Home Body

The words "Home Body" evoke in my mind images of frumpy middle-aged women in muumuu's with excessive amounts of cats and Snackwells cookies. We tend to think of staying at home on a Saturday night as something kind of sad, boring, even lonely-- something reserved for old, out of touch people. But I'll go right ahead and say it: I love being at home.

From the time that I was eight years old until I went away to college, I moved every day. Every day. My parents were divorced, and lived only a few minutes away from each other, and so rather than spending a whole week at one parent's house, and then a week at the other, my brother and I simply packed our bags: Mondays, Wednesdays and every other weekend with Mom; Tuesdays, Thursdays and every other weekend with Dad. And for some reason that God only knows, I have chosen a profession that keeps this home-body away from home several months out of the year.

I married a man who had seen more of the world by age 16 than most people could ever dream. When we were engaged, he talked about being "travel buddies", and on our wedding night, he gave me a set of vintage suitcases, and we dreamed together of the adventures we would have, and the places we would go. And while some of those travels have brought us, side-by-side, to mud huts, wine-country mansions, remote cabins in the woods, and high-rise hotels, most of our traveling consists of conference rooms, meetings, and eating at chain restaurants.

To be honest, when I look back at the last two months, and see how little we have been home, it makes my heart heavy. And when I look forward to the next few months, it gives me little knots in my stomach. But really, what can you do? There are certain aspects in most of our lives that simply go against the way that we are wired. There are elements to life that seem to take away life; things that we have to push through, tolerate, endure, and figure out a way to survive.

There are moments when we are at our worst-- when we are raw, worn out, unfiltered, and red-lining-- and we simply have to keep pushing and do our best. And there is also this idea that following Jesus somehow means that we have a mysterious abundance, an overflow of love, grace, & kindness, with warm-fuzzies, and pearly-white smiles. Some people, Lord love 'em, experience that in their lives, but let me be the first to admit that I am sometimes drained, complaining, martyred, and ache for home-- not in some spiritual heavenly sense, but I just want to sit in my living room with the front door closed, and my suitcases far from sight, and simply take a deep breath.

I don't pretend to comprehend (let alone live out) Jesus' words about living water that causes us to never be thirsty. I get "thirsty" all the time. But one thing that resonates with me is this:

"Live in me. Make your home in me just as I do in you... I've loved you the way my Father has loved me. Make yourselves at home in my love... I've told you these things for a purpose: that my joy might be your joy, and your joy wholly mature. This is my command: Love one another the way I loved you."
-John 15 (The Message)

For someone constantly aching for home, these words are a mantra-- something I breathe in and out as I fall asleep at night, an anchor that keeps me centered, and a compass that orients me. Make your home in me, as I make my home in you. Make yourself at home in my love. I sink into those words, and something seems to settle inside of me... if I will allow myself.

So often, when I am traveling (and traveling, and traveling), all I want is my own space, my own time to sit with my thoughts (or without them), and to not have to acknowledge human presence for a while. That’s the thing about traveling, is that you never really get your own space, routine, food, bed, or much of anything you can claim as your own.

But the interesting thing about this invitation to be At Home is that it all seems to revolve around loving people. I don’t quite understand how that works-- how being at home in my Creator, and being at home in his love is connected with loving other people. When did they come into the equation? I was just sitting at home, in this love, and joy, and intimacy, breathing deeply and feeling centered, and my zen got interrupted by all these other people.

In fact, I’ve never really thought about the connection until just now. I have always used this passage as an invitation to close the door, take off my shoes, put on my PJ’s and get comfortable with God in some imaginary, clean & quiet retreat center for my soul (maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but it sounds nice, and if I’m honest, it is bit of a picture of what I imagine as “being at home” with Jesus).

But when I really look at that invitation, the two themes that he keeps returning to are being at home (abiding, if you will), and loving one another. It seems like the two ideas are inseparable. And, if I’m really going to be honest, that’s kind of a bummer, because when I am worn out & home sick, I would much rather focus on centering myself than intentionally loving the people around me.

