Dear Father Who Art In Heaven, Hallowed Be Our Name

Today as I write, there is an unarguably smelly man sitting next to me in the public library. In addition to not voting for Obama, he believes Mexicans are the root of a lot the United States’ labor problems, and thinks if we sent all “liberals” to North Korea, we’d solve a lot of problems. I am not sure if he has a home, I am not sure if he has a job, but what I am fairly certain of is that I wish he’d sat at another table. Any table, but mine.

He doesn’t look like me. He doesn’t think like me. Does he share my education level? Possibly … in his rants you can hear some genuine research. Does he have a family like I do? I don’t’ know. Is he actually a hippie that doesn’t shower on purpose? Maybe. Is he happy, sad, does he care anymore? I don’t know. Here’s what I do know: he and I stand before the Savior on equal footing. I am no more and no less than this man when I stand before our Creator, Who had creative license and immense purpose in birthing each of us into a cold world where we might have a chance at bringing a little light. Did I turn out “good” and did he turn out “bad”?

I had someone ask me once why God would allow “bad things” to happen to “good people”. I have also had people ask how God would ever harm His “children”. Do we not get it? Let me make something very clear: we don’t get to write the rules of the God of the Universe. Do we get to define “good” or “bad”? Can we say that those living in third world countries and living a life for Christ that will surely bring death and destruction to their families just got the short end of the stick? Are we so pompous as to decide only those who look like us, eat like us, breathe like us have gotten the “good”. Who are we, in our tiny … tiny … and again for emphasis … TINY world, sphere, limits – to decide that God is harming a plan we are not the authors of? There is no “good” or “bad” within our limits of understanding, there is only that which is of God and that which isn’t, and I am not so sure we have the ability to consciously decipher the two.

And how can God dare touch His “children” with hardship? Dear Friends, who calls himself a child of God? For me, there is protection and assurance that whatever I face, “… we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose” (Romans 8:28). But for you? I cannot say. It is not as simple as assuming all humans are His children. Again, we are pompous creatures. Let me propose the idea that all I can say for humanity, as with the rest of the world, is that we are His creations. There is a difference.  He will do what He wishes with his creations, in the same way you would with your little pottery trinkets, your painting, your doodles, your tinfoil balls. We are loved by Him, yes, but not by obligation. He owes us nothing. We are but dust in the wind, filthy tags before His thrown. And we question, form this position, why He doesn’t serve us. How can God possibly send a whole peoples to hell?, I’ve heard. How would God allow war?, I’ve head. Why isn’t He saving us from pain?, I’ve heard. Because, regardless of what my pea-sized brain allows, Friends, God is God.  

This illness of believing we ought to serve only a God who serves us first, who makes us His “children” because our mere existence isn’t as simple as a prevalence among those trapped in disbelief (which, of course, has to be of their sheer personal will, because a “loving God” who must look like our earthly understanding of a Father surely cannot predestine or control a man’s salvation!). It runs through our churches, thickly ingrained in our newfound “praise songs” and sermonettes. Have you listened closely, lately, to the words that escape your lips as you lift your hands in praise? Lift them to what? Praise what? Searching your heart and humbling yourself to what? Pay close attention to the lyrics of this popular David Crowder Band song, “oh how He loves us oh how He loves us how He loves us all how He loves yeah He loves us oh how He loves us oh how He loves us yeah He loves us yeah He loves us how He loves us oh how He loves all”. What?

Does He love us?  My goodness, more than we know. Do I find my salvation in meditating on how awesomely awesome I have been awesomely blessed? No, and I’ll tell you why; because the moment I am disfigured, the moment I am stripped of my wealth, the moment my family is harmed, the moment my friends turn their backs on me, the moment I lose my job for standing up for my faith, the moment my country isn’t Top Dog … those lyrics will begin to haunt me and my God is suddenly not all I have focused on and my religion is in sudden stark contrast with the life I associated with it. I do not serve God for the gracious love He bestows on me. I serve God, I praise God, I worship God … because I have to.

