Jen Hatmaker

Whole30: A Lazy Girl's Tale

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 04 May 2017 13:52:04 +0000

Once upon a time, a girl ate whatever she wanted and quit exercising and treated her body like a dumpster fire and then she couldn't fit into any of her pants. The chubby girl cried. Also all her joints cried.

The end.

I can't possibly imagine what is wrong with a steady diet of goat cheese enhanced dishes, chips and salsa, pizza, and Almond Joy coffee creamer, but somehow it all turned me into an achy, squishy lady with fingers that wouldn't bend in the mornings. With a near constant rotation of friends, dinner parties, events, and celebrations, my world had too much joy in it for sensible ideas. Like my friend Shonna says, "Our lives are too fun to be skinny." You are correct, ma'am.

But after a lovely round of GOUT (what am I, a 78-year-old man?) following chronic inflammation, fairly unattractive bloating (BRANDON IS A LUCKY GUY - eyes up here, bro), and basically my entire body turning to pudge, I figured it was time to act like an adult and get serious. It occurred to me that a 42-year-old body gets pretty sick to bloody death of being treated like a 16-year-old body, so it throws in the towel and stages a mutiny. My body was having none of this. It was so angry at the bad choices my mouth was making.

So I asked the internet what to do, and it gave me Whole30.

For the uninitiated: W30 means no gluten, grains, dairy, sugar, legumes, or alcohol. ALSO, no processed food, fake healthy food, soy anything, or basic joy. Essentially, look at everything in your pantry: it is all dead to you. Half your fridge: bye, Felicia. Restaurants: fix it, Jesus.

Me at restaurants this month: "Can you tell me what the chicken is cooked in? Is there sugar in the dressing? Can you leave off the cheese/bread/breading/peanuts/sauce? Can I get that on the side? Can you make that dry? Will you tell me all the ingredients in that soup? Can you just put a plain piece of fish on the plate and bring it to me?"

Waiter: "I hate this job."

Anyway, I did it, y'all. I did the thing. I did the W30 and didn't cheat except for one time I accidentally ate chorizo that had sugar in it but I didn't know that until my sis-in-law told me the next day, so it doesn't count as a cheat if I DIDN'T MEAN TO. Trust me, if I wanted to cheat this month, it sure as crap wouldn't have been on chorizo. I would have gone face down in a trough of chips and queso with a wine chaser.

I promised you at the beginning of this I wouldn't over-exaggerate the effects of W30 ("I lost my left arm and Whole30 grew it back in eight days!"), because none of us have time for the online evangelists. I can't handle someone who has been a vegetarian for four days telling me how their hair is already growing back from its red-meat-related atrophy. Stop it. You ate a cheeseburger 92 hours ago.

So in full truth, here were the benefits of W30 for this lazy, undisciplined girl:

1. Halfway through, my inflammation was for real better. Before, I looked like the Snow White witch every morning with my gnarled fingers, but I could bend them like Beckham at about the 14 day mark. My knuckles were less swollen and I fit back into some rings. Basically, my fingers went on a diet and now they work.

2. I slept better. I have no idea why, but I did. I also slept more simply because some nights I was so bored and couldn't have any snacks (don't come at me with your snap peas) and didn't want to drink ANOTHER SIP OF HOT TEA and I didn't know how else to pass the time so I just went to bed.

3. I lost 12 pounds. I know, I know: "It's not a weight loss program." Well, I lost 12 pounds, jokers. It's like unloading a very oversized baby. Thus, back into a few pairs of jeans that I had simply asked too much of 12 pounds ago. They were like, HELP US HELP YOU. PUT DOWN THE HOAGIE. WE'VE DONE ALL WE CAN DO HERE. YOU NEED A NEW CONTAINMENT STRATEGY.

4. My favorite benefit sounds pretty woowoo, but it was simply a lifting of brain fog. I know I sound like one of the online evangelists here, but I really did think better. I DID. Maybe it is that I could think longer - I normally kiss mental acuity goodbye around 1:00pm. I just lose steam and get mentally garbled; it's hard to hang onto ideas and wrangle them into submission. But I looked at my brain this month and said, "Hello, thoughts. How nice to see you again. Look at all these lovely thoughts you're thinking!" It was probably a function of digesting 8937 pounds of coconut oil, notorious brain food, but my head is operating better and longer.

5. Actually maybe this is the best benefit: the emotional victory of making a healthy decision based on self-discipline and seeing it through. At the onset, I looked at my calendar and thought: There is no way I can pull this off. Too many events, too many social things, too many guests coming over, Easter, Savor Food and Wine Festival, two weekends of out-of-town company, Supper Club, work travel. BUT I DID IT. Like a real life adult. It is possible. (My best hacks and tips are here.) After such a run of unchecked indulgence, showing restraint for 30 straight days felt like an enormous accomplishment. I'm not doomed! I'm not a lost cause! I'm not stuck in bad habits after all! The discipline spilled over into some other areas too, because while I was getting my crap together, I figured I might as well spread it around.

Like I told you here and here, I for sure had some rough days, but here is some good news: Nobody can actually make you eat or drink anything you don't want to. No one asks you to leave their dinner party if you don't eat the French bread. No one quits talking to you if you are drinking club soda instead of a cocktail. I made my own choices everywhere I went and even as I was hosting, and exactly no one died.

Furthermore, I didn't miss out on hardly anything, or the best parts of it all at any rate. Still got the great conversation, amazing company, beautiful gatherings, all the fun. Still had the people, the experiences, the celebrations, and the connections. Also, I still ate food. So yay! And the food was good, even if I ended up making whackadoo stuff like cashew creme over squash "pasta." The worst thing is that I was annoying and people had to endure my abuse of the word "compliant" which is W30 vernacular guaranteed to make us all outcasts.

W30 Happy Hour. This is water. LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL.

Maybe this will tell you the best truth: I feel so good and have conquered so much of the mental challenge of W30, I am mostly going to still do it. My goal is maybe 80%. Because listen, I can't worry too much about a smidge of sugar in my ketchup. LET ME LIVE, HUMAN BEINGS. I'm not saying I plan to Cookie Monster a pile of cupcakes, but if my chipotle aioli has some soybean oil in it, I don't even care because I'm a good person and Jesus loves me.

Finally, I will tell you this: my greatest lament during W30 was coffee. I know: bulletproof coffee and the nutpods and the ghee and the blender and I KNOW, PURISTS. I did that shiz. And then everyone was like, you won't like your old creamer when you go back to it because it will taste like a highchair tray.

So on W31, I put my Almond Joy creamer into my coffee and I will tell you exactly what it tasted like:

Unabridged joy and fulfilled dreams.

80%, suckers. I'LL SPEND MY OTHER 20% HOWEVER I WANT.

My Saddest Good Friday in Memory: When Treasured Things are Dead

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 14 Apr 2017 13:00:19 +0000

I spent a bit of time yesterday reading pieces I’ve written on Good Friday for the last several years. They all have a different tone, a different perspective, a different sense of the day Jesus saved the world.

This year is different yet again. If you’ll permit me grace to speak absolutely plainly, I'll tell you a bit of how loss and grief and rejection will pulverize your heart and deliver you to Good Friday in pretty bad shape, or in any case, in the throes of recovery.

Good Friday is about death - even a necessary death - and that makes more sense to me now than maybe ever. It speaks of a dark day and broken hearts, unmet expectations, mob mentality turned brutal. When I consider that day now, in 2017, it all feels insane, blood-thirsty, the punitive result of being on the wrong side of religion. Of course, it was all planned, all intentional; Jesus was out to rescue us. We have the luxury of knowledge; we know about Sunday. We are living in the post-Sunday story, God’s grace to us.

But I get the death part this year, the Good Friday part. All the memes and quips and quotes floating around the internet are falling on a numb heart. This year, I deeply experienced being on the wrong side of religion, and it was soul-crushing. I suffered the rejection, the fury, the distancing, the punishment, and sometimes worst of all, the silence. I experienced betrayal from people I thought loved us. I felt the cold winds of disapproval and the devastating sting of gossip. I received mocking group texts about me, accidentally sent to me; “Oh, we were just laughing WITH you!” they said upon discovery, an empty, fake, cowardly response. It was a tsunami of terror. One hundred things died. Some of them are still dead. Some are struggling for life but I don’t know if they will make it.

I told you I’d speak plainly.

This year I became painfully aware of the machine, the Christian Machine. I saw with clear eyes the systems and alliances and coded language and brand protection that poison the simple, beautiful body of Christ. I saw how it all works, not as an insider where I’ve enjoyed protection and favor for two decades, but from the outside where I was no longer welcome. The burn of mob mentality scorched my heart into ashes, and it is still struggling to function, no matter how darling and funny I ever appear; the internet makes that charade easy.

I went to the water as the tsunami crested, and my friend Trina drove out uninvited so I wouldn't be alone. She took this picture and said: "I want you to remember how you felt on this day." I cannot even look at it without sobbing.

Simultaneously, other things died during the election season. Much ink has been spilled here and I won’t belabor the point, but I know I'm not the only one holding a pile of tattered threads in her hands, wondering what on earth just happened to our supposed holy common ground. The Christian Machine malfunctioned, and we are all still staring at each other, trying our damnedest to figure out how we understand the gospel so differently, unsure if we will ever find our way back to each other. The Christian community has been maligned, mocked, dragged, and dissected publicly, our civil war evident to a watching world. We are a meme. It is truly awful.

My mind knows the difference between the Christian Machine and Jesus, but this year it feels hard to separate. The whole system seems poisoned, and I struggle to drink any of it. Even as I recognize my cynicism throwing a wet blanket over the credible, sincere declarations of others, I can’t quite stop it. It’s all falling on damaged ears. Every bit of it feels manufactured, brand-building, pretty words that failed me, didn’t show up, joined the chorus that broke my family’s heart. This is plainly unfair, but here I am.

I think about Good Friday, and somehow I am comforted; typically this day is full of grief for me as a believer living in grace and privilege, unaccustomed to the sting of death and thus struggling to identify with Jesus on his darkest day. Usually, His pain pierces me because I live in such abundance, and the contrast shocks me silent. How could I have this much life when Jesus had to experience that much death?

But this year, it all makes sense: the death, the anger, the man who never took his place in the machine. This day was lonely for Jesus. It was excruciating, physically and emotionally and spiritually. His people left him, even turned on him. God Himself hid his eyes. The sky went dark and life was extinguished. It was all so sad, so dead, so not yet resurrected. This was a day of tears and shock and loss and fear. It was a day of the cross, not the empty tomb.

Today, everything falls away and there is only Jesus for me. In His presence, my numb, angry heart gives way and I sob without end. But only with Him. Elsewhere, I have to be careful because I can never be as vulnerable as I was ever again. Everyone else at arm’s length. I’ll be friendly with folks but never again tender. You'll get the strong, varnished version of me but I'll not make the mistake of handing you my true heart. I actually told another person: “I wish you didn’t know as much as you know about me. I wish I could take that knowledge out of your head. I have to trust you with it, and I don’t now.” This is all a clear lie, somewhere between stages two and four of grief, but I'm still in recovery, not through it; I ask your grace.

I’ve obviously not said any of this to you, dear ones. I like you to see the strong, varnished version as well; it’s better for the brand, I’m told. But I’m tired of being a brand, because it is exhausting and, as it turns out, it tells people I am not a human being who bleeds out. Say anything! Make assumptions! Write a scathing narrative of her faith and faithfulness! After all, she is just a brand. I obviously don’t want you to know how much that stole from me; what I don’t want is more vulnerability right now. But Good Friday compels me to tell the truth about death. Just for a moment, the truth.

Some of you are simply enduring Good Friday so you can celebrate the victory of Sunday, where your heart lives, and I am so glad for you. I am. That was me last year. Seasons of wholeness and optimism and gratitude are so dear. Cherish it, if that is where you are today. Cherish the abundance of life after the tomb.

But for those of you hunkered down on Good Friday, identifying with the loss of this day in agonizing ways, ways that you did not want to understand the cross, I am your sister this year. When too many things still feel dead and resurrection feels as unlikely and impossible as it must have on this day all those years ago, I can’t help but believe Jesus has his eye on us specifically. Who can better understand the cross than the man who chose it? Who better to hold us close in our loneliness than the man who was left to suffer all alone? Nobody, not one human being on this earth understands a dark Friday more than Jesus, well before anyone thought to put a “Good” in front of it.

I believe in the resurrection, so I know it will come. It always does. God wrangles victory out of actual, physical death. The cross taught us that. You can’t have anything more dead than a three-day old dead body, and yet we serve a risen Savior. New life is always possible evidently, well past the moment it makes sense to still hope for it. The empty tomb taught us that. I have enough faith to live a Friday and Saturday existence right now without fear that Sunday won’t come. It will come. I am nearly certain the way it will look will surprise me; I’m watching for the angel on the tombstone.

Formation: Ethiopia Squad

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 14 Jul 2016 16:05:55 +0000

"OKAY LADIES, NOW LET'S GET IN FORMATON, CAUSE I SLAY..."

"I dream it..."

"I work hard..."

"I grind till I own it..."

"Cause I slay."

SLAY ALL DAY. The Ethiopian women above all started their own businesses in Wolaita Sodo this year: a courtyard restaurant, a neighborhood market, a hair salon, a wholesale injera company. These are some things they told us about their lives last year:

"I was caring for my aging parents alone, and we were desperate." ~Estaganet

"My children ate either once a day or none." ~Chaltu

"I had no way to make a living after my husband died." ~Beletech

"I couldn't get work after my husband left me, so I was a daily laborer at constructions sites hauling rocks." ~Genet

There was more, plenty of tragedy and loss and violence. These women and their families have known sorrow, that is for sure. But the short version of their incredible rise is this:

They were all identified as candidates for the Help One Now Family Empowerment Program which they enrolled in around six months back, and every single one is not only financially independent but solidly thriving in the Ethiopian middle class after struggling to feed their children just half a year ago. They have employees, store fronts, vendors, clients, accounting books, equipment, and importantly, honor. Chaltu told us: "People who hated me are now my friends and customers." BOOM.

Let me tell you what the women already had in spades:

Intelligence.
Creativity.
Work ethic.
Experience.
Dedication.
Resourcefulness.

Here is what the Help One Now Family Empowerment Program added:

Business training.
Accounting instruction.
Skills and assets assessment.
In-kind funding.
Materials and equipment.
Marketing.

Together, magic! Magic, I tell you! Each business was tailored to their individual skill set, location, viability, and interests, and they developed a sustainable business plan. After receiving training, business mentoring, and start up funding, they launched.

And they are slaying, y'all.

I told the team while listening to them discuss their stories: "They don't wear any of their sorrow." I'm serious. Having endured what they've endured, I would expect a darkness about them, or at least a dimmed light. But NAH.

The program is one year long. It costs $1000 to send one woman all the way through. That includes all start-up money plus the training, professional development, equipment, and marketing. There is no other way to say this:

It is life changing.

This is not aid, not relief, not a handout. It is not a short-term gap stop. It does not create dependency nor rob women of their dignity. It is an entrepreneurial program that sends capable, smart women into enterprise without debt. It is for Ethiopians, by Ethiopians. We just get to provide the seed money. They graduate from the program financially solvent, never to return to poverty.

And of course, it is orphan prevention as these women can fully provide for their children and their families stay intact. I feel so incredibly tender here, because had this program existed sooner for my favorite Ethiopian Mama, my adopted son would have an entirely different story. It is not right that loving, committed moms have to relinquish their children because of poverty. It's not right. When all they lack is opportunity?? It's not right. (After finding her, we sent Ben's mom, Sentayu, through the program, and she now owns her own tea and coffee shop and has rebuilt her entire life. I am so proud of her but grieve her losses in a way that I can't express. Our reunion with her last week was impossibly sacred.)

All but one of the women we met were single moms except Chaltu whose husband is blind. So don't forget who else the Family Empowerment Program serves:

JD and Aschalew bought lollipops and Cokes from Chaltu's neighborhood market,
passed them out to every kid, raced them,
then sent them home hopped up on sugar and adrenaline.
WE ARE SORRY, MAMAS.

It's this simple: we want to send 300 new women through the program. If you specialize in math, that amounts to 300K. Think of any vulnerable community. Now imagine that THREE HUNDRED OF ITS COMMUNITY MEMBERS started successful small businesses, emerged from poverty, and began contributing to the local economy.

This doesn't just change individual families; it literally changes the entire community.

THIS IS AN INVESTMENT, not a handout. We have the chance to provide the capital for a slew of motivated, savvy entrepreneurs. They are required to set aside a percentage of their earnings each month, and once they've saved enough to repay their loan...they find out it is a grant and get to reinvest it back into their businesses. (This made me do a Happy Clap.)

Listen, if anyone EVER invested in you - parents, grandparents, aunts, teachers - if you got to go to college or trade school or learn a craft, if anyone ever loaned you start up money or gave you a big break, a second chance, if anyone ever helped you in any way get to where you are now, then you've been exactly where these women are. A small amount becomes a huge tipping point, and their lives will never be the same.

None of us can provide the full 300K, but WHO CAN'T CHIP IN $25? $50? More? Together, we can certainly raise that amount. CERTAINLY. Do not despise the small gift; a bunch of small gifts turns into 300K in a hot minute. (Of course, we don't despise big gifts either!) (*twirls mustache and laughs*) But because we believe in this program so intensely, we want to sweeten the pot for you: You get a bunch of cool, free stuff for joining in. Cause you are the best tribe that ever lived. You really are.

You can donate and find out about your swag here.

When we were leaving Beletech's hair salon, she hollered out: "I AM MY OWN BOSS!!"

CAUSE SHE SLAYS.

Okay ladies, now let's get in formation. Let's show up for our sisters.

Share the Love

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 01 Feb 2016 11:23:20 +0000

It's February, which means Valentine's Day is on its way to make some of us feel awesome, some of us feel disappointed, and some of us feel left out. Yay, Invented Holidays!

The internet gave me this, and it has made me laugh for two days.

Anyhow, I couldn't quit thinking about reclaiming V-Day so that everyone wins. I was having a little prayer time with God trying to figure out what I could do to love my people on a day meant for love, and honest to goodness, just like He asked Moses, I had a little soul nudge:

"What do you have in your hand?"

Hmmm. What do I already have? What is in front of me? What do we have together? What am I already holding that might be put to good love use?

Well, I have a book I wrote actually called For the Love, for crying out loud. It is for women, about women, because of women, to empower women, to encourage women, and even to entertain women. I wrote it for the love of God and women.

And we have a big, generous tribe that loves each other well.

So here is what we are going to do:

Hundreds of you have written to me saying how much you would love a copy of For the Love, but you just can't afford it right now. Let me tell you something: NO ONE understands a tight budget more than I do. I am so serious. There were years Brandon and I could barely pay our bills, much less spend money on something as luxurious as a book. (I remember one afternoon when I was holding a newborn and a toddler and had a preschooler hanging on my leg, and Brandon handed me a $20 and said, "This needs to feed us for a week." I sat on the kitchen floor and cried for an hour.)

Maybe that is you.

Or perhaps you know someone who would love a copy but can't afford it. Or won't spend the money on herself. Or doesn't have anyone who will spend it on her. Someone who is precious and deserves to be loved on Valentine's Day but won't have any flowers or beautiful love letters coming her way.

So, today we are opening up a Share the Love site where you can do one of two things:

1. Request a FREE COPY of For the Love. Because you are awesome and I want you to have it.

2. Nominate someone to receive a FREE COPY of For the Love. Because you are awesome and love people well.

We are going to take requests and nominations until this Friday, February 5th.

AT THAT POINT, we will open up a second site for donors and purchasers to send books to all these dear ones, because the one thing I know about our tribe is that we love well. I think we can do this. I think together we can fulfill all the book requests that come in. I believe that we can generously love each other, even with something as simple as a book meant to nurture souls. (Book Givers, it will be a $15 flat fee which includes shipping.) Maybe this is the year you need to request a book, and maybe next year you'll be a book giver. We all take turns needing each other and loving each other.

I have no idea how many requests and nominations we will get. Like, NO IDEA. But I believe in us! I think we can pull it off! Would you join this little V-Day Lovefest with me? Donors can jump in February 5-9, then all books will be shipped on the 10th to land in everyone's mailbox by Valentine's Day!! Isn't that so fun?? (Donors will have the option to include a personal note, so you can love another gal with your words too!)

ALL THE FEELS.

So. The site is now open! Request a book or nominate someone to receive a book HERE. (If you are nominating someone, you will need their address, so do a little recon to get their details!)

Then watch for my word Friday...I'll let you know how many requests we received which means it is time for the rest of us to get busy!

We are SHARING THE LOVE with each other this year!

(This Love Campaign is only valid for residents of the U.S. and Canada, because SHIPPING ISSUES. I'm so sorry, International Friends!)

BELONG

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 23 Nov 2015 12:05:05 +0000

Speaking on the Women of Faith LOVED Tour this fall has been one of the great privileges and joys of my whole life. Everyone who knows me has listened to me blather ON AND ON about the team, the experience, the legacy, and the delight. It is so real. These women have changed me and loved me and shown me what it looks like to serve with the same team across the nation, over and over.

As a writer who speaks (not a speaker who writes), traveling and conferences and stages and teaching has always been a labor - a labor of love to be sure - but a labor. I am not intrinsically geared for it and have to work super, duper hard to be even remotely competent. (This is not a fish for a compliment so don't give one. It is a fact that speaking is hard for me and I am not naturally gifted at it and it requires ten times the work that writing does.)

But then...this:

Luci Swindoll is my spirit animal.
She is exactly twice my age and I am OBSESSED with her.

I can't explain it exactly, but working with these amazing women who have served God and women so faithfully for so long and yet manage to do this without a sense of striving or competition or pressure, and in fact have the most fun I've ever actually seen on the road, well, I'm changed.

I've basically cried my eyes out the last two events because our tour is coming to an end.

But it is with the greatest, most sincere thrill I get to finally tell you about what's next:

For a whole year, we have been dreaming and building and praying and scheming on how to build on the very best of 20 years of Women of Faith and pay it forward into the next generation. How can we take all the love, all the transparency, all the laughter, all the power, all the story-telling, all the community and build something new, worthy of the legacy?

I am THRILLED to tell you about the Belong Tour coming Fall 2016! Same leadership team, same parent company, same beautiful desire to love God and women in our generation. I am joined by literally some of the best people I know:

Shauna Niequist
Sarah Jakes Roberts
Nichole Nordeman

And because GOD LOVES US, Patsy Clairmont has agreed to join the new tour with us, and for this, I could weep hot salty tears of gratitude. I love her so desperately and I am telling you: She is the very best kind of mentor. She loves our generation and has so much to invest, and we are basically the luckiest girls on earth.

YOU GUYS. This team is coming all over the United States next fall! We've been listening so intently to what you care about:

FAITH: how to deepen it, find it, hold on to it, nurture it, use it, express it, grow it. Amen and amen. Let it be said of our generation that we loved Jesus. We are deep diving into faith together, and no matter where you start on that spectrum, you are so welcome.

RELATIONSHIPS: how to care for them, heal them, invest in them, own them, expand them, honor God in them, strengthen them. Marriage, parenting, church, neighboring, loving this world - we care so much. Every bit of this will be covered in Belong.

PURPOSE AND PASSION: how to discover it, grow it, prioritize it, use it, thrive in it, offer it, develop it, share it. Oh man. You are singing our song. We believe so deeply in women and how God has gifted us and we are here to love and serve this world together.

And listen, there is a REASON we are calling the tour Belong. Because you do. Your friends do. Your neighbors do. Your colleagues do. Your churchy church friends do. Your totally not churchy church friends do. We are setting a big table, girls. Come to us. We love you. We love your people. You can trust us with the fragile hearts you love. You can trust us with your daughters and sisters. This is not a gathering of "insiders" where language and assumptions automatically exclude people outside of faith or church. NOPE.

You can come to us confused or mad, passionate or on fire, disassociated and ambivalent, scared or burned. We will hold your stories with tender hands. We are for you. (And wait until you hear OUR stories. Oh my word. Sarah once rammed a woman's car in her SUV, but I've already said too much.) All I'm saying is that we are regular women who've struggled and tried to love God in the midst of life, which we KNOW can be very, very hard.

NOW. Here is the deal. The Belong Tour gets blasted out to the world this Friday, but we only have 12 dates and when the seats are gone, they're gone. I want you to come. I so want you to come.

You can use my code here (JEN20) and get $20 off select tickets through this Thursday! Plus, every person who’s already bought a ticket or purchases tickets through 12/18/15 (including groups) will receive a FREE BELONG Tour T-shirt:

So basically, use THIS LINK (code: JEN20) by Thursday, get $20 off your ticket, get a free t-shirt, and YOU'RE IN! Yall, I am so serious: invite your friends, invite your neighbors, invite your church, invite your mom and sister and best friend and daughter. Ask for a ticket for Christmas! Give a ticket for Christmas!

This is big.

Bigger than any one of us. Because it’s not about one of us; it’s about all of us. When we gather, connect, and share, something happens. We change. We grow. We don’t just create an event, but a community.

We care deeply, right? For our people. For our communities. For our world. We want hearty exchanges with the people we love and safe places to fall. We want to unpeel the layers and offer the best of ourselves. Our best is rarely perfect, but that’s BEYOND OK. We’ll take real over perfect any day. And real happens here.

Faith moves us. We’ve encountered it, wrestled with it, and embraced it. (Repeatedly.) We have learned what it means to experience God’s love in a real way and renewed our belief in each other (and ourselves).

When we look at you, we see untapped power that can change the world. There’s passion there, and fire, even if it’s just a spark. Let’s fan that flame and make things happen. We can do this. You are not alone.

We’ve readied a place for you to come in, to share and to heal and to dance . . .

To BELONG.

Activate Education!!

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 03 Nov 2015 11:18:05 +0000

It's time!!! It's time to DO THAT THING WE DO. We do it like a bunch of bosses every year, and together we have impacted thousands of kids and families and teachers and communities for the last three years.

Remember Help One Now’s first Legacy Project in 2012? When we went to Haiti and got the hair-brained idea to build a whole school? And you all bought in and we just went ahead and built it? It was birthed out of a desire to do something audacious, to build something lasting, to tangibly make a tremendous impact in our communities.

In short, we wanted to leave a legacy.

Now, every holiday season, we come together to build something HUGE. Something amazing. From a preschool to an actual school--every year, we aspire to do something that sounds so far out of reach that we shouldn’t make it, and yet, every year, our amazing tribe delivers.

This year, we’re again leaving a legacy of education.

"EDUCATION IS THE MOST POWERFUL WEAPON WHICH YOU CAN USE
TO CHANGE THE WORLD."
~Nelson Mandela

This year, we’re changing five communities in four countries—truly a global impact. Together, we will bring education to hundreds of children in 19 classrooms in Haiti, Peru, Uganda, and South Africa through two paths of impact:

Building A Legacy and Sustaining A Legacy.

Building a Legacy

This path will:

Fund the construction of 7 classrooms in Haiti, Peru, and South Africa, and it is resourced through generous, tax-deductible giving. They include:

3 classrooms at Williamson Adrien Academy in Petionville, Haiti (our original Legacy Project) - these classrooms will add secondary grade levels to WAA!
2 classrooms at Colégio Kairos in Iquitos, Peru - increases access to life-changing education to impoverished children from the slums of Belen and Iquitos.
2 classrooms at Reagoboka Early Childhood Development Centre in Hamanskraal, South Africa - over 150 children receive meals, pre-school and after-school care, and even tutoring at our leader Elizabeth’s small home.

All these classrooms will increase their capacity to help neighborhood children and families! (BONUS! BONUS!)

Sustaining a Legacy

This path will:

Support 12 classrooms — 6 each at Aclaprotech in Port-au-Prince, Haiti and His Mercy School in Uganda.
Fund 12 annual salaries for local teachers
Provide classroom resources such as textbooks, school supplies, and other necessities
Fund minor repairs to facilities
Provide training seminars for local teachers

The thing is, if we want it for our own children - good schools, great teachers, the ability to read and write, a hope and a future - we just have to want it for everyone's children. And if the roles were reversed, wouldn't we hope a group of folks across the world would decide that good for all is the way to go? These are our children and their parents are our brothers and sisters and their communities matter as much as ours, and we are either building a healthier, safer, happier world with the crazy advantages we were born into or we aren't.

This is so easy and you can do it one of two ways:

You can Build a Community with a simple donation. The goal is 64K and we can do it in our sleep. 7 classrooms, fully funded, hundreds and hundreds of kids impacted, local jobs created, hope seeded in all these beautiful little hearts.
You can Sustain a Community by purchasing this GORGEOUS 2015 Legacy necklace made in Haiti: hand-punched leather sequins and brass accent beads. Guaranteed to be shipped before Christmas, so BAM. Presents solved. 12 classrooms, new teachers, supplies, everything. The goal is 36K. Cake walk.

This necklace is so striking and original, every time I wear it, I get stopped a dozen times.
Plus, it is made by a Haitian artisan group, so MORE JOBS.

As a board member of Help One Now, I can just tell you that we are so in here. We are for the kids, for the schools, for the local leaders, for the communities, for the best practices, for helping and not hurting, for education, for the future, for this beautiful world and all its beautiful citizens. It is such a joy to share and empower.

And YOU matter so much. You have mattered to HON and the communities they serve over and over. You've funded jobs and construction projects and leaders and schools and wells, and it has all gone into the hands of the smartest, highest capacity local leaders in each community.

What I am saying to you is this: you can trust your dollars to count here.

Legacy Project 2015...commence!!! You can donate to build or purchase to sustain, and you can discover more about HON and the communities we serve and the leaders we love and the amazing work you've supported here.

Let's do this, you guys! Gather your children around your computer, show them the kids, look at the schools and teachers and pictures, talk about Haiti and Peru and Uganda and South Africa, and build your own family legacy of generosity, courage, and love.

The Gate is Open

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 22 Oct 2015 10:53:03 +0000

I don’t know if you know this, but chickens are low-hanging fruit. My girlfriend Katie asked me yesterday: “Did you have trouble with animals digging to get to your chickens? Did you have anything around their coop to prevent it?” No, we basically provided a free chicken buffet for neighboring raccoons, dogs, and coyotes. We started with twelve chickens and now we have two (RIP) (#neverforget).

But let me tell you about our two. These girls, they are survivors. I am so serious. They are two tough broads. All their sisters fell one by one to poor wandering habits and a basic ignorance of their surroundings, but these two own the hood. They never leave each others side and I’m pretty sure they are never going to die.

Until about three months ago, we let the chickens free range all over our one-acre (and sometimes the neighbors’ yards which accounted for the untimely deaths of chickens #4, #7, and #10). We would shut them in their coop at night all roosted together, and in the morning we’d open the door and they’d all run out at top speed to begin their thrilling day of hunting and pecking. I mean, I’d open the gate four inches and they squeezed out and ran for freedom.

But because chickens actually crap all over everything including your patio furniture and new porch, we fenced in a large area around their coop and confined them to a normal-sized free-range zone so we would no longer constantly sit on/walk through/clean up their irrational amounts of poop. They’ve been in there for three months.

Yesterday after texting with Katie, I decided to let the two plucky chickens have a field trip around the yard. Won’t this be fun for the girls! I thought. They’ll run around their favorite old paths and scratch under the trees and have a merry time. We had some rain so everything is soft and bugs are plentiful and this will be their #bestlifenow.

So imagine my shock when I walked over to the coop, excitedly threw open the gate preparing for the chicken sprint…and they just stared at me. Come out, gals! Look! Run like the wind! The whole yard is your playground today! But they just turned away and walked back toward the coop. I left the gate wide open all day, and they never left. The adventurous, seize-the-day spirit of our two survivors was gone.

I can’t quit thinking about it.

I’m a big fan of freedom, of wide-open spaces, of not being confined and imprisoned and stuck. This is absolutely God’s craving for us too: “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery” (Galatians 5:1). That first sentence is everything. Why did Jesus set us free? So we would be free. That’s basically it. He emancipated us from everything that imprisons because freedom is its own reward. To hear the Bible tell it, Christians should be the freest, most unstuck, unrestricted, liberated people breathing air.

I woke up thinking how many of us are staying inside the tiny coop while the gate to the big yard is wide open. There it is! Right there! Freedom! We believe we are locked in, but the confinement is imaginary. We’ve been imprisoned for so long, we cannot even recognize what an open door looks like. The small space, the fence, the latch, the borders; it has become our whole world until there is nothing even visible outside anymore.

Who told you imprisonment was your only option? What narrative have you believed that keeps you trapped, forfeiting your own freedom? And how long have you chained yourself inside? The prisons, they are many: toxic relationships, abusive churches, soul-crushing jobs, addictions, sorrow, impossible expectations, deferred dreams, the lie of scarcity, fear, regret.

These are hurdles, not prisons.

“…through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit who gives life has set you free from the law of sin and death” (Romans 8:1). Somewhere along the way, the idea of misery became enmeshed with the notion of Christian sacrifice. God became this irrational, confusing abuser who kept his kids locked in poisonous or barren environments for the sake of…I’m not sure what…the kingdom? Longsuffering? Death to self? I’ve heard abused women say, “God has not released me yet…” and I want to scream YES HE SURE AS HECK HAS. I’ve seen folks shrivel and shrink under toxic church leadership, dreamers desert their gifts under the double lie of scarcity + fear. I’ve seen the emotional surrender to addictions, imagining freedom is for other people.

Why do we think we only deserve the coop when God gave us the whole yard?

I remember the day I realized Brandon and I could walk away from a toxic environment that had broken our spirits. It was like a revelation, the moment my eyes saw the open gate. We can leave?? There was no Protestant work ethic that demanded we forfeit our souls for “loyalty.” There was no requirement of emotional loss so someone else could gain. God never asked for our full erasure to serve a bottom line. We were free.

We always had been.

Dear one, I don’t know what prison you are in, but listen to me: the gate is open. We are loved by a God of freedom and liberation and adventure and meaning. Run like the wind! Look, right outside the fence, there it is! We are not a people of prisons. Perhaps your spirit has been broken, because small locked spaces can do that after awhile. But you are not a slave to those shackles. Jesus set you way too free for that nonsense. There is so much life out there, so much to see, so much to experience, so much to enjoy, so much space to heal and find your legs again and run.

I know those first few steps outside can be terrifying; prisons confine and restrict but at least they are familiar. But if Jesus is to be trusted, He opened the gate because evidently freedom is how to do this thing, this life. It is his plan and will and He believed so deeply in its power that He went all the way to the cross to secure it for us. You are pluckier than you think; it’s still in there down deep. I know it feels risky, even unchristian if you’ve been abusively programmed. But you can do this. You can sprint through that gate. The whole yard is yours.

Off you go.

Gilmore Girls: All My Feely Feelings

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 07 Oct 2015 12:35:56 +0000

In a leader, you really want tenacity. Friends, I want you to know that you can trust my influence because I totally committed to the entire Gilmore Girls series this summer. I see through my vows. I am not a quitter.

A lot of you followed “my journey” through GG since June, and the thing about Gilmore is that you want to talk about it with other ~~addicts~~ enthusiasts. Because Brandon refused to join me on my journey (BYE FELICIA), most GG observations have pooled in my brain and need voicing. They need to be heard and understood by other Friends of Gilmore. So can we talk about the quirky, hilarious observations only people who’ve watched 154 consecutive hours of the same show can appreciate? In no particular order:

The coffee. This has several subpoints:

Luke only pours about three swallows of coffee into everyone’s mug.
Lorelai and Rory never pay for their coffee, which is only fair (see previous sentence).
The to-go cups of coffee are clearly empty. The girls wave them around like the empty Styrofoam containers they are, and they can carry a whole carton of coffees like they weigh nothing at all and will never spill. Which they don’t and won’t.
Always black coffee? What is this, Communism?
After ordering coffee at Luke’s, Lorelai and Rory take one swallow and then leave in a rush to the inn/Chilton/Yale/town meeting: "Thank you for this huge cheeseburger! Oops. Gotta go." They clearly don’t value their food purchases, which is a wash since they never pay.

I was obsessed with the background activity. I have never seen a show with so much going on. Constant people walking (near and far), cars driving, people fake talking, someone decorating the square (again), people eating, mamas pushing strollers, folks standing in line, people shopping. It was someone’s whole entire job just to coordinate the background activity. I always tried to find repeats. WHICH I FOUND. That same car sure loves to circle the square.

People "eating" at Luke’s. A cousin to the background activity obsession, these people had full plates of food and never, ever ate. They pushed the food around, picked up food with their forks and put it back down, shook a lot of salt, held their (mostly empty) coffee mugs, talked with no actual sound, nodded and smiled, dabbed their mouths with a napkin, cut food with a knife repeatedly, and basically acted like a toddler pretending to eat. Well done, Fakers.

Related: in general, I have never seen an empty or even half-empty plate on GG. Every Friday dinner at Emily and Richard’s? They leave full plates. Luke’s? Full plates. The dining room at the inn? Full plates. No one eats in Stars Hollow. It is a town of abundant food and zero consumers. This is why Lorelai and Rory constantly eat like 18-year-old frat boys at a fast food convention and still zip up those size 4 jeans every day. WHATEVER, fake eating skinny girls.

Apparently in Stars Hollow it is always and only Fall and Winter. There is a tiny window of spring for one episode and then all major characters take a full summer vacation/summer job/traveling responsibility/distant internship. Summer is dead to Stars Hollow. Spring is hanging on by a thread. The bread and butter of Gilmore is Fall and Winter. The chief mascot of Stars Hollow is the pumpkin, which adorns every home, stoop, business, and town activity in 91% of the series.

Sookie’s kitchen looks like a staged fresh produce commercial that is entirely, completely impractical. Overflowing baskets of fresh bread, a sink full of beautiful washed lettuce, giants bowls of cherries/peppers/oranges/purple onions, perfectly decorated pastries and pies just sitting there (never covered and no pieces ever cut out), pans of tiny, lovely roasted quail, a glass-front refrigerator that looks like an ad for OCD medication. And absolutely zero chopped anything, no mess, no dirty bowls piled up, nothing in the sink (except that beautiful produce), nothing half-prepared, no sloppy utensils, no used pans, no foul-mouthed, sweaty chefs, no signs of actual cooking. I make one average meal for seven people and my kitchen appears ransacked by drunken raccoons.

Where is all the nasty crap?

The boyfriend dilemmas. The rotating cast of boyfriends/fiancés/husbands was our cross to bear during Gilmore. I guess Amy Sherman-Palladino wanted us to kind of like each one and kind of hate them. Dean was so kind and considerate…but OH MY GOSH STOP YOUR WHINING. Jess was intelligent and deep (compared to Dean the sweet dumb-dumb)…but if he opened that fresh mouth one more time to Luke, I was prepared to snatch him bald-headed. PRACTICE YOUR MANNERS, YOUNG MAN. I never bought Max for Lorelai. And the Luke/Christopher conundrum drove me to the bottle. The only boyfriend I really liked was Logan. I don’t care what you say! Team Logan! And we all know how that ended. THANKS FOR NOTHING, PLOT SUBVERTERS.

Low: my least favorite part of the series was when Lorelai and Rory were in an eight-episode silent standoff. I basically hated that whole season. Are you kidding me? Eight episodes of childish, heartbreaking silence?? I actually googled: “Were Lauren Graham and Alexis Bledel in a real life fight and Amy couldn’t write them into scenes together?” Because otherwise I guess the writers just hated us. I was so mad at Lorelai and Rory during that fight, I actually prayed for their reconciliation. And God was like, “Get a life, Hatmaker. I have people to help who are not imaginary.”

Second low: Rory and Married Dean. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. No. No. No. Hate. Sad. Tears. Despair. Fury. Disappointment. Five stages of grief. Never reached “acceptance.” Terrible. I want to go back and write that part out of the show.

Highs: Rory’s high school graduation speech. This was my actual face during that episode.

I carb loaded to prepare for this episode and it still didn't help.

Other highs: Kirk’s night terrors. LOLZ. The fast-talking babbling. Paris’ hilarious commentary (she really grew on me, that one), Lorelai’s sarcasm (to Rory before her Yale panel presentation: “Good luck, honey! But just remember: if you don’t do well, we will stop loving you.”), Rory’s bangs, Emily’s outrageous elitism made me howl.

And I know I am in the minority, but I loved the series finale (minus the absence of beloved Logan; still bitter). I started crying when Lorelai watched Rory sleep and I bawled like a newborn baby until the very end. The tents Luke sewed together, the townspeople, the signs everyone was holding (when they pulled up in the Jeep and saw the signs in the rain, I’m pretty sure I needed a therapist). It tied up the series with a lovely bow and I thought about it for three straight days. (Brandon was just happy it was done. He was like, "Remember that summer all you did was watch Gilmore Girls? That was fun. Good times.")

Gilmore made me feel so many feelings! I loved it. Loved, loved, loved. I was devastated it was over! (I heard rumors that Luke and Lorelai didn’t get along in real life, and I CHOOSE COMPLETE DENIAL ON THAT.) I read all the articles (Liza Weil tried out for Rory and was so interesting, Amy wrote the character of Paris for her), clicked on the Gilmore-related Buzzfeeds, listened to the interviews, and watched the reunion taping from earlier this year. I drank all the koolaid and it was delicious.

Thank you, Amy Sherman-Palladino! Please make us a Gilmore reunion special or, better yet, a Gilmore movie. It must seem obvious at this point that millions of psychotic fans will beat down the doors to every theater in the country. We are incredible weirdos and you made us this way. We used to be normal, but now we are Gilmore lunatics. We miss Stars Hollow and that wacky cast of characters. Please bring them back to us.

I would still be in mourning…but I’ve already started Parenthood.

EDITED: I can't believe I didn't mention Michel! I am hopelessly devoted to him: "People are particularly stupid today. I can't talk to any more of them."

GG Fans, what else did I miss? Funny observations, quirks, best and worst moments, favorite scenes, favorite quotes. We could do this for DAYS.

Why I Want to Give You Things

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 10 Jul 2015 18:03:20 +0000

Do you ever wonder how authors feel and think about their readers? I do. Constantly. I always want Anne Lamott to actually know me, and I want Alan Bradley to come over for tea so I can talk to him about his characters, and I want to know if Sue Monk Kidd read the tweets I sent about how much her storylines affected me spiritually. I wonder if they sit at their desks and imagine their readers engrossed in Chapter Eleven at 2:48am.

Do they love us as much as we love them?

I don’t know if you know this, but I am also an author. Brandon always tells me, “Your people are so good to you.” I KNOW IT, BRO. I know it because you are overtly generous with your words and affection and support and love. And because we’ve banded together for so many good things: we’ve sponsored kids all over the world, built schools, supported sustainable businesses in vulnerable countries, built tiny houses for the homeless, and the list goes on and on. Not to mention the daily camaraderie in the trenches of parenting, marriage, and life.

So I want to answer the above question: YES. I LOVE YOU TWICE AS MUCH.

For crying out loud, some of you have been with me for ten years. It has been a joy to be your friend. So when my new book was in development, the conversation with my Book People went like this:

Me: Let’s give my readers stuff! Rewards! Think rewards!
BP: Okay, let’s brainstorm incentives.
Me: I got it! Let’s give the book away for free. My readers have been so loyal! They deserve it!
BP: No.
Me: Fine. 75% off.
BP: This is why we don’t always invite you to these meetings, Jen.

So we thunk and thunk and I begged my friends for things and came up with all this “original bonus stuff” I could write or record or compile for you, and we put together a whole list of freebies for every Preorderer. The list starts at one book, increases for five, and maxes out at ten:

The coolest one: preorder and get the PDF today even though For the Love doesn’t release until August 18th (this one is time sensitive – expires July 17th)
For the Love of Food: ebook of my favorite recipes (you know how I write these)
Discount code to Noonday Collection
4 bonus essays – audio version in which I crack my own self up
FTL quote poster
FTL discussion questions (this book was made for Book Clubs)
FTL t-shirt
FTL leather cuff from Noonday

I MEAN.

Haitian artisans for Noonday are busy making these wrap bracelets,
and I pretty much cannot deal.
They will also be given to Noonday Trunk Show hosts between August 6-13 and available for individual purchase. $5 of each sale goes to Help One Now's work in Haiti.

A few interesting facts about preordering that I never knew:

When you preorder, you aren’t charged until the book releases. Did you know that?? So you can preorder now, get all the freebies, and get charged on August 18th when it releases, OR you can just order it when it releases but miss out on the freebies. In other words, if you are ever going to buy it, you should do it now and GET FREE STUFF. Order now, get stuff, pay later…or just pay later.

If you preorder through Amazon, you get the benefit of the low-price guarantee, meaning if the price decreases anytime between your order date and the end of the day of the release date, you'll receive the lowest price. Well done, Amazon!

If you just preorder the e-book version, you still get all the freebies (doesn’t have to be the hard copy).

For the Love is also available in Spanish! Muy bueno! Por el Amor!

Question: Why would anyone want to order more than one copy?

First, the incentives aren’t shabby. Second, For the Love is a book club selection, fo shizzle. It broaches so many conversations women are having (or want to have), it is like low-hanging fruit for amazing discussions: community, sex and marriage, parenting, career and calling, church, food, struggle, the fear of transparency, loneliness, mean people, fashion. It is literally all in there. Third, gifts. Stick a stack in your closet and give them away to friends, teachers (I write about teachers), neighbors, enemies (I write about enemies), sisters, pastors’ wives, daughters, hairdressers, favorite cashiers, people you sit next to on planes. If I’ve shown you anything, I hope it is that you can trust me with your favorite people. They will only get love and grace and encouragement and laughter with me, no matter who they are or where they are.

Question: Who should even buy this book? Well, I’ll tell you:

Oh, I really do love you. I really want you to have all this fun stuff. All the preorder goodies are available until August 17th, except for the PDF, which is only good until July 17th, one more week. (You posting your favorite quotes everywhere from your early PDF copies? I AM DYING. My very favorite thing about a book release is seeing which sentences or sections moved someone. Or woke her husband up with laughter at 12:30am. L.O.V.E.)

If you haven't already, you can preorder here, then jump over to my For the Love website, click on “Preorder Today!” then click on “How do I get my freebies?” (<--- just click on that if you have already preordered from any site) and follow the directions. Your confirmation email will come within 45 minutes or so, and your PDF will be available after that! (Be just a mite patient as it takes a bit, and also check your spam folder, because lots of girls found their confirmation email in that traphole.)

So glad to share this with you. It was such a labor of love.

XOXOXOXOXO, sisters. You are so dear to me.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 02 Jul 2015 15:53:20 +0000

If you have followed me for longer than one minute, you already know the do-gooder people I love most:

1. Noonday
2. Help One Now

The only person I am more obsessed with is Ben at the Morning Star Family Home in China for abandoned children with severe heart disease:

(This is exactly how I look at my doctor when she writes down my weight.)
Do not even attempt to deal with Ben's cuteness. If you love yourself, follow me and my friend @meredithtoering on Insta where she steadily feeds me pics for our #Benstagram.
Also, sponsor one of her heart babies. Kthanksbye.

So if I have, say, a big book launch coming and I am looking for partners to help love the world with it, I make two phone calls: to Jessica at Noonday and Chris at Help One Now. Obvs. What am I going to do? Just let this book go out into the world without raising a little hell for good?? You know that is not my jam.

So mark your calendars for August 6-13, because anyone who hosts a Noonday Trunk Show during those days gets an advanced copy of For the Love and exclusive For the Love bracelet created by artisans in Haiti! AND not only do you help create economic opportunity in vulnerable countries with every Noonday purchase, but $5 of every FTL bracelet sold goes to Help One Now and their work in Haiti.

You get awesome jewelry.

Noonday artisans in ten countries are empowered.

Help One Now is funded for their work in Haiti.

So.Much.Winning.

GET ALL THE WAY OUT OF TOWN. Handcrafted with love in Haiti!

Q: What is a Noonday Trunk Show?

A Trunk Show is a party where you invite women in your community to shop for beautiful jewelry and accessories handmade by Artisans around the world. A Noonday Ambassador will share the stories of transformation behind each unique piece. By shopping, you and your friends will create opportunity in vulnerable communities around the world. If that doesn't sound awesome, check for a pulse.

Q: What do I get out of it?

Pretty much everything. You get style (Noonday is so fashion forward), connection between you and the women you invite and then to all the artisans who handcrafted your beautiful pieces, the opportunity to do great good with your dollars, and rewards! Trunk Show hosts earn free and half-off products! Plus MY BOOK, HELLO. Plus THE BRACELET, HELLO.

This book contains the words "horsecrappery." I'VE ALREADY SAID TOO MUCH.

Hosting a Trunk Show is basically the shiz. Trust me, you and your friends will drool over the new fall line. It is outstanding. I popped up to the Noonday offices a couple of weeks ago for a sneak peek, and I needed a fainting couch.

This girl.

This could not be easier: click here to sign up to host a Noonday Trunk Show between August 6-13. The end. Ambassadors all over the country are standing by! You'll get all the info you need. As a host, you'll get my new book (a week before it even releases!), a FTL leather wrap bracelet, free and discounted Noonday products, and know this:

Every penny spent at a Trunk Show goes toward economic empowerment for artisans in ten vulnerable countries, $5 of every FTL wrap purchase (available August 6th) goes toward fighting child trafficking in Haiti through Help One Now, and business opportunities are created for Noonday Ambassadors right here in the good ol' US of A. If you are going to spend, SPEND LIKE THIS.

For the love of Haiti!

For the love of artisans!

For the love of empowerment!

For the love of gorgeous leather wraps!

Plus, it will be near the end of summer and let's just stipulate that WE WILL ALL DESERVE A PRIZE BY THEN. Oh my gosh.

Be mine. Plus get four bonus essays. Win/win.

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 01 Jul 2015 14:20:43 +0000

Listen, we have this whole thing going on, me and my EFs. "EF" means email friend, and I have to explain this constantly (just this week the sweetest woman emailed my assistant Amanda because the subject line in my weekly email was "LC for my EFs because LYLAS" and she was pretty sure it was profanity...bless all the hearts).

My EFs are my safe place. That's how I feel about them. So I save special correspondence just for them. This is where I tell personal stories I don’t want to share with the whole big internet, send pictures probably not meant for public consumption, talk about my favorite things I’m loving, and give them awesome things. My EFs have received free books, incredible discount codes, free printables, coupons, advance info before the rest of the world (I sent the link for signed copies of my new book to my EFs the day before we went public, and they bought every copy in 30 minutes…sorry, World), ticket specials, advance chapters, and all around general goodies.

They are very dear to me.

And I want you to be one of them.

So guess what? If you sign up for emails, I will send you four bonus essays I wrote just for my EFs! They will automatically land in your inbox one minute from now like magic just for signing up. These are not cast off essays or random pieces that didn't fit anywhere. I wrote them just for my EFs. Want a taste? Here are a couple of excerpts:

From "An Old-Fashioned Idea":

...Sometimes we are so incredibly convinced, we elevate principles over people, forgetting that only a very small handful of human issues are concrete; most are fluid, nuanced, contextual, subjective. Different does not mean against, nor does it mean wrong. There is way more wiggle room than we concede.

Paul told us in Romans: “Be devoted to one another in brotherly love; give preference to one another in honor.” This would pretty much solve it. If I am devoted to you, if I prefer to honor you than disprove you, then we can preserve loving community in the midst of thousands of differences, even monumental ones. As long as I prefer the sound of my own voice and the affirmation of my choices, then brotherhood and sisterhood is hopeless. Sure, we must love our neighbors as much as ourselves, but as themselves. When a society only loves the neighbors who are like themselves, the natural outcome leads all the way to racism, hatred, fear, and all out war. Uniformity should never supersede community...

From "Vacationing with Children and Other Ways to Sabotage Your Sanity":

...It takes no less than but possibly more than two hours longer to leave than planned. This is a scientific fact. The kids jam every sort of blanket, pillow, handheld device, stuffed animal, book, activity bag, and headphone case into the car. The entire interior smells like feet. Brandon puts the car in reverse and a child suddenly has to go to the bathroom. It is urgent. At this moment, in this fragile state, this is the worst thing that could ever happen. There is an 82% chance we will cancel the whole trip. Once we finally leave, Brandon is not speaking to any of us. All words and sounds are forbidden until further notice. NO I WILL NOT TURN ON THE RADIO, says the dad. Ten minutes later, someone tries a joke. It’s too soon. We soldier on...

From "My Doomed Career as Your Judge":

...Every time I start talking about grace, some people get wonky. I mean, just how far are we going to let this grace thing go?? Sure, we love it for ourselves, but after that, everyone needs to tighten it up, man! When Jesus sent the disciples out on their first mission, he said, “Freely you’ve been given, freely you should give.” No discussion of prerequisites or gatekeeping or scarcity but simply a very large table where everyone gets a seat. The problem is, we tend to receive freely but give conditionally. How quickly we forget that we are sinners saved by grace, not co-judges appointed by our righteousness...

From "A Conversation with My Old Clothes":

...And hello there, Really Low-Waisted Size 6 Jeans puttin’ out the vibe with those heels. I remember you. The upside of having babies in my mid-twenties was that incredible metabolism (R.I.P.) which snapped me back into shape while hardly trying. I didn’t even know how short our adult relationship was going to be, Tiny Jeans. I MISS YOU, 6!!

Now, we didn’t have skinnies back then, so I rocked your super long boot cut over those spiky heels. I buttoned you up like a person whose jeans fit, a phenomenon I struggle to recall. You and I hadn’t created our muffin top situation yet. We were just best friends being kind to one another. (The contortion I put my jeans through now counts as denim abuse, and they are certainly no friend to my thigh meat.) I hung on to the last pair of you until five years ago, that one last dusty pair on the bottom of the pile, until I finally admitted our relationship was over and would never be revived. It’s not that you aren’t into me but that I can’t really get into you. Like, physically. I saved you pointlessly, like all those jugs of water for Y2K...

.................................................

So as you can see, there is all kinds of stuff that lives in my brain.

This is so easy: click here to subscribe for emails. You'll be redirected to the page below on my website, and just enter your email address and click subscribe. Literally, five seconds. You'll get one quick email making sure you meant to sign up, a second one confirming your confirmation, then the third with a welcome note from me and the link to the essays.

Join the party! If you've ever paid attention to my consistency, you know that four essays is as much content as you get from two months of blogging from me. Bless it. I mean well. I hope you love them as much as I loved writing them for you.

Can't wait to meet my new EFs! (Then pop back in here and let's talk about those essays, because I HAVE BIG THOUGHTS and I'd love to hear yours.)

Click here to subscribe and be mine forever.

Our Family Cancer Manifesto

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 02 Jun 2015 14:57:22 +0000

We continue to be incredibly grateful for your concern and follow up on my mom's cancer. She was diagnosed with breast cancer in November and moved pretty quickly into surgery and radiation. She now has regular scans, so we live in three-month increments praying for the all-clear each time. We are in Cancer Maintenance.

I've mentioned before that as adult children, when one of your parents gets sick, everyone reverts to their standard roles. You hop into your lane and peddle furiously along familiar paths because you don't have time to innovate; adrenaline only leaves room for you to do what you already know how to do.

In our case, I am the oldest child, so I jumped into procedures and systems obviously. (The middle children constantly monitor everyone's feelings, and the babies are free to get clingy and fall apart. How nice for them.) As the oldest, I immediately started planning to keep this thing on the rails. We couldn't go willy-nilly into Cancer Mode without defining the mode. What was our mode? We needed a mode. (No one ever voted me "Most Fun" in high school.)

So six months ago, five hours before my mom's surgery, some of us prayed, some assembled snacks, some set up a care calendar. I wrote an essay. (I am a first-born, controlling, career writer; I had no alternative.) I penned the following manifesto and sent it to our family. I wonder if it might be helpful to you? I believe these guidelines apply to any family in crisis and those who love them. Obviously, cursing is allowed when your person gets sick, so feel free to use our swears in addition to our rules. (And FYI, readers: the following is simply our family tone, so even if you are less...salty...the approach works across all family brands.)

The King Family Cancer Manifesto

Well, I told cancer our family was off limits, but cancer is an asshole. I already have a death plan for Mom and Dad: they are supposed to die peacefully in their sleep forty years from now on the same night holding hands.

We need to get our cancer rules together here on the front end. Mom goes in for surgery in five hours. Obviously, we hope the surgery will be the end of this, and Mom will kick cancer’s tail and we’ll get back to our important issues like Lindsay’s grilled pimento cheese recipe for her new menu and…whatever it is Dad does at the ranch (is it hay? Alfalfa? Are the calves born in the spring or fall? It’s all so unclear).

Amy H gave me this idea. It goes like this:

We have concentric rings around Mom’s cancer, and she gets to be in the bulls-eye, because well, she has the actual cancer.
The second ring is Dad, because he said “in sickness and in health” 45 years ago and so now he is stuck.
Us four kids are third, because we are the fruit of their loins (gross).
The people we married or “are hanging out with” (side-eye to Drew) or birthed are in the next ring, because Mom is their Grana or mother-in-law or “mom of the guy she is hanging out with” (Drew, land the plane, we like her so much).
The fourth ring includes all our best friends. The real ones. The ones we ask to help us move and crap like that. The ones who walk into our houses without knocking.
The outer ring includes our work friends and church friends and neighbors who like or even love us, and they will get swept into our cancer vortex by proximity.
Everyone else in the world is outside of those rings.

The way this works is that stress can always go out but never in. Mom is in the bulls-eye, so she can say and do and feel whatever she wants at all times. She gets to act straight crazy if she's in the mood, but at no time does she have to deal with our psychosis or anyone else’s. No other rings can dump their worry, fear, or burdens on Mom. She is the Cancer Queen and zero drama can reach her on the throne. She can be calm and measured like she normally is, or she can be irrational and hysterical. It doesn’t matter. In the bulls-eye, crazy can go out but no crazy can come in. We have to be strong and steady at all times for Mom. I don’t know how we’ll manage as this is not our skill set. Maybe there is a YouTube tutorial.

Dad is next. He can’t give Mom any fuss ever, but he can give it to anyone outside his ring. We have to absorb Dad’s junk too. We know him: this won’t look like fear or panic, it will mostly just sound like a lot of words. Dad gets to say all the words in all the world and everyone outside his ring has to listen patiently, because the only person who gets to shut him down ever is Mom. Gird your loins.

The family is next, so none of our crazy can go in toward Mom or Dad, but it can absolutely go out to the other rings. Our outer people have to deal with us without so much as a raised eyebrow. If we want to completely overreact and flail into a quagmire of tortured exaggeration (we are not a stoic people), we get to do that and our outer people will let us. If we decide on a bad day that our doctor is a quackadoo with a degree off the internet, they should confirm our theory and google replacement doctors. Our best friends are the recipients of all melodrama, inflated enthusiasm, and emotional outbursts. They can give us exactly zero of those things. Outer rings can only send in the good. Absolutely no crazy. If an Outer Ring Person consistently makes an Inner Ring Person panic by, for example, telling lots and lots of dead people stories, his or her ring career is over. Crazy-senders get booted from the rings immediately. We police the rings like Martin Riggs.

Mom, we have no idea what the doc will find today, but let me tell you this: if it is worse than we think and you are looking at mastectomies, feel free to get a nice new set of knockers when this is over. It will be your silver lining. You’ll look like a 16-year-old cheerleader. While you are under that knife, we can add on any other treatments you want BECAUSE YOU HAD CANCER AND NOW YOU GET ANYTHING YOU WANT FOREVER.

If people outside our rings want to help, they can pray. Remember? We believe in God! How lucky for us. And for Mom. You know she has filled, what, a million pages with her Scripture and prayer journaling every morning for forever? Mom doesn’t do a lot of talky-talking about her God feelings (that is Dad’s territory), but she is all filled up with the goods. We know how Dad prays, because he constantly makes us bawl by emailing his prayers for us. We know God loves Mom (the prayer journals alone are a straight ticket to heaven, plus all those times she bailed us out of jail) and if we are not one of His favorite families, then God has no taste at all. He’s got us. I know it.

So no matter what comes later today and next week and this whole next year, we can handle this. We have each other and we have God and we have good rings. We can always default to inappropriate humor, and fortunately, Mom’s cancer is in her boobs, so that gives us instant material to work with. We’ll all do what we do: Dad will talk about it, I will make rules, Lindsay will wail, Cortney will diagnose, Drew will gripe at the sisters, and Mom will be the calm Cancer Queen in the middle of this crazy family she created, probably acting like the sanest one of all.

We can do this.

**********************

Six months on this side of the manifesto, I can tell you that the ring system WORKS. If the rings are maintained well, the bulls-eye person gets to sit in a soothing emotional spa of calm and serenity and love. Oh sure, her people have plenty of fear and crazy, but they only send it outward, never inward, so she is shielded. Good outer rings constantly strengthen the inner rings. For my mom, this looked like a stocked refrigerator for weeks, an usually calm family, gifts for every single day of radiation from her staff, a cleaned house, rotating hand-holders on radiation days at the oncology office, anointing her with oil and prayer, baskets of lotion, tons of emails and texts.

For us in the innermost rings, this looked like a billion calls checking in on us, friends meeting us at the doctor's office, a steady supply of patient listeners, well-timed distractions, invites for fun stuff, treatment strategy partners, encouragement galore, helpful research, laughter. Our people absorbed all our fears so we were free to absorb Mom's and Dad's. Our rings served us so well.

God was and still is so ever present, so ever near, so ever good. And we are taking our turn as outer rings for other folks right now, because that is how the community thing works. When someone staffs the outer rings of others, she need not worry when her day in the bulls-eye comes. She'll be surrounded by good people who love her and know the rules:

All the fear and worry can go out, and only strength and goodness can come in.

Last day of radiation. Nailed it.

If you are in crisis with your people right now, you have all my love and solidarity. Life is hard, but God and people are good. Set up your rings, explain the out-but-not-in Crazy Policy, and remember that God loves you and is for you. I am for you too, and your pain is always safe here. Consider me an outer ring: I will gladly, patiently absorb it all for you here today.

**Quick update: My friend "Amy H" (mentioned above) who gave me this idea read it from another article! I'm sure she mentioned that but the details completely fail me. This was six months ago and we were in Cancer Crisis. All I can remember is her great idea about "stress out, never in." I would never borrow a concept without crediting the original author intentionally (that has happened to me before and it blows). I am super glad to link you to this one she'd read in the LA Times by Susan Silk and Barry Goldman. I hope the "ring wisdom" is useful to so many of us. May it be a comfort and guide when our people are sick and we are all struggling.

Because Some of You Really Want a New Job...

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 01 Jun 2015 13:50:45 +0000

Last week, I visited the Noonday office here in Austin. "Office" in this case is misleading; it is two entire floors of fabulous. When my friend Jessica started Noonday five years ago just as her own little adoption fundraiser, it consisted of a few pieces of Ugandan jewelry, two other friends, and her spare bedroom. Just five years later, the American office includes 50 employees and an entire office building. Don't you dare tell me God cannot take one small portion of fish and loaves and turn it into a feast.

I was an early adopter to the Noonday awesomeness, so I walked around the office like a proud mama peacock. To see me, you would have thought I built the whole business with my bare hands. Brandon says sometimes I "over-invest" emotionally.

For the three of my readers who haven't heard me talk about Noonday, this is the basic premise: Noonday identifies artisan entrepreneurs who share the dream of creating meaningful opportunity in vulnerable communities. They design gorgeous jewelry and accessories in collaboration with talented Artisans in ten different countries. They develop artisan businesses through fair trade and connect them to a global market, which enables them to create more jobs for people in their communities.

It is economic empowerment, which has transformed the lives of - wait for it - over 4000 artisans and their families around the world. (I saw it with my own eyes last year in Rwanda.)

Plus? The products are beyond.

Not only does Noonday provide economic empowerment for women (and some men!) globally, BUT RIGHT HERE TOO. Because they offer the coolest job maybe ever to women in the states: Noonday Ambassadors. NA's are three main things:

Noonday Ambassadors are stylists who share their love of fashion and help women discover jewelry and accessories that make them feel beautiful. They are storytellers who create a connection between women in their communities and Artisans around the world. They are social entrepreneurs who sell jewelry and accessories through Trunk Shows, making an impact in their communities and around the world.

There is a pretty straight line between me and the Noonday Ambassador buzz (#sorrynotsorry). Women tell me all the time how my book "7" ruined their lives (always a lovely thing to hear about your work), and they often follow that up with how Noonday became a place for them to practice the doing of that paradigm shift. Ambassadors tell me it has helped them discover their worth, exercise risk, and connect to the global community. Love, love, love. Women empowering women; it works.

Here is what several Ambassadors said:

“I was doing an online Bible Study of Jen’s last summer and stumbled upon Noonday and the Style For Justice trip. Jen talked about how women across the world are all the same. They all want their kids to go to school; they all want to provide the best care for their kids. But some women just don’t have any options. I knew this what I wanted to do, so I became a Noonday Ambassador ” -Lisa Maynard

“Jen Hatmaker made me do it and my life has not been the same. In the Style for Justice video she says "we are all different but we are all the same," and talks about how Moms want to provide for our kids no matter where we live? Dangit Jen!! There were times, when I was downright mad at her for posting such a convicting blog and calling me out of my comfort zone. That's what did it for me and made me become a Noonday Ambassador.” –Cherese Lee

“Jen’s books helped me put words and actions behind what I was feeling and becoming a Noonday Ambassador helped me put legs on it. ” –Laura Moseley

“I’ve followed Jen for a while and connected with Noonday when the opportunity to go to Rwanda with the Style For Justice team was presented. I entered the contest to go to Rwanda with her, but through the process found that becoming a Noonday Ambassador was an even better prize!” -Nicole Berry

“After a medical trip I found myself wishing I could do something that provided people with more than temporary relief. I discovered Jen’s blog post about Noonday and IJM and knew I had be part of it all! I became a Noonday Ambassador because I wanted to help make a lasting change in the lives of others and now I am.” –Paula Cox

“Jen’s words convicted me to take a risk, face my fears, and jump in. Becoming an Ambassador has been that risk for me.” –Lisa Thomson

“I attended a retreat where Jen was the speaker, where she talked about orphan prevention. I didn't realize that many children that become orphans actually have one or more living parents, but the parents aren't able to financially care for the child. As a mother of three, I wrestled with this. God used Jen's teachings to nudge me to do something. I attended a Noonday trunk show and then signed up to become an Ambassador a week later. As an Ambassador, I am able to share how Noonday is changing lives around the world. “ -Jennifer Powell

I'm like an unofficial headhunter for Noonday, for the love. But this has me thinking about you, and how so many of you are fashion-forward, smart, motivated, and also very much concerned about this world and its people. Noonday Ambassadors are building a flourishing world where people have jobs, children are cherished, women are empowered, and we are all connected. This is happening around the world and right here among the Ambassador community.

It is so outstanding.

Ambassadors love their job. They are Noonday evangelists. Even more than me.

Listen, you. You right there, the one who is looking for The Next Right Step, the one who is so ready for meaningful work, the one who loves women around the world but doesn't quite know how to help while you live in Suburbia USA. You, the fashionista who styles her friends even when they don't ask you to. You, the entrepreneurial justice girl. You, the mom whose kids are all in school now. You, the world-loving bleeding heart.

Maybe it's time to consider becoming a Noonday Ambassador.

BONUS: If you sign up using this link, Noonday is going to give you a Kinfolk Bag after you sign up and host your first show. I mean, look at this thing:

The entire thing is hand-beaded and hand-stitched. I want to marry this bag.

Summer is almost here. Rhythms are about to shift. For some of you, maybe the question isn't Why? but WHY NOT? This could be your Next Right Thing. I'll tell you this: IT IS A FUN TRIBE. Plus, pretty. Plus, meaningful. Plus, exciting. Plus, financially rock solid. Plus, best leadership ever. I mean, this girl:

Jessica's shoes are stilettos. Just on a random Tuesday. Can't deal. Also, I am obviously trying to impress her with my wedges. Don't try to tell me they aren't ON POINT.

I am so proud of her, of all the Ambassadors, of the Noonday model, of the artisans around the world. This is how to do it, man. It isn't charity or handouts; it is economic empowerment and sustainable, dignified work through skilled craftsmanship. DROP THE MIC.

You want in on this? Click here, find out more, and come back here in six months and tell me how Noonday has changed your life.

(And stay tuned for a Noonday/Jen Hatmaker collaboration on a to-die-for piece for the For the Love book launch this August...who else would I ask to design for me????)

Homemade Pizza Tutorial

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 26 May 2015 11:25:42 +0000

Most home cooks have a signature move: mine is homemade pizza. (I have a few other personal faves, mostly based around curry or pickled onions/beets/radishes/anything, but my people get weird about those.) But homemade pizza? Homerun every time. Because 'Merica.

I usually post my recipes willy-nilly on Facebook only to have you send me 937 emails asking where it is two weeks later because "YOU CAN'T FIIIIIIIIIIND IT," so I decided to put this one on le blog so it can be pinned or whatever the heck.

Outside of a few fresh ingredients, you almost always have everything you need for homemade pizza. Let's do this:

Dough (2-3 hours before you are ready to make the pizza)

(It is so worth it to make your own dough. This is so easy, even a caveman can do it in his electric mixer.)

1 tsp active yeast (or half of a package)
1 tsp sugar
4 C flour
1 tsp sea salt
1/3 C olive oil
1 T honey

Sprinkle yeast in 1 1/2 cups of warm water with a tsp of sugar. Let it proof and bubble while you do the rest.

In your electric mixer (or a bowl), put in flour and salt and mix on low. While still mixing, drizzle in the olive oil until incorporated. Stir the yeast water and drizzle into the dough mixture while mixing on low. Add the honey. Let your mixer knead for around 4-5 minutes, or you can obviously do this by hand. (The fatal dough flaw: undermixing. If you knead it long enough, it will become pliable and smooth. Not enough and it is sticky and crumbly.) Drizzle a bit of olive oil in a clean bowl, put the ball of dough in and coat it all around, and cover the bowl with a damp towel for 2-3 hours to let it rise. I usually keep this near my stove where it is warm.

This whole thing takes 10 minutes. Why does dough seem "fancy"??

House Sauce (1 hour before Pizza Time)

You know how much I abhor being dramatic (sarcasm font), but this sauce is LIFE. I make this once a week. I'll include the doubled recipe quantities, because if you aren't doubling your House Sauce to freeze for next time, I guess you just hate yourself.

1/2 C extra-virgin olive oil
1 T red pepper flakes
6-8 cloves chopped fresh garlic
28 oz can organic tomato puree*
15 oz can organic crushed tomatoes*
Some balsamic vinegar (I don't know...3 T?)
Sugar (this is to taste...I probably use 1/4 cup)
S&P

* First, a word about the tomatoes. I use Muir Glen, and there is really nothing you can ever say to make me change my mind. DO NOT GET SOME JANKY TOMATO SAUCE FROM THE BOTTOM SHELF. I am so serious. This sauce is only as good as the 'maters. Cento is a 2nd place brand if my store punks out on the Muir Glen. Fresh, homegrown peeled tomatoes are the Prom Queen of this recipe in the summer obvs, but how many of us are going to boil and peel 20 tomatoes when we could open a can? We are already making our own dough. Good lord, what do you want from us??

On low heat (LOW! If you burn that garlic, there is no point in living), put in the olive oil, red pepper flakes, and chopped garlic for 3-4 minutes until it starts to smell like Jesus' corner of heaven. Add everything else and - this is my least favorite part - whisk until all that oil is incorporated. This takes longer than I am happy about. I usually have to switch to left-handed whisking to get through it. #thestruggleisreal

Taste and adjust (I usually like more sugar than the average bear), but remember that this develops after cooking. Keep the heat low, cover, and let it bubble and simmer for at least an hour. Taste, taste, taste. A good home cook should be very familiar with Scorched Tongue Syndrome because evidently we cannot wait 10 seconds for our spoonful to cool.

Note: If you like your sauce a little thicker, make a quick slurry of 2 T of cornstarch whisked into a bit of water and stir it in at the end. It will thicken up the whole pot like magic.

Heat from House Sauce + dough that needs warmth to rise = SYNERGY.

Toppings

I may be occasionally bossy about important cooking things, like tomato puree brands, but when it comes to pizza toppings, my philosophy is SURE, WHY NOT?

Things I always get every time I'm at the grocery store:

pepperoni
pancetta
fresh mozzerella
block of mozzerella
block of parmesan
deli pesto

So no matter what, we can at least have basic pizza any moment the mood strikes. But after that? WHATEVER, MAN. On this particular pizza, because i have a vegan daughter now (I am out of can't evens), I made one with roasted shaved brussel sprouts and onions. I sliced them up on my mandolin in like three minutes, tossed in oil and S&P, and roasted for 20 minutes or so. If you don't believe this can be delicious, I don't know how I can ever be of service to you in the future.

Listen to me, loves: you can put anything you want on a pizza. If you like it, it will be delicious over homemade dough with House Sauce. I don't even know why I have to explain this.

Divide your dough into fourths, and wrap up two portions in plastic wrap and stick in your freezer for next time. Do you see how helpful I am being for you? You will already have dough and sauce for your next pizza night, and as you are enjoying that low-prep meal, you will fill your mind with the fondest thoughts of me. You might make up a song in my honor. I don't know. Anything could happen.

Look at the roasted brussels and onions. WHO IS LAUGHING NOW?

Now you have enough dough to make two pizzas. Flour your counter and roll them out.

It is vital to the recipe to preheat your oven as hot as it will go (around the 500 degree mark) and put your cast iron pizza pan (<-- this is mine...GAME CHANGER) in there for 20-30 minutes. If your pan and oven are not hot, your pizza will make you cry all the tears in Italy, and life is already hard. We don't need this.

Once your oven and pizza pan are scorching hot, drizzle some olive oil on the pan and put your dough in the oven for around 5 minutes. This is my preference because I like thin, crispy crust, but you could roll yours out thicker and let it be all soft and squishy if you are not spiritually mature in the area of crusts.

Take it out carefully (that cast iron pan in a 500 degree oven is no joke; someone I know has burned herself at this stage more than once), and put on your sauce and toppings. My people are big fans of the House Sauce/pesto combo, and last time I checked, it was a free country where we have Sauce Freedom, so you do you here.

The edges of your crust can be a hot mess. I just bend and fold mine all into place.

Back into the oven for another 5-6 minutes until everything is melted perfection and your crust looks nice and toasty (except for the Soft Crust People in which case I have no idea how to help lead you). Slide it onto your pizza paddle (<-- this is mine...she's been so good to me), and let it cool for a couple of minutes before slicing it up and becoming the Family Hero. My first pizza is always completely gone before I can get the second one even in the oven.

Me and Sydney's veggie pizza. Her side with no cheese or pesto because of the PARM in it. It's like all I've ever worked for in parenting is in shambles.

I know this seems like a lot of steps, but after making your own pizza a few times, you just make it without a recipe. The steps are parceled out over an afternoon, and you just knock it out 10 minutes at a time in between other stuff. Plus, don't forget that every other time, YOU HAVE READY-MADE DOUGH AND SAUCE, which basically means you are living a life of leisure.

I have had homemade pizza leftovers exactly zero times ever.

Your little piggies will gobble this up, I promise. Viva la pizza!

10 Summer Activities to Do With Your Kids

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 22 May 2015 09:29:44 +0000

‘Twas the first week of summer and all through the land
Not a Mom was still signing folders, not even a Dad.
The backpacks were slung in the garage without care
In hopes that some Clean Out Fairy soon would be there.

The children were nestled (super late) in their beds
While visions of NO HOMEWORK danced in their heads.
Mama in her yoga pants and I in my jorts
Are scheduling summer playdates, vacations, and sports.

When out in the playroom there arose such a clatter
We yelled (from the couch) to see what was the matter.
The children were arguing, restless, and I was floored
To hear the young cherubs declare: I’M BORED.

“Well hail no,” said Mama, “bored kids get chores.
You can clean out your closets and baskets and drawers.”
When what to my wondering eyes should appear?
A bunch of Bored Kids who ran the heck out of here.

Now Gavin! Now Sydney! Now Caleb and Ben!
On Remy! On all the kids till the neighborhood ends!
To the park, to the courts, to the pool and the mall!
Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!

It's nearly summer, parents and teachers…WE'VE ALMOST MADE IT. Amen, hallelujah, and cheers! The children have been educated another year, and we all deserve prizes. My zip code is somewhere left of a rigorous schedule that kills joy but right of unstructured anarchy. If it smacks of rigid systems, I'll give up on the third day. If it’s all loosey-goosey, no plans, no direction, no momentum, and no order, I lose the will to live.

I’m no Pinterest Mom, people. My life is pinnable about twelve days a year. I’m not precious and sometimes I think summer sucks, but after seventeen years as a parent and five kids up in this hizzie, I think I’ve found our family rhythm. I don't organize every minute of my kids' summer AT ALL (they free range a lot), but twelve weeks is loooooong and sometimes I look at the clock and cannot believe it is only 3:15pm and these people will be awake another 6-7 hours. We've got to have a few tricks in the bag. So here are 10 things to do with your kids this summer.

Find out what is free: Look for activities like theaters offering free kid movies (usually older movies but still fun because POPCORN!), Kids Eat Free days at local restaurants, Summer Reading Challenges with your local library or bookstore to win a free book or two, tours through local fire stations/bakeries/theaters/museums, outdoor concerts and plays, and local beaches or trails or bike paths. We live in Austin, and we love our city like a fat kid loves cake, so it’s super fun to trot around the city for free, because we are brainwashing our kids to never move away.

Throw a “Read In” and let your kids invite their friends. Set up pillows and blankets and fun snacks all over the living room floor, light some candles, put on some Pandora, and feel really good about yourself for upholding literacy. Post on Instagram for additional bragging. (They could also read the same book and have a Book Club discussion, but don’t give them wine like our grown up book clubs and maybe they won’t totally derail off topic.)

Let your kids make videos or movies with your/their iPhones (here are 10 movie making apps: most free or cheap). I cannot believe how electronically savvy my kids are. They are incapable of turning their socks right side out but can somehow produce incredible mockumentaries (we are a sarcastic people), all edited and everything. Then pop some popcorn, pile on the couch, and have Family Movie Night starring your kids. Public child star emotional breakdown optional.

