Generous People Are _________.

Three years ago- in the springtime- there was a big explosion, followed by an epic fire on the RV we (Addison Road, my former band) were traveling in. We weren’t on the RV at the time- and for that, I am forever grateful. But all of our stuff was. And by stuff, think everything you use to make it through the day. Like clothes and laptops. Then think of everything you use that makes it possible for you to work and earn a paycheck. Ok- we lost all of that stuff. Not to mention the actual vehicle. It feels like a different life time- an eternity has been lived since that moment- an eternity learning about how good people are, how perfect God’s faithfulness is and what generosity really looks like.

I’ve learned a few universal characteristics about generous people these past three years.

This week, I want to share those with you.

Generous People Are ________. 

Making it through the fire and maintaining our business required a short term loan. But banks don’t really give loans to semi-successful bands whose stuff burns up and gets stolen all the time. We are sort of a risk, you know? So we found someone to give us a loan. Mr. American Express. He gave us everything we needed and then some. After about three months of recovering we realized we had to break-up with Mr. American Express and really wished we had never met him. We were back to the original problem. We needed a loan- but seriously- financial institutions were avoiding us like a plague. So I emailed our families, pastors, a few friends and one new acquaintance that I couldn't make myself delete from the list.

That new acquaintance couldn't make himself shake the email. He told his wife- “Addison Road needs a loan and can’t find one. They need $30,000.” He knew they had $30,000 sitting in an account somewhere, but didn't dare mention it to his wife as a real option. Until she said, “Well- we have $30,000 in the kids college fund.”

And if reading that makes you feel uncomfortable- try being the girl on the other end of the phone.

I can’t take your kids college money- what if there is an emergency- and they need to get to college right away? As four-year-olds?!?

After some prayer together, some prayer with us, a contract that said we would honor the loan and a few phone calls back and forth, we found ourselves holding a personal check from a couple we had hardly known- for $30,000.

It should be noted- this isn't a family of millionaires; just normal, middle class Americans. This decision carried a weight for them. But free people, truly free people, are OK making weighty decisions and taking a few risks.

The opposite of freedom is bondage. And most bondage is derived from fear.

What if our child DOES get into college by age 7? What if there is a tragic accident and we need that money immediately? What if we need a new house? Or another car? Or aliens invade?

People who live in fear of the “what-ifs” have a hard time being truly free.

Being financially set for life is a good thing, but we should bear in mind, it is a first world luxury. Historically, most people have not had the luxury to store up a good nest egg for retirement. Secure retirement is a direct result of modern living. And oh how I love modern living! Except that sometimes it damns us to live a life of fear, what-if’s and short-sighted selfishness.

I remember talking to the wife in the early days of this process and she said something that forever changed me, “What if my kids don’t make it to college? I have no guarantees of that- just today. Just what we feel like God is leading us to do right now.”

I mean- she speaks as a woman who might lose a child to the bubonic plague! Imagine! The audacity to live with her hands slightly opened to the possibility that she may not possibly direct her own future!

She lives free. They live free.

From this couple I learned the defining hallmark of truly generous people.

Generous people are free.

They don’t live in fear.

(At least not all the time.)

So do not consume yourselves with questions: What will we eat? What will we drink? What will we wear? Outsiders make themselves frantic over such questions; they don’t realize that your heavenly Father knows exactly what you need. Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and then all these things will be given to you too. So do not worry about tomorrow. Let tomorrow worry about itself. Living faithfully is a large enough task for today.  -Matthew 6: 31-34, The Voice Bible

Why I Like Her.

I just got off the phone with my mom.

She is currently, at this very moment, sitting on her back porch coaxing the largest raccoon I have ever seen into eating bread out of her hand. She gives me the play by play.

"OK. He's getting closer. And closer. Can you believe this?!? He's not even scared of my voice!"

"No SIR. Do NOT eat from that bird feeder! Do you understand me?  That is not yours. Do not eat from the bird feeder."

"Mom," I try and get her attention, "Who are you talking to now?"

"Oh- still the raccoon. He knows what I am telling him. He understands my voice."