I was reading a little publication the other day, called “Daily Bread”. It’s a great publication full of snippets of wisdom and Scripture, no doubt a blessing and service to many who read it. That said, the particular devotion I read referred to a modern-day song, by Jonny Diaz, and it’s a beautiful one. In fact, I’ve cried to it before (though, if you know me … all songs make me cry, but still). The lyrics talk about pressures a female in our society faces to be “beautiful” and alludes to the sexual pressures used to fool us into false worth. The chorus, “There could never be a more beautiful you. Don't buy the lies, disguises and hoops, they make you jump through. You were made to fill a purpose that only you could do. So there could never be a more beautiful you”.

The writer of the devotional proceeded to make the connection with an ancient author who shared the same message. David, in the Psalms, “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made”. Woah. Just woah. Can I curse in a piece giving glory to God? If I can; what the hell? If not; gee – what the heck? Here is why David’s song is not a parallel to Jonny Diaz’s. A little English lecture: fearfully and wonderfully are adverbs, not adjectives – they are describer words for the verb, “made”, and therefore painting compliments not to the created, but to the Creator.

So, who cares? Does it make me a cynical jerk to decide God can do without us if He chooses? Am I hardened to not try and explain away the proverbial African tribe that stands the impending venture into hell because they’ve never heard the Gospel? Will realizing earthly “good” and “bad” don’t hold eternal definitions cause me to ignore those temporarily hurting?

Quite the opposite, Brothers and Sisters. It is only when I realize my disposability that I can truly come to the Father in a genuine awe that begs the question, “How could you love me this much?” It is only when I realize I deserve nothing I have, and cannot choose my blessings that I will fall before Him through “good” and through “bad” with the same heart and appreciation. It is when I realize only His blood bridges me from a humble creature to a beloved daughter that I can see why a stinky man who wants to send Mexicans to North Korea is of the same making and needs to hear that God loves Him through the smile I give and eye contact I will refuse to avoid. It is through this understanding - that I am nothing, but that God is everything - that I stop chasing answers to meaningless questions, but fear not delving into the complicated ones.

“This is my Father's world, and to my listening ears all nature sings, and round me rings the music of the spheres.  This is my Father's world:  I rest me in the thought of rocks and trees, of skies and seas; his hand the wonders wrought.

This is my Father's world, the birds their carols raise, the morning light, the lily white, declare their maker's praise. This is my Father's world:  he shines in all that's fair; in the rustling grass I hear him pass; he speaks to me everywhere.

This is my Father's world.  O let me ne'er forget  that though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.  This is my Father's world: why should my heart be sad?  The Lord is King; let the heavens ring! God reigns; let the earth be glad!”

JNACK

Sometimes I Just Forget

I forget things sometimes. I forget meetings. I forget promises I’ve made. I forget to turn in forms on time; I do that one all the time. The other day I realized I’d finally forgotten my Hannibal phone number; I still know Trinidad’s (846-3488) and Walsenburg’s (738-2124), but I have forgotten my Hannibal phone number.

Other times, I forget bigger stuff. Just the other morning, I forgot that Madelynn is only three years old, and I yelled at her for using my make-up brush to clean the bathroom …. she worked really hard to impress me with the work she had put into scrubbing that tub, too. That same day, I hung up on Keith for leaving an errand for the end of the week; I forgot that it was gracious of him to do it at all.

Employees, bosses, family, friends …. my forgetfulness affects each of them, but I hurt myself by forgetting, too. Sometimes I forget that eating McDonald’s will not make me feel good. I forget that staying up late makes me cranky, and I keep forgetting that working out would give me a lot more energy than coffee drinking does. As the Mercer Meyer book famously explains, “I just forgot”.

Do ever forget something that changes the outlay of your entire day? What about your entire week? If I forget cash, and have to live a day without a cappuccino, MAN – that is a bad day. If I forget to call someone back at work, it can push back meeting times, and that can throw off a whole week, phew! I forget just how horrible forgetting can be.

