Truth in a movie about lies.

One of the worst movies I've ever seen contained one of the most profound lines I've ever heard.

The movie The Invention of Lying came out a few years ago and starred Jennifer Garner, Ricky Gervais, and Rob Lowe. If you did see this movie, I hope you Red Boxed it. It was definitely not worth more than 99 cents. Now, I won't bore you with why this movie was so horrible (this isn't Daley'sMovieReviews.com), you'll just have to take my word for it.

The one redeeming factor of this movie is a line that comes from Anna McDoogles, the character played by Jennifer Garner. To give you a little backstory, the basic premise of the movie is that Mark Bellison (Ricky Gervais) lives in a world where no one lies. He figures out one day that he is the only one who knows how to lie so, of course, everyone believes everything he says. He uses this power-of-sorts to acquire money and trick women into dating him.

In one of the saddest scenes in the movie, Mark is sitting at his mother's bedside as she is moments away from dying. She's in a lot of pain and tells Mark that she is frightened to die because death will be an eternity of dark nothingness. Mark is obviously in anguish watching his mother suffer so he decides to comfort her by telling her a "lie" about what happens after death. With tears in his eyes, he tells her that she's going to a place where she'll see all the people she loves, where she'll be young again. He tells her that everyone will get a mansion and that there will be no more pain. Her face lights up and she calms down, and passes away.

Word gets out that Mark somehow knows what happens to people after they die, which makes him an instant part-celebrity-part-prophet and everyone begs him to tell them what he knows about the afterlife.

Anna (the woman Mark is dating) comes over to his house and asks him to tell her this remarkable news. As he tells her, her eyes fill up with tears and relief comes over her face. She pauses for a moment, looks at him very seriously and says, "You've gotta tell everyone."

_____________

Now, while I’m fully aware that this movie is mocking faith in a higher power, this line still hit me pretty hard...because it’s so true.

If someone had information that would give people everywhere HOPE- shouldn’t they tell everyone?? Shouldn’t they be absolutely desperate to tell everyone the incredible good news?



The truth is- I have the most incredible news to tell but I don’t tell it.

I know that death isn’t just an eternity of nothingness, and that there is no reason to fear death- but I remain silent.

I know that God is real and that He loves us- but I hoard this news like a selfish child.

I live my life knowing that I'm never alone and I enjoy the peace and fulfillment that comes with knowing Christ- yet I keep it to myself and therefore keep others from having this hope too.

I blame my perpetual busyness. I blame my lack of knowledge. I don’t want to make people feel awkward. I don’t want to be rejected.

But today I’ve had enough. I’m done not telling people. I’m done being scared. [And yes, I realize I'm saying this from behind a blog...]

So here’s the good news. Here’s the hope that I have:

There is a God. He created everything. He’s more powerful and wonderful and loving than anything our little minds can comprehend. And even though He’s the creator of universe- for some crazy reason He loves me. He loves me even though I’m imperfect, fickle, and ungrateful most of the time. He’s known me since before I was born. He knew what I would look like, He knew my personality, my quirks, my flaws. He knew that I was imperfect, so He gave up his perfect son as a sacrifice so that my sins could be forgiven.

And through Jesus dying and being raised again, I have HOPE. I know I am forgiven. I know that God is with me no matter where I am, no matter how lost. I know that there’s more to this life than money, sex, and status. I know that I am loved in a way I cannot fathom.

These aren’t things I’m saying because someone told me to say them. I haven’t been brainwashed. I don’t believe in God because I need some way to explain the hard things in life.

I believe these things because I’ve experienced God’s love first-hand. I’ve screwed up in monumental ways and yet in my darkest moments, God never left me. He’s forgiven me over and over and over again. In the face of uncertainty, loss, loneliness- God was always there. I’ve turned to a lot of different things to find fulfillment and purpose and have only ever been left disappointed. But God fulfills completely. He takes me in His arms and tells me He loves me just as I am. He’s the joy of my life. He’s my protector.

This is what I know to be true, and the reason I have hope.

And this is the hope that you have, too.

___________________________



To my precious family- my Aunts and Uncles and cousins- forgive me if I haven’t told you these things in person. It’s weird how sometimes it’s harder to say these things to the people you love the most. The next time we see each other, if you want to- let’s talk.

To my friends- let’s help each other be bold in telling people this incredible news. It’s too awesome to keep to ourselves. And there’s no time to waste.

