Author Archives: PearlS

the Mary years.

Here’s something I never thought I’d ever admit to anyone, not ever:
I’ve written lots of songs.

I actually never admitted the truth to myself, not till a few nights ago when my phone warned me it was running out of space. Since I can’t in good conscience delete photos and old text messages, I headed for my voice memo folder, where kids regularly record themselves blah-blah-blahing (literally, they say blahblahblah for entire minutes).

There were a handful of tunes I’d recorded in bathrooms–accompanied by ukulele, guitar, or mandolin, whatever I could attach chords to in the midst of kids splashing noisily in the tub in the background. A couple were done in the car, acapella, obviously with a fair amount of restraint lest curious onlookers discover my soul-bearing ways. I deleted an original Christmas carol and two very cheesy wedding songs. Only a lucky few made their way to the impressive studios of Garage Band.
I’ve had my phone for five years now. It’s no surprise my creative packrat tendencies show up in voice memos. But I can’t bear to delete the music.

Five years ago, I was sinking. Four kids doesn’t seem like a lot to many people. To others, it seems like an army. To tell the truth, I love kids. They fascinate me. Four didn’t always seem like a strong number–if I was tough like I thought, why wouldn’t I have more? I had a burdensome conscience no doubt influenced by a certain moral upbringing, and it did me no favors in regards to family planning (not that family planning was ever on my radar, but I digress). 

The kids and responsibilities and unsure future and sleepless nights overwhelmed me, especially five years ago. Everything landed square on my shoulders, it seemed. It was too much. I wasn’t managing anything well.
I still wonder how most everyone else seems to keep things under control but I cannot. Can’t manage a career, can’t manage my house, can’t find a shred of assurance that I’m raising my kids exactly right. I’m not a worrier, but I do wonder and just downright marvel at my lack of git-’er-done in a world of folks who keep the balls spinning. Will I ever have something of value to tack on a resume, or will it always feel like I’m sitting in a trail of dust?

But then I see the tiniest bit of sun shining through the clouds, er, iClouds. I’ve been at home doing my turtle work, head in shell, scratching here and there and not making many dents.
I’m making piles of art, ebenezers of remembrance.
Art that doesn’t mean much to anyone–but maybe God. Maybe it matters–no, it certainly matters to Him.
And it has come to my attention that my kids have always been right there, as I strum and find just the right chords, as I arrange and rearrange words and then ask them to listen and tell me what they think about the new song.

I was just your average, humble, stay-at-home mom, thinking life might pass me, but also not finding the energy to fight it. I was just watching kids all along and keeping my hand and mind busy, filling in small cracks of time with notes and words and music. And all those wearisome years of changing babies and collecting dust ended up as worship.

Looking back, it has made whatever shame I held evaporate.

It is better to live in worship; shame cannot hang around.

Those songs won’t ever be an I Can Only Imagine (and thank God for that, because I’ve heard it enough, haven’t you?). No one will have to hear my voice on the radio and wonder why the tune they once thought was catchy is now a relic of an earworm. I’ll never have to explain to anyone why I bothered for two years to turn the laments of Jeremiah into memorized melodies I can sing–my very own prayers for my people who, like the Israelites, have eyes, but cannot see and ears, but cannot hear (Jeremiah 5:21). I will sing of repentance–my own, and for the people I ache to know forgiveness and wholeness.

I will sing because it helps me memorize and internalize God’s word. I’m hiding it in my heart.
I’ll write because it is art, and art always imitates the Creator.
Imitation is worship.

These are the Mary years, the years at the feet of Jesus. Maybe the Martha years come after the kids grow up, or at least when they are back in school. As I look back on Jesus, the Mary years mattered more to Him than the git-’er-done Martha ways.
He was there to be worshiped in the flesh, and Mary recognized it as an opportunity to sit and worship. Martha excused herself from the situation, chalking it up to enneagram (j/k, sort of)–she was a 2, or perhaps a 1 or 8, and Mary (probably 4, 5 or 9) annoyingly lacked energy and motivation.