I’m not saying that I shouldn’t unwind, re-charge, or even crave quiet alone time. But it seems like the key to really feeling at Home (even when I can’t be at home) might lie somewhere in the act of loving other people. Perhaps that’s why God drags me out of the comfort of my own four walls so often, and why it seems difficult to find time alone. Maybe I need an extra little nudge out the door.

I’m not sure what this looks like on a practical level-- what it means to be at home through the act of loving others. Oftentimes, love is risky & uncomfortable, which to me sounds like the opposite of being at home. But I also know that some of the moments when I have felt the most alive, and the most comfortable in my own skin have been when I have entered deeply into life with someone else, loving sacrificially and taking the focus off of myself. I suppose that is a bit of what being at Home looks like...

The Cost

During the Holocaust in France, in a tiny mountain Huguenot village 350 miles from Paris called Le Chambon-sur-lignon, 5,000 Jews, mostly children, found shelter with 5,000 Christians, almost the entire population of the village.

As followers of Jesus, the Huguenot villagers never thought of their acts against the Nazis as heroic, but simply a living out of their faith. When they were faced with injustice & need like that of the Holocaust, it was only natural for them to respond with love & compassion that risked not only their own lives, but the lives of their children, neighbors, and their entire village.

When I hear stories like this one, I am deeply moved. I've always been a sucker for those selfless acts of heroism; an idealist of sorts that still believes one person can (and should) change the world.

It's a difficult thing, though: changing the world. It's never as cut & dry as one would like it to be. If only these things were a little more straight forward; if only there were little instruction manuals that helped you with the tough decisions, and could assure you that it was all going to work out in the end.

Right now, we are entering into the process of adopting through foster care. Chris & I decided, when we first got married, that there are far too many children out there who will never have a family, and that we could (and should) be part of the solution to that problem. And as we have heard about the problems within the foster care system, and the kids right in our own neighborhood that need a home, we have felt very compelled to live out our faith by adopting one of these little guys.

It seems to me that following Jesus involves self-sacrifice, giving generously to those on the margins, on the outside, those in need. It seems to me that acts of heroism, like those of the Huguenots during the Holocaust, should be a lifestyle rather than a notable exception from the norm. I'm not saying that any of this self-sacrifice is easy or natural, or even that I am any good at it... but it does seem that it should be a defining characteristic of a life of faith.

Now, here's the thing: Not everyone is in a place to adopt a child. Not everyone is suited to rescue sex slaves from brothels, or move to the inner city & work with gang members. Not everyone has the opportunity or capacity to rescue 5,000 Jews from the Holocaust, or lead a Civil Rights movement, bring clean water to Africa, or meet any one of the millions of heart-breaking needs out there in the world around us.

Here's the other thing: As obvious as it sounds, there is a great deal of risk in self-sacrifice... and the risk isn't always our own.

It sounds good & noble to adopt a child through foster care, and I believe that it is the right thing for us to do. But I also know that it will be incredibly difficult-- not only for Chris & myself, but for Nolan. It's a heart-wrenching, emotional process to work through a broken foster care system, and my sweet little toddler will have to pay some of that cost.

I hate that my decision to care for the marginalized will hurt my baby. I can only anticipate the things we will walk through together as a family as we welcome a new member into our home. And yet, my job as a mother is not necessarily to protect my son from pain, but to prepare him for life; to do my best to model love, generosity, faith & courage. Obviously that doesn't mean that I throw him in the deep end to teach him to swim, but I believe that it sometimes means walking together down difficult paths for the sake of others.

Those things that sounded so noble-- so obvious-- when I was in college feel different now walking through them than they seemed from a distance. It's one thing to count the cost of selfless service, but it's another thing entirely to pay it.

I don't know where the balance lies when it comes to caring for your own children and serving others'. It seems like something you carefully weigh out day by day & moment by moment, rather than a line drawn in the sand. I think of all the beautiful acts of heroism throughout history and am so grateful that there are people who chose to risk their own family's security for the sake of others... but I also wonder what their families were thinking & feeling in the moment, and if they believed it was worth it.