We have an entire industry built on forgetfulness. Franklin Covey Day Planners, Microsoft Outlook, Google Calendar, and a myriad of ipad apps insure we don’t forget what it is we’ve got going on in a given day. Ahhhh, America … while others around the world struggle to find their next meal, we struggle to remember our next lunch meeting. While a young mother in the inner-city scrimmages for something for her newborn to wear in the Goodwill pile, the rest of us cuss under our breaths when our smartphone reminds us we have missed our monthly nail appointment. Oh, the perils of our forgetfulness.

When it comes to deeper matters, however, it is often not our technological devices that spur us to remember. I have sworn enemies, only a few, but I do have them. There have been times in my life, while looking through a scrapbook or photo album, I will realize I have forgotten why I don’t like them anymore. There are days my best friends will bring up stories and I laugh until I cry … only a loved one’s voice could have uncovered what I had forgotten. Other things can never be uncovered, and we mourn not for the simple inconvenience of what our mind has misplaced, but for the loss of what certainly would have mattered; I don’t remember much about my paternal grandparents.

Then, there are things we wish we could forget, but can’t. Forgetfulness can offer powerful protection. Part of my husband’s PTSD diagnosis is the reality that his mind has rewired itself, never to completely recall what his 14 year-old self was forced to deal with on April 20, 1999, as his high school wrote itself down in history as a famed tragedy. There are life decisions I have made that shame me, and my only peace is forced forgetfulness. And Lord knows … we all have exes we’re still trying to forget …

But, my most sorrowful experience with forgetfulness? Some days, and I would venture to say most days, I forget that I am a child of the King, and a rightful heir to the Kingdom of life’s Creator. I am, in Him, invincible. I can call on mountains to move, and souls to change. I can never die. I have healing powers. I have compassion beyond comprehension. I have all I need, and all I’ll ever ask for. And I have all of this … because I am nothing.

I have so pitifully forgotten. I live like nothing’s changed. I speak like I don’t know any better. And I love like all I understand is lust, and not the deep soul-changing reality that is His blood. I fret about all the little things, and I lash out on those who contribute to often-imaginary stress. I. Have. Forgotten. Yet, in the midst of such epic failure, God remembers. The God of the universe, Who is counting the hairs on the heads of millions, Who insures that the lilies in the valley are clothed, Who is orchestrating every moment … remembers me. And this changes everything.

Oh, that I would believe I am involved in my own salvation process! I am but filthy rags before the Throne. I am the Israelite, complaining of manna, forgetting I am on the road to the Promised Land. I am David, lying with Bathsheba, forgetting I once killed Goliath with a stone. I am Moses, explaining my impediment, because I have forgotten the wicker basket that carried me to safety. I am Peter, wishing I could forget the rooster’s crows.

We fall down, we lay our crowns, at the feet of Jesus. The greatness of His mercy and love, at the feet of Jesus. And we cry, “Holy, Holy, Holy”. We cry, “Holy, Holy, Holy”. We cry, “Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lamb”. What have you forgotten recently? Is it affecting your relationship with the Father? Is it preventing a relationship with the Father? Mark your calendars, then, Dear Friends, and make an appointment with the Holy of Holies, the King of all Kings, and the Creator. His schedule is always open for you, and He never forgets.

JNACK

Extreme Spiritual Couponing

As the child of a musician who was a closet accounting-whiz, I grew up sans name-brand stuff. No Lucky Charms, only “Pirate Marshmallow Treasures” at the Shults-house. No Nikes, Jen was wearing “Avia” to sports practice. While I have my hindsight to appreciate this value system, and certainly didn’t suffer for it at any point, the reality is that some items are better left to the Top Dogs. Among them are Cheerios (the knock-offs always taste like air, sprinkled with cardboard flavoring), Kotex (not going to go there … just trust me), and Alcon contact solution (apparently, the splurge for the name brand is the NON BURNING MY EYEBALL chemical). The “real thing”, as it turns out, is often worth those extra dollars. It has occurred to me recently that this has spiritual application. Am I opting to save a few emotions, moments, or a sense of control for knock-off spiritual fulfillment? And, is the real thing always worth my sacrifice?