And somehow you get the feeling- listening to my mom converse with this wild raccoon- that perhaps it actually does speak her language and does understand her voice.

Her. The lady who talks to- and names- wild raccoons. The one who fearlessly sang Jesus Loves Me to an angry longhorn who's horns were pointed straight at her, because she was sure this was the best way to calm him down. The one who decided to rent a sheep from the neighbor down the street, to bring to church and use as a sermon illustration. Her. The one who frantically calls me with a sheep bleating in her back seat, wondering why the sheep isn't calming down when she sings it Jesus Loves Me.

I mean- it worked on the longhorn.

Her.

The one who has made the absolute best of the empty nest and the daughters and granddaughters living all over the country. Not once giving up on her rights to be the most active grandma ever... even if it means playing hide-and go-seek in a self-made tent over Skype.

Her.

The one who has always encouraged alone time and freedom of expression. Even when it has meant children (and grandchildren) who hide under blankets and threaten to move to the woods behind the house (but actually just run-away to the laundry room). "I'd run away too!" She would say. And inevitably this leads her into quoting- and butchering- the entire storyline of Alexander and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. "Move to Australia and eat worms!" she says in a moment of solidarity with her troops.

Her.

Who has built Annie a "magic house" deep in the woods. Complete with year-round Christmas ornaments, ribbons, wind chimes, Gnomes and magnificent stories. Her. The one who taught me to dream and think and pray and ask good questions and make craft projects- even when they all sucked- and not be afraid to build forts in the woods and produce my own newspaper by the age of five.  Her. The one who keeps giving Imagination. Creativity. Curiosity. New eyes for things long forgotten in this world. Like bugs and magic houses and old people with stories rich in heart ache and beauty.

Her.

The one who gave me my sisters. And by extension, my nieces. And kept my dad around- even when he was really mean- a long time ago- before he was the dad, the amazing dad, that he has grown to be now. Her- who has loved us all well. And fought to keep us together. And fought to keep us loving each other. And fought to keep underwear on our bodies and food in our bellies and fight in our spirit. Her. The one who was stepped on by people who claimed to love her- who was fired, humiliated, betrayed- and kept going back for more. Because it wasn't about HER. Or them for that matter. It was about something bigger. It was about love winning. It was about Christ being constant- redemptive- worth it... even when people broke her.

Her.

The one who keeps fighting.

Her.

Who calls to let me know that Annie is hugging a chicken... and she is sure that Annie was gentle and didn't squeeze the chicken too hard... that the chicken is just fine and loving it. LADY- I DONT CARE ABOUT THE CHICKEN. How is my daughter? Her- who keeps modeling over and over  and over again for anyone who will listen and pay attention... that life isn't really all that complicated. Wake up. Sit and stare at a few birds. Listen for Jesus. Go do something that matters- mostly- pay attention to the people and the world around you... no matter what your job title might be. Love well. Hope deeply. Drink richly. Call your kids- or someone else you care about. Befriend a few wild animals. Hug a chicken. Repeat.

It just shouldn't be as easy as hugging a chicken- but my God she makes it that way. With her,  life isn't all the complicated- even when it hurts like hell. Even when it is insanely complicated. She is chaos- but knows no chaos. Somehow- she is peace. She is content.

Her. She is maddening and absolutely freeing in one fatal swoop.

Her. Who sang Amy Grant songs before the rest of the world understood that Amy Grant's songs were life-changing. Her. Who explained to me and my sisters what it meant to live in an old man's rubble, why angels watched over us and how there were so many names for God but El Shaddai was one of her favorites. Her. Who told us we had our Father's Eyes. Over and over and over again. That we had our Father's eyes. That we were made in the Father's image and likeness- bearers of that goodness, freedom, grace, hope and love. We had our Father's eyes. He made us and longed to use us. And dad agreed. God didn't make us as girls and then limit how we might be used in the church and in the world... God made us fully in God's image. We had his eyes. We were to hold nothing back from the church or the world. Just like...

Her.