I'm not claiming any act of heroism in my own life, but I know that what we are entering into will be difficult & costly. I wish that I could absorb all of that cost into myself, and yet at the same time, I know the depth, richness, and even privilege it can be to love sacrificially, and I don't want to take that opportunity away from my little boy. My hope is that we would live a life of daily, hourly generosity in the big things and in the everyday moments. I wish that I was more natural, more consistent in living out my values & beliefs, and I hope that this next step would simply be in line with those of my Creator.

Deep Breath

As a little girl, our family lived in a yellow house with a white picket fence, and a long, steep driveway leading to a big backyard. The dirt under the apricot tree was dark and cool, and the swing set sat next to it in the sun, squeaky and made of metal.

My dad built towers out of the wooden blocks, and I would get a running head start to knock them down. There was gravel on a slope leading down to the horse I named Blackie, on the path where I walked with my mom, and I was always a little afraid to slide down that slope. And down the street was a boy named Billy, who had big Great Danes, and a straight, grassy yard.

I know not everyone had a perfect, sunny childhood... but most people can at least remember back to moments of rest, peace, and long summer days with nothing to do. It's part of the innocence of being a kid that allows us to play, explore, and just be without planning, scheduling or scheming.

It's sad that we so easily find importance in having a packed schedule. Having one of those nebulous jobs that depend on the donations of others, I often feel the need to prove myself as a worthy investment by always appearing busy. It's almost seen as a sign of failure to stay home on a Saturday night and simply do nothing, when there's so much out there to see & do & eat (especially eat).

I mentioned before that we are trying to establish a rhythm with our family & in our home. To be honest, we haven't quite made the progress I had hoped for at this point, but one thing we are intentionally building into our weekly rhythm is a Sabbath. I've been reading this book about the importance of rest, of breathing, of carving out a sacred time to be restored, to reflect. It's not just a time to be lazy or do nothing, but a sort of deep breath that prepares us to act & move, and go about our weeks & our lives with a little more purpose, clarity & centered-ness.

The plan, for now, is to have a restful Sunday morning, pack a picnic, and ride our bikes to church. From there, we can go outdoors somewhere (weather permitting), have lunch, play, run, explore, and simply touch dirt & grass instead of concrete. After lunch is Nolan's nap time, and it's a pretty luxurious thing to have a quiet afternoon where we can sleep, read, tinker with bikes, or just connect with each other. Our hope is that Sunday evenings can include a big pot of simple soup, and an open door to anyone who wants to join our family for a meal.

Today, after church, some good friends that we have been wanting to spend time with for ages invited us out to lunch, and I sadly declined, wanting to stick to our plan for rest & family time. We went to the beach, ran in the sand, threw rocks, and walked along the Great Highway, watching the families ride their bikes. Then we drove up to a little coffee shop offering free pastries (thank you, Scoutmob!), came home & took a nap. Soup simmered on the stove inside while we all (Nolan included) went outside and did some gardening (well, more like gardening prep work) in the yard, and we ate dinner with a short reading from the book of Common Prayer.

It was kind of fabulous. No, not glamorous or exciting, but quite wonderful. It was interesting to see how much intentionality it took to unplug, to rest, to choose activities that were restorative rather than entertaining, and to just be present with one another.

This next week is going to be intense, and as I look ahead at my calendar, I can see a lot of business, travel, long days (and nights), and some potential stress. I am interested to see the ways that a day of rest, built into my weekly activity & work, will effect my heart & mind & countenance.

There is often a tiny sense of loss on a Sunday night, knowing that the weekend is slipping by, and that tomorrow will be Monday. Usually I stay up too late, indulging in Pinterest, Facebook, blogs & other distractions to try to procrastinate from the responsibilities of the week. But tonight I feel centered, peaceful, even ready.

There is something about slowing down that allows you to notice the details, and to live in a moment, rather than in a plan for the next activity. Maybe that's why I can remember the feel of the dirt along the path we walked from our yellow house, or the squeak of the blue, metal swing set. There's nothing particularly important about that path, or that swing, except that I was allowed to just be-- to be present in my own skin, to be unconcerned about my responsibilities, to live. We don't do that often enough anymore-- but I guess the point is that we can.