Sister

Do you remember your very, very first memory? If you're lucky enough to have a very first memory, often times it's vague and fuzzy. It's hard to figure out whether or not it was it an actual memory or just a dream you had one night that you've mistaken for your first memory. Either way, this is the earliest memory I can recall having, everything before this moment I'm sure was just a lot of crying, eating, pooping and playing.

The day is September 30, 1987. I don't remember a lot about his day (come on, I was only three and a half!) but what I do remember is pretty magical. I remember being in Del Puerto Hospital- a tiny hospital in our hometown that sat right next to the little league baseball field. The hospital halls smelled of urine and baby powder and cleaning products, mostly because 90% of its inhabitants were elderly. That hospital doesn't exist anymore, another victim of the central valley's faulty economy. The building still exists, but I'm not sure what it is used for other than to be a sad reminder to passers-by that our city was once viable enough to sustain our own hospital. But I digress.

On this day the hospital was busy and bustling, with the late summer sun shining through the windows and the sound of baseball games carrying into the halls.

Since my mother was in the hospital about to have a baby and my dad was in the hospital about to deliver that baby (I know, crazy right? Don't worry, he's a doctor...) my grandfathers were left in charge of my brother and I, ages 3 and 5 respectively. My mom tells me that we came to the hospital that day mismatched, dirty, disheveled and barefoot. I don't remember those details, although I'm sure the grandpas let us run wild and gave us any and every type of soda and candy to pacify us.

I remember peeking into one window (or maybe somebody opened a door so we could peek in, I'm not sure) and seeing my mom on her hospital bed. She looked sweaty and tired. However, when she saw the two of us she immediately gave us her best mommy's-ok-and-lying-on-a-hospital-bed-sweating-with-nurses-hovering-around-me-is-perfectly-normal-and-there's-no-reason-to-panic-or-cry kind of smile. We both bought it.

The next thing I remember is going down a hallway that was nothing but windows on one side. We stopped in front of these windows and stood on our tip-toes to look through. I pulled myself up on the wooden handrail to see what was inside. And then I saw her. Right in front of me, wrapped tightly in a blanket with nothing but her swollen little face poking out, was my baby sister. Her face was bright red and her head was covered with thick, fluffy black hair, much like I’d imagine an Inuit baby in a papoose would look like.

I don't remember much else about that day. I can't remember if I really understood what was happening or that I had just earned my middle child status. If only I had known that my charmed life of having one sibling whom I adored had now been shattered by this attention-stealing porcelain-doll of a baby. If only I had known that this baby would grow to be one of the most adorable but easily the most whiney, self-assured toddlers in the history of the world. If only I knew that she'd go on to steal many minutes of camcorder face-time that were rightfully mine (we have the VHS tapes to prove it). If only I had known that she'd live through her bowl-cut, tomboy, bushy-eyebrows, braces & bangs stages and come out on the other side stunningly beautiful. If only I had known that she'd become one of my greatest friends, the person I always describe to people who don’t know her by saying, "She's like me...only skinnier and a lot sweeter."

I don't think my little self could have possibly comprehended the enormity of that moment of seeing Leslie for the first time. I do now. And that makes me treasure my very first memory even more.

The Best Joke I Ever Told

(Now, this story may begin a little Debbie-Downer, but stick with me- I promise it ends well).



The best joke that I ever told, I told completely by accident.

About six months after graduating from college, my older brother Mike was diagnosed with Hodgkins Disease. He underwent six months of chemotherapy only for the cancer to return. The second time around, the doctors decided to throw the gamut of therapies at him (chemotherapy, radiation, and a stem cell transplant) to hopefully counter the aggressive cancer. During the time he was recovering from his stem cell transplant, and because his immune system had now been virtually destroyed, he stayed in the hospital for about three weeks in order to prevent infection or sickness. It was a two hour drive from our house to the hospital, so my mom lived there at the hospital while my dad and I would drive back and forth to visit.

It was during this first visit that Dad and I made to the hospital that I told the joke I would never forget.

Dad and I arrived at the hospital and immediately went to see my brother. Getting to his room felt like trying to get to the inner chambers of the Pentagon. We passed through a series of huge, heavy doors, the first of which would have to close in order for the second to open. Once we were through the doors, we then had to wash our hands before entering his individual room. (Talk about the best hand-washing I ever did in my life...). We finally entered my brother’s room, although it resembled a cave more than it did a hospital room. The curtains were drawn, the room was dimly lit, painting everything in dull, lifeless colors. It was quiet, but not a comfortable kind of quiet. My brother sat up in his bed, slightly hunched over the pink plastic tub he held in his lap. Every few minutes or so, he’d lean over and throw up into the tub, and then nonchalantly sit back up, as though nothing had happened. He was pale and weak but, as always, did his best to pretend he was fine.

