I’m Okay with Sinking

Wow. I just got my second wind. And just in the nick of time!

I can play along at fake it ‘til I make it for awhile, but eventually the bottom drops out and right about that time I have to admit that my faith is dwindling away.

Here’s where I’ve been over the months that I’ve neglected—through no fault of my own—this little blog. Last summer we moved, after ten years in Orange, Texas, to a town just outside of Little Rock. It was quite literally the biggest test EVER of my faith to abandon my comfy, predictable life down South for a new beginning in a new state. Not that we didn’t do it for good reason—God called us to Arkansas. My husband, a minister, has thought for years that his ministry would ultimately lead to planting a church. A brand new church. In other words, we didn’t come here with a paying position all set up for Todd. The plan is to transition to bi-vocational ministry, i.e., work a full-time job and also work on the church plant. I won’t bore you with what previous posts can explain. I’m working—teaching—at a Christian school, and I love it. But it’s a part-time job, and without another income, well…you can imagine what the Beasley emotional ride has been like in recent months. It’s not even a roller coaster. It’s one of those bungee things where they pull you down as far as you can go and catapult you into oblivion. Terrifying. But fun, I think. Oh wait, I may throw up…

Not too long before Christmas, my husband applied for a job that he really wanted. He’s applied (is applying) for many positions, but this one in particular interested him. We prayed and prayed through the whole process. And then…what a terrible letdown.

For months we kept reasserting our faith in God’s promises and felt pretty confident that whatever God will do to provide a full-time income is just over the horizon. Then this job went to another candidate just as we were staring Christmas in the face, with a bleak financial landscape to usher in 2013. The gift money and income tax refund we’d been living on was slipping away. It was time for us to begin paying for our own health insurance (thank you FBCO for covering us since August!). Our house in Texas still hasn’t sold. Suddenly, at what is usually the jolliest time of the year, I could not shake any of a sundry of negative emotions: fear, abandonment, hopelessness, anger.

What happened to my faith?

A number of years ago I did a bible study in the book of Matthew. I especially enjoyed the teaching on Jesus walking on water. One question addressed in the study invited us, the learners, to think our way into the story. You know, which character do you most identify with? Are you in the boat, not even asking to hop out and take a stroll on the waves? Are you Peter, braving the waves to walk with the Lord? Are you like Jesus, never flinching in the face of adversity? This question made me laugh. My answer? None of the above. I had to invent a character to identify with.  The scripture says that the disciples had been rowing all night, buffeted by the waves, to get to the other side because Jesus had told them to. During the fourth watch, say about 3 a.m., Jesus walks on the water toward the boat to meet them.

“A GHOST!!!!!!!!” the disciples exclaimed in terror. And pandemonium, no doubt, ensued in the little fishing boat.

Here’s where Katie features in the story. I can just picture myself, engaged in the task–the not at all glamorous, ever so laboriously painful task which God is MAKING ME DO. At certainly not my proudest moment, I bark at the quivering, lily-livered disciples, “HEY!! Quit GAWKING at the ghost! Get over here and help me ROW!”

I had to laugh because back then, it was 100% true. There was work to do, God was making me do it, rarely did it yield any fruit, and faith had very little to do with it.

But not anymore.

What a change God can make! What a hard road He took me down to create in me a clean heart! Friends, I pray your way to obedience is easier than mine! Nevertheless, I made it. I’m here. God’s work is no longer just a task I have to check off my list. It is a great spiritual blessing that He’s imparted to me, that I GET to be a part of what He’s doing. Now, I pray, “God give me work—meaningful work—to do for You!”

But back to the deep despair of Christmas 2012. A week ago, that’s where I found myself, asking, “What happened to my faith?” The last week has been pure drudgery.  This morning, I woke up early and prayed for God to restore my hope, my faith, and my joy.  I’m not sure why I’m so surprised that He answered.

I put myself on a bible reading plan for 2013. This morning I got to read–guess what?–Matthew 14 wherein we find the story of how Jesus walked on water. After reading it twice, to my great relief, something broke in me and I felt a surge of relief and hope.

It came with the realization that I’m no longer the curmudgeon waving the oar at the other disciples. I’ve leaped out of the boat, and guess what?!! I’m sinking!!

But Katie, you’re not supposed to WANT to sink. Peter started sinking and Jesus chided him for doubting and not having enough faith.

Yeah, I’d be all broken up about the failure of my faith if it weren’t for the fact that Jesus is RIGHT THERE, CLOSE ENOUGH TO GRASP MY HAND AND HOLD ME UP ABOVE THE WAVES.

Not too many years ago, I wasn’t near close enough to exercise any faith at all. But today, I’ve leaped off the edge because He told me to and I’ve never been closer to my Savior in all my years.

Praise God. He’s RIGHT THERE.

“Then those who were in the boat worshiped him, saying, ‘Truly you are the Son of God.”

Truly.

Confessions of a Christmas Junkie…or…Yes, Virginia, I Have Three Christmas Trees

The media wants us to be bitter about Christmas. Have you noticed that abrasive tone in commercials and TV shows? It’s like we’re expected to shift gears somewhere—as kids we are encouraged, nay, expected, to lose ourselves in the fantasy and believe. In what, I’m not sure; the media is pretty non-specific on what we’re putting our faith in. But then the brainwashers have us round a corner somewhere (right about the time we graduate college) and it becomes our holiday lot to dread the decorating, crowds, invading in-laws, wrapping gifts. If you’re skeptical about my take on this, check your TV listings. Dora saves Christmas. Two and a Half Men endure it by retelling the same jokes about Santa being a drunk. Or a pervert. Or both.

Me? I’m a Christmas junkie. The only thing I dread about Christmas is the day after—when I have eleven months to wait before I can get away with bringing out my Christmas trees. That’s right I said trees. Plural.