Risking Happiness

Is it just me, or is happiness is a bit out of style? Images of clean, well-groomed, khaki-clad families running down the beach are enough to make most people gag-- or at least smirk. I don't know about you, but I prefer irony, satire, and grit-- and sometimes happy endings in movies leave me a little disappointed.

I'm not sure how this mentality has come about, but I confess that I am almost apologetic when things are going well. We live in a culture, and especially a city, that loves to critique, analyze, & compare-- and somehow being joyful, content, or just plain happy comes across as shallow, naive, or artificial.

Or maybe I'm just imagining it? I know I have a fear of seeming spoiled, and I suppose if I am too happy, others might think I've got it easy & resent me. Or perhaps my happiness will some how rub against or call out the unhappiness of others-- like love birds on Valentine's Day making single people feel lonely & bitter. I also have a strange resistance to seeming like the bubbly, put-together Christian mom, and maybe there is a belief buried in there that if I am not just a little snarky or sarcastic or I will be stereotyped into a ditsy Stepford Wife.

And so, it is with great risk & hesitation, that I would like to say: I am happy right now.

My knee-jerk reaction is to qualify that statement with: There are still areas of my life that are lonely, incomplete, broken sad, etc, etc... and it's hard to just allow that statement to lie there, naked and innocent. But I am: I'm happy.

A few weeks ago, Chris & I loaded up the kiddo & spent the afternoon in a quaint little town up in wine country. It was this funny, golden, perfect little day: Nolan didn't throw a single temper tantrum, we sat on this lovely restaurant patio for hours, completely alone and soaked in the sun, just talking & being. We ate, drank, laughed, played, walked, and did nothing. On the drive home, we began reminiscing about the last time we made it up to that quaint little town: I had a week-long migraine, we were up to our noses in home-buying stress, we never spent time alone together, lived in a tiny, cramped apartment, and were basically worn out & empty.

And now, somehow, we found ourselves on the other side of home-buying, a Master's degree (well, almost!), sleepless nights & all the pain of life with an infant. We are settled in a home that we love, spending time together, deeply enjoying our son, doing work that we are passionate about, and our schedules have become more balanced & manageable.

It was like a light bulb went on. It's a funny thing to realize that you're happy. Usually you just feel happy. But it seems that, in so many ways, happiness is a choice, a perspective.

Even as I write this, I am qualifying my happiness-- balancing it & evaluating it-- by thinking of the fact that we have no money, that I am lonely more often than I would like, that we still have a long way to go in our marriage, and that fund raising is not going well. But the more I analyze and qualify, the more that sense of happiness, contentment & gratitude deflates & diminishes.

So, I will make a conscious choice to set aside my fear of being shallow & spoiled, my desire to seem deep, seasoned or savvy, and my compulsion to remember what I still lack... and choose the simple act of happiness. It's harder than I would like to admit, but in the end, I know it's worth it.

Think Without Acting

We are a culture of armchair critics.

We sit on the couch and yell at athletes, telling them how to play the game. We comment on celebrities' relationships, weight & fashion choices, vicariously living the Hollywood life for the cost of cable. We tweet, blog, Yelp, write reviews on Amazon, and webcast our opinions & critiques. I think the real reason people go wine tasting in Napa is so that they can feel like a cultured critic, swirling, sniffing and mumbling about hints of blackberry & oak.

And I'm no different. I wish I was less critical.

I can remember years ago, going to see a movie with my family. My brother & I whispered snide remarks through the whole, awful thing, like we were characters in Mystery Science Theater. But when we shuffled out of the theater and finally let loose on the movie, my Dad looked shocked, "I liked it!" That night, my cynical brother & I wondered if we would rather go through life enjoying mediocre movies, books, food & whatnot and just be happy, or if we preferred our highbrow excellent taste. In the end, we decided it was better to be disappointed, miserable, cynical and cultured than be some average Joe that had no taste. ;)

All these thoughts have been swirling around in my head as I hear the incredible responses to the Kony 2012 video that is all the rage right now. It seems as though the whole world is circling the kill, waiting for their chance at a witty, pithy critique, a personal jab, and an "I told you so"-- especially since the filmmaker's very public & humiliating meltdown last week.

