A letter to my dad on his 60th birthday

Dad,

If there’s a word to describe you, it’s consistency. I can’t think of one time in my life where I have been uncertain whether you were coming or uncertain whether you would be there for me. I’ve never doubted that. Not once.  

You’ve always been an incredible dad, and most incredibly, you were present. Even when life was stressful, money was tight, or schedules were busy—you always made time for us. You attended dance recitals that may or may not have lasted for hours upon hours. You watched me play basketball at an age when watching basketball could not have been on the short list of your favorite things to do. When I think about how hard you work even today and how long your hours were when I was growing up, from making rounds in the morning to clinic all day to more rounds in the evening, coming home at 6 or sometimes 7—I see now more than I ever could what a sacrifice it was to attend those week-night events.

When you took Michalea and I away for our Daddy/Daughter weekends, you didn’t just take us to cool restaurants and buy us nice clothes and help us pick out our prom dresses. All of those activities were great—and our shopping trips for prom dresses are some of my favorite memories with you. Not many dads will do that—in fact, I don’t know of another person’s dad who has done that. You sat on many benches outside many dressing rooms for hours and hours and hours. Why? Because you love us so. You spent more money than I can probably imagine not just on clothes and dresses, but on hotel rooms and fancy dinners. Why? Because you love us so. You invested in our hearts, you invested in our daddy/daughter relationship, and you taught us—literally taught us—how to search out the hearts of our potential husbands.

And, Dad, if there’s one thing I’m most proud of, it’s not the things you said to me; it’s not the lectures you gave, or even the advice. It’s the way you lived. You lived the husband that I wanted to marry; you lived the dad that I wanted my husband to be. You lived it, and I saw it, and somehow I knew there would be a man like you who was worth waiting for.

I’m also forever grateful that because of the time you took to invest in us; because of the lessons I learned from you about men, you instilled in me standards for myself and for others. I know I didn’t always make good choices with my boyfriends, but I made the right choice in the end—the only choice that ever mattered so much. You had a lot to do with that choice. And I chose well.

You’ve taught me more lessons than you can imagine, and again, it’s not because of what you said but because of how you lived. You told us that we should find something we love doing and do it; that it’s not about how much money one can make, it’s about how satisfied he feels at the end of the day; that it’s not about how much recognition one can get, it’s about how happy he can be when he’s walking in his gifting and passion. My personality may have already been “set” to be driven and goal-oriented, but you encouraged me and supported me to pursue what I love. There were many, many hard days to get to where I am, and you listened to countless hours of my stress and complaints—but you always believed in me. And because you believed in me, I could believe in myself.

You taught us to be wise with our money. Even as early as 16, you showed me how to apply for a job and how to interview. You helped me open my first checking and savings account. Because of all that you taught me, I saved and bought my first car at 17. A nice, good, reliable car that lasted me for 8 years. Something that seems so simple as budgeting is not simple at all: it’s life-changing. And having seen others who were not taught the same skills, I’ve never been more grateful. We own a house we can afford; we don’t purchase things we can’t or shouldn’t—and we have been richly blessed in ways that money can’t buy. You taught me how to tithe. And you taught me how to give. Because you were and have always been generous, you instilled in me—in all of us kids—a heart to be generous to others.

You taught me that character is built from the inside, from a heart and a life of integrity, from a person who is the same at home as he is at church as he is at work. That’s you. And it’s who I want to be. You work hard. You never quit. You’re never lazy. And you never expect someone else to do what you can do yourself. Your character speaks. I want mine to speak like that, too.

Thank you for sending me to London. I grew up in London in ways I am still processing. I learned so much about being alone, about navigating a big city, about who I am and what I wanted to be. I fell in love with learning in London. I fell in love with language—with linguistics—which carried me all the way through my PhD. And today, I get to teach courses like Advanced Grammar that make my heart more happy than you can imagine—and somehow, I know, it started with London.

