Sitting in our living room with dear friends the other day, Mike said, "It's easier to be against something than to be for something."

That made me stop and think.

This comment is an important key to a subtle problem.

Stop a stranger on a city street and my guess is most could articulate well the things Christians are against.  The pedestrian would most likely rattle off a few with passion, just as Christians do.

I won't name the top three because we already have in our mind.  I bet each list would reflect identical words.

What if we asked the stranger what Christians are for?

Although she will still name a few, I think there'd be a thoughtful pause.

The thoughtful pause is the subtle problem.

What are we for?  Passionately.

We know the answer, but are we successful in communicating it?  Or are we busier with contrary matters?

Prior to vacationing on the mud hole, our family will enjoy a "do-over" vacation on the beach.

Not every vacation turns out the way we planned, as mentioned yesterday, but God is in the business of giving the things we desire. 

He's not a kill-joy, as some believe.

I believed it... the day before our beach vacation, five years ago when I sat in a waiting room, Mom's leg getting cut open so they could stick in a metal bar to fix her cracked in half femur.

A four second fall. 

What about all the folded beach towels?  The plastic buckets for grandkids?  Is this a cruel, sick joke being played out by a heartless God?

The television seemed to shout so as I sat motionless in shock while a newscaster, looking stupid in his suit, stood in the sand among families laughing and playing on the very beach our vacation was supposed to take place in less than 24 hours.

Mom's countless other surgeries didn't make sense either.  Now this?  Hasn't she had enough?  Can't you just leave her alone long enough to enjoy a week long dream with her family?  Sorry, God.  I'm not getting you and I don't really care to try.  Whatever you're plan is with this one, I think it sucks!

Those are desperate days when we're in the middle.  When we have no desire to hang with God anymore... could care less if we ever see Him again...

Thankfully, that's a distant memory from today.

He got us through it.  Moment by moment.  Lesson after lesson.

Closer together through trial we come.

And then the blessing follows.

  The Do Over!   

Within weeks we'll be there.

On the beach with towels and buckets.

Mom will smile. 

The sky will match her eyes.

We seek wisdom when we don't understand and God eventually answers with blessing.

A long awaited gift.

Won't heaven be so much of the same...  

If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him.

  James 1:5 (NIV)

Weather seems to be the topic of conversation around Seattle... our 78 minutes of summer.  On the news they're showing people walking around in coats that should be covered in a dry cleaning bag 'til October.

People like to talk about weather.

People like to complain.

In the Northwest we're enjoying the perfect combination.  Go anywhere and you'll hear the grumblings, "Sick of it!  Fed up.  Ready to move."

We place expectations on summer.  No coats, for sure.

We also place expectations on vacation.

I'll be honest, the promise of vacation on the east coast (where it'll be well over 80 degrees & we'll complain because of the mere shock) is what's keeping me positive! 

But I'd be a fool to put my hope in that vacation, just as we're foolish to put our hope in fantastic weather.

The truth is, I already know it's not going to be perfect.

A highlight, something three generations of family is looking forward to, will be our week on Lake Makoma.  Nestled in northeastern Pennsylvania, this lake is a secret to many unknowing tourists flocking toward crowded traps.

The beauty of this large reservoir is the absence of motor boats, but the presence of quiet splashes from a kayak's oar while gliding along the periphery, collecting prime handfuls of wild blueberries.

The home we'll be renting is perched gloriously on waters edge.  A deck to sit and contemplate solitude over an early morning cup of coffee while the rising sun glistens over the water.

There's just one problem.

No water.

Right now, and most likely four weeks from now, when our family arrives, the lake is nothing but a giant mud hole.  No sparkling from the sun.  No swimming.  No blueberries from the boat.

Just mud.

The dam project won't be finished in time for our vacation.  It's the location we chose for our whole family to reunite, which only happens every five years or more.  Funny thing is, the last time we all gathered was in a smelly, awkward hospital room.  We'd planned another week with water... on the Jersey shore for Mom's 70th birthday.  A dream come true.  But the day before departure she fell and broke her femur.