Like I said, I'm right there with the rest of them, ready with criticism, opinions, and (if I'm lucky) a little recognition for how I could have done it better. I want to be gracious and humble, believing the best of people, and not pushing to have my way on top, but if I'm honest, I'll admit that I bend more towards the critical than the optimistic-- at least in my knee-jerk reactions.

I attended a training last week on Creativity that got me thinking. Give me just a minute to unravel this one...
There are four different roles in the creative process, and each one is important:

1. The Pioneer collects, gathers, wonders & dreams
2. The Artist takes the materials around them & creates something
3. The Judge evaluates the worth & value of the creation
4. The Warrior goes out and does something with the creation

The first two roles tend to be more innovative, dreamy & imaginative, while the second two roles are more practical "get 'er done" types. But, in order to create something that is new, valuable, worthwhile or beautiful, we really need each role in the creative process. If we just have the first two, we sit with our heads in the clouds & get nothing done, and if we only have the second two, we either allow our criticism to stop us, or we jump into something that wasn't well planned.

Okay, I'm going to tie it together now: As I have heard & read the criticism of Kony 2012, I began asking myself: Is it better to act without thinking, or think without acting?

In so many ways, it seems that the boys at Invisible Children have acted without thinking. They have been Artists and Warriors, without taking the time for thoughtful analysis. But it seems that their "opposition" is so busy thinking through all the complexities of the issues in Central Africa that they have not acted. Is one better than the other? In this particular case, I might say Yes.

The criticism is that Invisible Children didn't do it right. And yet, here they are, with 100 million (and counting) views, and the entire world talking about Joseph Kony. I was upset about the simplicity of the film, as well, and have plenty of critiques-- but when was the last time I did a single thing for Uganda? Seriously. In all my passion & knowledge of how to approach the issue, when was the last time I actually approached it?

I am lazy and jaded, and I live in a lazy, jaded culture that would rather write something off as incomplete than step in and help complete it. We all long for something true, beautiful, creative & good in our lives, and when someone takes a stab at it, we jump all over them with our opinions as though they were a restaurant on Yelp, and not a human with thoughts, emotions, strengths and weaknesses.

We all have a role to play in the creative process, but I wonder if we have all taken the "Judge's" seat, and left the role of "Pioneer, Artist, and Warrior" vacant. I know I need more risk in my life. I need to ignore the voice of the Judge in my head a little bit more, and allow myself to innovate, create, and simply step out. Maybe the world needs a little more bad art in it. I know it certainly doesn't need another critic like me.

Kony 2012

I am torn.

My mind has been running circles around Uganda ever since watching Kony 2012 a few days ago. I've been reading blogs, & articles criticizing every aspect of the video and the organization. I've been talking with friends who are directly involved with the peace negotiations and rehabilitation of the abducted children. I've been thinking, talking, and reading about it so much that my brain feels a little melty. My goal was to synthesize the info a bit for all my friends & family who have been asking what I think of it all. But after everything I've heard & read & discussed, I feel even more muddled than before.
Here's my attempt to sort it out:

-I love that the whole world seems to be talking about the injustice of the LRA, and that millions of people have been moved to do something about it.

-I love the way that Invisible Children has raised awareness, and brought issues to light that so many had never heard of. I love that it was a bunch of college kids who didn't know what they were doing, but have held unwaveringly for almost 10yrs in their commitment to bring change. And I love the way that this video has captured the hearts of millions of people who just want to do something to help.

-I love the smell, and the songs, the way the sun feels like it comes through a magnifying glass, the feel of the red, red dirt, the way the hammock sways back and forth at night in the mud hut, and the sound of the children in the Internally Displaced People's Camp in the morning. I love the hospitality, the pace of life, and a million other things that I had forgotten about until I watched that video, and found myself crying like a baby in my kitchen, as my toddler stared at me in confusion. I love Uganda, and I love Ugandans.

