There's a Secret Garden She Hides

It has not been the easiest week at work. The end of the school year is always a hectic time and it seems like a lot of things have to be checked off the list in a relatively short amount of time.

I was pretty fired up this morning. In fact, I was certain the only way I would feel better would be to write a blog post ranting and raving about all the injustices I was enduring at work. Lucky for you, something calmed me down.

My students have been creating a garden outside my classroom this spring. This morning, as my rage was bubbling away inside me, my extraordinary teammate Shannon and I were looking at the garden. We watched as a hummingbird came to the hummingbird feeder we’d installed last week—the first we’d seen visiting. That brief encounter with the hummingbird caused some of the fire in me to subside. I sent my mom an email that said something like, "I'm overwhelmed and unhappy. A hummingbird came to the feeder. It was lovely."

Earlier in the morning, mud-covered and hair wild from the humidity, I dumped 12 bags of gravel into the garden area so that we could move a picnic table into the center. Then, around 11, I went outside to lay some mulch as well. I invited different students to come out and help spread the mulch. (Nevermind what the other students were doing while I was outside with a few—they were safe, orderly, and busy.) As we worked outside in the sun, what was left of my righteous wrath went away. When Shannon and I are in the garden with the kids, we can relax and laugh with them. We solve problems and find slugs. It's been so sweet to watch kids teach each other how to plant something, or how to water things.

Starting the garden has not been easy. We received a grant to subsidize it and I’ve been fretting over the paperwork this week. Shannon and I have been shopping and debating how to spend the grant dollars for weeks. We’ve wrangled with the county grounds keepers for permission to install the garden, and we’ve waited for various workmen to make sure there are no pipes or wires underground. I’ve lifted heavy things and covered my best running shoes in mud. And yet, when I see the garden through my classroom window, it is all worth it. Something about the garden eases my mind.

Earlier in the week I read this quote from a book called Serve God, Save the Planet by J. Matthew Sleeth:
Late in the day we sat together to weed the strawberry patch. A feeling of joy and peace overcame me. I felt close to God. I experienced “the peace that passes all understanding.” I was in communion with the saints and with [my wife]. Do you know why?
God created a man and a woman to work together in a garden. We were doing what our Maker designed us to do, and we were reaping the spiritual blessings.

When I read that quote earlier this week I liked it, but today, I lived it.

Born to Run

My family doctor in Philadelphia had a way of making everything about my weight. I would go see him for strep throat and he would find a way to connect it to being overweight. “Maybe if you didn’t eat so much, Joy, your throat wouldn’t be so taxed and susceptible to strep.” OK, he never really said anything like that, but I knew a visit to him for a tetanus shot or an antibiotic would be accompanied by a hefty dose of guilt.

The only exception occurred in the late 90’s. I lost 65 pounds, went to him for some malady and he didn’t say word. I went in fully anticipating a, “Wow! Great job, Joy!”, but all I got was a prescription. It was because he didn’t recognize me. He later told my mother he had no idea who I was.

I tell you this as background. Doctors are not people I see often. I’m blessed to be very healthy, so I rarely darken the door of a medical practice. This spring, though, I decided to take action against some varicose veins in my legs. Since there is no at-home cure for them, I have found myself out of my comfort zone, sitting in doctors’ offices.

Before my initial consultation with my new family doctor, I was anxious and worried that she would blame me, and my weight, for the varicose veins. I was prepared to defend myself—I am on my feet all day teaching! Cute shoes are not supportive! I’m trying to lose weight! Instead, she was super understanding and quickly referred me to a vein specialist.

When I got the referral message, they told me the doctor’s first name was Todd. It freaked me out. Todd is the captain of the soccer team, the cutest guy in school. I did not want that guy touching my legs while I was wearing paper shorts. Thankfully, if Dr. Todd was that guy, it was a long enough time ago that it was not awkward to have him feeling my calves. (In case you’re wondering, I still shaved my legs for the occasion. No reason to make the experience unpleasant for all of us.)

This morning I met the vein specialist. I prayed that he would be kind, that he would take his time with me, that he would not blame me for my nasty veins. When I walked into the waiting room, the average age dropped by about 50 years. As I talked with the nurses, I got the feeling they don’t see many patients my age. While one nurse took pictures of my legs, I joked about working my angles and making Tyra proud. When they told me I’d have to wear compression hose for three months I told them I hoped the What Not to Wear cameras wouldn’t be following me around. They were all very kind to me and I was greatly relieved.

In three months, after I have tried compression hose, Dr. Todd will do something magical to my veins that will close them off. He will then snip out the busted-up parts of my veins that show below the surface of my skin. My legs will no longer look like they belong in assisted living. Hopefully, they will look like the legs of a 30-something girl who runs a couple miles every day.