But whatever you do or don’t do, or are doing or aren’t doing–all of those little pieces of time add up and paint a bigger picture of what is worthy in your life.

Martha thought she needed to do x,y,z… But Jesus told Martha what Mary had chosen was better, and even though it didn’t look a whole lot like getting things done, he commended her for it.

I had all the opportunity in the world to perch on the closed toilet seat of a weeknight and strum a guitar or read my Bible, or both! all while watching my babies stick foam letters to the sides of the tub. I spent mornings with piles of library books and crumbs on the couch, kids flanking my elbows so I could hardly move to turn the pages. I boiled hundreds of packages of macaroni, wiped down the same high chair a million times. It felt like small beans at the time, a so-what-who-cares type of existence.

But it is not.
Your Father sees what is done in secret.
He rewards what is done in secret.
(Matthew 6:4)

I do not regret a single moment of it. The hidden, the secret and sacred. The art-making and kid-minding.

What does God want you to create? What is He asking you to let go?
What could you offer to Him in your Mary years?
What if no one ever saw it but Him?

I don’t think you’ll ever regret it.

I trust you, God, just not with my kids.

We wrapped up a week of bluegrass camp in July.

This is significant, I feel.

We are at a fork in the road where a half dozen years of very expensive cello lessons–thousands of dollars–just might about be tossed out the window because my boy wants to be a flatpicking guitarist, the next Tony Rice. I don’t know why, but it scares me a little.

I have a couple of kids who can tune an instrument by ear. Perfect pitch, it’s called. They were little boys who had unending energy and I needed them to have a more focused outlet (something other than racing bikes down mountains–we didn’t have insurance at the time), so I signed them up for music. A cutie patootie ⅛ sized cello and ⅛ sized violin. They practiced their Suzuki lessons every day while I slapped my knee as a metronome. They listened to Piano Guys like they were the Rolling Stones.

We are part of a larger family that plays bluegrass. Growing up, my Saturday mornings were filled with the smell of bacon frying and the sounds of Doyle Lawson and Ricky Skaggs, my dad’s nasal tenor striking high harmonies.
But my own kids are Colorado natives, and we sure weren’t experiencing much gospel or banjo in the Rockies. Ska and pizza were the Saturday vibes in Durango, with Bach festivals and Music in the Mountains for the more refined. The old cowboy way was teetering on its last two legs over at the Bar D Chuckwagon, surviving on tourist dollars that drifted into southwest Colorado and divided itself among rafting and riding the scenic train to Silverton.
My impression was that bluegrass hadn’t ever rooted in Colorado quite like it had in my Missouri blood. And so we adapted, and we made our home among the more classy orchestral musicians instead of old time fiddlers. We ate artisan pizza and snowboarded on the weekend and joined the youth orchestra on Tuesday afternoons.

Until we moved back east and, on a whim, signed up for bluegrass camp.

He loved it. Loved the energy of fast-paced picking and grinning. He fit right into the scene, the heritage. I was excited for him, but also a little worried. It’s the investment in learning an instrument–this is exactly why I felt nervous. There’s hardly room for cello in bluegrass, and boy that cello has cost me a lot of money. I rented for the first six months before I could even afford to buy it outright. I prayed my six year old wouldn’t drop it on the hardwood floor or touch the horse hair bow with his grubby fingers. And now, right when he was hitting his stride ripping through the fifth Suzuki book, he traded Brahms for Bill Monroe.

When we started, I had pure motives: music is my favorite form of worship. If you can equip others to worship, you multiply the effect. But what happened is my kids started getting pretty good at playing–cello and violin being the instruments. And before I knew it, I had vested myself in their talent.
I was part of the investment.
Me.
It wasn’t so much about organic worship anymore, but doing what I (their mom) envisioned them doing. Naturally I thought I had a say over what happened at the fork in the road.
But the mom in charge of choosing a six year old’s first instrument doesn’t usually know the long-term plans God has for such a child.