For the exercise people, kids are totally down with Family Boot Camp. Make a big deal out of it. Get new water bottles, wear wristbands, make playlists. Set up an exercise tract with your kids: jogging, bike riding, lifting light weights, yoga, Pilates. Ben and I use an app called RoundTimer for interval workouts (30 seconds on, 30 seconds off...okay, fine, 26 seconds on, 34 seconds off...RoundTimer is not my boss). Got big kids? Go to the gym together. Record your times and work at besting them all summer. Take it to the high school track, which somehow seems extra fun. Do not hate on moms like me who man the stopwatch while the littles run in circles.

Go to your grocery store and grab a bunch of boxes from out back. Big ones, medium ones, weird ones. People, I have bigger kids, and I can still put them on the patio with a bunch of boxes, and they will play for days. Mine drag out pillows and blankets and flashlights, they connect boxes with duct tape, they create cities. It’s too fun. I sit out there and read, and yes, that fits my definition of “Things to Do With Your Kids.” If I’m next to you, that freaking counts.

We do “Mystery Thursdays” (Thursday is not a sacred cow, it is just the day of the week I’m about to snap.) The kids know we’re going somewhere fun, somewhere cool, but it’s a surprise. We’ve gone to every lake, river, park, exhibit, concert, and attraction in a 150-mile radius. If my kids don’t applaud this initiative in my eulogy, I’m coming back to haunt them.

In the spirit of my book “7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess,” summer is a great time to go through toy bins, closets, and playrooms and donate some great stuff. We particularly love connecting with an actual family or organization rather than generically dropping off at Goodwill, because human care matters so much, and we all belong to each other. Call the counselor at the poorest school in town, email a children’s shelter, or ask a local nonprofit to connect you with a family in need. You won’t believe how your kids will get behind this.

Cook! At the start of every summer, I drag out my cookbooks, my kids select 3-4 new recipes each and make a shopping list, and we tick them off one at a time. The recipe chooser is the kitchen helper, which isn’t as precious as it sounds, but nonetheless, an hour with one kid is a prize around these parts. My daughter and I made homemade meatball subs that were so delicious, we’ve never stopped talking about them, and by we I mean she and I and everyone else is over it, but just whatever. They were good, y’all.

Throw a “fancy” brunch for your kids’ friends. Use your good dishes. Put their apple juice in wine glasses. It doesn’t really matter what you make; this is all about the accoutrements. Eat at the good table. Cloth napkins? Brang it. Candles, place cards, dress up, all of it. Then have them change into bathing suits and stick them in the backyard with the hose, because seriously? We’re lowbrow.

Take a class together! Baking, crochet, cross-stitch, guitar, painting, bread-making, illustrating, pottery, archery, kickboxing, creative writing, sculpting, acting, braiding, cake decorating, weaving, anything. Tons of local colleges, restaurants, craft stores, trade schools, and culinary institutes offer one-day classes or more. Such a fantastic way to connect with each other over a new skill. Plus you can harness their new skills for your own personal gain. Fresh bread, anyone?

So Mamas and Daddies, let’s make the memories, because the days are long (oh my gosh) but the years are short. These aggravating, fighting kids will be gone in just a few years. May your summer be filled with laughter, adventure, and Non-Bored Kids. But should they risk their lives and utter the b-word, a few hours of scrubbing baseboards will cure what ails them. Mama may be fun, but she don’t play.

[I originally wrote this post for Barnes and Noble two years ago, but HERE WE ARE AGAIN, SUMMER.]

What are your summer ideas? How do you fill the hours? I'm serious: share your ideas because I am always looking for new additions to my Summer Activities List.

Our Parenting Yes's and No's

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 21 May 2015 16:46:18 +0000

A few weeks ago, our oldest son jacked up his truck AGAIN while “mudding” with his friends. This is maybe a Texas thing, I think. It involves teen boys, trucks, empty fields, and general frontal lobe underdevelopment. There were a handful of details I’ll omit, but we ended up getting a “story” instead of the truth.

In the inevitable confrontation, Brandon and I both played the heavy because the parenting book I read ten years ago cautioned against triangulation. But between our son’s obvious emotional distress and our relief that the “story” involved a muddy road instead of, say, drug paraphernalia, we both started losing steam midway through the lecture.

At one point too late in the game, Brandon looked sternly at our son and declared: “Do you know what a truck is for? TRANSPORTATION!” and I got the giggles so bad I had to hide in the kitchen. Once composed as presiding judge, I asked: “Do we look like two parents who are going to pay for your joyrides indefinitely?” and he looked at us so intently, as if the contours of our faces might confirm or deny the query, that Brandon almost snorted. Having exhausted our severity, we sent him to his room and dissolved in fits of laughter.

You know what I didn’t understand about parenting? No one knows what they are doing.

We have no idea if we are reacting correctly or making appropriate choices or parenting “right” or striking the proper balance. Did we discipline when we should have shown grace? Or relent when we should have clamped down? Are we getting the technology thing right? Should we have let the kids see that movie with the F-word? Are other parents letting their 7th grader go to Sonic after school? Do we give our kids too many/few chores? Do we allow boyfriends and girlfriends in 8th grade? Is our kid’s curfew appropriate? If we don’t enroll him in SAT Prep Class, is he doomed? Have spanking/time outs/isolation/lost privileges ruined our kids or redeemed them? Do they know when I make up answers?

We are just kids who grew up and had babies ourselves. What in the blazes do we know? Parenting is less “Stratego” and more “Chance” than we imagined. We’re flinging way more stuff at the wall to see what sticks than we let on. I second-guess around 72% of my parenting decisions. This feels unstable at best.

I’ve been thinking for weeks about the yeses and no’s we give as parents and how flimsy some of them are. There are so many question marks in parenting, but we have a few yeses and no’s that help steer the ship. Maybe these will provide a firmer foundation under the myriad of other choices that make parenting an absolute crapshoot.

NO:

I am not falling for the constant entertainment pressure our culture heaps on my mom head. I do not have to micromanage my kids’ lives to ensure every waking moment is developmentally stimulating and educationally fulfilling. I am not your dancing monkey; I am your mom. My children can grow up like every child in history: awash in their own exploration and creativity. They can make up games. They can create projects. They can play outside. They can turn every screen off and figure it out.

If my kids cannot make up their own fun outside of mindless technology or maternal leadership, we have way bigger problems. It is okay to say “no screens” while not shouldering the responsibility to fill the blank space. Oh sure, they may whine for awhile, but leave them alone long enough and they will remember how to use their imaginations, bodies, inventiveness, and brains. We make a list at the beginning of summer of possible things to do. It is long and outrageous. We put every possible idea on the list: make a film on iMovie, organize bike races with your friends, bake cupcakes, plan a neighborhood yard party and make invitations, read, practice your typing skills, visit the craft closet, whatever. “Consult the list” is my summer mantra. This all leads to an ancillary:

YES:

Get okay with couches turned over into a fort. Say yes to sheets draped over your dining room table with a messy picnic underneath. Ignore the Lego City carefully constructed over six square feet of your playroom. Let your kids play outside/ride bikes/climb trees/catch fireflies/skateboard/fish/go to the park without constantly freaking out. Make your peace with skinned knees, bike wrecks, and splinters – this is the substance of childhood. Your house will be a hot mess. Your children will always smell like dirty gym socks. Their shorts will be chronically torn. They will break some dishes.

So what??

Either we control and micromanage their childhoods, or we raise real kids. Being a kid should be fun, and not from ten developmentally correct boutique activities but because this is when they are supposed to be free with abandon and without fear or – let’s be honest – much responsibility. I don’t want my kids to operate like miniature accountants with every second preplanned. I want them to be kids. Which means my house and yard look like crap and I go through a lot of bandaids.

NO:

I have no idea if other kids do this, but mine ask for stuff constantly. Big stuff, small stuff, new apps, new shoes, new phones, junk food, the steak platter in a restaurant, $18 socks, Netflix rentals, expensive jeans, pricey activities, candy in the check out line, name-brand headphones. It is a tsunami of consumer interrogation. And sometimes in the deluge, I get confused about what to do. If I’ve said no the last 25 times, should the next answer be yes? Am I the only mom who says no ninety times a day? Am I a No Mom who just crushes dreams all the time?

My conclusion: it is perfectly, wonderfully okay to say NO to a million requests to spend money on junk, even good junk, even harmless junk. I think our kids use the quantity tactic: ask enough times for enough pieces of crap and eventually she will say yes. I already deeply believe all the good stuff isn’t tied to material possessions, so why do I let Mom Guilt convince me that I’ve exhausted my No Supply and owe my spawn a financial transaction? Nonsense. I can dry up the commercial pipeline and my kids will still have everything they need, most things they want, and all the stuff that really matters. No is a perfectly acceptable answer, even if I give it 394 times in a row. Which leads us to another really great:

YES:

In the spirit of generosity for things of actual value, unless I have a very real reason not to, I say yes to friends over, yes to sleepovers, yes to playdates, yes to invitations. I place a premium on relationships and experiences in my own life, so I have the same openhandedness with my kids. You want a friend over after school? Sure. Sleepover Friday? Yep. Can you go with your friend to the Wiener Dog Races? You bet. (Yes, this is a thing in Buda, Texas, ‘Merica.)

Whenever I can, I say yes to things that have emotional or relational merit but don’t cost anything. Sometimes my knee-jerk reaction is to say no (see above section; the children have conditioned me), but if I stop and weigh the request and find no good reason to refuse, it is super fun to be generous instead.

Yes, you can read one more chapter even though it is past your bedtime. Yes, you and your two buds can spend the night in the backyard. Yes, you can cook us breakfast. Yes, you and your friend can use my makeup for a makeover. Yes, you can paint that cardboard box. Yes, you can make a music video with my phone. Yes, you can get that weird haircut. Yes, you can rearrange your room. Yes, you can wear my high heels around the house. Yes, you can sleep with me while Dad is out of town. Yes, yes, yes.

We drew names for Christmas. Remy bought me "Beyonce lotion." Be jealous.

I find when I am generous with these kinds of yeses, the material requests slow to a crawl. If I am going to give them stuff, let it be the stuff that feeds their minds and hearts and souls and imaginations. Let the yeses push them toward relationships, inventiveness, and contentment instead of materialism, isolation, and entitlement.

So sure, we mostly have no idea what we’re doing as parents, but we can decide on a few yeses and no’s that frame up our family rhythms, that prioritize the better things even if the kids disagree now, and that help our children prefer treasures that will last.

And if your “stern no” sends you laughing into the kitchen in the midst of discipline, well, tomorrow is a new day for you to get your parenting act together, man.

Do you have similar yeses and no's? Do you struggle with Mom Guilt too? Do you know what you're doing? If so, PLEASE ADVISE.

First Come, First Serve: Join the "For the Love" Launch Team!

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 06 Mar 2015 13:59:58 +0000

You guys, no joke: I just clapped my hands together and did a little squeal at my desk in my office by myself. I’m grinning from ear to ear. Cause me and a whole bunch of you are about to have the best time.

So, I have a book coming out August 18th - “For the Love: Fighting for Grace in a World of Impossible Standards.” After pulling a million pics of covers and art that I loved, going back and forth 25 times with designers, running the finalists past my Friend Test Group not once but three times (bless them), and tweaking even the smallest details down to the flourish on the F, here is the cover:

I want to marry this cover and have babies.

So normally at this time, publishers start saying: “Time to send this early copy out to all your author friends and ~~beg~~ ~~guilt~~ ~~shame~~ ask them to write an endorsement to print inside the book.” Let me tell you how many books authors receive a week with endorsement requests: 294305783². Plus, even for my actual friends, this is a big drag on their to-do list. Coercing your friends is not a really fun way to put your book baby out into the world.

I told my people last year while still writing the book: no “celebrity” endorsements. I only want real readers who truly want to read the book in advance, the ones I am actually writing for. YOU are the ones I think about and labor over and rally for. YOU are my beloved readers. Let’s put YOUR endorsements in the final copy! Real readers! Imagine that! So innovative.

So we thought: let’s create a Launch Team of real readers willing to get For the Love out into the big wide world!

WHAT IS A LAUNCH TEAM?

A launch team is a dedicated group of Jen Hatmaker Volunteers that will be willing to help announce the release of the book. They will help spread the word through blogs or websites, social media, and reviews on retailer sites. Plus, Being Awesome is a key component to Launch Team Members. Obvs.

WHO CAN APPLY FOR THE LAUNCH TEAM?

Are you excited to read For the Love and tell all your friends about it?
Are you fairly savvy at Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram?
Do you have an active blog? Or another legit place of influence (ministry director, newsletter editor, group leader, site manager, etc.)? Include this specific information in the comment section on the application form.
Would you like to provide an endorsement that may end up in the front of the book?

If YES to the above, then apply here, sister! We will cap it at 500 and those spots will fly.

WHAT WOULD I BE REQUIRED TO DO?

We would ask you to do 4 things:

1) Read an early copy of the book. Yay!
2) Engage with your friends and followers online by posting about the book before, during and after launch week (8/18/2015).
3.) In your place of influence (blog, group, ministry, club, website), we’d love for you to blog or write about the book! We'll give you a bunch of pics and links and goodies for this...
4.) Post a review on Amazon or your favorite retailer’s website.

WHAT’S IN IT FOR ME?

You will receive a free advanced (digital) copy of the book, so you can read it and begin telling your friends about it. You will also be invited to a private Facebook group with the rest of the Launch Team members where you will be updated on the activity and latest news around the book. It’s your chance to get an inside look at marketing a book and be a part of the movement! Plus, I have some special surprises for my Launch Team... Not to mention this: I will simply love you forever. FOREVER, FOR THE LOVE.

WHY ARE YOU FORMING THIS TEAM SO EARLY?

We are looking for some great endorsements from the Launch Team to include in the front pages of the final printed copy! You have a chance to be included in For the Love! You will be published! If accepted to the team, we will send out information on submitting your endorsement. I am so excited for you to read it! I don't want any endorsement more than yours. Not even Tina Fey.

HOW DO I JOIN?

Click HERE to apply! We are looking for 500 people to be a part of this Launch Team. (We selected 300 applicants for my last book and the spots were gone in two hours, so if you want in, JUMP!) If chosen, you will receive an email from the marketing team at Thomas Nelson within the next 2 weeks.

We are taking applications starting today! When the 500 spots are gone, they are gone... I can't wait to meet you! LET'S DO THIS!

For the Love is already available for preorder: On Amazon here or Barnes and Noble here!

The Circle Maker

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 18 Feb 2015 12:48:35 +0000

Last June, Brandon and I went to rural Canada with a whole bunch of people we didn’t know, because we do weird things. One of the guys we met was Mark Batterson, and I told Brandon one night, “There is no way he is really that nice. No one is that awesome.” (I must have been in a cynical place. LIGHTEN UP, FRANCIS.)

Anyhow, I was wrong.

Mark and his beautiful wife Lora are honest-to-goodness kind, warm, loving, amazing people leading the incredible work of National Community Church in theaters all around DC (surely my DC readers know you have a treasure in your midst). I mean, look at his face:

This face says: I am a really great guy. And a little goofy.

I’m in an interesting season that I bet a bunch of you are in too. My mom has cancer, and I can’t do a thing about it. No amount of reason or work or diligence or attention has any effect. All my usual tricks are useless. I find myself utterly out of control here. The combinations I typically employ are half-bankrupt:

Prayer + obedience.

Prayer + action.

Prayer + change.

Prayer + hard work.

Here is what I have:

Prayer.

I’m not a great pray-er. My friend Sarah is. My dad is. My friend Laurel is. But I have always felt closest to God in Scripture while prayer is territory I have to work harder for. (This is the exact reason I believe God has prompted specific people to hold prayer vigils over me for the last 10 years. I have the same handful of pray-ers interceding for me constantly. God is like, I need to get this girl covered since she won’t get her nose out of that Bible.)

But here I am in desperate need of prayer strength, and just in the nick of time, my friend Mark put an invaluable tool in my hands, and I want you to have it too: The Circle Maker. As weirdly interested in obscure ancient Jewish history as I am, Mark dug out an old story out of the Book of Legends and discovered Honi, the Circle Maker.

In 1 B.C., when God’s voice had been silent for four centuries, the prophets were dead, and miracles were not to be found, the Israelites were perishing in a brutal drought, one generation before Jesus. While faith was thin and prayer seemed futile, an old sage was still known for his dogged insistence on prayer. The people begged Honi to pray for rain on their behalf, and with his staff, he drew a large circle around himself in the dirt, dropped to his knees, help up his arms and prayed:

“Lord of the universe, I swear before your great name that I will not move from this circle until you have shown mercy upon your children.”

Small drops began to fall. Still inside the circle, Honi went on boldly:

“Not for such rain have I prayed, but for rain that will fill cisterns, pits, and caverns.”

Immediately, it began to rain in earnest. Empowered, Honi declared:

“Not for such rain have I prayed, for the rain of thy favor, blessing, and graciousness!”

The next generation saw the birth of Jesus.

Don’t you love that story with all your heart? Mark took that beautiful old legend from the Talmud and claimed it for our generation. Could we be Circle Makers in our families, in our callings, in our time? Could we draw circles around our children and pray for God’s movement in their lives? Could we draw circles around our struggles and pray for victory? Could we draw circles around our God-given dreams and pray for courage?

Mark walked off a 4-mile circle around his neighborhood and prayed God’s mighty movement in his community. Thousands of believers have drawn circles around ruined marriages, dead dreams, crippling fears, broken cities, wayward children. Mark put it like this:

“The earth has circled the sun more than two thousand times since the day Honi drew his circle in the sand, but God is still looking for circle makers. And the timeless truth secreted within this ancient legend is as true now as it was then: bold prayers honor God and God honors bold prayers.

God isn’t offended by your biggest dreams or boldest prayers. He is offended by anything less. If your prayers aren’t impossible to you, they are insulting to God. Why? Because they don’t require divine intervention. But ask God to part the Red Sea or make the sun stand still or float an iron ax-head, and God is moved to omnipotent action.”

I promise you, this is no name-it-and-claim it mess. This is simply emulating the prayers of the prophets and saints, the bold believing ancients, the church that has always come boldly before God exactly like He told us to. How will God answer? We don’t know, but like Mark says, we will live with a holy anticipation. You guys, his book is so moving and instructive and powerful. I am so grateful for this brother who has called us out of paralysis and into a place of strength.

Do you need to be a Circle Maker right now? Is it time for a righteous boldness in your life? For me, it is. I am drawing a circle around my mom and begging God to move. I am asking for healing because God said I could. I am asking boldly because Jesus made that posture possible. While I’m in the dirt, I am drawing circles around my children and marriage, my neighborhood and church. I am drawing a circle around our work and ministry. I am drawing a circle around the terrors in the Middle East right now and begging God to intervene.

Can you imagine a whole generation of Circle Makers? The ramifications are overwhelming. Let’s claim our territory in Christ with the authority He granted us. We are not an aw-shucks people. We are God’s own family, so we ought to pray like it.

Let’s draw big, bold, brave circles and pray for rain.

What circles do you need to draw?

LEARN MORE ABOUT THE BOOK AND CURRICULUM (!!!) HERE.

Snag your copy at Barnes and Noble here.

On Becoming a Writer

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 04 Feb 2015 12:22:44 +0000

Just to be clear, let me see if I’m describing you right: You love to read, you always have. You think words are powerful and beautiful and devastating when used correctly. You have a story, ideas, a lot to say. These things rattle around in your brain and if you don’t get them on paper, YOU JUST MIGHT DIE. You’ve always been a good communicator; you prayed for an essay test over those devil-sanctioned multiple-choice scantrons. You stare at your laptop like a frenemy. If you could just sit down with it for an extended time and write your words, or maybe if you could just set it on fire and be free of it, or both, you would finally be happy. And, of course, there is teeny tiny, oh so tiny part of you, so tiny you have to whisper it, tiny tiny little bit that says I want to be published because that will make me real.

What do I know of writing? I still feel like a hack that snuck in the side door at just the right moment and no one kicked me out of the party. I really do. You might think after writing 10 books I would feel like an “expert,” but you would be so very wrong, good reader. I’m still stumbling through, wondering when I’ll be a grown up who masters her field.

I can give you no expert advice. Absolutely none. But I can tell you what I’ve learned and I can certainly tell you what didn’t work. Let’s start with this:

Don’t disqualify yourself from writing before you even get started. A writer is a person who writes words. The end. Do you know who asked me to write my first book? Zero people. No one said, you should do this hard thing or we really want to hear from you in print form. Writer: 1, People Who Asked Me to Write: 0. I wrote for two reasons:

I wanted to and had something to say.

I can't help you process the cover design. It was a different time. Go with God.

Granted, that is not much to build a career on, but who knew I would make a career out of writing?? I didn’t start with even an inkling of that grand notion. Hell, I was raising babies and toddlers and didn’t even own a laptop. I didn’t even have an email address and it was 2004 (I am frequently late to current developments). I was not set up to be a career writer, but that is not why you start writing. It can’t be.

If you want to and have something to say, write. This first step is a doozy. If you are waiting for someone to beg you to do the work or promise to give you a huge advance or rearrange your schedule to clear the time or somehow make this whole part easier, you might as well take your little dream for a nice long drive out into the country and say goodbye. Writers write. It is one of our main characteristics, as a point of fact. Writers don’t wait for someone else to tell them they should or can. You should and you can.

Next, I am devastated to bring this bad news, but writing requires work. Kind of hard, brutal, sanity-threatening work. All the writing dreams in your head have to transition to your ten fingers on a keyboard, and I’m afraid there is no other way. (I’m sorry. Take your time.) Work requires time, which of course, you have none of. This is the writer’s dilemma. You will not miraculously become a writer by carrying on exactly like you are. It’s a whole thing and you have to make room for it.

Maybe that is in the earliest wee hours, which is when legions of writers make the magic happen. Maybe you engineer a child swap or childcare to create time. Maybe you let something go and free up a slot. Know this: something will have to give. And I mean that sincerely. Writing will take time away from other things: sometimes kids, sometimes spouse, sometimes a thing you used to do, sometimes sleep. Work does this. You don’t get to keep everything as is and also add writing. That is not how the time/space continuum works. I have to regularly tell my kids:

Me: I’ll be in my office working.
Kids: What do you even do out there? (If you think 10 books will up your credibility at home, think again, grasshopper.)
Me: I’m writing. It is my work and it is a real job.
Kids: *side eye*
Me: IT IS.

Of course my kids wish I would devote every spare second to maintain their place in the center of the universe, but writers write and writing is work and work takes time. And it is good work. It means something. It is noble and important. It always has been.

I remember crying a river when my mom went back to college when we were in elementary, middle, and high school because she was less available to cater to our every whim, but it very soon became a source of great pride for me, because I watched my mom do meaningful, hard work that mattered. She went for it, right in the middle of living life. As it turned out, I needed a mom who mothered, dreamed, worked, and achieved. We all did.

Now, put your writing out there somewhere where actual people will read it: a blog, a newsletter you made up, guest posts, your community, your church, any local outlet, anywhere there are readers. Don’t tell me you can’t handle this; you want to be a writer that no one ever reads?? Nonsense. Readers make you a better writer. Writing for readers makes you a better writer. This is not just about “developing a platform” (gag) but getting out of your own head and engaging with other human beings. Additionally, good writing gets noticed, especially in today’s online space, so be a “writer with readers” - strong talent does not go undetected for long.

Develop a thicker skin immediately. (May I gently suggest that if your skin is paper thin, writing might be the worst profession on earth for you.) As shocking as it is, not everyone will love everything you say, and you need to be able to deal with criticism without coming unraveled. Ask any writer. Furthermore, if every reader always loves every word you ever write, I mean this nicely, but you are not writing anything that interesting. Write the real stuff, the hard stuff, the true stuff. Literature is too saturated for cotton candy fluff. Most readers are craving truth-tellers who don’t sanitize their words to avoid criticism. Be brave.

Finally, everyone wants to be published but few want to work on the craft of writing. While the internet has provided unprecedented opportunity for the new writer, it has also elevated sensationalized link-bait over truly good composition. We know this because we read utter crap constantly and then discover one astounding piece written with precision and talent and intelligence, and we go WHOA. Take a class, take a course, go to a writer’s conference (this is both how I developed and got initially published), join a writer’s group, read books as a reader (writers read), read books as a writer (writers learn), hire an editor who doesn’t feel as precious about all your words as you do, invite constructive criticism, pay attention to what good writing does: How does it use language? How does it construct sentences? How does it move the story along? How does it sound? How does it feel?

Doctors do the work to be good doctors. Teachers do the work to become better teachers. Writers cannot imagine that because they have the dexterity to type words on a keyboard their craft does not need development. Worry less about getting published and more about being good at what you do. Much like the Lord, the eyes of publishers roam about the earth searching for undiscovered writers who can actually compose a compelling sentence (2 Chron. 16:9…extremely compromised).

Some postscripts:

Do not become immobilized by good writing already out there. Stop that this instant. Literature is not an exercise in scarcity. The world always needs good writing. There is room for you. Don’t be intimidated by successful writers; be inspired by them. Every good writer wrote his or her first piece at one point. Do your time; there is space for you at the party.

Just because one person says your writing is crap doesn’t mean it is. Or maybe it is, but that is not the end of your story. You cannot bail with your first rejection, first critique, first outright troll. You’ll be done by the end of the week. Writing is a synonym for perseverance. Keep going, learn from criticism, reject the haters, onward. The Harry Potter series was rejected 12 times before it got picked up, and IT IS DOING OKAY NOW.

Getting published will not make you miraculously happy, rich (oh my gosh), or validated. I’m laughing as I type that because I know you are thinking: YES IT WILL. I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU SAY. It won’t. You’ll still be in your weird mind wondering why your life is mostly the same. You won’t arrive, but it is still worth the work. It is worth every second.

Cheering for you. Write on, writer. Write your words.

Don’t ever confuse the two, your life and your work. That’s what I have to say.
The second is only a part of the first. . . .
There are thousands of people out there with the same degree you have; when you get a job, there will be thousands of people doing what you want to do for a living.
But you are the only person alive who has sole custody of your life.
Your particular life. Your entire life.
Not just your life at a desk, or your life on the bus, or in the car, or at the computer.
Not just the life of your mind, but the life of your heart.
—Anna Quindlen

Writer’s Conferences

Do your own research here. The type of conference you attend depends on the type of writing you do and your audience: Children? Fiction? Christian? General market? Memoir? Nonfiction? Buy a Market Guide in your genre, which will include conferences, publishers, and agents for this calendar year. I only have my story, but a writer’s conference was my front door into publishing. Additionally, while there, I learned skills during my "writing nonfiction tract" that I use to this day from Dr. Dennis Hensley, writing professor at Taylor University. Easily one of the best teachers I’ve ever sat under. I could have listened to him for 12 hours a day. I practically clung to his ankles as I was leaving as a 29-year-old dreamer.

Books on Writing

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott
On Writing by Stephan King
Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg
The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron
The Writing Life by Annie Dillard
The War of Art by Steven Pressfield

What can you add, writers? Great websites? Tips? Are you one of those wringing her hands and waiting for someone to give you permission to go for it? PERMISSION GRANTED.

The Thing About Being More Awesome...

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 05 Jan 2015 19:17:31 +0000

It’s that lovely time of year when short-lived best intentions quickly give way to self-loathing.

Happy New Year, y’all!

Like my favey-fave-favorite Anne Lamott’s therapist asked her after disclosing her New Year’s Diet Plan: “Oh, that’s nice, honey. How much weight were you planning on gaining?” Delightful. $150 for that acute observation.

Me on New Year's Day. Apparently my plan is to EAT ALL THE FOOD.
And also, CARB LOAD.

It’s not all bad, this New Year’s Resolution (NYR) business. There is not one thing wrong with improvement or kicking a bad habit or finally tackling some elusive challenge or throwing away all the mismatched socks in the house once and for all (CAN I GET AN AMEN??).

But maybe your NYR takes on a more ominous tone like mine, and it sounds less like let’s take first steps toward that dream or I want to start painting this year and more like BE ENTIRELY MORE AWESOME, DAMMIT! (this is the voice in my head and it is very, very bossy and mean and also it likes to curse at me). I am already a first-born achiever; I don’t need this crap. It has already taken me all of my 40 years to believe that God loves me all the time and I am not one wonky decision away from His bad side.

My identity has always been linked in a very unhealthy way to accomplishment (and its horrid cousin, Approval). I know this about myself and it is at least partly why I constantly (over) share my foibles and failures publicly; admission keeps me in sane territory where perfection is dismantled for ordinary humanity. These confessions are more for me than you, because they consistently remind me that this life is actually really challenging and sometimes I am good at it and sometimes SO NOT and I can say all that out loud and no one will die and God will still love me.

But New Year’s feeds into my dark side, and I feel the pressure toward AWESOMENESS. Maybe this year I will live up to the hype. Maybe this year I will be THE MOST AWESOME author and THE MOST AWESOME mom and the MOST AWESOME WIFE AND PASTOR-TYPE AND FRIEND AND SCHOOL VOLUNTEER AND CULTURAL ANALYST AND RACIAL RECONCILER AND TV GIRL AND BOOK PROMOTER AND BLOGGER AND PERSON OF INTEREST AND INSTAGRAMER!

I will be awesome at all of these things and it will be stunning and I will finally rid myself of this icky guilt I carry around all the live long day for being not awesome enough in the area of ______ (all things fit this blank at one point or another). It’s a simple formula really: just be very, very good at everything. Is that so hard?

The problem is that when I get quiet, when I listen to God’s very still small voice in my heart, when I pay attention to what makes me feel alive and joyful and in my place (as opposed to displaced), it almost never revolves around being awesome.

It looks more like being present.

And being peaceful.

And being less grabby and afraid everything is about to run out.

And being generous.

And being at home with my people.

And being with my friends.

And being in my kitchen.

And being ordinary.

No one would see me in these places and say she is really being awesome at chopping that onion. Or she and her friends are really being awesome at sitting on that porch in their pajama pants. Or she is a really awesome nap-taker. My happiest, best moments are beautiful and meaningful and life-giving but none of them require a high level of achievement.

And the weird thing is that when I spend a ton of time being more awesome at All The Things, it doesn’t even deliver. Because there is always another level of success, another phase of accomplishment to reach for, another person still “ahead" of me, another critic to burn down what I just did, another chance to disappoint, another mountain to climb. The finish line to this particular rat race is THE GRAVE. Please trust me that I am telling you the Gods-honest truth.

Meanwhile, there are these other things, these people and quiet places and loved ones and laughter, and at best, the level I need to maintain for them is mediocre-to-average, yet they bring great happiness. There are these other things, and they won’t end up on a resume, but they put me at great peace. There are these other things, and none of them will impress in the slightest, but they bring me home to myself and my people and Jesus.

So here are my goals for 2015, which I shared with my Facebook friends last week:

Things I Am Going to Try Harder on in 2015:

Keeping my room clean (hi, I’m a grown up)
Keeping my inbox from the grip of entropy (the stress this causes is infinity)
Neighboring well
More time with My People

Things I Am Not Going to Try Harder on in 2015:

Answering my phone/texts (MY PHONE IS NOT MY BOSS AT ALL TIMES)
My kids’ homework: 1.) I’ve already been in 9th grade, and 2.) my 9th grader should not have the homework load of a grad student
Counting calories/fat/carbs (JUST NO)
Trying to make Not My People happy

That’s it, gentle readers. These are the other things. These keep my insides calm. These keep me from striving like it is my job. These keep me from the Black Soul Hole of chaos and disorganization, which ruins my game so terribly. These help me love my people better and stop twisting into knots trying to make some folks happy who will NEVER EVER BE HAPPY WITH ME. (Free tip: someone will always not like you, your ideas, your position, your theology, your opinions, your feelings, your style, your friends, your processes, your parenting, and your lipstick color. You will never, ever please every person. Open your hands, unclench, release, be free. Life is too short to live small and afraid and disgenuine and guarded. Just go ahead and live your one wild and beautiful and spectacular life with all the you-ness you can muster.)

For those of you who don’t get sucked into the terror of Being More Awesome, God bless and please keep reminding us panicky, paranoid highfliers that ALL WILL BE WELL AND JUST RELAX AND BREATHE. For those of you who totally get what I’m laying down, let’s just do it. Let’s just say amongst ourselves that we will silence the bossy, mean voice telling us to BE MORE AWESOME and instead we will obey the other nudges, the ones that lead us to love and life and peace and generosity and God and people and rest and gratitude.

We can make that little space right here. We can help unclench each other’s grabby little hands and celebrate ordinary moments in simple places because they certainly count. If something makes you feel more whole, more centered, more present, then it certainly counts. If it helps keep your insides calm, then it certainly counts. If it helps you love your people better, then it certainly counts. If it frees up some inner room so you can pray and figure out that you are loved by God no matter what you do or don’t do or achieve or don’t achieve, then it certainly counts.

So go ahead and lay down any outrageous NYR you will abandon by January 26th. We don’t need to manufacture failure, for the love; real life will see to that quota. Instead, let’s go small, quiet, still, let’s listen to God and see where He tells us to go and say YES, even if that place turns out to be our own kitchen, our own porch, our own people; sometimes the best journeys are short ones. Maybe this year starts not with more but less. Your heart will eventually tell you if you heard right. Moving toward wholeness creates peace, contentment, and gratitude...not stress, fear, and displacement. You’ll know which is which pretty quick.

As for me, call me an overachiever, but I’m going for a made bed and my phone on silent and cooking with butter for people I love and live by this year. I plan to find God in all of that, because that is how He promised us this life works.

Join me?

What are you working on this year? What are you NOT working on?

IF : Local - Your People, Your Purpose, Your Place

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 04 Dec 2014 09:39:52 +0000

You know what I've learned? God is going to do what He is going to do. Sometimes the best laid plans fall straight into the gutter, and sometimes barely laid plans turn into something crazy powerful. That is how IF : Gathering feels to me. God swept in last year and started something strong, and now one year later, all over the world we have IF : Tables, IF : Local leaders, and women studying the Bible through IF : Equip every single day. We gathered around the world this fall for IF : Pray. God turned it into a whole thing before we barely even knew what was happening.

In two months, it is time for our second IF : Gathering here in Austin. To be sure, the conference here is powerful but its real legs exist everywhere else. Last year, over 40,000 women gathered in living rooms and churches and streamed it live. We could barely believe it. Women literally rose up everywhere and took responsibility for their people and their place. The desire to gather, equip, and unleash our generation to love and serve God and this world is apparently a raging fire.

A few of you will join us here in Austin on February 6-7, but most of you will be snug as bugs in your own communities, exactly where you are needed. We are praying for an army of IF : Local leaders to rise up again, prepared to gather and lead your women in unity. We have so many resources for you: a whole community of IF : Local leaders online, materials, all the streaming conference content, promotional flyers, ideas. You don't have to do ONE SINGLE FANCY THING. IF has always operated out of this approach: "simple and pure."

I want to introduce you to an IF : Local leader who stepped up last year in her community and has seen God do a mighty work since then. Meet Lora Lightfoot!

Q: Hi Lora! Where do you live?

Merced, California!

Q: How have you used IF's tools & resources to lead in your local contexts?

The simple and pure mission of IF resonates with our hearts, and helps us encourage whoever comes in our path to connect with one another and grow in their faith and calling. The tools/opportunities/resources were easy to use and energizing when combined with the excitement of linking arms with women who love God all over the world.The positive model of unity and diversity represented in IF leadership is refreshing and enables us to promote unity within our church family and our community.

The fruit looks like a diverse and united local leadership “team” with my friend Anna. Dinner Gatherings: 60 women sharing dinner around tables of 8; from different churches, age groups and backgrounds connecting and sharing their common faith. IF Tables hosted by leadership in private homes, which has led to other’s planning to host Tables as well! The first Prayer Gathering; 30 women attended and represented several churches in our community.Walking together in the Word by passing IF Equip on to everyone (I seriously should print business cards with the web address!)

Q: What has been the scariest, most challenging aspect of leading for you?

Not knowing…walking in complete faith. For Anna and me, (we are sitting here, discussing this question) we had no idea what God was doing. We had common friends and attended the same church, but we were not “friends”. We had no idea why God was calling us together (at first I think she may have thought I was a stalker) but we knew God was preparing us for something. We started prayer walking and discussing what God might be doing months before we ever heard of IF.

When we did hear about IF in January, we both knew it was what God had been preparing us to do, together. (It is important that you hear that God put the mission on our heart and IF was the vehicle God used to get us there!) We have met almost every Friday since, to pray-walk her property (we hold all our events there) and listen for God’s direction. You will notice I did not say “plan” (though we do discuss details). We don’t plan far ahead, we don’t market, or even kill ourselves advertising…we pray, we listen and we wait for God to tell us what to do. This walk of faith has been so precious to us, so amazing, so faith building…and we don’t want that to change. We honestly don’t want IF to turn into the next “thing”.

Q: How has God awakened you?

I think this whole season, journey, whatever, has caused us to trust God more and ourselves less. We see the need for God all around us; people truly are seeking truth, fellowship, love, acceptance, hope and healing. We see the importance of passing our faith on, relationally and generationally, and we want to do everything in our means to meet the needs we can and ultimately direct women to Jesus. We are not the same people we were a year ago, we have changed; we’ve had to let go of self and how we operated in the past and surrender to God’s leading. IT IS AWESOME.

Q: How have your relationships with others deepened?

In a sentence: “On a path of no return - we’re not going back!”

As the relationship between us deepens (all the people who knew Anna and I separately are watching in AMAZEMENT, lol), the relationships between our women deepens, and the relationships in our church deepens, and the relationships in our community deepens. We have turned our circle from facing inward-to facing outward and our goal is to include as many women as we can in everything we do, especially behind the scenes.

Personally, as a former staff person, I “knew” a lot of people in the church. The problem was that so many times, I wasn’t present and I didn’t take the time to get to know them at all. I have confessed this publically, and I now spend a lot of my time just being present and getting to know others and hearing their stories, WHICH IS AMAZING!

Q: How have you seen God show up in your life and the life of the women you are gathering, equipping, and unleashing?

God has just shown up in so many tangible, exciting ways I don’t think I can express them adequately. I will say that I have seen TRANSFORMATION in the lives of women around me.

I have watched as a gifted young woman stepped out of doubt and perfectionism and stepped into her calling as a worship leader, and I cried like a baby when I heard her share how IF had helped set her free to trust God in this area of her life. Sheri and I attended the IF Catalyst in GA; and God has her by the heart! (People actually comment on the change in her, it was visible!)

I have listened to Sally, an incredible prayer warrior, severely limited by MS, share at a dinner gathering how she has been praying for the revival she is seeing now FOR YEARS! Her prayers helped pave the way to what God is doing in us, and in our women alongside IF.

I think of Melinda, who almost left the church because no one called or cared for her when her father was very ill—but instead allowed God to turn that hurt into her mission; she goes out to those who are in the sick/in the hospital to offer prayer and support.

I listen to story after story of women who are being courageous in their faith; inviting others in their homes, reaching out to people who are unknown or different and are getting up close and personal in each other’s lives.

God has shown up in my own life by breaking my heart (in the best way possible) and setting me free from a stronghold of fear and doubt. I am not the same woman I was last year…

............................................

We are praying for IF : Local like it is our job. It's time! No conference can EVER have the impact that thousands of local leaders will have influencing their actual communities. If you are considering leading an IF : Local gathering on February 6-7 (this can be 8 women in a living room or 350 women in a sanctuary), go here. If you are looking for an IF : Local event to join, go here. We have resources galore for you here.

Would you consider joining us? We believe in the local church so much. Our greatest hope for IF is not that it becomes some big thing but that it equips and supports YOU to impact your people and your place. If it was just some 2-day event in Austin, we'd quit today. But Lora's story reminds us that God is AT WORK and we get to be a small part of his movement in our generation.

We can't wait to gather with you.

Did you take part in IF : Local last year? Or since? Can you tell me a little about your experience? What are your plans for this year?

Buy Once, Give Twice: Gifts With a Conscience

Jen Hatmaker — Sat, 29 Nov 2014 17:28:44 +0000

I'm not a good guide for traditional gift-giving. I'm sure I told you, but I once bought Brandon front row tickets to Jamie Foxx's "stand up comedy show" which turned out to be his "concert." We couldn't hear for three days and it now stands as the monument to my well-intentioned but poorly executed gift-giving skillz. (To add insult to injury, Brandon is like the President of the United States of gift-giving. It is actually embarrassing.)

But listen up, gentle reader, because I may be unable to handle the fine print on a concert website, but I can track down socially conscious vendors and products that are not only INCREDIBLY AWESOME but take good care of the earth, the artisans, the community, and the world. We buy once, give twice here, and in a season where Americans will spend over 500 BILLION dollars in a matter of weeks (for the love), we should make sure some of those dollars go toward more than just filling our homes and closets with more things we don't need. Our dollars can actually be a powerful force for good. Women are famously easier to shop for in this genre, but I tracked down great gifts for men and kids, too. (Be also thinking about teachers, neighbors, friends, etc!)

The following companies and products give back, employ vulnerable workers, invest in struggling communities, and follow fair-trade and ecologically sound policies. Where I listed a specific product, don't forget to paruse the entire website, because these are companies you can believe in. (Several vendors include awesome gifts for men AND women AND kids, so check them all out.)

FOR WOMEN:

Sseko Designs

Sseko Designs is an ethical fashion brand that hires high potential women in Uganda to enable them to earn money through dignified employment that goes directly towards their college educations. In addition to our work in Uganda, we design and source ethically made products from East Africa. We believe that good business can be an incredibly powerful force for positive social change. Sseko products are all made in Africa and create jobs, empower artisans and help end the cycle of poverty by building healthy communities and economies.

31 Bits

We work with Ugandans to create fashionable, quality products. They earn an income enabling them to provide for their families. We care for them holistically through counseling, health education, finance training, and business mentorships. After 5 years in our program, our beneficiaries are ready to graduate. A graduated beneficiary has her own business and is educated, healthy, and empowered.

Noonday Collection

Noonday creates economic opportunity for the vulnerable. We partner with artisans in the developing world, empowering them to grow sustainable businesses. By creating a marketplace for their goods, we create dignified jobs at living wages. Noonday Collection does not believe that providing a hand out is a sustainable long-term solution to poverty. We aim to be a sustainable business that gives women across the United States a way to make a lasting difference in the fight against poverty and injustice. (THAT BAG THOUGH.)

Krochet Kids

Through a unique model we are empowering the women of Northern Uganda and Peru with the assets, skills, and knowledge to lift themselves and their families out of poverty. The result is long lasting and sustainable change. We provide a job so that women can meet the present needs of their families. We educate them so that they develop beyond the need for outside aid. We provide mentorship to help each lady plan a unique and sustainable career path for the future. (Great stuff for men, women, and kids, y'all. Beanie heaven.)

Falling Whistles

We identify and reach out to local visionaries, raise money to finance their projects and offer mentorship along the whole process, from business plan to daily operation. Growth of local business leads to sustainable jobs, financial independence and greater opportunities for the community at large. Our mission is to build a social development fund that fuels progress towards PEACE IN CONGO.

Raven + Lily

Raven + Lily currently helps employ marginalized women in India, Ethiopia, Kenya, Cambodia, Pakistan, and the USA at fair trade wages to give them access to a safe job, sustainable income, health care, education, and a real chance to to break the cycle of poverty for themselves and their families. Raven + Lily is committed to providing products that are made by hand, follow fair trade standards, and honor our eco-friendly commitment. (<-- This Almaz necklace is an exclusive piece designed for the 2015 IF : Gathering!)

FOR MEN:

TOMS

We’re in business to help improve lives. With every product you purchase, TOMS will help a person in need. One for One. What began as a simple idea has evolved into a powerful business model helping address need, and also advance health, education and economic opportunity for children and their communities around the world.

Warby Parker

By circumventing traditional channels , designing glasses in-house, and engaging with customers directly, we’re able to provide higher-quality, better-looking prescription eyewear at a fraction of the going price. We believe that buying glasses should be easy and fun. It should leave you happy and good-looking, with money in your pocket. We also believe that everyone has the right to see. Almost one billion people worldwide lack access to glasses, which means that 15% of the world’s population cannot effectively learn or work. To help address this problem, Warby Parker partners with non-profits like VisionSpring to ensure that for every pair of glasses sold, a pair is distributed to someone in need.

LSTN Wood Headphones

We believe that what’s good for business should be good for the world. When we started LSTN, our mission was to create a company for global change by providing high quality products that help fund hearing restoration and spread awareness for the global problem of hearing loss and hearing impairment. Our Giving Back. Amplified. program wasn’t an afterthought or marketing gimmick, it was the reason we started LSTN. We didn’t just want to create another headphone company. We wanted to create something that could change the world. (THESE PRODUCTS ARE SO GORGEOUS I COULD DIE.)

Coffee Lovers Delight by Laughing Man

Hugh Jackman and I wanted to start something that recognizes the power of entrepreneurship, ingenuity, livelihood, and access to such opportunity. Laughing Man Worldwide helps entrepreneurs help humanity by creating and developing new business, and in return for that help, Laughing Man worldwide receives some ownership. 100% of Laughing Man Worldwide revenue goes back to education, community development and new business development. The story we want to tell is how you and I made the efforts necessary to give individuals the opportunity for freedom, dignity, livelihood, and laughter. How we each participated in whatever way we could to look out for the person next to us.

The Giving Keys

The Giving Keys exists to employ those transitioning out of homelessness to make jewelry out of repurposed keys that get sold and shared around the world. Each key is unique and carries a message like HOPE, STRENGTH, DREAM or COURAGE. When the wearer of the key encounters someone else who needs the message on the key, they give it away and then send us the story of their key being paid forward. (Be sure to check out the website, because they have some really cool iPhone covers, key chains, accessories, and single keys your man may dig if he can't pull off a key necklace like Ryan Gosling and Harry Styles.)

Wood Bow Tie by Design With Benefits

Design With Benefits is an online store featuring clever products made with social and environmental benefits in mind. A percentage of our net profits goes toward creative projects using design to solve all sorts of social problems including the environment, poverty, education, and equity. You can vote to select the project that will receive our next donation! (You guys, seriously. Go through this site. There are so many interesting and unique gift ideas, I can't handle it. The Wood Bow Tie was my personal pic, but they have all kinds of goodies for men, women, and kids.)

FOR KIDS:

Bookmaking Kit by Design With Benefits

I just talked about Design With Benefits above, but I wanted to highlight this adorable Bookmaking Kit for kids (says the author). it includes handmade paper and brightly colored beads, sequins, and thread. These can become books, journals, or scrapbooks.

Esperos Bag as seen on The Grommet

The name Esperos is derived from the Spanish verb “esperar” which means “to hope.” Each backpack and book bag sold sends a child in a developing country to school for a year. By donating as much as 50% of its profits, Esperos gives between $5-25 per bag to organizations such as Fonkoze in Haiti and Pencils of Promise in Guatemala. (The Grommet is a product launch platform. This means we find unique, undiscovered products and help them succeed. Our end goal is that within five years 10% of all products flowing through U.S. retail will be originating from independent small-scale Makers. Yay for the innovators!)

Fabulous Christian Books for Kids

By my amazing friends! Your kids will love these:

For Such a Time as This: Stories of the Women of the Bible, Retold for Girls by Angie Smith

God Made Light by Matthew Paul and Jessica Turner

It Will Be Okay: Trusting God Through Fear and Change by Lysa TerKeurst

Unwrapping the Greatest Gift: A Family Celebration of Christmas by Ann Voskamp

USA Scratch Map by Uncommon Goods

As you journey through America, track your travels with this handsome, scratch-off map. The poster-sized map of the United States is printed with red, white and blue scratch-off paint that reveals bursts of bright yellow to bright red gradient when rubbed with the edge of a coin. (Be sure to check out the whole website! UncommonGoods is an online marketplace offering creatively designed, high-quality merchandise at affordable prices. We donate a portion of each order to your choice of non-profit organizations: American Forests, Women for Women International, City Harvest, and the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN). I also loved the Ion Glow-in-the-Dark Putty and the Build Your Own City Kit!)

FOR THE COOK:

Slate Cheeseboard with Soapstone Chalk by Uncommon Goods

I mentioned Uncommon Goods above (so many amazing products!), but I couldn't pass up this gift recommendation. I don't know a home cook who wouldn't love this. So affordable and handmade. (This is super pricey, but when I also saw the Reclaimed Wood Cookbook Stand, I almost cried tears out of my eyes. LOVE. A handy guy or gal could totally make this. <-- This is something I say all the time about everything: "I could make that." Which would happen never.)

Williams-Sonoma Cutting Board with iPad Stand benefitting No Kid Hungry

First of all, this cutting board is gorgeous. Second of all, the iPad stand is genius. (I cook with an open iPad or laptop 95% of the time.) Third of all, every purchase of this lovely product provides 450 meals for kids in need! 450! Trust me, anyone who loves the kitchen also loves a Williams-Sonoma box.

Share: The Cookbook that Celebrates our Common Humanity (Women for Women International)

Expand someone's recipe collection, and help change lives across the globe with Women for Women International's Share cookbook. The compilation features photographs and recipes from renowned international chefs and the kitchens of women living in war-torn countries. This is a cookbook about celebration: celebrating women who have survived war and other conflicts, and celebrating the foods that nourish us and bring us together. One hundred percent of the proceeds go right back into those countries, providing women with business training and job skills so they can get back on their feet.

Sampler Chocolate Gift Collection by Theo

We’re dedicated to making our world a better place. And we’re finding ways to do it through our passion—bringing out the best of the cocoa bean. In Central America and Africa, founder Joe Whinney fell in love with the land and the people farming there. He recognized an injustice in the way that both were being exploited and wanted to do something to make a difference. Everything we make and sell meets the highest standards for organic, Fair Trade and Fair for Life. Our small batch production is truly an art form. Every aspect of our manufacturing process is controlled by us. That means we can guarantee that every step, every ingredient, everything that goes into each bar is as special as the beans themselves.

These are amazing vendors using business for good! I am so proud of them. Business owners have a choice - they can prioritize profit at any cost or they can take care of the world and its inhabitants and use their companies with great purpose. In the same way, consumers have a choice - we can prioritize cheap prices at any cost or we can make deliberate, responsible decisions and tell our dollars exactly where to go. (Most of these amazing vendors have online sales and/or free shipping right now! Be sure to look for their deals!)

Last few thoughts: When we can, let's support the little guy! Buy local or handmade goods and support small businesses as much as possible! Ideas include:

Etsy: an entire online marketplace dedicated to handmade products that recently became a Certified B Corporation which uses the power of business to solve social and environmental problems.
Homemade/handmade: Make it yourself! You remember that Book Wreath I made that took me six hours? It cost less than $10.
Refurbished/upcycled gifts: Turn cheap or free junk into something gorgeous!
Buy creative local gifts:
- Give tickets to a local musician or play or show or game
- Give a membership or a class (Central Market here in Austin has amazing cooking classes and demonstrations)
Give the gift of TIME! My mother-in-law is great at this. She often gives my kids a whole day one-on-one (a rarity in a big family), and they go to plays or the lake or a day trip or some local adventure. They love it. They'll remember this long after gifts have been forgotten.

Finally, really REALLY make your online dollars count.

My favorite platform for giving twice is Pure Charity who partners with over 1000 top online retailers and brands that offer a percent back to your personal Giving Fund. It's too easy: you install the Pure Charity plugin, and anytime you are shopping online with a PC partner, the icon pops up, you click on it, and a percentage of your purchase goes straight into your Giving Fund which you distribute through any participating project you choose.
Secondly, if you choose to shop through Amazon (Prime is my reason for living), be sure to shop through the AmazonSmile platform! It actually makes no sense not to. Same prices, same products, same account, same Wish List, same everything except AmazonSmile donates 0.5% of your purchase price on eligible products to your favorite charity (over 1 million participating orgs). Just select a charity and shop as usual!

We keep gifts pretty simple in our family. We do this:

Something you want, something you need, something to wear, something to read.

Three years ago, we added Something to Give: we give each kid a set amount of money to spend on others. On Christmas Eve, we all sit down with catalogs from Compassion, IJM, and World Vision, and the kids buy chickens and soccer balls and seeds and backpacks for other families around the world. They lose their minds, pooling money and taking 100 years to choose their gifts. This is my favorite Christmas thing.

Just a little bit of intentionality can make an enormous difference this Christmas. Giving can be irresponsible and compulsive or it can be generous and beneficial. We can use our powerful consumer dollars to doubly bless, sending a message to Big Business that we actually cannot be bought and as privileged consumers, we will prioritize responsible, generous vendors who do the most good with their companies. At the same time, we can say YES to small-business owners and budding artisans who are usually outshadowed by big box stores and artificially deflated prices. (I can feel myself getting worked up. I wrote a whole book about this already, so I'll just simmer down.)

Unfocused, irresponsible consumerism is bad for the world and bad for our souls. One surefire way to worship Jesus this month and remember why on earth we are even having this conversation is to Do Good with our money. Isn't that more in keeping with a loving, humble Savior who came to the earth to save it? We take care of each other - the people in our homes, the ones next door, and all around the world. We give generously and wisely and intentionally...kind of the way we were saved.

May this Christmas be meaningful and worshipful and beautiful, and my we reach our hands across the whole earth and declare with our words, our actions, and our purchases: Peace on earth, goodwill to men.

What other wonderful vendors do you know? Leave the link in the comments!

Every Bitter Thing is Sweet

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 12 Nov 2014 20:00:00 +0000

I’m pretty much a Fun Time Girl. Laughter and humor are my go-to staples. Brandon and I have had this conversation 338482 in our marriage:

BH: What movie do you want to rent?
JH: A funny one.

Bless. It is just what I reach for. I just love to laugh. I like funny people and funny things. (My sub-category is sarcasm.) This is both my preference and my style.

But sometimes life is really, really hard and I am in the weeds. Sometimes I need sober, thoughtful instruction to lead and comfort me. Sometimes I crave depth in the midst of struggle. As one who thrives in exterior spiritual work, it is innately good for me to learn from someone with a strong interior constitution.

Many of you know my mom has cancer. It’s so dumb. We still can’t believe it. She looks so normal and plus we don’t get cancer. Mom is the only calm and stable person in our family. The rest of us are prone to hysteria and drama; you would think we had the cancer to hear us go on. Crisis has found our doorstep, and it is decidedly not funny (even though Dad asked us in the hospital after Mom’s surgery if she was going to make us dinner that night…we are somehow managing Cancer Humor which apparently is a thing).

I guess that is why I was so glad when Every Bitter Thing is Sweet by Sara Hagerty found its way into my hands. It asks questions that are tragically relevant to us right now:

What does it look like to know God’s nearness when your world stops working?

What does it mean to receive His life when earthly life remains barren?

How can God turn the bitterness of unmet desire into new flavors of joy?

Sara takes the substance of her own life – spiritual bankruptcy, marital struggles, physical barrenness, loss and grief – and answers these questions with such sincerity and hope, I finished the book thinking there is absolutely no tragedy God cannot turn into beauty.

Every Bitter Thing is for the hurting person who needs reminded that God never leaves. It is a far cry from emotional jargon. Sara walks us through the discipline of praising God in the midst of pain, finding Him faithful and present and enough, discovering that He has beauty for us right here, right in the middle of the disaster, before it is resolved, before it heals. She wrote this:

“The question of pain, it’s buried deep in my bones. It is my story, though I’ve barely traveled the circumference that others have not even to the half. But God wants me to know the nearness of Him in response to the deepest questions of my story, the kind of nearness that, when realized, heals.”

Sara, like a prophet, like a loved daughter, writes about the ordinary, simple work that stripped her mind of a lifetime of lies about God and filled it instead with truth: adoration. Nothing complicated, no 10-step program, no fancy theological gymnastics. Just adoration. When she had none in the midst of crisis, she found them in the Word and said them out loud to God.

You are faithful.

You love me.

I can count on you.

You will not leave me when you see my failure.

“Line upon line, this (Bible) showed the chasm in my understanding. Line upon line, it brought me back to adoration as a way to bridge the chasm between my perceptions and God’s truth. Day after day, I felt the relief of holding my toxic thoughts up to His beauty. I saw more clearly the disconnection between who I said God is and who I believed Him to be. I saw that pain wasn’t a result of my circumstances; pain was a result of my detachment from the Father. Circumstances were merely unearthing my view of life.”

Isn’t that so incredibly wise and instructive? Let me tell you, as someone whose circumstances are completely off the rails right now, I am grateful for Sara’s words that lead me back to God’s presence and remind me that life is hard but God is good.

Did I mention that the writing is oh so lovely? As a writer who peddles sarcasm and rants, I am often drawn to introspective, interior thinkers who write with the tongue of a poet and lead me to a quiet, still space. I need this. This is a different part of the body that helps me function better; this is the heart giving the exterior parts nourishment and the strength to go on.

Good reader, if you are in a dark night of the soul, if you stripped bare and need to remember that God is good and He is for you, this is your book. It is like sitting on the couch with a tender and wise friend, finding your way back to peace. I want this for you. And when you feel restored, come back to me and I will fill your brain with long rants about Friday Night Lights, because SUBSTANCE.

Are you in the middle of a bitter thing? Do you need reminded that God can make it sweet? Tell me a little about your story and I will pick one commenter to receive a copy of Sara's lovely book. And count on my prayers, dear ones. You know I love you.

Things That Don't Exist in Ethiopia

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 16 Sep 2014 10:41:26 +0000

No passing zones

This is not a thing here. Every zone is a passing zone. Those double yellow lines? Pure wishful thinking of the ET Transportation Department. Enormous bus coming right at you in the opposite lane? Still a passing zone. The middle of the road, the shoulder, the median, the sidewalk...all passing zones. It is irrelevant how many cars are next to you, in front of you, or coming at you. These are not details that matter. Simply beep your horn and barrel around someone. Everyone else will move. Except the donkeys. The donkeys will not be moved. The donkeys clearly have a death wish.

Coffee abstainers

This is a non-existent population. I have several friends “off coffee” and they might actually die here. Die from Ethiopian shaming. Aschalew stopped us 20 times a day and hollered, “I cannot think! We need double macchiatos!” Every time you sit still, someone brings you coffee. Jillian is a non-coffee drinker and she has put down her weight in java this week. Bless. Consequently, when we were trapped in the van for five hours one day, Kristen screamed: “I feel like Helen Hunt in that after-school special ‘Angel Dust’ when she took PCP and jumped out of a second-story window screaming! I AM FREAKING OUT!” We were too hopped up on caffeine for five hours in a vehicle, people. We were like a van full of addicts with the shakes.

The acting on this is so sucktastic, I beg you to watch all 3 minutes.
And When HH goes flying out the window like a lunatic, I could not quit laughing
because that is EXACTLY how we felt in that freaking van.

Electricity that isn’t insane

It is feast or famine here. Either the entire city has rolling blackouts and we sit in darkness for however long, or the electricity surge is so strong, it is guaranteed to destroy our appliances. Korie turned her hair dryer on for two seconds on the first day and it blew up: Kaput. (This is Aschalew’s word and we use it with abandon. Everything is kaput. This rain is kaput. This driver is kaput. This weird lamb/beef/goat is kaput.) Korie borrowed my hair dryer another day and brought it back with a very sorry look on her face and said, “Bad news. Yours is kaput now too.” We had a lot of air-dried hair and buns on this trip. Ethiopian electricity, you are drunk.

Helicopter moms with a Pinterest Account

I looked hard, but I didn’t see one single ET mama cut her little’s sandwich into dolphin shapes swimming in kale for his bento box. I saw no Cowboy-themed birthday parties with actual saddles owned by John Wayne as party favors. Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t believe there is an ounce of chalkboard paint in the entire country. A Facebook commenter once threatened to call CPS on me because I kicked my misbehaving boys out of the car and made them walk four blocks home in their own neighborhood. I can tell you confidently that is not a thing here. I believe my ET neighbor would probably spank my sons for misbehaving and make them drive some goats as penance. They would be kaput.

Standard times

You might think an hour is an hour, but you would be wrong. An hour here is more like 2-5 hours. If something is “20 minutes away,” you will get there tomorrow. When the IT guy at the café says he is coming back “in a minute” to fix your internet connection (another mythical unicorn over here) so you can send a blog to your precious American readers, you will see him never again. Memorize the back of this head. Good-bye. Aschalew would say, “Is no problem! We will be there in three hours…Aschalew time!” When we all gave him the side eye, he would just laugh and say he is the boss over here and we just needed to deal and quit whining about our elusive internet connection like a bunch of crybabies. (This is not our fault. Our mothers made us sandwich dolphins.) He promised to comply with American punctuality and OCD when he comes over next month. I cannot wait to mess with him.

Social safety nets

Life is hard everywhere. Divorce, illness, family disruption, abandonment, death…these happen in every community. But in Ethiopia, there are no systems to catch the folks who fall through these cracks. There is no welfare, state food programs, public school system, standard healthcare, subsidized housing, foster care. When these people fall through the cracks, they fall tragically. Though our systems are certainly imperfect, they exist.

This is what double-sponsorship through Help One Now provides: the safety net. By identifying the most vulnerable kids in Gunchire (mostly HIV+ widows with multiple children and no outside or inside support or income), the basic needs fall into place with the first sponsorship: school fees, uniforms, books, daily nutrition, medical care for the entire family – and the second sponsorship moves into economic empowerment: land development, microloans, capitalizing on existing skills and assets, farming and agriculture, and the medical and social tools to overcome an HIV+ diagnosis.

SAFETY NETS.

Not only did you help us hit our goal of 300 sponsorships (the top 150 most vulnerable kids in Gunchire and their families, double-sponsored), but we added the next 12 on the list and they are all double-sponsored as well! (We hit the original goal heading home yesterday in the Addis airport after Mike and Brandon kept refreshing the Help One Now page every two minutes. We laughed and screamed and hugged and cried like crazy people.)

AND we have moved willing sponsors still queuing up into the next critical group of sponsorships in Uganda – same exact mission and model with a high capacity in-country leader, Edward Magumba. You can find these kids on the same website and your sponsorship of them will provide the same safety net.

IT IS ALL SUCH GOOD WORK.

Thank you, dear moms and dads and kids around the world. What a joy. What a delight. What a story. What a privilege. So grateful to do this with you. This is the stuff. This is the good stuff. THANK YOU. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You cannot imagine how much your sponsorship is going to change this community.

And now I plan to go home, hug my babies, and sleep for a hundred years.

10-Year-Olds Should Not Be Day Laborers

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 12 Sep 2014 15:47:50 +0000

Here is what I find easy: describing the best practices of Help One Now, touting the capacity of Aschalew (the local HON leader), explaining the HON priorities of preserving families and empowering the Ethiopian people, specifically the most fragile ones. It is easy to talk about the effects of sponsorship because it is so measurable and obvious.

Here is what is harder: helping you GET IT. I can’t duplicate the look on these mothers’ faces as they describe how sponsorship has changed their lives. I can’t translate the smells, the songs, the laughter, the hope. I wish you could be here. It is no secret I love this country. Fine…guilty. I am not objective. Lots of reasons, including these two:

But dear reader, this place is magical. Dare I say it is holy ground. It might sound strange to say that amidst such suffering and struggle, but it is true nonetheless. I always plan to sink into the despair of solidarity when I’m here, but Ethiopia jukes me every time into just loving the tarnation out of it, even the hard parts.

Probably because of stories like Seada Nesa.

Seada lost her husband to HIV six years ago. HIV+ herself and without any means to support her three children, her little family skirted the edge of starvation; all three children barely survived. Her oldest son, Siraj, worked 12 hours as a day laborer in place of school, bringing home less than $1 a day. Look at this beautiful boy, trying his hardest to support his family at the age of 8...then 9...still 10.

In January, Help One Now spent weeks in the community, identifying the 150 most vulnerable families in town. Criteria included: widows, HIV+ family members, no income, no outside support, multiple children, mentally or physically disabled family members, and no extended family. Not surprisingly, Seada and her family were selected, and all three children were sponsored beginning this January.

In just nine short months, all three kids are back in school, they eat three times a day instead of once every other day, Seada is on daily ARV’s (HIV meds), their new cow is producing milk, and they are learning to plant, cultivate, and harvest crops on the land they already owned. Siraj told us, “I used to work all day and I was so worried for my mother. Now I am in school and I am not afraid for her anymore.” Amen and hallelujah. That moment alone was worth the entire trip.

This family was starving nine months ago and now they are rising.

Aschalew. He kisses every single man, woman, and child in Gunchire. He is a hero here.

HON employs a double-sponsorship model – every child sponsored twice to produce a two-fold result:

Provide basic stabilization: daily food, school fees, uniforms and supplies, and medical resources for the entire family.
Develop the family economically: teach modern farming techniques (most Ethiopians have extraordinarily large lots which can be entirely cultivated for food), provide cows, goats, and chickens and the training to raise and resource them, identify existing gifts, skills, and assets of the parents to harness into income-producing outlets, and equip the HIV+ parents to address and overcome social stigma and regain solid footing in their community.

This goes well beyond just getting through the day. We met four families this week that are literally thriving via double sponsorships: they are now small-business owners, farmers and gardeners, and all their children are in school which absolutely isn’t a guarantee in developing countries like Ethiopia.

I can’t tell you how encouraged I was to hear from the HIV+ mamas. Having received support (which translates to honor) from HON, empowering them toward visible sustainability, the neighbors who formerly shunned them have begun welcoming them with open arms. The stigma is turning. The Gunchire community is learning that HIV is no longer a death sentence or contagious by proximity. In turn, more HIV sufferers in secret are coming forward for meds, empowered by these brave survivors who are finding their place in the community again. How exciting! What good news for this town and its people!

Yall, SPONSORSHIP is good news for this town and its people. It absolutely provides the monthly capacity for this long-term development. Locally led and locally managed, the brightest minds in Ethiopia are in charge here. We just provide the impetus for their good work.

Our goal is to double sponsor all 150 identified children; a total of 300 new sponsors. Like I said yesterday, in a small town like Gunchire, with 150 at-risk families stabilized and empowered, this literally has the power to turn the entire community around. Hundreds of children are now in school instead of working, hundreds of families are kept intact instead of devastated by disruption, and ten years from now, hundreds of young adults will contribute to the local economy and take their rightful place as the next generation of local leaders.

Here is what you get, New Sponsor:

The certain knowledge that you are AN AWESOME PERSON CONTRIBUTING TO AWESOME WORK. High five. This matters so much. It is changing real lives, real families, an entire community. You win. You rule.
Some goodies: every new sponsor gets a Help One Now sticker, t-shirt, and a copy of Interrupted from yours truly. BOOM. You’re welcome. We love you. Check out your goodies here.
Access to a private Facebook group hosted by me, Kristen, Korie, and Jillian. We are now friends on our own little group! You’ll get updates, correspondence, and great conversations about our precious community in Gunchire we are helping to raise up together. We are the Gunchire Tribe!
This is too fun: All 300 new sponsors are entered into a drawing to win a signed guitar by WEEZER (did you know our own Jillian is rockwife to Weezer bass player Scott Shriner in addition to being a little ol’ NY Times bestseller? Overachiever, that one). Brandon said we are sponsoring four kids to be entered four times for the guitar. Good grief.

You don’t need any of that, of course, but we want to do this because we love Gunchire and anyone else who loves Gunchire. We are having Big Loving Feelings about this place and we’ll do anything to rally for it.

It’s easy: go here, pick a darling child, and sponsor them. It is $42 a month. Someone else will pick the same punkin’, and BOOM: that kid is double sponsored. Help is on the way. Gather your own kids around the computer and choose together. Trust me, your babes will be writing a lot of letters and falling in love with this kid. You might even travel here one day to see for yourselves.

I’ll leave you with a few pics because OH ETHIOPIA. Be mine. I want it to be yours too.

Is this your time? Maybe it is. Maybe it is your time to jump in here. If you want to throw your weight behind the Gunchire community, go here, pick a darling (and subsequently his or her whole family), and JOIN US. This is the best thing. Look what we get to do...

Thanks for following along on our trip! Are you sponsoring?? Aren't the pics amazing? Ethiopia is amazing. Get here as quick as you can.

Your Money Can Help or Hurt

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 11 Sep 2014 15:22:00 +0000

A couple of years ago, Brandon and I had an illuminating conversation with a local leader in Ethiopia. He led a church and accompanying nonprofit in his community, and a western group caught wind of his work. Eager to do good and chomping at the bit to do that good internationally (so sexy), they enacted a plan to visit his children’s home once a summer. Because they failed to listen, learn, and enter into a foreign culture with humility, not recognizing the local leader’s expertise, cultural intuitiveness, and authority, they visited his community once a summer with their pre-determined mission to paint the children’s home. Again.

So one day before they arrived each July, he instructed the children to go into the forest, gather dirt and debris, and rub the pristine walls down with muck so the Americans could paint and feel good about their “helpful yearly trip.”

We can do better than this.

We are doing better than this.

I am in Ethiopia, my favorite country on earth, with Help One Now. Dear reader, you must know by now that I would never put a mission or organization in front of you that I have not fully vetted and did not entirely believe in. I would never be that irresponsible. I love you too much for that and I steward my influence too greatly to throw something helter skelter against the wall and hope it sticks.

Listen to me, because not only do I plan to ~~bully~~ ~~peer-pressure~~ lead you and your resources toward a magnificent Ethiopian community, but I want you to know why HON is a worthy path from Point A to Point B. Because believe me, you could send your valuable dollars through a number of systems and it will end up in corrupt hands, in efficient structures, or in short-term initiatives that will run out of steam before ever reaching their objectives.

Help One Now operates out of three primary best practices:

1. Identifying, partnering with, and empowering high-capacity local leaders in vulnerable communities to lead their own countries out of extreme poverty.

Baseline: If HON doesn’t have a top-drawer, highly educated, tested and proven local leader in an at-risk community, they won’t come. In Ethiopia, our in-country leader is Aschalew Abebe, and I have already run out of superlatives to describe his capacity. He has studied in three countries, did his graduate work in regional development planning and management, and absolutely understands how to preserve the most fragile families, develop them economically, and break the cycles of poverty. He is a marvel. I’ve watched him this week with my mouth hanging open. This is a trustworthy leader who loves his country, deeply understands its broken systems, and has developed a clear, sustainable path to family preservation. I can’t think of an international leader I’ve ever believed in more.

2. Care for orphaned and vulnerable children.

Initially, HON’s mission was laser-focused on double-orphaned children (both parents deceased), but last year local Haitian leader Jean-Alix asked Chris to consider sponsoring children living in impoverished Drouin with their parents. When Chris explained that HON only focused on orphaned children, Jean-Alix said, “Oh. Okay. Then just wait one year and most of these children will be orphaned.” Thus, orphaned and vulnerable children now make up the mission of HON. Both worthy. In some cases, we respond to tragedy. In other cases, we help prevent the tragedy. Either way, children destined for orphanhood, poverty, and family disruption are empowered toward family, education, and economic sustainability. Cyclical chains are broken and the next generation is raised up to lead strong.

3.) Order and transform community.

HON comes in with stabilizing resources (primarily through monthly sponsorships), which enable birth parents to regain financial footing without the crushing financial pressure simply feed and educate their children. With that noose off their necks plus the economic empowerment tools also provided through HON, families move from the brink of devastation not just to surviving but thriving. In a small town like Gunchire, for example, with 150 at-risk families stabilized and empowered, this literally has the power to turn the entire community around. Hundreds of children are now in school instead of working, hundreds of families are kept intact instead of devastated by disruption, and ten years from now, hundreds of young adults will contribute to the local economy and take their rightful place as the next generation of local leaders.

This is the right model, you guys. This is helping instead of hurting. This is giving proper honor, respect, and deference to local leaders who will aptly lead their own countries into stability. You know what we provide? Resources. It is what we have in spades. We are the wealthiest, most resourced nation on earth. Our dollars count. They are valuable in the right hands, and these are the right hands. This matters. Do not look on the scope of the world’s suffering and imagine you have no role to play, no dent to make, no help to offer.

YOU DO.

Month after month, year after year, these are the tools that lift communities out of poverty. These are the tools that educate young minds and equip them to launch. As Jeffrey Sachs, global economist and author of The End of Poverty says, “People stuck in extreme poverty lack the resources necessary to grab the bottom rung of empowerment. Mind you, once they grab hold of that bottom rung, they will climb…because they are smart, ambitious, and motivated.”

You know what we are? That elusive boost to the bottom rung.

We give the impossible lift to the ladder of health, education, and economic stability, and I am telling you, these good people will climb. They don’t love their families any less; they don’t lack work ethic, resourcefulness, drive. $42 a month? Doesn’t seem like much to us. But it is the boost.

They will climb.

In Gunchire, we are exclusively empowering families who have not yet disrupted. They are so close though. HON went door-to-door and identified the 150 most vulnerable families in the community: widowed, HIV+, impaired, ostracized, single-parents, special-needs children, abused, abandoned. These families have endured more than most of us can even comprehend.

Yet they are still standing, clinging together, hanging on by a thread. Survivors, fighters, these families.

Let’s keep them together and help them not just survive but thrive.

I am going to tell you some stories tomorrow. Inspiring, awesome stories about women and children who dug deep, refused to give up, stuck together with nothing but grit and resolve. HON was the glue. You are going to be so proud of them all.

We have 150 families in line for this glue that binds; the education, nutrition, health care, economic empowerment, financial counseling, recovery resources. HON provides all this. We get to be a part: $42 a month. Honestly? It is too easy. Plus, you get some goodies we put together to say THANK YOU. I’m going to talk more about this tomorrow, but for those of you already convinced, go to www.helponenow/lovehope and sponsor. Every face you see still lives at home. Let’s keep it that way.

This is long-term work, yall. This is coming alongside a struggling community for months, years, and walking them toward stability bit by bit. That is exactly why a monthly sponsorship makes sense. This is not a one-shot fix. It is a privileged community saying, “We are here. This year, next year, the year after that…all the way until you’re regained your footing and preserved your legacy.”

Please come back tomorrow. I want to introduce you to Birkanesh and Seada Nesa and Siraj. You can’t not know about them.

SPEAK

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 04 Sep 2014 10:44:10 +0000

“It is a special voice that can lead the next generation of believers from within. One who understands every struggle and disappointment, one who has walked away and came back, one who is both prophetic and compassionate. Nish Weiseth is unquestionably one of those leaders. Speak is just impossibly hopeful. It tells of a better way, better community, better grace, better story. You nod, you cry, you shout, and ultimately you go quiet and whisper, “Lord, here is my life; may it speak of You.”

I wrote those words when I first read my friend Nish’s book, Speak: How Your Story Can Change the World.

I've made my cover design envy annoyingly clear to Nish. She is so over it.

Let me back up. I first met Nish two years ago under circumstances we chuckle about now: I was speaking at a Lifeway event called dotMOM in the deeeeep south, and Nish was invited as a blogger. Now, I was comfortable and familiar with both LW, a mom conference, and suth-uh-nuhs, but Nish was like what in the actual what? Not her usual jam, yall. I randomly sat by her on the airplane on the way home and she asked do these things wear you out? and I was all way and promptly fell dead asleep because I am an excellent travel companion.

She later wrote this piece: “Alabama, Southern Baptists and a Recovering Cynic”

As you might imagine, we were instant friends.

Not longer after, Nish invited me to contribute to the online writing community she built called A Deeper Story, a diverse, compelling gathering of writers and thinkers discussing weighty spiritual issues in a safe, inclusive environment. At DS, I was introduced to so many fresh voices asking good questions and creating space for struggle. Nish spends most of her time elevating other writers and leaders with incredible generosity and grace. I am exceedingly proud of her for leading this good work. Wrangling a gaggle of Christians with such varied theology, life experiences, and perspectives is no small task, yet the DS community remains fiercely respectful and supportive. It is a marvel.

The success of A Deeper Story is really a touchstone for the message of Speak, proving that it is indeed possible for believers to come together in the name of Jesus and fight for grace and community amid substantial, even profound differences. In the hateful, disgraceful world of internet commenting, Speak tells of a better way, and the mechanism is simple:

Be brave enough to tell your story and courageous enough to listen to others.

It really is that simple to begin. As long as we stay isolated and anonymous, we can tear people down to our hearts content. We can slash and wound and destroy with no consequences, further fragmenting not only the church but our very communities. It’s so easy. We are exempted from the difficult work of reconciliation. No need to dig below the surface to listen or learn; we can make knee-jerk assumptions, rash conclusions, and downright false accusations. We can safely ignore nuance, complexities, and even fragile human feelings. Separated, we are free to fear one another, second guess motives, assume the worst, and spread untruths. (This is working quite nicely. One need only pull up Facebook on any given day to affirm this paradigm.)

But.

What if, according to Speak, we did the hard work of telling our stories? The gritty, complex stories we all have? What if we ventured out bravely and said I am broken in this tender place or I am recovering or I am dreaming a new dream. Rather than firing missives from afar or making assumptions in silence, what if we sat across the table from each other over coffee and listened? As Nish referenced, Ann Voskamp begs: “Give me your story, not your sermon.”

Our cynicism would take a real hit, I’m telling you that right now. Common ground would astound us. Humanity would take a forward position where only criticism once resided. We could build bridges instead of burning them all to the riverbed floor.

And don’t we need some bridges repaired? Our world is literally burning down around us right now. Hate and fear is taking down whole communities. The suspicion of “other” is tearing apart neighbors, races, and even nations. Speak is a manifesto toward peace, and I can’t remember a time when we needed it more. (If you need a character witness on Nish, she spent last week in Ferguson listening to pastors, citizens, and community leaders, learning from them and praying for peace with them. Hopped on an airplane and went where the hurt was. Like Jesus.)

Like Nish discusses in Speak, telling and hearing stories – not our personal sermons – is the front door to healing divides in our culture, church, and world. It is how we release our gifts to the community, invite the kingdom to break through, proclaim God’s work, and advocate for justice. People don’t want our soapboxes; they need flesh and blood.

We need this message desperately.

I want to leave you with a prayer from Nish as she puts Speak into your hands:

“It’s my prayer that this book will encourage and inspire you to explore your own stories – as well as to seek out the stories of others – and to tell them with grace and abandon. It’s my prayer that this book will remind you that your life and experiences have great value and that the world needs to hear about them. Stories can change us, change the hearts of others, and change the world. It’s my prayer that this book gives you the freedom to speak. And when you do speak, I expect the world around you to look a bit more hopeful, bright, and good.”

Amen, good friend. Amen.