Thank you for buying the ranch. It is a safe place for us all, and I’m thankful for the hours we’ve had to spend together out there. Sometimes working. Sometimes talking. Sometimes doing nothing at all. It’s one of my favorite places to be—and it has less to do with the location or the building or the land and everything to do with who I get to be with when I’m there.

Thank you for coming to my recitals and plays and games and for telling me I’m beautiful and for buying me roses on Valentine’s Day and for helping me to have confidence in who I am.

Thank you for being a dad who was present and consistent. Thank you for being there—wherever there was.

I tell you all the time I’m the luckiest girl in the world to have you as my dad. It’s true. You have played a huge role in who I was and who I am and who I will become. I know that life is precious and that it’s never guaranteed. I’m thankful that we are here—and God has given us today. One more day. One more breath. I won’t take it for granted.

I look forward to the days of our growing family—as we all add children and grandchildren to the mix. But I’m so thankful for the foundation. You built that foundation, and God has honored it and graced it and blessed it deeply.

Happy 60^th Birthday, Dad!

I love you!

Laura

Training for our minds!

In a sermon once, I heard about a study where they put mice in a tank with water. For the first group, most of the mice showed signs of giving up after treading water for seven hours. But for the second group, the scientists took the mice out and gave them a break around 5 or 6 hours. That group—those mice—swam three times longer.

Why? Because they found hope. A glimmer of light. A breath of fresh air. A brief moment of freedom. And it was enough to push them forward.

Our mind is a powerful thing. I was thinking about this yesterday when I kinda felt like dying during my first experience with a core and strengthening yoga-ish class. If I listened to the music or thought about something else, the 60 seconds of [insert painful move here] didn't seem so bad. But if, at the 30 second mark, I heard the instructor say, "halfway done!", and I started counting 30 seconds in my head—each second seemed more difficult than the one before. 

I wasn't treading water in the core and strengthening class, and it wasn't for 6 or 7 hours, but it felt a little like that. As sharp pains are pulsating through my thighs, and my abs feel like they are about to explode out of my stomach, and I'm aching in places I didn't know I could ache. And if I could just. not. think about it, I could survive. But when I really thought about it... well, I felt like giving up. Sometimes that's what waiting fells like. Mind over matter: it's not just a thing people say; it's so very true.  

In that process, though, the Lord really spoke to my heart. When we fixate on the pain in our lives, it only feels more painful. Dwelling on negative feelings—especially in our mind—is a dangerous indulgence. This is why we’re told to renew our minds daily (Romans 12:2) and to fix our eyes on Jesus (Hebrews 12:2).

Why? Because Jesus is our hope—and hope is more powerful than anything.

Paul tells us in 2 Corinthian 10:3-6 that this battle we war is not in the flesh. So where is the battle? It’s in our mind.

He has already previously told us in 1 Corinthians 2 that we have the mind of Christ, through His spirit, which is given to us. For that reason, Paul can later say we have the weapons we need to put down strongholds, cast down arguments and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God—bringing every. thought. captive.

This is no easy thing. It requires practice. And discipline.My mind is highly, highly analytical and logical. Although I know that comes in handy for solving problems or being a scholar, sometimes I wish it weren’t so. I wish I could be carefree and laid back and just ignore the uncertainty or not allow myself to think about the unknown; that, instead, it would just literally “not cross my mind.”

But, for me, that isn’t the case. It’s a matter of my mind, my will, my emotions—each has to be surrendered daily, hourly, every second if I’m going to fixate on Jesus instead.

On my mirror, I have God’s 10 promises to me. And I read them daily, even when my mind, my will, and my emotions say otherwise.

That’s our battle. Maybe it’s cliché, and certainly I agree and know from experience that it’s easier said than done. James 3 talks about the power of the tongue—but I think the mind is doubly so, for it controls both what we speak and what we think: the thoughts we dwell on, our anxiety and worry, our fear and insecurity. It all starts in the mind.