So here’s a little Christmas tale to lighten the hearts of even the Grenchiest Burgermeister. Let me take you back to the days before Katie knew the truth about the fat bearded guy, when Christmas Eve was the most magical night of the year—the night of sugar plums, George Bailey, Ma in her kerchief, and all that jazz. And threats. Let’s not forget the Christmas threats. In the Prescott house in ’74, it went a little something like this.

“Now, Katherine,” Dad spoke sternly, “you have to go straight to bed and stay there. If you get out of bed and see Santa Claus, he won’t leave you any presents at all. You’ll be the only one with nothing to open.”

Sitting on the hearth dressed in her brand new pink footie jammies, little Katie nodded obediently before tucking her head in the fireplace for a look-see at the chimney innards. There it was—the point of entry. On this very night, Big Red himself would cram in that filthy space, feast on Mom’s famous Pringle cookies and milk, drop a treasure of gifts around our tree, and POOF—off he’ll go to repeat the process all through the neighborhood. All around town. All over the world!

Not that I needed any more convincing, but big brother Travis ratcheted things up a notch by whispering, “Last year, Katie, I actually heard the reindeer of the roof!” We were gazing up the dark chimney together.

I gasped. “Travis, really? You mean it?!”

“Uh-huh, and I heard sleigh bells right above my bedroom!”

Here I should make my apologies to readers who don’t “do” Santa. “Um-hmm. And THAT’S why we don’t do Santa Claus at our house! The lies! They lied to you!” Yes. Yes, they did. I admire you for going against the cultural grain and keeping your Christmas tradition focused solely on Jesus. He’s my very favorite, by the way, and we get and give a healthy dose of Him around our house. But, from a fundamentalist standpoint, this story from days of yore doesn’t improve any from here on, so I understand if you feel there’s more suitable reading material on another blog. Be warned, though. There’s a lot of belly aching out there over having to drag out all the Christmas ornaments, or about the obligatory office Christmas party and forced participation (growl) in the white elephant gift exchange. Or, even better, find one of those posts to give you the play by play on the atheists hell bent to bring down Christmas by asserting their right NOT to see baby Jesus on a courthouse lawn. Oy. Don’t get me wrong, it gets my back up when atheists mess with baby Jesus, and, yes, I feel I should be duly informed.  But for a few brief moments at Christmas, I will have my kerchief and my sugar plums.

Meanwhile, back to the fantasy…

Katie and her brand new Christmas jammies found themselves nestled, all snug in her bed, with echoes of Daddy’s Christmas Eve threat resounding in her head. Actually, to be more accurate, I wasn’t in my bed. Mimi and Poppie, beloved grandparents who had come to visit for Christmas, were in my bed. Anytime we had family in town, I gave up my room and slept in the study, which happened to be closest to the living room (ergo closest to the tree, presents, chimney, et al). This, I’m sure, is the reason why the threat on that Christmas Eve made such an impression.  Putting the four-year-old to sleep just feet away from all the action was risky. Dad was very specific. You are forbidden to see Santa.

I drifted off to sleep with Dad’s Santa sighting protocol mingling uneasily with Travis’ testimony of reindeer and sleigh bells. Something woke me up early the next morning. I’m not talking the typical 6:00 am Christmas morning kind of early. It was more like 3:30 am. I lay perfectly still, straining my ears for any jingling bells. After a few tense moments, I relaxed, convincing myself that it was a branch outside the window or the dog moving around on the patio. No sooner had I drifted off again, the sound jolted me awake once more. This time I sat straight up in bed, terrified. Gathering the covers around me, I listened intently. What IS that???

After a moment, my heart quit pounding so loudly in my ears that I was able to detect a soft droning sound, interrupted here and there by silence and startlingly loud snorts.

Any other night, I’d be reassured and calm. Snoring, that’s all. Someone in the house has a deviated septum. What a shame.

But I was not reassured nor in any way calm, because–like any other brainwashed toddler– I BELIEVED in Christmas. Therefore I KNEW that the only logical explanation was that the most famous overworked fat man in the whole world had succumbed to fatigue and fallen dead asleep in my living room. I mean, who could blame the guy? The whole wide world is a rather big place, and even if he skipped all the Jewish kids, all the fundamentalist humbugs, and Asia, he still had an awful lot of ground to cover in one night.

Woe is me! What do I do?

I remember with astonishing clarity the dilemma I faced as I listened to sawing logs just down the hall. On one hand, I recognized that it was my duty as a citizen of planet Earth to wake him up. Santa was a busy, busy man, and this was the big night! He most certainly had at least half the world left to visit. If he didn’t wake up, all those poor children around the globe would have nothing to open on Christmas day. Leaving him to snooze with his face in a plateful of Pringle cookies would be like wrapping kryptonite in Christmas paper and leaving it under Superman’s tree. On the other hand, if I intervened, as I knew I should, I would SEE Santa. Even though I could SAVE CHRISTMAS for every other boy and girl, my father had delineated the consequences of seeing Santa Claus in the clearest of terms. He won’t leave you any presents at all. You’ll be the only one with nothing to open.

To my great shame, I must admit, I didn’t save Christmas. I lay in bed, quaking in my footies, afraid to do the right thing, ashamed to do the wrong thing. That awful snoring continued—interminably, it seemed. I tossed and turned for an hour or two more, tortured by my misfortune, until my big brother broke through his bedroom door shouting, “It’s Christmas!”

Oh no, I thought somewhat guiltily, he’ll find Santa asleep in the cookies and he’ll lose all his presents. I had bought myself a spot on the naughty list for ‘75.

Sitting up in bed again, I heard the whole house come to life—shuffling, whispers, yawns, good mornings, and Travis’ running footsteps up and down the hall.  I could not face whatever waited for me on the other side of the study door. Someone’s Christmas was ruined, and I knew it should be mine.

About that time, Travis burst through my door, breathless. I fully expected him to announce that Santa was staying for breakfast and maybe we should drum up some carrots for the reindeer, but instead he blurted out, “Why are you still in bed??? It’s Christmas! Let’s go!!”