I want you to read this and one of you for sure is going to have it. Enter a comment to win a copy of Nish’s book Speak by answering this:

Tell us a time when telling yours or hearing someone else’s story changed your perspective on them, their “group,” or your preconceived ideas. OR: Who have you been afraid of or put off by that you can reach out to in vulnerability and fight for grace?

A Book, A Necklace, and A Bunch of Kids

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 22 Aug 2014 11:43:18 +0000

Hi, reader (and viewer...what the?). I am having so much fun with you lately.

It has been my great joy to give you Interrupted, and I've read every email, every tweet, every post, every word you've said about it. I am so moved by YOU. I'm trying to think if I've ever been so encouraged in my life to watch God move in our generation. This is so happening. You are out there doing it, starting it, dreaming it, living it.

If I ever felt lonely in the message of Interrupted, that day has passed.

What a thrill to turn our incredible resources and privileges back over to the God who entrusted them to us in the first place and say, "These are yours. Have your way." How beautiful are the feet who bring Good News to the broken, the wayward, the lost and lonely, the suffering. I see a generation saying NO. We will not turn a blind eye to those who grieve. NO, we will not hoard our luxuries while precious people suffer. NO, we will not pretend we don't see. NO, we will not go to the grave in comfortable complacency but will expend our lives for God and people like it is our job.

We welcome every holy interruption that helps us look more like Jesus.

We have so much to share, and like I've said before, intentional spending is an enormous factor in battling poverty. We direct our powerful dollars and tell them where to go. Our money can effect great and glorious good in this world with nothing but a bit of intention.

So I have this great thing.

I've loved the beautiful artisanship of The Vintage Pearl for some time (you might have spotted their necklace on the first episode of our show). I think I have three or four of their beautiful pieces, because they are 1.) meaningful, 2.) trendy, and 3.) not cheesy. I am very sorry, but "not cheesy" is quite important to me. Thank you for understanding.

The Vintage Pearl creates unique and meaningful handstamped jewelry, customized with names, dates, inspiring words - whatever you want. Each one is handmade in their studio in Tulsa, Oklahoma mostly by moms (love)! The Vintage Pearl began in 2007 by Erin Edwards, a stay at home Mom of 4 in need of a creative outlet (can I get a witness?). She began stamping on her kitchen counters and assembling/shipping from the dining room table. When things became overwhelming faithful friends jumped in to help. In 2009 they moved into their own studio and in 2010 they opened up their first retail store in Tulsa. They now have 2 more retail stores: in Edmond, OK and Sugar Land, TX!!

I love dreams like this coming true.

But THIS is the part I really love: The Vintage Pearl and I worked together to design a new necklace and THEY ARE DONATING 50% OF EVERY NECKLACE SOLD (that's huge) through August 31st to my favorite non-profit: Help One Now!!! What that means is that children will be fed and education, mamas and daddies will be empowered, small businesses will be started, children will be rescued from human trafficking, local leaders will be resourced to develop their communities, hope will rise. (You might recall I am headed to Ethiopia with HON in 17 days for the Love Hope Trip...find out more about there here.)

We designed this necklace in the spirit of Interrupted, emulating its call, its message, its core truth. May it be our anthem and our reminder, because as complicated as we've made the Christian life, truly, He has shown you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God. (Micah 6:8)

When we have no idea what to do...

Act justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly.

When crisis threatens to take us down...

Act justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly.

When relationship are in peril and hope seems lost...

Act justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly.

When the world's suffering can no longer be ignored...

Act justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly.

He has already shown us what is good: justice, mercy, humility. It is our charge and our strength.

Isn't it gorgeous?? You guys, 50% of each one sold goes straight to Help One Now - this purchase indeed loves your neighbor as much as yourself. Get this baby right here and I certainly want to see a pic of you wearing it, so put your pretty self on my FB page or tag me on Twitter! (If you want to know why I chose this design, Interrupted should clear that right up for you, sister. I explained more here and here.) Also, husbands and boyfriends? This could single-handedly make you a hero. I've practically given you a gift here. This is too easy. Don't ever say I haven't helped you be awesome.

Today I'm giving away three of these beautiful necklaces along with three $50 gift certificates to The Vintage Pearl! Leave a comment to enter...

And just for my awesome readers, use coupon code jenh20 to save 20% off your next order, also good through August 31st!

Behind-the-Scenes on the Show and a Goody Basket

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 21 Aug 2014 13:51:15 +0000

Well, let me be the first to say that TV IS INCREDIBLY GLAMOROUS. The fanciness just can hardly be described. What could be better than filming for five solid months to produce 176 minutes of television? (If you think we are so funny and charming on the show, it is only because we managed that skill set .04% of the time and that’s what they put on TV. The cutting room floor includes such gems as, “Where is the coffee?” and “Hand me that level” and “I’m tired of filming today.” RIVETING!)

How about some insider info, yes?

Most things are live but others are kind of not live. When “our realtor Jenny” (also known on the show as “Jen’s painter” in episode 2 and “Jen’s best friend” in the rest of the series) called to say you got the house, I was at home, but without the crew. Apparently these people are allowed time off to sleep and eat. But, it was an important moment in the story so we had “back produce”—a fancy way for them to tell us to act it out.) I didn’t just accidentally have my phone laying on the kitchen counter and, you know, a cameraman in my living room to catch this thrilling, spontaneous moment. I know this is shocking.

In the final reveal shots when you see me looking like I just completed a marathon with my pale face, red eyes, and exhausted hang-dog look, that is because it was 11:30pm and we’d been working like a chain-gang to get that room “good enough” for the shot. Twelve seconds before we started filming the reveal, we were still hanging pictures and blowing construction dust off surfaces.

The faucets? Not attached. Don’t touch them. They would clunk right to the floor. The oven? You could nestle a newborn baby in there for a nap with no concern. We didn’t even have electricity. Hi. The floors? Still sticky from staining them at 3:30am the night before. Half the paint was wet. The art was hung with two-sided tape. The adjacent unfinished room looked like a construction war zone. Despite our attempts to appear “cozy,” we were actually freezing because the house had no heat and it was January. Good times.

This is not actually a home-cooked meal and we are not actually warm.

I believe this pic sums up the functionality of our home during the reno. That is a crowbar, hammer, and stud finder in my silverware tray. I cannot explain this.

(Don’t worry. It all got finished and we’re in love.)

One of our funnier moments involved our neighbors. Pretty much the second we moved into the farmhouse, we started filming and demolishing stuff, so there were 20 cars a day parked at our house for five months with cameras, boom mics, and shady canvas things (what are those called?) everywhere. We filmed OTF’s (“on the fly” interviews) constantly by the street, in the alley, in plain view of the neighbors. After a few weeks, one of our neighbors told Brandon he heard this long, dark-haired girl and some motorcycle guy with tattoos were always talking to a camera, so they all guessed Sandra Bullock and Jesse James were filming some movie at our house.

I mean, the resemblance is clearly uncanny.

I wish we had access to the outtakes. I would guess 94% of all footage included foibles and hijinks. We laughed on camera so often, it is a wonder we ever got anything decent. And when we weren’t laughing, we evidently lost the power of speech. By the end of the day, you could no longer make good words. We were trying to tell the camera what we did or what was happening or what was coming, but we ended up saying, “For the…place in the room…for…we were…what had happened was the wall…and the power saw did a thing…such as.” Our producer Adam would just smile nicely and pretend he did not have a train wreck on his hands. Bless him.

This is our producer sitting on a toilet in our yard speaking into his microphone.
I don't know what to say.

Speaking of Adam, he would tell me about every four weeks that it was time to color my roots. This was a delightful exchange that I looked forward to with relish. Almost as much as I loved the daily instruction on wearing bright colors and not wearing hats. Since my entire wardrobe is black, gray, and brown, I would stand in my closet and despair every single morning. Who wears cheerful red shirts with blown out hair while demolishing an attic? This girl. Please note my snappy colors and fancy hair. I was under duress. (The earrings though? All me. Ain’t nobody gots to tell me to wear big, dangly earrings.)

Other fun facts:

Our producers kept the kids out of their rooms so we could surprise them by telling them we installed GoPro cameras everywhere and were watching them. This was both creepy and effective.

Our lead cameraman Kevin would regularly come back from LA and say things like, “I had Thanksgiving at Robert Downey Jr.’s house.” He received many blank stares from those of us who, say, just went to their parent’s double-wide at the ranch.

Hi. My name is Kevin. I am very fancy.

If you are still looking for the ceramic gray squirrel and fox Adam and I hid in every room reveal, here is your hint: look for the “after shots” when none of us are in the room. (Those pan-from-the-ceiling afters took half a day. Every time. What in the world?? TV is so fast except the opposite of that.)

I forgot to pick up my kids from school at least 10 times on film days. It got so bad that the crew set their alarms for me. This is one of the many effects my children will need therapy for. (See also: GoPro’s.)

In the living room episode, it took us so long to load in and accessorize the room (the schedule was pretty inflexible and that was our last day for that space), we pulled Ben and Remy OUT OF BED to film it. Adam, not producing his first rodeo, got hot chocolates from Starbucks at 10:30pm to wake everyone up. Please watch Ben in that episode: he looks dead asleep because, you know, he actually was. (Also, apparently now I use the word "space" to describe a room. I am so HGTV and possibly annoying.)

This is approximately the middle of the night.

One of our producers worked on “Bret Michaels: Rock of Love.” I can’t even with this. We managed to mention it at least once a day for five months. He also worked on Amazing Race, so redemption and all. But still.

Our production company was based out of Minneapolis, and our team moved to Austin for the duration of the show. Our producers were total gamers. After one of their first weekends here, they reported on Monday that they found UT shirts, wandered downtown, joined some random tailgating party, and went to the game. They knew more about Austin in five months than most of us who’ve lived here forever. Nobody crying in their apartment up in here.

I’ve mentioned we loved our crew. Over the course of the show, their friends, sisters, cousins, parents, girlfriends, fiancés, dogs, and babies graced the farmhouse. It was so fun. Brandon is officiating one of their weddings. I mean, LOVE.

So great, right? Love these folks. Our producer Nicole flew down for the premier party, and when Brandon tried to introduce her, he got all choked up which is so weird for him (sarcasm font…he is a big sentimental baby…don’t let those tatts fool you).

At the premier. I'm sure I've mentioned this, but she is smart, sassy, and single, gents.

Giveaway time! I will pick one random commenter to win a little gift basket of several items I wore on the show that are near and dear to my heart:

The Riley slouchy hat by Krochet Kids, employing vulnerable folks in Uganda and Peru

The Key2Free Necklace by The A21 Campaign fighting against human trafficking

The Love Hope tee by Help One Now for our upcoming trip to Ethiopia

Leave a comment to enter and win all three! And while you’re at it, I have one last blog saved for next week in which I will answer some of your questions about the show. So let me have ‘em: what have you always wanted to know??

Love Hope

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 19 Aug 2014 13:27:46 +0000

I’ve been waiting to tell you something and today is the day!

I’m going back to Ethiopia and I’m taking some rebel rousers. In 20 days, my beloved Help One Now is going on a Love Hope Storytellers Trip to my favorite country in the “whole white world” as Remy says (please enjoy the irony).

You guys, Ethiopia!

Remember the day we met these two? Ethiopia makes some beautiful children.

HON has been working in-country for one year, beginning with the urgent work of aid and now moving into the sustainable work of development. Wait until you hear what we are doing: We are specifically working in the community of Gunchire (gun-CHEER-ee) where extreme poverty has put most families at risk. But here is why I believe in this trip so deeply: We are coming alongside this struggling community with one primary goal – to keep these families intact through sponsorship. This is absolutely orphan prevention, as these families are on the brink of disruption not for lack of love but resources.

We say NO to this. We say poverty orphans are not okay on our watch. We say every Mama and Daddy should have the right and means to raise their own beloved children, and if they don’t have the means, then the ‘haves’ in the world will not sit on our pile of privileges while good families disintegrate around the globe. We are going in the name of family preservation, because if we love hope for our precious families, shouldn’t we love it for everyone else’s? What good and beautiful work to tie a safety net around a precious community and stand in the gap of extreme poverty.

Doesn’t our world need so much more love and hope right now?

We are going to tell you everything about everything. You’ll get the goods. A bunch of you are going to help hold this community together and preserve entire families. You don't even know yet. It is going to be amazing. We are going to Love Hope together. We are going to crush this.

We have a killer team flying 24 hours in coach to Ethiopia to tell you this story. (Jesus be near. And also, Ambien.) You’re going to love these people. You already DO love these people.

Kristen Howerton
Wife + Mom of Four + Leather Bound Books and Rich Mahogany
Find her at Rage Against the Minivan

Jillian Lauren
NY Times Bestseller + Mom + Rockwife + International Girl of Mystery
Find her at JillianLauren.com

Korie Robertson
Wife of Willie + Mom of Many + Commander of Ducks
Follow her on the Twitter and the Insta

Yours Truly
Ethiopia Enthusiast + Mom of Five + Hashtag Abuser
You are currently on my website. A link is probably unnecessary.

This ain't your mama's storytelling team. All of us have adopted, one of us is a professor, two of us have tattoos (THAT WE KNOW OF), three of us are good at Instagram (the other shall not be named), one of us is married to a rock star, and one of us deals daily with a beard. We run the gamut on politics, religion, and history but we all love people, we all love families, and we are all ready to bang the drum for Help One Now in Gunchire.

Our creatives will bring their typical shock and awe of talent. These guys make the pictures and do the pretty.

Scott Wade: Storyteller + Good Picture Taker + Beard of Fire
Ty Clark: Hipster Artist + Fancy Creator + Kammok MOBster

The brainy Mike Rusch, CEO of Pure Charity is coming for his smart thinking. The Help One Now fearless leaders will keep the wheels on their loose-cannon storytellers: Chris Marlow, Lamar Stockton, and Tim Newberry. These guys, all ballers.

We’ll be on Ethiopian soil September 10th. I can hardly stand it. We are going to Love Hope like a boss. You are too. Sign up for our emails and blogs here. Follow us on the Twitter and IG (#lovehope) so you can see lots of pictures of me kissing Ethiopians (I can’t not). Get ready to fall in love with the people of Gunchire. Resistance is futile.

Will you come along with us?

A Note to My Former Self and the Interrupted Link-Up

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 18 Aug 2014 10:56:55 +0000

I’m sitting here looking at Interrupted on my desk.

It is like the dearest friend, an anthem, this book. I feel so tender toward it and the conflicted, fervent girl who wrote it five years ago. I remember the deep sense of loneliness and spiritual frustration that marked its every page. Many, many writing days were wracked with tears and sobs.

I want to go back and tell the Jen Who First Wrote Interrupted a few things:

Hi, dear one. I know you feel crazy and alone. You don’t even know how many people occupy this same spiritual space yet. Guess how many people out there are craving God in the margins, on the edges, in the broken places, with the outliers? More than you can imagine. You have no idea how many good people are asking new questions, taking risky risks, stepping out into new spiritual territory, going brave. You would not believe it. Across generations, demographics, denominations, races, regions, nations…God is doing something powerful and fresh in your generation. You are about to find these people. They are going to help save you.

You’ve taken some friendly fire and it hurt really, really bad. Sometimes it scares people when God moves you in a new direction. Change is hard, and not just for you. I know your heart is broken, but you are going to rise. There is a cost to following Jesus; pay it. You’ll be so glad you did. It is pittance compared to what is coming. This is the best yes you’ve ever offered. The loss-and-gain rhythm of the gospel is real. You are in the loss part. You can’t skip it. I’m so sorry because I remember how much it hurt and how scary it felt. But the gain. Oh, the gain. Hang on, sister. It is so coming.

That crawling out of your spiritual skin feeling? Well, I’m afraid to tell you it really never goes away. Now you’ve seen too much and you can’t unsee it. I know you’ve never been out of the country and you don’t even have a passport, but girl, buckle up. Your international miles are about to get cray. You are fixin’ to fall dead in love with the world. And I’m not sure how to tell you this (you might want to sit down), but next year you will start the adoption process. For two children. From Ethiopia. (No I am not kidding. Here is a glass of wine. Take a minute.) I know you don’t know anything about human trafficking but you are about to. I know you don’t know anything about systems of injustice but you’re gonna learn. You’ll never go another day without thinking of the world’s precious people and how much they suffer. You are at the beginning of your Interrupted story, but you haven’t the slightest idea how far God plans to take this.

Two things I want you to get rid of as soon as you can: first, that guilt. Really. You were born into privilege. You didn’t pick that, earn it, or deserve it – this is simply your lot in God’s sovereignty. The sooner you can quit lamenting your advantages and your distribution of them, the better. God is not engineering a Guilt Trip. Just go ahead and knock that off. He is giving you eyes to see a little better and ears to hear a little clearer, and you wringing your hands and mourning lost years is not helping. You did the best you could with what you knew. Now God is just giving you more to know, so off you go. Don’t be guilty; be grateful, be generous, be brave.

Two, that arrogance. Listen lamb, I know your heart is spilling over and the fire in your belly is burning a hole, but – and I mean this nicely – you do not know everything and you are not always right. (I know this is a shock. Take your time.) You don’t even know what you don’t know yet. This is not a great time to tell everyone in the church what they are doing wrong, pet. Church planting is harder than you think. Following Jesus is complicated and not everyone comes to grace on the same path you’ve walked. God has set you ablaze, but you have much to learn still. Be humble, be a good listener, be gracious, be kind. You will regret burning bridges like a pyro but you will never regret gentleness.

Can I tell you something? I know everything feels chaotic and all this spiritual upheaval has left some scars, but I just.cannot.even.tell.you. Here, I’ll show you some stuff that is coming:

These two. You don't even know. The little one likes to talk. Get ready.

Life is hard for so very many. Your days of apathy and ignorance are over.

God is going to do a miracle in Oklahoma one weekend. You'll never forget it.

Your children will learn to serve. The ones with the greatest loss will be the bravest.

You will be ruined for Ethiopia forever. You will love every inch, every person.

Oh, and Haiti. Gloriously ruined for Haiti. And little girls with big bows.

A school is coming to Haiti! Right here! You are going to help build it!

Oh, and Uganda. You have no future as a drummer, but you love these people.

You will kiss your young translator in front of all these Ugandan children
and they will lose their minds.

Adoption Family Camp. Half these kids are adopted. I can't remember which ones.

That's your girl in Ethiopia. She fell hard.
Kiss that one good-bye because she loves the world now.

Oh, and Rwanda. This is Teresa's porch. She will make you the best french fries of your life.

Yeah, this one is pretty crazy. I'll explain it later.

Life, sister. Life is coming. Good, hard, meaningful, challenging, beautiful, wonderful LIFE. It’s going to be so fun. Well, and sometimes not. (I don’t mean to scare you, but you will use the bathroom in a hole in the ground with children watching in rural Ethiopia soon. It’s fine. Relax.) This is the beginning of the rest of your life. Embrace it all – all the struggle, all the tension, all the humility, all the beauty. It is safe to be faithful to a faithful God. He loves you and is for you. He loves this world and is for it. Put that YES on the table indefinitely and, seriously, go with God.

And try to be patient when He asks you to eat the same 7 foods for a month in two years. THAT is a whole ‘nother thing, dove.

_______________________________________________

Oh, how I want you to have this story. So very much. Interrupted has been on a fabulous Blog Tour. I sincerely hope it has had fun out in the world, hopping around blogs like the Queen of Sheba. It has been to North Carolina and California and Georgia and it even went to Vegas, because Interrupted loves a bit of scandal. It has partied hard and now it is time to report its journey.

Below is the link-up to THE MOST AMAZING BLOG TOUR TEAM ON PLANET EARTH. These writers snatched up advance copies of Interrupted and their thoughts are reviews are linked below (they will be linking all day, so come back and see what gets added). Reader, you are welcome in advance for introducing you to these writers. You are about to subscribe to some new favorite bloggers. Poignant, funny, profound, irreverent…these girls have it all.

And don’t forget the online study we are doing later this fall with Interrupted. Grab your copy so you can join me. I think it is going to be complete awesomesauce.

Without further ado, I give you my amazing Blog Team:

And Finally I Give You..."Interrupted"

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 08 Aug 2014 08:17:05 +0000

I have impatiently been waiting for this day, working my little fingers to the bone with my amazing team for months.

At the end of last year, my publishing team came to me and said:

“We want to give Interrupted another turn in the world.”

And I burst out crying.

It’s simple: this is my favorite book I’ve ever written out of nine. This one, Interrupted: When Jesus Wrecks Your Comfortable Christianity, is absolutely the book of my heart, the single one I’d keep if I had to choose. The book I tell every person to read if they only buy one. Most of you found me through 7, but Interrupted is the prequel, the oh-so-vital story before the story. Without Interrupted, there couldn’t have possibly been a 7. I wasn’t even exposed to those ideas; I had no concept of that layer of the gospel. I was still delivering a message entitled “How to Be a Woman of Confidence” back then, God bless us each and every one.

I can’t articulate my thrill and gratitude about the chance to release an updated version of Interrupted (so very edited and expanded because I've learned so much even since). This is one of the current, urgent conversations in our generation. I know that now. When I wrote Interrupted, I felt alone, crazy. Brandon and I thought we’d struck out as pioneers, fighting for a church that was gracious and kind again, advocating on behalf of the poor and ignored, searching for a prophetic voice in a context where we’d lost our thunder almost entirely. We weren’t privy to other compatible Question Askers at the time. We were too immersed in our niche tribe, entirely cut off from the fresh spiritual wind blowing all over the place.

It has been six years since I wrote Interrupted, five since its release. I’ll tell you this: God has enriched my life with thousands of likeminded people and churches since I first penned these lonely, scared words. He lifted my head, and now I see beauty, courage, vision, strength, and downright chutzpah infecting the body of Christ. I see brave pastors leading their people, entire churches faithful to their mission, ordinary people doing amazing work so courageously that I could just lie on the ground and weep over it.

As you read Interrupted, don’t you dare identify with the message but feel alone. Because you are so not. There are so many of us bearing the same weight, daring to become new wineskins for the gospel in our generation. Something beautiful and thrilling is happening. A sense of global solidarity is taking the church to incredible reaches, connecting people across culture and country and race—assuring us we belong to one another, and God loves this broken world more than we dared ever hope, and mercy shall extend further than we ever thought possible, and this life is more fulfilling than wasting away in a church pew, and we are in this race together …

… so let’s run it.

If you are plagued with tension or discontent or a nagging sense that there must be more—that there has to be a faith somewhere that rings true and hopeful and gracious, a faith other than this mean, ugly, partisan, judgmental, self-indulgent version of Christianity, which has to be total bunk—then get down on your knees and thank your lucky stars. God has blessed you with this inner conflict. He isn’t leaving you in complacency and boredom to check boxes and do church. He has enlisted you in the cause of your generation and is calling you forward. You lucky thing. You will not be left and lost, wondering what all the fuss is about, wishing things would never change.

God is doing a new thing, as He has done in every generation. We stand in that tiny spot in history in which it is our turn to experience God’s fresh movement through a new wave of believers. It is but a breath. But it is the only breath we have.

It’ll cost us, dear one. I hope I make that clear in Interrupted. The very comforts the American dream and American Christianity hold out to us are the same ones we must abandon without looking back, daring to trust that a Savior who had no place to lay His head might have the slightest idea what He was talking about. We must trust that He would never lead us astray, although you might find yourself questioning tenets that once held your sweet little life together, and that will hurt and people will probably criticize it and you might cry. I know I did.

But hear me: This is the stuff, good reader. This is it. We can follow our Jesus to every dark, scary, broken place He just insists on going, healing and restoring people, because He is a good Savior and we can trust Him. And as it turns out, as soon as we are willing to be the last, we actually become first. When we admit we are least, we feel like the greatest. And when we lose our lives, we find it all … all the love, all the life, all the thrill, all the fulfillment.

I can’t believe it. Everything Jesus ever said was true.

I am so grateful to put Interrupted in your hands. I am a gentle guide, I promise. This is no expert’s account, only the words of a fumbling searcher who got so much wrong before she got virtually anything right. I’ve never been more aware of my own poverty, foolishness, ignorance, and arrogance. As I get older, I realize I know less about the mysteries of God and more about my own tomfoolery.

This is really just a story of ordinary disciples who Jesus messed up for the kingdom. That’s it. The interruption did not make us saintly or infallible or extra incredible or above reproach. It just made us raw. It made us hungry for justice, healing, God’s loving-kindness released to the nations. It made us humble, uber-aware of our selfishness—which wasn’t cured by said awareness, by the way. This is a safe place for you to wrestle. You can bring all your confusion, confliction, and hypocrisy to this conversation; I will hold it all with careful hands as one who struggles with the same tensions.

It is my high privilege to journey forward with my generation. I have never felt more understood, more compatible, more connected. It will be messy and we will fumble, but we will run this race together and beg for God’s kingdom to come in our generation. Faces down, heads down, we will ask for His glory to reign over our pride, over our fears, over our arrogance. May He come in power and be famous in our time, unleashing peace and salvation through His Spirit, His presence, and the willing hands of His people.

Come. We are Yours. Have Your way with our generation.

Interrupted is currently on a Blog Tour, so watch for a link-up from 100's of bloggers who are reading it! You can also hear me talk more about it on my friend Kathi Lipp's podcast, So Here's The Thing, or over here at Channelmom or over yonder at Chris Fabry Live or here at AllMomDoes. So much more to come in the next two weeks!

I'm going to lead us in an online study of Interrupted this fall! So grab your copy, because I cannot wait to share this with you.

[Used by permission from NavPress, taken from Interrupted. Copyright 2009; 2014. All rights reserved. www.NavPress.com.]

Why I Don't Recommend 7 During a Renovation (and a giveaway!)

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 05 Aug 2014 18:38:23 +0000

So this is a big week. Tra la la. We have a little program on the television airing this Thursday. And my odometer rolls over to 40 that day, too. Tra la la. Nothing to see here. I thought it might be fun to break the tension by giving away free books! What is better than free stuff?

Lots of you read "7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess" already. For you precious lambs who haven't, this was our seven-month experiment in which we tackled seven areas of excess and acted like crazy people. Like, we ate the same seven foods for a month and wore the same seven pieces of clothes for a month and other delightful eccentricities. (Get an idea of it here so this blog will make sense to you.)

How did the 7 values fare during a home reno? Medium to medium-low. This is perhaps not the best time to engage the practices of 7, good reader. I thought I should fess up a bit. So I give you the (few) ways 7 worked and the (many) ways it crashed and burned during our renovation in the seven areas of 7 and some giveaways for 25 lucky ducks:

Food: The show was the anti-7 concerning food. Oh, we probably ate the same seven foods alright, but they included PopTarts, Cheezits, and processed honey buns with condensation on the inside of the packaging because NO KITCHEN. (The grossness cannot be quantified.) If you followed me during the reno, you heard me lament this constantly. No kitchen was the very hardest thing. I don’t think we ate fresh food for weeks, and the garbage we ate is probably still lodged in our intestines. But in a delightful twist, the Buda Farmer’s Market is at the end of our street, so now we walk our little legs one block on Saturdays and pick up all the garden food we can handle. Except when I accidentally bought these this week because SUMMER, THY NAME IS ETERNITY:

Clothes: God love HGTV. You might remember that I gave away about two-thirds of my clothes during 7, and I didn’t really care. I am a jeans and t-shirt girl and whatever about it. Somewhere around our third week of filming, our producer was like, “Oh my gosh. Here is some money. Go buy some TV clothes.” Bless. (So I bought nicer jeans and nicer t-shirts. I don’t know, you guys.) But anyhow, our closets are all the size of a matchbox in the farmhouse, so we actually got rid of more clothes when we moved in. Fun fact: I wore “cause clothes and accessories” in every single episode. So watch for t-shirts by Help One Now, Charity Water, 147 Million Orphans, Guardians of the Children, and adoption fundraisers…and scarves and jewelry by Krochet Kids, Noonday Collection, The A21Campaign, and Not For Sale...and corresponding giveaways on my blog!

Possessions: We got rid of half our possessions and moved the other half into a POD for five months. We lived out of laundry baskets. We did not so much as have a chair. Plates? No. A couch? No. A dresser? No. Imagine living like a homeless person but kind of inside a house that has no heat or working appliances so you eat outside anyway. That was our life. We were squatters. One of my friends brought a gift over, and I was like Why do you hate me? Where do you think I’m going to put this? Everything we own is in a tub or laundry basket and she was all You need to get a grip and I was like:

Media and Technology: Once and for all, it is time to clear my good name, because I NEVER TOLD YOU PEOPLE TO GET RID OF YOUR CABLE IN 7. I actually wrote the book and didn’t cut my own cable ever. Not even when we didn’t have a house. We had cable on our patio because we aren’t savages. So for everyone saying you made me get rid of cable and now I want to watch your show and whyyyyyyyyyy God whyyyyyyyyy? I say call Time Warner right away, for the love. My gosh, football season is about to start. How are you supposed to live without ESPN? Get your priorities straight. Tell your husband you want cable and Jen Hatmaker said you could, and let’s be honest, he never wanted to cut it in the first place so now you are a hero and he likes me again ever since I invaded your home with 7 and he lost his sports channels, God bless him.

Waste: We actually did pretty good on this one. First of all, old house. Second of all, we reused and recycled everything, man. The whole front of the house was a holding cell for “things we can use somewhere maybe.” We used our old fence to make feature walls and headboards, we repurposed the original shiplap so many times, our producer Nicole forbid us to use the word “shiplap” again, we restored original floors and ceilings…you guys, our carpet is made out of 100% recycled plastic bottles. I kid you not. We got vanities and our mantel off Craig’s List and most our accessories from flea markets. Whatever we couldn’t use, we donated or recycled. YOU’RE WELCOME, EARTH. And I started composting again, but our chickens eat it all, because they are very naughty chickens.

Spending: Ah, how is she going to talk about spending when discussing a renovation? the people ask. Because there was indeed spending involved. How do I put this? Our renovation was…a gift. Like, the most over-the-top, outrageous gift anyone could ever give you. Now, we bought the house (almost a parallel move from our last one…same square footage after the reno), but everything after that was a precious gift. I wake up sick with gratitude every single day. However, we have since discovered that a very old house is basically an invitation to spend money on improvements the rest of your natural born life. I can’t talk about the gutters. I’m pretending I don’t see the rotten trim pieces. Look! Something shiny!

Stress: Well, this is a good news/bad news scenario. I’m going to admit that renovating an old house that you are living in is not a recipe for peaceful feelings. I dared take my anxiety to Facebook a few times during the reno and most of you were fab about it and some of you told me to visit an ER and find out what real suffering is and quit my whining. (Thank you for the advice I did not take.) The good news is, this house is now so peaceful that I could just spit. It literally invites me to kick my shoes off, bring my coffee outside and sit under the trees for a spell. We’ve filled it with friends and family constantly since the reno wrapped. My heart is so happy and my soul is so quiet here, I literally think we will live here until we die. The trees, the old wood floors, the butcher block counters, the quiet little neighborhood off Main Street, the naughty chickens…we do not deserve this house but we are grateful beyond words for it.

So 7 plus a renovation is probably not a winning combination. For my readers about to take the 7 plunge, may I suggest indoor plumbing and a working oven as prerequisites? Trust me, gentle reader.

Speaking of taking the 7 plunge, my good people over at Broadman & Holman wanted to celebrate Show Week, so they are offering the e-version of 7 for only $4.99 for the rest of the week! That is less than a #1 from Chick-Fil-A, yall.

AND because I have the best readers anywhere, we are giving away 25 copies of 7 to randomly selected commenters! Yay, you! (Please do not comment if you are renovating a house. See previous content. I care about you.) But if you live indoors, leave a comment about any old thing and we will choose 25 of you to receive a brand, new shiny copy of 7!

One Week Until Our Show (dead on floor) and A Sneak Peek at a Fit I Threw

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 31 Jul 2014 11:20:34 +0000

Our show airs one week from today.

Please excuse me while I breathe into a paper bag.

Before it comes out and things get weird, I wanted to make sure I told you a few things. Mainly, we had a blast filming this thing. We really sincerely did. For some reason I need you to know this because TV often (deservedly) gets a bad rap and I want you to know another side. Like I told our crew during the wrap party: “This whole experience was 83% awesome!” The other 17% was reserved for such delightful moments like the video clip below when I lost my mind over green paint like a psycho:

My favorite part is when our designer cheerfully says, "These are some pretty bold colors in here!" and I answered, "They are." Like a dead robot.

I want you to know a couple of things before you watch us on your actual TV set. When HGTV came knocking last summer, our little family was really wobbly. As I’ve told you, my travel schedule had taken a real toll on our marriage and kids. We were super, super shaky. I, personally, was on the verge of disintegrating. So much time apart. So much emotional, public work for a mediocre speaker and introvert by nature. So much phoning it in at home.

At the close of our show, Brandon and I sat down to evaluate the experience, and he looked me dead in the eyes and said:

“This show saved us.”

It really did. Because we worked side-by-side together all day, every day. We had a blast. We laughed and giggled and enjoyed each other to shreds. While renovating a house we lived in was ~~disastrous~~ ~~horrible~~ ~~freezing~~ challenging, we were home. We were Team Hatmaker again. We were saved.

And our crew? Precious to us! We spent more time with these people than anyone else on earth for five months. They are now grafted in to our extended family and friend group, too. We took every moment seriously and acted professionally at all times. At no point did all the guys have pull-up contests on Remy’s gymnastics bar or stage jump rope competitions with the kids. We had dozens and dozens of lunches on our patio together, which comprise my favorite memories of the whole show. We discussed it ALL: travel, dreams, religion, ex-girlfriends and boyfriends, impending weddings (one of which Brandon is officiating!), books, family, God, movies that certain men tried not to cry during but finally broke down and sobbed in front of their bro’s (I’m looking at you, Christopher).

It was just fun. I remembered how good Brandon and I are together. I remembered how hilarious our kids are. I remembered the value of home; a place I’d been so absent from. I remembered how much I love my little community and what it means to be a good neighbor again. I planted my feet back in my life, and it was so very healing. Every benefit was already realized the day the show wrapped.

Then I kind of forgot you guys were still going to see all of it. I guess that is how TV works? Yeah. This next part, the TV part, is just a whole ‘nother thing. HEH HEH HEH HEH!! (That is my nervous fake laugh.) People are posting screen shots of their DVR Recorded Shows with “Our Big Family Renovation” scheduled. Omg. That is our big family. HEH HEH HEH HEH!

Well, at any rate, the whole show is in the bag and is definitely coming to a TV near you a week from today: Thursdays starting August 7th, 10:00 and 10:30pm CT on HGTV: My Big Family Renovation. All the voiceovers are done by yours truly, and the first one is the worst because I am an author, not a professional voiceover person and I didn’t know what I was doing. (In the studio with the HGTV people in my ear as I’m reading the scripts: “Punchier. Less punch. More like a friend. More like a host. Conversational. Less conversational. Sarcastic. Too much sarcasm. Brighter. Quieter. Louder. Happier.” Just, I don’t know, you guys.)

Three fun things:

I wore my favorite cause t-shirts, accessories, and jewelry in every show. Be watching my blog each Thursday for giveaways from featured orgs! Great stuff from Noonday Collection, The A21 Campaign, Krochet Kids, Help One Now, and more…
HGTV will be posting your live tweets on the show the night of the premier! Brandon and I will be tweeting that night too. So follow along live on Twitter, post something awesome, and get famous. Use the hashtag: #MyBigFamilyReno - You can follow me on twitter here and Brandon here.
Our Producer Extraordinaire Adam, who thinks himself a funny pants, tucked the goofiest gray ceramic fox and squirrel he insisted on buying into every single room reveal somewhere. He and I went tearing through the house looking for them on more than one occasion, lest a revealed room be left out of the game. Watch for them on the show! Even I had a hard time spotting them, and I was an accomplice.

We are throwing a huge party next Thursday, because not only is it the premier but I am turning 40 that day. I will officially be in possession of All The Feelings on August 7th, and the only helpful factor is that my adult braces are off. Thank you for being excited with us and for holding all constructive criticism until August 8th or later when I am in control of my wits again. Just say nice pretty things and I’ll pretend you mean it.

Who is watching next Thursday??? Anyone piggybacking with an awesome Noonday Nationwide Trunk Show?

Women Hold Up Half the Sky

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 18 Jul 2014 09:09:29 +0000

It was just a few short years ago that I dipped my pinkie toe into the waters of international community development. (I didn’t know a hill of beans about it at the time…that was back when I was still giving a conference talk entitled, “How To Be A Woman of Confidence,” God bless us each and every one.) But Jesus had sufficiently interrupted my life and there was no going back.

It was then I ripped through a giant mountain of books to help educate my sweet little dumb-dumb mind about issues of systemic oppression, economic empowerment, justice structures, and a whole bunch of other stuff I was happily in the dark about, including Countries Other Than America. Bless my heart.

Among my reading material was “Half the Sky.” For you who’ve read it, you just inhaled a big breath. This was a Pulitzer prize winning book written by journalists Nicholas D. Kristof and his wife Sheryl WuDunn. The title comes from the Chinese proverb:

Women hold up half the sky.

I remember exactly where I was sitting in my upstairs, reading about the plight of women globally, specifically the practice of female genital mutilation in certain African regions (having already endured the descriptions of throwaway daughters in China, forced prostitution in India, and sex trafficking in Eastern Europe), and I threw the book against the wall, laid face down on my carpet, and cried my eyes out for twenty minutes.

Women have suffered for so long.

They suffer still, sisters. Let’s funnel into one issue: economic empowerment. (Stay with me, because if you have ever earned one dollar for one ounce of work or expertise, you are on the winning side of a very important equation.)

This is important to start from: women comprise 70 percent of the world’s poorest people. They suffer not only from unequal access to education and training, but discrimination by their employers. The majority of women earn on average three-fourths of the pay men receive for doing the same work.

BUT LISTEN TO THIS: Studies have shown that when women hold assets or earn income, the money is more likely to be spent on nutrition, medicine, and housing, and thus, their children are healthier. For every dollar a woman earns, she invests 80 cents into her family. Men, on the other hand, invest around 30 cents and are more likely to squander money on alcohol and other vices. (Half the Sky)

If greater income equality is achieved, this could decrease poverty generationally.

This correlation cannot be overstated. When women have access to income, their children are more likely to go to school, stay healthy, and eventually become earners themselves…which affects other global development advances: lower birth rate, less victimization, land ownership, and marriage stability. The effects are drastic.

Do you hear what I’m saying? Much international data suggests that when you support a vulnerable woman, and it pays forward generation to generation, lifting families out of poverty, empowering children, increasing health and life longevity, and turning victims into champions.

Surely you know where I am going with this: NOONDAY.

If ever there was an easier way for women to raise up women, I haven’t seen one. What do we rally around? Jewelry and accessories, the universal language of women. Don’t imagine for one minute that Americans love the pretty and the international artisans make our goodies with rolled eyes toward our vanity. These Rwandan women are dressed to the nines, stylistic and gorgeous, coifed and manicured. If these women don’t love beauty, then no one does.

And, um, they had some “opinions” about our designs for the Style For Justice Collection. (As she was personally designing 38 EXTRA FAB FEATURES for our product, our team leader Charlotte said quietly, with head bent over her sewing machine: “I want to win first place.” Well then. American competitiveness need not show up. We have Charlotte, for the love.)

In Rwanda, only 300 companies in the entire country can employ over 30 people. So even with education on the rise for girls, jobs are still scarce. Noonday offers long-term trade and sustainable income for life. I can hardly think of anything more valuable.

The Rwandan artisans now have:

Children in school.

Marriages restored.

Homes purchased.

Debts paid.

Medical bills covered.

Dignity restored.

I’m not sure western women understand the power of restored dignity through work. We often disparage work; a luxury of the already empowered. But in a context like Rwanda, work is honorable and coveted, strong and transformative. It literally changes lives.

And you have such a role to play. In the Noonday context, every Trunk Show, every order, every new Ambassador, every time you tell someone about your beautiful Annie’s Feathered Earrings (I will not even attempt to conceal my obsession), YOU PROVIDE WORK to women who were once disempowered, devalued, abused, invisible. Then, bag by bag, necklace by necklace, they become new mothers to their children: empowered, valuable, redeemed, seen. You also provide work for nearly 700 Ambassadors in America who now have meaningful careers too, contributing to their families, rising up strong.

It is such good work! Don’t imagine for a minute it is only about your gorgeous Angelica scarf (hand-woven, four hours of labor per scarf): this is about women for women, connecting through the bonds of motherhood, family, dignity, strength, beauty.

So sister, go ahead. Book that Trunk Show. Sign up to become an Ambassador. Purchase that Bethe Rope necklace. If your husband balks, tell him THIS IS FOR THE WOMEN OF THE WORLD. I AM SUPPORTING MY SISTERS. TAKE IT UP WITH JESUS, MAN.

These girls thank you. And we thank them.

"Are You Taking My Message?"

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 17 Jul 2014 11:36:31 +0000

Pull up a chair and grab some coffee. I’m going to tell you a story. It is a story about systems, but please don’t let that stop you from reading, because it is ultimately a story about the dignity of human life. It is an important story and you matter in it.

Because we aren’t trained to appreciate systems, I will bold them when mentioned. It goes without saying that our western systems are terribly imperfect; there are holes, weak spots, gaps, catastrophic failures. People fall through them, absolutely. I know this, dear reader. I realize our structures have failed some of you, and that grieves me. Hear me say that. But this story isn’t the moment to cry foul on our systems (we can have that important conversation later), because though our structures are imperfect, THEY EXIST. Though the following progression is the way our systems are designed, it doesn't mean they always work. Yet...they exist.

This is the story of Jamie, an American 14-year-old girl. Jamie goes to ninth grade at her local school and comes home around 4:00 one day. While waiting for her mother to get home from work, her neighbor sexually assaults Jamie. She goes to another neighbor who immediately calls 911 on her telephone, and within five minutes, highly trained paramedics and police officers are at her doorstep. (For the love, if your toddler accidentally dials 911, the cops are on their way. Bless.)

She is taken to the hospital by ambulance where a rape specialist conducts her exam with sensitivity and attention to evidence collection, because already at this early hour, our systems are attuned to a conviction. Before she leaves the hospital, Jamie is visited by a trauma counselor and is also referred to a specialized adolescent therapist and group counseling. Her bills are entirely or partially covered by either private insurance or Medicaid.

Jamie’s safety is addressed either by the neighbor’s immediate arrest or her relocation until the investigation is complete. If she cannot afford one of her choosing, Jamie is given a public prosecutor to represent her in court, and he works in tandem with the officer on the scene, investigator, hospital and trauma staff, and witnesses.

One of the major TV networks regularly runs a show during primetime called “To Catch a Predator” targeting online child predators, because our society won’t have this. Should Jamie’s case end in a conviction, if her neighbor ever gets out of jail, not only must he comply with a restraining order, but he must register as a child sex offender for the rest of his life, so every neighbor, boss, and coworker will know his history.

Jamie is real, and this would have been her story had she been born in, say, Atlanta, but she was born in a country without the justice system we take for granted.

It is hard to believe, but Rwanda was absolutely decimated just twenty years ago by genocide. From April to July in 1994, this country lost one million teachers, store owners, policemen, pastors, children, mothers, leaders, doctors. Every structure collapsed. So Rwanda is a young justice system, still rebuilding many major infrastructures while diverting much energy to convictions related to the genocide. Great strides have been made in a very short amount of time; you would be moved by the beauty and order already restored.

But in such a fragile system, the first to go are the poor.

After Jamie’s assault (many details omitted because the atrocities against her cannot be borne), her government was not structured to grant her physical and emotional care, protection, safety, advocacy, justice, and healing. Virtually every system listed above was too underdeveloped to provide the scaffolding for prevention, justice and repair. She was a poor, vulnerable girl in a society where once abuse is reported, passing the baton through the various necessary systems – from immediate care to police enforcement to the law – is clunky and lacks cohesiveness.

With less than 1000 attorneys in the entire country of 11 million, unfair laws (children are not allowed to testify in court), few victims rights, and lack of police and lawyer training regarding child sexual assault, the systems you and I depend on were simply not available for Jamie and other children like her (approximately 10% of Rwandan girls were sexually assaulted in 2009).

Enter the work of International Justice Mission (IJM) and Noonday Collection.

IJM understands that the threat of violence (and lack of prosecution and justice) cripples the world’s poor. Schooling a young girl is to no avail if she fears permissible rape on her daily walk. Without access to basic human safety – neither protected from everyday violence or from broken systems – millions of people live in fear and abuse every second of every day.

We met with the IJM team here in Kigali (all Rwandans) who explained their structures, challenges, and interventions. I could not have been more starstruck if I was sitting in a room with Bono. They are lawyers, former investigators and police officers, psychologists, social workers, church and community educators, and administrators. They are heroes and there is no other way to say it.

Isn’t it a simple concept? Accountability for perpetrators through the legal system. While violence is universal, justice is not, and where lawfulness breaks down, violence, instability, and oppression reign. The correlation between poverty and lack of justice is astronomical – it shakes the foundations of human security, fostering abuse, fear, victimization, and despair.

But like the IJM team explained, no community need convict every crime to affect change. Engineer one, then four, then ten convictions, and you If predators begin to fear prosecution from their legal system as well abegin changing the equation of fear: Who will be afraid? The abused child? Or the perpetrator? If predators begin to fear prosecution from their legal system as well as outrage from their community (IJM educates churches, local leaders, healthcare workers, and parents toward this end), then justice for the oppressed is absolutely within our reach.

These victims will rise up to tell a better story.

Enter Noonday. Because nothing provides dignity like sustainable employment and economic independence. Noonday helps restore what has been stolen, a partner in the curative work of justice. A likeminded organization, they not only employ vulnerable women from the community but also former IJM clients who are in the difficult process of rebuilding their lives. Women move from simply surviving injustice to thriving.

The Rwandan artisans (and all 28 Noonday artisan groups) operate as an independent business in which they call all their own shots. They voted on their internal leadership positions (“El Presidente Grace!”), interviewed and added two women in the last three months, supply loans to one another as needed, do all the material shopping/ordering/organizing/executing, and hired a cook for the co-op, cause ain’t nobody got time for that. Women who did not know how to turn a computer on three years ago are now supplying handmade products to hundreds of thousands of consumers through more than 600 American ambassadors.

I can’t even with this.

The partnership of justice and economic empowerment is so strong, so extraordinary, it is fundamentally transforming not only precious lives but entire systems, whole communities. It is changing the conversation from hopelessness to strength, surviving to thriving.

I am seeing it with my eyes. I see it in Jamie (whom IJM walked with through each solitary step to justice, filling in every structural gap), bopping her head to her favorite musician, Chris Brown (God help). I see it in Teresa and Solange, IJM clients and Noonday artisans who’ve survived heartbreaking abuse and now live in dignity, businesswomen and providers, counselors to their sisters.

I see it in the Rwandan IJM team, some of the smartest people I’ve ever met, working tirelessly to bring justice to their country’s poor, working not against their systems but within them, the strongest approach for societal change.

They want you to know they are strong. They want you to hear their stories, affirm the injustice, and celebrate their triumph. In fact, Jamie said this as her parting words to us yesterday:

“Give your friends my greetings. Tell them thank you for listening. Tell them I pray for them. I want them to know I can walk by myself. And I am in school…ninth in my class…” and she paused for a few seconds with her head down, looked up into the eyes of all us mothers who loved her precious self, tears wobbling in her eyes and ours, and said:

“Are you taking my message?”

Yes, Jamie. By God, yes. I am taking her message to you. I am taking Teresa’s and Solange’s message. We can do right by all the Jamies and Teresas and Solanges, even from our cozy couches in our orderly lives. We don’t even have to innovate a thing, because the innovators are already here, bringing order out of chaos and strength out of powerlessness. We need only equip the rainmakers; take the message of the redeemed.

Equip the rainmakers: Become an IJM Freedom Partner for $24/month, so IJM can show up 24 hours a day in developing countries around the world. Are you taking the message?

Equip the rainmakers: Become a Noonday Ambassador, which drives handmade product orders, which provides work, which sustains businesses, which empowers women, which financially transforms their families, which turns mourning into dancing. Are you taking the message?

Of course we can do this. It is too easy. BUT IT COUNTS. These simple measures are the fuel that keeps the fires of justice burning.

It matters so much. You matter so much. These are our sisters and brothers and Jamie is our daughter. Mothers the world over must demand justice for our children, our sisters. Security for us and ours is not enough.

The message has been delivered.

Let’s receive it.

Are you with me? What fuel will you add to the fire? It counts, sisters. It all counts. Let's use our power and influence for all its worth.

Follow the #StyleForJustice Story Team Trip here.

Before/After Pics of My New Office...And My Muse

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 09 Jul 2014 08:00:00 +0000

I have never had an office. I had a desk for awhile, but my children used it as an art table. I've written all of my books in very glamorous places like the corner of the couch, my unmade bed, the kitchen table, and my bathroom floor.

When we moved to the farmhouse, there was this extremely nasty outbuilding off the patio. We used it for a kitchen and Holding Cell For Garbage And Vermin during the renovation (I'm playing fast and loose with the term "kitchen" here). But now that we have a real kitchen inside, I started eyeballing this crappy little room for an office. Apologies to the ants and mice. It looked something like this:

I don't know what's going on with Remy's hair. Be kind. It's summer.

So we hired a guy to make it inhabitable (this involved tearing the rotted floorboards down to the dirt...good times), and I turned my attention toward the fun part: DECORATING. And just in the nick of time, like a gift, Myquillyn Smith's book landed in my hands - "The Nesting Place: It Doesn't Have to Be Perfect to Be Beautiful." Well good thing, because this little room is a lemon.

Myquillyn's approach to design is what we've all been waiting for. I'm serious. She moved 13 times in 18 years of marriage, 10 of them rent homes including the one she lives in now, at the writing of her book. So go ahead and strike the idea that she makes a home beautiful because she crafted every last architectural detail to her liking. Myquillyn wrote:

"Now on my thirteenth home, I've realized that home is wherever we are. I'm not going to waste time waiting for the next house we buy to create a beautiful place to live. I can't afford to wait until we have our life all perfectly organized and presentable to start enjoying it."

Her style combines thrift and quirk and opposing textures and inexpensive ideas that pack a lot of punch. And The Nesting Place gives you such permission to just try something, for heaven's sake. Just put it up, just paint it, just layer those two rugs, just use that weird signature piece. She somehow takes the fear and hesitation out of it all and makes you want to throw forty unrelated pieces on your feature wall and hang hats on a set of antlers. Why not? We're not curing cancer; we're just making pretty rooms that we love.

So I set to work with her book in hand. And I mean that literally; I actually took her book into the stores and thrift shops. I felt like I needed pictorial guidance. So once the office started taking shape, looking less like a hovel and more like a room, it was time to ~~steal~~ ~~copy~~ take inspiration from Myquillyn's house. From The Nesting Place: This is the feature wall in her living room. Pay attention, because I lifted exact ideas right off this page.

I LOVE the idea of repurposing junky pieces, making your own stuff, using something unexpected, mixing different styles and textures. It's like Myquillyn crawled into my head and made sense of everything that makes me love a room. Please note the image of Napolean Dynamite on the opposing page on the TV. I can't even. Here is how her tutorials played out in my office:

I measured the wall, professionally marked it off on the floor with flip flops, books, and trash, and laid the feature wall out before I hung it. I would like you to please note the level and tools, and by "you" I mean "Brandon" because I did this while he was out of town and I've been known to "eyeball" things like this, which occasionally results in no less than but possibly more than 32 extra holes in the wall. I USED THE TOOLS, BRANDON. Which means I only ended up 15 extra holes. Thank you for acting impressed.

I have a couch in my office because sometimes writers need naps. OUR LIVES ARE HARD.

One of my favorite ideas from The Nesting Place was using something random in a functional way. Why can't antlers be a hat rack? Why can't a ceramic head be a planter? Why can't plastic spoons become a wreath? I particularly loved repurposing sawed off tree stumps as end tables:

We are crawling with tree stumps on our property, so this was the easiest, free-ist piece in my office. Because Myquillyn said I could mix and match elements at will, I did. I combined old wood, ceramic, and a rusted metal egg basket, because it is a free country. I also shamelessly copied her book wreath. And I do mean copied. As in I emailed her and asked for explicit instructions. I MADE A CRAFT, PEOPLE. Like I said on Facebook at 2:45am that day: "On her blog she said it took her 'a little less than an hour.' Hello. This craft took me every second of five hours working nonstop. I clearly love Myquillyn's ideas but she is obviously into witchcraft if this took her less than an hour."

Because apparently I lack originality, when I saw her Dr. Suess pillow, I put the book down, picked up my laptop, and ordered one too. One that fit my particular brand of tomfoolery.

Repurposing is one of Myquillyn's big themes. Sometimes a coat of paint changes an old piece from grody to fabulous. Or you can reimagine its purpose altogether. We aren't locked in to buying a matchy-matchy set of furniture from a box store. With that perspective in hand, I set out to find a desk and ended up with this old drafting table I found from a janky welding warehouse. It is irregularly worn and interesting and beautiful and I love it with my whole heart. I'm using an industrial rolling cart for my printer and office supplies, and I also found a bedroom dresser to use as storage under the TV. I have a TV in my office because sometimes writers need to take a break from their excruciating work and watch their shows. OUR LIVES ARE HARD.

I tested the limits of our marriage by ordering a chandelier to go above my desk which came in 238 unassembled pieces. Because I was feeling warmly toward limbs and stumps, I also asked Brandon to drill branches into the wall above the window, sent off some favorite Instagram photos to Walgreen's for printing (like 14 cents a print), and hung them on twine with little clothespins. Why not?

BEFORE:

AFTER!

Thank you, Myquillyn, for your relaxed, warm approach to decorating. I felt like you were holding my hand throughout this whole project! For anyone who feels stuck in your style, unable to make decisions, or just enjoys having a lovely home where people feel welcome, grab a copy of The Nesting Place stat. You'll find every solution to your weird spaces, great ideas for any budget, and you'll walk away with not just decorating ideas but life ideas, because truly, in every way, it doesn't have to be perfect to be beautiful.

Do you have any home projects you're working on this summer? Have you found any great ideas or deals you'd like to share?

How to Noonday Party Like A Boss

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 08 Jul 2014 08:00:00 +0000

Being a part of a global movement is hard work. It is gritty and complicated, exhausting and overwhelming.

Supporting women in other countries is so draining. It will plumb wear you out.

I mean, international advocacy is a tough road, but someone must do it.

Making an impact toward a bigger, worldwide mission is so much work, but life is hard.

Or maybe it is more like a really fun party with really gorgeous accessories made by really fabulous international women. Have you been to a Noonday Trunk Show? Because I’ve hosted one in my own house with local Noonday Ambassador Krista Box (benefitting the Austin New Church adoption fund) and it was basically the best thing ever. The thing is, most creatives and artisans in our country have easy access to the marketplace: social media, Etsy, galleries, shows, boutiques, word of mouth, and of course, a client base with purchasing power.

To make that sort of economic empowerment available, Noonday Trunk Shows create a marketplace for artisans around the world who come from vulnerable communities. By giving them access to our western market, they build jobs and support entire families and communities. Noonday creates a pipeline of opportunity for women to help other women, which is pretty much the best work I can think of. As a host, you support the career of Ambassadors here who then support the career of artisans in nine different countries. You touch women near and far to empower one another and create economic opportunity, which transforms whole lives.

And let’s be clear: you get to have a party and buy pretty things, so… no martyrs here.

So easy: contact your local Ambassador to coordinate your event, throw open your doors to your friends, make some yummy snacks and set your drinks out, and your Ambassador will do the rest. She’ll bring the entire collection over (clear a table, man) and she’ll tell the Noonday story. Your friends get to buy beautiful products and you are a hero.

So you know I’m leaving Friday to go to Rwanda with Noonday and meet the artisans on our #StyleForJustice trip. The Rwandan team is small but mighty. Not only do they make all the packaging that Noonday comes in (you wish all your doorstep packages looked like these), but they have given us pieces like these:

Look at the Rwandan team. I get to meet these women in one week. I am outside of my mind. I hope the two on the end will let me hold their hands too, because I am like that. As you know, I’ve kissed a stranger’s baby on a plane. They are so beautiful, so strong, so good at what they do. You can get a feel for their tenacity here. I cannot wait to get to them.

These women are skilled artisans and we are a bunch of clunky writers, but with their leadership, together we are creating a #StyleForJustice Collection while we’re in Rwanda! Like, design work! New products specifically in honor of our time together! Oh my gosh. I am dying. I don’t know much but I PICK YELLOW!!! AND GREEN!!! Probably shouldn’t let me near a sewing machine, but I can cut patterns! I really want to impress the artisans, so I’ve learned some relevant sewing language like “interfacing” and “seam allowance” and “twill tape.” I plan to use my vocabulary with reckless abandon.

Here is what you get to do: host a show! But not just any show on any old day…join women across the country on August 7th for the first ever Noonday Nationwide Trunk Show! On that day only and only for trunk show attendees, we will roll out the #StyleForJustice collection we designed with the artisans and you get to vote on which pieces make the cut (and I’m just saying pay special heed to the YELLOW and GREEN submissions…I suspect they will be so winning). Voting is that day only by participants in the Nationwide Trunk Show. Isn’t that fun?

Please note that I will then be calling myself a designer and you can’t stop me. BECAUSE I HAVE A COLLECTION. WITH A SEAM ALLOWANCE.

All the Ambassadors are standing by, ready to plan parties with you on August 7th!

Speaking of August 7th, that is sort of a biggie. You might recall my family has a little show also coming out that day on HGTV. And that I also turn 40 that day. August 7th is producing ALL THE FEELS. So maybe you can use the TV show as incentive for your friends: Come to my Noonday Trunk Show, get pretty things, eat free food, and then we can watch “My Big Family Renovation” with the crazy Hatmakers at 10:00 and 10:30pm CT! I know that’s late, but here is the moment I am begging you to watch the first two episodes live with me or I might die of terror.

Fashion Party + Watch Party all in one!

Word is that I am wearing Noonday pieces in both episodes…SYNERGY.

Oh yall. So much. I hope you’ll follow along on our trip next week! You can sign up for our emails here (and enter to win some goodies for the next two days) if you want to keep good tabs on us. We’ll be heavy on Instagram, so go do a little follow over there if you haven’t (“jenhatmaker”) and be sure to follow the other storytellers too, because some of them will be posting pictures that weren’t taken with their iPhones, God bless.

I plan to fall madly in love with the Rwandan artisans. Be warned.

WHO WANTS TO THROW A PARTY ON AUGUST 7TH???

On Parenting Teens That Struggle...

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 30 May 2014 15:58:27 +0000

I wrote earlier this week about enjoying my teens, and before I keep writing, let me say this TO BE SURE: my kids are ordinary and act total fools sometimes. Don’t imagine that we are skipping through the teen years with nary a rebellion, academic catastrophe, or snotty moody fresh mouth. I will not name names to protect the guilty, but we have run-of-the-mill teens that delight and frustrate in equal measure. That is just normal. Parenting teens is hard. So is parenting toddlers and parenting 2nd graders and parenting middle schoolers (sometimes I resort to singing hymns to manage my middles: “HAVE THINE OWN WAY, LORD, HAVE THINE OWN WAY. THOU ART THE POTTER, THESE KIDS ARE SO CRAY.”)

Parenting is hard, zero kids/parents are perfect, not every moment is a pleasure ever – in any stage, for any parent, for any kid, in any context in the history of life. Every person who disagrees with the previous sentence is a liar.

However, even though I am naturally an Older Kid Mom (I recall the Baby Years and get the shakes), I also recognize that my kids thus far – and I do mean thus far – have operated somewhat in the middle of the pack. While they aren’t skipping grades and ending world hunger, neither are they struggling with extreme behaviors, so my experience is fairly ordinary. We are in the middle of the bell curve.

But parents, do you know how many teens are in crisis? In the throes of addiction or self-harm or mental illness or depression? MILLIONS. So do the math: that means millions of parents are suffering alongside teens that are self-destructing.

I want to talk today to the parents in the deepest trenches, absolutely battling for their children’s loyalty or health or even their lives. First, you are not alone. Hear that. Parenting troubled teens often involves silent suffering, which can trick you into thinking you are isolated. An easy target for judgment or shame, so many families in crisis struggle alone, afraid or embarrassed or just too damn exhausted to reach out. Society expects three-year-olds to act like lunatics, but we don’t know what to do with a teen that cuts or abuses or destroys or hates herself.

Because we are a people who like to blame, so often parents get the side eye: What did you do wrong? What didn’t you do right? What could you have done differently? The truth is, teenagers are whole human beings and they get to choose their steps. So many troubled teens are beloved, they come from good families, they were rocked and read to and cheered for. There is no parenting formula that ensures any child’s path. Families in crisis don’t need a jury of their peers; they need a community of support. A parent can virtually do everything right and their child can still disappear. What’s more, a parent can virtually engage every good intervention, and their child may stay gone.

Then there is the very real reality of mental illness, addiction, emotional disorders, and trauma that many teens are battling. If our child had liver failure, we would go to the ends of the earth for medical care, the best doctors, the strongest intervention, the greatest support network, and all the earth would rally to our side to fight for her wholeness. So many of our teens are physically broken in their minds and hearts, and the magnitude of their hurt completely overwhelms their capacity to overcome on their own, but instead of a chorus of support, their families receive silence or judgment or disappointment which compounds grief and lays a heavy yoke on those who are already suffering.

I want to introduce you to my friend Amy and her son Landon (name changed). This is my dear friend who has struggled mightily for over 10 years with her teen. And I mean mightily. The grace and courage she exhibits, well, I just don’t even know how to talk about it. I am so proud to be her friend. She agreed to tell a bit of her story. May it be an encouragement to weary and heartbroken parents.

When did Landon begin struggling outside the parameters of "ordinary disobedience"?

We first started seeing changes in Landon when he was around 5. That's when he really started to show some defiance. He became very pessimistic and lacking empathy for others. And worst, no remorse. We started getting calls from teachers about 5th grade. By 6th grade we were called to the principal's office. Now he is in 11th grade and it's only gotten harder. His high school principal joked that he needed to put us on speed dial. He's on probation for the 3rd time. Thankfully, nothing serious - just a lot of really stupid choices that he didn't get away with.

But, let me tell you, seeing your child in an orange jumpsuit handcuffed is HARD. Just typing that makes me cry. Seeing him in pain because of his choices is so hard as a parent to watch. But we have given him the necessary tools, guidance and resources to make the right choices. We have had to step back and let the natural consequences play out.

And, if you want a dose of humble pie - go sit in the waiting room at Gardner Betts Juvenile Center waiting for your child's probation officer while every other person that walks by knows your name! Very humbling. I look at the other moms in the waiting room (we all look like we all need to go to the spa). We give each other the I-can-relate-exhausted-look. No matter what part of town we live in, how much money we have in the bank, we are on the same battlefield: fighting for our kids.

What have his teen years been like? What have you been through?

To say his teen years have been difficult is a major understatement. We have cried buckets of tears through these years. We have screamed at God. Pleaded to God.... This was NOT what I envisioned our family of 6 would look like. We never wanted to spend these teen years concerned about suicide, going to court hearings, spending hours at counselors, having random visits from parole officers. And we are still right in the trenches. Still pray every morning that Landon makes it through the day without getting arrested, killed or hurting someone else.

I pray fervently that I would be a vessel of God's love. I need His love to pour through me to Landon because my human self doesn't feel it. I don't expect a lot of parents to understand how you couldn't feel love for your child. This was something 10 years ago I would've thought only horrible HORRIBLE parents could say. The first time I realized I didn't feel love for Landon I felt like I was defective or sick or just plain cold hearted. The first time I actually said that out loud to another seasoned mom that had raised a child like Landon and she said, "I know exactly how you're feeling. I felt the same way," I LOST it. Cried so hard. Just knowing that I wasn't alone and wasn't a horrible person was HUGE.

That's what I hope comes from being transparent about our struggles - for those parents out there that are having a hard time - You aren't alone! I know there are going to be lots of parents out there that will judge me for this post. We've had relatives judge us. Please don't judge us (or do, I really don't care). We ARE good parents. You have no idea what it's been like.

Let me give you a glimpse into my life parenting Landon:

He has told me he loves me probably 10 times in the past 10 years and probably 1/2 of those were in birthday cards.
He has probably hugged me back 10 times in 10 years - note I hug him A LOT, but it's comparable to hugging a wooden board.
This year, he didn't say A WORD to me on Mother's day. But, that didn't keep me from speaking to him.
I am 99% sure that if he is talking to me in a normal tone of voice it's because he wants something. This is reality with him.

I want to love AND LIKE my child. I want this so badly. I'm claiming that someday I will naturally again. But right now, thankfully God is providing.

What have you learned? How has parenting Landon affected how you parent your other three?

We have learned through several years of counseling, that there is only so much we can do and that it is not our fault. This was HUGE for me because I kept thinking we were doing something wrong; wrong parenting technique, not praying hard enough, not spending enough time with him, not having the means to take him to the perfect treatment center, etc. I blamed myself (and my husband) for so long for all the choices Landon was making. I thought his behavior was a reflection of our parenting. And I was embarrassed! My husband was the family pastor at our church! We were supposed to have it all together and be a role model for other families.

Stop! Y'all - that is the enemy talking!!! Stop believing it. Get out of the church or community that makes you feel like a failure because your child is "misbehaving." Get plugged into a support group or church with real people living real lives. It's SO freeing.

Landon has 3 younger siblings. Thankfully they are all doing really well. We don't tell them everything that's going on with Landon, just that he has made poor choices and we still need to love him. They are smart though and know most of what's going on. Through all this we emphasize how important communication with each other is. We want our kids to be able to come to us with anything. We want them to know we're not going to freak out and that we will love them through ANYTHING. We get the opportunity to prove that with Landon. Our actions definitely speak louder than words and others are watching.

What would you tell another parent who is in the midst of heartache with her struggling child?

Get help. Get support. Don't try to do this alone. We have been to family counseling with our children, and marriage counseling. This was huge. Get a 3rd party in there to help. Godly counsel has saved our marriage! If you're married, keep your marriage top priority! You and your spouse need to be a team. The enemy will see this as a way to ruin your marriage, and it will if you don't put time and effort into making your marriage strong. Make sure your teenager knows that you and your spouse are on the same team and in agreement. When talking to our kids about parenting decision, my husband and I try to always say, "We decided, we think it's best, our thoughts are...” It also makes me feel like it has more weight or power. If you're a single parent - I can't imagine. I would seek out a team of strong, loving peeps to back you, support you and help.

We sought out prayer warriors to come along side us and pray with us in this battle. Doesn't matter if it's another couple that's older or younger, just someone you can trust and know that they will do battle with you. I have a friend (my cousin) I call and vent to at least once a week. I don't know how she puts up with it! But she listens and doesn't judge and that's all I need. (I do have to remind myself that I need to go first and foremost to God with my venting. The more I allow myself to be turned to God through these struggles the more peace and wisdom I am given).

Get respite. You need a break. Dealing with a troubled teen is SO exhausting. SO stressful. It can deplete you if you let it. See if there's a trusted family member or friend that can take your teen for the week or the summer. You never know unless you ask. We ended up sending Landon to Youth Reach Houston, a home for troubled boys. Totally 100% free. I can't speak highly enough about this ministry. They are raising Godly men there. Anyways, we had 6 months of respite. Not only did my huband and I need it, but our other children needed it too.

You can't just give up. Never give up on your child. Even if you're using tough love. That's NOT giving up. Tough love is TOUGH on the parents, but sometimes it's the best thing you can do for your child.

Look at your child as being lost. Not simply rebellious. Not horrible. Not defective. Just lost and needs to find his way. You, as his parent are there to help guide him, instruct AND nurture.

You have no idea everything your child has experienced. You may not know why he is behaving the way he is. There might be something that happened to him/her when you weren't there to cause him to act the way he does. I remind myself of this often when I lack grace, love and compassion for him.

Teenagers need us more than ever. More than the toddler years. Don't think that just because they're independent and can do everything on their own, that they don't need you or want to spend time with you. And don't expect them to admit it. Ours never has. Try sneaking it in, like when you pick them up from school and say you're going to stop and grab a bite to eat. Pick a restaurant he likes. Ask questions! Act truly interested and listen.

My husband and I went to a weekend retreat for parents at Heartlight Ministries (a residential treatment center for troubled teens - HIGHLY recommend!) and we got to "interview" a few of the residents that had been there for several months. We asked them if they truly wanted to spend time with their parents and ALL of them without a second's hesitation said yes! Now granted they had been away from their parents for a long time, but STILL! If there is at least an ounce of desire from your teen to spend time with you- take it!

If you start having issues with your teen or see warning signs from him - don't ignore it! Don't have a "he'll grow out of it attitude." Keep your eye on it. Get help if it gets worst.

Make sure your teen knows NOTHING can separate him from God's love and that no matter what your child does, you will love him. Don't base your relationship with your teen on what he is or isn't doing. This is HARD.

What are your hopes for Landon and his future?

I am claiming that Landon will make a turn. That the light will turn on and he will desire the things of the Lord. I hope this comes soon. I hope I get to see it in my lifetime. I hope that he will use the struggles that God allowed to help others. I envision him one day counseling kids. He is SOOOO good with kids. Kids bring out the best in Landon. And, Lord he is going to have such an amazing story and testimony!!!

~

Oh my word. THE WISDOM. Thank you, dear friend. I love you and am so proud of you. Thank you for speaking so much permission and strength into weary hearts today. You are a marvel.

I love you, parents who are grieving. Let us come alongside you. Please talk truthfully to us and ask for help and love and nearness. I asked another precious friend whose teen is so lost what helps most from others and she said, "Kindness." Tell us specifically how we can help. Teach us how to love well in the midst of struggle. Receive grace – from your people, from God – It is exactly the thing that has always saved us.

God is not done with your child. It is never too late. No one is ever too far gone. Many a prodigal comes home in two years, five years, fifteen years. And may he find open arms, hearts that have been long awaiting his blessed return. And even if he doesn't, may you rest in God's grace and sovereignty and realize some homecomings are in this life and some are after it. You have loved well and labored mightily regardless. Well done, good and faithful servant.

~

Some Great Resources for Parenting Troubled Kids

Any book by Mark Gregston and the Heartlight Ministries (They have a great weekend parent retreat. Also, sign up for the email newsletter – always has great topics for troubled teens):

“Tough Guys and Drama Queens”
“What’s Happening to My Teen”
“Parenting Today’s Teens”
"When Your Teen is Struggling"

The Timothy Center in Austin

“Toe to Toe with your Teen” by Jimmy Myers - Jimmy specializes in boys with ODD (oppositional defiant disorder)

“Sacred Parenting” by Gary Thomas

Youth Reach Houston for Boys

Brokenhearted parents, you are seen and loved. Can you add any resources in the comments (with links) that have helped you and your family? Or parents who’ve made it to the other side, we crave your hope and leadership today.

On Parenting Teens...

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 27 May 2014 19:35:59 +0000

I quit my job to stay home when I had my second baby. I taught first grade the day before she was born. Even thought those first few months as a SAHM to two were “mildly traumatizing” (I used to call Brandon at 1:30pm and ask, Are you almost done with work? and he was all It’s 1:30 and I was like YOU DIDN’T ANSWER THE FREAKING QUESTION. ARE YOU ON YOUR WAY HOME OR SHOULD I CALL 911 TO COME HELP ME MANAGE THESE TWO BABIES?????), I soon settled into my new life at home. Because no one told us not to, we added a third baby just two years later and created a full-blown preschool circus.

I essentially raised the babies with my girlfriends during those years. Our childrearing environments included Chick-Fil-A, Barnes and Noble, the local pool, all of our living rooms/kitchens/nurseries/bathtubs, and every park in the greater Austin area. We fed, disciplined, diapered, rocked, and pool-rescued each other’s kids with regularity. One memorable concern was a recurring conversation:

You guys, what about when all these sweet babies become teenagers?? What will we do?? They will become mutant rebels! They will hate us and us them!

May I discuss with you Parenting Teens now that I actually am?

Teenagers are my jam.

The weird thing is, those tiny sweet precious littles you are raising? The teens are the same people, just bigger. That humor? Same. That personality? Same. Those tendencies and leanings and giftings? Same. Your quirky 6-year-old who loves science and animal husbandry? Same, he just gets bigger with a lower voice.

Stop imagining that aliens will take over your darling preschooler at age 13. Your sweet boy will get to age 13 one day at a time. There is no abrupt moment where he ceases being the boy you raised and becomes some adolescent you don’t recognize. The strangest thing is that he is looking you in the eye and talking about armpit hair and course electives. This boy will still lie in your lap while you run your fingers through his hair and remember the day he was born. He is still your baby.

My oldest son and his cousins.
The time lapse between these two pics was approximately four seconds.

Parenting teens is pretty much the best Mom gig yet. They are funny and smart and you see glimpses of their adult selves. They are beginning to funnel into their gifts and passions, and you feel the most absurd pride about who they are becoming right in front of your eyes.

And THE HUMOR. If you know one ounce about me, you know that I value humor over, say, integrity and honor. So when my sophomore plops on the couch, sticks one of his ear buds into my ear (the other one in his) and plays funny Youtube videos for us to watch together? Well, THE WORLD CAN END NOW BECAUSE I AM NOW IN POSSESSION OF ALL THE HAPPINESS. You haven’t laughed until you laugh with your teen over shared humor. When you can share Will Ferrell? What else is there? Die happy.

Did I mention their friends? Because you will weirdly love their friends. They bring a concentrated level of grossness and drama and hunger into your house, and YOU LOVE IT. You love the way they tease each other and act sweetly towards your younger kids. You love the way they praise your cooking, even when you feed them weird things like sweet potato and black bean quesadillas. You love their big, awkward bodies sprawled on your couches, spewing the nonsense they read on iFunny or Instagram. They let you take their pictures and offer advice and scold them even as your own teenagers are begging you with their eyes to knock it off.

It seems completely unfair that right about the time your kids become the most awesome, they fly the coop. Why can’t 5th graders go to college and come back in 9th grade?? I could absolutely live without many, many, many middle school days. But high school? SWOON.

Parents, spend all the preschool, elementary, and early middle school years developing love and trust and transparency with your kids. Every conversation is on the table. Not one single topic is off limits. Laugh with them. Be genuine. Say you’re sorry when you should be. Listen to their dreams and feelings and ideas and thoughts when it is the least convenient. Those moments will come with regularity unless they are squashed; drink them in with relish and you will ensure that they continue. If you are safe now, you will be safe later.

On their 16th and 14th birthdays.
I BIRTHED YOU AND I WILL KISS YOU IF I WANT TO.

Get super, super interested in what your children are interested in. Invest in their talents. When our 13-year-old developed a sincere interest and gift toward photography and asked for a CRAZY EXPENSIVE CAMERA for Christmas, we discussed this with our film crew, explaining why we were NOT going to buy it for her, and our cameraman, Kevin, who makes an entire living as a photographer said, “If your kid was super talented at the guitar, would you buy her a reputable guitar and lessons? YOU WOULD. So why not invest in your daughter’s gift? My mom bought my first camcorder when I was 10 and here I am.” For the love. We followed his advice and our daughter brought her fancy new camera to Ethiopia two months later and took this:

Kevin was right.

This is tough for me, but work really hard to not control everything. This is super important. Your bigs NEED to develop independence. Let them bring their problems to you without obeying the immediate instinct to solve it. Ask good questions. Lead the witness. If they think you are only capable of “fixing it,” the well of communication will run dry, because their hearts are chasing adulthood and they need to know you respect that. Be a listener, a gentle guide, a confident parent willing to let their child blow it for the prize of maturity.

There is a super high chance your teen will ENORMOUSLY SELF-DESTRUCT. Need I remind you of our adolescence? They will lie, cheat, rebel, succumb, resist, disobey. They will do this, because they are no different than EVERY GENERATION THAT EVER PRECEDED THEM. But that is not the end of their story. It wasn’t the end of ours (thank you, Jesus) and their best years are ahead of them too. If they wobble, stick with those wonky kids. They will remember how their parents remained steady until they course corrected.

Most of all? Enjoy those crazy teens. These are magical, frustrating, insane, hilarious years. This season is so very short. It peaks and crests in minutes. No sooner do they get their first girlfriend then they are off to college. Parental anxiety is a waste of time. It will all be okay. These children are (mostly) a delight. And when they aren’t? Just wait awhile. They’ll come back.

That beautiful 3-year-old you’re tucking into bed? Blink, and you’ll be sending him to Driver’s Ed. I swear to the heavens.

We will probably regret all the years we wasted in fear and anxiety and control, but we will never regret spending those years in delight and joy. We have these children for around 18 years of THEIR ENTIRE LIVES. Let’s send them into the adult world at the height of our pleasure in them, grateful for the beautiful, funny, smart, interesting, special, precious children that God entrusted us with for this first short phase of their whole existence.

Moms of littles? Stop being afraid. Those babies you love now? You will love them even more fiercely in ten years. They will become the young adults you are raising them to be. And you will love them with the ferocity of a thousand splendid suns. And they will make you laugh and cry and shake your head and thank our good God that he trusted you with these extraordinary young people, and all that parenting in those early years turned into incredible teens that you don't just love...you like.

And don’t forget: In a few years, they will bring us grandbabies.

THAT WE DON’T HAVE TO RAISE.

Amen and hallelujah.

Chicken and Fries

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 22 May 2014 10:05:00 +0000

I love to cook. I feed my people crazy food. In my pantry at this exact moment, I have fish sauce, ghee, Garam Masala, and berbere (my ET people know what this is). I make spicy food, sour food, I pickle radishes, I douse our stuff with curry. I feed my family bold, flavorful, ethnic food that sets their mouths on fire. They have been exposed to every sort of recipe. They have assimilated a super wide range of flavors and textures because I want them to love good food.

And every single time we go out to eat, Remy orders chicken and French fries.

Every.

Single.

Time.

This child eats peppery food with the heat of a thousand suns at home. She eats onions, peppers, garlic, curry, broccoli, fennel, quinoa, roasted red peppers, salmon. She gobbles it up like a skinny little carnivore. At a restaurant? Chicken and fries. They were some of the first American foods she was able to stomach, and her psyche has snagged on them. She can pull no other option out of her culinary satchel when forced to make her own decision.