No gathering together in water that time either.

So what is the choice?

We could grumble and complain.  Talk endlessly about how annoyed we are.  Follow the same mantra as the streets of Seattle.

Or we could exhibit the sweetness of the Son of God, living within our bodies.  Nothing but a miracle!

He is the gift in times of adversity.  Because without Him we'd be nothing but irritated and selfish, demanding that our expectations are met.

There will be purpose in the mud hole.

I'm looking forward to what God might have to say over an early morning cup of coffee that mirrors my view.

I live in the Pacific Northwest.

Locals reading my blog title are already lifting umbrellas in pursuit to whack me with it.

According to a local news source (thanks, Heather), Seattle has had a 78 minute summer so far ~ that is, temperatures over 80 degrees.  To break it down even further, we had 12 minutes on July 2, and 66 minutes on July 6.

Why in the world would I be praying for rain?

Because even though I have yet to turn on the hose to water outdoor plants, my writing feels parched.

I'm in a drought.  Blocked.

Water flows far below the surface.  There are bits and pieces of ideas churning dramatically on the surf of my inner world, but I'm having a tough time bringing any of them up.

There are three reasons why:

1) Drama.  My family... in and out, up and down... it's the middle of summer and yet again the adjustment of bodies crowding not just my creative physical space, but my mental space, leaves me looking a bit like a rabid boar.

Drama affects all of us.  We must be careful how much we let enter or else a small town play may take over your productive energies. 

If you too are feeling a drought with whatever it is you need to accomplish, consider the dramatic barometer permeating your every day and make a choice to walk away from scenes being played out among friends, co-workers, or in the neighborhood. 

It's not rudeness.  It's a choice.

It's sanity. 

And often the big drama that is affecting your own soul gets replaced with a thousand little dramas because those are less painful.

2) Pressure.  There are other visitors, besides my family, who have entered my square office space.

A very important agent who hold the future of my book in her authoritative fingers.

Other authors making first impressions.

Billable coaches who will teach me how to "grow this ministry as a marketable business" and "how to build my platform."

The art I once tossed around like a colorful beach ball has become serious.

The fun has flown out the cracked window and it feels a bit stuffy while these guests sit so seriously amidst books and things that used to fuel my writing.  I'm focused in on product and asking myself, "How are you doing?"

The answer is, "not well."  

Where are you feeling the pressure?  Who stands cross-armed in judgment over your work?

Together, let's try to return to our audience of One.  It is only our Creator we should be producing product for.

3) Perfectionism.  The perfectionist does not want to bother with unpolished rough drafts.  She doesn't want to be lumped in with mediocrity...writing that readers skim and quickly discard with their sandwich bag, while checking in on your blog at lunch break.

Creative beings want lumps in the throat, tears, a changed life after 400 words. 

Perfectionists aren't very nice to themselves either.  They are their own worst critic.  They hold sharp things up to their own neck and warn, "Easy does it!  You'd be better off not creating anything, than something that is so poorly written the toddler laughs at its stupidity."

We whip ourselves with words like, "untalented", "fake", "waste of time", "imposter."

Why is it so hard to be nice to ourselves?

Why can't we spoon our insecurity with a bowl of chicken noodle soup? 

Say to ourselves, "There, there.  It'll be alright.  The rain will come."

The rain will come. 

As much as I've been un-impressed with a hand full of coaching I've seen over the years, this week our family was introduced to a top notch, hands down impressive sports camp you will want to check out!

NBC Basketball Camp (also has volleyball, soccer, and football camps).

Founder Fred Crowell, "dreamed of a basketball camp that would train athletes to win both on and off the court.  He wanted a program that would provide the best basketball training, create an atmosphere of encouragement, hard work, respect and compassion, and teach athletes to compete not only physically but with their hearts and minds."

Since 1971 he's delivered just that.  Our middle child witnessed this first hand, as well as the rest of the family with their inclusive, family supported atmosphere.