That’s all the prompting I needed. All must be well! And it was. The stockings were full to overflowing—just like last year and the year before—and toys, glorious toys, sat gleaming under the colored lights.

Years and years later, I pieced it all together. Travis must have clued in about Santa Claus that year. My mother certainly gave him a little pep talk to soothe any disappointment, which probably included the suggestion that he could now play along for Katie’s sake.

The snoring troubled me for years, though.  At one Christmas dinner when I was in my early twenties, my mother mentioned “the Christmas when Mimi and Poppie came to visit.” I remember the gift they gave me that year. It was a doll named Alice Ann that had belonged to my mother. They had gone to a lot of trouble to have the doll restored for me. The day after Christmas they took me shopping to buy some dresses for Alice Ann. It was a very special gift.

Though I vividly remember opening that present, for some reason, I never made the connection that they were in the house that Christmas Eve.  What I had taken for Santa Claus must have been Poppie, whose loud snores are the stuff of family legend. Everybody has at least one relative who snores like a jackhammer, right? Even down the hall and around the corner, he woke me out of a dead sleep.

It’s the day before Christmas Eve, and I’m about to head out to buy the last of the stocking fare and all the fixings for Christmas dinner. I’m undaunted by the crowds—even a Wal-Mart crowd, can you imagine? But I love it. Financially we can’t pull off the kind of Christmas we’ve had in the past, but I still love every bit of it. I love trees and lights, wrapping gifts, and Christmas music. I love little girls squealing with delight. I love cooking and baking everyone’s favorite recipes. It doesn’t bother me one bit to drag out the Christmas ornaments. And don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten for one second that Jesus is the reason for all this hoopla. He died so I could live.  I love Him, too, more than I can say.

So I’m off to finish the last of Santa’s list and spread good cheer. Beware the Scrooges, friends. Merry Christmas!

Tidings of Comfort

I’ve watched news footage cover national tragedies and wiped away tears at the horror of it all. But Sandy Hook reduced me to a pile in the middle of our kitchen floor, sobbing uncontrollably. I cried off and on all weekend. Five days later, I still feel so raw. I ache for the people of Newtown. Is it because I’m a teacher? A mom?

Grief has characterized the last few years of my life. It was an unforeseen result of a seemingly endless test of my faith–being unexpectedly grieved, not just for my own difficulties, but for other people’s circumstances as well. The news of the Sandy Hook shooting sent me first into shock and then reeling with emotion.

It should be that way, though. I don’t want to be unaffected by something this horrible. While I feel that genuine parental relief that my sweet girls made it home from school safely on December 14^th, something inside of me will not settle.  This is an atrocity—carried out against the most innocent and contagiously joyful members of our society. I don’t want to be the person who listens to the news story, feels momentarily solemn, says a prayer for those who are suffering, and changes the channel. I should grieve. We all should.

Friday night, after an emotional afternoon of picking up bits and pieces from the news, it was my turn to put my four-year-old, Emma Kate, to bed. We followed the normal routine—brushing, flushing, changing, and stalling with a little begging and bargaining mixed in for good measure. I tried to shut out what I’d seen on the news, but it hovered stubbornly above my thoughts the whole time I worked to get her to sleep. The news had just reported that the bodies of the fallen children had not yet been released to the parents. Amidst the tidal wave of reporting, that one little detail prompted flashbacks, memories of the Wedgwood Baptist Church shooting, which I prefer to leave buried.

“Katie, I need you to stay with Kathy Jo. They haven’t brought Shaun out of the building,” my friend Laurie had said. She pulled me toward Kathy Jo, who gripped the railing of the wheelchair ramp outside the elementary school across the street from Wedgwood. She only released her hold on the rail to bury her face in her hands.  Maybe I was in shock, but I couldn’t quite process what was happening to Kathy Jo, what had happened to her husband inside the church and why they would have to bring him out.

“Laurie, I can’t. I have to…” I gave some awful excuse and walked away, completely inept to offer any comfort or support. I had no words. I was afraid to reach out. So I didn’t.

Chaos ruled the scene. Helicopters circled. Everyone—everything—was in motion, all going in different directions. Simultaneously, people ran, walked, dropped to their knees, wandered, cried, hugged, laughed, cried more. Figures moved at varying paces to and from the church, along the sidewalks, lining the streets, in and out of groups of people. Reporters emerged to place microphones in grim faces, stunned faces, anxious and terrified faces.  And voices, at all different volumes and tones, shouting, whispering, calling, screaming, praying…Have you seen so and so? Where were you? Did you hear shots? Sydney’s been hit. Sirens and lights. Cops and firemen. Life flight landed on the church lawn.

Newtown, I remember what that very dark day was like. I’m unspeakably sad for your loss.

All these years later, I cuddled next to my curly-headed little one, so blessed to share her giggles, her whispers, and her prayers. As she drifted off to sleep, I stayed in her room, images of Sandy Hook, mingled with Wedgwood memories, playing over and over in my mind. Try as I might, I couldn’t help imagining inconsolable mommies and daddies wailing over empty beds in empty, silent bedrooms. That’s when the ache started.

My husband and I just recently moved to Arkansas to start a new chapter in ministry. We have encountered a concoction of joy and discouragement lately. It’s been an odd mix of excitement and fear–a sobering realization that God has entrusted some of His Kingdom work to the Beasleys (of all people), an agonizingly stressful past the point of no return leap of faith. After watching some of the news coverage over the shooting, I asked Todd through tears, “How could we ever minister to people who are suffering like that?” When I ask that kind of question, like I’m barely clinging to my faith, my husband always seems to know how to answer. “I don’t know exactly. By being as much like Jesus to them as possible.”