After the four of us visited for a while, Mom and Dad stepped out of the room, leaving my brother and I to awkwardly find something to talk about. (Not that we’ve ever struggled to find things to talk about, but what on earth do you talk about in a situation like this? The weather?)

Not having anything better to talk about, my brother began to tell me how the new medication he was taking irritated his throat. He was attempting to describe to me how the medication made his throat itch, when he drew a blank and motioning to his neck asked me, “What’s the name for that thing that hangs down in the back of your throat?”

I automatically [thought I] knew the answer to this question and matter-of-factly blurted it out.

“Vulva.”

And then something miraculous happened. My brother chuckled. I hadn’t seen him laugh in months.

“Why are you laughing? That’s what it’s called.” I said, sure of myself and a little annoyed that he was laughing at me.

“You should know what that is, Day.” He said, still amused at my ignorance.

Then it hit me. I realized what body part I had just named. I burst out laughing. For a few short moments there we were, me and my big brother- in a dark depressing hospital room, giggling like two kids who had just heard someone say a dirty word.

Sometimes I think God had a hand in making me blurt out the wrong body part that evening. And the truth is- I would have said a million more dirty words to see him laugh.


Oh, and in case you were wondering, the thing that hangs down in the back of your throat is called your uvula. Simple mistake.









*By the grace of God, my brother is in complete remission. He is healthy and back to being his fearless, adventurous self who always seems to have a way better tan than me.

Thanks Tim Tebow.

[I wrote this back in February. Welcome to my crazy mind.]



Tonight was the annual “Battle of the Boulevard” basketball game at my alma mater, a long-held tradition where we play our rival team from the University down the street…(or boulevard). This game always sells out and the stands are packed with people proudly wearing their team colors. It’s always an exciting night, and this night proved to be no different.

During one of the time-outs, the huge screen at one end of the court lit up and the crowd grew silent as a video began to play. Starting from the floor and slowly scanning upward, the video revealed a man wearing a Lipscomb jersey. A very famous man. Who was this beautiful, thick-necked, pouty-lipped man endorsing our little, unknown school? None other than Tim-stinkin-Tebow himself. The arena buzzed with excitement. Whew….even I was sweating, and I’m not even a Florida fan. Come to find out, the point of the video was to announce that he would be the keynote speaker at a big event coming up at Lipscomb. Tim Tebow was coming to Nashville!

Moments after the video played, I immediately reached for my phone to text my sister who was somewhere in the packed arena, who I also knew would be freaking out at the idea of Tim Tebow coming to Nashville. We had become fans of the proud-to-be-Christian football-playing trio of Tim Tebow, Colt McCoy, and Sam Bradford, and admired them for being bold about their faith. I had been especially intrigued by Tim Tebow, who ESPN had nicknamed the “Chosen One” while he was still in high school because of his incredible talent and outspoken faith in God.

When I looked at my phone, my sister had, of course, beat me to it and texted me (in all caps) that OH MY GOSH YOU HAVE TO MEET HIM- HE IS SO YOUR SOULMATE!! I giggled at this thought. Then, as any girl would do (don’t lie, you do it too), I began to dream a little day dream….(Cue harp music and blurry fade-out to dream sequence).

~
It’s the day of the event, and since I have been such an over-achieving employee at Lipscomb for 6 months, the powers-that-be decide that I am clearly the best person from the university to introduce Tim Tebow before he speaks. So of course I wow the crowd with my introduction. I’m cute, charming, and confident. In fact, I somehow manage to make people cry and laugh, all in my simple- yet profound and ever-so brilliantly-worded introduction. “Who is this beautiful and articulate girl?” Mr. Tebow asks himself before he goes on stage. Afterwards, he finds me and introduces himself, asks me out and then we get married and live happily ever after in a hut in the Philippines with our seven adopted children. The end.
~

Ok.

So maybe I got a little carried away. Tim Tebow liking me? That’s totally outrageous. It would be like Cinderella at the ball. Out of all these fair maidens, you choose me? Out of all of these beautiful big-boobed, blonde-headed girls throwing themselves at you, you choose me? Who am I? Why me?