Her. Our biggest fan. Who brought cow bells and bull horns to football games to cheer for us.... the cheerleaders. Yes, it was embarrassing. Her. Who was so worried that my heart had been shattered in the 9th grade when all the other cheerleaders got homecoming mums and I didn't, that she went and ordered one for me herself. It ended up weighing about 20 pounds and was the most hideous thing I've ever seen in my life. But I wore it proudly through the parade because she loved me so much- she didn't want me to feel the sting of being alone. That was worth wearing ugly proudly. Her. Who texted me as I left this summer for South Sudan and told me she was proud of me and that also- if I felt threatened- to scream wildly like a monkey and furiously itch my armpits and crotch- because "People in small villages are superstitious. They won't touch you if they think you are demon-possessed."

Her.

Who told me time and again, "Jenny it was just an accident. Accidents happen all the time. It's no big deal." Who cared very little about the "stuff" in our house and much about the people walking in and out of it. Who taught me more about scripture than how to apply make-up. More about grace than about stuffy, alienating, pretentious living. More about mercy than judgement. More about freedom than bondage to what others thought about me or what others might be doing. Her. Who would rather we paint our bodies and our walls and our world with bright big strokes- than live small and afraid and neat and tidy and conventional. Paint washes off you know? That's what she would say. There was never an accident worth a dirty glare. Oh God how I'm grateful that there wasn't an accident- in her book- worth a dirty glare.

Her.

Who loves my baby girl more than I seem to love her sometimes. Who loves me more than I seem to love myself sometimes. Who just loves. And loves. And loves.

Her.

Who has taught countless men and women- now spread out and trickled all over the world- that if you dig your feet into the sand long enough or stare at a sunset and shut-up soon enough- you will hear from God. Because God speaks. Now one way. Now another. In dreams. During "silent sounds." On camping trips. In the mountains. At the beach. In your backyard. In the bathtub. On a bus with three hundred students driving to summer camp. God speaks. Over and over and over again. She has taught us that. Her. The one who heard God speak when she was stoned out of her mind and angry at the world and broken in a million pieces and all kinds of dirty and unusable- she heard God call her name and whisper to her that she had purpose. That she was loved. That she was known. That she could be set free. That he loved...

Her.

And she hasn't turned back. And her daughters- we rise and call her blessed. And those she has pastored through junior high and high school. Through divorces and teenage pregnancies. Through lost jobs and lost love. In delivery rooms and deathbeds. In magic houses and talking to raccoons on her back porch... God has used HER...

To remind us that HE IS- and that's enough.

I love you mom. This world is different because you have danced through it and shown us its beauty.

Even the Sparrows

Several months ago I met a spunky, gentle, confidant, peaceful, dying woman. Her skin was sunken and all her hair gone. She walked with the help of nurses and friends. She wore a mask protecting herself from the inevitable- but it was more out of duty than desperation.

"I have made peace with my passing," she told me with a settled smile.

She attended a free concert I performed for military families at Madigan Medical Center in Tacoma, Washington. She was the last person I spoke with that day. She loved the song, Heaven Waits for Me, and wondered when it would be available to purchase.

Without thinking, I told her it would come out in February or March. As soon as I spoke it, the truth of the matter hovered in front of my eyes and I felt sick to my stomach; ashamed that I had spoken so carelessly and assuredly about the future.

We both knew February wasn't in her future.

And yet she smiled. A deep, generous smile. And she told me:

"When I came to this place and I was diagnosed- I went outside to the courtyard to pray. While I was out there, God sent me a sparrow! Really! The Lord just sent a sparrow- and sparrow's don't usually let people touch them, but this sparrow walked straight up to me and into my hand. I got to run my fingers down his little head. He sat with me. And the Lord told me- "I, the one who cares for sparrows Debra, will surely care for you." And that's all I needed to hear. I came back day after day and the sparrow kept coming back. I was able to take a picture of my little sparrow that the Lord gave me. And I want to give it to you. I want you to remember Jenny, that our God cares for sparrows. How much more will He care for you?"