That’s the kind of thing I saw in the aftermath of Wedgwood—people living like Jesus. People with deep wounds and searing pain, who should have been angry with God, declaring the hope that they have in the Lord Jesus. Kathy Jo followed Shawn’s casket down the aisle at his memorial service, with her hands in the air in worship, while we sang, “Shout to the Lord all the earth, let us sing. Power and majesty, praise to the King.” Later she spoke of the hope that she has. I remember clearly that she said, “I’m going to see Jesus. I get to see Shawn again.”

Al Meredith, our pastor at Wedgwood, said too many timely and wise things during that period of mourning than I can possibly write about here. One thing that I’ve never forgotten, and I often quote, was his response to the question in a television interview (I think with Katie Couric), “Where was God when this happened?” Without a pause he declared, “On His throne where He always is.”

As I was reading through headlines on Sunday, I realized that Brother Al’s answer is just part of the explanation. Someone from Newtown had told a reporter that “Christmas is cancelled”. This saddened me so much because I love Christmas, and I know all those sweet children who lived through that nightmare last Friday love their holidays. I realize that this person was speaking about the scope of the tragedy and indicating that it would be impossible to enjoy a holiday at this point. I certainly understand that the timing of this horrible act will make Christmas difficult for a lot of people for a lot of years to come. But Brother Al’s words came back to me, as they often do, and I thought about how Christmas means so much more to me now than it did just a few years ago. Now that I’ve been through these few years of trials, I love Jesus more than ever. Not in spite of grief, but because of grief, I recognize the scope of what Jesus has done for me.

Christmas is the day that we celebrate the part of God that did leave the throne. The Father sent His Word, His only Son, to leave Heaven, to put on skin and bones and live among us. When we encounter loss, we talk about how, when we get to Heaven, we’ll know everything and understand everything. Then we won’t want to come back here to earth, a place cursed by sin. Heaven is the absence of all these things that cause us despair. Still, Jesus did this in the reverse order–He knew everything about the horrors of earthly life—disease, war, cruelty, hate, inexplicable massacres—and yet he chose to come, live side by side with humanity, and absorb all that awfulness on the cross.

Without Christmas, there would be no cross. And without our God who authored salvation through the cross, we would all become like these gunmen—heartless and hopeless. When I started down this road of grief, I craved joy and hope so much. God, I pray that you give Newtown hope.

A gunman took the lives of seven people at Wedgwood Baptist Church on September 15, 1999. On September 19^th, God’s people met to worship and reclaim their sanctuary. Brother Al’s children’s sermon hit the mark. He used hard-boiled eggs and Humpty Dumpty to explain our hope to the children:

Our church has had a great fall. But unlike Humpty Dumpty, we know how to get up. What all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t do, God can do. God can put us back together again.

My mother has told me many times, “Grief is work, and the work has to be done.” She’s right, and if you don’t do your work, it just piles up and gets harder to weed through. I’m at a loss as to how to be like Jesus for Newtown. Arkansas is a long way from there. But I do know that Jesus would mourn with those who mourn, and He had compassion for those in pain. I just wish I could do more. I’m so sorry especially to families of the victims. I’m so sorry to every child, teacher, and staff member at Sandy Hook Elementary School. Grief is hard work, and it’s going to take time.

God, I love Newtown and I know You do, too. Please put their broken hearts together again.

I rise before dawn and cry for help;
I have put my hope in your word.            

Psalm 119:147

What I Can’t Handle Can Help Me

I’m on a mission, people. Now, I don’t want to offend anybody with this, but I’ve silently watched as people tout this nonsense advice all over the place–Facebook, Sunday school, what have you–and DAD GUMMIT, I’ve held it in as long as I can.

Yes. God DOES give you more than you can handle. Please–FOR THE LOVE OF GOD–stop telling people that He won’t.

But, Katie, how can that be? That’s what people always say to me when I’m going through a rough patch. My Sunday school teacher said it to me last month!  And, actually, I just posted that to a friend’s status yesterday! How could God love me AND give me more than I can handle?!

Here’s the thing. I know (that I know that I know) that God loves me. I also know for a fact that He has—even very recently, mind you—given me more than I could handle. To be more accurate, I would say that the longer that I live in a relationship with Him, the bigger the problems become. The stakes are higher, the pain deeper, the obstacles more insurmountable.

And yet, I’ve never, ever been surer of His existence. I’m more certain of His involvement, sovereignty, and activity in my life today than at any other time in my life. More than anything, I’ve never been more aware of His love for me.

And guess what? I’ve never loved Him more.

Huh. That’s interesting. I wonder, could those two things be connected? Is it possible that the fact that I suffer actually allows me to know God’s love and love God more? That sounds wrong. Love equals insulation from all of life’s bumps and bruises, right? I would certainly love God more deeply if He would just answer all my prayers in a timely manner (in exactly the way I pray them), heal everybody, and instantaneously provide for each emotional, physical, and spiritual need.

Oddly enough, and I’m just speaking from my own experience here, I never seem to notice how much God answers my prayers, or His power to heal, or His over abundant provision, unless the bottom falls out. When things are cruising along nicely and all is right in my little world, it is a struggle to remember how much I need Him. I don’t notice that He’s answering my prayers because I don’t really have much to ask.