Fear, for example. It serves a spiritual purpose, but only one; the only healthy fear is fear of the Lord. As we find in many circumstances, human communication limits our understanding of what this means. Do we shake in our boots at the thought of the Savior? Do we avoid eye contact? Do we change our phone number when He calls too many times with bad news?

Perhaps the best approach is the admission that we are simple creatures and must understand His concepts on simple levels. The fear of the Lord is one of respect and reverence, and I am reminded of my fear of heights. I can handle them to an extent, I acknowledge the vast beauty heights can display, but I get queasy at the thought of their power and potential. I could fall, I could lose everything, and it could be over with one wrong move.

A pilot, maybe a mountain climber, a skydiver, a man in a hot air balloon … now there are some folks who appreciate heights. They know the risks, they know others have been hurt (usually by their own negligence), but they have learned to respect the greatness of heights. There is a deep awareness of power, and a bold step towards working with that power to enhance their life experience.

Yes, I have failed to fear the Lord, and have settled for being scared of Him, being scared of what He can do in my life. I am curling up in a corner when He passes me by. Fear, fear would cause me to bow before Him in the Truth that only He can act mercifully in His plan to intertwine His greatness with my humanness. True fear of the Lord would suddenly release of my carnal fears. If He whom I fear is for me, who could be against me? Being scared is a cheap, worthless knock-off of the real thing.

Submission. Wow. Consider for a moment that I serve a Savior willing to humble Himself to a gruesome death, and that I cannot give Him me. I cannot give Him by cushy life, I cannot give Him my faults, I cannot give Him my selfish desires, and I certainly cannot hand over my silly belief that I am in control. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me.

My cheap submission, my coupon for control, has been negotiation, bargaining. Lord, how about I give you some of my heart? How about I treat others somewhat like you have commanded? Lord, I won’t sell it all and give it to your children, but how about I put a few dollars in the offering plate? Father, I know my honesty could help to guide others through similar decisions and mistakes, but how about I limit this to an allusion of what I have been through? Good enough? Good enough? GOOD ENOUGH?! I am before the Savior, the Messiah, the Creator, the CHOSEN ONE, God’s ONE AND ONLY SON, and I am offering “good enough”? Negotiation tastes like luke-warm water and God promises to spit out this cheap replacement for submission.

Love. If the world were a grocery store, you’d have every option on this aisle. “How much were you wanting to spend?”, I’d say if I were still in sales, “Can you tell me a little about how you’re wanting to use your love?” Easy commission. Easy money to be made, and we have a culture that knows it. But for the follower of Christ, the illusion is much more subtle than we often assume.

This isn’t a story about my confusion over sex as love. This isn’t a story about my confusion over praise as love. This isn’t even a story about my confusion over relationships as love. This is always a story about my confusion over believing that love has any definition outside of Jesus Christ Himself. God is love, and when we forget this, we do silly things.

We follow His commands with no passion, or maybe we cut out His commands, because all that matters is that He “loves” us (when our vision changes to understand that He IS love, then all of His commandments are suddenly an extension of this love, and are no longer simple constraints). We serve other people with actions, but fail to credit our Source. We struggle to show our spouses, our children, our friends, and our world love through the “right” motions and words and rituals. There is no “right” way to love someone. There is only the recognition that, without Christ, we are creatures incapable of such a feat.

There are so many ways to fill in the blanks for what have cheaply replaced Love with. Throw them out.

The list of my artificial spiritual life continues, and I’m sure yours does as well. To what extent do we scrutinize over all of this? I’m not sure; the reality is that we are presently constrained by a false world, a world that produces, in abundance, spiritual knock-offs. But, I am reminded of what I think every time I eat Lucky Charms, “Oh man … this is so much better than the generic brand!” Maybe we have to fall before the Savior and admit that though the humble offering of our miserly selves may never be able to pay off the cost of the Real Thing, sometimes all that matters is that we can taste the difference when given the opportunity.

