It is easier for me to act like Martha than Mary.

It’s easier to spend all week Googling Bundt cake recipes for Easter, and writing ridiculously long to-do lists that include things like: “Wash car. Buy Mother’s Day gifts. Mop floors. Clean fireplace. Shower (as if I’d forget). Look for chalkboard cleaner. Find out when Southwest Airline miles expire. Stretch my back. Grocery store. Remind Jonathan to find part for the washer. Find white maternity capris. Prep for bible study.”

It’s easier to think about (and then stress about) all the activities I’m not involved in at church. It’s easier to say yes to many of them because it’s what I think I should do, not necessarily what I want to do.

It’s easier to drive to work each day strategizing how I’ll get as much accomplished as I possibly can, rather than asking God for how He wants me to spend the precious hours He’s gifted me to use.

It’s easier to worry than to pray. It’s easier to complain than give it up God.

It’s my tendency to act like Martha, except when I do I just feel tired at the end of the day instead of peaceful.

Amy gave me a wonderful devotional a few weeks ago. It’s called Jesus Calling by Sarah Young. Here is today’s entry, written from God’s perspective:

“I am always with you, so you have no reason to be afraid. Your fear often manifests itself in excessive planing. Your mind is so accustomed to this pattern of thinking that you are only now becoming aware of how pervasive it is and how much it hinders your intimacy with Me. Repent of this tendency and resist it, whenever you realize you are wandering down this well worn path. Return to My Presence, which always awaits you in the present moment. I accept you back with no condemnation.” (Psalm 46:10, Romans 8:1)

Mary lived in the present moment. I’m trying to be more like her this week. I’m wondering if anyone can relate to this struggle? Do you have a tendency to over plan? Is it easier for you to be like Martha–busy taking care of all the details rather than sitting at Jesus’ feet?

If you answered no to all the above questions, then you’re a saint who’s obviously perfect. That being the case, can you at least tell me how to resist eating the leftover bunny Bundt cake from today’s meal?  I’m not sure if I can work on both my excessive planning issue and my sugar issue at the same time…

Happy Easter.

The restaurant was one of the best in Mendocino, and Jonathan had made reservations weeks before our anniversary.  But when we arrived for our 8:00pm seating, things weren’t exactly as I’d pictured they would be. To start, an impatient crowd was gathered around the door. The tiny old house, now transformed to a restaurant, wasn’t large enough to accommodate everyone. We all squished into the lobby, tight and quiet, doing our best to be patient. It was in these waiting moments that Jonathan, trying to get me to laugh, pointed out a lady wearing a wolf sweater. The fashionista herself was talking quickly and loudly.

Forty-five minutes we were seated with a short and hurried apology.  With five courses to go, and plenty to talk about, we weren’t upset. One couple, however, was so  disappointed with the slow service they left before their bottle of wine could arrive.

The food was rich and flavorful, just as Yelp said it would be, but each course was delivered with a frazzled smile. We quickly realized our waiter was also the owner and his wife, the chef.  When she personally delivered an appetizer to our table, we asked how she was doing.

“Uhhhh….well….hmmmm,” she seemed to search for words, and then drew in a long breath. “It’s been, an, um, long week,” she said.

I was surprised by her honest response. Most people, especially those trained well in customer service, would plaster on a big smile and lie. I sensed she wanted to lie and couldn’t. Her authenticity was both refreshing and frustrating. We wanted an exceptional dining experience, but this place wasn’t as polished and professional as we expected.

We kept eating and talking, drinking, and laughing. Soon the restaurant began to clear out until only the wolf lady’s party remained. We debated whether to order dessert, and agreed it was only appropriate. We could handle waiting for chocolate cake. The food had been amazing, and surely dessert would also be.

“I’d like to talk to the chef,” the wolf lady said loudly. “Please, bring out the chef!”

It was 11:00pm. Our plates had just been cleared and the music turned off. We couldn’t help but watch the interaction out of the corner of our eyes. The chef appeared. I braced myself for the worse.

What happened next surprised me-no-shocked me.  I don’t know if I’ll ever forget the scene.

“Oh! There she is!” cried the woman. “Compliments to the chef! Sit down, sit down. You’ve earned it.”

The exhausted looking chef did sit down, as if in the company of old friends. We could only see her back, but it was obvious she felt defeated and embarrassed. If she spoke, we couldn’t hear her. But, we didn’t need to speak. The lady in the sweater was one of those types who could carry on a conversation by herself.

“Now, we know you’ve had a long week.  Your husband told us.  My, my… moving the entire restaurant in just three days, and expanding too! That is so much work. It just looks lovely though. Doesn’t it? Doesn’t it look lovely?” She asked the others at the table to agree with her, but she moved on before they could speak. “And the food- OH- the food! It was exceptional, just exceptional. We will happily be back, and we’ll tell our friends to come here too. Now, don’t feel bad. Please, don’t feel bad. It’s hard to run a small business on your own. But, you’ve done a wonderful job. You should be proud of your restaurant. We had such a good time.”