When my husband was a seminary student, we were members of Wedgwood Baptist Church in Fort Worth, Texas. On September 15, 1999, a gunman entered the church, killed seven people and injured as many more. Todd and I were not at the church building when it happened, and there certainly are many people who were more deeply affected by the horrific events of that night than we were. What I remember about the year that followed was the tremendous faith of people who were more directly affected than I was. Kevin Galey, who was the minister of counseling at the church, was hit twice and survived. His testimony is included in the book Night of Tragedy, Dawning of Light, which describes the events of that night and the period of grief and healing that followed. In the year prior to the shooting, Kevin and his wife endured what must be one of the toughest paths that God calls any believer to walk—the illness of a child. Would God give their child a serious medical issue and allow Kevin to be shot (twice) and force them to endure the painful loss of church members if He didn’t give them more than they could handle? Here’s what Kevin had to say:

Throughout the past year with our son’s condition, people kept quoting a verse to me. You know in the Bible it says, “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.” I’ve looked for that verse. It has been a tough year and I have looked for that verse. I didn’t find it in the New Testament. It wasn’t in the Old Testament. I said, “Well, maybe it is implied in the Hebrew or the Greek.” But it’s not implied there. I have come to believe that it is not even true. God does give you more than you can handle. It’s been more than my family could handle this year. (Night of Tragedy, Dawning of Light pp. 121-122, http://www.wedgwoodbc.org/files/NightOfTragedy_ADawningOfLight.pdf)

Kevin’s testimony is so much more than I included here. It packs a punch. Take a look. In fact, read the whole book. You will be blessed. But I’ve never forgotten what he said about that “verse” not being in the bible anywhere.  This revelation left me to digest that, not only does God give me more than I can handle, but He quite deliberately allows me to suffer. Now, that’s mind boggling.  God’s very plan is for me to live through tragedy. Why?

For the love of God.

Last year, at the beginning of 2011, I started to unravel. For several years, I had been ignoring the signs of depression. There were a number of problems that I simply did not want to surface, so I kept kicking them to the corner, hoping they’d resolve themselves.

They didn’t.

Toward the end of January, I came unglued one night. My sweet husband…I should really do something nice for him sometime. He must have wondered where to start, what to say, how to help. We had a long talk and decided that I should A.) make an appointment with a counselor and B.) finish out the school year and then quit teaching. While I initially felt relieved, I wasn’t prepared for how painful it would be to hash it all out with a view to getting better. Suddenly, it hurt. A lot. I heard a pastor say in a sermon once, “Ever notice that it didn’t hurt that much when the knife sliced your hand? The pain is so much worse when the wound starts to heal.”

Then, in the middle of all that emotional chaos, on March 31^st, I had a miscarriage. Incidentally, I’ve had quite a few miscarriages. I’m not even sure how many.

And, as if that weren’t enough, eleven days later my father was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia. He lived 2 ½ months more and died on June 25^th.

Now…tell me again that God won’t give me more than I can handle.

With the miscarriage and diagnosis occurring so closely together, I could not escape the notion that the Lord timed it that way on purpose.  There is absolutely no way that was an accident. One terrible thing rose up out of the shadow of the other, and I was already in a lot of pain to begin with. Why?

 For the love of God.

Once upon a time, I begrudgingly allowed that God had the authority to test my faith. I thought of the test as a pass/fail thing and really resented Him for it—kind of like a student who silently loathes a teacher because the exams seem unfair.  I’ve seen lots of students like this. They “respect” the teacher because on some level they know that they are supposed to, but it’s just a show. They come to class, participate, take notes, do the assignments, and study. They hate every minute of it and who’s to blame if not the teacher? But they simply can’t appreciate the authority the teacher has to put them through their paces—to try to build their character and make them better humans. I did that with the Lord for a long time when I was having miscarriages.

For a year or two before the disastrous events of 2011, the recurring theme of my life was God’s authority. It surfaced in bible studies, it popped off the pages in devotional books, and every scripture rang with the truth that God has the authority “to will and to act according to His good purpose.” (Phil. 2:13) When I have a problem, even a very painful one, my mom always says, “This is not a surprise to God.” Of course it was no surprise to God in 2011 when one painful experience after another rolled over me. He had prepared me. From the direction of His Holy Spirit, I knew that God in his authority could put me through my paces and make me a better human. Why? What is His good purpose?

For the love of God.

Let me close by saying that this is not the path I would have chosen, but I am so thankful for what God has done with the last two years of my life. Quitting my job had the unintended result of freeing me up so that I could pray, study God’s word and journal for long periods of time while my kids were at school. Every day allowed me a new session—uninterrupted, with no distractions–of grieving and seeking before the Lord. I pressed into Him in ways that I never would have if life had been easier. He used that time to not just ease my pain but prepare me for this new chapter in my life. God may have given me more than I could handle, but He definitely took care to prepare me beforehand so that I would walk through it with Him and try to use it for His glory.

It’s the love that I have for the Lord now that I just can’t explain. I should be angry. I should resent Him for His authority, I should feel persecuted or punished, but I don’t. For a long time before all this happened, especially around the Christmas holidays, I would always pray that God would deepen my love for Him. I guess with all the Christmas hoopla, I didn’t want to lose sight of what it’s all about, and I truly wanted to feel the love that I profess. There’s something about saying goodbye to my dad that did it. It’s supposed to be so final, and yet in Christ, it’s only the beginning. He placed his faith in Jesus for salvation and is with Him today. Simultaneously, I grieve and I’m grateful—the oddest mix of emotions.  I love Jesus so much for giving us this hope.

I’m not sure how I’ll react the next time God stacks crisis on top of tragedy on top of heartache for me to deal with. Hopefully I’ll remember what is so clear to me today. I know why I suffer. For the love of God. That’s why.

 

 

Mad Skillz–er–Skills. See Katie Spell.

Been on a job hunt lately? Dumb question. I’ve seen the unemployment numbers. Obviously a big chunk of the American population is looking. Let me make my apologies to any of you who are looking for a job because you lost one. Reading anything that I have to say on the subject is bound to aggravate you. I left my teaching job quite deliberately. My best friend said to me on the week I gave my notice, “Katie, you’re so funny. Everyone’s hanging on to their jobs for dear life and you just up and quit.” We used to have classrooms right next door to each other. She updates me periodically on the changes in the district, such as insurance. It’s not exactly a cut in salary, but when you don’t get as much help paying for insurance as before,  it amounts to less pay—a whole lot less if you happen to get sick.

Yep, I’ll bet the Beasleys are a touch irksome to people who didn’t leave a job by choice or whose pay doesn’t keep pace with increased living expenses.  “Katie, you’re so funny…” Yes, I’m hilarious.  I’m thoroughly amused by myself. I’m laughing all the way to the bank…to squeeze the last penny from our tax refund.