One of my dear, dear friends has two grown boys who are very, very talented. They are genius smarty-pants but they’re also roving musicians. Their mama rolls her eyes because she would have never imagined it. The boy who could be anything is now somewhat of a starving artist.
And one thing she said several years ago has never left me. She said this:
Your faith has to be bigger than your fear.

I really do believe I’ve got faith. But sometimes the fear edges its way into view. It happens before I even know it’s happening. I get into the habit of thinking (without verbally expressing it), I trust you, God, just not with my kids. What I mean is this: I think it is complete reliance, but I’m still secretly banking on my own ability to cultivate my ideal family and their ideal talents.
When I’m persuaded I’m headed in the right direction, God sometimes turns me around and points me in the direction that better pursues Him. He wrenches my hands free from a situation I think I’ve got under control without His help–and He gently reminds me I’m not the boss.

It isn’t about dropping cello for a guitar–I’ve already decided I can tune the cello to upright bass strings and we’ll have a pretty sweet setup for the next kid in line to join our family bluegrass jams.
But I need small reminders that I’m not in control of things, including my budding musicians.
I’m not in control of how things turn out. This mom gig is a whole lot of preparing kids to spread their wings, and not a whole lot about how I think they should do it. (Something you don’t think about while changing their diapers, but something you must come to terms with as they grow.)

Some of the things I think are essential–methods, theories, manners, goals–turn out not to be quite so essential. Some day they will encounter a fork in the road and it won’t be up to me to decide which path to take. And it won’t be scary; it’ll be gratifying, because I’ll be watching new wings take flight.

My boy cellist can play any instrument, it turns out. The ukulele tunes turned into guitar melodies when I told him I’d give him twenty dollars if he could learn “Here Comes the Sun”. In an hour’s time he had a crisp twenty warming his pocket.
After listening to me painstakingly learn “Redhaired Boy” on the mandolin, he snatched the instrument from my hands and announced, “it’s supposed to sound like this–”. Okay, fine.
My dad brought over an upright bass and my kid began thumping out “Blackberry Blossom”.
My brother handed him a banjo, which his fingers took to quite naturally. He’s saving his money to buy a resonator guitar. There’s a drum kit in his closet, and he just acquired a trombone for the sixth grade band.

He hasn’t touched the cello since bluegrass camp. It made me sad for a little while, but I think I’m getting over it. There’s an instrument in his hands nearly every free waking moment, so who am I to decide which one gets the attention?
It’s better than I’d even hoped when I first rented that tiny cello and put it into the welcoming arms of that tiny boy.
Our home is filled with music, and deep down, I think I wanted that even more than I wanted control over how things turn out.
God knew–He always knows. Faith over fear.
I trust you, God. Especially with my kids.

circle people and inclusivity

It’s been a few years since I wrote a book and got my social media accounts in order. This is what the professionals told me to do first–work on reaching the crowd who might buy my book. They said there was really no need to even submit a manuscript until a readership was taken into consideration. 

They want authors who are popular, you see. It makes it a heck of a lot easier for them to sell your words.
It’s a funny idea, now that I’ve read how John Steinbeck wrote in his crumbling shack in California and mailed entire manuscripts to New York at the request of his editor. He certainly didn’t manage any readership or interaction between himself and his fans. His work was writing, and he did it as well as he could, free from the influence his readers’ opinions might have on him. What if they’d told him there was no Dustbowl, or that he was a fool for writing a fiction stories based on migrant workers? After all, the only people affording to buy books were certainly not interested in poverty.  I personally think that back in the day (the John Steinbeck era and all the eons before), literature was much, much better because authors were writing out of excellence and not to simply scratch itchy little ears.

I set out with the goal of getting some work published at the exact time publishers and lit agents decided they were going to be more inclusive. They wanted black and queer voices, not my Christian, white, stay-at-home mom vibe. That was too ordinary and perhaps raised flags of a privileged upbringing (very speculative, and very common). I submitted some work and was turned down immediately, but I wondered if I had hedged the cover letter with a clue that I was, in fact, of a non-traditional culture or race?