But I'm scared, too.

Even in our best intentions, we can enter a situation as outsiders and misdiagnose a problem. In our eagerness to help, we forget to ask questions, we forget to listen. We see a gaping wound and rush in to fix it, without understanding the complexities, the history, and the resources available. It is a good, noble, and beautiful thing to want to help, but sometimes helping hurts.

That has been the major criticism of the film Kony 2012, and there have been so many great thoughts (although most of them have been extremely harsh) that I will not repeat them. If you're interested, here are a few of the best responses I have seen. To sum it up, the video takes an incredibly complex situation and simplifies it into the logic of a 4yr old (literally). It also doesn't give great current information, or the viewpoint of the Ugandan people. Having said all that, though, Invisible Children has done a great job responding to all the criticism.

As I have talked to our friends who are directly involved in the peace negotiations with the LRA, and our friends who have been working directly with the child abductees, there is frustration and mixed feelings about the video. The main problem is that Northern Ugandans do not support the initiative to bring in US troops to "stop" Kony. It's their children who are out there, who would be forced to defend Kony if troops came in to capture him (just like the failed Operation Lightning Thunder, a few years back). They are working, and have been working towards peace negotiations and amnesty programs, and have seen incredible improvement in their region (I have had the privilege of seeing it, and in the tiniest way, even being able to participate in it, myself). The simple solutions (military troops) proposed in the video are not at all what our friends, or most of Northern Uganda, want for their country.

Okay, sorry. I know I said I wasn't going to do all that. Couldn't help myself ;)

So here's the real dilemma: What do we do with all of this?

Kony 2012 raises questions, issues, and brings to light a real problem-- one that breaks our hearts & moves us to action. But now we're all hearing that it's the wrong action, told in the wrong way, by the wrong people. So what do we do? How do we respond to the need without knowing any of the people who are in need? All of the brilliant & pithy criticism still hasn't led to a solution, or even an action step.

Is it better to do something rash, idealistic & ignorant than to spew criticism and do nothing at all? Is there a third option?

I've been asking our friends out there what we can actually do to help, and this is what they've said. (Warning: It's not sexy, glamorous, exciting or edgy)

• Pray: As simple, and even silly as it sounds, that is the first thing that Ugandans ask for. Through the massacres, through the abductions, the mutilations, the rape, and other unspeakable injustices, I was humbled and amazed to see the unwavering faith of the Ugandan people. To be honest, I was ashamed of my own meager spirituality. They believe deeply in God, trust in Him, pray to Him, and want us to do the same.
• Give: Find an organization that is working to rehabilitate the victims of the conflict and give sacrificially to them. In Northern Uganda, there are very few NGO's ("non-profits", to the American) left who are still providing relief and long-term rehabilitation. After spending the summer there, here are some of my favorites:

1. Child Voice International: providing in-depth rehabilitation, counseling, education, job training & a whole lot more to youth affected by the conflict. (The group we lived/worked with. I can't say enough wonderful things about this organization)
   
2. Doctors Without Borders: giving medical assistance to people whose survival is threatened by violence, neglect, or catastrophe. (They were doing great things while we were there)
3. International Justice Mission: working through legal systems (in Uganda, and around the world) to stop injustice. (One of the many complexities in this conflict is the corruption of the Ugandan government)

• Learn: Read up on the conflict, ask about the needs, and share with others. It takes more time, effort & commitment than hanging posters for a night, but it is so very important, if we want to help, to know who we are helping, why, what exactly we are helping them to do, and how we are going to do it. It is also key in this whole process to give help with dignity, collaboration & humility.
• Be an informed consumer: Give me a second on this one... Kony & the LRA have fled up to the Democratic Republic of Congo, where they have become one of many conflicts & genocides in the DRC, Central African Republic, Chad & Sudan. These genocides are being fueled by minerals like Coltan (used in computers & cell phones), silver, gold, diamonds, and copper that are mined (by these rebel groups) in these countries and sold to us. Ever seen Blood Diamond? It's like that. So one thing we can do to help stop Kony (and dozens like him) is to raise awareness for a need of conflict-free Coltan, diamonds, etc. There's a great little group called Call + Response that is a helpful resource to get started in raising awareness & asking companies to be responsible. We can also buy refurbished & second-hand products to reduce the demand for these minerals.