If you read my most recent post, you know that my husband and I are moving our family from Orange, Texas, to Little Rock. We made the decision to go this summer whether we had secured jobs or not. It’s been a year since my last paycheck, and Todd just gave up a perfectly good job so that we could free-fall into whatever God provides.  Ever heard that bible verse about waiting on the Lord and mounting up with wings like eagles? Well, I’m waiting on that eagle to swoop in before we go SPLAT!

Here’s what it’s like to apply for jobs in a city, state, where you don’t yet have an address. Silence. Eerie, awful, prolonged silence. Not even the peaceful chirp of a solitary cricket. It’s so quiet, it’s deafening. For the first time since college, I was passed over for multiple teaching positions. The last few jobs that I really wanted, I got. Not so in The Natural State. I am plagued by the suspicion that a few superintendents got together and agreed, no doubt while exchanging sinister chuckles, “Yeah, we don’t want her kind around here!!”

None of that matters, though, because I now have a part-time position at a Christian school. Whew. Once again, I can’t doubt God’s existence when He so obviously provides what I need and not what I thought I needed. Full-time teaching jobs suck all the energy out of me. Had I been hired by a school district, I would have effectively put a writing career on hold–again. I admit, the full-time pay would be nice and meet a need. But my other half is still looking.

My husband and I both have seen how ridiculous it is to look for a job in a new city. How much more difficult a road to navigate when you apply for jobs outside of your field.  I actually got booted off of an online application for a job which listed a GED as the minimum education requirement. If I hadn’t already jumped off the cliff (still listening for the flap of an eagle’s wing), this would have sent me over the edge. It tossed me out of the pool of applicants because—get this—I’m not qualified to be a receptionist because I’ve never worked in an office. Do you know why I’ve never worked in an office, stupid nameless, faceless, cyber-whoever-you-are but-certainly-not-human­­­­­-resources? Because a teacher acts as her own secretary, that’s why. They take phone messages for me in the school office, but other than that, I handle all my own phone calls, emails, messages, files, documents, records.  I create, delegate, negotiate, evaluate, present, persuade, and placate. I am professional, I am articulate, and I have run away leadership skills. I taught eighth grade for eleven years. I CAN GET ALONG WITH ANYBODY. Seriously. There must be a better way to weed through applicants.

Even more daunting for a minister seeking secular employment, I’m sure. If it frustrates me being denied the opportunity to hand my resume in person to potential employers who might be ignorant of the skill it requires to teach kids, then certainly Todd’s job search is an uphill climb. Every one is somewhat familiar with a teacher’s daily routine.  But a minister? Most people probably have no frame of reference for Christian ministry to begin with. Until we started putting resumes together, even I was in the dark. I can tout my abilities to get a middle schooler to crank out five paragraphs, but I have a grade to hold over the child’s head. Ministers have volunteers to work with. I was in charge of a group of volunteers a few years ago, and listen, people, that’s like herding cats. Moreover, in the ministry the authority pyramid is warped a bit because, even though the minister is in charge, the congregation pays the salary. Talk about skill. Administration. Communication. Presentation. Negotiation. Persuasion. And all this with integrity and a sincere desire to make a difference. Companies should be climbing over each other to interview Todd.

Mulling this over in front of the TV last night, I realized that the obvious solution is starring in a reality series.  People with much less “real” work experience and virtually no education have far more earning potential. Ah! A solution! Let’s run through a quick list of possibilities, shall we?

Picking? Too much travel.

Little Rock is nowhere near an ice road, ocean, or swamp. Shucks.

Too dignified for Jersey, not near dysfunctional enough for Kardashian. Rats. That was secretly my first choice.

Wait a minute, babe. I’ve GOT it. Pest control! Rounding up a racoon and her brood is a little like herding cats. Transfer skill! First of all, the location is perfect! Plenty of critters in Arkansas, I’m sure. So let’s just check the requirements:

• Wild man call? Not a problem.
• Talk as ignorantly as possible? It will take some practice.
• An accent so thick it requires subtitles? For the money, you can sure get one.
• Experience working with animals? Some, yes. I recall a story about how you trapped a possum once. Whether you want to put your hand into muddy water to retrieve a snapping turtle is up in the air. We’ll see how desperate we get.
• Catchy nickname? Keep in mind that Turtle Man is taken.
• Big ol’ gap where your front teeth ought to be?

Aww, dad gummit!! That’s the deal breaker right there, babe. You have too many teeth. I know you won’t go for an extraction, and I don’t want to kiss a toothless face.

So where does this leave us? Right where we were. Leaping.  I read in Sarah Young’s devotional book Jesus Calling that “it is virtually impossible to stumble while walking in the Light with [the Lord].” Likewise, we can’t stumble during a free-fall.

I Know My Limitations. I Live in Here.

A great friend of mine texted me recently, “You amaze me with your faith.” She knows me better than just about anybody, so I’m sure she wasn’t dazzled for long. I cringe when someone says something like that to me because, if I may be permitted to borrow a line from Rock of Ages’ Stacee Jaxx, “I live in here.”

I like to pretend I have it all together, but I’m overly prone to stress, an easy scare, not a risk taker, a good candidate for a sundry of meds…you get the idea.

I’ve been describing my most recent circumstances as a journey of faith and fear. There could not be a better description of life as I now know it. Here’s what’s happening. A number of years ago, my husband started ruminating on a desire to plant a church. That is, he wants to start a church from scratch—no congregation, no building, no salary, no insurance, no IRA, no security. You see where this is going, right?