But there’s no place in an email for that, is there? 

Assumptions are dangerous, or at least they were in older times. It didn’t used to be acceptable to infer someone’s social or physical attributes, privileges and disadvantages, simply by reading one’s words on a screen. You could say it was downright presumptuous and rude. But now it is to one’s advantage to sign one’s name with a preferred pronoun and a headshot and social media handle. Tell me why this is, if we are evolving into a smarter species, one that is more inclusive than ever?
Is our outside appearance representing our inside self, or are we just elevating our shiny outsides because it no longer matters anymore if we have integrity on the inside?
Are we such thinkers that we’ve realized we don’t want anyone questioning our lifestyle, so we stamp it with public approval–whatever attracts the most attention in today’s culture?

You see, inclusivity is just the shinier word for tolerance (now-archaic), that approach to making a wider circle for oddballs. It sounded good back then, and we’ve much improved on the term, haven’t we? But being inclusive (or tolerant) is as two-faced as it comes. Every time a wider circle is drawn, it still is a circle. And a circle, by definition, is a closed shape, one that excludes everything on the outside. Inclusivity is exclusivity, by definition. Tolerance is putting up with people–as long as they owe us their allegiance and probably agree with us.

Who is left outside the circle? Whoever rejects the idea of inclusivity. The folks who believe integrity is born in the heart–they are labeled colorblind, and resented for it. The people who believe in a divine moral code or Biblical teaching that explicitly states appropriate rules for living–they are deemed hateful. The girl who doesn’t sign her email with a social media handle–she is ignored.

The unpopular, the common, the outdated. The folks outside the circle–these are the new outcasts.

Don’t be fooled into thinking your circle truly includes everyone. Watch out for those experts who say there is a new racism problem today (instead of an old, abiding classism problem), or that the solution is more inclusivity. Your closed circle will train you to become more and more closed-minded. You’ll find yourself slapping every label at the end of every email, in some last ditch effort to prove your skin-deep value to the in-the-circle people.

Don’t fall for labeling people like me as the face of oppression, simply because of my skin color and beliefs. Don’t hate a Christian, white, stay-at-home mom for just being her Christian, white, stay-at-home self.
If you do, then tell me now–who is prejudiced?

I really do hope to publish books someday. But what’s more, I really hope to encourage folks who are outside the circle with no hope (and no desire!) of ever making it with the inclusive crowd. You and I have clear instructions on how to live impactful, fulfilling lives even as the world throws shade at us and says we aren’t “inclusive”.

We are to:

  • Keep on loving one another
  • Show hospitality to strangers
  • Remember those in prison and those who are mistreated
  • Honor marriage, for God will judge the sexually immoral
  • Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have
  • Consider other believers, and the outcome of their faith, and imitate them
  • Not be carried away by strange teaching

This list is lifted straight out of Hebrews 13, and is followed by an incredible picture of a non-circle kind of guy, Jesus.

He is outside of the circle, bearing the disgrace of sinners.
Jesus suffered outside the city gate to make the people holy through his own blood (13:12). 

He is a humble savior, who has left the camp. He walked away from the inclusive crowd to become a sacrifice for our sin.
We are asked to do the same, to leave the circle:

Let us, then, go to him outside the camp, bearing the disgrace he bore. For here we do not have an enduring city, but we are looking for the city that is to come.
Hebrews 13:13-14

 

(If this a newish thing for you to consider, you might also be interested in this post I made last year, which touches on the contrariness of our current culture. And if the thought of it bores you to tears, instead go check out On Honey Creek, where I’m trying to get my new farm life in order, and there are some fun pictures.)

Abe Lincoln and little caesars.

I’ve posted less lately because I’ve found myself in a whole new lifestyle–city to farm–and juggling the newness of school and a work at home daddy.
Everything has changed, and I mean everything.