In Memorandum

Tonight, an emotional mess of a mother going to work full-time, a woman who is starting a new career, a wife newly sharing the financial burden of household … this night … a frail and tired individual wearisome with bills to pay and a moving date near approaching … Tonight, I cried amongst strangers and friends for a woman who for years has served as a vacant memory, and became real to me in a very sacred moment.


For those unaware, my father’s sister, Bonita, died many years ago. A homeless woman on the streets of Baltimore, she succumbed to AIDS just as my father and his brother and sister –in-law and nephew were on a plane to see her a final time. A “pleasantly plump” woman, I remember as a child my fascination with her emaciating weight-loss, visiting her in some sort of halfway house; curiosity still sits with me as I remember trying to guard my stare towards the odd and menacing growths in and around her mouth.

I did not know her well. I occasioned her at several holidays, before we moved off to Colorado, and before she disappeared for what I recall was five, or maybe six, years. Never very “smart”, and part of a generation that knew little to nothing about learning disabilities or mental illness, she grew weary of an adult life that included several failed marriages, and a bank account controlled by her mother. So, she “ran away”, well past forty years-old. By what my family still knows to be an act of a loving and merciful Savior, she received a message in some soup kitchen, or what have you, that she must call her mother at such-and-such a number. This message was given to her by none of us; we had no idea where she was or if she was alive.

Bonnie was able to connect with all of us again before her death and, thank God, before her mother’s (how gracious a Savior to give her daughter back to her before calling my grandmother home). As the years passed and the death of one aunt and one grandmother settled, I would learn of the deaths of my two cousins, Craig and Scott. Craig was murdered. He was followed in death just over a year later, by his brother; Scott killed himself, in anguish over his brother’s death. Bonnie became part of a rote storyline of the tragedy which was my father’s family. A vacant memory.

And then, there was this evening. A woman from a wonderful organization, named The Gathering Place, came to speak with my philanthropy class. As she began the expected discussion of individual donors, corporate giving and special events, I nodded my head in interest. Suddenly, there it was: the phrase to break all phrases, the words to shatter nearly twenty years of a simple story about a simple woman, who died of a very complicated disease, “At The Gathering Place, we want everyone to know that they are loved and accepted as exactly who they are right when they get there …”

Crippling. Tears. Tears of a death I had not noticed in years. Tears of a story I’ve been comfortable repeating. Tears of an acknowledgeable memory. Tears for what was now, in a single moment, my aunt. Tears for what was, oh God, my father’s sister; I am an adult who knows now what it would be to lose my brother, whom I hold so dearly. Tears for what was now my grandmother’s daughter; I am now a mother who knows that it doesn’t matter if I die before Mady, the knowledge of her fate would be pain enough. Tears for what was a childhood friend, a cousin, a co-worker … a tenant in someone’s halfway house … another patient, gone.

Tears, perhaps, because suddenly all those hurting and alone this evening became someone’s sister, someone’s child, someone’s friend, someone’s somebody, and most reverently … they are the children of the Abba, Father, Anointed and Merciful One. May I make no excuses for the times I do not uphold and uplift them, comfort them and cater to them, or fail to fall to my face in prayer for them, because – let me not be mistaken – as an heir of the Kingdom of Christ, they are my concern.

My Dear Brothers and Sisters, how I plead with you with words that cannot chase the number of my tears and my cries for the lowly. How I beg of you to turn away from whatever additions you hold in your life that cause another to go without. I serve The One who speaks sternly to us about serving the orphans, the widows, the prisoners, those who are poor and weary. And yet we bring to Him great castles and spectaculars of our fascination, as though idols in the name of serving Him are not idols at all.