I found myself staring, unable to turn away from this moment of grace tumbling off one woman’s lips, and lifting another woman’s tired soul.  I found myself wanting to emulate this lady—this very loud and very underdressed lady—who continue to praise the fine work of a defeated French chef. Not once did she mention the slow service. Not once did she mention the long wait. She focused on the positive, even when it wasn’t 100 percent deserved.

Jonathan and I walked to the door to be handed our doggy bag—a huge slice of chocolate cake that we’d later determine to be one of the better pieces of chocolate cake ever consumed.

“Thank you, so much sir, for a wonderful meal,” I said. “We will be back. And we’ll tell our friends too.”

He looked at us with grateful eyes, and quickly recounted the long week they’d had. And then, he walked us to the door so we could drive home along the coast, full of food and thankful for grace.

It’s been 20 months since I heard the news. It was early one weekday morning in July 2008, and I had just finished a spin class at Capital Athletic Club. Unlike most other days, I had few minutes to watch TV in the Jacuzzi before getting ready for work. That morning CNN was reporting on U.S. cities with the highest incidences of sex trafficking. My city ranked very high on the list. I remember being surprised; thinking perhaps I hadn’t heard the facts correctly. Sacramento? Sex trafficking? That happens in cities like New York. Miami. Bangkok. Not in my city.

I went into work that day and shared the news with anyone at my office who would listen. “Someone has to do something,” I said!  “If no one else does, I will.” Fortunately for little ol’ me (since I had no experience in this area) someone else had the same stirring on her heart.

The next day, an article came out in the Sacramento Bee discussing sex trafficking in the area.  In the piece, a woman named Jenny Williamson said she was starting conversation with local law officials and the FBI. Immediately, I knew I wanted to meet her.

After finishing the article, I emailed the reporter asking for Jenny’s contact information. A few days later, bubbly Jenny arrived at my office wearing a bright green jacket—her signature color—and a big confident smile on her face that confirmed what I already knew. She, with God’s guidance, was going to change this city for so many young women.

As it stands today, children who are either caught or rescued from sex trafficking on our city streets are usually sent to Juvenile Hall. After a slap on the wrist, they return to the streets where they enter back into a cycle of abuse. Most girls are running from broken families. They have little money, and they’re searching for a way to survive. What they need is a true home—a place that cares for their souls, their bodies and their futures. Jenny has a vision to build such a home in our area.

I have been lucky to be a very small part of Jenny’s journey in the last year. My company allowed me do pro-bono work for Courage House in 2009 (cool, right?) Jonathan and I have watched the organization’s progress over the last year as they’ve created a benefit CD, held awareness concerts and fought for a voice with law enforcement and the local media. As a result, over $800,000 was raised in 2009.  (Watch this KCRA clip about trafficking in the Sacramento area.)

Tonight, we attended a celebration worship night to give God glory for the work He is doing to rescue girls in trafficking. As it stands today, less than two years after Jenny received a calling on her life, Courage House has a property of land in Placer County.

At church last weekend, and again at tonight’s event, I was reminded of this: faith requires action. James 2:14-26  says “… what use is it, my brothers, for a man to say he “has faith” if his actions do not correspond with it? Could that sort of faith save anyone’s soul? If a fellow man or woman has no clothes to wear and nothing to eat, and one of you say, “Good luck to you I hope you’ll keep warm and find enough to eat”, and yet give them nothing to meet their physical needs, what on earth is the good of that? Yet that is exactly what a bare faith without a corresponding life is like – useless and dead. If we only “have faith” a man could easily challenge us by saying, “you say that you have faith and I have merely good actions. Well, all you can do is to show me a faith without corresponding actions, but I can show you by my actions that I have faith as well.”

As Jenny has said, “Pay attention to what breaks your heart.” And then—simply—act. Go. Be the hands and feet. Stretch yourself. Love big. Ask to be used. I don’t do these things often enough. In fact, most days I am too absorbed in my own life to think about people other than myself. Jenny’s big faith, and big action, remind me that our world has great needs. We can each be a tiny part of a greater plan for healing.

For more information about Courage House, click here.

Picture credit

“Keep your shoulders pointed forward, downhill” Jonathan kept saying. We were skiing last Sunday, and his patience was starting to wear thin. The ungroomed runs were scaring me so I was taking big wide turns, side to side, rather than short quick turns downhill. I had two choices: keep thinking about end-of-day hot choccolate (and continue to move like molasses) or push outside my comfort zone. Fortunately, Jonathan’s advice was right on–keeping my shoulders facing downhill felt natural, and as a result I started moving faster.

The next day, my body hurt in places I didn’t know existed. I went to a Vinyasa yoga class at a local studio to stretch out my aching muscles. I have a love/hate relationship with this studio; love, because it can be an extremely challenging workout, but hate because it’s always too crowded. The evening class was so packed I was only inches away from the person next to me, barely able to breathe in the steamy air. The instructor began talking about how we were a community coming together, uniting our voices as we chant “OOOOMMMMMMMM.” And while the “OOOMMMMMM” thing will always be strange to me, there was no denying a feeling of unison as 50 people–all young, thin, and urban hip–let their voices vibrate.