To get my compression hose, I had to visit a medical supply store. While I waited for a fitting room to become available, I sat in the store surrounded by the inevitable: guard rails for your bed, walkers, toilet railings, and boxes containing something called a cervical collar that I am really afraid to Google.

I often tell my younger friends that 30 is no joke—your body starts doing things you don’t want it to do. After sitting in that store today, I realize 30 is just the beginning. Right now I can avoid seeing doctors, but how long will that last? The reality of my body breaking down scares me.

What do I do when something scares me? I run. If it means waking up at 4:30 in the morning to get on a treadmill before work, I will run. If it means running on a beach with a good friend while everyone else eats breakfast, I will run. I will run from diabetes. I will run from stroke. I will run from heart disease. I realize this will only postpone the inevitable, but if it gives me a few more years to live a life that glorifies my Father, I will keep running!

I share this with you for a couple reasons. First, I wanted to give an update about my health that would inform and (hopefully) entertain. Mostly, though, I am inviting you to hold me accountable to my commitment to running. And, if you're so inclined, I invite you to run with me.

'Cause Down the Shore Everything's All Right

As I sit here typing with my windows open (not only am I cheap, I am a Northerner) I hear joyful sounds from the pool across the street. In the four summers I’ve lived across from this pool, I’ve been in it a handful of times. There are many reasons I avoid the pool—corn hole tournaments, eight-year-olds wielding pool noodles—but the main reason I steer clear is because I have a greater love.

My grandfather bought a simple shore house back in the 1960’s. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, detached garage. To the casual observer, this little property in Villas, New Jersey (“the little house”) is nothing special, but my grandfather’s wise investment was one of his greatest gifts to my family. We spent many weekends down the shore as I was growing up. Even the house grew up when my grandfather built a larger home on the adjoining lot. To this day, that house (“the blue house”) is my home away from home.

The location of my family’s beach houses has made me a different kind of beach-goer. First of all, the Jersey shore is 90 minutes away from where I grew up in Philadelphia. This allowed me to be a frequent beach-goer. Nothing to do this weekend? Let’s go down the shore. Friends coming to visit? Take them down the shore. President’s Day, New Year’s, any time school was closed on Monday—off to the shore!

Since the Villas is a 15-minute drive from the beach, I developed beach stamina. There was no walking back to the house for lunch, no going inside for a nap in the air conditioning (there was no central AC down the shore, just open windows and a bay breeze). When my family left for the beach in the morning, we took with us our lunches and all the entertainment we could want for the day. We traveled with an umbrella, comfortable chairs, L.L. Bean tote bags packed with amusements, and Twizzlers, there were always Twizzlers.

I’ve come to appreciate the beaches of North and South Carolina. The water is always warmer. I can’t say I miss the cost of New Jersey beaches—remembering to bring a beach tag or carrying quarters to feed the parking meters. Perhaps my favorite thing about Southern beaches is the peaceful coexistence of man and seagull. I have yet to have my sandwich ripped from my hand by a predatory laughing gull and for this I am eternally thankful.

This weekend I spent a delightful time in Sunset Beach, NC with some friends. It was glorious to be there—someone even had Twizzlers. I hope it becomes an annual trip for us. The weekend reminded me that the beach is my great love and for this reason, I’m not picky about which beach I'm on. But until I can establish some coastal Carolina traditions or until Curley’s Fries opens shop in Calabash, I’m afraid I will always feel a little home-away-from-homesick.

Learned the Hard Way

At our youth group’s senior banquet, one of my church’s pastors gave a great exhortation to our graduates. He encouraged them to plug into a campus ministry right away, telling them it is a great way to make friends and to grow in their Christian walk while at college. Then he said something that got me nodding like a bobble head doll. He told the seniors that if, or when, they don’t walk like Christians at college, Jesus would welcome them back. Our pastor assured them that Jesus would love them and their parents would love them, even if they messed up. It made me want to turn to the senior girl sitting beside me and say, “That’s my story!”

I know that my four years of college would have been different if I had joined a campus ministry (the “God-bless People” as my roommate and I called them). What I continue to wrestle with is, would those years have been better?

The grown-up Christian answer is, of course they would have been better! What my heart says is different. To do-over my college days would be to disown dear friends. It would mean trading in the sorority-house politics that developed my leadership skills. Gone would be the disappointments I faced as I pursued my own glory and good reputation—disappointments that left me humbled and wiser. And even though many of my stories may be unfit for youth group banquets—I had fun!