She just goes back to the same predictable flavor.

I get this on a very human level. Sometimes I just want more of the same. I want the same thinkers, the same cacophony, the same groupthink. I assemble and invite a niche brand of religion, worldview, moral outrage, and theology into my ears. I like what I like and I like other people to like the same things.

I watch this with regularity in the weird online world where niche tribes have formed, creating something of a group identity. An issue comes up, the tribe gathers and formulates, then the responses start flying with predictable homogeny. The group machine feeds the outrage or dissidence or full throttle approval or cynicism, and people go public with cemented opinions formed back in the echo chamber without any tempering from different sources.

It’s tricky, because in so many ways, our niche tribes are life-giving and meaningful, as they should be. They offer likeminded community and a place to belong. These are wonderful outcomes in a noisy, lonely world.

But when we invite no other flavors into the mix, the chicken and fries has a downside. When the same views are bandied around the group endlessly, it causes ideas to seize when they should remain fluid. It inadvertently (or advertently) silences opposing or even just differing perspectives, assuring each other that we are right and they are wrong; the echo chamber has spoken. Ironically, opposing tribes operate the exact same way and come to the exact same conclusions; they simply swap the winner and loser blanks.

I know this is my tendency. I recognize my instinct to reach for a familiar flavor to affirm my own ideals. So I have some best practices to save me from myself and maybe they will be helpful for you. Let’s break it down into two categories:

During Conflict

An issue hit the news, a relationship hit the skids, that group or person said or did something offensive, our feelings were hurt. These are the moments we most want our chicken and fries. If there is to be a right and wrong conclusion, we want our people to assure us that we are right. We might even want to bolster some group outrage, because the only thing better than being right is being mad about it, and the only thing better than being mad about it is being mad with a bunch of people. Of course, the group outrage is built on carefully selected messaging from the Wounded One, but this is not the moment to bother with trivia; there is anger to fuel.

Wait one day before you do or say anything at all. I’ve mentioned this personal policy before, and it cannot be overstated. In probably 8 out of 10 cases, the shock or anger or confusion recedes by the next day, and I am able to reassess the situation with clearer eyes. I see nuance I blew past the day before. I can operate out of the thinking part of my brain instead of the fight-or-flight part. It almost never feels as bad as I thought. Assembling the battalion and staging a war in those first 24 hours is the worst decision ever. Regret is virtually inevitable.
If possible, go directly to the source before activating the troops. So often, misunderstanding or misinformation is the culprit. A simple phone call could clear it up or at least take the sting out. Especially for people we love or trust or respect; we should absolutely extend the benefit of the doubt and give them the courtesy of an honest, first-touch conversation. But even if the offense is severe, spiritual maturity requires direct communication; this is how adults behave.
Reach for a different flavor. Discuss this with someone outside of your group. Find someone trustworthy who operates in a totally diverse space. Different perspectives are famously difficult to perceive on our own. Ask questions, try to get to the heart of it all. Prioritize understanding over defending.
Talk to someone who is in a similar place as the other person or group; pull from that tribe. When the World Vision fallout spiked, my first phone call was to Chris Marlow because he also leads a Christian international nonprofit using a sponsorship model. I said, “Unpack this for me from a leadership standpoint. What are all the factors I don’t understand?” Chris leant me some perspective that I absolutely 100% would not have grasped on my own.
Talk to someone who is older and wiser than you. Every year I get older, I become less of an ass. I will be a wonderful counselor in twenty years, for the love. We need mentors who know the value of compromise, humility, and compassion. The fervor of youth is a double-edged sword; it can be a mighty tool for the kingdom, but it can also wound and slice and destroy. Wisdom seeks out wisdom, not just affirmation. Older believers? Please mentor us. We need you.

Outside of Conflict

These practices will provide the scaffolding for all the measures listed above. If we consistently move toward a wider circle, it will feel more natural to deviate from our chicken and fries in conflict.

In general, nurture some friendships that are way outside of your normal parameters. Someone from across the pond, across party lines, across town, across ethnicities, across ideologies, across age groups. This requires effort and time, but it will make you a more gentle, more informed human. I love my niche tribe, but there is more to humanity than us. I have a deep and varied friend roster, and I cannot even measure how much they’ve changed me. The diversity of ideas, experiences, and perspectives they have brought into my worldview has absolutely altered my trajectory. If all your friends are basically the same, you don’t even know what you don’t know. Southern Baptist pastor? Go make friends with a gay atheist. Then shut your mouth and do a lot of listening. Now we’re getting somewhere.
Connect your different friends with each other. I have several “groups,” and it is easy to formulate a personality for each one and keep them separate, but it is more fun to throw them all in a bowl and stir. My mix and match policy has spun off whole new friendships. This creates stronger communities that become more likely to expand, include, risk, invite.
Work on humility. I don’t know how to help us all with this, but all this is for crap if we don’t figure out how to be humble friends, humble listeners, humble learners. Arrogance is the culprit to so much destruction. We are not always right. And even when we are, we don’t need to act a fool. The longer I live, I crave humility in people almost more than any other trait – in my friends, in my leaders. I am my worst self in the absence of humility. The higher I place God, the easier it is to locate my own station. When He reigns, I am free to just be a forgiven sinner who doesn’t always have to be right or perfectly understood or popular. When I reign, I have much to defend and protect, because how else am I going to stay on top? With God solidly in charge and honored, I am liberated to just be an ordinary girl who loves Jesus and loves people.

Maybe it’s a good time to take a good look at your tribe, lovely as it may be. Is it pretty homogenous? Is there any diversity? Does it sometimes feel like an echo chamber with the same ideas, same grievances, same perspectives, same future? Take a risk. Get out there. Open yourself up to different. Be someone else’s different. You’ll always love your chicken and fries (who doesn’t??), but you just might discover that you also love tikka masala with raita.

Who knew??

I am on an Indian food kick and the end is nowhere in sight.
Thank you for understanding and indulging my near constant references.

I'm Going to Rwanda with Noonday...and Maybe You Are Too

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 14 May 2014 08:38:26 +0000

I’ve been WAITING WAITING WAITING to tell you something awesome and exciting…

Perhaps I’ve made my feelings about Noonday Collection clear, yes? Like how you’ve seen me wearing their jewelry in approximately all the pictures that exist of me. And how my friend Jessica has developed the most amazing social enterprise in which vulnerable women in nine different countries make beautiful, and I do mean beautiful jewelry and bags and accessories, creating sustainable income and transforming their families and communities. And how Noonday also creates amazing job opportunities for the Ambassadors here who get to tell the story.

Women here for women everywhere.

And also ALL THE PRETTY.

So guess what? This summer, we're fusing fashion and justice as Noonday Collection partners with International Justice Mission for the #StyleForJustice Story Team Trip to Rwanda.

Guess who is going?

Please enjoy this picture of me with my adult braces.
"How could she possibly be cooler?" asked no one.

But guess who else might be going?

YOU!

Want to join us in Rwanda on an ALL EXPENSE PAID trip as we #StyleForJustice? We are offering the opportunity to include someone we may not yet know to come with us! Tell us why YOU want to join us in winning people's hearts to chase a global vision of economic empowerment and justice, and you could win a spot on our team!

You’ll have to enter and rally your social community to vote for you every day until the contest closes. Ultimately, the person who is able to harness her community and convince them to support her in going will win. We believe this person will end up being a powerful advocate that can then bring her community along with her!

Everything you need to enter is at this site. You have until May 28th to enter and vote! And don't worry, we want as many people to advocate with us as possible, so we'll be giving away a $100 Noonday gift card and a signed copy of IJM Founder Gary Haugen's latest book, The Locust Effect to 10 lucky entrants, chosen at random.

Isn't this the most exciting thing you've ever heard???? YOU COULD COME TO RWANDA WITH US AND MEET THE NOONDAY ARTISANS AND FALL MADLY IN LOVE! We've all been dying to tell you. My fellow storytellers and I are thrilled beyond words. We hope you'll follow our trip and meet the Rwandan women and see all the beauty and goodness and sisterhood that is Noonday Collection, whether you watch from home or snag that one amazing spot on our trip. Here is a little message from the team:

Channeling my dog Randy Jackson, WHO IS IN IT TO WIN IT???? Rally your troops! Win your spot! We cheering you on and cannot WAIT to find out who is coming with us!

My Wish List for Teachers

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 06 May 2014 12:47:03 +0000

Here in Texas, it is Teacher Appreciation Week. Because we have no idea how to appropriately thank them for their incredible labor, we say, “Here is this mug and also a gift card to Chili’s. Be blessed.” Everything is inadequate. There isn’t a reward that makes viable sense for the men and women who serve not only as our kids’ educators but their counselors, relationship interventionists, coaches, cheerleaders, therapists, personal tutors, motivational speakers, and occasionally their benevolent wardens.

Teacher Job Description: Dress up like a chicken for weekend talent show.
Stipend: zero dollars.

I wish I could skip into your classrooms and make it rain cash money, travel vouchers, solid gold trophies, and confetti made out of the STAAR test you just endured. Since I can’t actually go all Oprah on you, I’ve made a Wish List of all the things you deserve:

Let’s talk salary. As I said to you last year: “I’ve calculated your earnings by adding your classroom hours, pre- and post-school hours, conferences and phone calls, weekend work, after-hours grading, professional development requirements, lesson planning, team meetings, extracurricular clubs and teams, parent correspondence, district level seminars, and material preparation, and I believe you make approximately 19 cents an hour.”

My wish for you includes basic figuring, reasonable standards, and some simple calculations. I’ve done the math, and teachers should make a minimum of $438,932 a year. This is basic economical science. My spreadsheets tell me that educating an entire generation is among the most important work on earth, and you should make more money than the shot girl at a bar. (She officially makes more than you, but please don’t leave our children to start dealing in jello shots. We will give you all the Chili’s gift cards you can handle.)

I wish for you a better way to evaluate your effectiveness in the classroom than these blasted standardized tests. Obviously, tests created by non-classroom people and legislators are going to nail appropriate benchmarks for the students they don’t teach (sarcasm font), but I can’t help but think you could improve these measuring sticks while in a coma underwater. I wish your pay grade and job security did not depend on a room of nervous children mastering a test that doesn’t necessarily indicate achievement, but rather, tends to be an accurate indicator of the income of the student's parents and his fortunate (or unfortunate) placement in the “norm,” because heaven help the ESL kids, those with special needs, the underresourced, the at-risk, the creatives, and the divergent learners.

I wish you were judged on your amazing creativity, and how that one day, after endless hours of personal attention, a lightbulb clicked over your student’s head and he got it and you gave up a whooping cheer. I wish newspapers skipped publishing your STAAR scores and rather covered that incredible week you engineered an entire city economy for your second graders complete with civic jobs, currency, stations, and budgeting activities. If only you were evaluated on what you do best and what actually matters: teaching kids to love learning, to love books and authors and words, to love numbers, to embrace science, to discover history, to create art, to think critically and practice good citizenship and leadership and resourcefulness and determination. Because THAT is your crowning achievement. We know this, Teachers. We parents understand you hate those multiple-choice scantrons too, but legislators need these measures for their campaigns and who else is going to fund the $1.7 billion testing industry? What are we supposed to do, divert that money to teachers’ salaries?? Now you’re just being silly.

We see you. We see the incredible work you do and most of us couldn’t care less about those test scores. We are standing over here with Chili’s gift cards doing the slow clap, applauding your innovation and dedication. You are amazing at the Real Stuff and we know it.

I wish for you fancy, all-expense trip paid vacations this summer, which you and I know is not “three months off” like the dumb-dumbs say, because by the time you complete all end of the year paperwork, grading, and classroom organization, attend all summer professional development requirements (often voluntary because you WIN THE UNIVERSE), then begin preparing for the start of a new year, your “three months off” looks more like 41 days. So I wish I could whisk you to France and the beach and the mountains and California and cruise ships and Spain where there are no students but lots and lots of bread products and cheese.

I wish you could be reimbursed even half of what you spend on your classroom. I don’t see the shot girl buying Tequila out of her own pocket, amiright?

Teachers, I wish more parents understood that their Precious Child probably isn’t an innocent victim of your unresolved daddy issues and rage disorder. She is in detention for an actual reason, Mom. Kaitlyn-Grace needs to do her homework and close her sassy mouth. Those tears are manufactured. Kaitlyn-Grace should join theater.

Elementary Teachers, I wish you the grace of Jesus and the patience of Job on rainy days. There is not enough Jenga on earth to substitute for outside recess. May God shine upon you. With actual sun. So these children may return after recess smelling like gym socks.

I wish all your committee meetings, grade-level planning sessions, and school-wide in-services could be boiled down to actual productive minutes, taking your yearly attendance from approximately 795 hours to more like 12. Bless. Good thing Facebook is right there on your phone. God speed.

I wish zero teachers had to instruct all day then go home and oversee their own kids’ homework. That is just asking too much. Let’s call a teacher managing her kid’s science fair project at 7:30pm what it is: a tragedy and impending meltdown. Stop it, universe. She’s done enough.

I wish you could hear all the good things our kids say about you at home. They are singing your song ‘round these parts. We know every funny story you’ve ever told, every interesting teaching approach, every good and loving thing you’ve ever said, and every memorable moment you’ve created. My children think you know everything and we know nothing. If it comes out of your mouth, it is the gospel truth. Please tell our kids to get a job this summer.

I wish you knew how much we love and appreciate you. You have an incredible legacy in the lives of our kids, and they will still be talking about you 30 years from now. When you cheer them on and go the extra 45 miles and pour your lives out for other people’s children, we cannot possibly thank you enough. You are literally helping to raise the entire next generation. What could be more important?

So we wave our Chili’s gift cards over here, proclaiming that TEACHERS ARE INVALUABLE AND WE OWE YOU A DEBT OF GRATITUDE WE CAN NEVER PAY. Thank you, Teachers. Thank you, thank you, thank you. A hundred cheers and all our love. You matter so much.

Please have a Quesadilla Explosion Salad with a side of Chicken Crispers on us.

If I Were An Advertiser

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 14 Apr 2014 13:40:00 +0000

Undoubtedly, one of the best features of our new DVR/On Demand/Netflix world is the ability to watch our shows and skip the ads. I mean, all the good commercials will get posted as a Youtube video on Facebook, so the wheat will separate its own self from the chaff, and we won’t miss such gems as this:

But inevitably, ads slip through. Sometimes we just cannot wait and we must watch a live show and suffer through the commercials. Clearly, these are the dark struggles of life. (Don’t even get me started on the limited amount of Pandora skips. It’s like the universe hates us. WHY GOD???)

Now I’m just going to make this observation: most ads are for morons. More specifically, only fools are going to bite these dangled carrots. Really? Your mousse product will not only battle this Texas humidity and turn me into a hair model but will also make people laugh hysterically at my wit? Who knew I was that funny? And look at all these young, good-looking friends my new hair attracted! Let’s run through a field together laughing hilariously over our shoulders at one another while our hair bounces and shines!

I have some information to pass on to advertisers. I am here to help you. I realize that sometimes when you’re locked away in your labs, you can forget about us, regular consumers who live in the real world, but I’m here to remedy that. We would like you to know that our brains are actually functional, and furthermore, we have a decent grasp of the English language, including words that you’ve made up that aren’t actually a thing. I’d like to save you some time by offering up the following marketing tactics that don’t work on us.

Yes, a good deal of us are getting older and some (ahem) are turning 40 this summer and we don’t care to go gently into that good night. I know. Fine. True. You’re onto us. However, when you peddle your products with made up words like “collagen modules” and “liposome spheres,” you make us have angry feelings. When you tell me that your “synthesized skin-identical ceramides will visibly turn back the hands of time on skin damage,” I would like to know if you were actually there in my teens and 20’s when I put oil on my face and refused to wear sunglasses so as not to get an irregular ~~sunburn~~ tan? Am I to believe you so deeply understand my particular brand of irresponsibility that you can reverse decades of solar tomfoolery? With your ceramides? Stop it. Unless you have a time-traveling DeLorean, these wrinkles and sunspots are here to stay.

I realize you also have ideas about correcting my “lipid layers” (a poetic rebranding of “fat”…well done), but the promises of “radiance and luminosity” sound rather farfetched. I am already fairly luminous because I live in Texas and for about eight months of every year, I enjoy a healthy sheen of sweat on my “epidermis,” but thanks anyway. Please choose adjectives that I actually want to resemble. (And also decide if we want to be “radiant” with your one product or “matte” with your other one. Pick a lane, Cover Girl.)

Another thing. Regarding your celebrity endorsers: The day that Jennifer Lopez actually styles her hair with Loreal EverSleek and Julia Roberts loads up her eyelashes with Maybelline is the day that magazines stop casting 22-year-old models in anti-aging ads (“The only thing that will help this college student fight the evils of aging more than our expensive cream is her PHYSICAL AND BIOLOGICAL YOUTH!”). This is horse-crappery.

Advertisers, we don’t believe for one second of one minute that these wealthy, famous women who actually travel with aestheticians and masseuses on their permanent payroll are fetching their beauty products from Walgreens. We know that Sarah Jessica Parker did not color her hair with Garnier Nutrisse Natural Shades #60 Light Natural Brown. We would rather you just said, “Gwyneth Paltrow doesn’t actually use our lip gloss, but we’ve included a picture of her in our advertisement because she wants you to know that she thinks fondly of you while she herself has her lips injected with the actual blood pigment of fairy babies.”

Listen, we would prefer you just talked real to us. We might actually believe you if you said, “This product will neither enhance your chakras nor transform all of your troubled relationships, but it might mostly remove the hard water stains in your bathtub. That’s about the most we can do here.” Super. Even better if you cast a tired-looking mom with dirty hair and torn yoga pants scrubbing the tub with an expression that makes sense for the task rather than a coifed lady in ironed linen capri pants smiling at her bathtub like this is the most fascinating moment of her day. I have never one time in my life been delighted while scrubbing my shower. I hope this makes sense to you.

Inversely, Creators of As-Seen-On-TV Products, you can probably tamp down the utter defeat your actors experience when struggling through ordinary tasks like using the remote control with their arms trapped under an unwieldy blanket (#struggle) or slicing a tomato. I’m not sure these challenges are incapacitating an entire generation like your market researchers have led you to believe. “Chopping vegetables the old way” doesn’t actually “take forever,” and I’m not sure “eliminating one of cooking's most frustrating tasks with the innovative EZ Egg Cracker” has its finger on the pulse of the average cook’s ability to, well, crack an egg on the side of the bowl without a nervous breakdown. I’m just saying your ads are fairly high on drama and low on actual felt needs.

Maybe the problem could be solved if the As-Seen-On-TV people just market to the celebrity endorsers and skip us altogether, because they have real troubles that need addressed. Why, just recently Gwyneth lamented the age-old frustration with Parisian concierges: “When you go to Paris and your concierge sends you to some restaurant because they get a kickback, it’s like, ‘No. Where should I really be? Where is the great bar with organic wine? Where do I get a bikini wax in Paris?’”

Bless.

In the meantime, I have one inch of gray, lovely readers, so I’m off to color my hair with a boxed dye, which I know will have stunning and otherworldly results, because Cameron Diaz uses the exact same brand.

What advertising tactic gets your goat? Because I didn't even mention pharmaceutical ads which is A WHOLE THING.

World Vision, Gay Marriage, and a Different Way Through

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 25 Mar 2014 20:52:51 +0000

Hi, good readers. Here we are again, stumbling through another ancillary brawl regarding gay marriage. If you missed it yesterday, Rich Stearns, CEO of World Vision, a Christian humanitarian organization "dedicated to working with children, families, and their communities worldwide to reach their full potential by tackling the causes of poverty and injustice," announced a policy change to allow employees in same-sex marriages to be eligible for employment.

To Christianity Today, Stearns said, "Changing the employee conduct policy to allow someone in a same-sex marriage who is a professed believer in Jesus Christ to work for us makes our policy more consistent with our practice on other divisive issues," he said. "It also allows us to treat all of our employees the same way: abstinence outside of marriage, and fidelity within marriage."

Regarding sexual conduct, World Vision has always held an abstinence requirement for single employees and fidelity for the marrieds. But with employees from over 50 denominations, some of which sanction same-sex marriages (United Church of Christ, The Episcopal Church, the Presbyterian Church (USA), and the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America), as well as staff in the 17 states plus the District of Columbia where same-sex marriages are legal and binding, World Vision has chosen not to make this issue a condition of employment. Rather, they are leaving the theological sorting to the local church of which WV considers their organization an “operational arm,” not a “theological arm.”

As Stearns explained: "I think you have to be neutral on hundreds of doctrinal issues that could divide an organization like World Vision. One example: divorce and remarriage. Churches have different opinions on this. We've chosen not to make that a condition of employment at World Vision. If we were not deferring to local churches, we would have a long litmus test [for employees]. What do you believe about evolution? Have you been divorced and remarried? What is your opinion on women in leadership? Were you dunked or sprinkled? And at the end of the interview, how many candidates would still be standing?”

He went on: "It's easy to read a lot more into this decision than is really there…This is simply a decision about whether or not you are eligible for employment at World Vision U.S. based on this single issue, and nothing more.”

As you can imagine if you are a thinking person, the outcry was swift and furious.

I spent last night and today readings dozens of rebuttals, rebuttals to rebuttals, emotionally manipulative analysis, and hundreds of comments. I hashed it out (again) ad nauseam with Brandon. I jumped on the phone with my friend and partner in global community development, Chris Marlow, CEO of Help One Now, of which I gratefully serve on the board. I prayed and breathed and slept on it all. I will attempt a measured response that might help us through yet another damaging fallout surrounding the single most polarizing issue in our generation. I aim to be a peacemaker, because someone has to be.

First of all, the Christian community is not going to reach consensus on gay marriage. Every article, regardless of its position for or against, is the same. The support arguments; same. The rebuttals; same. The circular thinking; same. The responses are fully predictable, the language identical, the interpretations immovable, and after all the energy expended, we discover we are at the same impasse.

This is a fact: Thousands of churches and millions of Christ-followers faithfully read the Scriptures and with thoughtful and academic work come to different conclusions on homosexuality (and countless others). Godly, respectable leaders have exegeted the Bible and there is absolutely not unanimity on its interpretation. There never has been. Historically, Christian theology has always been contextually bound and often inconsistent with itself; an inconvenient truth we prefer to selectively explain.

But regardless of theological bullying, there has never been "one way" to interpret scripture. There has never been "one way" to be a biblical church. Even the early church leaders had severe and lasting disagreements about the nature of God, the Holy Spirit, Jesus, Salvation, Faith, Works, etc. This admission is not an indictment on the Word of God at all. Rather, it is simply a reasonable assessment of the trajectory of the kingdom as God has interacted with each new generation of the church.

Reason and humility occupies too small a place in the analysis of the historical church and the progressive interpretation of Scripture. We just get ANGRY and DEFEND and say WELL I GUESS YOUR BIBLE IS MISSING A SECTION. It’s immature and myopic and a watching world is dumbfounded by our refusal to critically self-evaluate and invite nuance into an ancient text that was written across several cultures, 40+ writers, 1500 years, 8 genres, and an entire worldview shift once Jesus hit the scene.

My point is this: What seems crystal clear to you is not necessarily to another believer. You don’t have to like that, but it doesn’t make it any less true. You may fill-in-the-blank on the issue (and homosexuality is certainly at the top of the list here), but the church has a long history of revisionist interpretation, selective obedience, varied theology, and cultural adjustments with the arc of freedom (see slavery, women, interracial relationships, the requirements of the Law). We could take a sermon from one of our most revered Christian voices today, drop it into the church 500 years ago, and those congregants would be forced to conclude that he had lost his ever-loving mind, so different would some interpretations be.

Consensus is impossible here. So we go to the next level: how do we deal with explosive issues like gay marriage without destroying people, specifically involving this World Vision announcement?

Reactionary, emotional attacks are not helpful. Denny Burk decrying the “collapse of Christianity at World Vision” under a “false prophet who comes to you in sheep’s clothing…but inside is a ravenous wolf” is exactly the sort of emotional jargon that whips Christians into a frenzy and incites us to crucify one another. Burk declared that we would know false teachers by their fruits: “In other words, what they do will often reveal far more about who they are than what they say.” Then he absurdly called as his witness this singular policy change to demonstrate what Stearns does – not serving 100 million vulnerable people in nearly 100 countries. Somehow this marriage concession had neutered decades of faithful work with the world’s poor.

We do not need any more inflammatory soldiers in the culture wars; we need more thought leaders who are slower to publicly condemn their faithful brothers and sisters and quicker to invite reason and dialogue to the table. “A fool takes no pleasure in understanding, but only in expressing his opinion” (Proverbs 18:2).

Nor is it fair to put the entire spiritual burden on sponsors in this case. Stearns said, “It's my hope that all of our donors and partners will understand it, and will agree with our exhortation to unite around what unites us… I'm hoping not to lose supporters over the change.” That is intellectually dishonest. At no point does a Christian organization with a predominantly evangelical base make a policy change surrounding gay marriage and truthfully expect it not to offend.

I would have preferred Stearns admit that they absolutely know they will lose some supporters and weighed that cost soberly, they have X amount in the bank to cover the initial losses so the shortfall doesn’t get passed down to the least culpable here – the kids – and offer a gracious way out. To change a policy that knowingly offends the majority of his base without acknowledging their established theology or making any concessions for their conscience was unfair and passive aggressive.

So for World Vision sponsorship, I see three options, all of which are fully valid:

1. If you are so offended by the employment of a legally married gay person at World Vision that you can no longer support your sponsored child with a clear conscience, then that is your right. Without question, you hold an established evangelical position. Christians who espouse traditional marriage are often all painted as hateful and abusive (the squeaky wheels get all the oil), and that simply isn’t true. For many, this is their genuine conviction not born out of disdain but belief.

May I suggest cooler heads prevail here? Because the children have always been at the center of the World Vision mission and still are, possibly give WV your 3-month notice, affording them a short runway to replace your sponsorship? Or even finish out your year-long commitment with notice of your non-renewal? The emotionally volatile STOP BANK PAYMENT IMMEDIATELY isn’t necessarily the best way through when a child’s monthly needs are at stake. I think sponsors can reasonably and faithfully find a better exit strategy where the losses are mitigated. If you plan to pull your sponsorship, please do it prayerfully, humbly, and carefully. This is a moment to practice gracious disagreement and radical love in the midst of theological disparity.

2. Perhaps you don’t agree with gay marriage, but this policy change at WV doesn’t affect your support of their mission. This is not a deal breaker for you. Great. It doesn’t have to be. You do not need to defend your continued sponsorship. Without question, WV is a high-ranking international charity that has transformed millions of lives. It has a solid, established history and employing married gay people has no bearing on their infrastructure or unambiguous mission to serve the poor in the name of Christ. If your conscience is unaffected, you can continue to sponsor your child, comfortably lay your head on your pillow tonight, and sleep like a baby. Carry on.

3. For supporters of gay marriage or WV’s right to extend employment protection or simply believers in their global mission, perhaps you pick up a sponsorship that will certainly be dropped. While WV has enough revenue to maintain the current level of international support (anything less would make their announcement incredibly irresponsible), and certainly no dropped sponsorship means a child goes without water or gets pulled out of school tomorrow, the sustained effect of canceled sponsorships will eventually take a toll. If you are outraged at canceled sponsorships, then perhaps the kindest, healthiest response is to cancel out the cancels. $38 a month. It’s too easy. Inflamed, angry arguments will have no effect but mitigating the financial deficit will. Again, this is a moment to practice gracious disagreement and radical love in the midst of theological disparity.

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Brothers and sisters, I am starving for reasonable, measured Christ-followers to become the dominant voices in the ongoing culture wars. We needn’t race to our laptops with our hair on fire every time another Christian offends our personal sensibilities. We certainly ought to consider calling another believer’s salvation into question the gravest action.

We need intellectually honest Christians capable of critical self-evaluation. The church has never, not for one millisecond of its entire history, been right about everything. This sobering fact should give us pause and inject some much needed humility into our ethos. It should at least produce Christians who are swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger. Better to treasure our beloved gospel with humble hands than mar it with arrogant hearts, because as often as we consider ourselves its gatekeepers, we are really only its unworthy recipients, usually blind to our own defects while remaining crystal clear on everyone else’s.

If we are truly concerned about revival, about God’s sustained presence in our generation, then our only recourse is to get on our knees and beg Him to purify our own sinful hearts. Let us not cast the burden on “them” and “they” but take faithful responsibility to allow God’s spirit to reign in you and me. May we take precious care of our fellow man, treating hearts and minds and bellies with the utmost respect, daring to believe that love is indeed the most excellent way. And may our generation not be remembered by all we tore down but by all we built back up.

“You will be called Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.”
Isaiah 58:12

Run Your Race

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 24 Mar 2014 11:29:05 +0000

I refuse to be shamed by this: I love American Idol. Thirteen seasons in and I still dedicate DVR space to it every week. I don’t even care, you guys. My musician friends are all it harms the integrity of creative license and fabricates a fan base that makes true artisanship something something and other words come out of their mouths and I’m like ALEX PRESTON.

Fabricating a fan base MY EYE.

Week after week, okay fine, year after year I sit on my couch and grin at the TV. Then I pull up my favorite performances of the night and grin at my laptop. Then they win or lose and I cry and they hug their parents and I sob and they are amazing and I get choked up every week.

I am proud of them. Like a Mama.

I have a similar reaction when listening to an incredible Bible teacher or reading a brilliant book (Jenny points out that I never say this is a great book… I always say this is so well-written!) or watching someone pull off a spectacular dinner party or build something beautiful. I am constantly proud of people.

I am inspired by people doing what they do best.

I mean, I really am. As I read or pay attention or listen, I constantly catalog other people’s gifts, and I think: This is so their lane. I cannot explain this surge of pride I feel when someone bravely offers their gifts up or shares their talents with us or just sings her song well.

And I don’t just mean folks with very public gifts. I choked back full sobs at Remy’s Elementary Talent Show Friday; not because there were six separate performances of “Let it Go” (Jesus, give us strength), but because a group of teachers dressed up like cows and foxes and chickens and choreographed a surprise routine to “What Does the Fox Say?” and I sat there thinking They are so good at being teachers! Look at these teachers being so awesome! These are the luckiest kids on earth!

You can barely tell from this angle, but the teacher in the black shirt is fully pregnant.
She deserves a Congressional Medal of Honor.

Gosh, we were just born to stuff, weren’t we? God truly built gifts into our lives. Everyone is just innately good at something. Some of us get to make a living with our gifts and others just bless the world with theirs. I am thinking of several women right this second who are really, really good at friendship. They are such good friends to me that it isn’t even fair. And others who I constantly admire for being such good moms. Like, they are really good at mothering. Two of my friends threw creative, fun, adorable parties for their daughters this weekend and I was in awe because I am not a Fun Party Mom; this is a gear I just do not have, but when I see it in someone else I’m all well done and thank you for inviting Remy so she can have some childhood memories of fun parties and maybe time will dull her recollection and she’ll think I threw some.

I don’t like when people minimize their gifts. Oh, I’m just or it’s only or it’s nothing… This aggravates me. There is a difference between humility and insecurity, and wrapping ourselves in self-effacement does no one any favors. We teach our watching children to doubt and excuse and diminish. Do we want our kids to reflect on the mothers who raised them and have absolutely no idea what we loved? What we were good at? What got our pulses racing and minds spinning?

Don’t we want them to see us doing what we do best?

My mom went back to college when she had four kids spread out over high school, middle school, and elementary school, and that has always been a source of pride for me. She was a teacher in her heart and needed the degree to match, so she chased the dream long before it was convenient or well-timed or easy. Yes, she fell off the oat bran wagon (kindly recall 1991) and we had to buy store-bought prom dresses, but we got to watch her fly. It never occurred to any of us to settle for less.

What are you good at? Not sure? What do people constantly say you are good at? Others can usually identify our gifts long before we are willing to concede. Maybe it is career material. I’ve long said that someone will pay you to do what you love. You might be stuck in a job you hate doing work you don’t care about while your gifts are languishing on the sidelines, awaiting your courage to put them in the game.

Do you know that I always, my entire life, loved to write but never dared imagine that could be a thing? I taught elementary school, which as I’ve made clear, is one of the noblest professions, but I wasn’t great at it and I felt trapped. I later stayed home with all the babies which I birthed every other summer, and when the youngest was about to turn 2, I told Brandon: According to our schedule, I’m due for another infant this summer, but I'm super over babies so I’m going to birth a different kind. And I wrote my first book. Obviously writing a book no one asked for with three kids five and under is an Insane Person Choice, but sometimes you throw out logic and decide to run your race.

Do you know what else? I thought humor was one of my throw-away qualities forever. Surely that had no place in any Jesus Work. Frankly, it was something of a liability I thought, like I should overcome it and get serious, for the love. What kind of a Bible teacher loves Will Ferrell? I guessed I should just do my best with the Real Stuff and try to tamp down the humor, because I am a grown woman who Works For Jesus. But guess what? God made us all as an entire package. It all counts. There are no throwaway qualitites. In fact, those might help point you in just the right direction. Nothing is wasted: not a characteristic, a preference, an experience, a tragedy, a quirk. NOTHING. It is all you and it is all purposed and it can all be used for great and glorious good.

Maybe your best thing won’t draw a paycheck, but it is still where you shine and glow and come to life and bless the world. May I legitimize your gifts please? Just because you don’t get a paystub doesn’t mean you should shrink back or play small or give it all up. Do your thing. Play your note. We are all watching, learning, moved. You are making the world kinder, more beautiful, wiser, funnier, richer, better. Give your gifts the same attention and space and devotion like you would if it paid. (Or paid well. Some of us do our best, most meaningful work for peanuts. Do not be shamed out of your race for a bigger paycheck. I did not make a living as a writer for YEARS. My neighbor once when I told her I was a Christian author: “Oh! Is there a market for that?” Me: “I have no idea.”)

Run your race.

Maybe you need to invest in your gifts. Take a class. Go to a conference. Sign up for a seminar. Start that small business. Put that website up. Build in some space. Say yes to that thing. Work with a mentor. Stop minimizing what you are good at and throw yourself into it instead with no apologies. Do you know who is going to do this for you? NO ONE. You are it. Don’t bury that talent, because at the end of the day, the only thing your fear netted you was one buried talent in a shallow grave.

How many of us are trotting out that tired cliché – “I’m waiting for God to open a door” – and He is all I love you, but get going, Precious Snowflake, because most of the time chasing the dream I put in your heart looks surprisingly like hard work. Don’t just stand there, bust a move. (God often sounds like Young MC.) You are good at something for a reason. God designed you this way; this is on purpose. It isn’t fake or a fluke or small. This is the mind and heart and hands and voice you’ve been given: USE IT.

Let the rest of us grin at you while you run your race. Let us be proud. Let us be inspired and grateful that God made you to do this thing and you are doing it LIKE A BOSS. The timing is never right. Forget that. It won't just fall into your lap. That’s fake. You are probably not guaranteed success. Sorry. This might be a crapshoot. It will be hard and require sacrifices not just from you but maybe from your people and you might step out on shaky, shaky legs. But off you go because we were not created to stand still, even though that is safe and familiar and you are practically guaranteed never to fall or stumble or grow weary.

We were made to run.

RUN.

I’m grinning at you. We all are.

Some Things I Wish Would Go Away

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 19 Mar 2014 11:10:22 +0000

I like to think I’m an easy person, that I can flex and flow. I’m not wound super tight. For example, last week during Spring Break, it occurred to me somewhere around Thursday that none of my children had taken a shower that week. Do you see what I’m saying? I’m chill like that.

But there are a few things that I cannot handle. My threshold has been reached and I could become that crazy person who screams at the Barista because her half-caf is the wrong temperature. High maintenance over-priced hipster coffee is not my issue, but some other things are. I give you a handful of things I wish would go away:

The Frozen Soundtrack

If you have a daughter between the ages of 4-12, I do not even need to explain this. How can I help you understand my despair? Well, perhaps this picture of Remy’s bedroom door that faces our front entry (you’re welcome, guests) will help you understand what we’re dealing with:

Every word to "Let It Go" transcribed, including exclamation marks, all caps, and melodrama.

Now maybe, perhaps, I mean I don’t know but I’m speculating that if it was just listening to “Let it Go” on a continuous loop, I might be able to handle it, but what I am actually hearing is REMY’S rendition of “Let it Go” on a continuous loop, and I love that child within an inch of her life, but she does not have a future in composition. She feels differently about her musical potential and has been asking my friends lately what she had to do to “get on a stage,” to which I whisper under my breath, “Join debate.” Bless. All I’m saying is, if that Frozen CD “gets lost” or “gets scratched” or “get shattered with a hammer,” I expect you to look the other way. I am a woman filled with the power of the Holy Spirit, but this is one area even God’s strength cannot reach.

Loud Phone Talkers in Airports

I’ve been assaulted on my last four or five trips by this breed of person. And reader, I don’t mean the ordinary Mom who is quietly talking to her children before she flies to Minneapolis for a sales conference. I’m talking about the guy with the phone and the decibels and the clear disregard for his fellow airport compatriots and is all so then I was like, listen bro, if I wanted to move to Detroit, I would freaking pack my bags and move to Detroit, I mean, this is my sales territory and if Dennis wants to move in on it, then we can throw down until he steps off. I’ll say that to his face, bro. What a wang nugget!

I feel like I am taking crazy pills.

Dear Loud Phone Talker at Airport Gate, this is a small space. Look at us all in here. It’s basically like we’re sharing a bedroom. We are your roommates quietly doing our homework and reading our textbooks and you are tempting us toward mob violence. We are a peaceful people ordinarily, LPT, but if you don’t stop the piercing noises coming out of your mouth hole, Dennis is going to be the least of your worries. WE will throw down if YOU do not step off, bro. Yes, us, these peace-loving moms and uncles and young children and elderly grandmothers sitting near you. You don’t know what we’re capable of.

Let me tell you something: If airplanes start allowing cell phone service during flights, that is the first clear evidence of end times.

Phones That Cannot Be Dropped

You know what? Hi, Apple. Well aren’t you the cat’s meow. You got us. You got us good. We belong to you. We cannot live without you. Our phones and tablets and computers and apps are all synced, and now we’re locked into your updates and newer versions and latest technology, because OOPS, the old technology doesn’t work anymore and unless you upgrade within six months, your phone will turn to salt like Lot’s Wife.

And about this phone. Any phone that is so precious that it cannot handle one tiny drop on the floor is a menace to society. What do you think we are? A People Who Never Trip, Drop Things, or Bang Into Stuff? You are not a phone for humans; you are a phone for stationary plant life. You are only good for cacti. You are small and slippery. It is your lot in life to fall on floors at which point you shatter right alongside our replacement budget.

I may break you, but you will not break me. Seven weeks and counting with this baby.

You ought to be better than this, man. You are weak. How am I supposed to tweet about the Loud Phone Talker in the Airport now? My right index finger is permanently damaged from your glass shards, and these ten fingers are how I make a living. Thank you very much for ruining my career.

Middle School

I’ve now been in middle school four times and I have two delightful more trips through this quagmire of awkwardness. Hey Middle School Teachers, YOU DESERVE FORTY MILLION DOLLARS A YEAR. Bless it all. These children are all possessed. Reader, tell me there is no worse three-year period in the human experience than 6th-8th grade. It was unquestionably my worst stretch, and now I have one survivor, two soldiers in its trenches, and two more in the innocent, precious world of elementary school still.

I told Sydney (who has struggled and fumbled and tripped all the way through MS), “Baby, these are your worst days. You are horrible, your friends are awful, your body is a nightmare, your brain is impaired, your peers are lunatics and sociopaths, your emotions are a trainwreck, and you are convinced that your parents are hopeless morons. You could be a Prisoner of War and have a better experience than three years of middle school. Just put your head down and get through it. High school is better, college is the best, and then you grow up and pay bills and then you die. I love you. Good talk.”

And I believe you all know Caleb is in sixth grade. Jesus, give us strength, for this one testeth the patience of our wills and I beseech thee to grant him either frontal lobe development to increase his favor or strong legs to outrun us, for thine is the kingdom but as for me and my house, we are not above woe and wrath.

Can you even handle this picture? His cuteness and charm is currently saving his life.

These are my current hot buttons. How about you, Dear One Who Only Has So Much Patience? What are some things you wish would go away?

Technology for Morons

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 25 Feb 2014 11:58:36 +0000

Listen, friends. You know I care about the struggles of this world. I have deep thoughts and big feelings about important issues like orphan care and human trafficking. I realize the world is suffering and we only have so many days on this planet and if we aren’t careful we’ll just waste them all and then die. But I just have to add one more tragedy onto the pile:

Trying to figure out technology by myself.

Is it so much to want to listen to Pandora on my TV while I’m “working” (Facebook, Twitter, articles, blogs, Pinterest, Amazon, and Voxer certainly DO count as work. They take time and energy, which I am expending and thus am working on them. I don’t know why I have to explain this).

The problem is that I am dumb in these areas and Brandon is smart, so he does all this “setting up” and “programming” and “downloading” then he gives me tutorials while I am “working” so its hard to “listen” and plus there are so many buttons and they make me sad. There are usually kids around who are like freakish little technology elves who yank the remote(s) out of my hands and make the music and the shows and the movies magically appear.

But the elves were all at school and Brandon was leading “staff meeting” and wouldn’t answer my text about the Pandora crisis because he is incredibly selfish, and I was left to my own devices, which I’ve tried to explain is always the beginning of bad things.

So I went to my one-stop shop for important news, tutorials, advice, and information: Facebook. "Will Facebook please help me get Pandora to come out of my TV? Because I’m listening to the Ben Howard station on my iPhone speaker and it sounds slightly worse than a radio transmission from a World War 2 plane." I will sum up the advice I received:

Turn on your Blutooth through your Smart Samsung with the VeVo app and run it through Chromecast (THE BEST!) and pull up the Pandora app on your phone/Direct TV/Apple TV then push the menu button or the Extra Button or the App Store and there you will find the Hub button and also the arrow button to select your device, and additionally the things with the Bluray and Xbox and the HDMI settings. And obviously, if it is FiOS, try widgets (obvs).

Because Jesus is still in the miracle business, I clicked a bunch of buttons and found some special place on the TV to download Pandora and login with our account info. Perhaps you remember me mentioning that Brandon does these things, so all our “account information” is somewhere in his brain. Of course, I sent a second emergency text to access this knowledge, but he was still locked in a quagmire of self-regard with his “work” and ignored me again. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, sleep on the couch, man.

So I used my mental powers to imagine what his login choices were. Here is the important place to mention the absolute suckfest it is to use the arrow buttons on your remote to “type” in long bits of information on a virtual keyboard. Let’s see, when I need to use the @ sign or a . or an uppercase letter, I have to click down to access a different screen which is like every fourth letter and then FOR THE LOVE OF TINA TURNER I hit "enter" on the wrong character and have to go to the “delete” key and back up four letters and apparently it is too complicated for the TV to have a ".com" button and would rather us switch screens four times to enter that rarely used bit of information, so it takes me approximately 73 hours to enter Brandon’s email address. (Really, dude? You have to include your first AND last name? Do you know how angry I get every time I have to fill out your long email address on the 983,343 forms I’ve filled out for our children since they were born? Never mind. You don’t even know what I’m talking about. They just magically get enrolled, signed up, sent to camp, sent on field trips, adopted, medically released, educationally assessed, treated, registered, and logged into the system. You may be the Technology Person, but I AM THE FORM FAIRY.)

So because this little game was a GUESSING GAME, after finally entering his email address which required approximately 91 buttons, I tried a password because this man may be a smart about these things but he is a Predictable Password-Picker, so I knew I had three to choose from. But after entering the email and password and hitting “log in,” if it is wrong because some helpless, ignored wife is trying to break into your account, it reverts you back to GROUND ZERO and you have to start over and there was weeping and gnashing of teeth and also curses and damnations.

Of course the correct password was the third one I tried out of three, so I basically turned old and shriveled while hunting and pecking for forever, thinking, you know what? We have figured out how to fuel cars with corn, and we can’t do better than this? Why don’t our TV’s have Siri? Do they hate her? She IS a terrible speller and subpar listener, but I would like to be able to say to my TV, “TV, please figure out how to play my Pandora. Thank you and have a nice day.”

But then a miracle happened. I finally entered the stuff correctly, and Pandora popped up on my TV. It was, certainly, how Peter must have felt when he walked on water. These are identical scenarios. I rescinded all the bad thoughts I’d been directing at Brandon who wasn’t there for me in my time of need and sent him the good news because sometimes I need him to know that I am a Smart Person and Have Useful Skills and Can Do Things:

This reaction was underwhelming. I have to praise my own self with Emojis?
It’s like he doesn’t even understand me.

I see my future as a grandma for whom technology has long outpaced her and it is terrifying, since that is basically who I already am. I will be like my dad who once told me my website “wasn’t on his internet.” My people will make fun of me and text each other the questions I ask and take dibs on who has to help me next time. Brandon already can’t stand me in this department. (You guys, as I type this, my phone is blowing up with all the events and appointments Brandon has been putting into our iCalendar the last 10 minutes. Bless him. How on earth have we stayed married for 20 years? I just fielded a phone call from my dentist about a missed appointment this morning because I lost my paper calendar two weeks ago and have no idea where I am supposed to be for the rest of 2014.)

So as technology marches onward, someday I’ll be that baffled, confused grandma who is a recurring character on “When Parents Text” and Brandon will probably have lost his mind and I will have no music or emails or whatever newfangled thing the young kids will have invented. But you know what?

I made my TV play Pandora LIKE A BOSS today. Don’t cry for me yet, Argentina.

To Those for Whom V-Day Stinks

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 13 Feb 2014 13:54:29 +0000

I’m probably not supposed to reveal this because of the manliness and machismo and tattoos and Harley and whatnot, but I married a gigantic romantic. He is mushy and cry-ish and I love it. He thinks up ways to surprise or thrill me. I mean, he threw me a surprise party for my 27th birthday, a year with absolutely no significance whatsoever. It took me five minutes to stop being confused why all my friends were there.

We'd been dating six weeks. Please note: No one had taught me about eyebrows yet.
And also? I would kill for those earrings right now.

Sidebar: I am a notoriously horrid gift giver. I call as my witness the front-row tickets I bought for Jamie Foxx’s “stand up comedy show” which turned out to be his “concert” (I am also lazy with details) in which we were the only white people in attendance and couldn’t hear for three days. (On the final song at a billion decibels and 36 inches from the speakers, I finally surrendered to White Girl Lameness and plugged my ears with my fingers only to tentatively glance behind me and find every single sister behind me doing the same. SOLIDARITY.) If ever I attempt to defend my side of the marriage equation, Brandon just says “Jamie Foxx” and the argument is dead in the water.

So I am going to be loved on V-Day, and in keeping with our marital rhythm, Brandon will receive such affectionate tokens like my delightful presence and shaved legs.

But I’m thinking through this weird holiday in which love is forced upon us all, and it occurs to me that it is a sorrow to so many. Even though we all know it is cheesy and commercialized and INVENTED, there is a part of every one of us that just wants to be loved on Love Day.

So for those of you planning to avoid V-Day and its declarations and precious pictures and Public Love Fest because you are certain none of it is aimed at you, here goes:

To all the single parents:

No spouse is going to ~~force~~ help your kids make you lovely Valentines, and as for love of the romantic variety? You’ve turned back into a virgin at this point. Well guess what? I see you and the incredible work you do and I honor you. Brandon has been out of town for four days and I’ve considered ending my life. You are a marvel. You are both mom and dad and there is never any relief, and yet here you are: raising beautiful, amazing children. You are doing it. You are a hero.

I give you a Valentine for being brave and strong and faithful to your little family. Don’t imagine that your children will not rise up and called you blessed. You are writing commitment into their stories, and they will never forget it. You are doing the grueling, faithful work of parenting alone, and we applaud you. Standing ovation. I am so proud of you. May the rest of us love you well and be your village and tuck you and your people into our homes and hearts.

To the discouraged single guy and gal:

What narcissist invented this holiday, right? Now, I do not assume every single person wishes they were part of a set. Of course not. Some of the happiest, most satisfied folks I know are single, and I often look at them with their free lives and think: TAKE ME WITH YOU.

But for those of you who are lonely and this day sucks, I see you too. You are amazing. You are independent and brave, and I marvel at the dreams you are chasing, the gifts you are using, the life you are building. I do not know how to turn on our grill, I couldn’t guess our average electric bill within $250, and I have never mowed a yard. Do you understand what a dimwit I am? Because I got married at NINETEEN (you read that right, gentle reader), I failed to develop adult skills that you are stunning at.

I give you a Valentine for being courageous and smart and resourceful. Look at what an amazing human you are! When forever love finds you, and the stats say it will, you will be an exquisite, capable partner who brings so much to the table and enriches your marriage beyond belief. I am proud of you. Your life is already beautiful and doesn’t need a Hallmark card or reservation at PF Chang’s to validate its worth. (And hey, if you decide to go to a movie that starts in 17 minutes on a random Tuesday, YOU JUST CAN. Revel in that please. It takes an act of God to get out of my front door.)

To those who lost their Valentine:

This used to be a happy day for you and now it is a reminder of what you’ve lost. Everyone else’s happiness is a dagger and it seems the world is out to further ruin your shattered heart. Well, I see you, friend. Imagine me sidling up next to you, slipping an arm around your shoulders, acknowledging what was and mourning with you.

For those of you who lost a Valentine because you parted ways, I honor your loss. My gosh, love is so hard and confusing. All the books and systems are crap. More often than not, lasting love is a mystery we stumble into. If your love didn’t last and you are heartbroken, just come here to me. *we are hugging and I am petting your hair* You have full permission to feel how you want on V-Day. If you want wine and Casablanca and an unbridled ugly cry at home alone, have it. If you want your best friends and high heels and an expensive dinner and laughter, do it. If you want to write a dramatic, angry, emotional email to your lost other, do it then delete it in the morning (trust me on this one, Pet). I give you a Valentine. You are going to make it. You are precious and your story is not over.

For those of you who lost a Valentine to death, I celebrate your life of loving well and being loved well. I embrace your priceless memories and honor your story. I won’t dare attempt to minimize your grief. I only sit by you as a sister and agree that a Scheduled Day for Love is so hard when you miss your person. Whatever you loved most about your Valentine, I receive it here with grateful hands. If you want to remember them well in the comment section, we will hold your memories with reverence and thanksgiving here. You were loved and you still are. I give you a Valentine, dear one.

To those struggling with their Valentine:

You are fighting for your marriage or devotion or commitment, and along comes V-Day with its artificial affection and you want to burn it all to the ground. When you’re struggling to stay in the same room as your Valentine, a day of cards and flowers and affinity can tempt you toward despair. You hate everyone. You hate yourself. You hate your partner. You hate love. You hate Cupid, that snot-eyed flying baby.

I’ve been married twenty years. I know it, friend: marriage is hard. Ohmystars. Fighting for commitment is no joke. It is the grittiest work imaginable. Don’t believe the love hype you see on V-Day for a second. We’re all posting our best material. You are not the only couple struggling to see another day, I swear. You are not alone. I see you and honor your fight for love. Mercy, you are so brave.

I give you a Valentine for working hard. Us marrieds sit in solidarity with you. Getting together is easy; staying together is the work of a lifetime and sometimes it blows. Every hard conversation, every humble apology, every effort to listen, understand, compromise – standing ovation. You may not have the feelings but you are doing the work, and that deserves honor. Please reach out to us. May we come alongside each other’s marriages in support, counsel, wisdom, and backing.

..........................

With something as complicated as love, none of us should believe its mass commercialization. Don’t despair, friends, if it feels like salt in a wound. It’s just a fake day, but you are still loved, precious, valued with or without a $2.99 card.

Speaking of $2.99 card…Dear Brandon, V-Day is upon us and I am sorry to tell you that I suck again. Please reference the above-mentioned shaved legs and try to make your peace.

Your stories and memories and feelings are safe here. I love you and your people love you and God loves you. That’s enough love for one day. Happy Valentine’s Day, dear one.

A Bar and a Pole

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 11 Feb 2014 12:15:20 +0000

I suppose most kids have a Christmas list a mile long, but Remy Hatmaker only had two things on her wish list: monkey bars and high heels. It is literally all she spoke about for weeks. So for $38, Brandon built her a set of high and low monkey bars and we got her wedge shoes that she clomps around in like Imelda Marcos.

Around the same time, she got her “first new room” in our farmhouse. It is cute as a punkin, and the piece de resistance is a fireman’s pole in which to exit her loft bed. It is the envy of the entire family, and I’m not ashamed to admit that all seven of us have slid down that thing a zillion times.

Because these are her favorite things, she made a list of activities she planned on enjoying. I hadn’t seen this until my friend was checking out the house last week and came out of her room saying, “Uh, Remy has some…interesting activities on her list.”

So my daughter will be visiting the bar and the pole in her high heels.
Parenting: NAILING IT.

After I ran for my camera because this is GOLD MATERIAL, I got to thinking about her list. It didn’t look good. It didn’t sound good. It appears we are raising a gin-swigging stripper (with a surprising reading and art habit and a mysterious activity called “house”). Jumping to conclusions would be so easy.

How often do we hear or read something, or we’re told a juicy bit about someone, or we make assumptions based on loose observations or fill in the blanks information that isn’t actually true? All the time. I cannot tell you how often I project feelings and attitudes onto people because it is what I think they think. It is especially easy to pull one piece of information out of context and spin an entire yarn with it, creating a whole persona, an assumed worldview with only one small piece of the puzzle in hand.

The internet has become so mean. I don’t know if the web has made us nastier or simply displayed what has always lurked in the lowest forms of ourselves. People have written the worst things about me you can imagine, describing me in ways that would drain the blood from your face, and they have never even met me. Or they’ll take one 1100-word blog and draw conclusions about every corner of my life: parenting, discipleship, theology, everything.

Lest I martyr myself, I’ve done the exact same thing to others.

What would happen if collectively we decided to give one another the benefit of the doubt? What if we agreed that there is always more to us than one essay, one conversation, one moment, one admission? People are nuanced and complex; we are not just the organizations we lead, the coalitions we identify with, the drums we beat, the churches we belong to, the friends we keep, that one thing we said or did.

When stung/surprised/confused by something I read or heard, years of dramatic overreactions have taught me I have two choices:

Go with the knee-jerk reaction. Just open mouth, let words fly. Every vague feeling, all the emotionally charged words that flood my mind…just let loose. Conclusions? Jump to them. Don’t let it all settle. Don’t think it through. Don’t ask questions. Better yet, talk about it disparagingly to others, because the only thing better than thinking badly about someone is talking badly about them to others. Imagine that me and mine have it all right, all the time. We cannot be led. We cannot be taught. We cannot be stretched. We cannot be wrong.

Assume I know everything that went into this: all the feelings, all the opinions. Paint with the widest brush possible. Write them off, obviously. If it was something directed at me, don’t take the humble approach. Don’t turn it into a productive conversation. Just go all defensive lineman and the sooner the better. Time cools indignation, so better strike back while the iron is hot. Reel in my indignation and go down in hot, angry flames. Feels so good on the front end.

Or:

First of all, wait. Just wait. The first response is so rarely the best one. I burn hot and fast. I cannot trust my initial emotions, because they exist in the fight-or-flight part of my brain where instincts overcome reason. They see “bar” and “pole” and spaz out, creating something out of potentially nothing, or at least something less than the Defcon 4 it seems. I have a 24-hour rule on all things emotionally charged: no responding, no pontificating, no gossiping, no lines in the sand, no conclusions. Just sleep on it. Revisit it again tomorrow; it is almost never as dire as I originally thought. I am able to find the nuances, hear the subtleties, tamp down my visceral reaction, act sane.

Begin fresh the next day with this: Benefit of the doubt. I will assume the best here and move forward accordingly. This position creates space for respectful dialogue, sincere questions, valuing people over principles and building bridges rather than widening divides. We do not have to burn everything to the ground every time we get our haunches up. It would be so refreshing to become a people of reasonableness again. Grownups are able to come to the table respectfully; children pitch fits, lash out, take their ball and go home.

I have never regretted a humble response. It injects respect into charged conversations, taking the wind out of angry sails and setting a new table for the discussion. It can make friends out of adversaries and blaze a new path forward, creating a road where there appeared to be none. It is so disarming, and we need fewer armed people in this violent world.

Of course, we will sometimes come to a crossroads where a relationship is simply unhealthy and we have to walk. But let that decision come after laying down our arms, walking in the way of humility and respect and empathy first. Let us surprise each other with grace, emulating our Savior who blew past stereotypes and assumptions and gathered around the table with sinners, outcasts, misfits, all those "others." Let us shock people like Jesus did, inviting ourselves to the home of the tax collector, defending the accused with gentleness while everyone else holds rocks, sharing a cold cup of water at high noon with someone tangled in sin and despair, refusing to disparage though it is the easiest, most popular option.

Benefit of the doubt to strangers we perceive as adversaries.

Benefit of the doubt to individuals rather than guilt by association.

Benefit of the doubt to folks from other ideologies, worldviews, value systems.

Benefit of the doubt to our spouses, choosing grace, grace, grace.

Benefit of the doubt to our children; shock them with mercy.

Benefit of the doubt to our pastors. They are just people.

Benefit of the doubt to our friends. Assuming the worst is the worst.

I literally dream of this. I dream of this table where people pull up chairs and pass the bread, slow to speak, quick to listen. What a beautiful community that would be where we assume the best in people first, extending respect, withholding judgment. It would be so contagious, so disarming. We could rise up to our best selves and in doing so, raise others up too. The lowest common denominator need not be our measure. Every bar is not a bar, and every pole is not a pole.

At the very least, it is the community I’d like to nourish here at this little blog and in my little life. I’d like to imagine that We are a Basement People, and perhaps we could create something beautiful to bear witness to. We can speak kindly and patiently. We can bravely cross lines and find common ground. We can suspend assumptions and do the hard work of communicating instead. How lovely to lavish that on others, and I suspect that we send that outward long enough, and we’ll find it coming back to us in waves of grace that speak of heaven and bind us together in unity.

Can we do this? Do we need to make amends with anyone and start anew? What else can we do to make this our way?

I Miss My Actual Life

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 20 Jan 2014 10:33:18 +0000

The other day, discussing a man friend who travels all over the world for some sort of fancy business job, I told my girlfriend: “Why do these companies fly someone in to do all this work? Surely there is someone right there who can do what he does. It seems dumb to have to ‘fly in an expert.’”

She deadpanned, “Do you not understand the details of your own life?”

I fly places. A lot. Apparently no one has figured out that local teachers and leaders right under everyone’s noses can do a better job than I can. This is not false humility, trust me. Your Aunt Louise can teach the Bible better than me. Your neighbor is funnier. Your pastor is wiser. Seriously, I have no idea why this is my life.

But it is, and as I type, I’m grateful I’ve deleted all completed events off my website so you cannot evaluate my travel schedule last fall. Let’s just say that as I wrote that sentence, tears slowly started leaking out of my eyes. I have never allowed such a grueling schedule. With a handful of poor boundaries and some late adds, last fall become a marathon, and I am weary beyond belief. My family has paid the price as families do, and we are all a little shaky, battle worn.

I miss my actual life.

In my actual life, there are friends who know your middle name and easy, lazy afternoons watching football. There are kids everywhere; mine, some extras, some ne’er-do-wells, clamoring and hollering and eating all our food, which I am cooking because, well, I’m there and that is what I do in my actual life. There is tons of community stuff, because our people are the best, my favorites, but I have no time for them because I am always in someone else’s community. I adore my city and my heart is to serve in it, to love people here, but I’m gone too much for consistency. I pulled out of mentoring through Young Lives this year because I would miss half the meetings. And hey? Do you remember when I used to write? Me neither.

Actual life is where it is at. I’ve decided. I love the same people in my face every single week. I crave deep roots, longevity with people, home. I love to live in my real life, with my real neighbors and real friends and real church. These are my people. This is my place. I actually love shooting the HGTV show right now, because every second of it is at my house (with its rats and gas leaks and I DON’T EVEN CARE BECAUSE I AM HOME).

So. With excellent counsel and sound advisors, I’ve made a two-year plan to land my feet back into my life. My travel schedule is totally closed. I am going to catch up to my calendar (because only the most insane lunatic books events two years from now…hi), and then we are gearing this baby down. I plan to cut my travel in half, and I am officially saying ‘no’ to the seventy billion small things that consume the rest of my life away.

I’m like you; the things we want to do are all good things. There is no end of good things. I want to endorse books and write forwards and pop into your Bible study and have coffee with everyone and meet you while you’re in my city and write guest articles and do all the interviews and Skype into your thing. But none of those positions me in my actual life; they just take me further away from it. I can splinter my time and energy away until there is nothing left for the people I live with, live by, live for.

That is exactly what I’ve done, and I have to deboard this train.

Is there anyone out there who gets this? Your life may play out differently than mine, but even social media can take us out of our actual lives and into some consuming cyber existence where everyone is an avatar when what we need is flesh and blood. Any number of good things can pull us away from real people and community, and after awhile, we feel starved, malnourished, lonely.

It has never been easier to be non-present in real life.

To the men and women I travel to, to those at my conferences and events: I sincerely love you. My fatigue is not your fault and I hope you don’t hear resentment in my tone. You are real people too, and through the marvel of the printed word, I have maybe played a bit part in your actual lives, and I’ll never stop being grateful and stunned by that. You matter, and a part of my calling will always include teaching in your context, in your community. It is with gratitude I receive that mantle. You are precious to me.

It’s just that the scales have tipped, and they need to tip back. I am less present in my own life than ever, and I can’t live that way. I feel like I’ve let my friends and family down; I am absent from my church and community and that is actually where I matter most.

It will take awhile to unravel what I’ve constructed; there are many commitments to see through, and I will, with joy and diligence. But I need to land the plane in my real life, literally. To my friends and family and church and community and kids and husband: I’m coming home, yall.

Does anyone get this? This fragmented, absent feeling? Like Oswald Chambers said: "The good is always the enemy of the best." Do you need to set some boundaries? If so, I'm with you today. Let's land our feet back into our actual lives.

Relational Repair for "The Difficult"

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 07 Jan 2014 14:09:27 +0000

I know I’ve let on that I’m perfect, like how I’m a meticulous gardener and fantastic house-seller and poised guest on TV shows. It appears to the ordinary reader that I am one smooth operator. I realize that seems clear to you. But may I let you in on a little something?

I am hard core struggling in the parenting department right now.

Particularly with one child.

This one child o’ mine, who is precious and beloved and a darling little thing, well, she is freaking wearing me out right now. She hasn’t a negative bone in her body, and I don’t believe she has ever said a disrespectful word to me. It’s just…she is relentless and obsessive and inquisitive beyond comprehension and never, ever, ever stops asking questions and never, ever, ever lets anything just be and this is every second of every day on all the days and sometimes I want to rip the ears off my head with my bare hands.

Because my readers failed to diagnose me as an introvert all these years (I’m somehow making this your fault), I realize that my need for quiet, non-talky space is exactly the parenting match for an extroverted, sensory-seeking, emotionally needy 2nd grader, except the opposite of that, like this conversation the other night:

Brandon: Do you just want to be by yourself?
Me: Yes. Or you can come in, but I don't want to talk or think thoughts. I want no words, no questions. I am suffering from Needy Child Fatigue. I am on the verge of homicide. You've been warned.
Brandon: Noted.

Consequently, because of the NCF, I’ve been a jerky, irritated, short-tempered, impatient Icky Mom to this child for a few weeks. I’ve been my worst self. Where loving attention was called for, I gave short answers. When a simple answer was required, I sighed. When the last dregs of daily parenting just needed a short book and a few (more) minutes of conversation, I said we didn’t have to read on Christmas break and hollered in a six-second prayer from the other room.

It’s like I can’t dig deep enough for the requirements of this relationship lately. Whether the well is just dry or my selfishness is simply unbridled or this child really would shatter the patience of Job, it doesn’t matter. Because she is unhappy and I am unhappy and apparently I am the grown up and something has to give.

I wonder about you today, dear reader. Do you have a relationship that is bringing out your worst self? Does the patience and gentleness you manage for others evaporate at the sound of a certain person’s voice? Do you catch yourself responding to someone in a way that would make your Mama snatch you baldheaded? Maybe it’s a spouse, or a certain child, coworker, boss, neighbor, family member…you know what? This list could go on forever, because PEOPLE ARE DIFFICULT. I mean, we’re not. Other people, I’m saying. These difficult people are making us act bad against our will.

So I’m going to share with you my attack plan on getting this relationship back on the rails, and maybe one of two of these ideas might work for you. And if not, ripping our ears off with our bare hands is still an option. (For the record, I am not talking about an abusive relationship. That is an entirely different conversation. The following does not apply to people who are abusive or destructive or violent…just difficult.)

1.) Every morning, absolutely every morning, before my feet hit the floor, I will pray for two things in regard to this child: love and selflessness. Dear God, give me a heart overflowing with love and banish my selfishness with your awesome magic powers. One of the greatest tricks to prayer is that it miraculously brings us in line with God’s feelings. The longer we pray for an enemy, the less of an enemy he becomes. The longer we ask for courage, the less terrifying a situation seems. The longer we ask for love and selflessness toward someone, the sooner we see that person as God does: beloved and worth all this work. He changes us in a sneaky way. We often don’t end up with what we wanted, but we somehow end up with a different heart.

What do you need to ask for every single morning for your person? Patience? Forgiveness? Empathy? Dig deep and figure out what you have the least of and need the most, then storm the gates of heaven for it every morning. Help me today, Lord. We’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow.

2.) I will settle something: This cannot be about making her change; this is entirely on me. If I’m waiting for my awesome prayer vigil to slow down the hourly interrogation tsunami, I’ve missed the point. This isn’t about behavior modification, because the second she regresses or holds me hostage in her bizarro time-clock-calendar-countdown-schedule lair, I’ll despair. The only person I can change here is me. I cannot pin my emotional burden on her behavior; that is unfair.

Are you tormented waiting for your person to change? That is a fool’s errand. Imagine your person is never going to change. Not one bit. That thing you hate? It’s forever. Those habits and attitudes you can't stand? Make your peace. NOW, you can deal with you. Take someone else’s reform entirely off the table. Do you want to live angry or frustrated or naggy for the rest of your life? Because the fact is, we cannot change anyone else. We are only in control of our reactions, our emotions, and our perspectives. The ball is in our court, and the only one keeping us in Emotional Prison is ourselves.

3.) Meet her neediest need intentionally once a day. For my girl, it is undivided attention and time. The opposite of me, she would prefer constant conversation, engagement, and interpersonal activity from morning till night. There would never be a break, a need for space, the urge to be alone. NEVER. I cannot meet this insatiable need, because OHMUHGAH, but it is shocking what 30 minutes of undivided attention accomplishes. It fills her tank to the absolute brim. I can do this. I can play Candyland or gymnastics or whatever sort of ~~mind-numbing~~ super fun activity she loves in addition to the regular attention I give all the live long day.

And you? What fills your person’s tank? Attention? Specific praise? Sex? Some habit? We can do these things once a day, and we may be shocked when they start coming easier and more frequent. So what if these affections are forced at first? Who wants to play freaking Candyland? This is part of that pesky “putting others first,” and there is no other way to do it but to do it.

4.) In the last two weeks, I’ve told my closest friends how badly I’m struggling. (I just pulled up our text thread, but I can’t post it. It is too raw and horrid, but just trust me, I was HONEST. And also, if private texts ever become public, I will need to move to Istanbul.) Friends help everything. The only thing worse than struggling is struggling in secrecy. Every emotion and failure becomes worse when hidden.

Why do we think we’re the only one who has struggled in marriage? In parenting? The only one who doesn’t like a kid right now? Who is acting horribly toward someone and can’t pull out? Please. Asking friends to advise and pray is so healing; we are not alone anymore. Do you need to invite someone in to your relational struggle? I have never one time regretted confessing to my friends about anything. On the contrary, they make me stronger, healthier, kinder, better. Every time.

-------------

When it comes down to it, I’d rather work hard on a difficult relationship than flounder in frustration over it, waiting for it to miraculously improve. Inertia is no friend of healthy relationships. We must press in, refusing to accept “toleration” as our best option.

The careful attention we give can absolutely change a challenging dynamic between two people, inserting patience and grace and love where there was once apathy and anger and irritation. But even if the relationship remains unchanged, we are still better when we aren’t behaving like our worst selves. That release alone is worth the work, mitigating the shame of Being Icky to Someone.

Hopefully you’ll find me in a few weeks patiently answering questions and smiling easily and not clenching my teeth with my wee one. And maybe if I stay the course, God can even work a miracle, like transforming me into a person who wants to mete out all the weeks, hours, and minutes of my next six months on my daughter’s Days Until app while patiently explaining Daylight Savings Time (again) and discussing the difference between real people, cartoon people, and TV people (again) and thinking to myself: THIS IS THE LIFE.

It could happen. You don't know.

Do you have a difficult person? Aren't you tired of just "enduring" it all? What are some of your tools for getting a relationship back on the rails?

The Duck Thing: Is There Another Way?

Jen Hatmaker — Sat, 21 Dec 2013 11:10:36 +0000

I know. No one needs to spill any more ink over the Duck Dynasty Debacle. I’m barely online these days, and even I was saturated with the crazy. A quick scroll through Facebook revealed about an 85% DD preoccupation in my feed, whether it was for, against, or that uber cool other response: “I don’t even care.” (But I will go ahead and make that my status...sic.)

Maybe just bear with me for five more minutes, mkay?

As many have mentioned, this is clearly not a First Amendment issue. Phil had every right to say whatever he wanted. He could take issue with any people group or demographic on earth, right into a microphone. This isn’t North Korea where the wrong public statement lands you in prison. Or dead. Freedom of speech means you are free to speak. The end.

It does not mean you are free from consequences. Isn’t this obvious?

This swings both ways, folks. I’ve been unhired from an event for things I’ve said publicly, because they made a Christian organization uncomfortable. Those things were well within my rights to say, and that group had every right to can me for them. That’s how things work. If you are getting paid to represent a church or network or brand, then the First Amendment does not protect your contract, only your freedom to speak your mind.

In light of this Duck stuff, here is my little hope for our Christian tribe: May we be peacemakers, because Jesus cast blessings on that role. To me, that means making peace within the church and making peace with those outside of it. I think folks will know us by the love we show others, because the Bible is OBSESSED with that concept apparently. I hope we use our public words to build bridges, not reinforce caverns, because peacemaking is truly a blessed business, my favorite thing.

Specifically with issues that have caused such heartache and damage already like gay marriage and racial inequity, we should refuse to contribute to someone’s pain by speaking about them abstractedly, distantly, as if they aren’t real human beings whose lives bear actual repercussions of our casual public conversations. The sterile public sphere outside of the protective confines of relationships is not a safe place for such weighty discussions, and we should not add to the pile of condescending, degrading comments about real human people. These precious, fragile conversations belong among people who love one another, who've earned the right to be heard, who can look each other in the eye and listen with grace and humility.

We are not judges, because how could we possibly be?? How dare we? What right do we have to cut someone to the quick when we are nothing but sinners saved by grace? Sanctification is Jesus’ territory, and we can safely leave Him to it; He can handle the human heart. Our only sane offering to our fellow man is mercy.

Why are we here? I teach often about the Last Supper in Luke 22, when Jesus broke the bread and poured the wine and commanded: “Do this in remembrance of Me.” A close study of the original language reveals a better translation: “Constantly make this real.” This sacrifice, this gospel, this love that saves the world…make this real for people.

Do you know how many people are starving for real love? Real hope? Real mercy? This world is dark and lonely and suffering, and Jesus seemed to think the best course was to send disciples out who were willing to constantly make the kingdom real for people who were searching for something true.

Jesus didn’t tell us to make the gospel right.

He didn’t tell us to make it law.

He told us to make it real.

For me, this is the most extreme obedience to “biblical truth” I can imagine. I think of my gay and black friends watching the outcry this week, and I can’t help but think the gospel yet again feels like a bludgeon to them, not a real balm, a real grace, a real sanctuary. And the tragedy is, Jesus is the most real source of mercy in the history of time, and He loves us all with a fierce, indescribable love, and none of us deserve it any less than anyone else, and THAT is the shocking headline we should be proclaiming.

I don’t think God needs any of us to defend Him…I believe we are here to represent Him. I’m not worried about the kingdom, since Scripture seems to think it is “unshakeable.” God has managed to stay on his throne all this time, so we can go ahead and just let him be God. (For the record, I don’t think Phil fancied himself some valiant defender either…I think he was just being Phil. And these were just a few sentences taken out of a greater context, but in a viral world where every word matters, well, every word matters.)

As for me, I care deeply for all the watching eyes, waiting for something real, something that heals instead of wounds. I dream of a faith community that demonstrates a love so scandalous and embarrassing that only the foolish and the rejected and the misfits and the cynics will find any solace in it. My heart’s cry is that someone far outside the sphere of Christian endorsement might whisper, “Even me?” and be stunned by Jesus’ answer: “Always you.”

Because if we are only good news to each other, where will that leave the gospel in our generation? I know exactly what moral issues to declare so Christians will take up my cause and Defend Jen, but I don’t want your spiritual energy…I want us to care about this suffering world more than we care about our Christian rights. Our rights were secured on the cross; the discussion is over. No one can steal from us what Jesus already won for us. Rather, let’s take all our victory, our hope and love and share it. That’s the hill I’m going to die on, friends.

I’m going to choose love.

This is not a gray area. I’m telling you now that I will find a way to preach the scandalous love of Jesus in the face of any issue, demographic, or debate. I will insist on jerking a door open for dialogue with people who’ve been previously maligned by my faith. I will not reinforce the notion that anyone is less than, condemned, or left out, because if that is true, then my salvation is a lie. Because I love mercy for myself, I can’t help but love it for everyone else, and I won’t cheapen it by imagining that my grace is free but someone else’s must be earned. Jesus is the best news in history.

Not one heartache on earth will be solved with more judgment; this world needs more love. It is what saved us and still sets us free. It is the magic balm that soothes tensions, crosses divides, and creates safe spaces. Love is the only answer. May we become beacons of it, Church.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” ~Jesus

Legacy Project 2013: Backpacks of Hope!

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 12 Dec 2013 11:51:19 +0000

Remember that thing where we raised money to build an entire school in Haiti last December? It was Help One Now's Legacy Project 2012 that ultimately transformed a “tent school” into Williamson Adrien Academy, a school that is now educating almost 400 children! It was one of my favorite things I've ever been a part of, and this from a girl who is prone to hyperbole. (Missed the Legacy awesomeness? I wrote about it here.)

I do not even know how to handle this beautiful school. THANK YOU.

Well, they are at it again this year, and I want to tell you all about it, because you know Help One Now is one of my tip top faves, and I would never steer you wrong, dear readers. The 2013 Legacy Project - Backpacks of Hope - is upon us. Watch this short VIDEO! You're going to love this...

This year’s campaign is simple: raise $100,000 to empower and resource six amazing leaders in Uganda, Zimbabwe, Ethiopia and Haiti. (WE HAVE A NEW INITIATIVE IN ETHIOPIA. SQUEEEE!!!) Each leader has different needs for their community, so when this Project is completed, we will have funded everything from a community preschool and kindergarten to a computer lab to a year’s salary for several teachers and more. The mission of Help has always included partnering with local leaders and pastors as point people on the ground, and in one fell swoop, they are all supported with Legacy 2013. I die.

These men are heroes, like I JUST CANNOT EVEN TELL YOU.

The goal is to sell 1,000 virtual “backpacks” for $100 each. No, Help One Now has not branched out into luggage. Rather, they're investing in what the backpack represents: Education. Opportunity. HOPE. Every morning, children across the globe gather their school things, the tools they use to learn and grow, and stuff them into a backpack on their way to school (and if they live in my house, it also sounds like where is my backpack?! and did you put that thing in your backpack?? and who took my backpack?? and other things that delight me every morning as a mother). Those tools help give these students their education, which in turn provides opportunity and ultimately leads to HOPE for their future.

Backpacks of Hope will provide unique tools for each of the six leaders. For example, Pastor Gaétan hopes to open a computer lab and a library. Pastor Jean-Alix will open a preschool and kindergarten in Ferrier, allowing older children to attend school rather than caring for their younger siblings (just, ohmygosh), as well as allowing the younger children to start their education early. Pastor John in Zimbabwe will construct a playground and a study room and expand his kitchen to serve even more children in his region.

Help One Now will once again utilize Pure Charity’s online giving platform for this project. Those of you who jumped in last year already have an account! (Need to get caught up to speed on the awesomeness that is Pure Charity? I wrote aaaaall about it last year.) So for this year, I've started a campaign HERE to fund 100 backpacks, and I need you to help meet this goal LIKE A BOSS. Surely, surely 100 of us can give $100, right??

And don't forget, Pure Charity offers a way to fund the project using the most common activity of the holiday season -- shopping! For instance, it is December 12th and I've bought exactly zero presents, so guess whose Pure Charity account is about to get a serious boost? The interwebs will send me the gifts and siphon $$ into my PC account, because this is the beautiful world we live in these days. Amen.

I mean this nicely: it is stupid not to sign up for Pure Charity if you ever buy anything online. (((hugs)))

Sign up and shop away! Purchases will automatically be added to your Pure Charity giving account, which you can then DONATE to this campaign -- or, you can even START YOUR OWN campaign and rally your friends and family to join the madness.

We need your help to make this project a success. Spread the word. Tell your friends, family, co-workers, church, small group, and social media channels what we’re doing and how they can help. Pull your kids up around your laptop and show them the pastors and videos, and make this your family project this Christmas.

However you help, please know this: your support will change the lives of students in Haiti, Uganda, Zimbabwe and Ethiopia! We'll all be investing in HOPE.

I am going to watch that goal line creep up like the craziest stalker you've ever seen.

LET'S DO THIS.

The Mythical "They"

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 17 Oct 2013 11:29:08 +0000

When I was a sophomore in high school, I wrote a paper on “personal prejudices” for my teen leadership class. I chose to write about my unfair bias against kids who partied. (OH MY GOSH I WAS SUCH A SQUARE. Same girl who was voted “Most Inspirational” her senior year. I was a ton of fun in my teenage evangelical days.)

