"And it came to pass..."

Alright here's the dizzle. 

Our pastor suggested that when we display our Nativities this Advent season that we should leave the Baby Jesus figurine out until Christmas Day, so as to anticipate Christ's coming in a tangible way.  Brilliant!
So I obliged, as any good layperson would, and as I was unwrapping our nativity set a week ago, it "just so happened" that up on my iTunes playlist pops the song that has since become my anthem: "O Come O Come Emmanuel" by Future of Forestry.  
Best. Song. Ever. Download it now.  

The instrumental intro in this song is long, but it is just so gorgeous I wish it were longer! The chords and instrumentation really bring out a sense of eerie longing. 
Anyway, music nerd moment over... 
so I unwrap the sheep, donkey and shepherd and listen to the beautiful guitar theme.  I start bopping my head with the tribal beat of the tom drum as I set out the wisemen.  I get out Joseph and Mary and the music starts to decrescendo.  I stand there like a little kid, holding the Baby Jesus in my hands.  

Then I put Him back in the box.  

I stand there, just staring at the empty space in the middle of the nativity.  And the vocalist starts to sing the first verse.

O come O come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appears.

And I lose it.  I mean fetal on the floor, uncontrollable sobbing, lose it.

Why?

Sigh.
Truth time.

2013 sucked for Team Johnson.  I mean suh-uuuuuucked.  Don't get me wrong, it started off fantastic.  Luke and I went on a work & witness trip to Argentina in January.  And it basically rocked my existence.  As in, last night I had a dream I was in Moreno, Buenos Aires, singing songs with the awesome church there and hugging missionary kids and kissing sweet faces and smelling of Yerba Mate .... and when I woke to reality in my American bed, I actually shed a tear.  It was A. Mazing.  It made me realize that it was possible for this chica to actually BE a missionary some day and not die OR break the Kingdom of God.  (more on that later...)

But after January it all went down the pooper.

There were some major events that happened this year that were so intense in their impact that they forced Little Miss Perfect Church Girl (that's me) into - GASP! - counseling.  (BTW, Christian counseling is awesome and everyone should do it, the end.)  I mean we're talking earth-shattering, yucky, nasty, heaps of terribleness.  So terrible, I'm not even going to name them.  Because what they were doesn't really matter.  It's what they left in their wake that's the problem.

Hurt.
Anger.
Humiliation.
Shame.
Fear.
Confusion.
Depression.
Anxiety.

All before breakfast.  Every day.  Hence the counseling.

One of the issues is resolving pretty well.  The others? Yeah, not so much.  I'm ready to move on. But shame is still rearing it's ugly head, shaking its finger at me at every weak moment, reminding me that I used to be a flourishing tree and now I'm just a stump, feeling cut-off. Useless.  A disgrace to my family and to the Kingdom. 

I've told Jesus the things I think He wants to hear like a million times. 
I know this will make me stronger.
I know You have a plan.
I know You can use this for Your glory and for our story.
I trust You.

But my heart cant lie.  It's saying things like,
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!

And not in like a cool, battle cry, Victory-in-Jesus kind of way.
In an "I'm freaking out, what the frack is going to happen to my family!!!" Kind of way.

So all this pain and waiting makes Advent like torture for me this year.  The juxtaposition of all the joy and merriment on the outside against the pain and fear and shame on the inside is just almost too much for me to handle.  And just in case you're a hermit and you never turn on your TV and you've never heard of Walmart, lemme tell you: It. Is. Everywhere!!  Every time I pass by our nativity set I think "OK, if Jesus isn't there yet, then poor Mary is still pregnant!! Ugh, someone rescue that poor woman and induce her for crying out loud!  The wisemen have gotta have some Petocin lyin' around, right?!?!"

I'm just so ready for Jesus to show up and save the day, y'know?  I've lived a very sheltered life.  I grew up in a very safe and happy place.  My parents are married.  I have lots of friends. I went to college less than a mile away from my parents' house. I married a good, kind (Hot) Christian man that I met in BAND.  I have two kids: a boy and a girl.  They're both healthy and smart and I haven't broken them yet, as far as I know.  