I have to look below the surface to see the consequences of my college choices. I was a spiritual late-bloomer. For some of my friends, college was a time of expansive spiritual growth. They reached young-adulthood grounded in biblical truth, ready to make an impact for the Kingdom. I left college grounded in self-justification, ready to follow Dave Matthews around the East coast.

I broke my parents’ hearts. I don’t think this hit me until a few years ago when I found a letter my dad wrote me while I was a junior in college. It was a simple note, sent along with a piece of music I’d asked him to send me. But in its lines, there was pain as he urged me to go to church.

Even with this knowledge, I can’t bring myself to regret my college experience. God has redeemed my misspent days. Because I wandered away from the flock, I know what it is to be pursued and rescued by my Good Shepherd. My relationship with my parents has been restored. I have experienced repentance, forgiveness, and abundant grace!

Why Be Normal?

This morning was the first meeting of a book club Laura and I formed for women at our church. We read Radical Womanhood by Carolyn McCulley. Simply put, this book presents a history of the feminist movement contrasted with what the Bible says about being a woman.

I went into the meeting with no real expectations. Laura and I had a planning session yesterday during which we brainstormed some discussion questions we could pull out if the conversation lagged. We had questions about what the next wave of feminism might look like, and about the effects of feminism on men. Because Radical Womanhood is not like most of the books you find in Christian bookstores in the women’s section, I was excited to talk about topics Christian women don’t usually talk about—leadership, raunch culture, the 1800’s.

Ten minutes into our discussion this morning and we were talking about the things Christian women always talk about: marriage, children, staying at home vs. going to work. The book definitely invites women to ask questions about their roles as wives and mothers. So even though the “typical” discussion topics of Christian women were warranted by the book, I felt stifled and disappointed when they became the order of the day.

The conversation finally turned when my dear friend Debbie asked what the single women in the room got from the book. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I believe I shared some of the questions Radical Womanhood stirred in me. Do I enjoy my job because God designed me this way, or do I enjoy my job because I am a product of feminist culture? Am I a confident, single woman because it glorifies God, or because of Gloria Steinem?

The gracious women in the room were all very affirming. They assured me that God made me just the way I am. One woman even told me she could see me being a pioneer woman in the 1800’s, raising my seven kids, running my home. (How I would love to pack my wagon and go back in time!) One woman, who joined our group simply because she was in the meeting room when we arrived, asked me why I believe it is hard to be a single, Christian woman. Not knowing me, she sensed that I was content with who I am, and she didn’t understand why I should be having issues within the church. Many ladies chimed their support, talking about different seasons having different advantages and how being single is great, and blah, blah, blah…

But here’s the rub, people I meet in the evangelical church say it’s great to be single and that God has us where we are for a reason, but church culture says something entirely opposite (stop me if you've heard this one!). If Debbie had not turned the tide of our book discussion, we easily would have devoted the entire meeting to issues pertaining to wives and mothers. If there’s nothing “abnormal” about being single in the church, why do church-lady conversations unfailingly wind up centering on marriages and children?

If you look around the church, most women are married and have children. They talk about what they know and what they have in common. What makes it difficult for the single woman desiring fellowship and community is having absolutely nothing from her own experience to bring to the conversations.

The reality is, being single in the church is not normal. But really, who is normal? Everyone in the church has something that causes them to feel separate--education, finances, fertility, etc. What I am learning is that when I isolate myself because I perceive that I am an outsider, I miss out.

Even though it is easy and comfortable to be surrounded by people like us; the real beauty of the Body is getting to experience life with people who are totally different. These relationships challenge us and propel us to growth while showing us various aspects of God’s character and God’s design.

As I sit here waiting for a friend (an empty-nester) to pick me up on the back of her motorcycle, I have to think these different relationships make things more fun too.

To All the Phones I've Loved Before

To celebrate the recent acquisition of a new cell phone, I would like to look back at the phones I have known and loved.

My first cell phone was a Christmas present in 1996. It lived in my glove compartment and was never turned on. To use its car adapter, I had to pop the battery off the back and replace it with another one that had a cord I could plug into the power outlet of my car (although in 1996, I probably would have called it the cigarette lighter). This phone’s primary purpose was for roadside emergencies. There were mornings, however, when I’d have to call and wake up my student teaching partner/carpool buddy from the parking lot of his fraternity house. As quickly as I could I’d say, “Chris, wake up. I’m going to the caf to get a bagel, I’ll be back in five minutes.” I had to be quick because I was roaming and that call would cost $2.50.

When I came back to Philadelphia and got my first big-girl job, I also got a new phone. It was a huge improvement. No longer did I have a cell phone the size of a brick. My new phone also boasted a little display screen that made caller ID possible. Its other great feature, I could change the banner from “Sprint PCS” to “Joy Lindros.” That phone started a lot of conversations, but alas, it could only get service in digital areas. Once I left the greater Philadelphia area, my little phone would search for service and eventually, give up, and slip off into power save.