Admittedly, I didn’t take him all that seriously at first.  At about the time that he expressed an interest in church planting, both of our fathers had life threatening health crises within about six weeks of each other. To our great relief, they both recovered, but this segued into a conversation about how–possibly, perhaps, maybe, someday, at some ill-defined point in the future–we should consider moving to a location between our parents. A location such as–let’s say–Arkansas, or more specifically, Little Rock. That’s roughly halfway between Fort Worth , Texas, and Creal Springs, Illinois. No need to google Creal Springs, folks, I will enlighten you.  It’s in Southern Illinois near Marion and Carbondale (Any grads of SIU out there? Go Salukis!)—about the same distance north and east of Little Rock as Fort Worth is south and west.

This was all sort of theoretical back then. We were established in Southeast Texas and obviously God had work for us to do.  Hurricane Ike had blown through, creating all kinds of mayhem, and we wanted to stay and see our church through a rough patch. Moving to plant a church was like this disturbing dream where I keep reaching for a doorknob but it is always just a fingernail’s length out of reach.  I can’t decide if I want the door opened, but something compels me to keep reaching. Even asleep, I’m vaguely aware that what is on the other side of the door is at least unsettling, if not a nightmare. Still, we only discussed a possible move someday.

When my father became terminally ill last year, we had to give this move a lot more consideration. Todd is an only child living twelve hours away from home. My recently widowed mother is finding her way without my dad after 47 years of marriage. Being equally accessible to them as they age makes sense. My husband began networking a little, so moving to Arkansas suddenly wasn’t just a whim residing somewhere over the rainbow. Then, in the last six months, things picked up quite a bit. We made a trip to Little Rock over spring break to check out the opportunities. Dave, a church planter and friend, drove us around the city and discussed all the locations and possibilities. Nothing captured my attention until he said something about starting a “multi-ethnic” church.

Sometimes, it just takes a word and the dots connect. All he had to do was throw it out there like one of so many other options. It sounded distinctly in my ear while everything else downgraded instantly to background noise. Multi-ethic. Cross-cultural. Many-colored. Did I mention that our children are bi-racial? A blend, just like my family. How beautiful! No longer is this solely my husband’s vision and only sort of my ministry but just by association. I’m not just along for the ride anymore. It’s my call, too. Not the decision type of call—the higher type of call.

The opportunity to plant a church in Arkansas is there, and really all that’s left to do is take that proverbial leap of faith, make the move, and get to work. EEE. GAD.

Now, an easy way to approach this is to wait for a “parent” church to get onboard and provide a stipend or a salary of some sort. We could do that. All this time that we theoretically talked about planting a church, I naively believed that there would be some kind of funding from the get go. However, there is no guarantee that any church will ever assist us. Plus, regardless of the timing, Todd will have to be a bi-vocational minister in order to be a part of this project. I simply had never realized this before we had a real opportunity on the table. Oddly, I’m the one who proposed that we move this summer, whether we have jobs or not, so that our children can start in their new school this fall. Doesn’t sound much like me. I am, after all,  the person for whom stress balls were invented.

The reason I can confidently say no one should be amazed at my faith is that I’ve lived with me for the last four months. Why did I ever think that I could handle stress like this? Keeping the secret alone had me climbing the very walls! And looking for a job? I was categorically unprepared for the anxiety of looking for a job when I’ve been wanting to transition into writing for so long anyway! What if I end up being the bread-winner and I’m locked into working full-time for years to come? Then there is the question of getting this house sold. Money is so tight. Moving is so expensive. Holy cow. Too many variables. Too many things that I have to trust God with ALL AT ONE TIME.

Still, it’s done. Todd announced his resignation even though neither of us had jobs. We had been unable to secure even a bridge in Arkansas to live under, and all the while our house in Orange has been on the market since May without so much as a nibble. For several months, we have both been looking furiously for employment. I had several promising opportunities, including two interviews, for full-time positions with benefits. Nothing came of any of it.  Finally, a week after Todd resigned, God opened a door for me to teach part-time at a Christian school, the same school where my children will attend (no, we aren’t paying for the tuition—that’s gift from my sweet momma!).  Although this won’t do near enough to meet our financial needs, Todd insisted that I take this job. He knows that part-time employment is best for his hyper-stressed wife. What’s good for the goose, ya know…plus, I can work and still make time to write.

Once I committed to a job with a start date on August 1^st, we had to find housing even if we don’t have the money to pay for it.  We found a house to rent, for which I’m very grateful. The landlords are friends of some dear friends, are taking our word for it that we are good for the rent, and are kind enough to allow us to keep our enormous dog, Zacchaeus, in the house. This is no small answer to prayer. Zacky was my baby when I couldn’t have babies. I couldn’t bear the thought of giving him away.

Housing and a job for Katie. Those two things we can check off the list.  I thoroughly enjoyed my first day after accepting the teaching gig because I didn’t have to troll the internet for a job I don’t really want in the first place. We still lack a job for Todd and for our house in Orange to sell. I don’t know how to trust God with this except to just keep saying, “Hey, God, I trust you with this.” In fact, when I really feel low, I mentally cash in my Matthew 6:33 chips, wag my finger toward Heaven and remind Him, “You promised!”

Twelve years ago, Todd and I were in a similar predicament. He was pastor of a small church that couldn’t really afford a full-time minister. I had a miscarriage about six weeks before we moved to Tulsa for this job, so I was pretty fragile. Then the church’s lack of funds became increasingly obvious. They had to cut our insurance just a few months after he started, and we had planned on getting pregnant again. I vividly remember Todd delivering the news about how the decision had been made, how we would have to pay thus-and-such amount when the church had promised otherwise before we moved. Todd, although pretty discouraged, spoke calmly from the recliner across the room from me. On the other hand, I responded the way you would expect someone to respond when they match the description above.

Collapsing at his side on the floor, I hung my top half over the arm of the chair and wailed, “What if God brought us here just so we could sink?!”

I love this man. He said, “Okay. So, if God brought us here to sink, is that okay?” He didn’t have to elaborate. I’ve never forgotten it. I hope I never will.

The LORD will fulfill His purpose for me;

 your love, O LORD, endures forever—

do not abandon the works of your hands.