My teacher kept me after class and confessed something, as I was a varsity cheerleader. She admitted to stereotyping cheerleaders as long as she could remember; vacuous, slutty, mean girls, empty brains. We talked about my paper and my worldview in general, and she apologized for painting me with an unfair brush and promised to evaluate cheerleaders as individuals from then on. I promised to try and not be a judgmental weirdo and maybe only bring my Bible to class half the time. Bless my heart.

A few weeks ago, I spent two days with about 60 women from all over the country, all influential and strong in their respective niches. No one knew everyone, a few knew someone, and some knew no one. We encompassed the furthest left leaners to the staunchest right-wingers, complementarians and egalitarians, rebels and conservatives, pastors, musicians, writers, speakers, authors, artists, poets, catalyzers, marketplace leaders; all over the map, literally and spiritually.

We all held our breath in the days preceding; this was a lot of diversity, man. Some of these girls had come toe-to-toe online before. There were camps represented, people had big feelings, theology was not unanimous. Some barely got on the plane, nervous and unsure and prematurely defensive. We were all leaders; many cooks in the kitchen, hide the knives.

We hoped our love for Jesus and desperation for our generation would be enough.

We were right.

What transpired was the most beautiful, holy, healing gathering. I didn’t even have the courage to imagine it. The differences melted away; I can’t even remember what they were in the first place. Some pulled others aside and said, “I was wrong about you. Forgive me.” We washed each others' hands and shared communion and fell in love with one another.

“They…”

It can be such a terrible word. They are all like that. They don’t get us. They are always _____. They are never _____. They are not our people. They are all the same. They all feel _____. They would never _____. The book is already written and them, and we can close it.

Do you know how often this is not true? Not even remotely true? The Mythical They creates straw men to disparage, propping up stereotypes and strengthening our prejudices while eliminating the actual work of relationships. It is the easy way out to be sure. We are excused from personal contact entirely, imagining ourselves as their victim or their target or their adversary. We can actually invent an entire conflict without speaking a solitary word to a live human.

How many of us have a secret nemesis? Women are particularly deft at harboring imaginary tension. She would never like me. I would totally hate her. She is the sum of the few parts I know about her. I heard she was _____. She is friends with/works for/goes to/believes that/affiliated with _____, so there is nothing else I need to know about her.

So rather than doing the grown up thing and actually talking or connecting or asking questions face to face, we hide behind The Mythical They and absolve ourselves of truthful discernment. Why have a potentially productive conversation when we can just make up a disastrous one in our heads? Oh sure, we may be entirely human and normal and nuanced, but certainly no one else is.

Let’s go here: How many of us refuse to walk into a church because they will all be _____ (cliquey, judgmental, mean, boring, holy). We see the church and say they. But here is a secret: all sorts of ordinary people just show up to church on Sunday. There is no they. It is just a collection of individual people who just lost their job or are going through a divorce or have a secret addiction or love Jesus like a fat kid loves cake or have no idea why they are there.

Reverse the scenario: If you snuck in the back door of a church and hid out on the back row, barely hanging on, and someone drove past the sanctuary and said, “Oh no. They are all _____ in there…” How unfair would that be? You’d stand up and say, NOT ME! You don’t know my story! If you only knew… Those are the same people under the steeples on Sundays.

There is no they.

I’ve done this. Of course I have. I imagine I know exactly the type of women I’ll be dealing with when I walk into a conference based on the venue, and I am wrong exactly every time. Because there is no they. No group of people is any one thing. Ever.

An 84-year-old woman sat next to me on the front row once, and I thought, wow, she is in the wrong place. I’m about to talk about justice and poor people and she is just here because she has been coming to conferences for eleventy billion years. I bet she falls asleep.

When I came off the stage, with tears pouring down her face, she grabbed my hands and said, “Everyone thinks I’m just an old lady and should sit in my pew and go gently into the white light, but I still have good years left, by God. I go to the prison four times a week. Those are my people. You are the first person who doesn’t think I’m crazy.”

There is no they.

It is immature and lazy to imagine we know everything there is to know about someone before we know that someone. We don’t know their stories, their histories, their real live human feelings. We don’t know their favorite movies and best memories and what makes them afraid. It is unfair to take one fact, one thing they’ve said or we heard they said, or one thing they wrote, or someone else’s experience, or a group they identify with and make a character sketch. If people did that to us, the picture would be so woefully incomplete, we wouldn’t even recognize our own description.

Who is your they? Is it a group? Because guilt by association is the lowest form of assessment. No group is all the same. They may have one line item in common, one belief, one perspective or mission, but that camaraderie is not the sum total of a person’s character. She is other things besides that. Probably a bunch of stuff just like you. You’d be surprised.

Is your they an individual? Have you invented a barrier based on anything but sustained personal connection? Maybe you think you know how someone will react or respond, but you could be as wrong about them as they are about you.

I suspect we misjudge people 90% of the time. Experience tells me I can sit down over coffee with almost any perceived adversary and end up laughing until my ribs ache. We were born on the same day, we both quit reading the same book halfway through, we are both worried about parenting, we both love Jesus even if we don’t agree on all the dressings. Common ground abounds.

Yes, some people are genuinely toxic or unhealthy, but we should draw those conclusions from personal experience, not hearsay or assumptions. I see a strategy for fracturing humanity well in play: just keep people separated and let them reinforce invented boundaries in their imaginations. Because when people come together and really listen to each other, doing the hard work of human kindness, virtually every barrier is breached. The entire mechanism is a house of cards; we can topple the structure with courage and trust and real discussions and grace for each other.

The Mythical They is a lie, and we can do better than this. Will you be brave? Do you need to pick up the phone or send an email and ask someone to coffee? Perhaps it’s time to stop painting a group with a wide brush and get close enough to see what those folks are actually like; you will never regret giving someone a chance, but you might forever regret carrying a fake grudge to your deathbed. Let’s refuse to buy into this horrid game. Let’s give each other the benefit of the doubt, some actual time. We’ll listen and connect and try to understand each other like the People of Mercy we supposedly are.

It could just be the most beautiful, holy thing we do.

Who is your they? How have you felt? Is that real or mostly imagined or somewhere in between? What will you do?

IF : Local - The Biggest Table

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 16 Oct 2013 09:16:32 +0000

IF : Austin sold out Monday during pre-registration in 42 minutes.

That is the time it takes to watch two episodes of The Mindy Project with no commercials. Just enough time to eat a sandwich.

We thought there was a hunger, we suspected strongly, but we were blown away by the fervent ache to be a part of this new thing. This is actually happening in our generation, this desire for God and kingdom and truth and justice. I’ve been on the verge of ugly crying all week. I feel so connected to you, so proud to run alongside of you for Jesus’ sake.

1200 seats were gone in an instant. So very many of you didn’t get one, and I know you’re disappointed. Here is where I tell you something real: In my opinion, IF : Local is actually where it is at. If the content was identical, but I had to pick between a giant conference and a living room of friends, I would pick the latter 100 times out of 100. Truthfully, IF : Local is closer to the heartbeat of the overarching vision than anything else we’re building.

We value eye contact, bare feet on couches, coffee mugs in hand. We love small, safe spaces and hours of rich conversation among real-life friends. We absolutely believe in the power of connection, when women listen and get real and wrestle with complicated issues together and share communion. We believe in your neighborhood, your tribe, your local church, and your invaluable role there. We believe in you. A two-day conference in Austin cannot powerfully impact your community like you can.

We need your voice, your leadership, your passion, your skills, your homes, and your gathering spaces. We need your invitations, your mad cooking skills, conversation starters and ice breakers. We need it all. We need your eyes and ears, your prayers, and ultimately, your heart.

YOU are the one that will usher in awakening for women in your city. Sure, we’ll livestream from Austin to give an excuse to start this party, but you will be the one that ministers. The one that stands in real life, alongside the sick and hurting, the broken and redeemed on the front lines. And we’ll celebrate with you, we’ll want to hear it all.

The kingdom has always come subversively, in small ways, in local places, around dinner tables. Jesus sent his followers out two-by-two. IF : Austin will include just over 1000 women; IF : Local will involve tens of thousands in their actual lives, where women can gather organically and cheer each other on to bravery long after the last session is over. This is the stuff. When I think of thousands of gatherings around the globe, pondering the same content and breaking bread together and creating safe places for each other, well, I.just.cannot.even.handle.it.

We are thrilled beyond words for IF : Local. It is as much a part of this as the Austin gathering, I assure you. Even more so. We have some ideas for maximizing IF : Local in your context (and way more to come): Kick your family out and gather your friends in your house for two days, rent a cute house together, meet in your church basement, plan a progressive dinner centered on each session, tuck away in your parents’ lake house, organize several small gatherings then come together for communion at the end. Empty nester? Open your clean quiet home to a group of women for IF : Local. What a gift. This is where it gets real and tangible.

Monday, Jennie shot this little video to update you on where the Spirit is leading. Please watch and keep reading:

We’re sure that you have lots of questions. Let us try and answer those for you.

What can we expect?

In February, we want you to gather with your friends locally and keep it loose, laid back, and simple. We expect to see some stellar menus. Read more here about what to expect in February, including information on the resources we will and will not provide you as leaders.

When should we register?

Today! We need your local leadership to begin to build the February gathering.

1. Will you register NOW for IF:Local and give $25 or more to help us reach our goal? As with IF : Austin, we refuse to let price be a barrier. If you can give $3 or no dollars or $12.50, super. You are so welcome. (And if you'd rather give $1000, then BY ALL MEANS. Smiley face.)

2. Forward this to 15 of your friends and tell them about IF : Local. Encourage them to sign up with you!

3. Post on Facebook and Twitter that your friends should join you for IF : Local. Click here for the link to Facebook.

4. Tweet this: Join @IFGathering by registering for #IFLocal, local gatherings to watch our live webcast Feb 7-8.

This vision is not possible without each of you, and we are so incredibly grateful that this is how God intended it to be. Let's build this. Let's gather our tribe in cabins and living rooms and music halls and church basements and in Austin and Cleveland and Uganda and Mexico City, around tables and couches and patio chairs and meeting halls, with Bibles and coffee and bacon-wrapped dates in our hands, and let's chase after the kingdom together. Let's open our arms wide and beg God to cast a fresh vision over our generation, declaring together that we are hungry and we are His.

May we be obedient and brave and faithful in our time, because we are so loved.

Let's do this together.

The damn broke as I finished this piece. Dripping tears all over my sweatshirt. Please, tell me. Tell me everything. Will you join us? Will you gather in your city? What will you do? Share your ideas with us. Let us share in the thrill of your local gatherings.

IF : Gathering - A New Table

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 14 Oct 2013 08:00:00 +0000

It is 5:12am. Please understand that I NEVER wake up early to write. I love that idea on paper, but I love my bed more. But today I needed darkness outside my windows, a house full of sleeping people, a quiet cup of coffee at my side, absolutely free and clear space, because I feel like I’m entering holy territory.

I’ve already talked about IF: Gathering; the early whispers, the clunky beginnings, the quiet dreams for God’s movement in our time. As with anything new, you just have to start. A handful of elements are certain, but after that, you move messily through development, gaining clarity (and humility) as things shift and transform. We learned that you put your head down and listen: to other leaders, to different demographics, to the sincere concerns, to the questions. If you are arrogant, you shove those aside and carry on as previously imagined. But how could we possibly ask for God’s hand with proud heads up rather than humble heads down? I assure you: pride was never a motivating factor. If anything, it was unchecked zeal, a true hunger for God’s kingdom to come during our generation in any way, in every way.

So here is what happened. The founder of IF, my friend Jennie, along with a small band of advisers and leaders, listened. Thoughtful concerns like this from our friend Sarah were deeply heard on the rather small, expensive initial conference plan:

“If this is really the Gospel, if this is really the stuff we believe is going to change a generation or bring revival or renewal or whatever, then why aren’t the doors wide open for the rest of us? Why haven’t we flung wide the doors, ripped up our ticket price spreadsheets, poured out in the streets, scoured the city for anyone and everyone who wants to come, and danced in the gutters instead of the stadium aisles?”

We are hungry for God to move. That is the end of it. We hold nothing tightly except the desperate hope that He will have His way with our generation, that we will not somehow subvert it unknowingly or minimize its scope.

We are lifting our heads and looking far and wide, seeing our sisters everywhere:

The ones clipping coupons with babies and toddlers at their feet, unable to leave for a two-day conference.

We see women for whom a $240 ticket price is utterly unfeasible; bills to pay but still starving for God’s rushing wind to blow.

The college girls on a shoestring budget ready for God; we see you.

Our global sisters cannot possibly be left out of this conversation. If we narrow this down to an American narrative, we’ve omitted the richness and depth only radical international inclusiveness can activate.

We see the beautiful diversity a Christian conference sometimes unwittingly suffocates; we want the rabble-rousers, the misfits, the socially awkward, the divergent, the poor, the cynics, the skeptics, the barely-hanging-on-ers, the dangerous thinkers, the cautiously hopeful who crave the conversation but aren’t yet ready or able to attend a conference. We want all the colors of skin. We want the praise flag wavers and the reformed five-point outliners and the ones who aren’t even sure they believe at all.

And the truth is, a limited conference in one city in the world with a hefty price tag would leave too many out, and we don’t have time to waste and we are too hungry to tamp down God's reach.

So we tore up the ticket price spreadsheets for IF: Austin.

There is no set cost. You give what you can and come if you can come. We have 1200 seats for IF : Austin on February 7-8, 2014. May “for those who can afford it” never be our kingdom plumbline.

Registration for IF : Austin opens Tuesday, October 15th at 11:00 AM Central. However, women who are subscribed to our email list will get to register on Monday. Sign up here to get early access.

God, gather us.

AND...we are throwing open the doors to IF : Austin via webcast to anyone, everyone, everywhere for IF : Local.

Registration to the webcast is unlimited. Gather with your friends, neighbors, church, or others in your community and join us virtually. You, too, will have the opportunity to register October 15th. Then in the next several weeks and months, we will send you ideas and resources for our time together.

We have received emails from women who are saying they want to host gatherings in Tokyo, Mexico, Haiti and Ireland… this is unbelievable. Only God. May “for those who can afford it and live near” never be our kingdom plumbline.

God, gather us.

Sisters, with the elimination of the ticket price (which would not even have covered expenses) and the addition of the webcast, we have substantially increased the cost of the IF : Gathering. I asked the number then put my hands over my ears, because I am a dreamer, not an accountant. But it is big and we are way out here on the ledge, trusting God for greater things with no safety net and apparently no guarantee that we will be able to turn the lights on.

This vision will not happen if we do not have financial partners. It just won’t. If you believe in this vision, then we ask that you pray about giving to support IF : Gathering through our partners at Pure Charity here. (If you already have a Pure Charity account, you can just "back this project"...easy peasy. Want more info on Pure Charity? I gushed over it here. Everyone should have a PC account.) We are believing God for great and small things here. Thousands of widow’s mites add up. And a few Solomons who invest mightily in this generation have tremendous impact.

We are holding our breath but do not feel irresponsible with this task; cost is too small a thing to God. We know He can raise this thing up without the comfort of built-in cost recuperation. Cattle, hills, ownership, and all that. (So if God moves you to share some of your cattle with the IF gang, we will receive your offering with utter gratitude, and we thank you for making this wider vision possible. And for bringing down our blood pressure.)

I don’t know how else to say it other than this: This feels right. It feels right to say come, come one, come all. Come to this table. Practice dissimilar theology? Grab a seat. Don’t fit a mold of some sort? Sit with us. Cranky about conferences but crazy about Jesus? Pull up a chair. Hungry, tired, hopeful, impassioned, cautious, fire in your bones? You belong here. Starving to see God move in our time? We need you. Old-timer, new-comer, here is your seat. Rich, poor? This is your table.

God, gather us and move. We care nothing for our constructs but only for your presence. Shove us aside, tear down the walls, and build a raging fire. May your fame be declared, your kingdom come on earth, and your daughters set free and set ablaze. Bring us to your table; there are enough seats for all. We are hungry and ready and we await You.

Because if you are real, then we have no other hope.

Then Jesus turned to the Twelve and asked, “Are you also going to leave?”

Simon Peter replied, “Lord, to whom would we go? You have the words that give eternal life. We believe, and we know you are the Holy One of God.” (John 6:67-69)

Will you join us? Just as you are. Exactly where you are. In your living room or in Austin or in Spain or in your church basement or in your friend's cabin or at your desk. This table is big and you are so welcome here.

Things I'm Loving

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 09 Oct 2013 10:48:19 +0000

The power of suggestion is a mighty force in my life. I hear someone mention a movie they loved, and it is downloaded twelve minutes later. Natalie Grant posted a necklace that benefits human trafficking efforts on Friday; I’m wearing it today. Please do not mention a rare disease in my presence, because I will begin manifesting symptoms immediately. I read a recipe for a fancy egg salad sandwich last week, closed my laptop, and drove straight to the store for the ingredients.

If you love something (or have contracted something), I figure I will too.

In the spirit of positive peer pressure, I wanted to share a few things I’m TOTALLY LOVING with you. And if you need to have/hire/read/cook them immediately, that tells me you are a person of fine discernment. Certainly not overly influenced or easily impressionable. Certainly not. (For the record, these are not sponsored posts. I don’t even actually know what that means. I just love the following things all by myself in my own life.)

Noonday

Okay, so if you’ve been around me longer than four minutes, this is not a new declaration. But I said this was about things I’m currently loving, and I’m currently still loving Noonday. Founded by my friend Jessica Honegger, Noonday employs vulnerable women in nine countries, and they make just GORGEOUS jewelry and accessories. I’m not talking about some janky burlap slapped together with twine. This is truly beautiful, artisanal work combining local craftsmanship with designer savvy and making us look awesome. ALL THE WHILE providing sustainable employment for vulnerable women, allowing them to parent and succeed and thrive.

You've seen that striped purse in approximately all of my latest pictures.

Were it not for Noonday, I would have no jewelry. Jessica taught me to stack an inordinate amount of bracelets and/or necklaces on top of each other without fear. She never wears less than 48 accessories at once and she is fabulous. (Did I mention Noonday also provides meaningful employment to American women? Becoming a Noonday Ambassador is like the best job in history.)

“Freeway” by People of the Second Chance (POTSC)

Lots of books and studies land in our mailbox to take a peek at. The sheer volume sometimes makes them all blend together like zebras in a pack. (I say this as a writer who cannot even remember the titles of her own books.) But one recently grabbed my attention with its design and then my respect with its content. It is "Freeway" by POTSC and if you don’t know about this movement, shelve this blog immediately and go read about it. ------------ Hi. You’re back. This is a Bible study of sorts, although extremely creative and unconventional. Give me a non-cheesy study or give me death. I just like everything about Freeway.

If you do this study with a small group, you’re going to have to leave all the bullcrap behind. It digs, it presses. You’re going to have to deal with some serious stuff. These people are OBSESSED with our freedom. If you need to be set free personally, relationally, spiritually, emotionally, physically…this study is a wonderful road map.

Merry Maids

Remember how I clogged up your feed with dramatic posts about selling our house this summer? And how keeping it show ready with all five kids home was turning me into an unstable lunatic? Well. Enter the best email ever from Sandra with Merry Maids: “Jen, we love your blog. How about we send a team to your house once a week until your house sells? We’d love to just do this for you.” Now picture a grown woman squealing and dancing and twirling and kissing babies. That was me. These amazing women whipped my sad, sorry house into such shape, you cannot even imagine. They cleaned behind every single piece of furniture, and I actually feared for their lives. It appeared as if we were living in a hovel as squatters, and Merry Maids made it all go away. They even brought treats for Lady Bird and fussed over her like she was the Queen of England.

Look at our toilet paper. What is this, the Waldorf Astoria?

Our house shined. The girls were so dear. They were actually merry. Not a corner went unscrubbed ever. Merry Maids for the win. If you need someone to reclaim your house from the filthy people who are conspiring to trash it, these are your people. It will look like no one even lives there. For like three whole hours until your kids come home from school.

Balsamic Reduction

So this needs its own category. First off, this is my flavor profile: vinegars, mustards, pickle products. The end. Every dish needs a bit of tang. There are no exceptions. I don’t remember who taught me to pour three cups of balsamic vinegar into a saucepan and reduce it by half into a syrup, but that person deserves to be put into my will. I make this weekly and keep it in a little syrup pitcher in the fridge that my friend Susie Davis gave me after we hosted a party together and I said I liked it and I found it in my car later that night. But back to the balsamic reduction. I put this on everything. Drizzle it over cottage cheese, ice cream, chicken, eggs, salad, potatoes, rice, salmon, soup. It makes everything instantly special. I think of things to pour it on in between meals.

Story Company

Oh my. Do I love these people. Story Company has a similar vision to Noonday: employing local artisans in fourteen countries and giving them access to the global market. They place a heavy emphasis on Fair Trade, insisting on fair working environments and adhering to the Fair Trade Federation Standards. Many of their partners go above and beyond that for their artisans, embracing rehabilitation, restoration, counseling, life skills and spiritual support. And the products are sooooo preeeeeety.

In addition to beautiful crafted jewelry and accessories, Story Company also sells gorgeous pottery and pillows and home stuff. Each item comes creatively packaged with the artisan’s picture and story attached. You cannot possibly find a better teacher or hostess gift. Every time I wear my chevron necklace, strangers ask me where I found it. And then I begin proselytizing.

My Friends’ Books

Some people clamp down when surrounded by people in their own profession who are amazing. Everyone is better than me and blah blah blah wah wah wah nonsense. I feel the exact opposite. I have so many writer friends who – plain and simply – rule literature. I feel like a giddy schoolgirl who hit the jackpot with all these smart, witty, incredibly gifted friends who are so awesome at what they do. And I have their numbers in my cell phone. (Except for one friend who refuses to join our generation and won’t get a phone, even though I offered to pay for it just so I could text her at will. I’m looking at you, Sarah Bessey.)

In alphabetical order, here are fresh new books my friends have just written that I love. In unique ways, these authors are all making this world better and kinder and braver. (So many other friends have written stellar works too…these are just the ones I’ve recently read that are hot off the presses or just about to hit the ground!)

“Restless” by Jennie Allen
“Jesus Feminist” by Sarah Bessey
“Undaunted” by Christine Caine
“Flesh” by Hugh Halter
“Overextended and Loving Most of It” by Lisa Harper
“Transformed” by Caesar Kalinowski
“Audrey Bunny” by Angie Smith (for kids)
“The Greatest Gift” by Ann Voskamp
“When We Were on Fire” by Addie Zierman

This is a diverse offering, folks. But if you only read the same types of authors with the same kind of thinking, it is time to be stretched. I can absolutely vouch for the character and integrity of every single one of these authors. Some of the best people I know. Like I said, jackpot.

The Civil Wars Pandora Station

Surely I do not even need to explain this.

Please reconcile. Please come back. Please make more music. We will do anything you ask.

So there you have it. Good things, good books, good people, good service, good food. Here’s hoping to peek in on you in a couple of weeks sitting in your clean house thanks to Merry Maids, drinking coffee out of your Story Company mug, wearing your Noonday alpaca scarf with any of the above books in your hands, listening to the Civil Wars on Pandora. It will be a good day and you’ll think, “My gosh. Remind me to thank that Jen Hatmaker.”

You’re welcome.

What are you loving lately? Add some good suggestions to the mix. Be sure to link it up so we can find it!

Why Does God Allow Pain and Suffering?

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 17 Sep 2013 12:37:12 +0000

A very special and rare collaboration is happening among churches in Austin this fall. Over 350 churches – Baptist, Methodist, Lutheran, Episcopal, Presbys, Non-denoms – have come together in a citywide sermon series called “Explore God.” Across all these boundaries, we are discussing the same Giant Life Questions in our sanctuaries and small groups for seven weeks:

Does Life Have a Purpose?
Is There a God?
Why Does God Allow Pain and Suffering?
Is Christianity Too Narrow in Our Culture?
Is Jesus Really God?
Is the Bible Reliable?
Can I Know God Personally?

I’ve never seen anything like it. I am deeply proud of my brothers and sisters for setting aside differences for the sake of the city. It makes me incredibly weepy.

This Sunday is Question #3: Why does God allow pain and suffering?

Suffering transcends all class, race, ethnicity, culture, privilege. The wealthiest, most successful man on earth could lose his only daughter in a car wreck this afternoon. There is no corner untouched by grief, no demographic, no alliance. If you haven’t suffered, just live longer.

With anything so viscerally devastating, the Christian community has long tried to explain it. At the beginning of the written word, we see this tension: Job has suffered in ways incomprehensible leaving a wake of crushing confusion. God tells us it was Satan, Job tells us it was God, his friends tell Job it was him. The finger-pointing is instinctual, because what we have always wanted to know when tragedy strikes is WHY.

To this end, the church has a history of formulizing suffering, giving it tidy origins and endings and whitewashing the horrid, debilitating middle. We’ve assessed the complicated nuances of universal sorrow and assigned it categories, roots, principles. Or in the face of uncertain causes, we recite cold theology:

"Well, you know God is sovereign."

In an attempt to understand the ordinary grief of human life, I fear we’ve reduced a complicated reality to an unmanageable burden; we’ve put a yoke of despair on people who mourn, assigning accolades to those who “suffer well” and, in ways overt and subtle, urging our brokenhearted to buck up. Then adding insult to injury, we fall into the trap of explaining suffering, as if any one of us could possibly understand its eternal scope.

Here is what we know about suffering from Scripture:

Sometimes people suffer because of self-inflicted misery. Humans have long been their own worst enemies. We are a self-destructive people. Adam, Eve, Jonah, David, Saul, Judas.

Sometimes people suffer at the sins of others, which God would never cause, endorse, or initiate. It is contrary to his holy, perfect nature. Bathsheba, Daniel, Tamar, Hosea, The Good Samaritan, Paul.

Sometimes people suffer through no human fault at all. The best of God’s saints had their night. This is no indicator of divine disfavor. Life is simply hard.

Sometimes people suffer because people get sick and die. This happens to every person, family, and community on earth. There is zero immunity from death. Even Jesus wept salty, human tears at death and the grief of his friends.

Sometimes people suffer because we live on a physical earth involving tornadoes, earthquakes, wildfires, tsunamis. Natural disasters are a part of any living, shifting, fluctuating planet. (And the longer we irresponsibly plunder and harm it, the greater it will groan and creak and protest, but that is a different blog.)

Sometimes people suffer because we have a vicious enemy who hates us and is out to steal, kill, and destroy everything redemptive and beautiful.

The point is, there is no formula for suffering. There is no one answer. There is no pat explanation. Simply stating that God is sovereign is woefully incomplete theology, as Scripture has clearly identified numerous root causes of suffering, some of which are entirely incompatible with God’s character. We cannot possibly explain sorrow in a 25-minute sermon with three points that all begin with an M.

To put the burden of stoic acceptance onto our people is cruel and unusual, as is suggesting their suffering is likely punitive. Our platitudes will fall dangerously short. In the face of brokenheartedness, we need not counsel people in the way of spiritual justification, for we know not what we say. Nor should we lead them in the way of tidy grief, for we heap burning coals on aching heads.

Suffering invites us to be radically human with one another, perhaps doing nothing more than reaching across the table, clasping hands, and weeping together. We are afforded the chance to create a safe place for someone else to mourn; nothing is needed but space, proximity, presence, empathy. You cannot possibly give an answer, so don’t try. Grief cannot be sidestepped; it must be endured, so may we be a people who endure with one another rather than constantly mitigating, explaining, propping up. Let’s just hold one another through the dark night and wait for the sun to rise.

Though it is human nature to master all knowledge, we simply must concede that so much of life is a mystery, as is the way God moves and redeems. How can we possibly fathom it all? We don’t always get the answer to WHY this side of heaven, so we need to stop talking about spiritual mysteries as if we are in possession of all understanding.

Here is what we know about suffering and what we should cling to:

God is impossibly loving. He loves us. He loves our families. He loves creation.

God restores things; all of history points to a God who makes sad things right.

God is very much paying attention. He is on the move - healing and transforming. He can do this. This is what He does.

There is nothing too broken that God cannot mend and redeem. Really. Nothing.

God doesn’t tempt, abuse, endorse wickedness, abandon, or hate.

In our darkest moment, when we are crushed, Jesus is as close as our own breath.

He has given us to one another as agents of love and grace and safety.

He told us 100s of times to comfort each other, making sure we are cared for.

Jesus wept over death and grief; shed your tears, friend. We have a Savior who cries.

It is not the Body’s responsibility to explain why. We are family. We circle the wagons. We make casseroles. We weep with those who weep.

Pastors in Austin and everywhere else this weekend, friends, church, let’s be gentle with our broken. Let’s hold fragile hearts with loving hands, terribly careful with our theology, using it as a balm, not a bludgeon. May we be slow to formulize and quick to empathize, because life is so very hard and until God makes all things new, people are dying for a cold cup of water in their suffering.

If you are suffering today, imagine me grabbing both of your hands and inviting you to mourn; we will stand watch while you grieve. No need to pretend or whitewash. That is unnecessary among brothers and sisters. We may not get a why, but we know the how: together. Jesus is so good and He loves you. The sun will rise with healing in its wings, but until it does, may we all learn to be a soft place to fall, cushioning the blow of suffering until Jesus turns it all into glory.

Coming to Your TV Set: The Hatmakers

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 16 Sep 2013 13:40:18 +0000

Life is absurd.

Sometime in late June, I got a random email from Sarah.

From HGTV.

“I develop shows for HGTV and I would love to have a conversation about our network and programming and see if your passion can translate to the HGTV world.”

At this point, I started laughing and didn’t quit for two weeks. Particularly after she asked me “how my DIY skills were.” Um. Poor to heinous. We jumped on the phone and she said a bunch of stuff and I kept cackling like a hyena because WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE?

Evidently these people were following the Hatmakers: the tattooed Harley-riding pastor, the Christian author with the loud mouth, the gaffes, the international adoptions, the zany kids or, more specifically, Remy. They thought we fit some sort of “quirky wholesome” category (which apparently Duck Dynasty made a thing). The question was:

Could we develop a show with your family?

The crazy thing, besides all of it, was that we were already listing our house. In fact, the day I received that first email, we were touch-up painting and listing within the week. Would you consider a fixer-upper, the people asked. Who exactly would do the fixing up, we wondered, because this really isn’t our genre. We specialize in sarcasm and chaos. We will HELP YOU do the fixing up, said the people who do this for a living.

We shot a sizzle reel in August, apparently “the network” went bonkers for it, and now this is a thing. You can imagine with my penchant for oversharing, I was DYING to tell you.

Our stand-ins. The one with the mustache is obviously me.

Allow me to answer your FAQs:

Have you lost your mind?

I believe that ship sailed some time ago, gentle reader. Do I realize we are looking at a four-month renovation during which time we are traveling, writing, parenting, and churching? And that we will be living in this house during part of said renovation? And that we’ve never renovated a home? AND THAT WE BOUGHT A 1908 FARMHOUSE AND THE LAUNDRY LIST IS RATHER EXTENSIVE? I’m sorry. All those lil’ details just filled up my brain space. What was the question again?

Where are you moving?

Our new house (and by “new” I mean 105 years old) is four minutes from our current doorstep. Same little town, same school district, same community. It is in Downtown Buda, which is THE CUTEST. It sits on almost an acre, and – I couldn’t possibly make this up – has pecan, fig, and pomegranate trees. (Go ahead and die.) I don’t know if this is obvious with the 1908 mention, but the house is very old. Where do you want to start, asked the people. I guess just…all of it, we answered. There is much to do. This is when I retreat to a separate corner of my mind and pretend we have any idea what we’re doing.

THE PORCH. Help me Lawd, the porch. Never mind the rot and termite damage.

Are these people going to make you look crazy like Honey Boo Boo?

Crazy is as crazy does, keen reader. They can only pick up what we lay down, savvy? So in other words, we are doomed, cause we can lay us down some crazy. However, these good people actually like our little tribe and have assured us they are going more for “fun wholesome family” and less “OH NO YOU DI’INT! HOLD MY EARRINGS!” You’re supposed to like us, not wish us dead at the end of every episode. So yeah, this is a total crapshoot.

Talk to us about these TV people. Do they wear fancy shoes?

These people are DELIGHTFUL. So far, they’ve helped my kids with homework, practiced their flash cards, ate popcorn and watched movies with them upstairs, indulged Remy’s interrogations about their birthdays/weddings/anniversaries which she entered into her “Days Until” app including head shots of every crew member (she is a special girl), and treated us like best friends. Both of our producers are young, beautiful, and single – one boy, one girl – and me and my friends have made it our mission to marry them off to Austinites so they will live here forever. The VP of the company, Patrick, actually did wear fancy shoes last week and I included that descriptor for his benefit. Don’t try to act like they weren’t fancy, Patrick.

Don't you love how Todd is laughing as my children manhandle his multi-zillion dollar film equipment? That's got to be sincere.

The entire show is worth it if Sarah will manage the Homework Table.

Note Adam's fancy Ben Hatmaker mug.

God bless these young men. Born on February 24th and July 7 respectively.

How do your kids feel about this?

Do you remember being in middle and high school, wishing someone would discover your awesomeness, imagining your life on a stage or in the studio or on camera, pretending you were Debbie Gibson? We are a family of Big Personalities. Our kids pretty much think this is the best thing that ever happened to them. We told them to stay mum for the last two months, which they totally didn’t since half my neighbors have asked about the show because my kids sing like canaries.

Didn’t you write a book about excess and now you’re renovating a house on HGTV?

How observant you are! Let me answer this in two parts:

Guess what we get to be on network television? Our own selves. We told the people, “Um, we are overtly Christian. This isn’t even a gray area.” And they said, “Yes. We want it all: your family, your prayers, your church, your poor people, your nonprofits, your chaos, your humor. We want you to be exactly who you are.” This feels monumental and special and rare. Our goal is to steward this opportunity with immense care and precision. This little light of mine…we’re gonna let it shine.
Come closer to me. Imagine me snaking my arm through yours, tilting my head toward you affectionately and lowering my voice to tell you something just between us girls: HGTV asked to do a renovation with us. Because I am not a daft fool, we said yes.

What did you learn from shooting the first episode?

Remy Hatmaker needs her own dedicated cameraman.

My readers have long told me they were waiting for some Hatmaker show if, for no other reason, the laughs, which we would undoubtedly provide. After much vetting, we believe HG (that’s what they call themselves, the “TV” too taxing obviously) will treat our family, our home, our actual lives, and our community with respect and care. We trust them to handle this show in a way that is good for everyone: for our little town, our new neighbors, our family and friends, and primarily the Kingdom, because we love these more than life and none are worth sacrificing over hand-scraped wood floors.

We are throwing our heads back and laughing, treating this like a once-in-a-lifetime ~~fiasco~~ adventure we’ll never forget. I hope you'll come with us, because we may need some character witnesses along the way. Can you imagine our family with cameras rolling?? I know you can. I can too. Heaven help.

So set your DVRs, because the Hatmakers are coming to your living room.

It is certain to be the controlled train wreck you think.

The show will air next year and it is yet untitled. You with us??

Hope for Spicy Families

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 29 Aug 2013 12:49:40 +0000

A certain scenario sets off a guaranteed, automatic reaction in me every time.

Although reduced, I categorize most families as either “sweet” or “spicy.” There are obvious pros and cons to both dynamics with tons of crossover on the Venn diagram, but still. In general, a family trends toward one or the other.

I’ll give you one guess which way the Hatmakers lean.

We are a spicy people. We love obnoxious humor and sarcasm and we are very, very loud. The lot of us suffers from Big Feelings About All The Things, which makes us a passionate, emotional bunch. We don’t really do gentle. We don’t actually know what that means. (My girlfriend Laura has the exact same family dynamic, and I die laughing every time she tells me her “kids are doomed.”)

So any time I am around a sweet family for a while, I have a crisis. It simmers until a comment from one of their children to another – “Sister? Would you like the last brownie? I want you to have it since you did all my chores for me as a surprise for my half birthday…” – launches me into a watershed moment. Brandon knows this about me and has weathered the reentry numerous times:

Me: What is wrong with us? We need a new system to get people to talk nicer in this house. We are raising feral children. Why don’t any of our kids knit?? We need to quit raising our voices FOR THE REST OF OUR LIVES or all hope is lost. Our kids are probably going to kill people one day. Like, I think they are on a dark path to incarceration or street violence.

Brandon: Street violence here in the suburbs?

Me: THERE COULD BE VIOLENCE IN THESE STREETS – we’re near the end times! We need to figure out how to be more precious. I don’t even think our kids know any hymns! How are we supposed to break out in spontaneous family worship?? WWAVD?? (What would Ann Voskamp do?) Remy told me Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey “because he was so rich.” We are raising dullards. Let’s just throw in the towel.

Nothing makes me diagnose my family as catastrophic quicker than witnessing another family behave. It is a terrible comparison game that isn’t even fair, as I’m not privy to their atmosphere longer than that one hour. For all I know that darling sister who deferred the brownie gave the other a roundhouse kick to the temple the next day for calling her a sasquatch. We don’t know these things, and it’s easy to reduce another family to a condensed, crystallized version of their real selves, then compare our own undomesticated family to the prototype and flat despair, certain the children have been ruined beyond repair.

I don’t know if there is any worry like Parent Worry. We are responsible for whole human lives here. This is it. This is their one childhood that will carry them into adulthood, drawing from all the hours in this home, emulating what they’ve seen, GOD HELP US. Every parent I know worries that she isn’t doing this right, that she is failing in countless ways, seen and unseen. Our family faults seem so egregious; the omissions and breakdowns and missteps feel monumental, insurmountable even.

I heard someone say recently, “If you are worried about being a bad parent, you are probably a good one.” Meaning, this is the opposite, which is technically worse:

I took this in and wanted to believe it so badly and asked God to help me tamp down the vicious self-talk. Then something happened. I started jumping outside of my mind where all the crazy lives and watched me talk to my kids. I was so nice sometimes! I said very sweet and precious things! There were so many I love you’s and you are very smart and attentive mm-hmmm’s and sounds awesome and great job on that laced through all the days. I watched myself do the work of sweet parents, and it occurred to me I am my own worst critic, and sometimes I’m even a liar, convincing myself that nothing good is ever happening in this family, and it’s all my fault, or maybe Brandon’s fault, and the kids are horrid and we are a disaster.

This is a really insidious way to keep a Mama down.

Why do we latch on to our failures and ignore our successes? I would never overvalue and recount someone else's low moments to the neglect of their triumphs; why do I do that to myself? Why do any of us? Why do we observe other parents’ strengths with 20/20 vision while ours are all blurred? It is as easy for me to declare your goodness as it is to affirm my wretchedness; they are inversely proportional. I am savvy to each, conditioned to minimize your humanity and overemphasize mine.

Whether you are a sweet mama imagining the spicy mamas have all the fun (not true...we're mostly breaking up fights), or a spicy mama assuming the sweet mamas have all the tenderness (they don't...they are mostly, um, I'm not actually sure, I've never been in a sweet family):

If you are worried about being a bad parent, you are probably a good one.

Some of the good is obvious (the stuff we are quick to notice in others): the loving words, the endless attention, the eye contact, the praise. We are reading to our kids and tucking them in with kisses and using parenting language and attending all the games/recitals/tournaments/programs. We braid hair and tie ribbons and apply band-aids and act like our kids’ art is pretty. We are doing all that, and it is good, and it counts.

Some of the good is less obvious (the stuff we think is only going on in our homes): the apologies, the conflict resolution, the tough love, the boundaries, the making up, the hard lessons. We are molding failure into character; our kids, ours. Every parent blows it. Every kid comes unhinged. Every family goes off the rails. That doesn’t mean we are ruined; it means we are ordinary. Course correcting is part of the deal. These efforts often feel bad because they started bad, but they are actually good, and they count too.

This is my point no matter which temperament you lean towards: YOU ARE DOING A BETTER JOB THAN YOU THINK. The criticism in your brain can sometimes move you toward best practices, but it can also lie to you and probably is in numerous ways. You may need to step outside your mind and watch yourself for a few days – not just tuning in to the sharp moments but to the soft, tender ones, for I assure you they are there.

One of my favorite truths from Scripture is that condemnation is a trick of the enemy, not the language of the heavens. Shame is not the rhetoric of redemption, so if we are a slave to it, we have moved outside the protective covering of mercy. And it is harsh out there, debilitating actually. If your inner monologue is constantly critical, endlessly degrading, it may be time to move a few feet back under the umbrella of grace. For there the yoke is easy and the burden is light. Then we can breathe and assess our own parenting with the same kindness we extend to others.

You are doing a wonderful job. Parenting is mind-numbingly hard and none of us will be perfect at it and all of us will jack a thousand parts of it, and somehow, against all odds, it will still be enough.

And if stepping outside your mind to self-observe or planting your feet back under a grace covering doesn’t work, you may come to my house for one afternoon and be guaranteed to feel better about your family, as you may recall that after sassing off, I told my then fifth grader to get a shovel, go in the backyard, and dig his own grave.

Because THAT is WJHWD.

Worst End of Summer Mom Ever: A Sequel

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 16 Aug 2013 06:09:21 +0000

Oh, don’t even say it. I already know. This Mama is singing a different tune and JUST WHATEVER ABOUT IT. Yes, the girl who bemoaned homework folders and daily school requirements and reading minutes and All The Things is now on her knees, begging the teachers to take these children back.

You understand this, right? We had the fun. We surely did. We did the swimming and the vacations and the sleeping in and the loosey-goosey living, and now ladies and gentlemen, I am very much over it. Back me up: summer is too freaking long. Twelve weeks of this is unreasonable. What does summer think we are? Machines? Excuse me, but I've never done anything well for twelve straight weeks in my life.

I can't help you process why my kids can't make normal faces for pictures.
0 for 5 in this gem.

Sixteen hours a day for infinity days without the helpful scaffolding of school or clubs or teams has pushed me to the point where I recently told my children: “I’m so sorry. I see your mouths moving but all I can hear is BLAH BLAH BLAH. Your needs are probably real, but I am unable to attend to them at this time. If you cannot make a sandwich or solve this particular problem, whatever it is that your moving mouths are trying to assault me with, then you will either starve or bludgeon one another or fight to the death and die, and I want you to know that I will miss you.”

Gentle reader, we traveled with our cherubs for almost a solid month. That’s precious! you say. The family memories and such. How lovely for the childhood experiences and bonding and the darling things. Yes, that, but also, not. There was a moment driving home from Colorado (after driving TO Colorado in one car with five children then spending two weeks together for all the minutes of all the days) when the plan was to fight through the fatigue and just drive all the way back to Austin, but somewhere in Lubbock, we dumped our family in a hotel, because I was afraid for their actual lives. I assessed our driver Brandon and concluded their continued existence was at genuine risk. The good feelings were gone.

This space became God's tool for our sanctification.

Also? There is no stupider place than Texas in August. I.Cannot.Even. We can’t be outside (unless we hate ourselves) and our neighborhood pool feels like a bathtub. The children should be in school already, sitting in air conditioning and learning something, instead of wasting their lives on video games and TV because the outdoors have ceased being an option and their mother has lost the will to live. In the midst of this oppression, the air conditioning in my Suburban went out, so my innards slowly melt every time I drive and ooze out in attractive back and butt sweat. The only adjective to describe the effect on me is homicidal, especially when the youngins are saying things like, “Mom? Why does your arm fat swing like that when you turn?”

My Beginning of Summer Attack Plan has atrophied. We are no longer cooking delicious new recipes together. Caleb had Lays potato chips for breakfast yesterday. At the crack of 11:15. The wheels have come off, dear ones. I did my part: the fun camps, the trips, the pool, the lake, the snow cones, the Good Times, and now it is all dead to me. I’ve reached to the outer limits of my capabilities, and we are now in the black hole of what I call “the screw-its.”

This summer was packed with awesomeness, but we need structure back. We need routine. We need kids to go the freak to bed. Sure, we will soon put them down while the sun is still blazing, but that is what blackout blinds are for. It is time to restore our home to a nurturing environment for children instead of the frat house it currently resembles. Will I struggle to manage the early hours with five uncooperative sloths? Sure, but then they will all leave.

What will I do? I will think my thoughts, which I haven’t heard since June 5th. I miss my thoughts and I look forward to seeing what they’ve been doing. For all I know they could’ve been curing cancer, but they’ve been stamped out by missives like He won’t quit touching my game/remote control/Afro and Could you make me a sandwich/pizza/taco and I am bored/hot/hungry and When are we going to leave/eat/bathe again? My thoughts have done all they can do for these people, and they’ve put in their notice.

So Teachers, I sincerely hope you enjoyed your well-deserved summer. I hope you actually frolicked. I imagine it took exactly this long to recharge after teaching our children for a year, and I've told you how much I love you for that. Here is the good news: you’re about to have a bevy of fresh-faced, chipper, super-charged Mamas in a couple of weeks. We will cheerfully volunteer for Class Moms and parties and Friday Folders. We will sign those daily reading minutes LIKE A BOSS. Our children will be at school on time for tens of days.

Disclosure: This will be our best selves. You will temporarily enjoy the fruits of our highest levels. Exploit it, Teachers, because it will slowly erode. We aren’t as efficient as the vibe we’ll be putting out. But for awhile, when you’ve taken our kids’ brains back into your capable hands and it appears they have the capacity to learn again, our gratitude will manifest as proficiency.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

How did you fare, Mamas and Daddies? Are you finishing summer with a bang, a tear, or whatever sound it is when your awesomeness fizzles?

A Fake Film Crew, Armpit Paste, and Spilled Beer: A Day in the Life

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 06 Aug 2013 17:49:25 +0000

Just once, I’d like to have a normal day. Why does everything have to get jacked in this family so often? Do the rest of you just plan your days and all the elements behave accordingly? Because that is the opposite of my life.

Take today, for example. I’m teaching at dotMOM in September (<---the MOST fun – if you can come, you should) and the event team decided to put a funny video together with all the speakers and emcees. Angie Smith, Melanie Shankle, and Sophie Hudson filmed their part a few weeks ago, and Vicki Courtney and I were filming at my house today. Fine. Great. Grand. Arrival time for the crew: 10:30-11:00am.

First of all, I was out of deodorant. Worth noting: I have a thing about deodorant. I need lots of it slathered in giant, obnoxious layers. I buy the “clinical strength” variety, and I use enough to withstand Dante’s Inferno. One time, my friend Jenny ironed a shirt for me before a speaking engagement, and since I’d worn it to a previous event without washing it, she laid it open and gasped: “It looks like a crime scene!” There was deodorant residue from hem to cuff because no one wants to see the speaker pitted out. I don’t even know why I have to explain this.

Going without was not an option, so I used the next best thing: Brandon’s. What is the deal with men’s deodorant? I am here to tell you it actually made me stickier and sweatier, and all my underarm skin was shellacking together like Velcro. I did the only thing I could: powdered my sticky pits. But since I couldn’t find any regular baby powder, I used medicated Gold Bond, effectively creating armpit paste and now smelling like your average masculine jock itch sufferer.

When the doorbell rang at 10:35, I thought: Right on time! I opened the door and enthusiastically greeted the team: two men and one woman. (Yay! A woman filmmaker, I thought.) Welcome! Welcome! How was your flight? (No answer? Ooookay.) I’m Jen! *vigorously shaking their hands* What are your names? Brian? Karen? Paul? Great! (Where are their cameras? Why are they acting weird?) Glad you found the house okay! Come on in! (These people are socially awkward. Why is that guy turning on all my lights??) I was just putting the dishes away! These are two of my kids, Ben and Remy…

Then the one guy starts giving dimensions of my living room, and I thought, “Well, I guess he is scoping it out for the filming, but these other two are like dead weight.” Then he said something about bedroom and bathrooms and it hit me:

These people are here for a showing and this is their realtor.

I had three kids asleep upstairs, beds unmade, bags unpacked, laundry in piles, not to mention that here we all were, casually watching TV and talking to them like we were potential best friends instead of anonymous sellers. Like a lunatic, I grabbed Windex and a roll of paper towels and just started squirting surfaces, the phrase too little too late not currently accessible in my frontal lobe, especially since the potential buyers were standing right in front of me. I believe the jig was already up.

I ran into the girls’ room, picked up their dirty clothes and threw them in the corner, still fully visible so I’m not certain what my strategy was there. I pulled Sydney out of her bed dead asleep and told her to stand in her closet and shut the door. Again, I was operating from the primal part of my brain; reason was not invited to this particular Panic Party.

I ran over to my bathroom right as they were coming out of it, and together we looked at the two loads of laundry dumped in the middle of my bedroom floor. I just sadly gestured to it, mute, remorseful, like together we were observing a very heartbreaking memorial dedicated to the dead dream of selling my house to these people.

This took us to 10:45 at which point they made a hasty exit. Was it walking in on a sleeping 15-year-old that did it? Or maybe opening a bedroom closet to find a confused, half-dressed 13-year-old girl standing there like some sort of Children of the Corn scene? We’ll never know, friends. I believe we’ve seen the last of them.

I had just minutes to regain composure before the actual film crew arrived, so I sat down to review the script. In one scene, I realized one of my kids was supposed to look in the refrigerator, so I zipped over to check out the contents, as we’ve been out of town and had no time to grocery shop yet. So it was a pretty empty carcass…except a beer that had been in the way back for ages. Usually, the respectable beverages cover it up, but there was nary a milk or orange juice jug in sight. Just beer and mayonnaise.

Still freshly discombobulated from the fake film crew, I grabbed the bottle to hide in my bathroom cabinet during my Christian shoot, and as I turned around, it slipped out of my hand and shattered everywhere. Beer and glass splashed in every direction, and I froze, as if these were the dark days of the prohibition and I was on the cusp of a raid.

I started raking glass into a dustpan, kneeling in puddles of beer and sloshing it all in the trash can. Lady Bird helped with some of the beer removal, which I allowed because she is a good dog and deserves a solid afternoon nap. So now my house smells like a brewery in the middle of the morning, but hey! It’s 5:00 somewhere, amirite, crew?? What, these wet patches on my knees? It’s just beer. I kneel in it before every photo shoot. It’s just a thing I do.

None of this was helping my armpit situation. The Gold Bond was totally punking on me. “Absorbs wetness” my eye! I had to hold my arms askew so the pit paste wouldn’t adhere, which is about the time the doorbell rang. Good times.

I somehow pulled my stuff together and finished the shoot, but I would be remiss if I didn’t share a teaser. You know how marriage involves sacrifice? Brandon and I have taken plenty on the chin for each other over the last twenty years. We’ve endured all kinds of horse-crappery for one another. But his participation in this video in the middle of his busy workday should certainly qualify him for sainthood. The back story and plot is irrelevant. All you need to know is that my poor husband did this for me today:

He is an owl. He doesn't want to talk about it.

Add this to my excessive use of his deodorant and Gold Bond, and I’m afraid it’s time to pay the piper.

Did your day run amok? Because I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE SOME SOLIDARITY UP IN HERE.

Idea Camp

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 05 Aug 2013 10:38:20 +0000

I’m trying to remember the first Christian conference I ever attended, and reaching back some twenty-five years, it must’ve been a pulsing, high-energy youth camp like Acquire the Fire. The teen years were my introduction to Christian events, the large centers or stadiums throbbing with energy and momentum.

There is something so exciting about large-scale conferences; hundreds or thousands of likeminded people rallying around a mission or topic or just a shared love of Jesus, enthusiastic speakers and worship teams leading the charge. To this day, sitting on the front row, waiting to teach a large crowd, listening to voices singing in unison, a room full of lifted arms, I cry from the sheer beauty of it virtually every time.

But as much as I love that mass energy, I also sometimes reach for smaller settings with more conversations, more shared discussions, an exchange of ideas rather than just an imparting of them. Why I find myself teaching God’s Word instead of, say, half the people in any given room is a mystery, and I increasingly crave the ideas of others and greedily drag folks into thorny conversations in corners and hallways and lobbies. The world is ever full of smart, capable believers asking important questions and raising the bar on intellectual discourse. Participating in dialogue with smart thinkers is literally my favorite thing on earth.

Maybe this is why I am so excited about “Idea Camp: Human Care.” For lack of a better term, it is a “non-conference conference” in Austin on September 20-21. Idea Camp is an open source, hybrid gathering of thinkers and practitioners to move participants’ ideas toward implementation. It fosters conversation between dreamers and provides the impetus for connection to spur new initiatives, new partnerships, or even just new thinking.

Each Idea Camp centers around a different theme, gathering idea-makers and learners whose hearts beat faster in that genre. This year’s focus is “human care and the church,” so I probably don’t need to explain why I’m trying to get you to come. Caring for orphaned and vulnerable children and families, empowering women, organizational health, and leading the church to care for the poor comprise the bread and butter of Idea Camp this September. We will facilitate fresh, honest, and transformative conversations with leading thinkers on topics including care for others, our neighbors, our communities, and the world as it relates to issues of justice and mercy, the role of nonprofits and the church, innovation in long-term development, sustaining a lifetime engagement in caring for others, and much more.

Idea Camp facilitates field-centered discussions with leading practitioners about the work of human care, sharing best practices and practical insights. This year’s guides include, truly, some of the best people I know: Charles Lee, Rob Morris, Lindsey Nobles, Peter Greer, Esther Havens, Troy and Tara Livesay, Kristen Howerton, Jennie Allen, Leroy Barber, Matt Mooney, Jessica Honegger, Chris Marlow, Bianca Olthoff, Mike Rusch, and of course, Brandon Hatmaker and our ANC compatriots Matthew Hansen and Lamar Stockton.

And there are even more, folks who lead organizations and initiatives that force us to admit really, really good people still exist: Love146, Food for the Hungry, People of the Second Chance, HOPE International, Heartline Ministries, Invisible People, Preemptive Love Coalition, Splash.org, solaceSF, 99 Balloons, Noonday, Help One Now, Youth With a Mission, Forgotten Voices, Acts of Sharing, Pure Charity…we get to learn from these people.

The beauty here is that no one person stands on a stage and talks for an hour. Guides kick off focused conversations in minutes, then the real magic happens in collaboration with everyone else in the room, as the guides transition from “teachers” to “coaches.” Participants share best practices, successes and failures, and innovative ideas, sharpening one another and forming connective threads that will far outlast the two-day gathering.

If human care and all its beauty and complexity keeps you up at night, or if you want it to keep you up at night but you don’t know how to jump in, Idea Camp is for you. Bring your ideas, your dreams, your burdens; your questions, frustrations, false starts – those are welcome too. You’ll get to learn from some of the best and connect with likeminded believers who crave redemption and justice for humanity like you do.

Because of the nature of Idea Camp, it is limited to 450 participants, and we only have a few spots left. You wouldn't believe how affordable it is: $89. I'm not even kidding. But because I want you to come SO MUCH, if you enter the promo code IDEACAMP15, you'll get 15% off. Pastors, bring your staff. Activists, bring your friends. Leaders, bring your fellow visionaries. Bring your spouse, your small group, your partners in crime. Let's dream together.

Plus, you’ll get to be in Austin, and don’t get me started on that propaganda.

We need your voice, we need each other. We’ll see you there.

That Time I Was on the Today Show

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 27 Jun 2013 13:29:34 +0000

Alright. I can only let so many of you tell me You were great on the Today Show! Very poised! Like you’ve done it for years! so many times before my conscience cracks under the illusion. And for the rest of you asking What was it like? I give you the unembellished truth of my four minutes on The Today Show.

I’ve told you I don’t answer my phone almost ever because my thoughts tell me I cannot do it or I might die because of the hard things like answering questions and talking, so when an unknown NYC number popped up Sunday over lunch at Doc’s Bar and Grill, I promptly screened it. When they called back one minute later, I was all perhaps you didn’t hear my first screen. Then my booking agent texted one minute later and was like ANSWER YOUR PHONE, STUPID.

So I called back Brian the Producer who was all kinds of nice and disarming, tricking me into a light conversation to discover if I should just continue writing rather than talk about my writing on his show. It is a known fact that most writers are strange birds in person having exaggerated our charms and smarts in print, which is exactly the case for me. When people tell Brandon, “It must be so funny living with Jen…” he’s all yeah, she is a barrel of laughs sitting on the couch eating hummus and watching Chopped.

But I faked Brian out and passed the Front of the Camera Test, so then he very casually, nonchalantly says, “We’ve already researched flights, and there is only one that will get you here in time, and don’t worry, but you kind of need to pack a bag and start heading to the airport.”

After five beats of dead silence, I reached across the table and swatted a chicken strip out of Remy’s mouth and started making panicked monkey gestures to everyone to FREAKING BOX UP THIS FOOD AND RUN TO THE CAR while mm-hming to Brian and acting fake sane.

Note: I have been a Today Show patron for as long as I can remember. I’ve written about it in at least three books:

These are my people. I’ve stuck with all the anchors, all the hijinks, all the Olympics coverage, all the everything. In fact, don’t make a big deal out of it, but this was actually my second time on the Today Show, as I made this impressive debut three years ago almost to the day:

Me and T and Lenny: smooth operators obviously.

So we drove 100 miles an hour home, and hand to the heavens, we had 10 minutes to get packed and out the door. Do you understand how much time I needed to obsess over this little dream come true? MORE THAN TEN MINUTES. This required a haircut and manicure and some wonderful new outfit, and if this wasn’t cause for new shoes, then I don’t know what is. I had two inches of gray to color and nine pounds to lose, and there was the small matter of these five kids who live here: Sister, can you stop what you’re doing and take care of my kids for the next two days? Yes?! Good! Thank you! Uh, we’re already gone. Just drive to my house sometime today.

So because I only had ten minutes to pack, my brain simply froze and launched full mental strike. I kept looking at my clothes like what are these clothes? I can’t think of what I look like in any of these. I can’t think about what to wear on the Today Show. Sequins? Jeans? A prom dress? Nothing makes sense. I cannot make sense of these options.

Since my brain was betraying me, I had no choice but to grab dirty clothes off the floor from my last event, because my brain thought it was a decent outfit a few days ago when it was still contributing to my life. And let’s be real: I’ve already told you I wear the same clothes to all my events, and since you’ve seen the same three outfits posted a million times no matter what city I’m in, we should all probably stop pretending that isn’t a thing.

We landed in NYC at 11:30pm, and “my driver” took us to “our hotel” on “Central Park South" (these are "fancy quotes") and if you think I was unable to play that cool, you are correct, madam. I took out my clothes to see what I brought, and the news was bad: one workable outfit and a smattering of unrelated pieces absolutely good for nothing. So I stress ate a burger from “my room service” at 12:30am because I'm careful about nutrition.

NBC sent a car for us at 6:30am and said to come with clean dry hair and no makeup because they would attempt to make me pretty. When I went to “hair and makeup” (!!!), there were a bunch of young gangster homies everywhere, and I asked my makeup wizard: “Who are these boy band youths?” Neither of us had any idea, because as I mentioned, I was there for being a lame mom, so the “cool segment” wasn’t the space I occupied. All I know is, 700 thousand screaming teen girls had mobbed the plaza, and I was terrified that they’d swarm this young man and he would lose his pants, as they were sagging into the danger zone.

"Who is this weird mom trying to act like she isn't taking my picture?"

Speaking of segments, I shared green room space with Scott Thorson (Liberace’s gay lover, far left), Russell Brand (who kept throwing up in the bathroom and almost missed his interview), and then in walks someone’s chubby grandpa with his scantily clad, stiletto wearing…I want to say…granddaughter? No, I was mistaken about that. She was actually an employee at the Moonlite Bunny Ranch, a legalized brothel in Nevada and he was her…I want to say…owner? My first reaction was to cover her up, because I’m pretty sure I saw her hinterlands. This was Brandon’s first reaction:

That's right, mister. Better put Grandpa between you and Blondie.

So with an hour of substance clearly lined up, it was time for my “teasers,” of which I had two. I could see myself on the screen behind the cameraman, and it took a Herculean effort not to look at myself, like when Remy watches herself cry.

"Just smile and wave for five seconds." NAILED IT.

Then into the studio where Brandon and my sister were not allowed, because it is approximately the size of my living room, so now I was without my people, sitting on “my interview couch” waiting, and all the funny, charming, adorable quips I planned promptly exited my brain, like the Hebrews fleeing Egypt. I couldn’t remember how to be funny, and my breathing got shallow, which is a particular way my body tries to murder me before something like this.

You guys, these anchors, bless them, run, race to each segment. Out to the plaza, run back into the news desk, zip over to the couch scene, dash back out to the plaza, race over to the stools, dash upstairs to the Today Show kitchen, ACT LIKE YOU ARE INTERESTED IN ALL THESE UNRELATED SEGMENTS. No wonder they are such miniature, tiny people; they burn 6000 calories an hour. (I could hoist Natalie onto my hip and carry her around all day like a toddler.)

Then, Savannah and handsome Carl (the nicest person to me of them all) popped over to my couch and the camera guy started the 5, 4, 3, 2…countdown, and I had a tiny, undetectable heart attack. The lead-in piece rolled, and Natalie did the voiceover, reading parts of my blog less like a sarcastic humorist and more like a pretty robot ("Just. Whatever. Man.”) Bless.

I don’t remember the next four minutes, but I clearly have some sort of hand gesturing disorder, which is incurable I’m sorry to say, and I’d also point out that I giggle when I’m nervous, so basically I snickered and gesticulated nonstop while saying virtually nothing. Also worth noting at the 3:18 mark: I wanted to lean on my elbow to demonstrate how casual I was, but since the Today Show is staffed by wee people with wee furniture, I miscalculated the height of the armrest, thus necessitating an “air lean.” I played it off not at all.

CLICK HERE TO WATCH THE 4-MINUTE MAGIC. Or just to bear witness to the air lean.

So glad to report that the anchors, the producers, the crew…all lovely and wonderful. The producers and I commiserated because we are all working parents and our brethren in NYC were still in school at the time, God love ‘em. NBC said, “Stay another night in the fancy hotel! We’ll pick up the tab…” Well, OKAY THEN. The whole experience was too fun, like a fake two-day fancy life in the middle of the normal, so thank you, Today Show, for all the awesome.

I need to tell you one last thing, and I expect you to be compassionate because I was clearly under duress with these mental anxieties, but in my haste, I forgot to pack underwear, and I told you we didn’t land in NYC until 11:30pm and they sent a car for us at 6:30am, so what I am trying to tell you is this:

I went on the Today Show in dirty clothes…commando.

Sorry Yellow Couch, but there were two layers between my bare butt and your upholstery, because I may have forgotten underwear but I sure as hell didn’t forget my Spanx.

Surviving Summer

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 11:30:21 +0000

Folks, I’m one week into summer, and I have some thoughts. First of all, for all the teachers and parents who made it: HALLELUYER. For those of you with four days or two weeks left, may the Lord’s face shine upon you. We are on the other side, lighting candles for you. Godspeed.

Second, some readers struggle with satire; it is lost on you. I get it. We aren’t all fluent in sarcasm. Example: a district employee where my cherubs attend read my last post, dashed to her principal with the truly horrific discovery that I was only educating two of my five children, and lamented, “Something has to be done!” So for you, I’ll include [[non-sarcastic parenthetical notes]] so you can stop holding prayer vigils for my family.

I, like most of you I suspect, approach summer with equal parts delight and dread. Delight, because NO HOMEWORK FOLDERS. We’re all chilling out! We’re so chill! We’ve got our kids to ourselves and no one is our boss! And of course, no pre-dawn wake up calls to hasten the moment when some kid is all I can’t find my shoes and Did you sign my reading log and Where is my library book and Jessica’s mom eats lunch with her every Tuesday and Thursday. (Well, Jessica’s mom also cried when she went to kindergarten, and my friends and me went to brunch, so...)

[[I actually LOVE to eat lunch with my kids two days a week, which equals about 80 days of the school year in which the first kid’s lunch starts at 10:50 and the last kid’s lunch ends at 1:10, so let’s see, I’ve been at school two-and-a-half hours in the middle of my work day (twice a week) dodging the petrifying cafeteria monitor and pretending Brandon packed lunches because I would *never* send Pringles and a tortilla slathered with Nutella. We are legit, me and Jessica’s mom.]]

^ That was my attempt at "non-sarcastic" and I'm going to go ahead and give it a D-.

But there is also a teeny bit of dread, because here they all are. Every day. Up in my grill. Even on my best days, we spearhead a cooking project together, finish a craft, take a bike ride, and go swimming, and that gets us to 1:35pm. It’s like time stands still, and plus, the sun goes down at approximately 11:20pm, so it can feel like the summer solstice of doom.

I believe this was approximately 10:49pm.

I’ll be honest: I’m pretty decent at the big activities, but the filler stuff that gets us to bedtime isn’t my jam.

Remy: “Mommy? Can you play beauty shop with me?”
Me: “Oh, I would, but I can’t.”
Remy: “Why not?”
Me: “Because I don’t want to.”

[[Never fear. I totally love playing kid stuff with my kids. I find Legos riveting. You should see my towers. So straight. So towering. Absolutely no dimension or visual interest. This never, ever gets old. In fact, I play Legos by myself when the kids are gone.]]

This can backfire. For instance, say your sons decide to fill the unstructured time themselves, and you say sure, whatever, just whatever takes up another hour, and they fill a giant, inflatable punching balloon with water in the upstairs bathroom, and since the hours are infinity, you say fine, but the next thing you know, five gallons of water is pouring through your downstairs light fixture, seeping through the floor, because evidently water balloons eventually break. When the husband has a coronary and asks WHO LET THEM DO THIS, you work up a tear about staying home all summer while he works in his quiet office, and he backs off because he doesn’t want his solitude screwed with.

[[Disregard this. I carefully supervise every single moment of summer, and there is never a moment where I can only account for three kids.]]

With natural light plus the cascading water, Remy noted, "We have a rainbow in our house!" I'll be sure to include that amenity for future resale.

I’ve culled a few structural ideas for us Mediocre Mamas who want this season to be fun and memorable, but we also live in the real world where not every solitary day is pinnable (thank you for these shame-based new verbs, Pinterest). Nor can we afford to take five kids to water parks each day, because Brandon is a pastor and I am a writer; two professions noted for wealth building, except not that.

There are loose structures, because for me, complicated systems are basically an invitation to fail more. I can handle one really cool fun thing a week. That is the outer limits of my capabilities, and just whatever about it.

So we are enjoying our third summer of “Mystery Thursdays.” The kids know every Thursday we go somewhere neat, and it is a surprise: floating the river, going to the lake, daytime movie and a picnic (a bunch of theaters show free kid movies all summer), swimming at Barton Springs so my kids might see an old, naked person (Austin keeps it weird, folks), paddle boarding, Schlitterbaun, anything that shakes it up. Some of these are free, some really inexpensive, some super pricey, but after fifteen summers as a parent, I’ve calculated the value of keeping us occupied and the summer moving along, and I am willing to pay 17 million dollars.

[[Of course I don’t really think we can buy our kids’ happiness and our personal sanity. I also philosophically reject babysitters, house help, date nights, a hefty book budget, movies on demand, DVD player in the car, and all forms of ~~child bribery~~ incentives.]]

With average success, we carve out an hour of Room Time every afternoon. Theoretically, the kids are supposed to read, and some do. Others probably do something involving a controller, but Mama needs the Hour of Peace and I don’t even care. This will technically fulfill the Summer Reading Program I agreed to at the end of school because I was just trying to get out the door. On the fifth hour of summer, Remy gasps: “MOMMY!! WE HAVEN’T STARTED OUR READING LOG!!!” and I think I had a stroke; I smelled burnt toast. So 1.) Room Time for reading, 2.) log your own hours, and 3.) I’ll sign them the morning of August 26th as you’re heading back to school.

[[Don’t spaz over reading minutes. WE LOVE TO READ. I’ll remind you I am a writer and place a stout premium on the written word. But when we have to do it and log it and sign it and turn it in, it’s like the difference between running for fun and running from a murderer. I’m totally kidding. I have no idea what ‘running for fun’ means.]]

Summer Rule: The trampoline can sub for a bedroom. Room Time for reading? No problem.
Actual nighttime sleeping? Sure.

Everyone still has a daily chore, which marks the end of Room Time. At first I said, “You have a chore a day. You can finish it whenever you want.” And the children did. Interestingly, whenever they wanted turned out to be never. They never wanted to finish a chore actually, which is shocking because they obviously care so much about cleanliness and order. Opposite Day! So Room Time ends with Chore Time, and I hope you are starting to get the picture of this Hatmaker Summer Party.

Then we brainstormed a list of filler activities instead of risking their lives by saying I’m bored: ride bike, rollerblade, basketball, four-square, Rip Stick, board games (or as I like to call them, Bored Games, because Monopoly is like a very slow and horrible way to die), arts and crafts, iStation (a cool online reading program our school hooked us up with), trampoline, friends, make a movie/video, iPad apps, build something, write and illustrate a book, Legos/Bionicles (my 15-year-old begrudgingly “helped” the younger boys "for a minute" and I discovered his complicated architectural war-scape five hours later), Spa Day, or any of the zillion games we have for the Wii, Xbox, and Kinect. Swimming at our neighborhood pool is in regular rotation too, as these homeowners’ fees better go toward something other than watering demerits and hate mail about our fence.

Therapists say healthy people have boundaries, so I set some. Kids, things I am not in charge of this summer:

Breakfast.
Lunch is a crapshoot.
Figuring our your snacks. You know where the kitchen is.
Entertaining you.
Solving all your problems.
Enduring fighting. You fight, the thing is gone, good times are over.
Being your cruise ship director.

I will stock the kitchen with the goods, so if you ask me what’s for breakfast, I’m going to show you my coffee mug and give you a blank look. I taught you how to make eggs and smoothies and breakfast sandwiches and oatmeal, and I’m sad to admit this, but there is the cereal. Enjoy your chemical concoction, a nutritional hypocrisy I’m comfortable with.

Last, Mamas and Daddies, do not forget to get away from the darlings periodically and do something together. As Remy says, “Sometimes I just need to be by my lone.” Summer contains some of our best family memories, but after *a lot of togetherness* it’s good to have a breather. Do what you gotta do: pay a babysitter, trade free child care with another friend, put the littles in day camp one week, trade time off with your spouse, ask Grandma/Aunt/Sister to take them for an evening, trade sleepovers with your kids’ friends (we once engineered all five kids at sleepovers on the same night, and I turned instantly Pentecostal, waving my praise flags and I’m pretty sure I spoke in tongues).

Our plan is to keep it light and keep it fun. It’s so nice to enjoy my kids outside the rigors of school for awhile. For me, structure summer too much and all the joy is gone; structure it too little and I will lose my crap. There is a sweet spot somewhere in the middle where we balance resting and playing, chilling out and going out, staying at home and hitting the highway.

When I remember I only have three more summers with my oldest, everything suddenly comes into clear focus, and I realize what Bo and Hope and Stefano have always known: these are the days of our lives. May they be filled with laughter and cannonballs and good books and grilled hamburgers and fireworks and road trips and friends and happiness and love.

And may the children learn to make their own lunches. Amen.

One last note: Happy Father’s Day this weekend to all the amazing Daddies and Papas and Grandpas and Papaws! Whenever men invest heavily and sincerely into their marriages and children, love abounds. For every time you’ve attended tea parties, recitals, student-led conferences, baseball games, concerts, and then tucked the littles into bed, we love you! In your honor, please enjoy this card Remy made for Brandon after following the template at school:

Want more? Click here to read "10 Things to Do With Your Kids This Summer" which I wrote for my BFF, Barnes and Noble today, where I've spent around half my salary for the last 15 years. After I wrote it, I realized 10 things was my absolute maximum, so in other words, here is everything I know about Summer Fun in 1000 words. So sad.

Worst End of School Year Mom Ever

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 30 May 2013 11:07:37 +0000

You know the Beginning of School Enthusiasm? When the pencils are fresh and the notebooks are new and the kids’ backpacks don’t look like they lined the den of a pack of filthy hyenas? Moms, remember how you packed innovative and nutritional lunches and laid clothes out the night before and labeled shelves for each child’s work and school correspondence and completed homework in a timely manner?

I am exactly still like that at the end of school, except the opposite.

We are limping, limping across the finish line, folks. I tapped out somewhere in April and at this point, it is a miracle my kids are still even going to school. I haven’t checked homework folders in three weeks, because, well, I just can’t. Cannot. Can. Not. I can’t look at the homework in the folder. Is there homework in the folder? I don’t even know. Are other moms still looking in the homework folder? I don’t even care.

Last signature: April 26th. I'm good at other things.

I feel like any sort of school energy required at this point is pure oppression, like the universe is trying to destroy me. I’m so tiiiiiiiiired and I have five kids and that is just too many to educate well. I can only handle around two, so I’m going with Sydney and Caleb because they both like to read and the other three are just going to have to enroll in Life Skills Class one day and develop a trade.

Yesterday Remy brought her books to me at bedtime – an hour notable for its propensity to incite rage and trauma – and chirped, “We need to read for 20 minutes!” and a little part of my soul died.

“No, we don’t have to read tonight.”
“YES WE DO!!! MRS. BURKE SAID!!! WE HAAAAVE TO!!!”
“We already read.”
“NO WE DIDN’T!!! YOU ARE FAKING ME, MOM?”
“When I talk to you during the day, that’s like reading. You have to listen to the words I am saying and then make sense of them. It’s really hard work for you. It’s called auditory reading. We’ve been practicing all day. I’ll write the minutes down in your log.”

My friend Glennon over at Momastery described nighttime reading like this: “The little one wants to ‘help read’ her book. So, let’s see. It takes her about six minutes to sound out each word, and so if the book is one hundred words, well, I don’t specialize in math but I am telling you that I am stuck in that room FOREVER. It feels like I will be reading that book with Amma until I die.”

UNTIL WE DIE. Children should not be allowed to learn to read until they are already good at it. And why do we have to do this at bedtime when I’m one click away from becoming that scary under-the-bed-mother in “Mama” (GO TO BED OR I AM ACTUALLY GOING TO DIE AND THEN HAUNT YOU FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE AS A TERRIFYING CLOWN). I know having an emerging reader is exciting. Because of the reading! And the literacy! But at the end of the school year, when I’ve logged approximately 688 million hours with such gripping plots like The mother and the brother went to the store, which takes 12 minutes to decode, then I have to look at the ceiling and sing hymns in my brain to get through it.

Then Ben tells me Tuesday that he needs a Ben Franklin costume for the Living History Museum today, and I’m like what fresh hell is this?? I have no idea how I missed the correspondence on this (because I’m not checking backpacks is just a theory), but Brandon is the Costume and Project Parent and I am the Daily Grinder, which is a division of labor we agreed on to ensure our kids actually graduate one day and move out, but he is out of town on a mancation, so this is on me. I cannot even handle signing a folder in late May; a colonial costume is cause for full, unrestrained despair.

So Ben went to school like this today, and there is no way this will ever not be a part of his childhood. Please note my scarf hanging out the bottom of his vest, as well as the soccer socks stretched over his Adidas pants. Just whatever, man.

"Mom, I should've picked a black character. Like Abraham Lincoln." Bless it.

My shame was somewhat mitigated when I saw a kid wearing a random t-shirt and jeans with a pair of swim goggles around his neck (Michael Phelps) and another girl with a piece of paper taped to her shirt with her character’s name written in marker. I caught the eyes of their moms and was all solidarity, you guys.

Teachers, we need to make a deal that after April testing, we don’t have to do anything else. You don’t. I don’t. I don’t care if you watch movies in class five days a week and take four recesses a day. I mean, Caleb had to bring an About Me poster with five school days left in the year. In September, this might have produced something noteworthy, with pictures perhaps, even some thoughtful components to describe his winning qualities, but as we’ve used up all our bandwidth, we yanked trash out of our actual trash can, glued it to a poster, and called it a day. I am not exaggerating when I tell you this is the very most we can do on May 29th. This is our best work:

Note the caveman labels: DRINK, MOTORCYCLE, GAME, SHOP, FOOD.
End of school hard.

The emails coming in for All Of The Things – class gift, end of year letters, luncheon signup, party supplies, awards ceremonies, pictures for the slide shows, final projects – are like a tsunami of doom. They are endless. I mean, they will never ever end. There is no end of it. I will never finish and turn it all in and get it to the (correct) Room Mom and get it all emailed and I am pretty sure the final week of school will never be over and this is the end for me.

Brandon:

“You don’t have to do all that, you know. Just blow it off.”

Me, staring blankly:

“Well, what a lovely thought you’re having there in your brain. How nice for you to be thinking that thought. I want to live in your imaginary world where my failure to do the School Stuff doesn’t mean our kid is the only one not wearing a purple shirt or didn’t have his pictures in the slideshow or didn’t bring in a handmade card for his teacher like every other student. I’ll just ‘blow it off’ and our kids can work it out with their therapists later.”

“Touchy.”

“You don’t even know about all this, man.”

So, Mom out there sending Lunchables with your kid, making her wear shoes with holes because we’re.almost.there, practicing “auditory reading” with your 1st grader, I got your back, sister. We were awesome back in October; don’t you forget that. We used to care, and that counts for something. Next year’s teachers will get a fresher version of us in August, and they won’t even know the levels of suckage we will succumb to by May. Hang in there, Mama. Just a few more days until summer, when approximately 19 minutes into our glorious respite from homework, liberated from the crush of it all, ready to party like it’s 1999, our precious children, having whooped and celebrated and “graduated” and squealed all the way home will announce:

“I’m bored.”

Just in case you think this is "anti-teachers", you might want to check out what I wrote last month: Dear Teachers Everywhere. TEACHERS RULE. We ALL crossed the finish line together. Cheers!

Examining Adoption Ethics: Part Three

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 29 May 2013 14:44:16 +0000

This is the third installment in a series on adoption ethics, starting with Part 1 here, then Part 2 involving orphan care within adoption, and wrapping up today as we discuss orphan care outside of adoption.

Before we move on, let’s get our numbers straight. I mentioned in Part 2 the number we throw around most – 147 million orphans – doesn’t represent the orphan crisis correctly. There are an estimated 153 million kids who’ve lost only one parent (“single-orphaned”), so the term “orphan” is somewhat misleading. Around 18 million kids are double-orphans, yet still most of those are absorbed into extended families and local communities.

Unicef estimates around 2 million children in institutional care (some single-, some double-orphaned), although that number is admittedly low due to under-reporting and lack of reliable data from every country. Nearly half are in Central and Eastern Europe and neighboring Commonwealth of Independent States. Most of these kids are not adoptable, either because they live in a closed country or they lack the necessary documentation for international adoption. In the US, there are 104,000 children in foster care currently waiting for an adoptive home (parental rights severed), with another 300,000 or so needing temporary placement.