When things like this happen, you let a few things go until you regain momentum. 

Plus, there always seems to be plenty of people talking, and I hate to join the noise just to be noisy. So many opinions these days… it’s overwhelming to sift through the chaff and distill an idea to the essence of what it means. I’m satisfied to do some pondering instead of postulating. (And there’s ample time to do it while riding the Bad Boy mower or picking hornworms off of tomatoes.)

Abraham Lincoln made a statement that hits close to home for me:

“I remember how, when a mere child, I used to get irritated when anybody talked to me in a way I could not understand. I do not think I ever got angry at anything else in my life; but that always disturbed my temper, and has ever since. I can remember going to my little bedroom, after hearing the neighbors talk of an evening with my father, and spending no small part of the night walking up and down and trying to make out what was the exact meaning of some of their, to me, dark sayings. I could not sleep, although I tried to, when I got on such a hunt for an idea, until I had caught it; and when I thought I had got it, I was not satisfied until I had repeated it over and over; until I had put it in language plain enough, as I thought, for any boy I knew to comprehend. This was a kind of passion with me, and it has stuck by me; for I am never easy now, when I am handling a thought, till I have bounded it north, and bounded it south, and bounded it east, and bounded it west.”

Thanks, Abe, for putting it into words, the sleepless hunt for the unbounded thought. The search for common ground for the plebeians and thinkers alike.
I, too, fall asleep trying to box in an idea until my own kids can understand it in plain words.
For a person like myself, it is reassuring to know a fellow like Lincoln also valued wisdom and succinctness born of deep examination. It’s really okay to think things out for a long time before making a dogmatic statement–highly undervalued these days, if you know what I mean.

One of the remarkable things that has happened in the last month, is that my kids are back in a public school system (praise be to Jesus), a year and a half after being let out on a Friday in March with the promise of returning after spring break.
We were dismissed from a Title I city school in a district of 85,000 students and now we have entered a district 800 miles away with 650 students.
I have a Venn diagram in my mind of the commonalities and disparities, and this is just in the school system–not to mention the culture. The differences are so stark, I cannot even attempt to piece it all together, let alone make a blanket statement. When you hear a rant going on about vaccines, face masks, critical race theory, or common core math (just threw that one in there for fun–remember when life was simple?!), I’d like to remind you that some people like their watermelon with salt. It is really a matter of taste.
But then if someone yanks away the watermelon, well…then there ain’t gonna be much fussing over whether it’s salted. Choice is crucial to freedom, isn’t it?

How to explain the weirdness of our world to my own kids? Let me say it: they are figuring it out pretty quick on their own.
We have raised them worldly, and by that, I mean aware of the world. I’m returning their precious souls to the classroom for the purpose of continuing their very important, limited exposure to the world. I’m certainly not sending them on a wish and a whim (though the afternoon school bus ride is a bit of a fingers-crossed situation). I do not honestly expect them to get a robust or comprehensive education, specifically in the areas of history, science, art, or music. Are you kidding? This is why we read books at home, why we teach them to sing hymns at church, why we buy oil pastels and risk a messy living room. It’s why we have instruments hanging on the walls and there are junk drawers filled with clothespins, rubber bands, popsicle sticks, and every random bit and bob a kid might need to use for a “project”.
We turn the television off and look each other in the eye when we eat supper.

Then they get up in the morning and go to school, where they see what people are like and how to deal properly with them.

They return with stories, and it is always interesting to me that most of their tales end with a conclusion they’ve made–an opinion born of experience–and very frequently one that holds truth (BBQ sandwiches have too much sauce, so-and-so shouldn’t interrupt the teacher when he’s talking, don’t open your water bottle on the bus). Then they resume eating their cup of pudding, or they pick up the guitar or book or coloring project and are on their merry way, learning and happy.