Then I started thinking about how I would act differently if indeed such a thing were to happen. You’re Tim Tebow’s girlfriend, you must be something special, something different. I’d carry myself with grace, with confidence, because people would expect it. I would do great things, like create charities and make inspirational speeches, because of who I was. Because the “chosen one” chose me.

Wait a second. Reality check.

Doesn’t the almighty all-knowing, all-loving, CREATOR of the entire UNIVERSE adore me and treasure me more than I could ever imagine? Didn’t the one and only true God create me exactly the way I am and think I am precious and beautiful?? Didn’t the perfect ONE-AND-ONLY SON OF THE LIVING GOD think I was so special and worth-it that he DIED to save me??

Chosen by the Chosen one. Hmmmm.

Why am I not shouting from the mountain tops, “You love ME, GOD?!!!”” “WHY ME, OF ALL PEOPLE???” “THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!” Why don’t I live every day in the astonishment that for some reason God himself sees me as powerful and unique and priceless? Why don’t I look fear in the eye and LAUGH, knowing I am loved by my Heavenly Father who has conquered all—even death?!!

I am loved by this God. I am loved by the maker of the universe. Wow.

Thanks Tim Tebow….but I don’t think I’ll be needing you after all.

That feeling...you know the one.

I feel it when I’m driving alone in my car. I feel it when I’m sitting at home after a long day at work. It tugs at me when I lie awake in the middle of the night, unable to go back to sleep.

It finds me when it’s quiet, when it’s just me and my thoughts; the loud kind of silence that makes me feel restless and uneasy.

To counter this feeling, I grab for my phone and go through the imaginary rolodex in my mind of the people I could call or text. I turn on the radio and search amongst my five country music presets until I find just the right song with which to sing along. I turn on the TV and accidentally watch three episodes of The Hills marathon (as I simultaneously curse it as being the source of all that is wrong with society). I mindlessly facebook until I end up on someone’s cousin’s boyfriend’s vacation pictures. I do everything I can possibly think of to fill the silence, to avoid that feeling.

If only for a short time, I’m quite successful at bypassing this feeling. But regardless of how skilled I get at finding new and creative ways of killing my time or zoning out, the feeling always finds me again.

The truth is, I have felt this feeling my whole life. When I was younger I called it boredom, when I got a little older I called it ADHD, and when I got a little older I called it loneliness- none of which I now know to be the true source of this odd feeling.

I think I’m finally beginning to figure it out.

This morning in church, the preacher read the following verses from the book of Galatians:

“Because you are sons, God sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, the Spirit who calls out, ‘Abba, Father.’ So you are no longer a slave, but a son; and since you are a son, God has made you also an heir.” (Galatians 4:6-7).

I got stuck on the phrase “the Spirit who calls out ‘Abba, Father.’” So, if I’m reading this correctly- God gave me the Spirit of his Son. It’s inside of me. It is the same powerful Spirit that created the world, that raised people from the dead- that same Spirit resides in this pile of flesh and bones.

But it doesn't go into great detail. The verse simply says it’s the Spirit that calls out “Abba, Father,” or in other words, the Spirit that is calling out, “Dad!”

As I was thinking about this, a movie clip came to mind.

It’s the scene from the 2000 movie The Patriot in which the father is preparing to leave his children to go to war. As he is saying goodbye to them one by one, he comes to his youngest daughter who is about seven or eight years old. This daughter, whose name is Susan, hasn’t spoken in months. He kneels down in front of her and begs her to say goodbye or to say anything at all, but she only stares at him. He even tries to hug the little girl but she quickly steps back. Clearly heartbroken, he gets on his horse and begins to ride away. There is a close-up shot of Susan, clutching her teddy bear watching her father ride away. The rest of the family begins to turn around to walk back to the house, but Susan stays, staring. Then, in a moment of panic, the little girl starts running after her father crying and yelling, “Papa, don’t go! I’ll say anything! Please Papa, I’ll say anything you want! What do you want me to say? I’ll say it! Promise Papa, please don’t go!” Needless to say, her father stops, jumps off his horse, runs to Susan and embraces her.

Whew. Rip my heart out and throw it on the ground.

There have been few scenes in a movie that have moved me to tears like the first time I watched this little girl cry out for her father. It’s innocent. It’s desperate. It’s a little girl wanting to be close to her father, wanting his protection and love.