My hope is that some of this was helpful to someone out there. It is an issue so very close to my heart, and I am grateful to Invisible Children for reminding me and informing millions (millions!) of people that there is a pressing, compelling, heart-breaking need out there. I'm not sure that I will be sporting a "Kony 2012" poster in my front yard (if you've seen my front yard, you would know that's actually an act of respect to the campaign!) or wallpapering San Francisco on April 20th. But I promise not to judge you if you do... just promise me you'll look into some of the details. ;)

Thanks for hangin' in there through all this information. I will update Comments with anything new I hear from our friends in the thick of it.

Rhythm

Believe it or not, I was in the Gospel Choir in college. And if I do say so myself, we were good.
Okay, to be perfectly honest, I dropped the choir's status a few notches when they let me in, but it was one of the best things I did with my college career.

Now, as a History major & Art History minor, I also admit that most of my classes weren't extremely challenging to me. I figured out how to write a 10 page paper with a perfect intro, thesis & conclusion, throw some quotes in the middle and get an A without breaking much of a sweat (unless you count the full sprint I usually did getting the paper into the professor's office on time). But learning how to sway back & forth and clap my hands on the off beat while singing required more mental energy for me than all my History classes combined. I am sorry to say that I will never live out my dream of being the drummer in a garage band. Rhythm has never been my strong suit.

My lack of rhythm has played out in the rest of my life, as well. I tend to move forward in awkward fits and starts, trying to pull together certain areas, while others are neglected. I over work, and routinely get sick every time I give myself a break (creating countless disappointing vacations).

There was this brief period of time where Chris & I were onto something. We called in Maintaining. We would set the kitchen timer every night for 10 minutes and clean as much as we could until the timer went off. We created a little weekly chart that we kept on the refrigerator with post-it's that marked how we would spend our free time each evening. We made sure that we included activities in our weekly and monthly schedules that were life-giving, and we also made space for the less-than-exciting duties of life. It was good.

We started the whole project by making lists of activities would restore us, dreaming up a life where we could go camping once every couple of months, hike every weekend, spend one night a week doing something creative or just hang out with the guys. Then we brought our lists together, looked at our calendars and did the best we could to match our fantasy life with reality. We took into account how many nights a week we tended to work late, how often we travel, and trips to the laundry mat and the auto shop.

Surprisingly, our dream life looked pretty similar to what we came up with on our chart. And even more surprising was the fact that we were able to actually live it out. Our lives are full, we travel more than is healthy, and our jobs (although we love them) can be absolutely exhausting. But when we were living out this simple rhythm and were intentional about using our time towards restoration, it was as though the reserves that are so often depleted were protected a bit more.

It is so easy, when I am worn out at the end of the day, to plug into my computer and scroll through Facebook or Pinterest and lose that precious hour or two between Nolan's bed time and my own. It is so easy to turn on Hulu and watch a few episodes of Modern Family, when what I really needed was to sit and talk with my hubby. It's funny how, in the times when we need restoration the most, we slump into our chairs stare at a screen and give ourselves the exact opposite.

Chris & I have decided that it's time to re-establish that rhythm we lost, to make a new plan to fit the current reality of our life, and help us move into living it more deeply, more intentionally. We've been red-lining for too long. So today, Chris takes his last grad-school final EVER (I just want that to soak in for a moment), tonight we celebrate with a giant homemade Italian feast, and tomorrow, we will sit down and create together a structure that will help us really live. Chris describes it an ancient Christian practice called a Rule of Life, but I've never really been one to like the word "rule". I like to think of it more as a rhythm we're creating: clapping, swaying and singing off-beat & out of tune, but singing nonetheless.