Yeah, my life is pretty safe.  Was pretty safe.  Now I feel like I'm fishtailing at 200 miles per hour in a minivan, blindfolded, babies in the backseat, and Jesus is in the passenger seat all like, "you got this girl, you got this."  

Ummmm nope.  Nope I don't.
So I unload on the Creator of the Universe.  I figure if Job and David can do it, why not me, right?
Yeesh.

All of my safety has been stripped away, Jesus.
All of it.
Seriously, it would be different if it were just me on this crazy trip.  Maybe on a motorcycle or a Prius.  But, Lord, I have a family with me here.  I mean it's one thing to mess with me.  But what about them?!  UGH, just come and fix it already!!!  I mean the scripture says "and it came to pass," right?  Not "It came to sit on your chest until you can't breathe anymore!"

(side note: I've learned through my therapy that this is called "ranting."  Using the words "always" and "never" is not a good thing. Unless you are talking about God and His promises, there are no absolutes... unless you're talking about God and His promises...
...Hmmmm...)

It's amazing how Jesus never interrupts my ranting.  He lets me just go on and on, all the while just waiting for me to finish.  And when I do, His Spirit never speaks down to me.  If I were Jesus, I'd say things to me like "Are you done?"  "Do you feel better now?"  "Well, that deserves an Oscar!"  He never does that.  Our God is not a God of shame.  He just falls over me with amazing love and compassion, like I SO do not deserve.  

Daughter. I love you.
I also said: 
Don't be afraid. 
Nothing is impossible with Me.
All things work together for good for those who love Me.
I will never leave you.
I am able.

Awkward Silence 
(they call it Selah in the Bible, but I think it really means you just got told. I have no theological info to back this up, so don't write it in the margins of your Bible, please.)

I have to learn to trust when I can't see.  I have to learn to keep it together when I have no idea what tomorrow will look like.  I have to learn to believe God. Not just believe IN Him.  
Some lessons can't be learned in books. 
Sometimes you have to take the field trip.

More Selah...

I have no idea how, why, when, where, or even what.
But I do know Who.

Breathe.

Selah


So. Here I sit. In the glow of our Christmas tree, smelling the smells of cinnamon and pine candles, and staring at that nativity.  I guess if Mary can wait, then so can I.  Probably not as gracefully, but it's imperfect progress, right?

Don't worry, Mary.  He's here.  He's just still in the box.  But He's here and He's got this.

Bombs Away

So.  Hmm.  How do I introduce my family to the blogging community?  I could tell a sweet, delightful, tear-jerking story about some precious moment we had at bedtime with one of the littlest members of Team Johnson.  That'd be nice.  Or I could give you a bit of history on how we formed our Team.  That'd be helpful.

Nope.  We're gettin' into it the right way.  The real way.  Might as well drop the act before we even pick it up.

We're telling the F-bomb story.  Right now.  Let's just get it out of the way, and then maybe we can get into some holier topics later.... like.... well, something besides the F-bomb.

Ok, so... It was over the weekend and Luke was out of town.  I like to tell people he was at a "band gig" because it makes him sound like a rock star and it also makes me feel skinny and blonde.  
False to all three.  Luke's getting his doctorate at KU and part of that "gig" is interning with the marching band.  Which means he's gone all. The. Time.

Yay.

Anywho, we were spending a nice, quiet evening at home, just the three of us.  I told Max & Abby, my cherub 8 & 7 yr olds respectively, that they could pick a game we'd all play it together.  And they chose Zingo.  Hallelujah it wasn't Monopoly.  
We played it seventy jillion times.  Don't fight me on that, I will win.

As we are cleaning up the game (we meaning I) it went down like this...

Abby: "What the duck!" (no idea why, don't even ask.)
Max: "Abby, you shouldn't say that."
Abby: "Why not?"
Awkward silence... Max looks at me
Me: "Because, babe, it just sounds too close to something else that is bad and people might think you're saying the bad word instead.  It's just not a good idea."
Abby: "Oh."
5 seconds....annnnnd here it comes
Abby: "What bad word does it sound like?"
UGH.
Me: "It doesn't really matter, baby, just know it's bad and we never say it and you're fine."
Yeah, like that answer will satisfy little miss Angela Lansbury.
Abby: "But I wanna know what you're talking about! Max knows, why can't I know?!"
Me: "Sweetie, it's not a big deal, it's just-"
Max: "It rhymes with duck!"
Fantastic.
Me: "DUDE!"
Max: "Sorry, Mom!"
Abby (in her singing voice): "What the muck, what the ruck, what the guck"
Max is laughing hysterically.
Me: "Abby, quit.  Max stop laughing, you're just encouraging - "
Abby: "WHAT THE F*#@"