I bring up Abraham Lincoln because I found a book on him in our old farmhouse, published exactly 111 years ago. It would have been 44 years after his death, which is the same as our current 2021 viewpoint of the year 1977. I think it’s helpful to remember this as I dive into my nerdy mini-exposition. This little, crumbly, stained with age book wasn’t covering ancient history when it was published. They were writing from the same perspective I have now when I look back on the original Star Wars movies. As in, wow! Can you believe what a big deal that was and how much the world changed because of it? 

Of Abraham Lincoln, the little book said,

He had heard the word “demonstrate” as one of the things that were done in geometry. He made up his mind, as he had in his boyhood, that he would learn how to demonstrate his points, that is, make them so clear that men could not help accepting them. He got himself a copy of Euclid’s geometry and, as he rode the circuit, he committed to memory many of Euclid’s demonstrations. He was still learning how to bound his thoughts on all sides. His speech became so crystal clear that men said, “If Lincoln is in the case, there will be no trouble in understanding what it is all about.”

(From Moores’ Abraham Lincoln for Boys and Girls, Riverside Literature Series. Houghton Mifflin Co. c. 1909)

This is so very relevant to our day in age: we must be people who have bounded our thoughts on all sides before attempting to demonstrate we are right (instead of just airing our opinions). We must learn lessons by observing history, people, and the cause-and-effect nature of a person’s actions.

It makes me think of when Jesus was put on the spot by religious leaders and he, being well-bounded in his apologetics (of course, he had the advantage of being God), had the perfect answers. For them, and for us today. I’d like to take note–there are a couple nuggets of wisdom Jesus worked into his speech when he addressed listeners regarding the hypocritical Pharisees of his day. They occurred right before he slapped the leaders with woes harsh enough to bring a sailor to tears. Jesus said,

 “The teachers of the Law and the Pharisees sit in Moses’ seat. So you must be careful to do everything they tell you. But do not do what they do, for they do not practice what they preach.” (Matt. 23:2-3)

In other words, these were the folks in charge, and the common people did well to respect the laws of the land. But Jesus warned them not to be like them in the way they walked around, clean on the outside but filthy in their intentions. You see, we are all still expected to “rend to Caesar what is Caesar’s” (Matt. 22:21). Jesus expects us to honor our own “caesars” (our country, our parents, our heritage, etc.), but he won’t permit us to hold them in as high of honor nor anywhere near the honor we are to give Him.

There are two extremes to which we are prone to lean:

One is pretending there is no caesar. I’d even suggest some people think you can take America out of America, or pretend things aren’t complicated or nuanced, or disrespect other cultures. For some Christians, it might even be rejecting the logistics of being in the world but not living like it. We think we can maintain a clean outside and a clean inside simply by remaining unaffected. I would argue: living in this world as a believer doesn’t nullify all purpose in participating. And it certainly doesn’t honor Jesus if your trust in him is limited to activities that avoid getting your feet dirty.

The second extreme is assuming it is your duty to uphold the law of such “caesars” for other people. This might look like stirring up contention, or challenging others to toe an invisible line, or bullying a person into denying their own personal little caesars (pizza, pizza!). This is a common trend among unbelievers, who aren’t opposed to incentivizing governmental overreach, as long as it benefits them. But it is also common among believers who do not elevate Jesus to his proper position of authority, and instead think of themselves as social justice saviors on the front lines. Do not do what they do, Jesus said, for they do not practice what they preach!

Here’s what sticks: Jesus acknowledged there are Caesars who are owed something, and this is entirely helpful to think about amid culture wars. But our primary affection must be for Him who loved us enough to give His life for us. Sorry to say it, little caesars, but that dethrones you to second fiddle.

It doesn’t erase our opinions or best intentions, but it does help bound our thoughts, don’t you think?
And hopefully it helps us hold our tongue when we get the urge to wag it.

 

poop in the poppies.

Do you see a person who is wise in their own eyes? There is more hope for a fool than for them.
Proverbs 26:12

Have you ever met a person who is pure snark? Pure reaction, quick-witted, dripping with sarcasm? The first to throw verbal dynamite, quip in mouth, ready to detonate?