I can't begin to say enough about the positive, character building experience.

These hand-picked, college age coaches were servant leaders who spoke with their feet and hearts.  It was never about winning, but about drive, character, and your team.

When asked one thing they learned, a camper replied, "Until you learn how to lose, you'll never know how to truly win."

It's truly incredible to witness far more positive impact from a twenty one year old coach in five days, than from a fifty year old coach in an entire season.

I would recommend every child witnessing it for themselves!

Let's talk about coaches.  The ones who instruct our kids.

What has your experience been?

Our nine year baseball experience has witnessed a few gems (for which we are thankful), but overall, from a female perspective, I'm not all that impressed.

Driving home from a recent game I even asked, "At what point should a coach be held accountable for his words and actions?"

No one in the car seemed to know the answer.

Later that day, I learned of a coach who was fired from the job... one who had the responsibility of coaching impressionable thirteen year old boys.  For the past six months he's huddled these young men into his presence and told them to hold a high standard and represent themselves well.

Three quarters through the baseball season, however, his true colors came to the light.  The crime?

Smoking marijuana in his hotel room when the entire team traveled to an out of state tournament.

Now that's impressive!

So much of me wants to jump up and shout something.  I want to take control.  Hold my own meeting to point out every inappropriate act I've witnessed over the years.  I want to pull back the wounds these young and old men have seared onto countless teenage hearts.

But God encouraged me through His word this morning.

Hear this from The Message- Psalm 9: 5-7:

You blow the whistle on godless nations;

you throw dirty players out of the game,

wipe their names right off the roster.

Enemies disappear from the sidelines,

their reputation trashed,

their names erased from the halls of fame.

God holds the high center,

He sees and sets the world's mess right.

I'm learning that a lot of what I see and hear, I don't fully understand.  There is a male world being played before me and, yes, I can let my voice be heard... I can speak into the heart of my children when coaching tears them down... but there is a very big part of me that does not belong on the field.

I've learned that the damage increases when parents also don't know when to shut up. 

And today I'm reminded that God is on the field.  He is setting things straight.  Dirty players will eventually be thrown out of the game, even when I'm appalled by what they get away with.

Maybe you have a different opinion, as far as your role as a mother on the sidelines.  How would you answer: At what point should coaches be held accountable? 

It depends on what your fantasizing about.  Other men, immoral acts... yes, that's wrong.

But really, are those your true fantasies?

I think those are fantasies that are sold to us on a dollar store shelf, maybe even an adult store if we're really desperate.  They're not our true fantasies at all.  If I were to really boil down my inner longings and dreams, they hold things that are not immoral. 

My fantasies always include:

*Romance

*Travel

*Adventure

*Absence of Inhibition

*Being Fully Known

*The Unconventional

They would never be found on the cover of Cosmopolitan.  If yours are found there, consider the truth that the art of marketing has seeped into the core of your uniquely created soul.  It's a borrowed fantasy.  Not one you were meant to take ownership of.

Put the glossy pages down.  Turn the tube off and think.

If you're a traditionalist, maybe a legalist, this might be difficult.  You may need to put some other things down, like "religious indoctrination" that would tell you no such thoughts should enter your mind.

But hasn't the store shelf ruined it for us?  Isn't it the world that has made "fantasy" such a bad thing?

Since when is floating down the Nile river on an outlandish raft, luxuriously lain with silk, fluffy pillows, aromatic food and exotic beverages, holding a riveting novel in one hand, and my strapping husband in the other, a bad thing? 

(With Your Spouse) Those are three important words.

How much FUN have you had in the past week?  Maybe you went to a water park with the kids, or had some friends over for a barbeque, but when it comes to the person you lie next to every night... have you had fun with him?

I can hear the grumblings already:

"My husband doesn't want to have fun!

"I can't remember when we last had a date!"

"Our kids are too young and it's expensive to go out."

Those are outward responses.  Inwardly, even subconsciously, it's:

"I'm too tired."