Since I was traveling to central Pennsylvania a lot in those days, it was necessary for me to get a dual-band phone that could work in digital areas and roam on analog networks: enter phone #3. My third phone was a beauty. First of all, it was blue! It had a multitude of ring tones that I could assign to different callers. My brother, Take Me Out to the Ballgame. My dad, Ride of the Valkyries. I could even record my own ringtones. By holding the phone next to the speaker of my stereo, I was able to produce my own Margaritaville ringtone! I truly loved this phone. Even though it was held together by packaging tape, this is the phone that made the move to North Carolina with me. But the poor phone was old and tired. Sprint wanted me to buy a new phone, but they offered no free replacements for a phone that was at least 4 years old. So when I bought my house and could not get Sprint service in the living room, I moved on from my old provider and my old phone.

My next phone had a color display. I could choose a background picture (an orangutan hanging from a branch) and receive text messages. This phone could download ringtones. At first, there was the MIDI rendition of Brown Eyed Girl, but as technology came along I was able to add several others. This phone had a hands-free headset, very helpful when I was down the shore after New Jersey passed its no-phone-in-the-car law. After two years, Verizon told me I could have a new phone free of charge and I leapt at the chance to keep up with the latest and greatest.

And so I got a pink razr phone, or as it is more commonly known, The Pink Piece of Crap. One summer day I went walking and tucked my phone under one bra strap and my iPod under the other. My phone completely freaked out. When I took it to the Verizon store, the man told me it had water damage. “Why,” I asked, “is it made of sugar?” His solution was that I pay $50 to replace it. A lengthy debate followed during which I challenged the logic of paying $50 to replace something I hadn’t paid for in the first place and during which he summoned his manager for back-up. I questioned Verizon giving out phones that were so easily damaged that they could be rendered useless in less than three months. He kept going back to the $50 thing and finally I gave my infamous speech, “What if I don’t want this phone again? What if I think it’s a pink piece of crap—because it is a pink piece of crap—and I want to go back to my old phone?” He haughtily replied, “Well, you would need your old phone.” I smoothly placed it on the counter. $20 later, the orangutan was back, but there is still a happy ending for the pink piece of crap. This fall, when the orangutan phone was showing signs of age and it wasn’t time for me to get a new phone yet, I charged up the now-dry pink of piece of crap and went back to it for a few months. In fact, we were so happy together, I didn’t even replace it as soon as my two years were up.

As of this week, though, I have a new phone. It is a lot more phone than I can handle. Turns out, just because your phone can get Facebook on it, doesn’t mean it’s free. I enjoy the convenience of a keyboard for texting, but it is a strange new phone. Hopefully our relationship will grow to be a good one, because writing this has shown me that, as I journey through life, my phones are always along for the ride.

The Good New Days

When I first started attending my church I was part of a large, fun-loving group of single people. One of our favorite things to do was to go out and eat Sundays after church. We’d make restaurants string together a few tables to accommodate 12 of us and then we’d sit for hours solving the mysteries of the universe. I have great memories of these times: the seating politics—trying to sit next to the guy you liked while he tried to sit near the girl he liked, the rants against the church’s unfair treatment of single women, the mad grabs for the freshly-arrived yeast rolls.

Five years later, the fun-loving people from that group are gone. (It reminds of Bryan Adams’ lyric, “Jimmy quit, Susie got married. Should’ve known we’d never get far.”) With the exception of one woman who is in the process of relocating, I am the only person from that group still at the church.

This Sunday, I went to lunch with a different crowd of fun-loving people. The seating politics were totally different—husbands at one end, wives & Joy at the other. No ranting about the church, just stories about yard sales and 25-mile bike rides (holla!). The only thing that remained the same was the mad grab for hot yeast rolls. As I drove away, I was overwhelmed with love and gratitude for these friends, but I also wondered, how did I get here?

Between the good old days of 12 singles in a restaurant and this present, happy time, there were years of intense loneliness and struggle. It does not surprise me that my first circle of North Carolina friends disbanded and moved on—the 20’s are a transitional season for most people. It surprises me that I stayed. The bad years were really that bad. I am thankful they are over. But I am also thankful for what God showed me through those difficult times: I can find community with people who are not like me, I can be alone without being lonely, when I serve others I meet new people.

The lesson I am applying most these days is to hold on to people with an open hand, not a clenched fist. The circle of friends I have now may not always be here, so I savor my moments with them and try to resolve conflict quickly so we can spend more time having fun. If and when these friends move on, I know God will see me through as He has before.