I’ve got a few in my house, I’m afraid. It only takes a couple of big boys to egg each other on and turn teasing into a downright fight. It is always a fine line between saying something that evokes laughter or rage. A wise guy loves to toe such a line.

Between me, the screen, and you, I’ll tell you a secret: kids aren’t nice. 

One of the strongest warnings my dad had for us as kids was
Don’t be a smart aleck. 

The words carried enough threat. We knew what dad did to smart alecks.
We deserved it. 

And now I know why.
I’ve met many a person ruined by his mouth. I’ve seen plenty of poop in the poppies. People who discredit everything they stand for by sliding in a snarky comment.

Oh, what a powerful little rudder is the tongue!

There is an amount of shame that accompanies this terrible habit, that is, if you are a follower of Jesus. But usually in the moment a smart aleck is rewarded by their quick-wittedness, not unlike a sugar or adrenaline rush. The reaction of the crowd garners enough attention to make it worth the jab.
It is very hard to convince the world that you love Jesus when your mouth is tossing grenades.
It is very hard to stop tossing grenades when you’ve been practicing since you were a kid.

I’m no expert on child rearing. I’m hardly an expert on myself (and I feel like I should probably be by now). I know that immediately after I say something idiotic or smart alecky, I usually feel a stormy cloud shadow my conscience. Stop! The sky rumbles. Repent! It thunders. Good news, the cloud arrives less and less, probably because there’s been quite a bit of pruning, and therefore quite a bit of gentleness and self-control fruit growing on my tree over the years.

[It helped that my dad tried to beat it out of us as kids. That’s the early pruning, I suppose. I read a great parenting quote from Jonathan Edwards recently, “don’t be like old Eli, who reproved his sons but never restrained them.” I’m thankful for the restraints my parents offered us kids. The Bible also backs this up as a worthy child rearing technique: “Discipline your child, for in it there is hope; do not be party to their death”–Proverbs 22:15]

I know this for certain: our tongues will get us in big trouble unless we let Jesus hold the reins, and kids are not too young to begin learning about tossing grenades.

Do you know what Jesus said was just as bad as murder? Anger that produces enough hate to call your brother a fool. He said that calling your brother a fool would put you in danger of hell fire. This comes from the same guy who told the wise man/foolish man story (so we know fools are a real thing, and something we can avoid).
But thinking you aren’t a fool sometimes is even worse than being one. Fools are a bad deal, but actually being wise in your own eyes, being a smart aleck is worse. 

And the quickest way to prove you are one is by opening your mouth, as Mark Twain says, “and removing all doubt.”

When I put my kids to bed at night, we often talk about this very matter: what comes into your mind and heart is what you have put into it. Controlling the in-flow helps control the out-flow.
This is a tough thing out in the world, to act the way Jesus wants us to act and say what he wants us to say. It’s especially hard in a world that values clever memes and 280 character limits, one that prefers small doses of truth bubble-wrapped in satire (have you heard of Babylon Bee?). Smart aleck-ness is rewarded to an extent, and it’s a tough pill to swallow, this being wise about what is good and being innocent of evil (Romans 16:19).

How? My seven year old asks. How do I keep bad things from coming in and bad things coming out?
Actually, I tell them, there’s no hope of you ever being able to do it on your own. Only Jesus, I say. Only Jesus can grow good spirit fruit in you. 

Then we pray and beg God to come abide with us.

If you’ve been tossing grenades far too long, it’s not too late to ask Jesus to help you, too.
In Ephesians, Paul assures his friends (and us) that believers are, themselves, the dwelling place in which God lives by his Spirit (Eph.2:22). 

You! Do you know He lives in you?


He reminds them (and us) that believers are to grow up and out of childish, immature behavior (Eph. 4:14-15). 

You! Are you becoming more mature?


He exhorts them (and us) to “not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up” (Eph. 4:29).

You! Do your words build people up?

Beg Jesus to come help prune your tree.
Let’s pray for less poop in the poppies.