"I don't feel good about myself right now."

"The demands of life and children keep us from having fun."

One day (in the very near future), however, the list (at least the one you have now) and children will be gone and two breathing humans will still be next to each other.  Will you have fun then?

Probably not.

You must cultivate fun now.

Tomorrow we'll talk more about fun ~ even adventure and fantasy!!  But for today, consider your "fun factor."  Ask yourself how you can increase it... with your spouse.

If you feel like your all alone in the venture (your husband doesn't seem so interested in fun), begin with three powerful letters ~ S.E.X.

It's really pretty simple (on their part anyway), even though I know it's more complicated for us women.

I'm just saying ~ this is where we start.  Trust me!  It works.

Hate to talk about sad things two days in a row, but can't seem to shake the fan who fell from the stands at a Texas Rangers game last night.

I learned of the tragedy while running on the treadmill this morning.  I went from shock to judgment within thirty minutes and by 10 am I was being hard on the guy.  I was thinking that every other fan will have to ultimately suffer because he was being foolish and irresponsible.

By the time I hit the shower I had a different thought, though.

I kept hearing from the news report that his last words were about his son.  He wanted to make sure that his son was taken care of.  He was talking about the boy being left alone up in the stands where he and the six year old had been enjoying an innocent game of baseball just minutes before.

I've made my own conclusion (and of course, it's just my impulsive opinion), but I think the dad was doing whatever he could to catch that ball for his son.

That's the Gospel.

Sometimes a stupid analogy helps us see things clearer.

The ball is eternal life.  The dad is Jesus.  The son is us.  The fall is the cross.

It's simple and very reckless, but the Father loves us that much.  He too was willing to take a deathly plunge.  Since then He's been misunderstood and judged for the act, been called foolish, cried out for us before His last breath.

I pray this fan's six year old son can some day make the same analogy.  He has two fathers who died for him.

I just got off the phone with the Teacher (for new readers, that's my husband of 20 years.  The title suits him, not just because he's a P.E. Teacher & tennis coach, but the need to teach is in his blood).

Sometimes this need gets in the way though. 

Think of all the teachers in your past.  Did you ever really know them?  Probably not too much.  Teaching is a "doing" thing.  Knowing someone is a "being" thing.

The Teacher admits that a lot of times he doesn't know how to just "be."

When we have these conversations, our roles reverse and I become the Teacher, guiding him toward stillness and the truth that, "Just knowing you is all I want right now.  You are loved unconditionally whether you teach me or not."

That's why this morning may have been a gift, even though the circumstance is altogether unfair and atrocious.

But before I get to the desperate detail of today, let's walk backward one week... even a year. 

The gift comes through Randy. 

He's your average guy.  You'd see someone like him anywhere you go; tall, full head of hair, ready smile and a joke behind sparkling eyes.  The Teacher and Randy met a few years ago by way of my husband's most comfortable position ~ teaching a Bible study.

Randy learned a lot from the study.  He learned from the Teacher.

I don't know if The Teacher learned anything from Randy... until he got Leukemia.

Then everything changed.  Their conversations increased and intensified like two ten year old girls who discover true friendship while whispering among shared clothes in a messy upstairs bedroom.

Things changed when talking took place in a hospital or on a back deck with iced tea, protection from the sun and no hair.

It happens when the "student" suddenly understands what's important in life... when nothing matters but Jesus for real, not just with words.  And the Teacher experiences the opportunity to personally witness truths that were first only on pages in a book.

One week ago I think the Teacher was able to "be" on that back deck.  I could tell by the settled way he preceded through the rest of his day.  I suspect he'll be the same when he returns from the hospital this morning.

Randy has an infection. 

Today Randy can only communicate with his eyes.

All he can do is "be" while the machine breathes for him. 

And all the Teacher can do is "be" too, because it's hard to teach someone with a tube down their throat.

Maybe this is the gift we receive through suffering.

Atrocious.  Faulty.  Rotten.  But within it our only choice is to "be."