We hugged and cried and she told me how she loved the song His Eye is On the Sparrow. And I told her that I had one more show in town, and that if she were able to leave the hospital and come to the show, we would play the song for her. She handed me a picture of her tired hand with this tiny bird at the tip of her frail fingers. Annie, my three-year-old, keeps it by the window in her bedroom.

***

Two nights later, as I walked on stage to put out my set list and a bottle of water, I looked up and saw her there with a nurse on each side of her. Face beaming. Settled. At peace. Held together like a tiny sparrow thrown about in a storm.

I ran back stage a bit panicked. I had never played or performed His Eye is on The Sparrow- barring the five hundred million times I had sung along with Lauryn Hill on Sister Act 2- but I told my guitarist we had to play the song... Deb had taken me up on my offer. We quickly learned the best version we could come up with. It wasn't perfect- actually it was horribly off- but it was perfect.

Rarely have I become so emotional in a song that I was unable to finish singing it. But singing the very words of worship that a dying woman's heart was clinging to, brought me very near.

Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come? Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heaven and home? When Jesus is my portion, A constant friend is He- His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me; His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free, For His eye is on the sparrow, And I know He watches me.

We hugged at the end of the night and I knew it would be the last time I would see her.

***

Over the holidays Deb sent a gift for Annie and I.

"Thank you for your kind words at Madigan Army Medical Center and especially at the church in Lacey, WA. And singing that special song to me! This was really part of multiple messages God has sent me to tell me, He will always be with me through this progressive cancer.  "His Eye is On The Sparrow" was soooo touching. Words are not enough. I wanted to send you a little something for your daughter who would love to catch a bird!"

She sent a Willow Tree woman with sparrows on her arms. Annie asked if it could be her angel. The sun falls through the cracks each morning and as I sit and figure out what to do with my life each new day, I am ever reminded that the Lord sees me. God cares. If the birds outside my window have a melody to sing and a worm to eat and a nest on which to rest their heads- I have nothing to fear. Am I not of more worth than the birds?

***

Deb fought through February and finally went home to be with Jesus yesterday morning, March 31st.

One of the nurses- who became a dear friend of Deb's- wrote to let me know.

"I thought how appropriate she would pass away on the most beautiful day we have had in the Pacific Northwest this year AND on Easter. As we celebrate the resurrection of our Lord and Savior we also celebrate Deb's transition to being with Jesus."

So tonight I announce to as many people who will hear my voice, the words which a faithful, beautiful woman reminded me to cling to. The life that Jesus Christ came to offer anyone who would choose to lay down their burdens on Him and instead take His yoke, which is easy and His burdens, which are light of soul (Matthew 11:29-30).

"If our God cares for sparrows, Jenny, how much more will He care for you?"

"Why, even all the hairs on your head have been counted! Stop being afraid. You are worth more than a bunch of sparrows." Luke 12:7, ISV

^"Look at the birds in the sky. They do not store food for winter. They don’t plant gardens. They do not sow or reap—and yet, they are always fed because your heavenly Father feeds them. And you are even more precious to Him than a beautiful bird. If He looks after them, of course He will look after you. ²⁷ Worrying does not do any good; who here can claim to add even an hour to his life by worrying?" Matthew 6:26-27, The Voice

In loving memory of Deb Strand, a woman who trusted Jesus to care for her every step of the way.

Candied Carrots, Ham and Jesus

As I was listening to the radio yesterday, the station was giving tips on how to get ready for Easter. The tips included a lady with a Southern-sweet-tea accent talking about cooking up the perfect ham and candied carrots and wearing those bright pastel colors on Easter Sunday whether it felt like Spring or not!

My heart ached for more.

Don't get me wrong: I am avidly scouring allrecipes.com to try and figure out how to cook my very first ham and what the heck it means to candy a carrot. Annie has a cute, pastel-colored dress hanging in the closet and we will be decorating eggs and going on an epic egg hunt. Today I will conquer Target and every ever-lovin' aisle of spring time happiness.

But God forbid that's what it looks like for my family and I to get 'ready for Easter'.