But, once the class started, we were on our own. If you’re attended a yoga class before, you’ll understand this better than others who haven’t. The practice is about finding inner strength as you push yourself as much or as little as you want.

“I want you to keep your hips pointed forward, towards the front of the room,” the instructor said. Her advice, like Jonathan’s, was rooted in experience. But then, she continued, “Go at your own pace. There’s no right or wrong way to do yoga. This is your practice. This is your night.” I smirked a little bit. If there wasn’t a wrong way to do yoga, I would have kept the $18 bucks I’d just paid for her class. I wanted her to teach me the right way, to challenge me like Jonathan had.  I didn’t want her to feed me the crap the rest of our culture does–the crap that says, “This life is all about you…your feelings, your comfort, your needs.”

When the lights dimmed at the end of class, our little community laid in our backs in silence. In my head, I sang the Doxology, a hymn often sung a cappella by congregations: “Praise God to whom all blessings flow. Praise Him, all creatures here below. Praise Him above, ye heavenly host. Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost. AAAAAAAAAHHHHMMMMMMMM eeeennnnnnn.”

photo credit here.

“11 o’clock Sunday morning is the most segregated hour of the week … And the Sunday school is still the most segregated school.”

–Martin Luther King, Jr. in 1963

It’s been over 45 years since King’s statement challenging Christians to think about diversity in our churches. This article in Time magazine, Religion and Race: Can Megachurches Bridge the Racial Divide? is a good read as we celebrate this rainy MLK Jr Day.

“We had quite a media storm when we learned that a parent of a kindergarten student in our school was earning a living as a stripper and we asked her to either give up that profession or withdraw her child from our school. Since that day, life has had many twists and turns for Christina and her family. … I’m happy to share with you that Christina has been attending our church faithfully since January and her two children are enrolled in our school. We have come full circle in our relationship.”

“Ben Sharpe has walked in forgiveness toward others and has excelled in his journey since the firestorm he experienced with us 14 years ago. Ben was in my oldest son’s eighth-grade class in 1995. He was chosen that spring to receive the Superintendent’s Award for academic achievement and character and citizenship. He was an impressive young man. A few days before graduation, Ben got a haircut that appeared to violate a dress code rule. … Ben was prohibited from attending graduation and receiving a well-deserved award. … On behalf of leaders who did not intend to betray Ben Sharpe and his family, but by our actions much pain was caused, I want to publicly ask forgiveness. … I can’t change the past, but I can act on what I can do today.” –Rick Cole, Pastor of Capital Christian Church in Sacramento, during last Sunday’s sermon.

Nothing makes me feel better than churches realizing when they’ve done wrong, and publicly asking for forgiveness. On top of that, our major newspaper covered the story on the front page. Read the full Sacramento Bee article here.

I was nine years old when Jaycee Lee Dugard was snatched off her street in South Lake Tahoe. I, like her, had long blonde hair and snaggled adult teeth that hadn’t yet been straightened by braces. We probably would have been interested in the same things: Barbies, helping mom cook, books. But unlike Jaycee, I got the chance to grow up on my own terms, the way children are supposed to. Jaycee lost her innocence at 11 years old. She will never get her past back, in this world. Neither will her two daughters.

I thought about Jaycee a lot this week. Many people across the country have followed her story, not believing such a horrific crime could take place in their own backyards. (Click here to read a story in today’s Sacramento Bee about Jaycee). The day after she reappeared, I stood in our bathroom brushing my teeth, thinking about her young face and what it might look like today. She is likely very pale. Her eyes do not hold the same joy of her youth. She has grown into her teeth, and her body has changed. She is a woman now, a mother. She cannot tell her daughter’s stories of her youth. She cannot offer them advice and wisdom. She cannot protect them. While she may have been found alive, she was not found safe. She has not been safe for 18 years.

I say that I believe in redemption, but her story challenges my faith. I want to believe that Jaycee’s story can be redeemed. I know Jesus conquered a cross that was painful and horrific. I know what happened to Him was undeserved and criminal. I know that out of His suffering came grace and redemption for us all. Can I believe the same for Jaycee? I pray first for her redemption, and I pray next for my own belief that it can truly happen.

I know that I skip around a lot on my blog. Somedays you might find my deepest thoughts and fears, and on other days you’ll find my light musings on cake or cow milking. I like this blog because it’s my forum for sharing what goes on in my life–the mundane, the deep, the silly, the odd, the fun, the bad, the hard, the good, the everything.

Today is Easter and while we enjoyed a very beautiful 78 degree day, we’re now sitting next to a flickering fire– our very last for the season. Soon the weather will become unbearably hot, I’ll walk around barefoot and get awful calluses on my feet, and we’ll run the air conditioner until 10pm instead of waking up to a blasting heater. I’m really excited about all of these things.

“No itch was ever satisfied by getting really good at scratching.” (unknown)