Thank you God for it. Wherever you take us and whatever you have for us, I’m thankful.  Help Jeff and me and our fellow students take what You’ve given us and distribute it to a lost world with loving and healing hands.  Thanks, God.  Amen.