International adoption has steadily declined in recent years, with 8668 children adopted by Americans in 2012 (but 51,000 kids adopted through the foster system!). So even if we doubled the number of reported institutionalized kids to 4 million, absorbing some of the unreported children into the statistic, international adoption by US citizens provides permanent homes for 0.002% of them.

1 child out of every 461.

Those are terrible odds. Clearly, if we are truly concerned about orphan care, international adoption simply cannot be where we concentrate all our efforts. It leaves too many children behind. It isn’t even remotely comprehensive, nor does it affect the millions of families on the brink of poverty-induced relinquishment. It is very good news for a very small percentage of genuinely orphaned children, but it doesn’t even scratch the surface of the crisis, will never address the root issues of disparity and oppression, and exists as a possible answer on the back end of a tragedy, not the front.

Therefore, we must turn our eyes to the orphaned (or nearly-orphaned) outside of adoption as well, as this is where the bulk of vulnerable children and families are located.

It is unacceptable that poverty makes orphans. That is a gross injustice at the root of these astronomical numbers. If you must relinquish your child because you cannot feed, educate, or care for him, the international community should rise up and wage war against that inequity. Every family deserves basic human rights, and I should not get to raise your child simply because I can feed him and you can’t.

With the kids at Amazima Ministries in Uganda (<--- LEGIT). Go, Katie Davis.

To that end, what better response than working to preserve (or reunite) first families where poverty or disempowerment is an orphan-maker? Preventing or repairing a tragedy of this magnitude is holy work. When we come alongside our brothers and sisters vulnerable to economic despair, empowering and equipping them to raise their own children, we partake in something sacred.

There are fundamental building blocks of community development that provide first families the tools to parent and thrive:

Prenatal/maternal health
Basic health care/immunizations
Clean water
Education for all kids, especially girls
Child sponsorship
Birth control/family planning education
Community education directed at men re: valuing women and children
Sustainable employment
Microfinance
Business training
Drying up the donation pipeline (gifts that help instead of hurt)
Suitable housing
Agricultural finance
Reforestation
Supporting local churches as distribution and development centers

The connective thread between these social constructs and orphans is monumental. Hear this: if you work toward any of the above-mentioned initiatives, you are absolutely protecting children, refusing to “grind the faces of the poor.” THIS COUNTS. For example, in Haiti last fall with Help One Now, Chris Marlow explained the underbelly of donations. After years of exporting subsidized US rice to alleviate hunger in Haiti, virtually all the local rice farmers were driven out of business and the entire economy was undermined. The leap to orphanhood is so short from there.

Help One Now approached the struggling rice farmers and asked if sponsoring their children would help them regain stable footing. Temporarily taking on the financial burden of school fees, uniforms, and two meals a day for their kids relieved the pressure, freed up income to rebuild, and allowed them to keep their families intact, as their children were on the brink of relinquishment, poverty the only catalyst.

A growing body of global research confirms that where women and children are valued and educated, poverty is mitigated. Throwing our weight behind initiatives that empower women and educate children is one the single most effective ways to affect the orphan crisis, as it lifts entire communities out of poverty, alters the ethos of regional patriarchy, and serves as orphan prevention. (If you haven’t read Half the Sky, I cannot recommend it highly enough. Their research behind the oppression and empowerment of women is a marvel.)

Business initiatives that train and employ vulnerable adults have clear and lasting implications for family preservation, too. With organizations like Noonday employing women in nine different countries, and TechnoServe which provides free business consulting services in developing countries, and Making Cents International, a nonprofit in Washington that creates entrepreneurship courses for the disadvantaged and trains locals to teach them, cycles of poverty are broken and the economic stimulus affects entire communities.

Do not even get me started on microfinance, easily one of the most important economic developments of our time. Small loans, sometimes as little as $50, providing capital for business development and entrepreneurship, has such impressive yield in developing countries, it has benefited hundreds of millions already. It works for one simple reason: the vast majority of the poor are willing and able to lift themselves from poverty if given the opportunity. Repayment rate: between 95-98%. Stunning.

Regular people like us can make as many loans through a trusted microfinance channel as we want. Brandon and I made a series of loans six years ago, every single one repaid, and we continue to reinvest the same money into new entrepreneurs. We recycle that money over and over, and not one recipient has ever defaulted. In The Poor Will Be Glad, the authors write: “Access to capital is the magic ingredient allowing even the poorest person to make better business choices. Microfinance simply makes good sense.” Some of the large networks of MFI’s include:

Accion International
FINCA International
Hope International
Opportunity International
Kiva

(The Chalmers Center for Economic Development provides resources and trains the church worldwide on how to minister to the poor without creating dependency through online courses, self-study material, and short-term classroom based training institutes held worldwide in local churches.)

What might just sound like community development actually has massive impact on the number of poverty-induced orphans created. These efforts fortify orphan prevention, and they can provide the impetus for family reunification. These initiatives lay the axe at the root of the tree, offering front-end solutions and sustainable enterprises without sacrificing dignity, children, or hope.

Closer to the bulls-eye, we can support organizations committed to reunification (if healthy and possible) for children already relinquished. Heroes like my friends Jimmy and Rachel Gross with No Ordinary Love Ministries in Ethiopia work tirelessly to this end. Or let’s look for organizations like ReUnite (with WACIA: Women and Children in Africa) who work toward orphan resettlement in Uganda. People are quietly working in every country to strengthen indigenous families, support birth parents, and protect children.

Domestically, I cannot recommend Safe Families for Children enough, which offers sanctuary to thousands of children, minimizing the risk for abuse or neglect and giving birth parents the time and tools they need to help their families thrive. The ultimate goal is to strengthen and support parents so they can become safe for their own children, fostering a close working relationships between Safe Families, the local church, the referring organization, and the birth parents.

Far from ideal, we must also consider bolstering the quality and structures of group homes and orphanages. Research makes it crystal clear that children thrive in families but suffer emotionally, cognitively, and physically in institutional settings. Ideally, every child should be in a family. Realistically, adoption and reunification do not even remotely reach far enough, so we must also consider best-case scenarios for children that will never be placed within a family.

For example, Help One Now is building Ferrier Village in Haiti, small, family-oriented homes for girls aging out of orphanages as young as 13 (just opened...read this story...so good). Each home has 3-4 girls and a house mom or house parents. The alternative is inevitable trafficking or homelessness. The Miracle Foundation renovates and restructures existing orphanages in rural India with measurable, scalable interventions that guard against corruption and focus on the needs of the whole child, transforming institutional orphanages into stable, loving, nurturing homes where children can thrive. With over 25 million estimated orphans in India and less than 1000 adopted last year, we simply must consider initiatives like The Miracle Foundation who are addressing the needs of the masses.

A crisis of this magnitude is going to take us all - all the mamas, all the daddies, all the countries, all the workers. Some of us will raise the money, some will raise awareness, and some will raise the kids. Certain families will rally from here, and other families will pack up and move to vulnerable countries and do the work. Some of us will be starters, some executers, some funders, some visionaries. We collectively must insist on helping and not hurting, refusing to discredit the weak links in the system and instead insist on shoring them up.

We have to dig deep and reject the notion that Americans know best, are best, are better. We have to listen to dissenting voices and carefully assess, prioritizing first families, first cultures, first countries whenever possible. We move forward as if our goal was no orphans ever, setting aside our agendas, however altruistic. Our standard operating procedure must always include Being Good News: good for children, good for birth mamas, good for the poor, good for other countries and cultures.

Within that framework, we’re all going to have to fight like hell together. In the Old Testament, the Hebrew word for “justice” translates: “to set right.” May we be a people who bravely commit to set the wrongs right, because being too poor to parent isn’t right. Being too sick to parent isn’t right. Being abandoned or abused isn’t right. Being discarded because of special needs or gender isn’t right. Being manipulated into relinquishment isn’t right. Wasting away unloved in an orphanage isn’t right. Being trapped in cycles of poverty isn’t right.

May we apply the same standards we insist on for our families to all families, unwilling to accept disparity and injustice. I’ll play my note and you’ll play yours, and by themselves, they’ll be sort of one-dimensional, but together they will create a song that sounds like freedom for the captives, liberty for the oppressed, and the beautiful sound of chains breaking everywhere.

Examining Adoption Ethics: Part Two

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 20 May 2013 12:53:58 +0000

Welcome. With much love, care, research, and prayer, I move onto Part 2 in a three-part series on adoption ethics. If you haven’t read Part 1, go do that. In this installment, we’re discussing ethical orphan care WITHIN adoption, and Part 3 will involve orphan care OUTSIDE of adoption.

First of all, let’s make some room. The response to Part 1 was so inspiring from the Christian community. Your commitment to due diligence, to the search for truth, to the orphan, to first families and second families was a marvel. I was proud of us. In a movement with such deep investment and high emotions, it is no small thing to embrace scrutiny and evaluation.

Room: Should we shut down adoption and invest our energies elsewhere? Emphatically, NO. I am not anti-adoption; I am anti-unethical-adoption. So many children are true orphans, have no chance at reunification, or would be in danger with their first family, and adoption is their last chance. Similarly, many first parents relinquish their kids as an act of courage and selflessness, having soberly weighed their options, landing on adoption in their child’s best interest. We applaud these moms; they are to be commended. There will always be children who genuinely need a family, and adoption is a beautiful story of redemption in those cases.

These two. FOR.

Here are the real numbers: Around the world, there are an estimated 153 million orphans who have only lost one parent (“single-orphaned”). Obviously, not all these children need adopted. Most single parents raise children valiantly in their own community and extended family. There are about 18 million orphans who have lost both parents (“double orphaned”) and are living in orphanages or on the streets. So again, I am pro-family: first families when possible, and second families when they are not.

Let’s separate the wheat from the chaff: As my friend Ryan at AWAA so perfectly put it: “If there are bad actors coercing people, paying bribes, etc., then we should not call this ‘adoption’ but ‘trafficking’. When thieves run into a bank, point a gun and steal money, we don’t call that a bank withdrawal; it’s a robbery. Our response shouldn’t be to close banks or criticize all bankers but to step up bank security. In the same way, criminal activity should be described as such and not as adoption.” (<---- Exactly. This goes to my point in Part 1 that trafficking is not a God-endorsed franchise and shouldn't receive the same assessment as adoption. Let us step up bank security, because we should clamp down on less-frequent robberies instead of imagining that banks never attract thieves.)

Room: Should we stop adopting babies? No! Again, there are certainly babies who are either abandoned or willfully relinquished, and the less time they languish in an institution, THE BETTER. You are no villain, Baby Adopter, and many adoptive parents choose a baby to keep birth order intact or remove her from an institution early to diminish long-term effects.

It is simply this: the line for adoptable healthy babies is very long, and every last one of them will be chosen, even those not born yet. In the meantime, tens of thousands of older kids are waiting right this second. Unicef reports approximately 95% of orphans over the age of 5. So if our motivation includes mitigating the orphan crisis, then we need more parents willing to adopt older kids, sick kids, and sibling groups, including here and abroad.

Room: Adoption is as complicated as the number of people, countries, stories, and processes involved. There is no one story. What is true for China is different in Guatemala. What is happening in Ethiopia has no relevance for domestic foster care. The best we can do in a public forum like this is take a high view of adoption and insist on ethical practices, transparency, and a commitment to help and not hurt. While your personal adoption may be completely legitimate, as a community, we still must guard against systemic weak links and refuse to discredit obvious failure within the movement.

Room: Are all agencies corrupted? FOR THE LOVE. They most certainly are not. Plenty of agencies have impeccable reputations and unimpeachable staffs. They don’t deserve to all be painted with the same brush. While there are deplorable brokers supplying the pipeline illegally, unethically or even naively, it would be terribly unfair and unwise to lump them all together.

For you in serious research mode, may I point you to a series at My Fascinating Life describing best practices between the people who make decisions about the adoptability of a child, those who benefit from adoption, and those who oversee the entire process. It is a lengthy two-part series but well worth the energy, a fantastic exegesis on structural ethics. (Note: in this series, “adoption beneficiaries” includes agencies, but to be clear: I am not implying sinister motives, as no social workers or agency employees I know are rolling up in their Bentleys. We all love these kids and families. It is simply a designation for which side of the wall we are on.)

[Much thanks to the agency workers, nonprofit leaders, missionaries, and adoptive parents who have contributed to the following info. Especially grateful to Ryan Hanlon through my agency, America World, for his expertise. We burned up the internet in discussion last week, as my first email from him after Part 1 was something like “WTHHHHHHHHH???” and ended 73 emails later with some of the best material that follows. Let me tell you: when people get together who love children, love birth families and adoptive families, love community development, and love adoption, we are a powerful tribe for good.]

For those considering adoption, let’s discuss due diligence. Internationally, perhaps the primary consideration is which country. Why? Certain countries lend themselves to a more transparent process with less room for corruption. Others facilitate adoptions with virtually NO oversight by a child welfare authority, and the U.S. government has a limited role, so there is almost no process for verifying practices as ethical, which isn’t to say that they are corrupt, it’s to say that nobody has a clue if they’re corrupt.

PAPs (prospective adoptive parents) must research the adoption process in a country, specifically how a child is determined to be available for international adoption. Call multiple agencies, read the DOS website, talk to adoptive families that have gone through the process. In general, Hague Convention Countries have more safeguards in place than non-Convention countries (exceptions apply). In general, the more the foreign country’s government controls the process (especially the matching process) instead of an agency, attorney or orphanage, there is less room for corruption. Although frustrating, the slower and more thorough a country is, the better. If they place a premium on reunification and in-country placements and insist on exhaustive investigations to approve an international placement, we say AMEN and commit to wait.

Second, with such enormous trust placed in agencies as mediators, this is no place for naivety. Once you’ve chosen a country, next find an agency with best practices in that country, because an agency has different levels of experience, staffing, knowledge and resources in every country they work, even if they run multiple programs.

Although this varies from country to country, some general questions to ask of agencies:

Are you licensed and accredited both here and in the other country? (You might think this was obvious, but you would be wrong.)
Has your license ever been suspended in country X? Any other country?
Can you recommend other agencies that work in the same country? (This speaks volumes, including their reputation with other sound agencies.)
Can you provide references of families who have adopted from your agency from the same country? (Not foolproof, because anyone can assemble a band of cheerleaders, but it’s a start. This list should be lengthy.)
How long have you been working in country X? (Pilot programs give me serious pause; it is simply not proven, and this is no place for naive optimism.)
How many adoptions do you facilitate each year? (Beware of astronomical numbers.)
How many of the kids you place from county X are infants? How many have special needs? How many are older?
Can we see a copy of a recent audited financial statement? Annual report?
How does the referral process work?
Do any of your staff get paid on a per adoption basis? If no, then how are they paid?
What are the common reasons children are available for adoption in country X?
Will the children likely have living birth parents? If so, are we allowed to interact with them? What will we learn from them?
Can we use an independent or second translator when talking to birth parents? (This diminishes the possibility of selective mistranslation by an orphanage employee and allows you to ask difficult and pressing questions about what they actually understand about international adoption. What have they been promised? Are they under the impression that this is temporary? Were they approached about adoption or did they relinquish voluntarily? Etc…)
Who in country X determines that the children are appropriate for adoption?
Does your agency interact with the birth parents?
Do you have initiatives in place for reunification or first family development, not associated with adoption revenue?
For domestic adoption: What does the birth parent get from your agency? Who is providing counseling? What options are presented by your agency?

Red flags for PAPs:

When you ask questions, do you feel shut down, disrespected, bullied, or discouraged? I asked my agency hard questions and got pages and pages of immediate, thorough responses. If you are discouraged from talking to other families, researching, asking difficult questions, or investigating, RUN.
Are other adoptive families with concerns are painted as lunatics or troublemakers?
Does correspondence lean too heavily on emotional propaganda and "rescue" rhetoric, as opposed to professionalism and an obvious commitment to best practices?
An agency that offers something different than other agencies.
An agency that only does infant adoptions or promises lots of babies.
An agency that offers the same thing for much less money.
An agency that offers the same thing as other agencies in much less time.
An agency that claims to have special connections or processes in country.
If you hear the word “expedited,” run for the hills. That is not a thing. That is corruption.
Payments without receipts (common in Eastern European adoptions).
“In general, if it smells fishy, don’t eat it…” Ryan Hanlon, folks. We cannot allow Baby or Child Fever to overtake our instincts. If your gut senses a red flag, YOU ARE PROBABLY RIGHT.

Red flags for agencies in terms of in-country partners:

Seeing the same situation in lots of kids’ paperwork (e.g. all the kids are abandoned or all the kids have parents’ deceased; or the same police officer signed off on the abandonment recognition, or the same hospital worker or social worker, etc. is involved in all the cases.)
An orphanage partner who wants money off the books.
An orphanage partner who can provide much more than anyone else.
In-country staff or partners who prevent international staff from accessing or communicating with any relevant parties.
Not experiencing the same challenges as other agencies (unless the reasons are obvious).

I would heavily discourage independent adoptions. I know they are faster and smoother and maybe the only possibility in certain countries, but we want more oversight, not less in international adoption. The more people, systems, and organization in place, the higher the accountability, and I cannot stress this enough: we want the highest possible accountability here. If adoptions are not possible through formal channels, there is probably a reason. This ball is in our court, PAPs. Of the few things we can control, this is one.

This post is infinity long, and I’ve left out so much. Note: you cannot take one blog as your guide. You must do your own research, suss out the truth, ask, study, investigate, Google, dig, push, insist on clarity. Agencies operating above board will welcome your questions, because we all want the same thing: first family preservation if possible, and families for truly orphaned children when it isn’t. Adoption is an answer to a tragedy that has already happened, but may it never be the impetus for one that hasn’t.

In Part 3, we will discuss orphan care outside of adoption, and I can hardly wait. Thank you for sharing your stories this last week. I’ve treasured them, prayed for you, asked God to infuse us all with courage and humility, and begged for His kingdom to come.

What can you add? The power in our collective conversation here cannot be overstated. What have you learned? What have I omitted? Thank you in advance for filling in gaps with foster and domestic scenarios. So grateful for you.

Examining Adoption Ethics: Part One

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 14 May 2013 12:30:24 +0000

When I was in college, a guy drank a bottle of hot sauce for $100. He was sick for four days. That sauce came out everywhere; both ends, pores, night sweats. He had to buy expensive medicine to help repair the lining of his stomach, you guys. No matter. Because 1.) the bragging rights, and 2.) the $100.

For the love.

I’m wading into difficult adoption territory today, a space wrought with defensiveness and Big Feelings and confusion. Let’s cover this conversation with grace and truth and move gently through it together, beginning with Part One today.

Disclaimer up front: There are so many children who are truly orphaned, with the numbers skewed toward older kids and sick kids. This is a real crisis. There are also adoption agencies with impeccable ethics both here and abroad. Plenty of adoptive families went in eyes wide open, prioritizing transparency and thoroughness. This is not an all-bad or all-good scenario, but a little yeast leavens the entire batch, and no decent parent I know wants to be complicit in corrupt adoptions. This conversation deserves its place among believers.

We can begin here: Sometimes when you wave a $100 in front of someone, he or she will do anything to get it, even something knowingly harmful. Let’s stipulate that rich Americans flooding impoverished countries with millions of dollars to adopt its children will absolutely garner attention. Money has always been a magnet for corruption. While there are obviously lots of true orphans, without question, that much cash flow will generate some “created orphans” to satisfy demand, especially for babies.

Now three years after our first steps, I’m connected to people living in all sorts of impoverished countries, and the word on the street is not good. There is the Christian adoption narrative we use over here, including inflated statistics, words like rescue and saving, and plenty of emotional ammunition (me = guilty), then there is the in-country story, which is something altogether different.

I so want this to not be true, but I keep hearing it over and over in Ethiopia, Haiti, Uganda, Congo, everywhere. The missionaries and locals are saying something very disturbing: so often vulnerable birth moms are coerced and misled, families are manipulated and deceived, children are flat out bought. International adoption is Big Business. I’ve read emails describing orphanage directors who paid $20 for birth certificates and $75 to take a baby right out of his mother’s hands. Paperwork is falsified and birth families are told their children are going to school, to triage while they stabilize, to receive health care then return home.

There are very real orphans all over the earth, but most of us don’t pursue the kids there are; we pursue the kids we want, and these countries know the score. Older kids stay on waiting children lists, while the baby line is hundreds deep. It doesn’t take long for opportunists to figure this out.

I’ve heard of too many devastated birth parents, shocked and confused their children were adopted to another family. Basic investigations have uncovered entire communities picked through for their children, like door-to-door salesmen. I’m not hearing enough about prioritizing birth families and empowering them to raise their own children, not even from well-meaning adoptive parents. Isn’t that what we want? Shouldn’t intact families be our highest goal? Shouldn’t we want for birth families exactly what we want for our own, if it is possible?

But birth families are not prioritized; adopters are. The system is geared to make us happy, to keep us coming. There is this silent belief that kids are better off with us, period. We say, “God chose this child for me. She is mine. She was always meant to be mine.” No. Our children were meant for their birth families, the way every child ever born is. God did not intend these children for my wealthy home and accidentally put them in Ethiopian wombs. Does God not weep for birth moms who were tricked? Who were coerced? Who were so vulnerable? Were their children gifts for us and not them? This perspective insidiously tricks us into overvaluing our "rights" and devaluing first families or reunification efforts.

With much of the adoption pipeline supplied by corruption and confusion, we cannot possibly claim God’s sovereignty. We need to call it what it is: an injustice God would never endorse. It is time to stop participating in the type of adoption that encourages able-bodied parents to give up their children or get pregnant to supply a baby for a paycheck. We cannot be complicit in what amounts to trafficking.

When we began the process, Brandon and I assumed we were adopting kids with no parents. We were shocked to discover most kids in our pipeline had one or both living parents, including our two. Without sharing too much of their stories, I’ll tell you that both kids could be raised by able-bodied birth parents or extended family. That doesn’t change the fact that they were both relinquished, Ben in an orphanage nearly three years when we met him at age 8, but we are haunted by the possibility that some simple development and intervention could’ve prevented them from ever entering the system.

“It’s too complicated.” “They cannot handle their own kids.” “They are too poor.” “Life is too unstable there.” These are the arguments we bandy around about birth parents. Frankly, this is an easy pill to swallow and goes down in seconds without much consideration. Just like that, I’ve severed the biological tie and discredited the argument for reunification.

Yet people working in impoverished countries tell me something totally different. My friends, Troy and Tara Livesay, work in maternal care in Haiti, the poorest country in the western hemisphere. By every statistic and standard, it is a hot mess. Yet at Heartline, their organization that offers prenatal care, safe birthing facilities, and parenting and child development classes for vulnerable moms, their numbers disclose something astonishing: Out of roughly 300 births – and I’m talking very poor women, some raped, some teenagers, some single moms, extremely disadvantaged – only ONE birth mom has ever relinquished her baby. As Tara told me, “If our small, simple operation has virtually a 100% success rate, we are not trying hard enough for birth families.”

What would happen if we reallocated a percentage of the millions we spend on adoption toward community development? What if we prioritized first families and supported initiatives that train, empower, and equip them to parent? This would absolutely be Orphan Prevention, not to mention grief prevention, loss prevention, abandonment prevention, trauma prevention, broken family prevention. What if we asked important questions about supply and demand here, and broadened our definition of orphan care to include prevention and First Family empowerment?

Adoptive parents are so precious to me; this community is dear. I only feel safe raising these disturbing concerns because I know our hearts. You would not sit one of us down and discover evil motives or a calculated rejection of birth moms. The opposite is true, in fact. These are some of the best people I’ve ever known. This is no attack; rather it’s grabbing hands with my community and humbly acknowledging that where there is a lot of smoke, there is some fire, and none of us endorse international pyromania.

When the critics are primarily adult adoptees, misled first families, locals and missionaries, in-country nonprofits, and developing countries in general, we should listen.

I simply believe it is time to take our good hearts and add our good minds. Adoption is the worst place to enter armed with nothing but good intentions. Rather than get swept up in emotional jargon and moving videos, we must move forward soberly, carefully, thoroughly, setting any agenda aside and working like hell to protect children, birth families, communities, and the kingdom.

Dear Ones, again, adoption is complicated and nuanced, and corruption does not apply to every situation obviously. There are clearly scenarios dripping with abuse, neglect, total abandonment, and bad parents, which exist in every country. Orphans are real and some kids really need families, and I personally know scads of your above-board stories. So many of our kids had no option for reunification or extended family or in-country adoption.

Discussing unethical adoptions, I am not saying always; I am saying sometimes, and if there is a sometimes in the mix, then we must go on high alert. We have to. We cannot simply hope we have no part in the sometimes…

…we must insist on the never.

In Part Two, I’ll get down to the nitty gritty: What do we do? What questions do we ask? What are the red flags? How do we evaluate our agencies, since we must place so much trust in their integrity? How do we refuse complicity in unethical practices?

[Image courtesy of Free.Digital.Photos.net]

Wherever it Rises

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 08 May 2013 07:51:08 +0000

This thing has happened lately, and every single time it leaves me bumbling and fumbling and overwhelmed. A male pastor, in his 60s at least, attends a conference I’m teaching at, finds me afterward, and says something like:

“I am so moved by what you said. Will you pray for me?”

“I read a book you wrote, and it has changed our entire church because it changed me.”

“What do you think I should do about _______? How should I lead?”

Then, normally pretty composed, I get choked up and awkward and over-emote and act weirdly inappropriate like try to hold their hand or put my head on their shoulder. Not at all creepy.

I cannot explain how this moves me. First of all, the girl thing. These leaders are from a generation where women did not preach or speak at pastors’ conferences or advise men spiritually or write books they read. Men were at the helm, and women simply didn’t have a seat at the table. This paradigm comprised the majority of their ministry careers, unlike the young bucks who are more accustomed to leading alongside women.

The humility of these men my dad’s age, offering me gracious respect with teachable spirits just leaves me undone. I am so challenged by their humility and can’t help but contrast my fire and flash. This deference to the kingdom, treasuring it through whomever it rises, resisting the instinct to elevate an authority dispute, has changed me. Ironically, it hasn’t made me power drunk and proud like the fear rhetoric suggests but more tender, softer, bowed by humility, committed to imitating my brothers in Christ. (It also makes me want to hold their hands evidently. I don’t know. Thank you for understanding.) ............

Read the rest over at A Deeper Story... (Comments go over there too! So happy to join the Deeper Story writing team!)

Dear Teachers Everywhere...

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 12:08:04 +0000

Before there were any books or blogs or conferences or studies, I used to be a teacher. I know. Petrifying. I taught 4th grade for three years and 1st grade for one. And then I had a bunch of babies and can’t remember the next six years.

I was a very average elementary teacher who totally loved my students. And also? Sincerely sorry about all that homework, 4th grade parents. I wasn’t a mother yet. I figured you had nothing to do but complete my exhaustive weekly social studies packets utilizing your children’s higher level thinking skills and research techniques, because what every ten-year-old needs is five hours a week of additional geography work. I’m certain now you wished me dead. Bless it. (Several students have contacted me and they are all I’m an accountant now and I’m like um, do you mean an accountant for your high school math team? and they’re like I’m almost 30 and I’m all what exactly the heck just happened?)

Though I’ve switched to the fake job I currently have, I will never forget my classroom years, and I have a few things I want to tell you, Teachers Everywhere.

First of all, I’ve calculated your earnings by adding your classroom hours, pre- and post-school hours, conferences and phone calls, weekend work, after-hours grading, professional development requirements, lesson planning, team meetings, extracurricular clubs and teams, parent correspondence, district level seminars, and material preparation, and I believe you make approximately 19 cents an hour.

And then people say, yeah but teachers get three months off for summer, and then we all clutch our guts and die laughing because WHATEVER, MAN. Like teachers leave on the last day of school and just show up on the first with a miraculously prepared classroom and a month’s worth of lesson plans. But seriously, thanks for the laugh.

The amount of work and energy you pour into your work and our children is so astonishing, it is a crime that you don’t all make 150K a year. Since you couldn’t possibly do it for the money, we can only assume you love your job and love our kids. Can you understand how much we appreciate you?

You are doing far more than teaching our kids the building blocks of knowledge and learning; you are helping us raise our children. You provide a second environment in which they have to practice respect, obedience, teamwork, diligence. We tell them take initiative on your work and they are like this house is a drag, and then they come home from school and say I’m starting this project early because Mrs. Pulis says to take initiative, and we wonder if you have magic powers or if our children are just willfully obtuse. The answer is…yes.

That high standard you set for our kids? We freaking love it. Thank you. Thank you for insisting on kindness and respect, excellence and persistence. Thank you for sometimes saying, “This is junky work and you can do better. See you at recess.” BOOM. All day long, teachers. We stand behind you. Thanks for requiring their best.

And let me tell you something else: I’ve always had kids who mostly eased through school, but now I have two ESL kiddos and my heart for you has grown forty sizes bigger. My littles went to school with virtually no English, and I am telling you: we wouldn’t have made it through that first year without you, and I know what it cost. I can’t count how many papers came home last year with this stamp:

Don’t imagine I don’t know exactly what that means. Teachers, when you instruct our kids that struggle, I know you have, yet again, patiently pulled up a seat next to their desks, 24 other kids still in the room, and kindly helped them toward mastery. I know you modify, adapt, adjust for their success, which takes so much time and energy. Children with emotional or physical challenges, kids with language barriers and personal turmoil, those who struggle to learn and retain, test and succeed, they require so much of you in the midst of your regular responsibilities, and your patient attentiveness cannot possibly be overcelebrated. As a mom whose children blossomed under the weight of your investment, I could throw myself at your feet and weep with gratitude.

It’s one thing to have parents who sort of have to love you; it’s another to have a teacher affirm your goodness all year long. You know our kids come home and repeat every kind word you deliver, right? I close my eyes and thank God that another safe adult is building health into my children, especially since two of my kids have been subjected to such unsafe grown-ups. Your consistent presence is deeply healing for so many hurt kids. Your words are life-giving.

That is A LOT of daily affirmation. I feel exhausted just looking at this.

We know your task is incredibly difficult. Be creative and innovative…but also teach to this test, which by the way, your pay and security depends on. Challenge your gifted kids…aaaand modify for those with developmental delays. Keep all those parents happy! (<--- This alone should double your salary.) Use this new model, no this new one, now this new one. Surprise! We changed the entire district database. Please forfeit your Saturday for training. Stay on top of classroom communication. Attend all ARD/IEP/ESL evaluations for your students.

And oh, you do so much more. Serve on this additional committee. Volunteer to sponsor the Junior Class. Guess what you’re doing this weekend? Prom chaperone. You lead Destination Imagination Teams; it only takes 100 hours of your life. You coach, lead, sponsor, direct. You put on plays and programs, award ceremonies and graduations. You come early and stay late for the students who couldn’t get it, didn’t finish it, need your one-on-one help. You wear bandanas and paint your faces for Field Day. You are rock stars.

Administrators, we see and love you too. When you sat down with me holding your legal pads and pens, ready to learn how to care best for my incoming Ethiopians, and you wrote down every word I said and agreed to counter-intuitive requests like please don’t hold their hands at first and please don’t let them over-attach to you, you nodded and simply said…absolutely. I will never forget that. You are for us, for our kids, for our families, for our teachers, and we adore you.

You are amazing, Teachers and Administrators. From the bottom of my heart, I want you to hear it:

Thank you.

You are so loved, so important. Your work impacts kids for the rest of their lives. I am 38-years-old and still talking about Mrs. Palmer, Mr. Stranathan, Mrs. Thomas, Dr. Russell, Dr. Lyles. You don’t get the credit you deserve, so I am standing up today, applauding you, cherishing your investment in the next generation, in my kids. I see the incredible amount of work you do, and I am forever grateful. You are heroes; there is no lesser designation.

Please remember when you are grading papers at 10:30pm on Sunday night, or pinning another incredible idea to your Teacher Board, or writing our kids another encouraging note, or throwing a party because they survived the latest standardized test, we see you, we appreciate you, and we freaking love you.

BRAVO.

Your life matters so much and your legacy will go on long after you’re done teaching. You are sending out visionaries, thinkers, activists, and leaders into the world, and we owe you a debt of gratitude that we can never repay.

Happy Teacher Appreciation Week! We honor you.

~

Have a teacher who needs to hear this applause? Send this to them. Teachers everywhere deserve this credit. Have a story about a teacher who altered the course of your life or your child’s life? Tell us. Are you a teacher? Take it in, because you are WONDERFUL.

When Is It Time to Walk Away?

Jen Hatmaker — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 20:02:44 +0000

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to make toffee. Again. The first attempt, despite scant instructions and just three ingredients, emerged like a sheet of sand and made me resort to violence and hatred.

Round two: sand again. $&*%!!!!

So I consulted the interwebs to discover the error of my ways. Let me condense the instruction I received:

Keep stirring. Stir constantly. Stir occasionally. Don’t stir once it boils. The temperature is too hot. It’s not hot enough. Too hot, too fast. Oops, too long. Keep a steady boil. NOT A ROLLING BOIL, YOU MORON. Use a whisk. Use a spatula. Use a wooden spoon. Recalibrate your candy thermometer. Don’t use a candy thermometer. Pour immediate at 285 degrees. Drop toffee into ice water and it should be brittle. Oops, while you were doing that it reached 286 degrees. Dump contents. Don’t cook if there is rain within 500 miles. 12 minutes exactly. 7 and a half minutes. 4 minutes and not a second more. If it separates, add water. If it separates, keep stirring. If it separates, turn the heat down. If it separates, turn the heat up. If it separates, I’m sorry to tell you, but your life is in shambles.

These are what we refer to as Crazy Eyes.

This inspired a new Toffee Doctrine I’d like to discuss today, catalyzed by a Facebook comment of unusual depth: “Girl, sometimes the juice ain’t worth the squeeze.” And I bowed my head and said amen.

There is something to be said for hard work, diligence, for pushing through obstacles and emerging victorious. Heaven forbid we’re people for whom failure is a chronic deal-breaker. Some best things are won through perseverance, and there is simply no other path. Often triumph is seized on the 77th try, and every last effort in Attempts #1-76 was worth it, and not only do we emerge successful, but the false starts and failures became our greatest teachers, and no amount of instruction could replace them.

But there is another narrative to consider, which doesn’t smack of the Protestant Work Ethic we champion or provide a lovely headline, but it is no less essential to health, and confusing the two approaches is not only dangerous but destructive. Help a sister out, Kenny Rogers:

You got to know when to hold ‘em…know when to fold ‘em.

I recently discussed this with my 7th grade daughter. (Fact: 7th grade exists as an evolutionary natural selection process to weed out any tender, confident, precious traits from the adolescent species. Eat or be eaten, kids.) This has been a Challenging Friend Year, and she found herself on the outside, and I don’t even have to tell you what that means because we are all 7th Grade Survivors, am I right?

After a year of working and crying and trying again and crying and taking a different approach and crying more, I finally said, “Baby, some things are precious and worth the work it takes to keep them alive. Plenty of good things require hard work. But some things are too hard, and it’s time to cut bait.”

There is a tipping point when the work becomes exhausting beyond measure, useless. You can’t pour antidote into a vat of poison forever and expect it to transform into something safe, something healthy. In some cases, poison is poison, and the only sane answer is to move on.

Relationships, careers, churches, friendships, expectations, roles, tasks, organizations – these structures and connections can be the most life-giving elements on earth. They can lend meaning and purpose and belonging like nothing else. Within them, we find our tribes and passions, we come to life.

But anything that powerful has a downside, for they are the same things that can drain us dry and leave us for dead. When an endless amount of work and blood and sweat and tears leaves a situation or relationship or even an ambition (Perfect Mom, Size 4 Human, Person Who Has It All Together) as unhealthy as it ever was, when there is virtually no redemption, when the red flags have frantically waved for too long unheeded, the alarm bells receding into white noise after sustained disregard, sometimes the healthiest possible response is to walk away.

Assessing a circumstance as worthy of the toil is a discarded skill. Our culture doesn’t value safe boundaries like it should. We hold private disdain for the one who quit, the one who pulled out, drew a line in the sand, the one who said no more. We secretly wonder if they shouldn’t have tried harder, stayed longer, if this isn’t an indicator of their flimsy loyalty. Surely we would’ve done better in their shoes.

Locked in a toxic relationship or career or ambition or community, the levels of unhealth and spiritual pollution can murder everything tender and Christlike in us, and a watching world is not always privy to those private kill shots. It can destroy our hope, optimism, gentleness. We can lose our heart and lose our way. And here is the key: we can pour an endless amount of energy into the chasm, and it will never matter.

There is a time to put redemption in the hands of God where it belongs and walk away before you destroy your spirit on the altar of Futile Diligence. Not every battle has a winner; sometimes it is all losers, carnage everywhere. When healthy options exist, and there is a safer alternative right…over…there, often the bravest thing we can do is stop fighting for something that will never, ever be well.

Walk away gracefully; we need not fire parting shots over the bow. That only creates more losers, and you're better than that. Take your dignity and self-respect and precious humanity, and be proud of the way you handled yourself one year from now. You don't need to be proven right; much more is at stake than validation. You'll never regret being gracious, but you might deeply regret burning a bridge that might one day be safe enough to venture back over.

It is not ungodly to evaluate critically; it is the wisest thing we can do. Reaching a point where you say “enough” to a toxic environment is not cowardly – it is so very brave. It will free you up to expend your energy in worthy ways, protecting you and maybe even your people from brutal coping mechanisms. (Do we really want to teach our children that “identifying with your captor” is the best way? When all we do is defend our imprisoner, it’s time to take a hard look in the mirror.)

What is the tipping point? There is no formula here and I can’t give one. This requires honest self-evaluation, safe and wise counselors, the close leadership of the Holy Spirit, a sobering assessment of reality. Ask, “Is the juice worth the squeeze here?" and sometimes it is. You might discover signs of life and possibility rising up through the efforts, or the task at hand is simply too worthy to abandon, regardless. There may be necessary work left to do, and it’s too soon to assess. Or maybe the Spirit holds you in place for unclear reasons, which you may or may not ever know, but you will find peace in obedience and continue to listen for marching orders.

But the Toffee Doctrine bears adherence too: you got to know when to fold ‘em - for your health, your heart, purpose, family, your precious life. Certain goals are unattainable, and the means will never actually reach the end. And so often if you just turn a quarter degree, you’ll discover a healthier version just within reach. You’ll find the underlying value intact in a context that fits like a glove. You’ll hear yourself say, “Oh! I didn’t know it could be like this!” The toffee is still good elsewhere; maybe just need to rethink how you get it.

As for me, homemade is out, store bought is in. Now everyone is happy, the kitchen is no longer a war zone, and I know what I’m having with my coffee tomorrow morning. But there was that one recipe involving a microwave…

Someone stop me before I jump back into the crazy.

~

If your instinct is to counter with all the times we must stay the course, I’d ask you to carefully reread the blog and notice I already did that. My advice is for scenarios in which walking away is the right and necessary thing to do. My aim is not to lead a revolution of irresponsible quitters but of discerning disciples.

How are you struggling? Or when did you walk away for the greater good?

Stuck in the Doldrums: An Attack Plan

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 02 Apr 2013 12:41:50 +0000

dol·drums
[dohl-druh mz, dol-, dawl-]
noun ( used with a plural verb )
1. a state of inactivity or stagnation, as in business or art: August is a time of doldrums for many enterprises.
2. a belt of calms and light baffling winds north of the equator between the northern and southern trade winds in the Atlantic and Pacific oceans.
3. a dull, listless, depressed mood; low spirits.

~

Conversation with Brandon two months ago:

Me:      Blah.
B:         What’s wrong.
Me:      Nothing. Just everything. Everything is bad.
B:         Specifically?
Me:      Just that our kids are probably all going to hate us and struggle with multiple incarcerations, I apparently will gain a pound a month until I die from diabetes, this house is a craphole of chaos, and my weird quirks are getting worse. I hid in the bathroom at another conference.
B:         Is that all?
Me:      And also, only two of my kids love to read, so obviously, Failure, your name is motherhood, and all I do is put out fires and discipline, so I’ve basically come to hate the sound of my own voice. I can’t stand myself and these kids aren’t faring much better on my Like-O-Meter, and I’m sorry to tell you, but your scores aren’t great either. I cannot even talk about emails. My Bible feels like a useless lead weight. I don’t feel like I’m taking skin care seriously enough. I also ate a tub of pimento cheese. All hope is lost.
B:         But at least you’re working on that melodramatic tendency.
Me:      Just lost another four points, Pal. Feels like a dangerous time to mess with me.

I essentially slid into a two-month case of the doldrums, trapped by inertia and overwhelmed by the escape requirements. On my best days, our life is heavy duty, but during my low days, Google search: “fake my own death and disappear,” which Brandon might dub melodramatic, but he is just a dude with a stable mind and can’t be trusted.

Here is the bummer about the doldrums: the very efforts needed to lift out are the same things you’ve lost energy for. The simplest remedies feel like weights drudged up from the bottom of the ocean. Your mind knows to do them, but your will refuses to cooperate. Which makes your mind furious and mired in shame, which makes your will dig its heels and wallow, which makes you realize you are turning on yourself, you are your own worst enemy. No one can oppress me like myself.

Nothing miraculous happened, except one day I said, this is enough. Virtually nothing changed that day. Or the next. These things aren’t overnight success stories, because if it took three months and 459 lazy, unhealthy, toxic choices to get stuck, it takes some time to climb out. Also, the work required is unsexy, ordinary, boring old labor that lacks the appeal of instant gratification and the pizzazz of an unsolicited miracle. I wish I had better news, but apparently we just have to grab a shovel and start digging.

For my dear readers stuck in the doldrums, and may I say that I love you and you are not alone, these are the labors that pulled me through, one teeny moment at a time:

First, make a list of everything you are behind on. The amount of emotional energy this steals from me is almost unbearable. Ironic too, because each line item could be accomplished in minutes at best, a day at worst: mail these things, return this, make those appointments, answer these emails (<--- just, omg), scan that contract over, send in the money for that school thing (this, times a zillion, free public school my eye), pick up that stuff, return that phone call (<--- just, omg), finish writing that article. Overdue tasks contribute heavily to my Shame Spiral, and writing them all down in one place and slowly crossing them off is an instant boon, literally. Unbelievable the weight that rolls off when the Behind Pile starts to shrink.

Second, the house. For the love of Mary Magdalene, the house. I am one of those annoying people who needs order and declutterfication. Oh to live in chaos and whirl and twirl amongst the piles instead of, say, barking like a seal at the humans who live here and begrudging everyone for being such ~~slobs~~ unkempt people. But no.

So, brace yourselves, we launched another chore chart. This one is simple and repetitive. Everyone has one chore a day, and it is the same every week. This is not for pay, because their prize is getting to live in my house for free, oh my gosh. The kids did these tasks before but with no regularity and primarily after I turned into a lunatic. Not allowing the house to slip into entropy is mentally healing. The chart is imperfect, but even loose structure restores order to my inner turmoil.

Yes, I succumbed to chalkboard paint. Next up: Chevron.

Third, parenting. Obviously my five kids are perfect and make straight A’s and speak loving words to each other constantly, but clearly their classmates have poorly influenced them lately, because they’ve turned into savages. (This surely has nothing to do with their mother’s two-month doldrum disorder, because children are never the thermometer simply reflecting the temperature of their parents. I’m sure their digression is just a coincidence.)

So this cute thing happened where the kids were horrible and fighting and I went to my room to cry about these terrible children God stuck me with, and He said a little thing to me: He immediately brought to mind six, six lovely moments my kids engineered that very day, and He said, “You are only noticing the bad moments and completely ignoring all the good ones.”

God never coddles me when I want him to, GAH!

So we started the Brag Board. Anytime we catch someone being kind, helpful, gracious, or awesome, we write it down, big or small. It has to be about someone else, because the first thing my humble offspring would write is It was so incredible how I unloaded the dishwasher. Funny thing: I’m not positive they’ve had more shining moments than before, but I’m sure noticing them now. Evidently we will see exactly what we’re looking for. Does this mean I’ve had to follow a certain child around, searching for one tiny good thing to say? Yes. But catching kids in their goodness totally beats reprimanding them only in their struggles, and the Brag Board has pulled the whole family up a few degrees.

To be clear, Ben was recyling, not resicking, which we frown upon.

Finally, I made a list of all the practices that make me feel healthy. Not surprisingly, I noticed most absent in my doldrums: cooking, reading good books, limiting screen time, eating well, date nights, taking walks, scheduling time with a counselor, being outside, praying, changing out of my pajamas (this is a thing), my friends. All ordinary, nothing new or dramatic. These are mainly things that fit in the gaps of life. But I just committed some time back to my staples, maybe just one a day.

None of these were executed at once. Over a few weeks, I just implemented healthier practices, one at a time. It was not revolutionary when I sat down with Alan Bradley’s latest novel finally (“Whenever I’m a little blue, I think about cyanide which so perfectly reflects my mood” ~Flavia), nor did my world tilt back on its axis when I wrote the first entry on the Brag Board. The chore chart didn’t solve the crisis, and neither did catching up on emails.

But all together, over weeks, just doing the work, bit by bit, digging deep for diligence and grace and best practices, the doldrums receded. These things make us healthy and whole for a reason, because we are not succumbing to disorder and shame anymore. It’s not fancy or quick work unfortunately, but it is effective.

If you feel stuck today, can I suggest approaching the doldrums in a reasonable way, one tiny element at a time? Alone, none of these are monumental, but together they begin to lay small paver stones out of the mire, forging a path back to health. It will be imperfect with incremental steps forward and back, but God can use your brave movement to soothe the shame of stagnation and restore peace to the chaos.

Grab my hand. Let’s do this.

~

Two things: This is not a post for you to tell me my family is awesome, so thank you for refraining. I am writing this precisely because we have been so unawesome. Second, this does not apply to serious trauma or depression. The doldrums are a funk, not a severe crisis. Sometimes our hearts require therapy, intervention, and possibly medication, and the practices I described are inadequate. Readers, how else do you beat back the doldrums?

A Broken Hallelujah

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 10:25:22 +0000

My friend Amy is a hot mess in December. At the slightest mention of the Baby Jesus, she dissolves into weepy, sentimental tears. She hangs red curtains in her house, plays Christmas hymns on an eternal loop, and falls apart every day until December 26th. Do not even make eye contact with her in church during the Christmas season. Her poor husband Brad practically has to sedate her to make it through. It is simply her most tender holy season.

Easter is mine.

I keep thinking this will be the year I manage without feeling painfully raw. How many Easters in a row can I plainly come undone? Apparently, infinity. For instance, at church yesterday, a few folks simply read the Passover story out loud in sections between songs. That was our whole church service, beautiful and haunting. I was assigned the passage about Jesus in the garden, asking God to take the cup from him. The other readers delivered their Scripture in clear, strong voices. I, conversely, croaked and cracked and bawled and inserted eternal awkward pauses and blubbered through my entire part. (I sat down by Brandon and said, “Well, I think that went well.”)

The story of our redemption breaks me. I simply cannot get over Jesus. His humanity moves me beyond words. His suffering shatters my heart. His courage leaves me undone. I am aching, so gratefully devastated. By his wounds I am healed, but his scars mark me too, and I am tender to the touch. The story that crushes me also saves me, and there is nothing to do but worship through the tears.

Easter will always be a broken hallelujah for me.

I want to ascribe to Jesus all the glory he was denied when they mocked his kingship and crushed his body. The crown of thorns, the robe on open flesh, the taunts of false worship, the sign above his head ridiculing his position…I find myself declaring his authority in defiance; Jesus is King, Lord of All, The First and the Last, The Bright and Morning Star, The Head of Every Man, I AM. May his glory eternally surpass his suffering, for he has saved the world and saved our lives. Let all the earth rejoice, for the Lamb became the King and grace beat back the darkness.

His kingdom come, his will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

This is the week Jesus rose to his task and split history in two. This is the week he rode on a donkey, cried in the garden, suffered on the cross, rose into glory. This is the week that sinful, broken humans were granted a pardon, justified to perfection and set free. It is too miraculous for words. Songs and sermons fail us; we huddle at the cross, overwhelmed by the punishment that brought us peace.

It is with a heavy heart that I join hands with my brothers and sisters, fellow sinners saved by this grace, and come collectively before the Light of the World, declaring our broken hallelujah. We bow in heartbroken reverence, thankful grief. We want our lives to scream WORSHIP, for our Redeemer lives and his kingdom cannot be shaken. Jesus reigns and we are his. There is nothing else to say. It is finished indeed.

Family, what does worship look like in light of this miracle? How do awe and wonder and gratitude and humility mark our lives as we honor the cross? As I’ve said before here and here, it seems barely worth mentioning that chocolate bunnies and fancy new dresses not only miss the gravity, but miss the point. I daresay the American response to Easter is insulting, devastating even.

Jesus gave us a hint during his last week, providing an appropriate response for us, understanding the cross would wreck and ruin and confound his followers. He laid a plumb line, offering a responsive script that would stand the test of time and culture and millenia:

“And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me. In the same way, after the supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you.” (Luke 22:19-20)

My body, broken for you…do this.

My blood, poured out for you…do this.

And lest we imagine it means anything less, anything cheap, John tells us Jesus stood up from table, the King, wrapped his waist, knelt down, and washed the filthy feet of his disciples. The least the greatest, the last first, the humble soon to be lifted. The Savior the servant, turning the rules upside down and changing the template for the rest of history.

My body, broken…do this.

My blood, poured out…do this.

For me.

What does this look like for us? How do we worship in light of this Savior? For it is past time we, too, turn the rules upside down and change the template. Broken and poured out, may it be. Oh that his people would mimic the cross in worship this week, bypassing plastic eggs and patent leather shoes for servanthood, responding in a way befitting the sacrifice.

What if we calculated the money we’d spend on new clothes, anything having to do with a bunny and chocolate, and used that investment for great good, pouring out for someone in need of mercy? Maybe instead of matching outfits from Dillards, we invest in family t-shirts benefiting someone’s adoption, someone's mission for Christ. Perhaps rather than time and energy spent on ourselves, we ask: “Who can our family serve? Where can we put our hands and hearts to use in Jesus’ name?” Who in your city desperately needs hope but won’t find their way to the sanctuary Sunday filled by people dressed to the nines?

Where does the gospel need to go?

There is no better question to ask in response to the cross where Jesus was broken and poured out and the gospel was sealed. May we do the same in remembrance of him, not cheapening his sacrifice with self-serving, invented practices or neutering the miracle by missing the point entirely.

Church, let’s bring Jesus’ hope into the darkness this Easter – the lonely street corners, the strip clubs, the shelters, the prisons, the sad places. We can push back the darkness, because God “in his great mercy has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead” (1 Peter 1:3). Good has triumphed; Jesus won the day.

Jesus, our Almighty King, our brother and Savior, is in glory, his suffering is done and our salvation is secure. This is our celebration. May Jesus find the Bride honoring the cross exactly like he told us to, for we are so terribly unworthy but somehow, miraculously, against all sense and reason, we are saved.

“…to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore! Amen.”

An Exclusive Interview with...Celebrity Pastor!!

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 22 Mar 2013 08:54:04 +0000

Maybe I’ve been getting this whole thing wrong, good readers. Perhaps while I’ve been pulling my hair out over 4 million dollar fish tanks in church lobbies and the most expensive building campaign in American church history, what I should’ve been doing was listening to solid, reliable, extraordinarily famous and revered leaders explain what’s what. Maybe I just need a better guide through the maze of Christian superstardom and the genius of excess.

Why am I getting all bogged down with the poor and marginalized when I could be running with the bulls? So I decided to go straight to the top; no mamby-pamby middle dwellers, no mediocre Nancy boys. I sought wisdom from the crème de la crème of Christian leadership. You may know him from his world-renowned sound bytes on Twitter (@CelebrityPastor), what with his sharp wit and attention to greatness. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you an exclusive interview with:

CELEBRITY PASTOR!

He has graciously offered us minions his time and brilliance, and we should all be grateful, for the heavens are surely smiling on us today.

CP, when did you first know you wanted to be a pastor?

I knew from the moment I was born. According to my mother (bless her soul), I actually came out of the womb holding a Bible (The Message Matrix Version). And, oddly enough, I was preaching a full-length sermon. It was obvious to everyone from a young age that I was destined for greatness of epic proportions. Plus, I was able to accurately throw a ninja star by age three.

Did you go to seminary? Or does this level of awesomeness just come naturally?

Yes I did go to a seminary: The Seminary of Hard Knocks. To be honest, your average seminary doesn't teach you a lot of what you really need to know for pastoral ministry. For example, have you ever heard of a seminary offering a class in falconing? I think not! Or bull riding? Or fog machine use? Or how to reenact the entire ending scene of "Braveheart"? As you can see, there are some serious problems with today's seminaries.

Describe your church to us.

Wow. Perhaps you'd like me to describe heaven next. You enter the lobby and you immediately feel like you are home. You feel warm, welcome, and fuzzy inside, like you just ate a Hot Pocket. You also immediately feel like you are at a U2 concert. So perhaps the only people who can truly know what my church is like are the members of U2.

What can other so-called pastors learn from you?

I think you nailed it on the head when you said, "so-called". To be a pastor of my caliber takes a level of commitment that is usually only found in Olympic athletes. You have to be willing to go all in, to go big or go home, to kick butt now and apologize later...or possibly never. You have to be willing to do you own stunts. Pastors, are you willing to go head-to-head in a cage match with a rabid mother bear? If not, it's time to give up the calling.

Where do you get your inspiration?

I find my inspiration in unexpected places. One weekend I took my wife, LaFonda, to the circus. I was blown away by those dudes who blow fire and swallow swords. The next week I incorporated sword swallowing into my sermon. Of course, I ended up in the hospital for a week with a deeply cut esophagus, but that's beside the point. Inspiration is everywhere!

What's the hardest thing about being you?

Well, keep this on the down low, but the hardest part about being me is working with my staff. As a spiritual leader of 100% Shock and Awe, I expect nothing less from my staff. Yet so often I run into road blocks. I'll come up with a brilliant idea and my faithless elders will say something like, "We can't do that! It's illegal!" Or my interns will chicken out on the extreme team building, faith building exercises that I create for them, such as a trust fall off a 40 foot cliff into a fiery pit of vipers.

You're a spiritual leader. What can you tell us to blow our minds?

I'll give you the advice I give everyone: only follow me if you want all your hopes and dreams to come true. If you would prefer something else, I can give you the name of some churches.

Do you have any pics, memes, or icons we can use as our screensavers?

Sorry, my only picture is my icon on Twitter. Any other pictures would probably cause your screen to melt.

~

I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’ve been schooled. Thank you, Celebrity Pastor, thank you. You can access this brand of genius daily by following Celebrity Pastor on Twitter. If you are smart, you can also check out his book, “Shock and Awe,” (forward by Thomas Jefferson), and don’t just take my word for it:

"When I read this book I wanted to stand up and applaud!" - Winston Churchill
"You can burn all your other books on leadership. This is all you'll need." - George Patton
"George Washington. Martin Luther King Jr. And now Celebrity Pastor. You won't regret buying this book." - Ghandi
"I'm sorry, who wrote this book?" - John Piper
"I never agreed to endorse this book." - Mark Driscoll
"I've never refused to endorse a book. Until now." - J.I. Packer

Be sure to show your gratitude to CP in the comment section, because praise for Caesar is certainly due in this case.

And Then the Conference Uninvited Me to Speak

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 18 Mar 2013 13:45:13 +0000

Like most graduating high school classes, mine rewarded our parents and educators by perpetuating Senior Skip Day right before finals. I can only imagine these satisfying gestures are why secondary teachers are able to get out of bed in the morning.

In a slightly innocent twist, my class of clowns decided on the Wichita Zoo for our naughty excursion, so off we went in our scrunched socks and Keds, Z Cavaricci jorts, and oversized striped rugbies.

Note my cool shades on the front row that are so dated, they are now "ironic."
My seventh grade daughter has a pair. Hold me.

I begged my mom to call in a feigned illness for me, and when she refused, I tracked the soft target, because Dad would’ve assuredly provided an alibi, but he was missing in my hour of need, so I…simply skipped. The only attendance bail in my high school history, and despite the breezy, cool aura I’m clearly projecting, I spent the day with my stomach in knots. (When I received the subsequent day of in-school suspension, I cried silent, hot tears the second I entered the ISS room, and the monitor found me pitiful and let me sit in her office playing solitaire all day.)

For such a prim rule-follower, it was surprising when they started strangling me.

I grew up immersed in typical Christian subculture: heavy emphasis on morality, fairly dogmatic, linear and authoritative. Because my experience was so homogenous and my skill set included Flying Right, I found wild success in the paradigm. My interpretations were rarely challenged by diversity, suffering, or disparity. Since the bulls-eye was behaving (we called it “holiness”), I earned an A.

But careening into adulthood, my firm foundation endured some havoc. I noticed very few of my Third Day Acquire The Fire Disciple Now Weekend Mercy Me compatriots stuck with church after high school. Evidently, that is absolutely the trend: According to Rainer Research, approximately 70 percent of American youth drop out of church between the age of 18 and 22. The Barna Group estimates that 80 percent of those reared in the church will be "disengaged" by the time they are 29.

80 percent. Gone.

A recent nationwide poll on religious identification noted that respondents citing “no religion” (The Nones) made up the only group that grew in every state, most numerous among the young: a whopping 22 percent of 18- to 29-year-olds claimed no religion, up from 11 percent in 1990. Worse yet: the study also found that 73 percent of Nones came from religious homes; 66 percent were described by the study as ‘de-converts.’

This gave me pause, because the mechanism was not holding. More precisely, the church I grew up in was not making disciples. The religion I knew was leaving young adults disinterested at best, hostile at worst. It failed to capture their loyalty. Dechurched adults cited grievances that gave definition to my own inner struggles:

Emphasis on morality and voting records to the exclusion of weightier matters like justice and transformation
A suspicious amalgamation of the American Dream and Armed Forces
A me-and-mine stance as opposed to you-and-yours
Persistent defensive posture, treating unchurched or dechurched people like enemies instead of future brothers and sisters in Christ
Narrow talking points that slice and wound and slash; principles over people
A boring religion of behaving instead of an adventurous life of true discipleship
An unreasonable opposition to science
Arrogance over humility, using the Bible as a bludgeon instead of a balm

But here was the Good News: upon heavy scrutiny, none of this remotely sounded like Jesus, so He wasn’t the problem, which was a relief because when having a faith crisis, you don’t want to discover your Main Character is a fraud. As far as I can tell, Jesus is still the easiest sell on earth, because if you don’t love a guy who healed lepers and pulled children onto His lap and silenced the religious elite and ate and drank with sinners, then you just don’t know Him.

Jesus remained politically neutral, unswervingly, despite the teeny tiny fact that the Savior was expected to engineer freedom through political upheaval. He never once pandered to the powerful and prominent. He was called a drunkard and a fool for the company He kept. Jesus committed His kingdom to the most unlikely: the sick, children, women, the poor, the marginalized. Everyone else? Blind, deaf, according to Jesus.

So if it wasn’t Jesus making enemies out of the adopted, it had to be the structure in which we contained Him.

This was the point my ministry took a hard left.

If you’ve been around me at all in the last six years, you’ve heard me pushing for reform, asking the church to stretch, to become the new wineskins my generation is begging for. I’m hungry for a church less known for sanctimony and more for their shocking intervention for hungry babies and human trafficking and racism and injustice. Christianity is too thrilling to reduce to middle/upper-middle class First World Problems, encapsulated in issues and gauged by a nebulous moral compass that lost its bearing decades ago.

People are starving – spiritually and physically – and this world needs some Good News, but they can’t decode what is actually good about us. Good is finding a safe place to struggle, to doubt, to ask hard questions. Good is food when you’re hungry. Good is warm, kind, genuine love extended, no strings attached. Good is clean water, medicine for your sick baby, education, family. Good is community, even before ‘belief’ binds us tight. Good is sustainable work, dignity. Good is Jesus and His backwards, upside-down ways.

I constantly ask these hard questions of the Bride, of myself, of my own little family.

Because of this, I was recently uninvited to speak by a large church. They cited my struggle with the church, concerned that “these disparaging glimpses at the church certainly can be helpful to a more mature follower but cause great confusion to those who are not quite so far along in their walk with the Lord.” In fact, it is the exact opposite. It is the young believers asking the questions and finding very few safe places to do so. Sanitized Christianity in which the church is propped up and healthy criticism is labeled as “spiritual attack” is the head-in-the-sand approach turning away the next generation.

Second, and not surprisingly, a blog was cited in which my hilarious friend jokingly brought a bottle of margarita mix to a Lifeway taping, hoping to cast us as boozers in front of my very conservative publisher. (To their credit, the filmmakers just laughed and carried on because, you know, it was a joke, and my LW peeps totally get me. We are guilty of many offenses, but taking ourselves too seriously is not one of them.) This satire pushed an envelope that is still licked shut, and the uninvitation was sent.

It doesn’t matter what church it was or where, but here is what I want to tell them:

I understand. I really, really do. Not only did I appreciate your gracious tone, but I genuinely know where you are coming from. I get the things that make you uncomfortable and why, and I realize we will likely never see eye to eye, and that is okay. Unquestioningly, you love Jesus and the church, and I have no doubt you are serving your community and each other. Within your tribe in your demographic in your city in your tradition, you are exactly how and where you should be. My feelings toward you are terribly warm, seasoned with familiar memories of the church that raised and loved me.

But what makes me unsafe to you is exactly what makes me safe to others. The skeptic, the cynic, the doubter; my arms are wide open. Their questions and disbelief don’t scare me; I am unthreatened. The loosey-goosey, tambourine shaking, barefoot liberal who loves Jesus and the earth and votes straight-ticket Democrat? I love her. The young adult generation who is leaving the church but running to Jesus in unfamiliar, new ways – I gather them to me like a Mama because they are going to change the world.

I am not put off by creed or denomination or sexual orientation or terrifying doubt or outright anger or nationality or socioeconomic status or issues or weirdness or politics. I’m not going to make a deal out of a glass of wine when 25,000 people will die today of starvation. I just can’t muster the energy. (And since Jesus’ first miracle was turning 150 gallons of water into wine at a wedding in Cana, I’m pretty sure He hedges left here.)

With nearly 8 million people leaving the American church a year, we need some renegades closer to the margins, building bridges, creating safe spaces to question, wrestle, rethink. Plenty of churches exist to serve the 20 percent already connected. For them, I am grateful. Enough shepherds are on the ground for those sheep. They have a deep well of leadership, and my absence will not even be felt. They are brothers and sisters, and I’ll see them on the other side.

As for me, I’m throwing my lot in with the other 80 percent, the ones with their arms crossed, their hearts broken, their worth unrealized. The ones who shake their fists and shake their heads, but still crave hope and redemption, because we all do. Bring me your doubts, your fear. My Jesus can handle it all and then some. He is all of our dreams come true. If you don’t believe me, start in Matthew and read until the end of John. Jesus is a hero, a brother, a Savior in every since of the word. He is everything good and gracious. His love for us is embarrassing, boundless, without standards at all.

Along the way, if I make some of my brothers and sisters uncomfortable and we must part, I hope we can throw our arms around each other and promise to write. I trust you will do your part over there, and I’ll do mine out here where life is sticky and faith is less a blueprint and more a compass, gently leading all us ragamuffins north. I’m willing to wrap us all in grace, because one day we’ll both discover we got some parts right and other parts wrong. Jesus’ mercy is going to be enough for us all.

So if anyone wants to venture out to the margins, past familiar boundaries, through sanctioned Christian staples, beyond guilt-by-association fears, outside traditional approval – I’ll be here with my people, with Jesus, making others crazy and getting uninvited from things…

…unless it is a wedding in Cana and the wine has run out.

More Grace: On Not Being Mean, Hateful, and Horrible

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 11:37:02 +0000

I’ve had a rash of negative missives lately (see: Facebook), and it’s had me thinking for weeks. Questions like, when did we become so mean? And, have we lost all semblance of kindness? And, is criticism the plague of our generation? And, is the Christian community marked by callousness? And, should I give lessons on satire?

So I turned those questions inward and didn’t like what I found. I struggle with an impulse to critique, to deconstruct, to dismantle. I too easily write people off and assume the worst. I am undoubtedly my own worst enemy. I see sharp edges that need softened, and I realize every problem has the same answer:

More grace.

This just might heal the world, mend relationships, sooth our inner turmoil. It could grease the machine of humanity and keep it running rather than grinding to a halt, stalled out for lack of mercy. It reminds us we are brothers and sisters, not demigods over one another. It is the way Jesus came, and it is precisely what saved our souls.

So in an attempt to be the change I hope to see, these are the goals in front of me:

MORE GRACE FOR MYSELF

I will stop the inner voice that batters me day and night. I’ll not listen to the whispers assuring me all hope is lost, nothing good is happening, I could be doing so much better. That voice is so debilitating. She is like the gang leader of a prison mafia. You blew off the fifth chore chart in two years? I will shank you!

No more. I will name the little lovely things, the beautiful moments, the good parts. Small victories deserve noticing. None of us are good at everything, but all of us are great at something. No rule requires focus on the parts we get wrong. There is always, always something worthy to honor if we’re brave enough to live like that.

We will show grace to ourselves, because how dare we rob our transformed hearts of the mercy Jesus won for us already. Living in guilt and despair is such a drag. There is too much goodness, too much love, too much possibility to go on like that. Enough of it. Let us live in the wide open spaces we’ve been granted, and laugh and dance and celebrate and notice the ordinary little wonders we are conditioned to minimize.

MORE GRACE FOR MY HUSBAND

I will stop expecting him to read my mind, decode my body language, meet all my needs, and shut the cabinet doors (<---okay, just please, this one). We’ve logged 19 years of marriage, and that sort of longevity deserves more mercy, more apologies, more celebrating.

I can hardly think of a ~~horrible fight~~ disagreement we’ve had that grace wouldn’t have unscrambled. Every misunderstanding could’ve been truncated. Every ounce of tension lessened. Now, we’ll never be that lovey-dovey couple who writes sappy things on Facebook to each other. We don’t get vows renewed; we get tattoos. We are who we are. In our marriage, grace won’t mean what it might in yours. All I know is, rather than a list of techniques to work on (“What I hear you saying is my refusal to put things in our shared iCalendar makes you want to put my paper calendar in the wood chipper…”), all our junk can be soothed if not solved altogether by the simple addition of more grace.

What do any of us face together where this isn’t true? Imagine the most pressing issue you are dealing with in your marriage. Now take away the need to be right, to be the winner, to nurture the injury like a little pet, keeping it safe and thriving and growing. Now add grace – undeserved maybe, unexpected perhaps. Persistent, warm, selfless mercy can turn even the biggest ship around.

MORE GRACE FOR MY KIDS

I spoke at an adoption conference last weekend, and although unclear on my actual contribution, I left with renewed resolve to show my children far more grace than ~~they deserve~~ I have offered lately. You know what’s hard? Being a kid. Remember the fears you harbored and the weird ideas that confused you and the secret worry that everything might careen off course? You know what else is hard? Being adopted internationally. You know what else? Welcoming in two new siblings and Figuring.All.That.Out. You know what else? Having us as parents. Also, apparently it is very hard to put socks in the dirty clothes basket and take turns talking (my full car is God’s tool for my personal sanctification).

There is a reason God told us His kindness leads us to repentance. His holiness awes me. His righteousness humbles me. His power shocks me. But it is His kindness that moves me to repentance, to adoration, to transformation. Grace just wears down your defenses after awhile. At some point, it becomes clear: this person is really for me.

So I’m going to try to lead with grace for my kids. I hope to laugh first, listen longer, forgive quicker, surprise them with mercy. I will attempt to find the gracious response, even in discipline, even in exhaustion, even in pull-my-hair-out-rend-my-garments frustration. For instance, if a son, hypothetically, didn’t complete his reading minutes and upon an inquiry by his teacher he replied, “I can’t do my homework because we have very late dinners,” although we eat at 6:00pm and blaming your mother for your personal abdication is for chumps, well, I suppose grace has a place in there somewhere, though I didn’t necessarily find that gear last week. Hypothetically.

MORE GRACE FOR THE CHURCH, CAPITAL C

It is no secret that I struggle with the Church. Trust me, I didn’t want the role of a prophet, yet I find myself hungering for a better Bride, pushing for reform, traveling further away from the safe confines of American Christendom, finding my own spiritual heartbeat in the words of Isaiah, Jeremiah, Micah, Amos. Sometimes my discontent with the Church I see is so intense, I fight the urge to run away from the whole mechanism and search for something that looks more like a hospital for the sick and a sanctuary for sinners. I think more Jesus is the answer, not more staff, more buildings, more mailers, more landscaping, more fish tanks.

I want to be a part of the answer, but so often I’m still part of the problem.

But when I get quiet and still and drop down from the 30,000-foot view, and I look around at real people and real life, I see the Church rising up everywhere in all her glory. I see brave, ordinary disciples literally changing the world. People are being loved, lives are being honored, bellies are being fed. I see this, because it is happening. It is happening, because regular people are following Jesus into the kingdom. They are doing this, and I love them for it so intensely, these brothers and sisters of mine. I am so proud. These are my people, my family, and I treasure their stories as my own, tucked into my heart, giving me ridiculous courage.

The Church needs more grace, and I am going to give it to her. Since when did anything but grace comprise the family of God? If all we have is doctrine and theology and morality, or if all we have is prophecy and fire and deconstruction, then we are nothing, a resounding gong, a clanging cymbal. If grace doesn’t bind us, then religion will destroy us.

I will still beg for more from this little family of ours, I still hope justice becomes our brand and mercy our calling card, but I will also remember that some are far, far ahead of me and I am further down the road than others, yet we are all moving forward, navigating the narrow path.

So many of us are trying, and that deserves grace.

As life carries on, I hope my edges soften, my defenses weaken. I so desperately want it said of me that I loved well. I don’t want to be the theologically-fierce, prophetically-intense rock that everyone else breaks against, nor do I care to be the critical, bitter cynic that suffocates people with critiques from the wings. That is so exhausting and numbing.

Rather, I want to gather my own little chicks, my husband I’ve been married to as many years as I haven’t, and I want to open my arms to this messy, complicated spiritual family of ours and call forth everything beautiful, lovely, brave, call out each wonderful moment, act of courage, show of mercy, and walk gently forward together, letting grace fill the spaces and offering the benefit of the doubt with abandon.

Grace is the beginning of freedom, and there isn’t a corner of earth that doesn’t need more of it.

So let’s give it.

Need to show more grace? To yourself? Spouse or kids? And…how ‘bout the Church? (That crazy Bride.) Tell me. Let’s hold hands and pray for grace to ruin us all.

Brave Moms Raise Brave Kids

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 17 Jan 2013 10:14:46 +0000

Over delicious Greek food with my girlfriends, we had this conversation:

Me: I was made to parent boys, yall. I love boys. I love them dirty and reckless and dumb as a sack of diapers. I love their ridiculous “projects” and adventures and all that. I love how they are always one step away from dismemberment or death. It’s so fun. Boys are the best.

[Blank stares from my girlfriends]

Me: What?

Amy (mom of 4 boys): Last week, I caught Grey (3-years-old) on top of my dresser fetching a hunting knife from Brad’s “hiding place” so he could cut the top off a water bottle because he couldn’t get it opened and I was still sleeping. I believe we have two different definitions of “fun.”

Lynde: Um, you do remember that I wouldn’t let my 14-year-old high school son go to our suburban neighborhood park because I was convinced people might be selling drugs there, right? You’re barking up the wrong tree, sister.

They are totally right. I’m cut from a weird cloth here. I have the parenting sensibilities of a typical 1970’s mom whose only concern with her children was that were under her feet and needed to get outside.

What?? Oh, I guess 8 kids on the trampoline with no net is
FROWNED UPON IN THIS ESTABLISHMENT!

The first line of Remy's prayer last night: "Dear Lord, I wish my mom and dad were ninja."
She lives in a house of boys, Lord. Just ignore it.

This picture is my whole life's happiness. Please note his friend's bare chest and football pads, in which he looked in the mirror and said, "Caleb, dude, this makes me look buff."

Oh sure, when my kids were babies I lived in total fear, because obviously now that they were living outside my body, the universe was conspiring to kidnap/maim/emotionally injure/murder them. It was just a matter of time. Were it not for my diligent oversight, our neighborhood would undoubtedly be overrun by white vans with dark windows waiting for me to simply turn my back whilst they zipped my kids over to the black market.

But then I kept having more babies, and you know, those chillins started wearing me out. I began to use my precious mental margin less on strategies for rescuing us from a submerged car and more on just getting everyone the freak through each day. We emerged from several potentially life-ending scenarios unscathed: public restrooms, parks, driving over bridges, eating raw carrots, not-washing-hands-after-pee-pee, and I began to lighten up.

As a product of my own parents’ philosophy, perhaps this scene from 1985 might illustrate my point:

We were at our family cabin outside Colorado Springs for our summer vacay. My brother, 7, and our cousin Dorie, just 9, were outside at night in our family station wagon, curled up in blankets with the portable VHS TV, watching – wait for it – Candyman, which despite the enchanting name, is actually a petrifying horror movie for grown adults. (TV timeout: Really, Mom and Dad? Candyman?? For a 2nd and 4th grader?? You understand my generation won’t let their kids watch Scooby Doo because of the fake ghosts, right?)

So as the two elementary-aged children were watching a parent-sanctioned horror movie in the middle of a dark forest, my dad and uncle decided it would be “hilarious” to sneak up on the car, make weird scratching noises, then scream and bang on the car in unison. Twenty years later, my brother and cousin will still pee their pants at the mere mention of it.

While Candyman and subsequent terror might have pushed the boundaries, I miss the days-gone-by of laidback parenting. I love boys to be boys, kids to be kids. I like to send them straight into the forest with hammers, knives, nails, duct tape, and hand-drawn blueprints and not hear boo from them in five hours. When they come home filthy and scratched, telling tales of skateboard ramps gone wrong and forts, I cannot express how much this thrills me.

I often feel like I’m surrounded by parenting books and mom blogs that are just…so precious…so earnest…I struggle to find connection and walk away discouraged and disillusioned and frustrated. We Hatmakers are simply not precious people. From Precious Ones we did not come, and Precious Ones we will never be.

Honestly? I like a little grit in my story. I often feel suffocated by my generation’s insistence on safety and control and perfection and hegemony. I genuinely like my kids to be a little wild and free. I want to have to say to my sons, “Only boys would think something like this up,” and pretend to be put out when really I’m enamored.

We are on a spectrum as parents, aren't we? At the beginning, it is full control, total adult responsibility. At the end of the main session, when they crush our hearts and leave for college, we they need to be weaned off. Somewhere in the middle, the needle has to move toward launch. What better place to practice growing up than under our roofs, still protected from total self-destruction by the safety net of childhood?

I’ve seen older kids babied within an inch of their lives, headed off to higher learning with no clue on how to be resourceful, how to figure it out, how to handle life’s knocks and bruises. Over-protection has its place for, say, kindergarteners, but at some point we need to put down the bumpers on the bowling lane.

Psychology Today stated, “According to a recent study by University College London, risk-taking behavior peeks during adolescence, suggesting that teens are "programmed" to take risks more often than other age groups… Contrary to popular belief, not all risk-taking is bad. In fact, many risks are not only good, but promote healthy neurological development and growth during the critical adolescent period.”

Not all risk-taking is bad risk-taking. For the love, don’t we want to raise kids who go for it? Who are brave and headstrong? These are not just the marks of achievers; they are the hallmarks of disciples. If we expect our kids to engage this broken world one day, safety has to be somewhere around #14 on the list. Our children will be totally ineffective if they are still afraid of their own shadow.

Are they going to blow it or fail or struggle in this parenting tract? Of course! Erwin McManus said his teen son asked him once: “Dad? Would you ever let me be in a dangerous situation?” Erwin answered, “YES! Totally!” and his son said, “I thought so. I was just making sure.”

We love Romans 8:28 for our kids: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” But can we accept the very next verse?

“For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters.”

Being conformed into the image of Jesus is not a pretty process, because our kids are born into sin and God has messy, real work to do to transform them into disciples. This process involves sacrifice and loss and struggle and failure and courage and maybe even danger and cultivating a single-minded obsession with the kingdom. They may embarrass or disappoint or scare us as they wrestle with God, but can we see his redemptive hand in their lives even then?

When have you grown the most? Changed the deepest? STRUGGLE. Failure. Loss. Risky obedience. Messy relationship mending. Our kids are the same. Our job is not to shield them from everything hard, but to parent them through it with wisdom and discernment. We should not pull our kids completely out of this culture in some parallel Christian universe, but teach them to navigate the real world with grace and conviction. This requires a gradual process of letting go, so our kids can actually live a real life with real people and real problems and discover the real God who shows up there.

I don’t want my kids safe and comfortable. I want them BRAVE. I don’t want to teach them to see danger under every rock, avoiding anything hard or not guaranteed or risky. They are going to encounter a very broken world soon, and if they aren’t prepared to wade into difficult territory and contend for the kingdom against obstacles and tragedies and hardships, they are going to be terrible disciples.

I don’t want to be the reason my kids choose safety over courage. I hope I never hear them say, “Mom will freak out,” or “My parents will never agree to this.” May my fear not bind their purpose here. Scared moms raise scared kids. Brave moms raise brave kids. Real disciples raise real disciples.

May we let the leash out, bit by bit, and allow our children to take big giant gulps of LIFE. Because their time under our roofs is waning as we speak, and we get one shot at this. One more quip from Erwin McManus, because THIS, this is the stuff:

One summer Aaron went to a youth camp. He was just a little guy, and I was kind of glad because it was a church camp. I figured he wasn't going to hear all those ghost stories, because ghost stories can really cause a kid to have nightmares. But unfortunately, since it was a Christian camp and they didn't tell ghost stories, because we don't believe in ghosts, they told demon and Satan stories instead. And so when Aaron got home, he was terrified.

"Dad, don't turn off the light!" he said before going to bed. "No, Daddy, could you stay here with me? Daddy, I'm afraid. They told all these stories about demons."

And I wanted to say, "They're not real."

He goes, "Daddy, Daddy, would you pray for me that I would be safe?"