Welp.  There it is.  I hate that word.  And there's something juxtaposed about hearing it come out of a child that I grew in my body and cuddled and nursed that makes me want to just fall through the floor and die.  Max stopped laughing.  He covered his mouth and gasped.  And that freaked Abby out.  Whoa.  If Brother stopped laughing either somebody died or I just said something super bad.  Abby's little freckled face got red-hot.  She knew the word now and she looked at me in terror, wondering what horrible fate awaited her now that she'd actually said it out loud.  

By the grace of Jesus, I held it together.  "OK, now you know," I said, calmly.  I let her know she wasn't in trouble, she didn't even understand what she'd said, "but now that you know," I said firmly, but lovingly, "we will never say it again, okay?"  Whew!  Made it through, no one died and no one lost their salvation.

The End.

NOPE!

Abby: "So what does the F-Word mean, anyway?  Why is it so bad?"
Seriously!  Why doesn't this happen when Luke is home to help me?!?! ARAUGH!!!

Again, by the grace of Jesus and the wisdom of our church's children's pastor (that I'm convinced is somehow related to Santa Claus...seriously children flock to him like seagulls!!)  I was all of a sudden spewing forth amazing sentences that I could barely believe were coming out of my mouth!  Things like:  "sometimes people make up bad words for things that God made beautiful to make them sound dirty and yucky, which is why we don't say it.  The f-word takes something God made for a grown up mommy and daddy and makes it sound yucky and bad."

whaaaaaaaaaa...  that there is proof positive that people can speak in tongues when empowered by the Holy Spirit.  Period.  I was so proud of myself, and probably said "thank you, Jesus" about twelve times under my breath.  Wow.  Any child would be thankful and lucky to get such a well-rounded, age-appropriate, loving, gentle, biblical answer about such a yucky thing.  Boom!  Take that, universe!

Annnnnnd scene.

FALSE!

Abby: "Mommy, what are you talking about?  I don't get it?  What special thing that God made for Mommies and Daddies?  Is it a present? I don't get it, Mommy!!!!"

So, 30 minutes later, both of my children have had the sex talk over dinner. 
No one died. Lightning did not strike.  And we all went to bed with the same name.  

That 9-Bean Stew recipe will remain in infamy.  Every time I make it, I will remember this day, smile and smack my husband wish a dish towel b/c he wasn't there to partake in the infamous "Sex Talk Soup."

Why in blazes did I tell this story.  Yeah, I've asked my self that several times whilst typing it out.  Not a super way to start a fan club, Lyss.  The truth is that this story sums up pretty much the last nine years of my life; little triumphs in the midst of the ridiculous, many times done on my own, just me & Jesus (b/c, HELLO, somebody has to work outside the home and earn actual money...and I am extremely grateful for my hard-working man that graciously allowed me do the crazy thing and stay home for 108 months!!!  And never think I'm not!).  

"I don’t mean to say that I have already achieved these things or that I have already reached perfection. No, dear brothers and sisters, I have not achieved it, but I focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, 14 I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us." 
-Philippians 3:12-14 (emphasis mine)

No matter what I feel led to write on this thing, one fact is certain: 
I. Have NOT. Got it. Figured. Out.

Not even close.
Some days I can look back and be all like, "WOOT!  I kicked today's ca-BOOSE!  Take THAT, toddlerhood."  Other days, well.... lets' just say I'm super glad the only witnesses couldn't talk yet.  But I keep going, making "imperfect progress" as the beautiful Lysa Terkeurst says.  And if I can be of encouragement to just one other mama, one other wife, one other person out there that has no clue what's coming next, well then.... that's what's its for, right?  

So, here we go!

Bombs Away.


(Oh, in other news, when I get MY doctorate in blogging or something, imma go on trips every weekend to the fancy bloggers' conventions and leave Daddy to take care of the cherubs.)