Father, what have we done? That I sit in classrooms of those who claim no allegiance, but who, by Your Mercy, serve the ones You love, while we argue over where to build. That one bleeds and another dies while we gather jovially around our bread and wine. That we drown the pleas of, “My God, My God, why hath Thou forsaken me?” with our hymns and hands in the air. Your purpose is so clear, Lord. GO AND SERVE. Your call is so clear, Lord. WHEN YOU HAVE GIVEN UNTO THE LEAST OF THESE. Your vision is so simple, Lord. FOR THE FIRST SHALL BE LAST.

You are King of those who will never reign O Lord; help us to see.

Many tears may God allow us to shed today, tomorrow, and until the day He comes, in the name of those who have been forgotten, but for whom we have remembrance.


JNACK

Fun Times, New Eras, and a Few Shout Outs! :-)

My goodness, what a busy few months! Since my last post, I have had fun as a pageant-mom, holiday hostess, friend, and student!

My pageant-mom update includes a BIG WIN for my little Mady! In November, she competed in a Miss Heart of America Pageant (run by the fabulous Valerie Sweely). Mady won the Queen title for her division, and will be doing another of Val's pageants in May, Miss Crown Jewel. She will also be competing in June for Colorado American CoEd. This is a wonderful system and I encourage you moms to check it out for your daughters! http://www.colorado.gocoed.com/ !

As a holiday hostess, I had a great time having friends over for a holiday party in December. It was the beginning of an awesome time of the years! What a wonderful few months, celebrating the holidays with people that mean so much to me! For thanksgiving, it was off to Alamosa, CO to celebrate with my parents and my brother (in from Cincinnati), and a fun dinner with my in-laws, as well. For Christmas, we flew to Tucson, Arizona to meet up with my parents and brother again - and stayed with my great aunt and uncle, the "pair of jeans" (Gene and Jean!). We came home for a cozy Christmas Day at my in-laws' house, and then it was off to Copper Mountain for New Year's! PHEW!

The Nackerud family also welcomed its newest addition ... a 2010 Dodge Journey! :-) As Mrs. American Queen, I don't do a lot of "endorsing", but I do think I can give "shout outs"! We really enjoyed our time at Mike Naughton Ford, and would recommend it to anyone looking for a vehicle. We sure have enjoyed ours! :) Although, explaining to your three year-old that it is not okay to put her dirty feet on the upholstery has proven fairly difficult!

As a friend, I got to watch the MISS AMERICA PAGEANT this past weekend with great friends! Jennifer Lew, Anna and Ashley Berry (Ashley is Mady's "sister queen"!), Brenda and Makayla Fletcher, Holly Nugent, Angela Cartlon, and me and Mady all watched as Miss Nebraska took the title! Wow, how cool would it be to be Miss America at 17? Way cooler than prom queen!

School is back in session for me and I am keeping myself both challenged and excited. There are lots of things to learn in the nonprofit world, and I am excited to be sharing some of my new findings with the BEE board, this Sat. (Jan 22) at our meeting. We will be refining our programming and looking towards the future!

Speaking of the future ... I don't really do "resolutions", but I do think as each year comes and goes, we have an opportunity to evaluate where we are in life and "fine tune" some things! Here is what I am focusing on as 2011 continues ...

1. I want to support more music and art.
2. I want to go swimming more!
3. I want to sit quietly and read books, with no cell phone or computer to temp me.
4. I want to accept that, for now, I am a busy mom and full-time grad student, and can say, "no" to extra stuff that comes along.
5. I want to remember that I am smart, and intelligent, and capable - and can officially start ignoring anyone who disagrees with me.
6. I want to workout not to lose weight, not to win the next pageant, and not to "look better", but because it feels good and I want to be healthy.
7. I want to play more Barbies with Madelynn.
8. I want to say, "yes" more when nonprofit organizations ask for a few dollars.
9. I want to smile more ... and mean it.
10. I want to take the time to pray for people, and I mean really pray, because people need it.

Blessings to you and yours this year! Remember that Jesus Christ has a mighty purpose for your life ... trust His heart!

JNACK