I could feel it. I could feel warm-blanket Christianity beginning to wrap around him, a life of safety, safety, safety.

I said, "Aaron, I will not pray for you to be safe. I will pray that God will make you dangerous, so dangerous that demons will flee when you enter the room."

And he goes, "All right. But pray I would be really, really dangerous, Daddy."

----------

Tough, right?? I'm with you, Mamas and Daddies. Knowing when to let go is hard. Have any tips or stories to help us become brave parents?

And Then Half the Council Picked Winners...

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 10 Jan 2013 16:03:34 +0000

I cannot tell you how excited I am to announce the three winners of the The 7 Experiment Bible study kit and Skype session! People, your entries...oh my word. So many amazing people, fabulous small groups, unlikely communities, all ages, all stages. I was so moved by you. I wanted to ship off kits to each and every one of you.

Then I realized I had to pick three winners.

Impossible.

So I outsourced this task to three of the six Council members. They combed through each and every response, every single beautiful, hilarious, meaningful, hysterical entry. (I particularly enjoyed the guy who said, "I like cheese." I see what you did there: connected with me on a soul level.) Each Council member handpicked a winner and wrote a little note, so without further ado, I not only give you the winners, but some pictorial evidence of these Council members and a potentially incriminating video attesting to our maturity level:

These are the people choosing your fate:

Shonna, Jenny, Moi, and Molly...spiritual giants.

Let's start with Council member Molly, since she was the first one to pick her winner. Molly was the Council member who thought it would be so hilarious to bring a jug of frozen margaritas to our filming session for The 7 Experiment. At 9:00am. Ha ha. Now all these men from Lifeway think we're a bunch of lushes. But the joke is on her...I quietly told them she had a drinking problem and we were seeking help for her.

Molly and I couple skating until I fell down and she left me for dead, laughing.

And Molly's winner is...Lizzie! Who posted on January 7 at 11:28am:

Oh shucks. I read your book. Devoured it. Emptied my closet and refrigerator. Gave to the homeless and prayed for orphans with the zeal of the newly converted. It was all my husband heard me talk about - I even tried to take the coat off his back - in February - and give it to the guy with the "will work for food" sign we pass every Sunday on our way to church. (What? I totally would have given my jacket, but I'm a girl, see. And it was purple...)

But then March happened, and rolled into April, and here we are almost a year later and I need help. On my to-do list today is "find the clothes that need returning." Find them. Because we have so many, in a house so full of stuff, that they've gone missing in less time than it took the wise men to get to baby Jesus.

My new small group has agreed to start the year off doing Seven together - the bible study kit (and Skype session with you!) would be such a gift!

FROM MOLLY:

Lizzie,

I loved your post. I also love that you tried to give your husbands jacket away, no need to give away your girly purple one to a dude!

It's easy to feel convicted to do something right after you hear/read something that inspires you. It's the follow through a few months later that I struggle with too. During and right after completing 7 I was ready to give everything away, make all my own clothes and open my home as the newest homeless shelter in the Austin area. It's been a couple of years and I'm finding myself back into some less than desirable patterns. I think it's the journey of trying to do better that changes us and our hearts. (Sorry that was cheesy!)

Have fun with the study and don't be afraid to give yourself some grace/cheat a little....like on food month when you just need a teeny bite of something sweet.

Molly

In NYC on a girlcation. Do you see those happy faces? Because we were in NYC with no kids.
I don't know why I have to explain this to you.

Let's move on to Shonna. After eating like Haitians in Food Month, Shonna has since been to Haiti twice and taken her kids. It turned into a thing. Which is how this stuff goes, so you've been warned. Evidently God can turn a molehill into a mountain. If I need a partner to justify my procrastination or lack of productivity in favor of sitting on a porch in the sunshine, Shonna is my girl. She has never failed me. No two girls can waste time better than these two:

We're cute, but I was in a bangs phase. Thank you for overlooking it.
Brandon is still in therapy.

In Seattle visiting Council Member Becky who listened to the devil and moved away from us.

And Shonna's winner is...Mary Marks! Who posted on January 7 at 11:39am and wrote:

Honestly, I've been terrified to read your book. Ignorance is bliss and all that.... But after going to El Salvador for the last three years, I need to do it. I need to have my living match my heart. And in turn help my friends understand so I don't look like I've gone off the deep end :)

FROM SHONNA:

Hi Mari!

Congratulations, you were my choice to win Jen’s study! I loved that you admitted your fear and how you have been blissful in your ignorance. I felt the same way before I did 7, went to Haiti and before I adopted. It might just be easier to not know- but it takes a lot of courage to put God’s will above your own. Especially when you know that what he has for you might not be as easy.

On my journey I have been called “eccentric” by some friends that didn’t understand why I was doing what I was doing. So getting your friends involved from the get go to be in the “deep end” with you is the best way to fully experience this study! Without my friends on the council beside me every step I would have given up week one.

Good luck to you and your “council”!

Shonna

“Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord.”
Psalm 31:24

In Vegas being awesome.

Finally, let's wrap up with Jenny, clearly the most lenient member of the Council. She tried to let me cheat at every turn, which is why she was the first one I picked. I'm no dummy. We live on the same street, started ANC together, and get in trouble. That is our legacy. Jenny is from Alabama (what I'm trying to say is that she is country), and when I sent her a hot-topic blog to read before I posted it, she wrote me back and said, "I don't know what 'belie' means. Stop using big words."

Real friends karaoke. Look how serious Jenny is. And our song choice is also boss.

This pic took us six takes. Apparently, white girls can't jump.

And Jenny's winner is...Kenna Scott! Who posted on January 7 at 12:37pm and wrote:

PICK US JEN!!

We're a group of poor, busy, overwhelmed college students in Colorado who are doing the study together. Not to guilt trip you or anything;) But we are just a group of 10 crazy girls who love the Lord, love each other, and have quickly started to love you!! WE WOULD LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE TO SKYPE WITH YOU!

If you wanted, you could even come over and we would make you dinner--but our cooking might make your month of 7 foods sound appealing again.

Thanks for the challenge you have created for us this next semester!

FROM JENNY:

Dear Kenna,

I PICK YOU AND YOUR GIRLFRIENDS!!!

I know you girls will love the study and LOVE to Skype with Jen. And as a bonus, I know she will enjoy you guys!

I have such a heart for high school and college students….I know your generation WILL be the ones that change the world.

The fact that you are a crazy bunch of girls just reminded me of how much fun we had doing this thing together as Jen wrote it. You've got to be a little crazy…or this thing just won't work!
Congrats and happy 7 to all of you!

Jenny
the "lenient" council member

Please, I beg you, watch the following video when Jenny and I were in Ethiopia and I had a, um, toilet problem in our hotel and found myself in need of a plunger but the hotel manager couldn't understand me:

Please rethink keeping me as a spiritual mentor.

Winners, look for an email from me, and we'll work out the details! For the rest of you, please believe me: I wish I had a set for every single one of you. Thank you for sharing your stories and your lives with me. I am so grateful and I love you. If you decide to do The 7 Experiment anyway, I am cheering you on from Austin! May your own "Council" be as crazy as mine, may the project be so spiritually meaningful, and may God's kingdom come in your life.

And now I'm thinking up a new way to introduce you to the other three Council members, because they are a hot awesome mess too.

Need a New Bible Study? I Have a Deal...

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 07 Jan 2013 10:34:43 +0000

It’s January 7th, which means a bunch of us have eaten raw spinach and quinoa this week, made a new chore chart, rewrote our vows, or have read the Bible for seven straight days for the first time since last January. Some people, I’ve heard, are even making a “Kind Words” jar where sassy children can make deposits to cash in for rewards or, more likely, withdrawals for saying such things to their brother like, “You smell like a diaper that’s been left in a hot car.” I’ve heard about a family like this.

It’s just that time to think about new beginnings.

Coming off the hustle and bustle and consumption of Christmas, I know many of my fellow travelers feel a little beleaguered, sort of worn down by the “too much” of it all yet again. Our new stuff is still strewed all over the house, struggling to compete for space with all the old stuff we still have. Half the gifts are already forgotten or shoved aside. Some folks are opening dreaded credit card bills, and the shine has come plumb off.

Is 2013 the year we live lighter, freer, more simply on this earth?

Is this the year we break free from the machine and find a whole new kind of abundance?

I want to help. I’m kicking off this year with a deal. 2012 was an incredible year to share “7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess” with you (No idea? Catch up here.). You formed groups, wrote blogs, led discussions, created book clubs, jumped in feet first, bullied your pastors, tricked your friends, wrote me one zillion emails and letters, and I truly believe the needle moved forward on the kingdom. It was incredible. I cannot believe what God has done. You moved, downsized, switched jobs, sold your possessions, decided to adopt, launched new ministries, served the marginalized, inspired your children, changed your lives. You were so brave, so obedient. I stood over on the side with my mouth hanging open.

Did you know that in the original experiment during a discussion with The Council, one of them said something about making a detail “reproducible” and I laughed in her face? “What??? No one is going to do this! Are you crazy? Are THEY crazy? This isn’t that kind of book! This is just to read! Who would do this??”

This is the only time I’ve ever been wrong in my life. Ask Brandon.

I had no idea anyone would want to try this, or some version of it. I didn’t write 7 that way in the slightest. I am still stunned out of my mind. I’ve seen the face of crazy, and it isn’t just in the mirror apparently. You’ve gone mad right alongside me.

So I wrote a study version of 7 intended to be, ahem, a reproducible project with many, many, many options and adaptations included. It’s Bible heavy, because evidently the Bible actually has much to say about excess and consumerism and true freedom. It’s hands-on, meaning each week you will be reducing, scaling back, restraining in seven areas: food, clothing, possessions, media, waste, spending, and stress. This isn’t just information for your head; it’s a social experiment and your life is the subject. It’s new material, interactive, and we even shot a bunch of cool videos for it at my house. (I let a bunch of men from Lifeway into my closet to shoot one session, and I was so nervous as they walked into my bedroom that I hollered out, “Well, this is where the magic happens!” And then I tried to move to Canada.)

The 7 Experiment: Staging Your Own Mutiny Against Excess is a 9-week study, including an intro, seven weeks tackling one area of excess per week, and a conclusion. The Leader Kit includes one member book (the workbook each participant will need), all the DVD’s, and leader helps. This is for small groups, a bunch of friends, Sunday School classes, roommates, youth groups (MANY youth pastors took their students through 7 this year!), families, Bible study groups, women AND men, any old renegades.

Here’s the deal: I have three sets of The 7 Experiment for three selected small groups. Each set includes the Leader Kit, 10 additional member books (all signed)…and…a Skype with me at the conclusion of your study! I get to offer each set at half price – worth $200, but you can get it here, with the Skype, for $100.

I only have three sets.

You interested? Can you ~~trick~~ inspire 10 others to join you for nine weeks? And don’t imagine you need to be some hippie minimalist to “lead” this study. Hardly. If you can press play on a DVD player and keep a discussion on the rails, you can do this. This isn’t for folks who’ve arrived but rather for those of us in progress. This isn’t a guilt trip, a strict formula, an impossible template, or a comparison game. There is wiggle room and flex for everyone; all is grace here.

So, I am going to draw three names from the comment section to send the whole kit n’ caboodle to for the bargain price of $100. From there, we’ll schedule a time for me to Skype into your group and we’ll laugh our heads off at all the ways you cheated along the way.

Tell me, why do you want The 7 Experiment and who will you ask to join you?

Women of Valor...Pinterest Aside

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 21 Dec 2012 11:22:07 +0000

This fall brought some wonderful things with it, starting with Back to School (whatever, this thrills me and I don’t care what you say), Haiti and The Legacy Project, kids who can read (this is a thing), a sister/mom trip, the discovery of When Parents Text, Uganda, Remy’s prayers, good friends, good times.

[Click below to listen to Remy’s prayer in two parts…you won’t be sorry. Note: 1.) Gavin and Ben lost Brandon's hammer in the woods and had one day to find it until they had to pay the piper, and 2.) part of the Elm Grove Elementary Leadership Curriculum includes the concept of being “proactive” which will become apparent to you in two minutes.]

"Thank you, THANK YOU for...me."

But it also brought something else for me: a crushing sense of failure. My inner critic is destroying me. I can’t escape this nagging sense that I am doing bad at everything.

Sound byte: Brandon and I are speaking at two marriage conferences this spring, and we sat down to hammer out material, looked at each other and said, “Um. Who thought we were good candidates for this?” Parenting? I can’t even talk about it except to tell you that as my kids left for school Tuesday, these were my parting words: “If you come home fighting, I will turn this house into a monastery and every one of you will be forbidden to speak until tomorrow. Not one word. Have a good day!” Fitness? I can only hope my unused gym membership at the YMCA is somehow going to feed orphans or whatever it is the Young Christian Men do with my cash.

And then my friend Kristen convinced me to join Pinterest.

Now it’s confirmed: I am a failure, because evidently I haven’t taken a fall picture in my size zero skinny jeans and haphazard scarf standing on railroad tracks, I haven’t chalkboard painted mason jars to organize my Arborio rice and lentils, I clearly don’t know how to do eye makeup, and I’ve never cut my children’s sandwiches and apples and carrots into a whimsical seascape. Nor have I made this craft with my kids, but it is only because I love them:

Pinterest, please put yourself in timeout.

Between the Top 10 Lists everywhere, impending New Year’s Resolutions, freaking Pinterest, and the Advent Calendar (excuse me, but I have never done anything for 25 straight days in my life), I am in dire need of some different goals. Not the “try this new behavior system” kind. Not the “how to be more organized” type. Not the “becoming more awesome” lists.

No, I need something different this year. We all do.

I came across some profound teaching by my friend, Rachel Held Evans, that I can only deduce was divinely timed. After I read it the first time, I literally thought about it for weeks. It was so liberating, so refreshing, so carefully examined and studied in Scripture. She took a biblical passage that women have used as a battering ram - on themselves - for far too long, and it's high time we begin to change the banner we wave over one another, over ourselves.

From Rachel:

Why You Don't Need Pinterest to be a Proverbs 31 Woman

Okay, I’ll admit it. I never loved the Proverbs 31 Woman.

Actually, that may be an understatement. Truth be told, I secretly hated her.

The subject of a twenty-two line acrostic poem found in the last chapter of the book of Proverbs, the “wife of noble character” is cited at nearly every Christian women’s conference as the ideal to which all godly women must strive. The bad news for the domestically-challenged among us is that the life of the Proverbs 31 woman is like a Pinterest board come to life: She rises before dawn each day, provides exotic food for her children, runs a profitable textile business, invests in real estate, cares for the poor, spends hours at the loom making clothes and coverings for her bed, and crafts holiday wreaths out of coffee filters. (Okay, so that last one was straight from Pinterest, but you get the idea.)

Growing up in the Church, I sat through many a sermon explaining how domestic exploits like these represented the essence of true womanhood, and over time, I began to see myself as less-than, falling short of God’s ideal each time I turned to Sara Lee for dessert or called my mom to help me hem my own slacks.

So when I decided to commit one year of my life to studying (and at times, practicing) everything the Bible says about women as part of my “Year of Biblical Womanhood,” I knew I’d have to come face-to-face with the Proverbs 31 Woman in a way I hadn’t before.

I started by attempting to turn the poem into a to-do list, which resulted in a 16-item list that included everything from lifting weights each morning (“she girds herself with strength and makes her arms strong”), to making a purple dress to wear (“she makes coverings for herself; her clothing is fine linen and purple”), to knitting scarves for my husband (“when it snows, she has no fear for her household, for all of them are clothed in scarlet”), to making a homemade sign and literally praising my husband at the city gate (“her husband is respected at the city gate, where he takes his seat among the elders of the land”).

I had a bit of fun with that last one, but the rest proved exhausting. Within a few weeks, I’d started and unraveled at least two scarves, broken the old second-hand sewing machine I’d dug out of my closet, cursed at the picture of Martha Stewart smiling glibly from the cover of my cookbook, and embarrassed myself at Hobby Lobby by crying in the fabric aisle.

Finally, I consulted Ahava, an Orthodox Jewish woman I had befriended during the project.

“So do Jewish women struggle with this passage as much as Christian women?” I asked.

Ahava seemed a bit bewildered.

“Not at all!” she said. “In my culture, Proverbs 31 is a blessing.”

Ahava repeated a finding I’d discovered in my research, that the first line of the Proverbs 31 poem—“a virtuous woman who can find?”—is best translated, “a woman of valor who can find?” In fact, the structure and diction employed in the poem closely resembles that of a heroic poem celebrating the exploits of a warrior.

“I get called an eshet chayil (woman of valor) all the time,” Ahava explained. “Make your own challah instead of buying? Eshet chayil! Work to earn some extra money for the family? Eshet chayil! Get promoted at your work? Eshet chayil! Make balloon animals for the kids at a party? Eshet chayil! Every week at the Sabbath table, my husband sings the Proverbs 31 poem to me. It’s special because I know that no matter what I do or don’t do, he praises me for blessing the family with my energy and creativity. All women can do that in their own way. I bet you do as well.”

I looked into this, and sure enough, in Jewish culture it is not the women who memorize Proverbs 31, but the men. Husband commit each line of the poem to memory, so they can recite it to their wives at the Sabbath meal, usually in a song. (The astute reader will notice that the only actual instruction found in the entire poem is that a husband celebrate his wife for “all her hands have done.”) The praise is meant to be unconditional.

But the blessing goes beyond the family. Ahava explained that her Jewish friends cheer one another on with the blessing, celebrating everything from promotions, to pregnancies, to acts of mercy and justice, to battles with cancer with a hearty “eshet chayil!”—woman of valor.

The biblical heroine Ruth is called an “eshet chayil,” in fact. And she is called that at a time when her life looked nothing like the life of the Proverbs 31 woman, when she was a poor, childless, widow, who, far from exchanging fine linens with the merchants, spent her days gleaning leftover grain from the fields.

“All the people of my town know that you are a woman of noble character (eshet chayil),” Boaz says to her.

I liked it.

No, I loved it.

So I set aside my to-do list and began using Proverbs 31 as it was meant to be used—not as yet another impossible standard by which to measure our failures, but as a celebration of what we’ve already accomplished as women of valor. When my friend Tiffany’s pharmacy aced its accreditation, I congratulated her with “eshet chayil!” When my sister beat out about a million applicants for the job she wanted in North Carolina, I called her up and shouted “woman of valor!” When my mom overcame breast cancer, I made a card that said “eshet chayil” on the front. When I learned that three women had won the Nobel Peace Prize, I shared the new with my readers in a blog post entitled, “Meet Three Women of Valor.”

As I saw how powerful and affirming this ancient blessing could be, I decided it was time for Christian women to take back Proverbs 31. Somewhere along the way, we surrendered it to the same people who invented airbrushing and Auto-Tune. We abandoned the meaning of the poem by focusing on the specifics, and it became just another impossible standard by which to measure our failures. We turned an anthem into an assignment, a poem into a job description.

But according to Ahava, the woman described in Proverbs 31 is not some ideal that exists out there; she is present in each one of us when we do even the smallest things with valor.

And that’s worth celebrating…with or without a Pinterest board.

Rachel Held Evans is a popular blogger and the author of A Year of Biblical Womanhood, which recently released. She has recently been featured in Christianity Today, NPR, The Huffington Post, Slate, The Today Show, People Magazine, and The View.

~

AMEN, Rachel. Thank you for this profound teaching that has so liberated me from yet another list I cannot conquer. Women, as we tie up 2012 and head into 2013, may we call forth the best in one another, the best in ourselves. Rather than listening to the voices that assure us we are failing, lacking, losing, let's celebrate moments of honor and valor with a loud, strong "eshet chayil!" For we are indeed surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, and we strengthen each other when we name the goodness we see, when we cheer one another on. Let's take back Proverbs 31 indeed.

Mamas raising the littles and toddlers and babies...eshet chayil!

Women working so hard, using your gifts...eshet chayil!

Wives committed to their marriages, digging deep...eshet chayil!

Those of you teaching your children of Jesus this Christmas...eshet chayil!

To those who care so much and serve so beautifully...eshet chayil!

Women of valor, I HONOR YOU. So proud to be your sister.

Who can we honor together today? Tell us about the women of valor in your life, and let us speak "eshet chayil!" over their lives. Who has loved you? Inspired you? Moved you? Cared for you? Done something worth celebrating? Done something worth celebrating that would never ordinarily be celebrated? May this feed turn into a cheering section, because I think we can all agree the ugly, critical voices have gone on long enough.

Lamentations

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 17 Dec 2012 11:26:58 +0000

My hands are moving, doing things. I cut carrots and parsnips. I picked up some shoes and told kids to fold laundry. I drove my car to some places and sat on the front row at church yesterday.

But I am dumbstruck with sadness.

I feel numb, then totally not numb, aching, angry, despondent. I need to scream and cry and I had some severe words with God this morning. I did. Because for just this moment in time, not forever, but for these days right now, I’ve hit my limit.

I’ve seen too much Tent City in Haiti. I’ve heard too many stories about 10-year-old Ugandan girls treated for STD’s contracted from fathers, uncles, neighbors, sleeping on the steps of the police station, begging for intervention, only to find total apathy. I’ve held the hands of trafficked women, exploited and brutalized. I’ve seen scars on children’s bodies from beatings. There are too many abandoned children, too many five-year-olds trained to sexually service depraved men, too much hunger, too much suffering.

And now these children in Connecticut. The teachers huddled in closets, reading them books and saving their lives. The fear, the parents, I literally feel glued to my seat, frozen in grief. The horror, it can’t be believed, it can’t be real. How could this life careen so far of course? How could it? Why are children, the ones least able to mitigate evil and abuse and terror, so often the victims, the targets?

I told God today that I didn’t want to do this anymore. That He couldn’t make me. That telling me to hold a torch of hope was too much to ask. What are we supposed to do, just live this life? How are we supposed to handle this, all of this? How do we hold the torch high with all this darkness and evil and perversion and torture? How much does He expect us to take in? He chose poorly when He chose me, I said. I’m too fragile for this evidently. Why He put the prophet’s fire in my belly is confounding. I can’t do it. I told Him. I want out.

I cried. I’m crying still. God knows I don’t mean it. I don’t want out. But it felt so good to say it. I miss my last life, when I was oblivious and carefree as a jaybird. I miss giving conference talks on “How to be Confident.” I liked it when that was my deep end. Nothing really hurt. There was no real cost. It was so easy.

So I told God I missed the old me, which I totally don’t. I didn’t mean a stitch of it, even as the words were pouring out, furious, heartbroken. I just needed a safe place to fall apart, to grieve and wail and lose it completely, and God is that place for me. He is safe and I can do that with Him. I just needed to beat on His chest and scream, so I did. I am Jeremiah, my eyes fail from weeping, I am in torment within. My heart is poured out on the ground because my people are destroyed, because children and infants faint in the streets of the city.

The scope of suffering and evil is so wide, the hate and fear and disgusting sexual perversions and darkness takes so many innocents, that today I have no idea what to do but grieve. I know others are going to deal in different ways, through other avenues; they are going to rebound quicker or push back sooner, and I’m so grateful for them. The helpful words are already there, or their hope is undaunted, unshaken, undisturbed. We take turns being strong in the family of God, which is such a gift; everyone gets their turn to hold one another up, everyone gets their turn to rend their garments and weep.

I’m in the weaker group today, smearing ashes on my forehead and mourning.

It’s all I can do. I’ve reached my threshold. I am begging for morning, praying for the dawn. I am truly in a season of Advent, waiting. Jesus, when are you going to come and make all things new? When will you redeem these losses and heal this land? When will children be safe? When are you coming? We are waiting, a groaning earth. We are aliens and strangers, reaching toward the kingdom, gasping. The hope torch is so heavy.

My only answer in the face of all this madness is Jesus. I literally have no other words, no better narrative. I believe Him. Just like He came the first time, in the margins, and the earth received her King, I know He is still here, ruling the world with truth and grace. I know He cares and He sees and He will be found. I know He is the light of the world, even though the night is so dark, so pitch black.

That is all I know.

So for today, all I can offer the Body of Christ is this small space, here, to grieve. For those of you struggling for sense or paralyzed in horror, I am gathering you to me, our tears, our prayers, our gasps safe in this place. Answers are far away, elusive. Christian platitudes are woefully inadequate. Our shoulders stoop with the weight of suffering, and all we can do is light a candle, gather, grieve. We hold a silent vigil for the brokenhearted, trusting Jesus to bring beauty from ashes.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens:
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance.”
Ecclesiastes 3:1,4

“The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him;
it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord…
Let him sit alone in silence, for the Lord has laid it on him.
Let him bury his face in the dust – there may be hope yet.”
Lamentations 3:25-29

For Freedom

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 11 Dec 2012 10:22:51 +0000

"The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
because the Lord has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim freedom for the captives
and release from darkness for the prisoners..."
~Isaiah 61:1

This month, I'm freshly reminded that so many of the fancy products that we'll buy, wrapped in darling brown paper and tied with elaborate bows were made by the hands of slaves. It is one the greatest tragedies of our generation; 27 million slaves forced to supply the consumer machine for rich people with money to burn, addicted to artificially low prices.

This is absolutely an injustice we can fight. Absolutely. We have all the power here actually: consumer power. At the root of slave labor is one driving motive: profits. This is a supply and demand issue, and if we insist on demanding our goodies without carefully and responsibly scrutinizing the supply chain, I truly believe we'll answer for it one day. We can do better. We must.

So it with great joy I get to showcase organizations like Freeset, where you and I can find beautiful, well-crafted products while simultaneously fighting human trafficking.

Freeset is in business for freedom. Freedom from human trafficking. Freeset is a fair trade business that sells bags and t-shirts, made by women freed from human trafficking in Calcutta, India. The women are able to have a job with dignity, making products, instead of being the product. Every woman receives three times the wage they would receive in line (the prostitution line), learn to read and write, daycare for their children, have medical insurance and retirement benefits. Women were tricked, trapped, or trade and find themselves seemingly without a choice. Their goal is to change the economic scope of Sonagacchi, Calcutta's largest red light district, to one of freedom, instead of the sex trade. Watch their video, buy their bags, change lives.

May I tell you about one of the Freeset workers, Nandita? Before working at Freeset, Nandita was trying to move out of the sex trade. She volunteered to distribute condoms among sex workers, as well as working as a house maid. They were tough years, “In those days we had to starve most of the time,” she says.

Ten years ago she was presented with the opportunity to join Freeset. As one of the original 20 women she remembers her feelings at the time, “I was hopeful but also skeptical about the job as I had never done any sewing before. I was also skeptical about Kerry and Annie (the founders of Freeset) as they were foreigners. Everybody used to make promises to pay us but we were never paid, except for a few months in seven years.” It was only when she started getting paid for her work at Freeset that Nandita allowed herself to really trust these foreigners that were making big promises.

Like many, Nandita found learning to use a pedal sewing machine difficult. “When I started sewing on a machine, I couldn’t do it - I could never sew straight - I had no control over the machine! I couldn’t even hold the scissors properly. One time I scratched the marble floor while cutting ropes. I was not very good at sewing, but I am good at cutting and finishing bags, and I enjoy it.”

Nandita takes pride in the fact that she was one of the first 20 women who started Freeset and who have nurtured the business into what it is today. She dreams of Freeset becoming a place of freedom for many more women in the future, “People in the community can see Freeset has given a new life to the women in line. Freeset really helps the women in line who are getting old and can’t earn much anymore.”

These women are our sisters. They are mothers, like us. Daughters, like us. Wives and friends and neighbors, like us. Their souls are precious, their lives full of value. Their dreams and hopes are real, palpable like ours. Their children are beloved and deserve a life free of abuse and terror.

I am so proud of Freeset, speaking up for these women, stepping in, refusing apathy. Freedom doesn't come through good intentions and fairy dust. Freedom has always required a fight. Like our Savior who came to filthy earth, polluted, ruined, hopeless, and he fought the good fight for our liberation. He sweat, he bled, he suffered, and he won it.

He won it for us.

It was for freedom that He set us free.

Let's help win freedom for these sisters. Supply and demand still works here; the more we demand, the more jobs are created through this healthy supply chain interlaced with liberty. Let's direct our dollar with purpose, remembering it is a powerful tool, capable of calling an unjust system to reform and creating jobs and saying yes to freedom and no to slavery. We will not be complicit in abuse. The way we spend matters. May we never forget it.

And if you get this daaaaarling "Hope Bag" out of the deal, well, you can just have that cake and eat it too.

Thank you, Freeset, for your courageous example. Thank you for your work on behalf of our sisters in India. Thank you for refusing to sit on the sidelines, overwhelmed. Thank you for doing your part, for playing your note, for filling your spot. Thank you for showing us the way to freedom.

Nancy Rue, The Reluctant Prophet, and a Giveaway

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 05 Dec 2012 08:09:35 +0000

Let's see, it's 4:47am, and I've been wide awake since 3:16 for the second night in a row. Dear Jet Lag, how not nice to see you again. I especially appreciate how you are robbing me of sleep but also of all clarity so that these early morning hours are basically useless, as I want to write about Uganda, but I can't seem to string a sentence together yet. Too soon. (Re: "too soon"... see also: Christmas Tree Decoration/Hot Cocoa Fantastic Family Night last night, 20 hours after arriving home, where 4 of the 7 of us had total meltdowns, 1 went to bed crying, 1 went to bed brooding, 2 went to bed fighting, and 1 went to bed babbling like a baby. Awesome.)

So good news, readers! I have someone else's amazing words and ideas to share today that are not contingent upon my personal mental status. You're welcome.

If you haven't already, please meet my friend Nancy Rue. As a wise and prolific author, she was guiding me as I began parenting a tween girl long before I actually got to meet her. Then, two summers ago, at a glorious, intimate writer's retreat with just six of us, I spent an entire week with her. You know you can trust me here: Nancy is profoundly wonderful.

Not only is she a gifted fiction AND nonfiction writer (Really, universe? If she can also sing, I'm pulling out of this unjust lottery), but she is a teeny, tiny bit ~~irreverent~~ hilarious, and well, you know, that's my lane. She has written a stunning trilogy, unpacking all sorts of complicated and difficult issues with grace and wisdom called, "The Reluctant Prophet" (anyone have any clue why I'm drawn to this? No? K.)

Without further ado, please meet my friend, Nancy:

WHEN THE NUDGE DRIVES A WEDGE

I am SO jazzed to be a guest on Jen Hatmaker’s blog! This is a lady I have admired (and been humbled by and challenged by and nudged by) ever since I met her two summers ago. I’ve watched her conscience-pricking, action-inspiring ministry grow as only the real God-things do, and now it’s an honor to be able to bring my community of Nudgees to hers – to you – who share our joy in being nudged by God and our, okay, let’s call it, um, apprehension that where we’re nudged to go is way out of our comfort zone. So thank you, Jen, and all of you.

You’re the third stop on the hop (more on that below) so just to catch you up: we’re talking about the tough questions that the trilogy The Reluctant Prophet sets before us. As in, throws it right in our faces. Today’s is this: What if God’s nudge puts you at odds with your church family – or even your own family for that matter? Do you not agree that Jen is the perfect person to host this question?

In this trilogy, protagonist Allison Chamberlain is Nudged to buy a Harley and go into the darkest part of St. Augustine, Florida, to minister to the prostitutes – as in, bring them into her home, take care of them, take care of one of their kids, provide opportunities for them to deal with their addictions, hold them while they vomit. You get the idea. She’s doing Jesus.

But she’s shocked to discover that the very people who shepherded her when she was a new Christian and have become her family are appalled at what she’s doing. It has, after all, cost Allison her job, gotten her crosswise with the law, and put her in considerable physical danger. “It’s not going to end well, Allison,” they tell her, “and we wouldn’t be your brothers and sisters in Christ if we didn’t tell you that.”

You have to admit they have a point. They even provide her with information regarding various social services “these people” could turn to, and offer her money to get back on her feet. “We care about you Allison,” one of them says with tears in her eyes.

They have a point, but they don’t get the point: that Allison is doing what she’s called to do. And as a prophet (albeit a reluctant one) she sees even deeper than that. As she says to them after she has invited them to come into her home and see what she and “these people” are doing:

“Oh, wait – you wouldn’t come in my house now because it’s full of people who’ve made huge, ugly mistakes, and even though they’re repentant and forgiven – gosh – you might catch something from them. Like, I don’t know, humility. Courage. Yeah, that would be a whole lot harder than sitting in a pew saying ‘amen.’ Forget my invitation. Pharisees aren’t welcome in our house.”

Okay, so she comes on a little strong. And a little snarky. But here’s the deal – if God’s calling, that call has to be louder than any other voice. Jesus tells us in the Gospel that we’re going to have to put up with all kinds of persecution for his sake.

I had to leave a church that became very sick and was determined to stay that way – and in the process I gave up a group of friends I miss terribly. I had to let a very effective assistant go because we were no longer on the same spiritual page. I’ve been “uninvited” as a speaker when the powers-that-be read my belief statement. I’m taking a risk right now in these five blog hop posts by asking unsettling questions.

You’ve probably made similar sacrifices, or even more soul-wrenching ones that involved sons, daughters, parents, spouses. So what do we do when that happens? Just drift out there alone and hurt – and become prey to self-pity and its buddy self-righteousness?

Wise woman Hank D’Angelo in The Reluctant Prophet trilogy says no. She says, “You still need a community of fellow believers to worship with.” I found one in the very church that inspired these books, St. Augustine’s Chapel at Vanderbilt University in Nashville. Allison and Hank created their own. And in the final book of the three, Too Far To Say Far Enough, we see hope that the church can fill both its members needs and the desperate needs of the community.

Besides all that we have to forgive. Because as Hank says, “We’re all a mess.” Perhaps with the grace we’re called on by our Lord Christ to extend, we won’t have to drive that wedge after all.

Um, can you see why I love Nancy and particularly this trilogy? Prostitutes, a love/pull-my-hair-out relationship with the church, and - let's be honest - the Harley: these are my little pet things. Nancy is a trustworthy guide, a fantastic writer, and you should know her.

Now what you have probably been waiting for…winning books! Nancy’s publisher, David C. Cook is giving away:

Reluctant Prophet series (3 books) to 10 winners,
PLUS 10 copies of Reluctant Prophet to each winner’s recipient of choice.

Nancy will personally sign each book as well as include a letter with Reluctant Prophet to your person of choice. Visit here for the Rafflecopter entry form and official rules.

If you are joining the hop mid-way through and not sure where to go, here are all the stops for each day. That way you are able to maximize your entries into the giveaway, as well as capture Nancy’s heart as she wrote this series:

Monday: Nancy Rue, The Nudge “What Hank Says . . . About Leaving the Pew”
Tuesday: Mocha With Linda “Will the “Real” Christians Please Stand Up?”
Wednesday: Jen Hatmaker “When the Nudge Drives a Wedge”
Thursday: Julie Cantrell “That Whole ‘Unequally Yoked’ Thing
Friday: Far From Perfect MaMMa “Is It Worth Having a Record?”

If you would like to connect with Nancy, she can be found here:

Website: www.nancyrue.com
facebook (adult fans): www.facebook.com/nnrue
facebook (for teen fans): www.facebook.com/nnrueforteens
twitter: www.twitter.com/NNRue
pinterest: www.pinterest.com/nnrue
In addition to Nancy’s blog, The Nudge, (for her adult audience), she also has a blog for teens (In Real Life) and for tweens (Tween You and Me)

I really appreciate the question Nancy raises in the story, particularly because it is so reflective of real life. So I ask you, good reader, what if God’s nudge puts you at odds with your church family – or even your own family for that matter? Has this happened in your life? Can you relate? If so, can you share a bit of your story with us?

The Legacy Project

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 06 Nov 2012 09:29:57 +0000

Scene: Haiti

On my right, buildings and homes still left in rubble three years after the earthquake, amid much reconstruction, but still.

On my right, men, young men, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, sitting on the curbs, nowhere to go, apparently nothing to do.

Stretched out in front of me as far as the eye can see, Tent City, still home to over 20,000 displaced people, a city of sewage and deterioration and fear.

In my ear, our Haitian leaders telling us, “There is no local economic stimulus here. There simply aren’t jobs. We have no export or international trade or strong industry. We have no insurance system. There is no safety net.”

And some small part of me simply despaired.

Because how can I help stimulate an entire economy? What could I possibly do to move the Haitian government toward reform? These systemic problems are beyond my scope, out of reach of my understanding. This is not my lane, and I feel helpless, frustrated, useless.

Then this from our leader:

“In Haiti, only 5 out of 10 children attend elementary school at all. Once they reach middle and high school, only 2 out of 10 kids get to go.”

Wait. Just. A. Minute.

No. Unacceptable.

I may not understand the nuances of economic stimulus and viable international exports, but I do know this: No country will ever lift out of extreme poverty with education stats like that. With 50% of the nation’s children totally uneducated and only 20% entering adulthood with even just a high school diploma, we are staring down endless cycles of poverty and disempowerment. We can pile on programs and initiatives and business models ad nauseum, but if half the future generation can’t even read, the ceiling will be reached before hope even got off the ground.

So…let’s build a school.

It’s so attainable, so easy, so sustainable and long-term. At Yaveh Shamma, the kids' home supported by Help One Now, Pastor Gaetan is raising 30 children. Additionally, 120 vulnerable kids from the community who couldn’t afford school otherwise traipse in the big metal doors of the kids' home five days a week in their little proud uniforms to attend the school as well.

This is what they are currently meeting in:

Another tent in a nation of temporary solutions. It is open, exposed to every gust of wind, every sheet of rain, every swirl of dust, every decibel of Haitian noise. The children outgrew the space ages ago. A few desks, one chalkboard, a thin partition of canvas between grades…I am awed by their resourcefulness. No shelves, no books, no other learning materials. Where would they put them? As is, it is simply a rudimentary roof over their heads where they are receiving the basic building blocks of a future.

Pastor Gaetan has the space. What he doesn’t have is the funding. Top to bottom, bricks and floors and roof and walls and windows: 90K. That’s it. The cost of a small, inexpensive home in America. It's so doable between us all, I almost want to laugh. The entire Haiti blogging team is rallying around this Legacy Project, and I daresay God sovereignly directed us toward this very task while in Haiti last month. He set it before us and said, “Champion it.”

The team, dreaming this thing up in Haiti, after our day was "randomly" derailed.

Let’s build it for him. For the kids. For the community. For Haiti.

It’s going to be so easy:

1. If you haven’t already, sign up for Pure Charity. "Follow" me through that link, and that is your ticket in the door. Then create your own account. (Missed that part? Read here.)
2. Back our Legacy Project. ("Fund this project" is the same thing.)
3. DONATE into your own personal Pure Charity account to get the ball rolling! I did it. All the cool kids are.
4. Continue to funnel your Christmas and holiday spending and just regular old boring necessary life spending through Pure Charity partners online and in-stores, and your personal giving account will continue to grow. With the Legacy Project backed, those precious dollars will start funding windows, floors, doors, walls. AMEN.
5. Invite your people into this dream. Share the Pure Charity Legacy Project page with your friends. Let’s move this sideways, out, and up.

We’re going to fund the school in seven phases, one building stage at a time. Not only does this break it down into manageable chunks, but let’s just say your church, your small group, your Sunday School class, your extended family wants to make a big dent together…$3000 for Phase 1? Take it. Run with it. Raise it together.

150 children impacted forever, with new students able to join every year. 12 teachers hired. At least 30 jobs created for Haitians in the construction. Building materials bought locally as economic stimulus. Families able to lift out of extreme poverty. This small project will literally impact thousands of Haitians over time and create a pocket of possibility where Jesus reins and hope rises.

Jesus always told us that the kingdom would come in small ways: like a seed, like yeast in dough, like a small pearl in a shell, through children and the meek. It may not feel fancy or totally comprehensive or enormous. But it is in the million small moments of obedience, of sacrifice, of trust in the power of Jesus that the kingdom advances. It's in your little offering and my small part and all of that added together turns into hope and a future. Building a school in the middle of poverty will not change everything…

But it’s a start.

It counts.

This is it, the stuff of the kingdom, the intercession for the vulnerable, the joy of mission. This school will be a safe place for a small community to send their children, providing them with everything they need to rise up and change their country. We might never know the ripple effects or see how far this one small safe haven reached, but in God’s capable hands, justice will roll on like a river and righteousness like a never-failing stream.

God, your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Let’s do this.

Before You Spend Another Penny...

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 01 Nov 2012 15:13:38 +0000

You know sometimes when you hear an idea, and in no small way, it totally blows your mind, and you think I am so happy to live in a world where smart people think up smart stuff like this? Well. Sit down. Because do I EVER have the best idea to share with you, and I am going to ~~absolutely insist upon penalty of death~~ gently encourage you to join me in it.

Step 1: Watch this. Seriously. It's like one minute, and this is THE STUFF:

So here's the deal: We spend money. All the time. Sometimes it's exciting things like vacations and iPads. Other times it's slightly less glamorous, like diapers and Windex. But we're spending. And the stores we spend at have historically managed their own charitable giving. They give a portion of their proceeds to amazing work like...well...we have no idea. There is a major disconnect between our purchasing dollars and their corporate philanthropic giving.

But Pure Charity gets this great idea: Let's bridge that gap and allow the consumers to decide where their little percentage goes. If Target agrees to donate 1.5% of your total purchase, then how about you decide what project that 1.5% funds? And so, like magic, the way we are already spending, already consuming, just living our lives turns into generosity.

It's the easiest, easiest thing ever, and I'm going to walk you through the steps:

1. Sign up for a Pure Charity account. ("Follow" me then scroll down to "Get Started" to make your own account. Following one another compounds our giving, because that is another way Pure Charity WINS THE UNIVERSE.) If you're on Facebook, you can sign in through that (which is great for sharing in the future), or you can sign up the old-fashioned way.

2. Install the browser plugin. This causes a cute little icon to pop up when you're shopping online at participating vendors, and with a simple *click*, a percentage of your purchase will be routed into your personal giving account with Pure Charity. And when I say participating vendors, yall, I'm talking about over 1000 stores like:

Target Gap Best Buy
Groupon Priceline Sam's Club
Apple Sephora Petsmart
Walmart Lowe's Forever 21

Are you kidding me with this???? I'm telling you, Pure Charity has convinced virtually all of our favorite stores to drink the PC kool-aid. These are the places we already shop. Can you imagine if we collectively harnessed a percentage of our regular spending for good? (Never mind. Pure Charity already imagined that.)

3. Register your main credit/debit card with Pure Charity. This is so brilliant, because every time you use that card at a participating vendor IN STORE, a percentage is automatically zipped over to your personal giving account. You have to do absolutely nothing at all. (Not every online vendor has an in-store partnership, so when in doubt, online shopping will always build up your personal giving account. Plus, who wants to shop in the store when you can do it online?? asks the shopping-hater.)

4. Now, browse the projects. Well...JUST WAIT A MINUTE. For perhaps, just perhaps I have an idea here already. Oh sure, you'll see clean water initiatives and AIDS interventions and whatnot, but if you'll ~~not get distracted by inferior projects~~ just wait a few more teeny days, I have something awesome we can pool our collective impact for, and you're going to want to know about it. I promise.

5. Support your favorite project. (You can change the amount you support…it starts with $5 increments…by clicking the dollar amount and changing it.) These are time specific projects with a set amount of $. If that project doesn’t fund by the finish date, Pure Charity refunds the money back into your giving account. But again...kindly wait just a few baby days, because I clearly have an ulterior motive here.

6. Share it with friends! There’s a strong social connection to this, where you can share buttons and widgets with your friends and followers, to generate interest in a cause you’re passionate about.

Pure Charity offers a redemptive opportunity to harness consumerism for great good. It's just so brilliant. Good reader, please make a Pure Charity account. Please share this blog with every person you know. Did you know that in the next two months, Americans will dole out roughly 40% of our entire annual spending? If ever there was a time to capitalize on capitalism, it is surely now.

Christmas spending...harnessed for good.

Holiday travel...used for charity.

Spending on our families...equals spending on others.

May I ask you to share this blog like it's your job? Let's get everyone we know signed up for Pure Charity, because with virtually no effort, it will redeem our regular spending, bit by bit, purchase by purchase, to change the world.

And once you all have your accounts in place...I have a little project to back. We're going to do something amazing together between now and December 25th. Oh, yes we are. YES WE ARE.

Haiti, Personal Crisis, and a Manifesto

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 19 Oct 2012 11:05:27 +0000

“There are always those who take it upon themselves to defend God, as if Ultimate Reality, as if the sustaining frame of existence, were something weak and helpless. These people walk by a widow deformed by leprosy begging for a few paise, walk by children dressed in rags living in the street, and they think, “Business as usual.” But if they perceive a slight against God, it is a different story. Their faces go red, their chests heave mightily, they sputter angry words. The degree of their indignation is astonishing. Their resolve is frightening.” ~Life of Pi

I read this international bestseller on the way home from Haiti one week ago today, where I’d been writing on behalf of Help One Now and the extraordinary people of Haiti for a week. The reader response was terribly sincere but small. Gains on child sponsorship were modest. The content was just so difficult, for the writers, readers, all of us. What do we do with Tent City, horrifically dubbed “rape camp”? What do we do with all these orphaned kids? What do we do with these heroic pastors pouring their very lives out for their people? We don’t know. Tears? Yes. Action? Maybe not.

Then I came home and wrote a piece on the election, which has apparently gone to the ends of the earth. I’ve been called dangerous, scary, stupid, sinful, liberal of course, and apparently I’m “living on the fence with the devil.” (I had no idea.) (But someone also offered to drive to Austin and buy me a margarita, so it wasn’t all bad news.) And to be fair, the positive reaction, by far the largest majority, was equally strong. For better or worse, readers felt strong enough to repost, refute, rejoice, retweet, rebut, repin, and reread.

The dichotomy put me into mild despair.

And I’m not pointing my finger at you, good readers. I am, after all, the girl who found the emotional energy to write such a charged piece three days after returning from Haiti. How was I able to suspend the emotional turmoil that quickly? It’s so easy to get incensed over American politics; that pill goes down like a dream compared to rape camp. Identify with Jesus in His sufferings? Pass. Identify with a political party? Sign me the freak up.

I woke up this morning with my heart aching with the words of the prophets, so often my plumb line. I hear God’s anguish fresh, His disbelief at the priorities of the assembly. Read them carefully, for they reek of relevance:

“I hate, I despise your religious festivals; your assemblies are a stench to me. Even though you bring me burnt offerings and grain offerings, I will not accept them. Though you bring choice fellowship offerings, I will have no regard for them. Away with the noise of your songs! I will not listen to the music of your harps. But let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream!” (Amos 5:21-24)

“Stop bringing meaningless offerings! Your incense is detestable to me. New Moons, Sabbaths and convocations – I cannot bear your worthless assemblies… When you spread out your hands in prayer, I hide my eyes from you; even when you offer many prayers, I am not listening. Your hands are full of blood! Wash and make yourselves clean. Take your evil deeds out of my sight; stop doing wrong. Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow.” (Isaiah 1:13-17)

“Why have we fasted,’ they say, ‘and you have not seen it? Why have we humbled ourselves, and you have not noticed?’…Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?” (Isaiah 58:3-4, 6-7)

“Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousand rivers of olive oil? Shall I offer my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul? He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6:7-8)

What makes me truly angry? For whom does my passionate soul cry? What leaves my blood boiling, my heart aching, my belly rumbling for injustice? What prophetic story am I telling with my life? I can assure you I do not hate my own sin nearly as much as I hate everyone else’s. Nor is any injustice as grave as those done unto me, in my First World setting, where I imagine I know the slightest meaning of persecution.

When it is all over, what is my legacy in Christ?

Readers, I want you to hear me now. I’m saying this out loud, having been reproved by the prophets, redirected by God’s holy heartbeat. I receive it, this correction. I hear you, God; I recognize what you grieve for. I see this world, of which I reside in the top 1% of wealth, and I will not imagine that much is not required from whom much has been given. I refuse to identify myself somewhere in the middle of the pack, because I am so far removed from the common human experience, I know I cannot trust my perspective.

While babies are born in tent camps and pastors are sleeping outdoors on mattresses next to the orphans they are raising, I will not defile my holy task by turning your Word into a metaphor, imagining that orphans doesn’t mean orphans and hungry doesn’t mean hungry. So help me, if I ever claim American Christians are "the oppressed" again, strike me dead. I mean it. Put me out of my misery, for I am on a fool’s errand at that point.

I will wield hate indeed, but only for the things you hate, Jesus: injustice, self-righteousness, the substitution of religion for discipleship, brokenness. And I will hate those things in myself first, until your mysterious love somehow transforms them into your glory. I will not lay my privileged head on my pillow every night having spent the day protecting my station. If I never enjoy a good night’s sleep the rest of my life, may injustice keep me up at night, beckoning me to hold a vigil with Jesus over those suffering.

Here are my hands. They are yours.

Here is my wallet. Take it.

Here are my powerful prayer words. Direct them.

Here is my comfortable happiness. Ruin it.

Here is my sin. Transform me.

Here is my heart. Break it.

I hope one day I’ll write of Haiti and the outcry will reach past our eyes, through our minds, beyond our heartstrings, and all the way to our hands. May Loving Mercy be the battle cry of the assembly, to the detriment of our own safety and insulation. Expose our own sin, Lord, for repentance is the beginning of revelation. I beg you, do not leave us in our selfishness of the side of the road, disabled by our own blindness, but tear off the scales and teach us to see.

“These people fail to realize that it is on the inside that God must be defended, not on the outside. They should direct their anger at themselves. For evil in the open is but evil from within that has been let out. The main battlefield for good is not the open ground of the public arena but the small clearing of each heart. Meanwhile, the lot of widows and homeless children is very hard, and it is to their defense, not God’s, that the self-righteous should rush.” ~Life of Pi

The Election: Thoughts From a Christian Independent

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 16 Oct 2012 12:36:36 +0000

I have a thing for pomp and circumstance. I famously watched all four hours of President Nixon’s funeral. I watch every second of every inauguration. The peaceful transfer of power in America moves me; it’s all so civilized. All the naughty behavior of the election season is brushed under the carpet, and grown men exchange the reins of leading the most powerful country on earth. And I’m no American elitist in this department…I also woke up at 3:30am to watch William and Kate’s wedding live at my friend Molly’s house, who answered the door in her wedding veil.

Ironic, because I put very little stock in politics. I like the dressings – the traditions, the ceremony, the legacy – but the inner workings of polarized government actually leave me very cold. My optimism was deflowered in middle school when I found out about the Electoral College:

“So my vote doesn’t actually count??” said the disillusioned 8th grader.
“Well, yes, it technically does.”
“But technically can someone win the election but lose the popular vote??”
“Virtually impossible.”
“BUT FEASIBLE??”
“Technically, yes,” said the annoyed government teacher.
“All truth is dead.”

…and it really never recovered.

I am a registered independent AND WILL ALWAYS BE. I will never get in bed with a political party, because full allegiance forfeits the right to call a party to reform, and both parties are in dire need of reform. Full allegiance tempts us to place our hope in secular government fueled by greed and power, and both parties are fueled by greed and power. Full allegiance silences our prophetic voice in favor of touting party lines and demands we turn our fellow citizens into enemies for differing viewpoints.

I’m concerned, sisters and brothers in Christ, with this unyielding group identification with a political party. And I know what you’re going to say: Abortion. This is the veritable end of every discussion as a single-issue decision. To be clear: I am fully in favor of protecting our unborn. I believe history will not look kindly on this page of society. And for my Right to Choose friends who argue rape and incest, I’ll remind us those tragic cases account for less than 1% of all abortions. We have an unprecedented loss of life on our hands. It is a dark day indeed.

But in many ways, abortion is a straw issue in this election. It is not up for repeal. It is not on the docket as pending legislation. It will certainly not be outlawed by either candidate ("There's no legislation regarding, with regards to abortion that I'm familiar with that would become part of my agenda.” ~Romney told the Des Moines Register). No vote will result in a repeal, so perhaps we should not so quickly malign citizens who vote toward policies that reduce.

In fact, after it was legalized in 1973, abortions surged under Democratic and Republican presidents alike, remaining legal through seven Republican-appointed and only four Democratic-appointed Supreme Court justices, reaching their peak of 1.6 million in 1990. Since then, abortions have steadily decreased, with the largest decline under the Clinton administration then plateauing during the younger Bush years. (source)

The lack of far-reaching advocacy demonstrated by most Pro-Life folks is discouraging. The Right to Life focus usually omits the crucial before and after parts of the issue, as I see the same people fighting against universal pre- and postnatal care, easier access to contraception (2/3rds of all US citizens are unchurched, so it is unrealistic to expect them to adhere to Christian abstinence, you know, like all the Christian singles are...ahem), better nutrition for new mothers, affordable health care for all, the offer of true community to young and vulnerable pregnant women…as these are the tools that will actually reduce abortions. There is a high correlation between social policies like family planning, contraception promotion, comprehensive sex education, and increased health insurance coverage and lower abortion rates.

But I digress.

Perhaps most discouraging is the irrational, unreasonable hope I find fellow believers placing in a political party, and lest you think I’m just picking on Republicans, my Christian Democratic friends ‘bout drove me to drinkin’ during the Bush years.

None of this smacks of gospel.

Politics are rife with power-plays, hypocrisy, corruption, agendas, contradictions, good platforms, bad platforms, men and women who love their country, men and women who’ve lost their moral compass, good policy, dangerous policy…in the red and blue camps alike. That any believer imagines a political platform will either usher in or threaten the kingdom of God is worse than dramatic; it is unbelief.

No president can take the Kingdom out of our hearts. No candidate can steal what Jesus has already won. As the Kingdom came, so will it continue – not through Empire but through radical, subversive faith. It cannot be shaken, it cannot be removed. It lives and breathes through the work of Jesus on the cross, not the position of any human on the throne. Nor can any man in the sphere of government ever represent the comprehensive gospel of Christ. Never. He may reflect elements, but rest assured, those tenets will be contradicted elsewhere in his platform.

Our faith and outrage and hope and trust is misplaced in any leadership model other than Jesus’, who resisted all earthly power and position and rejected any political identification:

The last shall be first.

The Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.

My kingdom is not of this world.

The greatest among you should be like the youngest, and the one who rules like the one who serves.

Jesus’ subversive teaching taught his followers to shame and expose the evils of political oppression by audacious acts of humility, not through bedding down within the system. I particularly like how John Piper discussed voting in his post “Let Christians Vote As Though They Were Not Voting”, referencing 1 Corinthians 7:29-31 (by the way, do not google “John Piper election” in hopes of pulling up this article, because you will find seven hundred thousand pages of predestination sermon links):

“So it is with voting. There are losses. We mourn. But not as those who have no hope. We vote and we lose, or we vote and we win. In either case, we win or lose as if we were not winning or losing. Our expectations and frustrations are modest. The best this world can offer is short and small. The worst it can offer has been predicted in the book of Revelation. And no vote will hold it back.”

These things remain: God’s kingdom exists anywhere believers are choosing love and grace and reckless obedience; it is undeterred by a red or blue context. Sisters and brothers in Christ will vote differently, because as we all must, we simply have to choose between two platforms that each include some gospel-centric policies and others that contradict. Either way, we will swallow some ideologies that belie the message of Jesus. Regardless, God is still on His throne, and our true allegiance rests in His sovereignty. Four or eight years of an administration cannot compromise the historical work of a holy God.

If discipleship means loving the broken, then love the broken.

If following Jesus means abandoning our rights, then abandon them.

If you care about the sanctity of life, then devote yourself to its care – womb to grave.

If you worry about the vulnerable, then give your life away for them.

If Scripture tells us perfect love drives out fear, then it does.

If your trust is in a Servant Savior, then put it there and leave it there.

As children of God, we should be unthreatened by secular power. The Law was never able to bring redemption, and it is still insufficient to make all things new. The healing and hope and goodness we long for is realized fully in Jesus, extended through His people despite hardship or distance or the passage of time or the changing of guards. No political party can see it through or take it away. It was finished on the cross, and the discussion is over.

So may we deal kindly with one another in a manner befitting the Bride, as a people who loosely engage the system of the day, retaining our prophetic voice and refusing to malign one another for a false kingdom that will soon pass away. May we preach Jesus crucified and risen, the only hope of the world. And whether we vote red or blue, may we reach across the lines, join hands, and proclaim:

“To the only wise God be glory forever through Jesus Christ! Amen.” ~Romans 16:27

The Upside (and Lighter Side) of Haiti

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 11 Oct 2012 22:37:38 +0000

When I read Mike Rusch’s first blog from this week in Haiti, I told him the next morning: “I loved your blog. So manly. Bullet points, facts, short sentences, action steps. My blog was 1300 words of emoting.” Good reader, you are not a machine. I cannot expect you to keep coming back day after day for this punishment. You have jobs and children; you can’t be crying into your laptop all day long.

Here is the good news: Haiti is beautiful, joyful, hilarious, hopeful. People laugh here too. Folks are onery and silly and happy and sarcastic. Goodness abounds in the midst of struggle. There is so much to celebrate. (And confess.)

Therefore, I give you the highlight reel. Grab a Prestige and enjoy:

First World Problems: Excerpts from Actual Conversations This Week

“Oh my gosh! I’m so hot! Why is it so hot here? I have rivers of sweat running down my back. Can you point the air vent this way a bit? How do those tap-tap people do it??”

“Surely I am not out of antibacterial gel again. How am I supposed to touch my sandwich?”

“If you guys wake up tomorrow morning and discover a vicious chicken massacre in the streets, look the other way.”

“Internet down again. Can’t stream Downton Abbey.”

“Why are these roads so bumpy?? I think Help One Now needs to offer a massage voucher for blog trips from now on.”

“Is it okay to drink this delicious fresh-squeezed pineapple juice? I forgot to bring antidiarrheal medicine and I just don’t know how to deal with bowel distress in this country.”

“It’s so hard to nap here.”

“Guys, don’t use that peppermint soap while taking your cold shower. Double whammy. I think I just developed mild hypothermia and I’m pretty sure my heart stopped beating for forty seconds.”

“Have you ever been snarked on by that hate site for your blog? Mean people make me sad. And also all this poverty, of course.”

(On a video project for Help One Now) Blogger #1: “I can’t speak on camera.” Blogger #2: “Why do you hate the orphans?”

Happy, Hopeful, Hilarious Haitian Things

The sound of children reading in unison in their tent school.

Salting chocolate ice cream. Thank you, Kristen. Our lives are changed.

Baskets of shallots and just-picked carrots on the side of the road.

Big, floppy bows in every little girl’s hair.

The sound of Creole. It’s like a lullaby.

A litany of inappropriate comments followed by: “Tweet that.”

Troy and Tara Livesay and the remarkable work of Heartline. BFF alert.

Little Haitian hands writing letters to sponsors with such concentration.

Heroes who stayed. They are everywhere here.

Heroes who keep coming to help. We traveled with them this week.

Van conversation ranging from zombie ethics to prison tattoos. Ask Jacob.

Big dreams. Dreaming with big dreamers. Dreams rising.

A worship service in the middle of Tent City. Beauty from ashes.

The roads. (This one is a lie.)

Haitian pastors. These men will be famous in heaven.

“Bonjour…” “Bonsoir…” Sing it. It’s the only way.

Help One Now. These are the gospel-bearers Jesus spoke of.

“If I had the power to put all the orphans in one safe place, I would. But I will wait on God who has all the power and loves us.” ~Pastor Gaetan

Kristen’s Aunt Janet. This induced a hysterical laughing fit at 2:30am.

Our Haitian crushes, I mean, translators. Cougar alert. Dario, Rodney, Jay, Evens. Love.

The dogged, resilient spirit of Haiti. You can’t believe it.

The hills. OH MY GOSH, the hills.

Haitian school uniforms. And the backpacks. The cute factor is too much.

The women of this country. They work so hard. Proud of my sisters.

Bigfoot costume. Ask Jacob again.

Pure Charity. Just you wait until I tell you about these guys. Mike Rusch. The end.

Tent City, down from 60,000 to 20,000.

Prestige toasts in the van every night. Grime, sweat, exhaustion, Haitian beer. Cheers.

Haitian artists, creatives, writers, musicians.

New friends: Haitian, American, Canadian. I’m in love.

The Kid’s Home bunkroom for girls that looked like a Tiger Beat explosion. Girls are girls, precious everywhere they live.

The humility and deference shown by every single Haitian leader we met.

The homerun that an iPhone is in the hands of children worldwide.

Mary’s descriptor of her wedding night. You’ll have to ask her.

Our photographers and filmmakers who laid on their bellies in the dirt and sun and crouched on hillsides and showcased all the beautiful things. Mollie, Chris, Scott. Super stars.

The astonishing balance thing Haitians can do with giant buckets of things on their heads. Feats of strength!

Pastor St. Cyr to his people after the earthquake: “This is not God’s judgment, and He still loves us.” Man of God, we honor you.

The love for God in this place. It is a marvel. The faithful live here.

Avocados, red beans and rice, Creole sauce, fried potatoes, pumpkin soup, cheese grits, corn with lime, braised chicken, plantains. All this went into our mouths.

Prestige. Oh wait, I already said that.

This team. I will never, ever forget this week with you. I love you. Belong to me.

Readers who say: Yes. Moved. Moving. Praying. Listening. Caring. THIS.

Children doing their homework in Tent City. Let hope rise.

Bret’s prophetic word over dinner that left us UNDONE: “Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness” (Lamentations 3:22-23). Amen.

The people of Haiti, the land, the heart, the hope of God here. I am at your service.

The American Church, who I’ve been so proud of this week. You have mattered in Haiti so much, and you matter still. Rise up, Church.

Considering sponsorship? This is the sustainable engine that keeps the monthly wheels on at Yaveh Shamma Kid’s Home. Click here to SIGN UP IMMEDIATELY, I mean, for more info. Please stay tuned, for the team has a Legacy Project to pitch, and you’re going to want a piece of this action.

HAVE YOU BEEN TO HAITI? Add to the list! What beautiful things do you love about Haiti? (Or feel free to add to our First World Problems list…don’t imagine humor doesn’t abound down here too.)

"My Heart is Hot..."

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 10 Oct 2012 23:40:19 +0000

This cannot quite be quantified; it’s not an exact science. Experts might disagree on the precise time frame or progression. But somewhere between your 12th and 36th hour in a Third-World country, you ask yourself the same question Francis Schaeffer posed:

“How then shall we live?”

You can’t help it. You want to shove this chaos onto other people, the brave ones, the resourced ones, or whatever attributes you assign to heroes who live and breathe the redemption of places like Haiti or Kenya or wherever it is We Who Have Normal Lives do not bear responsibility for.

But then you can’t help it. Their poverty holds a mirror up to your privileges at the exact same time their preciousness firmly identifies them as brothers and sisters, and you’re a goner. Like Pastor Gaetan of Yaveh Shamma Orphanage told us today of his resolve for the children, as he searched for the right English words:

“My heart is hot…”

Our hearts become hot, ablaze with the gospel, on fire against the injustice, melting with Jesus’ words: These are the least…however you treat them is how you’ve treated Me. This goes well past charity or basic humanitarian aid. This is sacred. This is worship. This is holy, holy spiritual space. This matters as much as anything can matter. How then shall we live?

We visited Yaveh Shamma Orphanage today, led by the heroic Pastor Gaetan, and at one point, my heart was so inflamed, I took my shoes off, for I was standing on holy ground.

Backstory: Pastor Gaetan cared for 14 children before the earthquake, and when it hit, claiming the life of his own brother, he immediately took in 16 more kids virtually on the spot. His brother lay dead on the premises, unburied, deteriorating, and Pastor couldn’t bury him for two weeks, so relentlessly was he working every waking hour, spending 14 hours a day simply trying to find food for the kids. While his small home was damaged but not destroyed, he slept outside with the children on a hospital mattress. When asked why he didn’t sleep inside his house, he replied: “A shepherd never takes his eyes off his little sheep.”

Chris Marlow of Help One Now connected with Pastor Gaetan soon after, committing to him as a brother to help – a promise met with skepticism as “many Americans made big promises and never came back.” (We’ve heard this story repeatedly from Haitian leaders this week.)

Over the last two years, Help developed a sponsorship program for Yaveh Shamma, built a house for the children, dug a well on the campus, built a playground (in addition to these 30, 120 other vulnerable children from the community who cannot afford school attend their site school), and held Garage Sales for Orphans to fund a number of development projects.

Two years ago when this partnership first emerged, Chris Marlow, founder of Help One Now and a dear friend of Austin New Church, visited on Sunday to tell us of Haiti. While we listened in wide-eyed horror, he told of the earthquake aftermath and about Pastor and the kids. He spoke of their hollow eyes and unspeakable grief. We heard of their hunger and filthy water and post-traumatic stress and the courageous couple attempting to raise them alone. He mentioned a brand-new sponsorship opportunity at Yaveh Shamma.

And the people of Austin New Church promptly sponsored every single child that very day, prophetic words of old from Joshua 2 finding fresh life in that old rented sanctuary:

“Our lives for your lives…”

So today, helping the kids write letters to their sponsors, my heart grew hot. The children raced, raced to their rooms to bring back every letter, every picture, every drawing, every kind word their sponsor families had ever sent them, hungry to show us how loved they’ve been, how valued and precious they were to someone.

They brought worn out letters, read hundreds of times, creased and soft. Pictures smudged with a thousand fingerprints. Envelopes carefully refolded to hold their treasured correspondence. Broken English shouted out names as they happily identified their sponsors: Emilie! Tyler! Scott! Mees Linda!

And then it started.

“Oh my goodness! Your sponsors are my sweet friends, the Stones!”

"Look at your sponsors! That is my friend, Alissa!"

“Ruth, I brought you letters from my sister-in-law and her family!”

“Snaicise, those boys writing you letters belong to one of my dearest friends, Amy!”

And as I leaned over the most darling boy in the history of life, just wanting to snap a picture of his concentrated, oh-so-serious work on his letter, and as I glanced at his French writing, two American names popped out:

"Claudnet, your sponsors? Larry and Jana? That’s my mom and dad.”

Shoes. Off.

I knew in my head but I was seeing with my heart now that our faith community in America really was helping raise another community in Haiti. Our little rag-tag church in South Austin with rudimentary tools like letters and drawings from 4-year-olds and printed pictures and Paypal accounts were funding the water well, speaking worth into broken little lives, paying the teachers’ salaries, empowering this dear shepherd, buying the uniforms, purchasing the red beans and rice. It was really happening. There is the well! Here is the bunkhouse! Look at all these pictures of my friends and family in these dear little brown hands!

What if those old prophetic words took on new meaning for us all?

“Love your neighbor as yourself…”

Help’s goal is to sponsor every child 5 times, which just covers monthly costs. What if we went one for one, four for four, or fifty for fifty, loving our neighbors in equal proportions that we love our own? What if we sponsored as many children as we are raising at home? What if you gathered five of your best people – your mom, sisters, cousin, and aunt – and you sponsored the same child…our lives for your lives? What if your small group of ten sponsored ten children together? What if your faith community decided to raise the money so the heroes on the ground could raise the kids?

This equitable worldview is certainly not popular, for who really wants to love their neighbor as themselves? It makes for a lovely door hanger but terribly inconvenient practice. We don’t like a 50/50 policy. That sounds dangerous and costly. We spend every last ounce on our own; who wants to reserve half for our neighbor?

But then we see our neighbor, we really see them, somewhere between hour 12 and 36, and love them we must. Harbor them we will. Die to self for them we shall. Sacrifice for them we should. For we belong to one another and we are Christ's, and the family of God cares for one another or dies trying, Church.

How then shall we live?

Our lives for your lives. Hearts on fire.

Would you consider sponsoring one of these beauties? Or would you gather your troops and double or triple or quintuple (?) sponsor one, raising a child up together? Or rally your people and sponsor in mass? Let me tell you: seeing a whole orphanage sponsored by your whole church is HOLY GROUND. Click here for more information.

Photos courtesy of the talented Molly Donovan Burpo and Scott Wade. You can follow our Twitter and Instagram feeds at #Help1Haiti this week.

Mopping Haiti

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 09 Oct 2012 23:36:46 +0000

Today was my first day in Haiti. Now, I’ve sent money here. I’ve sponsored kids here. I’ve gotten behind some amazing initiatives through Help One Now here. I’ve put pictures on my fridge and thrown garage sales for Haitian orphans and prayed for this country and cried a good deal past reasonable over it all.

But this was my first day here. In real Haiti. On her soil. With her people.

Haiti is a study in contradictions, and it left me a little breathless today. I’ve been awake for slightly more than 12 hours, and I’ve laughed, cried, sung, testified to a church in Tent City, marveled, despaired, fallen in love, and fallen to pieces. Haiti is not just one thing; it is a song with many chords.

First of all, entire swatches of countryside, quite simply, are paradise. It is so gorgeous, that upon turning a corner and taking in this expansive view this morning, I lost all train of thought and couldn’t finish my sentence:

But what do we do with a country smaller than Maryland that has 10,000 NGO’s yet is still the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere? And lest we imagine the earthquake unmoored a previously thriving country, like Pastor St. Cyr told us today: “Haiti was not moving forward before; the earthquake just made it naked.”

Two and a half years after the earthquake in January 2010, despite billions of dollars in reconstruction aid, the most obvious, pressing need — safe, stable housing for all displaced people — remains unmet. Hundreds of thousands of Haitians were displaced into tent communities where conditions are dismal; sewage running like rivers, water shortages, brutality, trafficking, disease.

As we walked through Tent City today, 971 days after the earthquake, it stretched as far as the eye could see. Climbing through the steep pathways full of sewage, I kept thinking: “How could I take care of my family here for even one day? Even one day?” The conditions are deplorable; you can’t imagine it. The tales of children lost to trafficking and innocence lost to violence and dignity lost to despair here froze the blood in my veins.

But then.

Then there are these bright brown eyes everywhere and peals of laughter drifting across the tops of tarps. Then there are little tiny braided girls chasing after us and a church right in the middle of the chaos, where they sang How Great Thou Art in Creole while I sobbed through it in English. Then the lilting, inflected greeting fills my ears a hundred times: “Bonsoir…” sung like a melody.

Then I see this girl. What is she…eight-years-old? She is outside her deteriorating tent, dark as night and hot as a sauna inside. She is wearing a shirt that won’t fit her for ten more years, filthy. No shoes. No grown-ups around, only two small boys she appears to be in charge of.

And she is mopping dirt.

And something in my heart went…snap. I want to take the makeshift mop out of her tiny hands and break it into one million pieces. I want to scream and pull every hair out of my head. I want her to not be mopping the dirt outside of her filthy tent where she has lived for nearly two years. I want her not to be here in this terrifying place while my five babes are being tucked neatly into their safe, warm beds with their bellies full and our life the picture of security. I want her to stop mopping that damn dirt, because it is so futile and unfair and broken and everything, everything about this is wrong.

I am on the verge of rupturing, when she looks at me...and smiles. And the little ones behind her, they smile too.

And she keeps mopping the dirt, humming, grinning.

Because her life is hard, but she is going to make it more beautiful. She is. Her presence here alone, with her eyes shining and determined resiliency, is an oasis. We lock eyes and I think, “You’re going to make it, dear one.”

There is hope here. I can’t explain it, but it’s here, I can feel it, I can even see it. It’s literally everywhere. It’s a mopping dirt kind of hope – frustrating, decisive, complicated, dogged, wearisome, inspiring.

It’s in the Guibert community, nearly entirely displaced by the earthquake, when their pastor rose up and said, “Let’s make a list: most vulnerable to the least. We start rebuilding homes from the top of the list down.” And with their bare hands and sweat and moxy, they rebuilt homes for the most broken members of their community while the rest of them still lived in tents.

Hope is in Fifi and Earnest’s new house, the first project in Help One Now’s 100 Homes Campaign. For $6000, this family of five has a new home, 20 jobs were created in its construction, and a small microloan from Help supplied them with rabbits and gardening supplies, which she proudly showed off behind her house.

Hope is in Pastor St. Cyr, who has tenaciously served Tent City, providing free schooling for the children (an exorbitant luxury), aid for tens of thousands of people, and who preached in the middle of Tent City every single night for seven straight months after the hurricane. He is a hero who sold his home in Florida and returned to his country to serve them. When pressed on his fiery determination and contagious hope, he said, “When the earthquake happened, God was still on His throne. If I’m still alive, I have the right to say that God loves us. All I see is God’s grace and mercy for Haiti.”

Hope is in the love of neighbors here and the love of Jesus. It’s in hands lifted in praise at a worship service in the middle of abject poverty. Hope is in people like Chris Marlow with Help One Now who is such a friend and fierce advocate for Haiti, spending his life on setting the captives free and loosening the chains of injustice. Hope is in the courageous people of Haiti, declaring God’s goodness and assuring us all day that God has never left them.

So it may feel like mopping dirt down here, but let me tell you something:

I’m grabbing a mop.

Will You Take a Trip With Me?

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 04 Oct 2012 13:23:11 +0000

I know, I know. All you want to do is watch election coverage on CNN day in and day out. It’s all so reasonable and non-polarizing (more on this later, good readers). It’s so edifying to watch your Hatebook feed plunge entirely off the edge of civility during these final weeks of the campaigns. “How I wish the election season could be longer!” said no regular person ever.

May I offer an alternative next week?

If you aren’t convinced that the fate of God’s dominion rests upon the American election, if you’d prefer glimpses of the kingdom to the political posturing hijacking every mode of media, I’d like to invite you to come with me next week…to Haiti.

It is with no small amount of loyalty that I join the inaugural blog tour with Help One Now all next week. Along with six other bloggers, three filmmakers and photographers, and three team leaders, we are heading to Haiti to tell the stories of the people, celebrate their spirit, champion their cause, and worship with our brothers and sisters. My fellow bloggers are:

Jennie Allen
Sarah Bessey
Mary DeMuth
Kristen Howerton
Deidra Riggs
Duane Scott

We are going to see incredible work and incredible need, which is daunting. I’m so hungry to lend my voice to the people of Haiti but so reluctant to mishandle their dignity in any way. I want to treat their stories with great care, not as an American writer with a laptop but as a sister and friend and advocate. It is with a tender heart I travel south to the poorest country in the western hemisphere, knowing that alongside debilitating poverty I will also find beauty, warmth, hope, and courage.

Will you join me?

You can find out more on our Help One Now page.

I’d LOVE for you to grab a Help badge for your blog; every one of us has a voice to use for kingdom work.

You can also follow us on Twitter; we'll be using the hashtag: #Help1Haiti

Will you follow our blogs next week? We’ll be posting every night, and as you might imagine, we need not fly to Haiti to seek justice for its people. I’ll be sharing all sorts of ways we can act justly for this country that has endured such suffering. When we truly recognize and love the mercy we’ve been shown, we will love it for everyone else.

So if you want a better place to invest your emotional energy than the debates, come with me to Haiti. Pray with me to see God’s kingdom come.

Will you pray for us? Will you pray for Haiti? I believe God is instilling a love for Haiti in the hearts of His American disciples. Mighty are His plans for this country. Can't wait to bring you with me, friends.

Not a Fan

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 03 Sep 2012 19:25:18 +0000

My friend Doug once described me in an article he wrote like this:

“Imagine if George Carlin and Beth Moore had a kid…”

The ease with which deep, important spiritual ideas cohabitate with absolute drivel in my brain space is probably disturbing. I crave comedy and laughter so viscerally, that when my thoughts have hung out in the deep end too long, I physically ache to watch a Will Ferrell movie.

I don't know which is funnier: The perfect comedic timing of calling Will Ferrell "Sporty Spice" or bowing up on this tiny woman. Consequently, I say "ARE WE DOING THIS?" to my kids constantly.

So after the last few For Real Blogs about basements and adoption and life-changing books, the drivel is begging to be penned. It needs a voice. It says, “Hey there, Mrs. Important Topics. We matter too. We are legit. You know you’re thinking us, so give us our just due in print.”

So I was thinking, my Beth Moore side is often disturbed by true injustices, like human trafficking and self-righteousness and greed. But my George Carlin side has a bone to pick with some stuff, too. In no particular order, what follows are some grievances I have with the universe, for these are the things in which I am…NOT A FAN.

1. Party favors…not a fan.

Okay, listen, I am not a party mom. I’m just not. First of all, I have five kids. Second of all, four of their birthdays are one-two-three-four in rapid succession. Third, I’m not a detail person and I’ve been trying to tell you people this for some time. For instance, I jammed my youngest two sons birthdays into one party (veteran move) scheduled for this Saturday, September 8th: Caleb’s actual birthday was June 4th and Ben’s was August 7th. You picking up what I’m laying down here?

So it’s a bloody miracle I’m giving any of their little friends something to come to at all. If there is cake and an activity, I feel like I should be nominated for an award. Why do we have to give prizes for coming to a party? You got to have fun and I paid for it. That’s your prize. I once omitted party favors for one of Gavin’s birthdays, and a boy came up to me as he was leaving and asked, “Where is my present?” and I said, “I’ll give you one on your birthday, kid.”

I have friends who go so over-the-top on kids’ birthdays, I’m talking about from the time they are 1-year-old, that I often marvel we are friends. My girlfriend Christi did a whole sushi party for her 3-year-old daughter complete with kimonos, bento boxes, hand-rolled sushi, and Japanese CD’s. I just lost consciousness typing that sentence.

2. Shredding cheese…not a fan.

Some people hate war. Others hate politics. I hate shredding cheese. Of course, it must be done, because the waxy preshredded bags of cheese just won’t do. I can’t explain it, but when the recipe calls for cheese, I just despair. The process of grating the block of cheddar over the shredder until I develop Muppet Arm has literally caused me to abandon a recipe in midstream. It’s an irrational aversion and I DON’T CARE BLAH BLAH BLAH YOU CAN’T FIX ME.

The downside of being a pretentious ingredient snob is that you must shred your own cheese, proof your own dough, blend your own sauces, and hand-batter your own okra. It’s a mess. Your kitchen always looks like a frat house. Every recipe takes approximately ten times longer. You end up saying pompous things like, “Grocery store tomatoes are not 1/100th the quality of my Cherokee Purples in the backyard.” This actually makes people hate you, like when you complain about shredding cheese and someone says just buy the preshredded bag and you call it waxy and unacceptable and they are like I kind of wish you were dead.