I think this begins to describe this mysterious feeling I find myself having so often. Could it be that this feeling is the Spirit of the Lord which lives in me, crying out for my Father? It may not be so passionate and tearful, but that’s only because I’ve done such a good job suppressing it for so many years, chalking it up to mere restlessness when in fact it has only ever been my Spirit longing for my Father.

And I know you feel it too.

It is the Spirit inside of you that is constantly grasping for something more, something deeper, longing for that intimate, you-know-me-better-than-anyone-else kind of connection. It is the Spirit inside of you that is calling out to the only being that can truly satisfy, the only being for whom you were truly made.

It is the Spirit inside of you telling you to turn off the distractions, give up on all of the things you think will truly fulfill you- and simply be with the God who made you.

Embrace the silence. Embrace the quiet moment God has given you to simply rest in his presence. Cry out to Him. Sing to Him. Laugh with Him! He is your Father- and He adores you.

Things I am and Things I'm not

Sometimes I let all the wrong things define me.

A few months ago while at house church, I found myself in a down-right foul mood for no particular reason. That night we happened to be talking about being open to the Holy Spirit and being brave enough to act when we felt called to do something.

When house church was over I got into my car, still in a bad mood. I turned on the radio and began the drive home. I was having a lot of ridiculous thoughts- letting myself feel insignificant and worthless because of stupid things, thinking about all the things I'd change about myself if I could. Then I felt that old familiar tug- the Holy Spirit nudging me- telling me to turn off the radio and deal with the absurd thoughts I was having.

So I did.

I turned off the radio, realized how silly I was being, then I went home and wrote this.

_________________________________________________________

I am not what the world says I am.

I’m not the clothes I wear or a number on a scale. I’m not the bad things I’ve done in my past.

I’m not the good, admirable things I’ve done.

I’m not the rules I’ve broken or kept. I’m not the things I’ve saved for marriage. I’m not the things I didn’t save for marriage.

I’m not my charm or good looks. I’m not my impatience or chubby thighs.

I’m not the horrible things that have been done to me. I’m not the circumstances I was born into.

I’m not my accomplishments and my trophies. I am not an accumulation of stuff.

I’m not the number on my paycheck. I’m not the car I drive.

I’m not the people who laugh at me, or the people who like me.

I’m not the boys who ignore me or the boys who adore me.

I’m not the ugly words I’ve screamed in anger. I’m not the kind words I’ve said with love.

I’m not my mother’s daughter or my father’s daughter.

I’m not my mistakes, my faults, or my failures. I’m not the heartbreaks or the victories.

I’m not who you say I am.

I’m not the person I wish I was. I’m not that person I see in the mirror.

I’m not a body, a face. I am not things or actions.

I am a soul.

I am what Jesus says I am.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Damned without Him.

Saved because of Him.

Precious.

Me.

His.

________________________________________________________

"Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine." --Isaiah 43:1

"Who are they to give stars or dots? They're Wemmicks just like you. What they think doesn't matter." --You Are Special by Max Lucado

The little moments.

I love stories.

Happy ones. Sad ones. I eat them up like chocolate pudding. I love stories because we all have them- and no two are the same. We all have experienced something profound, something that moved us to our core. But most of our lives aren't made up of these profound moments. Instead, our lives are made up of mundane, seemingly insignificant moments.

These are the moments with which I am fascinated.

You see, I believe in celebrating the little moments. As exhilarating as the grand and glamorous moments may be- I believe God wants every moment- not just the mountain-tops and tear drops. And since most moments are uneventful to the naked eye, I take it upon myself to find meaning and magic where there appears to be none. I've found that when I stop and take a closer look at things, God's presence is always obvious, His beauty always apparent.

He's in every faint breeze just as much as He is in the thunder and rain. He's teaching us something every second, even if the lesson is only to be still and rest in Him. God is the point. God is the purpose. He is love and freedom and sweet rest.

I am beginning to see that God loves the average moment just like He loves an average person like me. And yet it is the simple fact that He loves what the world calls "average" that makes us quite the opposite.

So as long as these things continue to blow my mind, I will write about my daily attempts to comprehend the mysteries of finding God in the mundane. I'd love for you to join me.

"The day of my spiritual awakening was the day I saw--and knew I saw--all things in God and God in all things." --Mechtild of Magdeburg (as found in An Altar in the World by Barbara Brown Taylor)