Practice today fixing your eyes on Jesus—our savior, our healer, our defender—our hope. Your circumstance may not change. Your pain may still be there. But when we change our perspective to His, it changes everything. 

Seeing as HE Sees

Luke 15:11-32

This is one of my favorite parables, and as I continue with the #LentChallenge, I'm still thinking about Luke 15 because, in various seasons, I have been the lost daughter and the jealous daughter. This is, in most Bibles, the parable of the lost son, but like the two parables in Luke 15 that precede it (the lost sheep and the lost coin), I feel this parable says far more about the Father's heart than that which was lost.

1) Sometimes our Father initiates the search for us, and sometimes, He is waiting for our return, but always, He meets us; always, He is filled with compassion. 

This view of our Father--especially depending on how you view your earthly mother and father--is not normal, if normal is defined by earthly standards. A child who rebels, who is wasteful, who squanders, who avoids, who willfully and intentionally goes his own way: that, by any parenting standard, is cause for discipline and reproach.

The response we might expect is anger, silence, crossed arms, a tapping foot, and the words we fear most, "Son, I'm disappointed."

But not our Heavenly Father: "While he was still a great ways off, the father saw him and had compassion and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him."

Even when we are in the midst of bad choices, even when we are ashamed and self-loathing, even before we open our mouths to repent, our father sees, and has compassion, and runs to us, and falls on us, and kisses us.

I'm not downplaying sin, rebellion, or repentance, but too often, our worldly view gets crossed with our spiritual view, and we forget that it's the Lord's kindness, His mercy, His love, that leads us to repentance. 

It's not our shame. It's not our unworthiness. It's not about how low must I get to be forgiven.

It's about Him, and His heart, and His compassion.

He meets us. He pursues us.

2) Even in our sin, He still desires to reaffirm us as sons and daughters, to confirm in us how HE sees us. 

The jealous one--ever been her? When you're just serving and obeying and doing all that your Dad asks you to do, but yet someone else gets acknowledged, gets rewarded, gets that blessing you really feel you deserve?

What does the Father do? He pursues: "But he was angry and would not go in. Therefore, his father came out and pleaded with him."

Therefore. HIS father. His father CAME. His father came and PLEADED.

So much could be said about that one sentence. He didn't scold. He didn't tell him to grow up, to be self-less, to be mature, or to get over it.

He says, "Son, you are always with me, and all that I have is yours."

What an affirmation! What a declaration! What a promise!

Son. Daughter.

He calls us by name; He calls us HIS, even in the midst of our jealous fit.

He offers the promise of His presence. We are with Him. He is with us.

He offers the promise of sufficiency. "All I have is yours." You have enough because I am enough.

Grace, that unmerited, unearned favor. Grace, that supernatural power and ability. Grace, His total and utter sufficiency accomplished in me by faith because of the finished work of the cross. 

Because He is enough, I am enough in Him. 

Because He is sufficient, I am lacking nothing in Him. 

Our Father wants to know us, and more than that, He wants to be known by us: that we would really see His heart, not the reaction we expect to find, not expecting the punishment we deserve, but with opened eyes to see all that He's done, out of His great love and grace and mercy. 

Jesus died. And God's wrath was satisfied. And the punishment for our sin was satisfied. It is finished. 

And when we believe--when we put our faith in what the cross accomplished, the finished work of Jesus Christ--then we are not only transformed from death to life, from lost to found, but with unveiled eyes, we get to behold Him--to really see Him, our Heavenly Father. 

He is all good. He is all grace. 

He runs to us. He meets us. He pleads with us. And above all, He wants us to see ourselves how He sees us. 

Daughter, I am with you. Daughter, you are mine. Daughter, you have enough. Daughter, you lack nothing.