Because that is not Easter at all. That is a celebration of spring time and American holiday traditions. Traditions which I will be the first to celebrate and uphold as magical childhood rites' of passage. Because honestly, you can hardly finish the school year and head into a summer of honeysuckle and forts, if you have not first scoured the earth for eggs and eaten your momma's ham!

Still- these are spring celebrations, not Easter celebrations.

Easter celebrations are harder. Most years I walk away sad. I know I have missed the point and not fully wrapped my heart around the journey to the cross. Many times I long for the person on the radio to tell me how to get ready for Easter because I simply don't know how to myself.

Maybe they don't either. Maybe we all don't. Maybe sometimes the best we have to offer is candied carrots.

***

So I decided to go to a Maundy Thursday service last night.

I was raised in a denomination that did not fully celebrate Lent or Holy Week. By "did not fully" I mean I had NO idea what Ash Wednesday or  Maundy Thursday was until I was deep into college! So attending a Maundy Thursday service- or- celebrating Easter for an entire season for that matter, is still slightly foreign to my novice, liturgical soul.

I picked the service I attended last night based on the sign I've driven by all week that said: Join us Maundy Thursday.

OK. I will.

I really had no idea what to expect, but this year more than any, I am searching for the fullness of Easter. So I walked into a church I've never stepped foot into, surrounded by strangers, looking for something bigger than ham and pastels.

***

If I could script out heaven, it would look like what I walked into last night. People of every race. YES!!! Lots of old white people, of which I will join the ranks one day, but they were just a tiny fragment. Every color. Every ethnicity. Every socio-economic level. Quite honestly- the weirdest, most strange collection of people I have ever encountered in a single room. Weird and strange namely because they all sat in one room together with smiles on their faces and love in their hearts for one another. They prayed, sang, clapped, hugged, wept, hoped, loved, washed one another's feet and offered each other communion.

The dynamic difference in these people so apparent, yet so palpably inconsequential, blew me away.

It felt like heaven.

We sang hymns. And songs I didn't know. The choir sounded like an army of angels. Robust and loud and soulful. I literally just listened as they led us into worship with over 10 different songs and I felt like perhaps Jesus himself was wooing me into Easter. And, in a moment of me scripting out my own little piece of heaven, we sang Whitney Houston's track 'I Love the Lord' from the Preacher's Wife soundtrack. What-what?!?! And to think, I had just texted Ryan when the choir (full of mostly middle-aged white people) came out in their green choir robes and simply said, "Uh-oh, green choir robes. Boo."

So many prejudices, dispositions, expectations and baggage- I label what I am so unqualified to label. Forgive me for my narrow-minded blindness Lord.

So there I was- with a diverse room in every sense of the word- and they were there for Holy Week. The service was over an hour and a half. And it wasn't yet done when I left. The priest sang. People prayed and offered words to the congregation. Momma Carter told us Jesus loved us. We sang the Lord's prayer and prayed the prayer of contrition and spoke the Nicene Creed and then- did a little Whitney Houston gospel- and I'm telling you- I've never heard music like that.

Often- I don't know exactly what it is I'm looking for- but I know what I'm not looking for. Cue candied carrots.

Every Easter I find myself looking for Jesus. Looking for my own journey to His cross that I might come away changed. Often I walk away sad. Too often I have walked away with only Easter eggs and a ham.

But last night I walked away with a glimpse of heaven. A resounding voice from Jesus. The unfolding of the Passover. The blood on my door that told the Lord he could move on to the next house. The act of eating. Remembering. Serving. Serving. Serving. The voice that said to Peter and says to me, "Jenny- I have to wash your feet for you to belong to me. I want to wash your feet. Sit still daughter. Remember my love for you."

As the moments ticked away for Jesus on earth- as He made his journey to the cross- He Himself taught us the way to get ready for Easter. 

Remember ME.

So whatever your weekend Spring traditions may hold- candied carrots or an Easter egg hunt at the zoo with 40,000 eggs (yes, we are attempting this)... enjoy the traditions of spring.

And then?

Celebrate Easter. The life- death- and resurrection of Jesus Christ-

Who washed our feet as He made His way to the cross and said

"remember me."