                                    Psalm 138:8

For your enjoyment on Father’s Day…

My parents planned a big vacation every summer which usually involved driving long distances. We were on our way to Colorado one year when we stopped at a mom and pop diner in some dusty town out in West Texas or maybe New Mexico. My father hated—really loathed—fast food. As a result, we found ourselves in lots of these local joints, which every once in awhile featured miniature juke boxes at each table. Cool! My older brother and I were always interested in these little gadgets but even more interested in finding a quarter that might be left behind in the return slot.

We must have been five and eight years old or maybe a bit older when this incident occurred. Sitting as a family at the table, relieved to be out of the car after miles and miles and miles, my parents no doubt would have done anything to prevent an argument between Travis and me. Directly we discovered a quarter on the table right under the little juke box.  You know what happened, right? The all too familiar it’s mine, no it’s mine fight commenced. My weary parents endured a few minutes of this before my father intervened in his usual heavy handed fashion.

“ KATH-erine!!” He often overemphasized the first syllable when he used my full name. “Leave it there. It’s not for you. That’s a tip that was left on the table.”

More arguing, whining, and negotiating ensued, but Dad could put the fear of God in us. We sat and sulked and the quarter remained, shining tantalizingly, on the table. I just almost couldn’t stand it.

In my defense, I didn’t know what it meant when he called this quarter a tip. Had he simply said, “It belongs to the waitress,” I might (heavy emphasis on might) have done things differently. From the moment we spotted the coin, I believed that it had come from juke box’s return slot (this is still my firm conviction, by the way). Calling it a tip made no dent on me whatever, and to this day I do not understand, if he was so concerned that the waitress have what was rightfully hers, why did he not give her the darn thing?  That mystery remains.

The waitress came and went several times, but the quarter kept its lonely position on the table near the salt, pepper, ketchup, and sugar packets. What’s a greedy girl to do? It worked its manipulative magic on me until I could take it no more. To put this in perspective, in 1975 that one quarter could buy a young traveler such as myself a whole pack of Juicy Fruit. I mean, this was a gold mine. Why oh why is it forbidden?

By the time we had finished—and my father had left that poor waitress a more substantial tip—the quarter had a cozy new home inside my pocket. Not exactly a master criminal, I didn’t have the sense to keep the news of this good fortune to myself, especially when I’d gotten the best of my older brother and half the fun of that is harassing said sibling.

We piled back in the Impala and prepared to bake on the dark vinyl interior. No more than a mile down the road, I pulled out my new prized possession and dangled it mockingly under Travis’ nose.

“Daaa—aaadd!!!!!!! Katie took that quarter off the taaaaa—-ble!!!”

The car lurched violently at the sudden application of the car’s brakes.

Oh dear. It appears I have overplayed my hand. This was most unwise.

Locking his gaze on me in the rearview mirror, Dad’s reaction played out terrifyingly in the reflection for me to see. His eyebrows shot up over the rim of his glasses and rage took the rest of his features captive. It may be that smoke actually shot out his ears, or that could have been my vision fading to black as horror took me right to the brink of passing out and then snatched me cruelly back.

A loud, angry lecture followed which included repetition of my first, middle, and last names (KATH-erine, not Katie, mind you), and the declaration that I would be taking that quarter back into the restaurant and apologizing to that poor waitress for stealing her money. That I had actually robbed someone of their property was news to me. But other than that, his thorough indignation and resulting rant was no skin off me; I was more concerned with derriere preservation at this point. How could I feasibly get from the car to the restaurant lobby and back without the full weight of his wrath landing squarely on my behind?

I should not have wasted any time on that lost cause. He was sneaky about it, though. Shoulders slumped in humiliation, heart pounding in fear, I walked into the restaurant lobby where I delivered a most sincere apology to several amused waitresses gathered around the hostess stand.  Summoning the courage to make my little speech and then practically dying in embarrassment at the wait staff’s smirks afforded me just enough time to forget what was inevitable.

And, as if out of nowhere, shuuuu-WAPPPP!

Dad gummit. This ain’t my first rodeo.  What was I thinking? In the event of an imminent pop on the rump, always allow the parental figure to walk in front of you.

One of  Suze Orman’s methods of turning you around financially is to get you in touch with your earliest memories of money. I thought this was an interesting exercise. I don’t have to dig deep for that memory. My father used to drop me off at my Sunday school class when I was two years old. He would always take out a penny, put it in a tithe envelope and help me write 1c for the amount.  It was my happy privilege to turn the money in to my teacher. Also a great exercise.

I can point to other memories of my dad with money, too. Another time when we were traveling, I skipped up to the window at a gas station with my dad during a stop. Though I wasn’t paying much attention, and was kind of young to understand the exchange, I clearly remember my dad handing the attendant a bill and taking his change. We started walking back to the car when my dad made an abrupt about face and returned to the window. I followed, but I didn’t see or hear my father talking to the attendant. I just remember the attendant acting very surprised, a little flustered and quite grateful, while taking some bills back from Dad.

When I got older, I realized that he had given too much change, and from the attendant’s reaction, I gather it was way too much change, possibly a costly error. He must have acted so surprised because most people wouldn’t have corrected an error like that. When the attendant shortchanges the customer, yes, expect a little hissy fit. But not when the mistake fattens the pockets of the customer.

So, Suze Orman, here is what my father taught me all those years ago about money. No amount is so small that it doesn’t have to go where it belongs.

He was teaching me even when he wasn’t teaching me. My dad was a great man.

I was determined not to let him die without saying everything that needed to be said.  I thought I’d done this when I told him repeatedly how much I loved him. If I had a few minutes with him today, I know exactly what I would say:

Daddy, when I was single and dating, the number one quality that I wanted in a man was integrity.

And when I found and married that man of integrity, I was so proud to be your daughter that it actually grieved me to lose my maiden name.

Happy Father’s Day.