Desiring Mercy and Not Sacrifice

“Go and learn what this means, for I desire mercy and not sacrifice.” Matthew 9:13

“But if only you had known what this means, I desire mercy and not sacrifice.” Matthew 12:9

The Pharisees couldn’t get what Jesus was saying—first to “go and learn” and later “if only you had known.” With all their knowledge of scripture, with all their rules, with all their duty and obedience, and with—in their mind—their righteousness, they could not understand this truth. Jesus’ words did not compute with their tradition.

Sometimes, if we’re not careful, we can have the same tendency to desire sacrifice more than mercy. What does this mean? As I’ve said elsewhere, we are bent on works because it’s more natural. It’s more natural to do than to be.

As long as I’ve been saved, I’ve loved the Word of God. I’m highly analytical and can spend hours reading scripture and commentary and translations and the original Greek or Hebrew meanings. But, as Paul tells us in 1 Corinthians 8:1, “knowledge puffs up, but love edifies.”

Knowledge without mercy is a dangerous state.

To know scripture is important, but before we can receive fully, before we can fall in love with God’s word, we have to first fall in love with its author. When we are so filled by the love of God, His love and grace becomes a lens through which we can read and receive His word.

Here Jesus is quoting Hosea 6:6. The full verse is this: “For I desire mercy and not sacrifice, the knowledge of God more than burnt offerings.”

The knowledge of God is not mutually exclusive to mercy. And while He desires mercy not sacrifice, He desires knowledge more than burnt offerings. Under the Old Testament covenant, God is not negating or replacing what must be done for atonement. We know from Romans 3 that in His forbearance, He passed over their sins, yes, but their account was not settled.

So why does Jesus not quote—in both places here—the full verse from Hosea? Is it because knowledge of God is no longer important? Of course not. The problem is the Pharisees had all the knowledge in the world.

But under the new covenant, we get to know God in a different way. Because of the finished work of the cross, we have a mediator, who is Jesus, and we have the Holy Spirit. And that revelation—when we believe in what the cross accomplished—that changes how we know God. We, with unveiled faces, get to behold Him. And it transforms us.

I’m doing the 40 day reading challenge, reading through the New Testament for 40 days of Lent, but my heart must be bent on loving God and discovering Him in His Word. When it becomes doing or duty or an item to be checked off, then I’ve lost sight of what it means to desire mercy and not sacrifice.

Lent: Not Giving Up but Giving More

Lent is about giving up, about sacrifice—and as one who tends to love duty, as one who craves to do lists and tasks to obey, I secretly love self-discipline and the rewarded feeling at the end of 40 days when I've accomplished my "task," whatever it is I've chosen to give up: “Yep, I still got it.”

This year, as many of my friends begin thinking of what to fast, what to give up, I feel God gently whispering: don’t give up, give more—more of your time, more of your energy, more of yourself to me and to others.

Don’t give up TV or soft drinks, give up your life for me.

If Lent is about preparing our hearts for Easter, about reflecting on the great exchange: my guilt, my sins, my shame—my ashes for His beauty, then may the next 40 days, for me, be about reflecting on Him: on who He is and what He did and who I get to be when I’m hidden in Christ, when I’m made righteous, when the work of the cross is finished—really finished—and I get to be made whole, complete, perfect, lacking nothing.

Not because I’m those things, but because He loves me so; He loves me so much; He loves me so much that He gave.

And if I’m to give anything these 40 days, let me give of myself fully.

I’ve read some blogs today promoting Margret Feinberg’s 40 day reading challenge, and although (if I’m honest), I get excited when I see little check boxes (That feels like a “to do” list for me to accomplish! Yes!), I have decided to focus these 40 days on the New Testament, as Feinberg encourages—not as something to do, but something to reflect: the story of the cross, of redemption, of the great exchange.

If you’re interested in joining me, you can read more here or print the reading plan here.

May the challenge for me—and perhaps for you, too—not be about legalism or about what I can accomplish with the right motivation and all the wrong motives; may these 40 days be about pouring out all of me and pouring in more of Him.