3. Hot tubs…not a fan.

This is especially tragic because my hubs would spend 16 hours a day in a hot tub if he could. The first time I went to Brandon’s house in Colorado after dating a few months, he made the casual suggestion that we head to the hot tub one night (veteran move). While he clearly had making out on his mind, I was entertaining a different mental thread: how to not puke. Reaching my threshold, my peripheral vision started shutting down and his face became a pinpointed, prickly, spotted mass of light. The next thing I knew, I was face down on the cold tile half-passed out, which as anyone can imagine, is super sexy. You like this, Boyfriend? There’s more where this came from, you lucky man.

My core temp simply cannot be raised. This is devastating, because now I’ll never star in The Bachelor.

4. Talking on airplanes…not a fan.

I know. You had the most amazing conversation of your life on a plane once. Your seatmate ended up converting to Christianity and now he is a missionary in Peru. And once? You sat next to a girl who turned out to be your long lost identical twin. What are the odds?

Let me explain what a plane ride is to me: FREE TIME. I’ve downloaded or packed at least two books for this. I might even have a People magazine to get caught up on my news. If you look closely, you’ll see not one child in tow. I am going to sit there for two or four hours, and not one person will ask me to tie their skates or cut up a peach or count how many days till her “birfday” (149). It’s like a vacation and while, yes, sad and pathetic, this is my life and that’s the end of it. Have I ever put headphones on and acted like I was listening to music so I didn’t have to talk? Maybe.

(Disclaimer: If I breach this rule, I go big. Idle chitchat is not my medium. The last couple I talked to on a plane were flying to Austin for their first ever visit before moving here, and by the time we deplaned, they had a list of 12 restaurants, 10 notable excursions, 15 must-see spots, 3 potential pediatricians, and my phone number. Bless them. I’m sure they were terrified. I completely ignore you or over-love you. I have no middle lane.)

5. Signing kids’ folders…not a fan.

Not only is this daily, every kid is different. Sign here for my daily behavior, here for my homework, here for my reading minutes, here for next week’s assignments. This one is once a week, this one is every day, this one is only if the behavior chart is signed, this one is only if your apple got moved.

YOU FORGOT TO SIGN MY CHART AND I HAD TO MISS TEN MINUTES OF REEEEEECEEEEESS!!! YOU SIGNED MY READING MINUTES BUT NOT MY BEHAVIOR CHART AND I HAD TO MOVE MY CARD TO YEEEELLOOOOW LIIIIIGHT!!

You want to know what is awesome sauce? Middle school. The teachers virtually never communicate with parents. No homework folders. No reading minutes. No 459 pieces of paper in every Friday Folder. They are like, “Play time is over, kiddies. Do your homework or flunk out. What do we care? Mommy can’t bail you out anymore, chumps.” If you’ve been paying attention, I subscribe to the same sink-or-swim philosophy in this house, so I’m buyin’ what they’re sellin’.

(Dear Elementary Teachers, you KNOW I’d take a bullet straight through my brain for you, but the paperwork/correspondence occasionally makes me consider homeschooling.) (This is a bold-faced lie.) (Never leave me, Elm Grove Elementary staff, oh my gosh.)

George Carlin Jen has spoken, and she is not a fan of party favors, shredding cheese, hot tubs, talking on planes, and signing kids’ folders. It’s a hard-knock life for my inner GC, clearly. Someone put me on your prayer chain.

How about you? What first-world problems does your inner George have a gripe with? (Not world hunger and orphan stuff, but ketchup that squirts out too fast and Blu-tooth stuff.)

The Basement Manifesto

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 01 Aug 2012 14:26:41 +0000

For my money, Jesus’ use of parable and metaphor was his crowning glory as a teacher. (As long as I live, I will never, ever get over the story of The Prodigal Son. Never.) His parables were beautifully crafted, if not weirdly vague. Folks were constantly scratching their heads, unable to decode the story, finally resorting to high-class conclusions like, “He be crazy.”

For instance, Jesus once told this detailed, nuanced parable about a farmer sowing his seeds; some fell on rocky soil, others on shallow soil, some among the thorns, and a few on fertile soil. He gave all sorts of details, predicted the outcome, then sat back and said:

“Whoever has ears to hear, let them hear.”

At this point, I envision the disciples turning to one another going:

“Pretty sure Jesus wants us to become farmers!”

“I don’t even know how to farm. I interpret tax code, for the love of Moses.”

“John, he’s talking about you, Mr. Shallow Soil. Stop talking about how you’re Jesus’ favorite all the time. We’re all sick of it, man.”

“I think you’re the thorn, Peter. Get a grip, dude. Take it down about ten zillion levels.”

“So are we the farmer? Or the birds? I’m confused.”

Jesus (clearly) sighed and said, “Don’t you understand this parable? How then will you understand any parable?” and He then explained every metaphorical detail. (And then Matthew was probably like, “So when do we take agricultural classes?” and Jesus facepalmed.)

Metaphors are like that. We interpret them through the grid of our own experiences, assumptions, and worldviews. We read between the lines words that aren’t there and attach meaning where it doesn’t belong. They are super easy to misunderstand.

So it is with The Basement. While most readers absolutely dug it, got it, and holla’d back at it (Gwen Stefani is Brandon’s celebrity crush), some of you wrung your hands, told me and my friends to “get our heads out of the sand” (did you collaborate on this phrase in a secret meeting?), and assumed the basement dwellers were checking out of life altogether.

I thought I made this clear, but let me use plain words instead of allegory: The basement is a metaphor for our posture, not our position. The storm I am permanently retreating from involves name-calling, Facebook bombing, cliché parroting, and overgeneralizing. I’m leaving the paradigm that lets me cherry pick the sins that make me most uncomfortable for condemnation while conveniently leaving my personal struggles out of the public sphere. I suspect I’d find it unpleasant if folks picketed my house waving signs that screamed: “PRIDE IS OF THE DEVIL! GOSSIPS ARE GOING TO HELL! SELFISH WIVES WILL GET WHAT’S COMING TO THEM!”

I’m leaving the storm where listening is usurped for lecturing, and where people are “them” and the issue at hand “an agenda.” Not only is that an unsafe place for civil discussion, but it virtually accomplishes nothing, because everyone is yelling and no one is listening. No winners there. The tactics render the conversation impotent, no matter how vital or essential or sincere the issue at hand.

However.

Don’t imagine because I’m leaving the bloodbath, I’m also walking away from hard conversations altogether. We’re working stuff out in the basement. We’re neck deep down here. We’re putting civil discourse at the center and fighting for respect. We’re having tough conversations and battling injustices and staging round-table discussions and working through our differences.

But we are not going to murder each other doing it.

This isn’t some Christian commune. This is a way of representing the Gospel. It is about our hearts and words, reaching across party lines and believing that love is the most excellent way, even in the hard stuff. It’s about becoming a slave to everyone to win anyone to Christ – quite the opposite of “defending our rights” all the time. In the basement, people matter. All of them. And we’ve discovered that kindness and dignity do wonders for forging healthy dialogue, especially the difficult ones.

Storm:

“Repost if you support ______ and are ready to take back this country from the liberal agenda!” or conversely, “My flying monkey can kick your guardian angel’s a**!”

Basement:

Vote. Don’t be hateful and trite. Stop using catchphrases and reduced soundbytes. Belittling someone with a different viewpoint has worked never, nor is it the way of Jesus, Christ-followers. Your Facebook post isn’t actually going to deter the “liberal agenda,” whatever that is, nor will it change someone’s faith dear to them, nonbelievers. Real conversations between reasonable, considerate, living people belong in the basement. No need to shoot digital missives across an invisible bow.

Storm:

“All of you are…” “Everyone who agrees with…” “No one ever…” “They always…” These gross generalizations are unfair, untrue, and put folks immediately on the defensive. Conversation over. Your argument is instantly invalidated.

Basement:

Not every Christian who believes in “traditional marriage” is full of hate. Not every Christian who supports the civil rights of gay folks is a Bible-rejecting defector. Not every gay man wears glitter and drag in Pride Parades. We are not caricatures. We are people, and life is nuanced. Until we stop assigning stereotypes to each other and do the hard work of actually getting to know one another as friends, or at least human beings, we are going to sabotage every good, productive possibility in front of us. Gross generalities are lazy, and they don’t belong in the basement.

Storm (from my comment feed this week, but may I say that most replies on every side were basement worthy…I had to scrooooooll to find examples):

One position: “I once heard a preacher say that homosexuality was the final straw for a nation before it is destroyed. I am reminded of a song that tells us we need to get back to the basics of life and back to what the founding fathers of this nation intended in order to be blessed again. We didn't have this problem until probably the last 10 years. It was kept very quiet before.”

According to this comment, homosexuality is predicating national destruction (according to “a pastor”…put another nail in the coffin between the faith and gay communities) and is responsible for the repealing of blessings in America (????????). Claiming “we” didn’t have this “problem” is extremely isolating and condescending, and there is absolutely no chance of further dialogue here, ever. This “us” and “them” mentality laced with judgment and hyperbole is exactly the sort of thing fueling the storm.

Another position: “What a load of twaddle. By disavowing any responsibility here and stepping out of the dialogue while supporting this business, you only *pretend* to wash your hands. That goes for each one of you. If you support tolerance so much as Jesus actually did, why would you still support an intolerant bigot? No prayers from anyone for Dan Christy to change his ways, I see, although I expect a few of you to pray for me. No shortage of hypocrisy here, ever. How sad, and what a good reason, on its own, for 50K people a week to leave the church.”

While exempting his comment that assumed I would never engage here (as this was a common misunderstanding on both sides), the rest of it is still accusatory, condescending, and over-generalized. So many other folks who shared his position wrote with intelligence, reasonableness, and earnestness. This is caustic, and there is little room for anything constructive to come.

Basement:

One position: “Hey Jen, can I ask an honest question? I appreciate the heart of what you said, and I think I understand where you're coming from even though we've never met face to face. I have points where I may disagree but am not entirely sure because it is so easy to read a post and miss tone of voice and intent. I'm just kinda processing this out loud for a sec, and I'm on limited "nap time" minutes, if you know what I mean, so I apologize if this gets discombobulated. There were parts of your post that caused me to pause because I wanted to make sure I really understood you.”

Then she proceeded to explain the places she was uncertain (which is part of the reason for this clarifying blog). This is terribly disarming, basement-level conversation. If we treated one another like this, giving the benefit of the doubt and not assuming the worst, I cannot imagine where we would be as a society. So engaging.

Another position: “There are a number of things in the Biblical moral code that people no longer consider "sin." Christians get tattoos. Women not only speak in church, but they are even ordained as pastors in many churches. Christians universally stand up against human slavery. Women can have short hair and men can have long hair, etc. But all of these were prohibited in the New Testament! If you take the very few passages about homosexuality in their historical contexts and original languages, they're far less "black and white" than we think. Pro-gay Christians have many valid arguments. A nuanced approach to the Bible will reveal that the issue isn't so cut and dry.”

This ↑ was in response to an opposing viewpoint. It was reasonable and intelligent, not charged with accusations and assumptions. I found it conciliatory, inviting the next round of conversation without putting the other person on the defensive or belittling her convictions. I’m taking notes.

Storm:

“The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group and said to Jesus, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?”

Basement:

“But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground. At this, those who heard began to go away one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there.

Jesus straightened up and asked her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?”
“No one, sir,” she said.
“Then neither do I condemn you,” Jesus declared. “Go now and leave your life of sin.”

Oh, Jesus. It is impossible for me not to love you.

The basement is no place for lecturing and soapboxes and picking up stones. Leave the polarizing phraseology and stereotypes on the first floor. If you just want to be heard but have no interest in listening, stay upstairs and weather the storm; I wish you well and pray that when the dust settles, everything isn’t laying in shambles.

You know what belongs in the basement? Hard issues, folks with different convictions, difficult theology, struggle. Bring your frustrations and concerns, your passions and positions. The basement doesn’t require unanimity. We’re on all sorts of frontlines down here. Real life is going on underground. This is no place to hide from legitimate concerns and injustices; rather, a safe place to engage them wholeheartedly. The basement is a way, not a place. No one’s head is in the sand down here. Trust me, precious little is actually getting accomplished up there in the storm. Conversations are dead in the water, battle lines are drawn and defended, enemies are declared. It’s a bloodbath, and everyone is losing.

Activist, citizen, disciple…come on down.

We have a mantra in the basement, and I leave you with it, immensely grateful for brothers and sisters and the grace of Jesus, who is working on transforming all us ragamuffins down here into His beautiful image:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit,
    for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn,
    for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek,
    for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
    for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful,
    for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart,
    for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
    for they will be called children of God.”

In the Basement

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 27 Jul 2012 14:57:00 +0000

I lived in Kansas from 8th-12th grade. In that time, I became well acquainted with Mr. Tornado and all his little friends: Siren, Tornado Watch, Basement, and False Alarm.

In April of my junior year, our house was hit by a tornado. The end of our street was flattened; we lost our fence and roof and trees. And evidently I lost my sense of security (21 years later, and I still have a tornado nightmare about once a month).

The most visceral memory of that day was crouching in the basement with my family and friend, Andrea, as we heard the tornado approaching. Everything started shaking, and the sound grew until it was deafening. I remember looking at my sister, both our mouths open, screaming, and we couldn’t hear each other. We were inside a train engine.

I’ll never forget hunkering down in the basement while the storm raged overhead.

This is precisely how I feel about the Chick-Fil-A debacle and all the other accouterments of the culture wars. I am so over it. I’m so over the fear mongering and hate propaganda. I’m over the political posturing and power plays. I’m over the finger pointing and name-calling. The storms are raging overhead, and let me tell you something:

I’m going to the basement.

This is obnoxious. So a business leader is no longer entitled to an opinion, even one that roughly half of America shares? Is that where we’re at? Now the mayors of Boston and Chicago and San Francisco are suggesting Chick-Fil-A be denied permits in their cities, and just like that, a hot-blooded difference in personal opinion – not lewd remarks, not discriminatory actions, not company policy – has turned into punitive legislation.

Mayor Bloomburg, also a supporter of gay rights, condemned the statements, saying “cities should not ask about political beliefs before issuing a permit.” Of course they shouldn’t. Where would it end? The CEO of the Phoenix Suns is gay; shall we all boycott their basketball games or deny their right to play in the public sphere? Is it time to quiz small-business owners on their positions on gun control, abortion, and immigration reform, and decide if their companies are “welcome in our cities”?

Because this will swing every way, you know. Perhaps Chick-Fil-A is banned in Boston, but we will also stand by if a Muslim business owner is banned from operating in Huntsville, Alabama? Mark Zuckerberg is an atheist; should Christians all delete their Facebook accounts? This affront to democracy is infinitely more dangerous than a CEO with an opinion, which, if you’ve ever paid attention, we are supposed to have the freedom to hold and express in this country without threat of commercial retribution.

Truett Cathy is a citizen; he has a right to an opinion. He gets to have that. He isn’t peddling theology…his currency is the Spicy Chicken Sandwich. There are certainly tens of thousands of gay folks who work for and patron CFA. No one has ever been asked to procure proof of their heterosexuality before dipping into their Polynesian sauce.

If you don’t like his personal policy, don’t eat there. Problem solved.

And lest you unfairly brand me as a mouthpiece for the right, I hate the culture wars on both sides of the party line. Christians, do you really think posting pithy statements on Facebook about “standing firm in our values” and “resisting the liberal media” is helping? The lines we draw in the sand do absolutely nothing except assure everyone else: YOU’RE OUT. When we turn to politics and power to legislate our brand of morality, we take the opposite approach of Jesus whose power was activated in the margins with the outcasts...humbly...peripherally.

I’m sick of the Jesus forwards and judgment. Sick of majoring on gay marriage. Enough, everyone. With every hate Tweet and finger jab and Bible bludgeon, you are telling my gay friends they are indeed unwelcome, unloved, unvalued, and uninvited. If your agenda is to battle homosexuality, how’s that going? How many gay folks read your Prop 8 yard sign, knocked on your door, and said, “Thank you for voicing your opinion to the neighbors in this manner. Would you kindly invite me in and teach me how to be straight? And do you have a Bible study I can join?”

When we resort to the same tactics being leveled at Truett Cathy, we sink to the least common denominator and – this is important – we make everything worse. How are these culture wars working out for us? Well, the church is losing around 50K folks a week, and the next generation downright refuses to come. The gay community is ostracized entirely (oh, they’ve gotten the message alright), and Christianity has turned into white noise.

Digging our heels in even harder is the problem, not the answer.

Love is, if you believe anything Jesus ever said or did.

Everyone is screaming and swearing at each other, pointing fingers and posting clichés on Pinterest. The storm is out of control. What happened to civil discourse? What happened to basic human respect? What happened to good men and women pulling up a seat at the table together and navigating differences with dignity and regard? What happened to listening? What happened to humility?

I'm done. I’m going to the basement, and I invite you to join me. Here is what we hate down in the basement:

We hate injustice.

We hate our own sin and pride and arrogance, and we grieve at how it has wounded, sliced, slashed, and humiliated.

We hate that 25,000 people will die today of hunger and we’re arguing gay marriage again.

We hate how the Gospel has been turned into a bludgeoning tool.

We hate pointless arguments that widen the gap and devalue real human people.

We hate abuse and violence and crowded orphanages and trafficked sixth-graders.

And it’s not all hate, lest you imagine the Basement Dwellers are a sorry lot indeed. We love some things down in the basement, too:

We love people. Because Jesus does. All of them.

We love grace, because it rescued all of us sinners.

We love healing and redemption, and we get to be a part of that every day, if we are brave enough to say yes.

We love that Jesus uses broken people, because that is our zip code and He chooses us anyway. Mercy is our only sane option.

We love the Body of Christ, when she isn’t being a bully or a tyrant or trying to take over the Oval Office and the Red Carpet. I swear, she can be beautiful.

We love Jesus, who was always in hot water with the religious folks for eating with sinners and offering scandalous grace not just to the leper but to the tax collector.

We love love, and we believe in its power.

If you are weary of the storm, come on downstairs. We’re going to get on with the business of loving people and battling real injustices and caring for the poor and loving Jesus. We’re going to go ahead and offer mercy to one another, even if it is viewed as “soft” or “cowardly” or “dangerous.” (But once I conquer all my own demons definitively, I’ll be happy to turn a critical eye on everyone else’s. Good?) We’re going to trust that Jesus is actually at work in this world like He said, and when he promised that “His kindness leads us to repentance,” we’re just going to believe Him.

Sure, the storm will rage on up there. But you can find refuge just down the stairs. We have a whole thing going on underground. Gay friends and family, you are welcome down here. Marginalized women, come on down. Isolated and confused by organized religion, afraid your questions aren’t welcomed? Join us. Activists and bleeding hearts, you are our heartbeat. Plain, old, ordinary sinners saved by grace, you belong here. Misfits, ragamuffins, and rebels, bring the party. Reformed legalists, you are my people. Pastors contending for God’s glory and people, help lead us. Dissenters, dreamers, visionaries, we need you.

Come on down to the basement. I ordered a Chick-Fil-A nugget platter.

[FOLLOW UP: "The Basement Manifesto"]

You want to join me in the basement? You are loved down here. Kindly do not turn my comment feed into a culture war. I'm not here to argue issues, only the love of Jesus which has netted infinitely more converts than judgment. Tell me why you're retreating from the storm.

Winners!

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 24 Jul 2012 11:46:26 +0000

Just a quick little blog to declare the winners of the book giveaway from last week!

To make good even better, three people offered to double the giveaway for Hugh Halter's book, Sacrilege, so I didn't have just two to give away...I had eight! I used random.org to select winners, and here they are:

Heather
Andi Weathersbee
Brenda Torres
Kelly Bollman
Tracey Young
Angie Osborne
D.L. Mayfield
Mindy W

(All the Heathers are like, IS IT MEEEEEE?????!!! The correct Heather, in addition to the other winners, has an email in her inbox. Boom goes the dynamite.)

For the 324 non-winners, may I humbly suggest you grab a copy anyway? Here is the trailer for Sacrilege to push you over the edge:

Next up: The two winners of Anything by Jennie Allen! So glad to send copies to:

Samantha Werner
Mary Clifford

Congrats, you two! And for the rest of you good readers, you're going to want to read this anyway. Need a nudge? Here is the trailer for Anything:

So humbled and grateful that these are my friends. So proud of their voices for the kingdom. So moved and challenged by their messages. You will be too. I promise. Thank you for your comments and vulnerability last week. Me and Hugh and Jennie read every one (Hugh texted me to say "he had something in his eye" after reading your responses). It is such a gift to be a believer in this time and place, surrounded by such courage and devotion and desire for Christ. Count on our prayers for you as we all "fail forward" together, hungry for the ways of Jesus and anxious to contend for His glory.

JEN'S MUST READS: Part 3

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 20 Jul 2012 08:06:02 +0000

I lived in Houma, LA from 4th to 7th grade. Oh, how we loved that place. Within five days of moving there, I’d eaten crawfish and alligator and shrimp poboys, and that’s a true story. My fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Crochet, was the Queen of Mardi Gras, and there are not enough superlatives to describe the loot and parties we scored that year as her students. (Then there was the year me and my friend Julie kyped Screwdrivers from her parents’ car trunk, which was doubling as a bar at a parade, and the rest is very fuzzy history and another story altogether.)

Anyhow, we had the hands-down, tip-top fabulous, best babysitter in the history of babysitters in Houma: Amy Bowen. Why she agreed to sit the four rowdy King kids is absolutely beyond me, but she did, and we loved her like a fat kid loves cake. She was fun and crazy and hilarious, and we basically wanted our parents to adopt her so we could have her every second of every day.

One time when I was in 4th grade, Amy was babysitting, and I don’t remember how it began, but she started tickling me. Because she’d let us all have Coke and Kool-aid and chocolate milk all night (GAH I loved her), my bladder was full, but because I was laughing so hard I couldn’t make sound much less produce words to tell her I was in trouble, right there, right in our living room, I peed my pants.

I have a point.

Somewhere between the emails this week that said, “STOP POSTING BOOKS THAT JACK WITH US” and “I like you so much but sometimes I wish all ten of your typing fingers were broken,” I realized that Book Week is about to make a bunch of you pee your pants. You’ve hit your limit. The bladder is full. Time to back off.

So. I’m still going to recommend books today, but these are guaranteed to not urge you to sell your house or move to Guatemala or start using recycled toilet paper. These are in a different category: fiction or memoir or humor or anything else in the genre of Lighten Up, Jen.

These are books I looooooooved. Loved. Loved. Lovelovelove. L.O.V.E.D. Loved. (Not all of these books are G-rated. The end. Great literature never has been. The Bible has some very X-rated material, in fact. Do not send me emails saying some of these books said ess aych eye tee.)

Bossypants

Tina Fey

Oh my gosh. OHMYGOSH. Help me, Lord. Help me not pee my pants again like in 4th grade. It’s like this: Tiny Fey is my comedy muse. How can anyone be this funny and smart?? I love her so much, I want to break into her house and whisper into her ear while she sleeps that Jen Hatmaker should be her best friend.

You cannot read this book in public, because it will induce snorting and outbursts and tears of hysterics. I have read this book four times, if that tells you anything. Funny, funny, funny, funny, funny! Especially if you’re a Saturday Night Live fan. Or a fan of comedy. Or laughter and joy. Or smiling.

Let me give you this excerpt from Tina’s “Prayer for my Daughter” in Bossypants and leave it at that, because if you don't think this is hilarious, all hope is lost:

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with Beer.

Guide her and protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.”

The Middle Place
Kelly Corrigan

SIGH. Sigh. Memoirs have been my favorite genre for the last three years, and it all began with The Middle Place. READ IT. I’m not even kidding. I’m not even afraid to boss you around right now. I cannot even tell you how much I loved this book. Every word. Every story. Every perfectly, beautifully, poignantly, endearingly captured moment. It is a masterpiece. Kelly Corrigan should be sainted as a writer. She is a glorious gift to literature. This family. This story. These people. It’s just too much. I can’t handle it. The writing and the stories and the love and the heartache…it’s too good. I’m sick.

Even writing about The Middle Place makes me want to run back to my tattered copy and read it for the 8th time. (Kelly’s dad, Greenie, bears such resemblance to my larger-than-life, beloved, infamous Dad, that as my sisters and I read this book individually, we’d text each other on breaks, in airports, and from workplace bathrooms to discuss which parts made us think of Dad while we were bawling and trying to act inconspicuous.)

I’ve mentioned before here that thanks to my Dad, I’ve been overvalued my entire life, so I’ll leave you with one of my favorite sections from The Middle Place:

In a revealing scene from the period right after she and Edward move in together, she gets in a snit when he isn't appropriately demonstrative following her midday phone call saying she's landed a new, high-paying job: Instead of arriving home that evening with a bottle of Champagne, he walks through the door and starts reading a bill from the day's mail. She explains her disappointment, and he smooths things over, but she knows she is inwardly comparing him to her dad, “a man who crowed about her ordinary achievements to strangers on the commuter train as if she had learned to live underwater.”

I Was Told There'd Be Cake
Sloane Crosley

Sometimes, when a writer reads other people's writing, she is overcome with a weird cocktail of awe, adoration, and envy, and that is exactly the narcotic that overwhelmed me when I stumbled upon Sloane Crosley. Smart. Hysterical. Nuanced. Inventive. This is the way Sloane Crosley writes her satirical essays. When will I ever be this funny and observant and awesome and bonkers?

She is a young New York resident and writer, which provides us its own bizarre demographic of retail, society, neurotic, and ambitious hilarity. She manages to draw you into the grief and confusion of life, as well as its outrageousness and irresponsibility. She is unique and endearing and hilarious, I’ll just leave you with some quotes from I Was Told There’d Be Cake and let you decide for yourself if you want to become one of her converts:

“I never asked my mother where babies came from but I remember clearly the day she volunteered the information....my mother called me to set the table for dinner. She sat me down in the kitchen, and under the classic caveat of 'loving each other very, very much,' explained that when a man and a woman hug tightly, the man plants a seed in the woman. The seed grows into a baby. Then she sent me to the pantry to get placemats. As a direct result of this conversation, I wouldn't hug my father for two months.”

“Because, ten-year-olds of the world, you shouldn't believe what your teachers tell you about the beauty and specialness and uniqueness of you. Or, believe it, little snowflake, but know it won't make a bit of difference until after puberty. It's Newton's lost law: anything that makes you unique later will get your chocolate milk stolen and your eye blackened as a kid. Won't it, Sebastian? Oh, yes, it will, my little Mandarin Chinese-learning, Poe-reciting, high-top-wearing friend. God bless you, wherever you are.”

“Life starts out with everyone clapping when you take a poo and goes downhill from there. ”

“…and there's something about having an especially different name that makes it difficult to imagine what you would be like as a Jennifer.” (Cry me a river, Sloane. I was the 7th Jennifer in every class EVER.)

The Book Thief
Markus Zusak

Well, I cannot possibly say anything that hasn’t already been said by every critic, every reader, every human with a beating heart that has read this book and gone straight mad over it.

This book grabbed my heart out of my chest, pulverized it into oblivion, and handed it back to me as if it could ever be the same. Fiction. Narrated by “Death.” Set in Nazi Germany. It describes a young girl's relationship with her foster parents, the other residents of their neighborhood, and a Jewish fist-fighter who hides in her home during the escalation of World War II.

I can only tell you that I sat in my reading chair, getting to The Critical Parts, and I sobbed like a sobbing, hysterical, inconsolable baby until I thought I would simply die, I would die from sorrow and love. I would die from this perfectly written story and these characters who belonged to me, they were mine, they were my precious people and I was devoted to them. I would perish without them. I was there. In the basement. In the terror. In the bravery. In the devotion. In the sorrow. In the elation.

Gavin told me a few weeks ago: “Mom, I have to read a book this summer for AP English. It’s called The Book Thief. Do you have it?”

And I came unraveled and overreacted and staged a reading schedule and book talk and made my 7th grade daughter read it too and said YES YES YES we will read this together and we will cry and we will be moved and inspired and we will never be the same, and they are reading it right now, and if my kids don’t respond like I need them to, I will be forced to send them to boarding school and pretend like they are not of my blood line.

~

So there you have it. And for the other emails saying, “You are making us poor with these book recs you’re forcing us to buy. Why do you hate us?” I’ll remind you that all of these gems are in your local library. You can have free awesomeness. Unless, of course, you never return your books on time, and by the time you actually do, you owe more fines that the books actually cost, and your little “money saving initiative” has basically turned into a bill.

I’ve heard of people like this.

Back me up, people. Did you love these books too? What else have you read lately that we just have to know about?

(Last day for comments on Sacrilege and Anything. I'll draw winners this weekend!)

JEN'S MUST READS: Part 2

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 18 Jul 2012 17:16:29 +0000

A couple of years ago, I got an email from another pastor’s wife in Austin: “Can we meet?”

Transparent moment: I don’t always like meeting pastor’s wives (said the pastor’s wife). Sometimes, pastor’s wives are just so pastor’s wifeish. You know what I mean? Many of them leave my company desperate to get me on their prayer chains and utterly confused how I landed this role. I just don’t speak the language of my station. My gifts don’t fit into the packaged job description, and plus, organized religion and the people who organize the religion is all sometimes for the birds (said the girl who organizes some religion).

So I agreed to meet this girl, because we were going to Magnolia Café, which, if you know Austin food, is reason enough, amen and selah.

Imagine my thrill to meet this sharp, courageous, bold girl who I immediately upgraded to Major Friend before we even got our entrees. Jennie Allen and I dropped straight into the deep end together, which I appreciate more than I can tell you. This is my friend, my sister, y’all. I value her so highly. I love her. She is exactly the kind of Bible teacher you crave; the one who brings the rain and pulls no punches. She is obedient and intelligent and humble and loves Jesus and you can trust her. She is a faithful guide and friend leading us toward courage and abandon and lives set ablaze.

Please, please let me tell you about her book because it will jack with you and your family and your safe, comfortable life in the best possible way:

Anything: The Prayer that Unlocked My God and My Soul

Perhaps this is the best soundbyte for the content of Anything:

And this is the best soundbyte for what kind of special person Jennie is – the text she sent me this week immediately after hearing my daughter was in the ER:

Less about the blood offerings and more the "you hold my lot" part. She's not a weirdo, people.

I’m going to let Jennie share a bit about it with you in a second, but I want to tell you that if you want to be brave but you’re scared, or you want to say yes to the kingdom except when you’d rather say no, or you want your life to matter so much for Jesus but you prefer comfort and safety and want to break free from those chains so badly, this is the book for you. This is how I put it in my endorsement of Anything:

I recently learned to use Instagram and I fear I'm obsessed with the fancy photo tricks.

Oh, you’re going to love the way Jennie writes and talks. I asked her to tell you about the engine behind Anything, and this is what she said:

I knew that what was happening was common.

As real life and responsibilities pressed in, I felt God being pressed out. Religion, church, and Bible study were all in place—but truly surrendered lives, the kind God could use anywhere and in any way He chose, had quickly turned into planned and calculated lives that focused on things like saving for a Suburban or minivan.

There had to be more.

Three years ago in the middle of the night I sat on my bathroom floor reading the blog of a girl who had surrendered everything. Something started that night in me.

The following is an excerpt from Anything: The Prayer that Unlocked My God and My Soul

So here’s what’s been taking place, a revival of sorts:

1. It is as if everything I have said I believe is all of a sudden and miraculously real to me . . . heaven, God in me, freedom from bondage, my purpose here.

2. And because it is real, I am living as if it is real.

3. And living that way costs me something—costs me everything.

4. So we start to consider our priorities and realize we value things like comfort and people’s opinions and happiness.

5. Then God says to die and sell everything we own and hate this life.

6. And we say okay.

7. We start thinking things like, Should we sell our new house? Or we have an empty bed—let’s fill it with a child who needs a home and let’s invite our neighbors to Easter dinner.

8. And then the people around us start saying things like, “Don’t do it for the wrong reasons”—like the love of adventure or for our own glory. And we say, “Ok, thanks for the heads-up.”

9. Then we have people who are praying the same prayers and thinking the same thoughts, and something is happening—not a feeling or love of adventure or desire for glory but something within us that is from God, a call to more: to die—to live.

10. My heart is bleeding and I can’t make it stop. So we are praying and willing and dreaming of living for heaven instead of the American dream, and it is changing everything. And I am strangely okay with that.

We were ready and willing, and so were a lot of people around us. We knew that this was not about accomplishing some visually stunning display of martyrdom or philanthropy. This surrender was simply an agreement with the living, active God of the universe saying he could have us for anything.

We were His, and only through His Spirit would we know what to do—and only through His Spirit could we do it. The only thing we knew to do was pray.

So we prayed . . .

God- we will do anything.

It didn't feel fancy. It wasn’t even a big deal. But the prayer held in it a thousand little deaths. In saying anything, it meant we were handing him everything.

What are you most afraid of giving God?

What is your Anything?

~

GIVEAWAY!! I have copies for two lucky winners! Leave a comment answering the above question to enter for a chance to win a copy. What is your anything, readers? What are you most afraid of giving to God?

JEN'S MUST READS: Part 1

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 16 Jul 2012 16:50:01 +0000

People ask me all the time: “How do maintain such order and balanced systems in your life and home?” No, wait. That’s not right. It’s this: “Please tell me your secrets for being an amazing, creative Classroom Mom.” Darn it. I keep getting confused. Oh yeah! This is what they actually ask:

“What are you reading that is moving you right now?”

Okay, this. If you’ve been around me for half a second, you probably know that I gravitate to books that shake crap up. Christian platitudes, thematic clichés, soft fluffy gospel writing…I’d rather stick freshly sharpened pencils into my calf meat. Give me something strong, something difficult and true, something to raise a little hell. I don’t like books that go down like butter; I like them full of shards and rough edges. I like them to push like a bully and make me wince with the truth of it all. I appreciate courageous writing so much.

I like to be stretched.

So this week, I’m going to share with you three books I’ve recently read that unlocked something deep within and left me alternatively cheering out loud and trying to creatively distance myself from their messages and shirk obedience. These are complete with giveaways and everything. It’s almost like I’m a real blogger.

First up:

Sacrilege: Finding Life in the Unorthodox Ways of Jesus
Hugh Halter

If you read Interrupted, you might remember that I quoted Hugh’s book The Tangible Kingdom approximately 359 times. At the time, we didn’t know Hugh, only the unconventional, razor-sharp, devil-be-damned way he talked about Jesus, community, and living on mission in such a way that people might actually be attracted to Jesus rather than repelled by the ungracious, unappealing, unChristlike way we represent Him. It literally turned our world upside-down and is still the material we use to disciple our people through missional community at ANC.

So we did what we do best: tracked him down in real life and made him be ours. The Hatmakers and Halters are all tangled up now in ministry and friendship; we just sat on their back patio in Denver two weeks ago and ate grilled bison and quinoa, and I daresay we solved nearly 68% of all the earth’s problems.

Our books are next to each in Barnes and Noble. Halter/Hatmaker. DESTINY.

But I digress. After reading The Tangible Kingdom, we received the language we needed for creating strong missional community. But after reading Sacrilege, I realized this was an instrument for bringing the disenfranchised, the church wounded, the cynical and angry, and the repelled back to Jesus. This wasn’t just a book to put in the hands of a church leader; this was a healing tool for everyone who cannot for the life of them figure out what is “good” about our Good News.

I’d love for you to peek at how Hugh talks about faith and Jesus, because it is utterly liberating and refreshing, so I asked him a few questions and used our friendship as leverage to make him answer:

I like how you try to get in trouble right away. Why did you title the book ‘Sacrilege’?

Simply put, it just means to remove religion from something or to tear away what some people might think is religious. Sacrilege isn't about defiling, defaming, or profaning anything good. But it is about stripping away anything that hides the real deal, the real Jesus, and the real story of the Gospel and kingdom living. I personally think the main reason people aren't coming toward Jesus is because they can't find him through all the mess of tradition, poor examples, judgment, rhetoric or religious activity...and that includes evangelical Christianity.

You’ve carved out a strong niche writing for church leaders. Why did you decide to write a book for “non-leaders”?

To be a bit crass, I think non-leaders are the new leaders. And unpaid saints are much better positioned to affect the lives of real people than the pros. As I have assessed the landscape of the lives of pastors, incarnational living seems to be quite elusive from those whose calling is to lead the church. The peasants, the plumbers, and baristas and bar managers can easily take the sacrilegious way of Jesus and make it their own … starting tomorrow!

I love the way you talk about Jesus. If you had to pick one, what lesson do you think most American believers need to rediscover about the unorthodox ways of Jesus?

I'm not sure if this is the main one, but the characteristic that I love the most is "meekness." Jesus teaches that this one, crazy little "istic" about our lives is actually what wins the hearts of our friends, our kids, and those we care about. Anything north of meekness is just religion and people can't stand it or stand for it.

The beatitudes are my absolute favorite. Why did you use them as the scaffolding for the book?

That's where Jesus started when he began to try to re-orient religious people toward an entirely new faith system he called the Kingdom of God. As each chapter takes a beatitude, and then shows the sacrilegious alternative to religiosity, I hope to also give people an angle that will challenge and release them into true incarnational living. I also wanted people to know that the Bible gives them permission to be with, love, accept, and befriend sinners; that the Bible gives them freedom to enjoy life and embrace the grey areas of life without fear, fundamentalism, or frigid faith.

So freeing, Hugh. People expect that you'd probably tip a few sacred cows over. Which ones do you think you'll take the most heat for?

For sure it would be the chapter where I address the Sunday practice of communion, or the Lord’s Supper. I suggest that Jesus never intended for the Eucharist to become an institution of the church available only for insiders. The symbolic act of “remembering him” is actually MORE IMPORTANT to Jesus than it naturally becomes when you administer it with the common practices of exclusion, judgment on the heart of someone in the crowd, or professional clergy controlling who gets to receive it.

The Table of the Lord has become another ‘false” line in the sand instead of what was truly intended to be…that of an invitation to eat with Jesus and experience his mercy. Three publishers said no to this book though they agreed with my biblical and historical sketch. They simply didn’t want to take the heat from retailers. I do want to add my view to the overall discussion of how Jesus would treat those not in the club because I think it’s central to His larger call. I’m proud of Baker Publishing for letting the honest discussion come out.

Who should read this book?

I’m not sure I would just hand it out to everyone. It's sort of like a brand new pair of scissors. It’s not safe for elementary users but could be highly practical for those in our congregations that are ready to engage the world like Jesus did. I'd give it to small groups who are trying to become missional communities, I would give it to all church planters, I would give it to all pastors, elders or anyone setting vision for a church. AND I would give it away like candy in at Halloween to jaded Christians who have tapped out of church, or friends who are not yet followers of Christ. It will help them see a completely different side of Christianity that they will like.

What do you think our communities would look like if we took the message of Sacrilege seriously?

Oh, that's easy. Church people would be afraid or annoyed by us, and the unchurched normal folks would love us, just as they did Jesus. If Christians were the most sacriligious people in the neighborhood, our cities would be transformed.

BOOM.

What do I have to do to get you and Cheryl back to Austin? Bribery? Extortion?

We love Austin except for May through October. Anything above 140 degrees is not good for my complexion. Cheryl however will come for good Mexican food and a nice glass of Tempernillo!

~

Readers, let me tell you something: this book is a safe tool with zero freak factor to use in creating natural dialogue with folks who’ve tapped out of organized religion and their Catholic/Protestant upbringing. Sacrilege is a conversation starter you need not fear. I know one girl who gave away 30 copies to unchurched/dechurched women in her life, and they held weekly discussions on each chapter. The women were so moved and won over, they invited Hugh to their gathering and bombarded him with stories of their own changed minds.

If you’re just up to here with Christian rhetoric and the blah blah blah white noise of religion, please do yourself a favor and grab a copy of Sacrilege. Hugh says everything we’re thinking but are sometimes afraid to murmur out loud. He asks the hard questions and runs headfirst into the messy gray of life. Not to mention the rock solid biblical case he makes for living like Jesus really lived, which if you’ve paid attention to your Bible, can get you into trouble with religious folks but might get you a whole lot closer to Jesus.

Who's in??

I have two copies to give away! Leave a comment about anything that resonated with you from this Q&A with Hugh, and I’ll draw two names at random and send you a copy!

How to Be Awesome at Everything

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 13 Jul 2012 09:13:21 +0000

It’s a dog eat dog world, good readers (or as Gloria says on Modern Family: “doggy dog world”). We’re all just slogging forward, working on the chain gang, paying The Man. Folks, we all simply need an edge, small advantages to survive this cruel, cold world. If we could only do everything better, emerge as ever-so-slightly superior to everyone else, I believe we’d reach nirvana. So I’m here for you, friends. I care about your success and fame and fortune. I believe I’ve discovered some secrets to impressive achievement and because I love my neighbor like Jesus said, I shan’t hoard them for my own personal triumph. Without further ado, I serve up to you piping hot:

HOW TO BE AWESOME AT EVERYTHING

How to be awesome at blogging:

Let the experts say what they will about blogging three times a week to “increase traffic” and “gain readership” and “increase your Klout Google analytics Top Ten Mrs. Popular score.” Take it from me: if you want to be awesome, blog sporadically. Confuse your readers by posting twice in one week one month then go radio silent for three solid months. People love this. Regularity is overrated; readers want inconsistency in their blogs. It’s a little fun to waste time pulling up a blog only to find the last entry is still dated April 10th. That’s hilarious and whimsical! It makes everyone chuckle and resolve to check back every single day.

Specifically, spend concentrated energy focused on difficult and controversial subjects like white privilege and Trayvon Martin and Christian consumerism, tricking your readers into thinking you’re a heavy hitter, then totally disappear. People find this mysterious and endearing. It makes them want to come back for more. Or not. (See how exciting and unpredictable this is? So winning.)

How to be awesome at summer parenting:

First, ensure that you have a major deadline to meet in June. If you can, miss that deadline and push it back by two weeks, pushing into the next deadline, which includes a week of filming in your house complete with nine scripts and fourteen location changes. To make things adventurous, don’t really plan anything for your kids to do during this week. Talk about a hoot! You and your husband decide to “kind of wing it”… I mean, kids can stay upstairs without food and water with the TV off and the air conditioner turned to 80° so it won’t click on and mess up audio for way longer than you think. This is how to raise survivors instead of mamby pambies. Plus, your husband will love this! It’s like camping but right upstairs and with total silence! This promotes bonding between dads and kids, and let’s be honest, in this fatherless generation, you’ll just be keeping your children off the therapist’s couch. You’re welcome, kids.

Second, if you have any children who are still learning English, sign them up for three weeks of summer school and package it as “Language Camp.” Tell them aaaaall the kids want to go, but only special, privileged children get the nod. Whisper in their ears that we should pray for their poor siblings who have to stay home all summer and play Xbox, for theirs is a sorry lot. This provides you an opportunity to instruct them in intercessory prayer, making this particular parenting move a two-for. Three hours into the first day when they catch on that this is, in fact, school, in a classroom, with instruction and teachers and learning and work and they call bull butter, don’t despair, because in addition to aiding your children in English as a second language, evidently they will also pick up a fair amount of Spanish in Language Camp. Now your kids are trilingual and nipping at the heels of the students in Japan. Get ready to sign your book deal, for you are a parenting marvel.

Language Camp es muy mal! No me gusto!

How to be awesome at gardening:

If possible, plant your garden six to ten weeks late. This tells those plants who is boss. You won’t be ruled by the environment; The Lord is your only Commander in Chief. Jesus Juke your own produce. I believe this is what God meant when He said “subdue the earth.” Sure, you’ve shortened the lifespan of your bounty, but getting five squash out of your plant before the bores destroy it is a good return on the $2.50 you spent on the cut, the compost you’ve been tending for six months, and the $240 monthly water bill.

It’s also a great idea to let the weeds get out of control rather than pulling them daily. This way, you spend three hours weeding with sweat pouring off your face, waging war against the hostile takeover, and in addition to neutralizing the weeds that have been stealing your soil’s nutrients and moisture for two weeks too long, you are getting skinny. Sweating means weight loss, so this is basically a diet plan. (Free tip: Do this without gloves, because you’ll develop blisters and callouses that communicate a Protestant work ethic and make you seem trustworthy. Be sure to casually display your callouses during job interviews, specifically after the interviewer asks about your personal weaknesses…just humbly hold out your hands and say quietly: “I work too hard.” This is essentially your ticket out of the recession.)

This was pre-summer planting. Instead of raising produce last winter, I raised FIVE CHILDREN. Thank you for understanding and for not asking why Remy is shirtless.

How to be awesome at PR:

First of all, and this really cannot be duplicated, when hosting six men from Lifeway in your home for a week to film DVDs for your Bible study, make the clever suggestion to film one session in your closet, showing how many clothes you gave away during your little project. Go ahead and get nervous and anxious about ushering all these men through your bedroom and bathroom to set up their cameras and boom mikes and cables in your actual closet. Let your anxiety simmer, even boil, because that’s when the fun happens! For instance, as they are all walking into your bedroom, if your nerves get the better of you, tell these Baptist professional men: “Well...this is where the magic happens!” (Don’t despair if they all pretend like they didn’t hear you. They will definitely not be talking about this for the rest of their lives behind your back. Your purple face and sweaty armpits will not be a dead giveaway, in any case. Carry on with the Lord’s work.)

That fancy folded towel is pure folly. ACTING, THANK YOU!

Additionally, if you want to be taken seriously as an agent of the kingdom, invite your closest friends over, your Council perhaps, to take part in this filming. Mind you, be sure to include people who could give a crap about your “Christian job” and really just want to know if they will get rich and/or famous from this. If you’re lucky, one of them will fancy herself a funny type and bring over a GALLON of margarita mix at 9:00am in the morning when the Council is scheduled for hair and makeup. Everyone will be in stitches! Because it will appear that you and your friends are nothing but lushes! Oh, the hijinks! Between the “magic” and the margaritas, you’ll ensure a nice, long career in public ministry.

The Council, from left: Trina, Molly a.k.a. Margarita Girl, Jenny, Becky, Shonna, Susana

So there you have it, good readers…how to be awesome at everything. Follow these simple tips, and you’ll be the talk of the town in no time. Listen to me, and I’ll have you swimming in success…guaranteed.

So glad to see you back here! How have you been “awesome” lately?

Trisha Yearwood on the Back of a Harley

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 21:14:12 +0000

Some people struggle privately, in the safety of their family and close friends, tucked away from public scrutiny. They reach out to a small handful of trusted people and gallop towards stability in the comfortable cushion of dependable community.

Others, like for instance, me, post their mental breakdowns on the global internet and hope for the best.

Fortunately for me, my actual people read my digital meltdowns and intervene.

Thus, my husband whisked me away last week for a motorcycle ride through the Hill Country with friends, staying overnight in the most charming log cabin on the Frio River. It was for my mental health recovery, and let me tell you: I should fall apart more often.

On the back of the Harley (a gift from one of our favorite people on earth…true story…please don't hate on this outrageous kindness), riding through the most beautiful hills and rivers and wildflowers and scenery in our state, I plugged in my earbuds and tapped into The Gift From The Heavens: Pandora. I pulled up one of our current favorite stations: Carrie Underwood. Oh, Carrie. Let’s just make this easy: Be mine. Thank you.

After jamming to Before He Cheats and Undo It for a spell, my memory tapped me on the shoulder, reminding me of the former female country voices who clogged every corner of my mind with lyrics and longings for so many years.

Trisha...Faith...Alison...Shania...Martina...Jo Dee...Martie/Natalie/Emily...Reba; these girls, with their high-waisted jeans and belly shirts, sang the anthem over my college years and 20’s. They spied on me and stole my thoughts and experiences, then wrote songs about them.

They sang me through new independence and the sharp thrill of young adulthood. My college girlfriends rolled our windows down and turned the music up, belting out our freedom, and man…I DID feel like a woman. We’d bring our stereos down to the lake and lay out, slathered with baby oil, hastening our impending skin cancer, a testament to the folly of youth, singing Martina songs and dreaming of the day we’d have marriages like Tim and Faith.

Cinching our jeans approximately three inches below our boobs seemed like a good idea.

This was my attempt at "The Rachel" hair like everyone else in 1994. Bless it.

These singers watched me fall in love with Brandon, and they wrote songs declaring our glorious love to the world. After all, our very first date was on a country dance floor, twirling and spinning to Some Kind of Trouble by Tanya Tucker, feeling mildly positive we were headed into the hurricane of young love. These women made sure to capture every emotion of that raw, reckless season, so fragile and dramatic and visceral. Each song proclaimed my angst and happiness and hopes and self-indulgence. Trisha was right: She’s in love with the boy, and even if they have to run away, she’s gonna marry that boy someday.

"Anything I do or say better be okay when I have a bad hair day..."

With surgical precision, they then documented my life with that first baby, so overwhelmed and tender, my love bleeding out sideways. They wrote words to help the rest of humanity understand how my heart was now living outside my body, making me ache with helpless, hapless, hopeless love for this tiny boy. The songs gave it all flight; From This Moment On by Shania, This Kiss by Faith, You’ll Never Know by Mindy, played softly during middle of the night feedings when moonlight flooded my son’s face and I thought, well, this is it, this is how it ends for me; I’m just going to die of love, right here, right in this glider rocker. I was so grateful these women declared 1998 ‘The Year of New Motherhood Music’ for me.

This is how Ann Voskamp posts pics on her blog, too...
by taking pictures of old pictures with her iPhone.

For my generation, these women sang us through all those formative years, when we were only ankle deep into our own stories, humming the opening notes to a song that wasn’t yet written in us. They gave us confident words when we needed them and lyrics of grief and disappointment when life refused to cooperate like the books said it should. Their words resonated deeply, which of course I now know why; these women were mothers and wives and daughters singing their own stories, letting us borrow them for our weddings and relationships and dreams. These were heart lyrics, life narratives. Some things are just universal.

As I thought of this baton that has now been passed to Carrie and Taylor and Miranda and Kellie, I’ll admit, a few tears slid backwards on my cheeks, and my memories caught in my throat. So much is behind me. It happened so fast. One minute I was singing Born to Fly by Sara Evans with my toddler in the backyard, and the next minute I’m seeing him through his final six weeks of middle school.

I meant to savor every single moment, but life was harder than I envisioned and time went faster than I planned; my kids’ early years were like five minutes…underwater. These beautiful chaotic years of raising children are infinitely slow, but viciously fleeting. It’s the darndest thing. How I have a high schooler in four months is simply beyond me.

All those songs, markers through such precious, impossible years are obsolete today. They were stakes in time, but now they are just memories. They were so good, so very good, so right and true and special and timely, but now I have to dig them out like the old pictures of first birthdays and Christmas 1999 and preschool graduation programs I haven’t converted to digital copies yet, relics of a bygone era in more ways than one.

So on the back of the bike, I switched my Pandora channel to “Trisha Yearwood” and sang every note to every song, as familiar as the church hymns I can still sing harmony to. I threw out gratitude to these women for singing their lives out loud, and in that, helping so many of us find ours. I thanked them for anchoring so much life change in lyrics throughout college, early 20s, young marriage, young motherhood; they sang my story.

I dried up those tears, wrapped my arms around Brandon, my love of 18 years, threw my head back and sang with Jo Dee:

Well we had a lot of dreams when we were younger
They thought we were crazy but we had the hunger
We kept a lot of friends, skipped a lot of class
Been on top of the world and knocked on our ____
We lost touch, we lost in love
We lost our minds when things got tough, but
Beatin' time is a losin' fight and I guess I'm doin' alright

I'm all, I'm all, I'm alright
It's a beautiful day not a cloud in sight so I guess I'm doin' alright
Oh, o - oh, I'm alright
Got a good old friend here with me tonight and I guess I'm doin' alright…

FOR THE LOVE, I didn’t even pay homage to the Indigo Girls, the Cranberries, or Whitney Houston. Who sang the anthems over your life? Who sang your story? (Mamas and Daddies ahead of us: tell us to treasure these years. We hate when you say that, but please tell us again.)

The Easter Conundrum (Confession): Part 2

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 09:27:57 +0000

For the last few years, God used Easter to mess me up. I’ve mentioned the Easter I gave my boots away and life was forever altered. The next Easter, we launched Austin New Church and my story divided in half: before ANC and after. The following Easter was our church’s one-year anniversary as God delivered on his promise and ANC was legit; a monumental lesson on his faithfulness.

So let me finish the story about this Easter; there was more than NeNe and her little pink purse. When you bring your entire church downtown to feed 800 homeless people including a band, worship, a message, communion, and resource stations, it gets…messy. The sanitized version of church goes out the window. The rules to maintain an organized service simply don’t apply to an outdoor service dominated by the homeless.

So during Brandon’s brief message, one very sad, very lost woman screamed, “Where were all of you when these men were violating me?! Where were you??” There was more, none printable. It was raw and desperate, littered with expletives and sorrow. If we came to proclaim freedom for the oppressed like Jesus said, then we needn’t look further than this broken woman.

What did I do? How did her grief move me? Well, I motioned for Tray to “take care of her.” My instinct was to protect the service, keep everything decent. I mean, a shattered woman screaming during church is just too messy to indulge.

My church family, however, responded with grace befitting the Bride. Brandon spoke gently to her, Christi tried to embrace her, Ryan held out his hand, others interceded for this prodigal daughter. If Jesus really meant the church was a hospital for the sick, not a showcase of the healthy, then we were seriously having church.

Cut to the next day.

I was preparing to be the keynote speaker at an event two weeks away, the Ladies’ Retreat for the Baptist General Convention of Oklahoma, around 3000 women. I was locked into Mark 10, where Jesus engaged blind Bartimaeus a week before he went to the cross. I got down to business studying.

I had so much to teach. Other people.

Ahem.

Bartimaeus: poor, blind, beggar. Probably looked like every homeless person I know. Outcast, shunned from the temple, unclean, discarded in every way – a true societal reject. And here comes Jesus with his entourage, headed to Jerusalem to be “king” (oops, they had a little misunderstanding about what that meant – their bad). Everyone is excited, everyone is cheering. Yay, Jesus! We’re getting our king and we’ll be free!

“As Jesus and his disciples, together with a large crowd, were leaving the city, a blind man, Bartimaeus (that is, the Son of Timaeus), was sitting by the roadside begging. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout, ‘Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!’” (vs. 46-47)

Whoa up. Yikes. This is awkward. This is embarrassing actually. There is nothing dignified here. This reeks of desperation. I mean, Bartimaeus? Poor, blind Bartimaeus screaming at Jesus? Sheesh. What a mess, Jesus surrounded by normal, decent followers, forced to deal with this sad, sorry homeless guy screaming bloody murder.

“Many rebuked him and told him to be quiet, but he shouted all the more, ‘Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Jesus stopped and said, ‘Call him.’ So they called to the blind man, ‘Cheer up! On your feet! He's calling you.’ Throwing his cloak aside, he jumped to his feet and came to Jesus.
‘What do you want me to do for you? Jesus asked him. The blind man said, ‘Rabbi, I want to see.’ ‘Go,’ said Jesus, ‘your faith has healed you.’ Immediately he received his sight and followed Jesus along the road.” (vs. 48-52)

And bam, right in the middle of my important studying to teach others how to follow Jesus, the Holy Spirit leveled me. Who was I in this scenario? Not Jesus, mercifully pausing for a blind beggar on his way to the cross, but the embarrassed “Christ followers” who scorned this humiliating interruption during their Christ-following and sanitized this awkward confrontation to get on with their holiness.

I cried for an hour.

I have so far to go.

“Rabbi, I want to see.” Bartimaeus asked for the most basic human need. In biblical times, blindness meant he was considered cursed by God, which made him unclean, which made him an outcast, which made him a beggar. Unlike James and John who nine verses earlier asked to sit at Jesus’ right and left hand in glory (predicated by the awesome demand, “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask”), Bartimaeus only asked for mercy.

This is like the starving asking for food, the orphan asking for parents, the homeless asking for shelter, the sick asking for medicine; basic human needs – food, shelter, care, love. These aren’t tangled up in power or position, they aren’t born out of entitlement or greed. They are a plea for mercy, the cry of every human heart.

Decorum has no relevance for the mother who prostitutes to feed her children or the nine-year-old who eats trash to survive the streets. The “rules on how to behave” are meaningless for the 66 children infected with HIV in the last hour or the 25,000 people who died today from starvation.

The poor world is begging for mercy like Bartimaus, while the rich world is asking for more favor like James and John.

I taught this mess at the BGCO Ladies’ Retreat, including my dismal failure on Easter. I wondered if the American church was like well-mannered nice-talkers, sitting in a living room sipping coffee, talking about choir practice, while the world burns down outside our windows. While the richest people on earth pray to get richer, the rest of the world begs for intervention with their faces pressed to the window, watching us drink our coffee, unruffled by their suffering.

It’s just not right.

So I blubbered in front of 3000 women, bawling for the anguish of others and my own heinous disinterest, worried we were missing the point. I told the story about giving away my boots and asked if a similar moment wasn’t in order – not that shoes will change anyone’s life, but there is something spiritual and submissive about offering the shoes on your feet, the sweater off your back. It tells Jesus: I’m in.

It’s the engine behind this month of Seven: giving away is somehow sacred, connecting to the sacrificial heartbeat of Jesus. It’s as transformative for the giver as a blessing to the receiver. When God told us to give, I suspect he had spiritual formation in mind as much as meeting needs.

You might want to sit down.

Before I formalized this or offered any structure, women started pouring down the aisles, pulling their shoes off. They left jackets, Bibles, purses, diamond necklaces, wedding rings, cameras, iPhones, bags – I have never seen anything like it. Eventually, I just turned off my microphone as hundreds of women laid face down, sobbing, barefoot. The stage was covered in their offerings, falling onto the ground and taking over the room.

It filled 70 large moving boxes.

It was the greatest possible giveaway of Month Three.

I learned something: There is much hope for the American church. It’s too soon to declare the Bride hopelessly selfish or irrelevant. The fear my message would be received poorly was so debilitating, I hadn’t slept for a week. When women are accustomed to beauty and happiness messages, discussing a crumbling world caused me no end of anxiety.

I’ll repeat: 70 moving boxes full of offerings; thousands of women going home in the pouring rain, barefooted. The church is not beyond the movement of Jesus. A stirring is happening within the Bride. God is awakening the church from her slumber, initiating a profound advancement of the kingdom.

Please, don’t miss it because the American Dream seems a reasonable substitute, countering the apparent downside to living simply so others can live at all. Do not be fooled by the luxuries of this world; they cripple our faith. Like Jesus explained, the right things have to die so the right things can live – we die to selfishness, greed, power, accumulation, prestige, and self-preservation, giving life to community, generosity, compassion, mercy, brotherhood, kindness, and love.

The gospel will die in the toxic soil of self. Paul wrote, “We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life. If we have been united with him like this in his death, we will certainly also be united with him in his resurrection.” We want the life part without being united with Jesus in the death part, but that version of Christianity doesn’t exist – that is a false gospel, void of sacrifice.

The fertile soil of death is where the gospel forms roots and actually bears fruit. We have to die to live; we have to die so others can live. It almost sounds like Jesus’ mission. This is the church he was willing to die for, a Bride that inspires and changes the world. This vision is worthy of radical obedience. Don’t give up on the church.

There is hope for her yet.

This is the week Jesus made all things new and rescued us from ourselves. May worship and obedience and mercy and love reign in our hearts. Struggling with the church and all its mess? You are welcome here and I am glad to walk beside you.

The Easter Conundrum: Part 1

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 08:22:00 +0000

It’s Easter.

Between ages 0-32, I celebrated Easter the fun way: with bunnies, baskets, and expensive clothes. What better way to say “Jesus reigns” than dressing my preschooler in a $45 dress to show her off in the church lobby? (You’re welcome, Jesus. Be blessed.)

Now, let’s be clear, if you had asked me what my Easter priorities were as I stood all fancy in the lobby, I’d become grave and mention the resurrection. For crying out loud, I’m a Christian. But truthfully, between the outfit shopping, the Easter baskets, the egg ______ (dying, stuffing, hiding, hunting), the pictures, the lunch menu, and the gift buying, Jesus was flat last. I started thinking about him as the band started at church, and I thought about him for a whole hour.

That’s just true.

But for the last three years, Jesus has messed with me. Frankly, he’s hijacked all my holiday endeavors. I’ve always celebrated holidays with a Cultural Major and a Spiritual Minor. Take Christmas, for example. I endlessly spent on garbage no one needed and worked myself into a December frenzy and oh well. La de da. Now I’m overwhelmed by the poor and the disgusting consumerism cycle and the heinous neglect of Jesus and the appalling nature of it all.

Then we got to Easter, or as God called it, Passover. “Easter” is a little name picked up from the Anglo-Saxon fertility goddess of spring, ‘Eostre’, who saved a frozen bird from the harsh winter by turning it into a magical rabbit who could lay eggs. Hence: ‘Easter’, bunnies, and eggs. Why are elements of a pagan religion associated with the highest holy day of the Christian faith? (Oh bother. Can’t we just carry on and dye our Eostre eggs in peace?)

Assessing the typical American Easter, on one side I see Jesus on the cross, humiliated and mutilated, bearing the failures of every person past and present, rescuing humanity through an astonishing miracle of divine redemption, splitting history in two and transforming the human experience for eternity. On the other side, I see us celebrating this monumental heroism with chocolate bunnies and boiled eggs, with Jesus as an afterthought. It doesn’t make sense. (Insert some of you tossing this book in the garbage. Don’t mess with my Easter fun, you hippie chick.)

Austin New Church decided to rethink “The Traditional Easter Service That Brings In More People Than Any Other Day Of The Year.” It is our church’s two-year anniversary, and certainly we could stand more foot traffic, but I’m not sure Passover is best celebrated by a high-attendance Sunday of people who won’t be back until Christmas Eve.

We literally asked ourselves: What would Jesus do? Would he drop a bunch of cash on fancy clothes? Buy out the chocolate and plastic egg supply? Find the biggest church in town and spend twenty minutes posturing in the lobby?

Who in Austin might want to celebrate the astonishing hope of resurrected Jesus, but might feel uncomfortable surrounded by beautiful people dressed to the nines? Who needs the gospel spoken into their brokenness, but might not be welcomed by the saints in the sanctuaries? It came quickly to us:

The homeless.

If Jesus came to proclaim freedom for the captives and good news to the poor, then Passover uniquely belongs to the bottom dwellers. So we cancelled service and took church downtown to the corner of 7th and Neches, where our homeless community is concentrated. We grilled 1300 burgers and ate together. Our band led worship, then in a powerful moment of solidarity, we shared communion. It was a beautiful mess of dancing, tears, singing, and sharing. It wasn’t an “us” and “them” moment; it was just the church, remembering the Passover Lamb and celebrating our liberation together.

Now, if we get one repetitive request when serving our homeless friends, it’s this: “Do you have a bag?” (Could also be: Can I have that bag? Can I take that trash bag? Do you have a bag I can put this bag in?) So this was the perfect moment to give away seven of my nine purses, which were nice and roomy, just like the ladies want.

When the gals had a perfect view for maximum impact, I hollered:

“Hey girls! Anyone want one of…these?”

Cranberry red leather.
Green with gold buckles.
Chocolate brown bohemian bag.
Turquoise with short handles.
Burnt orange across-the-shoulder.
Shiny black backpack bag.

And one little purse I debated on bringing. It was a tiny thing, hot pink crocodile by Gianni Bini, functionally useless but fashionably magnificent. Our street girls want the biggest bags possible, since they carry everything they own. A wheelbarrow would be a huge hit. So my little vanity purse was a wildcard, but at the last second with a conspiratorial nudge from the Spirit, I threw it in.

Not surprisingly, it was the last purse left. What self-respecting homeless woman picks a hot pink purse that would barely carry her bus pass? Glamour handbags are only for women who have eight others and a house in which to stash them. So I stood there with my one little purse, when it’s rightful owner, the one for whom I daresay that purse was stitched together, made a beeline for me.

She had on her Easter finest, tights included, though it was ninety degrees. Flouncy dress with – what else? – hot pink flowers. Hair done in sections with matching beads, pink floppy hat on standby. Leather dress shoes polished to a sheen. Dainty ribbon necklace and rings on four fingers.

She was six-years-old. Her name was NeNe.

Never has a purse better matched its owner. She slipped that hot pink number over her arm and never put it down, not even to eat. Her mom looked at me and no words were necessary; mothers speak a silent language. I took her picture and fussed over her beauty and breathed a thank you to Jesus for the nudge.

I serve a Savior who finds a way to get pink purses to homeless six-year-old girls.

Jesus is a redeemer, a restorer in every way. His day on the cross looked like a colossal failure, but it was his finest moment. He launched a kingdom where the least will be the greatest and the last will be first, where the poor will be comforted and the meek will inherit the earth. Jesus brought together the homeless with the privileged and said, “You’re all poor, and you’re all beautiful.” The cross leveled the playing field, and no earthly distinction is valid anymore. There is a new “us” – people rescued by the Passover Lamb, adopted into the family and transformed into saints. It is the most epic miracle in history.

That is why we celebrate. May we never become so enamored by the substitutions of this world that we forget.

“It was just before the Passover Feast.
Jesus knew that the time had come for him to leave this world and go to the Father.
Having loved his own who were in the world,
he now showed them the full extent of his love.”
~John 13:1

How do you celebrate Resurrection Sunday? Have you been participating in Lent? What has God shown you? I'd love to hear your Easter story.

(This post is excerpted from "7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess")

Dear Trayvon's Mom

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 10:05:13 +0000

My name is Jen Hatmaker. I’m super white. I even have blue eyes. My hair was snow blonde then it was dirty brown and now it’s gray but I color it so who even knows anymore? (I’m sorry. I overshare when I’m nervous.) My husband and I cranked out three carbon copies of us.

Look at us. We were the poster family for white people.

I grew up in the lower middle class. In my early years, we lived in racially diverse cities. I was the only white girl in my second grade class in Little Rock, Arkansas, a fact I was oblivious to, because you get the luxury of being oblivious when you’re seven. I lived in south Louisiana, where there is every shade of skin color under God’s yellow sun. But I logged my formative middle and high school years in Wichita, Kansas…Haysville, Kansas to be exact. Pretty much total white bread.

I nonchalantly enjoyed my white privileges my entire adult life, one of those people who said “racism is dying” and “things are different now” and “we’re colorblind” and casual ignorance like that. I gushed and over-loved any black people in my life, of which there were very few; none in a real relationship with me that wasn’t exaggerated and a little contrived and over-zealous.

But then we decided to adopt two children from Ethiopia, and in November 2010, as I was shopping for their very first care package to send over, I was standing in the middle of the Target toy aisle, and I sent out this SOS text:

Where are all the black baby dolls?

I sat down in the middle of Target and cried my eyes out.

How did I never notice this? How was this my first sense of outrage over this discrepancy? How could I have yammered about the end of racism and “a fair system” when evidence to the contrary was staring me in the face every single day?

Sybrina, please envision me getting down on my knees in front of you, this white mama, and asking you to forgive me. I never understood the systemic racism that persists in this country, because I didn’t have to. The system is structured to grant me privileges and power through no merit of my own; simply by virtue of my skin color. This same system denies and protects this oppressive hierarchy, conditioning white people to not even see it.

We don’t get followed around in the store by suspicious security.

We don’t get singled out or searched by policemen.

The bandaids in Walmart all match our skin color.

The children’s section in the bookstore is full of covers with white kids.

If I ask to speak to a manager, he or she is usually white, like me.

And our sons don’t get murdered walking down our own street holding Skittles.

So because these things didn’t happen to me, I ignorantly assumed they were not happening to you. I casually consumed my white privileges – these unearned assets that granted me the benefit of the doubt and free passes and guaranteed security and permanent insider status – assuming that anyone else, anyone, could enjoy these same advantages by making good choices and working hard.

But it is simply not true, because the same system that keeps me on top keeps you on bottom. If anyone is automatically granted insider status, by definition that means someone has outsider status. We see this when a black student or man or woman accomplishes something extraordinary, and they are called “a credit to their race.” If a white person pulled off the same thing, he would just be called awesome. You have to work harder for acknowledgment, and then singling it out as an exception to the rule diminishes and demeans your merit.

I didn’t know about the Black Male Code, because I didn’t have to. I had the luxury of knowing my sons would breeze through applications and security lines and entrance exams and interviews, receiving unmerited approval at the first glance.

But then I got this son.

And I watched in horror as this son was cut down in the prime of his life.

And my heart was seized in terror. Because everyone loves my Ben right now. Who wouldn’t? He’s eight and the size of a first grader. He’s adorable and silly. His Ethiopian accent is the cutest thing that has ever entered your ears. He’s writing stories about “A Dog as the President” and he wears and a helmet and kneepads when he skates. He watches Power Rangers.

But I’m learning what is going to happen six years from now, Sybrina. People will start to suspect him for no reason, or train a watchful eye on him at the mall, or fear him. He may ask a white girl to prom, one he has gone to school with since these innocent years, and get his heart crushed when her daddy forbids it. He will have to be careful in public with his friends, as the most innocent activity will likely be interpreted as threatening…like walking down the street with candy and tea in his own neighborhood.

I have grieved endlessly for your son. I just keep trying to make sense of it, and sense won’t come. There is simply no sense in this injustice. You don’t get to murder a teenage boy because you’re paranoid and suspicious of him. You don’t get to do that. Would this have happened if Trayvon was a white kid named Troy? Would he have been viewed with the same fear? Will our black sons ever escape this treacherous plight and just be free to be children?

I’m ashamed that I haven’t seen or cared about this inequity until I had black kids under my roof, Sybrina. I’m so sorry. I would completely understand if you dismissed my solidarity here, because just two years ago I claimed America was a post-racial country, and that is a sorry state of willful ignorance. Neglecting the hard, important conversations about race, justice, ignorance, and inequity until I literally had skin in the game is appalling, and if you reject my concern now, I wouldn’t blame you.

But if you’ll have me, I’d like to stand with you.

I’d like to link arms and stand up for our black sons and daughters, calling the system so wrought with disparities to reform. I want to engage these challenging discussions with respect and commitment to one another, because I can no longer be complicit in the battle against equity.

We’re going to have to work hard here, because it’s tempting to make sweeping statements and unfair generalities. It's easy to say things are all bad or all good or never this or always that, and that's not true and won't get us far. Both of our races are wrought with fools and charlatans and bigots; none of us are perfect and this is complicated. It’s going to take respect and humility to navigate this well, to begin pulling the threads to unravel such an entrenched system. But I want to start here, with you:

I see Trayvon.

I know he wasn’t a perfect kid. He probably opened up a sassy mouth to you and whined about chores. His room might have been a pigsty no matter how much you fussed at him (but with a face like that, I’m sure he got away with it). Like all seventeen-year-old sons, he probably drove you crazy sometimes, pushing against the boundaries barely holding him back from young adulthood, anxious to spread his wings. But he was the son of your heart and he mattered and he deserved life.

I am devastated it was stolen.

Please know that as for me, I promise to do the hard work and ask the hard questions and enter the difficult places to turn the tides for my son and all the black sons, and I grieve that it is too late for yours. I hope the national outcry for Trayvon has comforted you; so many of us see him. We are hungry for a better world where our boys can walk down the street unafraid and unfeared.

Please accept my hand; I stand with you, two moms demanding more for our sons. I am sorry you’ve lost Trayvon, my sister. I’m so very sorry. May his legacy help us move into a wider space together, tearing down walls and stereotypes and fear and building communities where we truly love our neighbor once again.

All my love to you.

On Empty

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 14:22:15 +0000

In certain ways, I’m a typical first-born overachiever. I was filling calendars with due dates and meetings back in junior high. When I figured out you could wear a bunch of tassels on your robe if you graduated with honors, it became my life mission. I calculated how many B’s I could get in college and still graduate Magna Cum Laude, and I hunted that dog down, lobbying for every 89% like some sort of freak. Impending deadlines? I am an animal. I like my life to go by the book. Which book? Whichever one everyone is yammering about.

But in other ways I am a nincompoop.

I once employed a rather consistent habit of running out of gas. I was always perplexed to feel my car sputtering, assuming I was losing my tranny or throwing a piston. As it turns out, you need fuel to keep your car moving forward. Or it will sputter. And quit moving forward. Evidently, there is a little gauge to help you determine when this moment is drawing nigh, and one must pay attention to the little gauge. The gauge is helpful. The gauge is our friend. Except when you ignore the gauge and find yourself stranded on the side of I-35. Again.

May I so truthfully confess to you that I am running out of gas? I’m beyond the sputtering stage. The car is coasting to a dead stop, and I’m stuck on the side of the road, on empty.

Empty.

The gauge has been trying to tell me I was in trouble, but I had places to go, so I kept driving. These places are important, you see, and people were counting on me to get there, to show up. They still are.

This is a terrible time to discover I am out of gas. Why, just this morning, I signed a contract to write a 9-week DVD curriculum for 7. Due in less than three months, including a week of filming. I have a live webcast in one hour and four minutes. I have events the next two weekends, where women will tell me their stories, will need me to be present and engaged, where I’ll once again have to pour my heart out teaching, which is something like running a marathon without the weight loss. And then I’ll come home and not have three seconds to recover before every person in this family needs me, because that’s what families do; they need each other.

The signs have been there, dragging the gauge toward E: The loneliness and isolation, the disconnection from my community. The arguing and nitpicking and defensiveness. The shallow well of patience. The tears coming too easily, too quickly. The sense of being utterly overwhelmed. The feeling that expectations were snaking around me, entangling, dragging me to the bottom of a murky lake where there was no oxygen, because it is debilitating to keep hearing “you’re so awesome” when I know I’m not.

I hit a wall this morning where there was just nothing left.

A black pit lodged in my stomach and I ground to a halt.

I should’ve read the gauge several miles back, when I was disconnecting from real live human people because the ones on the computer were so abundant and urgent and insistent. You’re real too, good readers, but there are so many of you and you’re everywhere. Meanwhile, I have these people right here, right in front of me, connected to me by blood and love and proximity and community, and I’ve learned I can’t multiply like I thought; I mostly divide.

I should’ve read the gauge several miles back, when this feeling of impending doom would overtake me before an event, assuring me that I will never, never live up to the expectations people have of me. When I would read on Twitter: “Jen Hatmaker is up next! She is going to kill it!” and I wanted to dissolve, because maybe I won’t kill it at all; I don’t always kill it. That my life is way more ordinary than you think it is, and I feel like a caricature because the parts of me that you see are the parts I’ve let you see, and the picture is incomplete. This is heavy knowledge.

My marriage needs me. My kids need me. My friends need me. (You know what all my friends say to me these days: “I miss you.”) I need time with Jesus, without thinking about how I’m going to teach His life-giving words to others.

I want to loan every one of you my influence for your good causes, for your passions and adoptions and fundraisers and mission work, but I just can’t. I want to partner with all of you and help do it all, all the good work, all the important work that we care about so much, but I just can’t. I want to say yes to every conference you invite me to, I really do because I know you love your people so much and you want to see God’s kingdom come in your faith community, but I just can’t.

I wish I could Skype into all your 7 Book Clubs. I wish I could record a personal message for the launch of your Spring Bible Studies. I wish I could endorse every one of your books, because I’m so proud of you and know exactly how thrilling this is. I wish I could write a blog for all your important things. I wish I could move the needle forward on all your adoption questions. I wish I could have coffee with every one of you visiting Austin. I wish I could call you and talk about how to get your book published. I wish I could speak the exact, healing words you need as your marriage is crumbling in Michigan. I wish I could adequately express – with all the words and space necessary – how much every single kind, encouraging, inspiring email moves me and lifts me.

But I’m on empty, dear ones.

I’m reminded of (the most moving, amazing, brave, remarkable) blog series by Beth Moore’s sister, Gay, who charted her course from full-blown alcohol addiction to freedom. Oh, it’s so moving. So extraordinary and beautiful. But this one thing she wrote stuck with me:

“When God jerked me up off that concrete in mid-April 2009, He dropped me in AA, not in church…I had to do something different which was ANYTHING but sitting around waiting for Him to heal me and DOING nothing…He has required a lot of work from me, a lot of action, one day at a time, whatever He put in front of me that day.”

I so appreciate this brave statement. God isn’t going to magically restore healthy rhythms and boundaries in my life without my cooperation. He never asked me to spread too thin or nurture unhealthy habits or try to live up to some reputation. He didn’t say, “Do more. Do everything.” Those are on me. I did that. That’s my pride and selfishness and ego and ambition rising up, trampling down the beloved things, the necessary things.

I, too, need to do something different.

Some things that will take work and commitment, restraint and discipline. I don’t even know what they are yet. I need to remember what is “best” and refuse to let the “good” steal it away, because I could spend my last living breath on the good; it’s plentiful. These are going to be hard, because I’ve burrowed down into something of a dark place, and the very things needed to pull out are the same ones I’ve lost energy for, kind of like wanting to lose weight without dieting or working out.

Lastly, God has me thinking of you, as He so often does. It occurs to me that some of you are in the exact.same.place. Which comforts me, readers, but it also makes me sad for us. If you are on empty today, having expended all you have to give and sitting stranded on the side of the highway, may I suggest that perhaps this is not the very worst place to be, that sometimes the car running out of gas is a gift, because otherwise you'd never stop?

This very morning, as I was writing the third paragraph of this blog, my Lifeway event leader sent an email to the speaking team for our Abundance event in Houston this weekend from 2 Kings 3, when God led his people into the desert:

I wanted to pass along the devotion I shared with our team here this morning before we prayed over you, our attendees, and all aspects of the Abundance event this weekend.

I had this devo from Streams in the Desert back in December but saved it because it impacted me so. And as we prayed God impressed upon us that He is allowing us to come EMPTY that we may be FILLED.

“This is what the LORD says: I will fill this valley with pools of water. For this is what the LORD says: You will see neither wind nor rain, yet this valley will be filled with water, and you, your cattle and your other animals will drink. This is an easy thing in the eyes of the LORD…The next morning, about the time for offering the sacrifice, there it was—water flowing from the direction of Edom! And the land was filled with water.”

First of all, who prays for her SPEAKING TEAM to show up for an event empty? I guess someone who has been chatting with the Holy Spirit and knows that a handful of us are, indeed, coming dry. I could barely read the email through my tears.

Second, we serve a God who fills the desert with water, even if we didn’t see the rain. He accomplished this while the Israelites slept, while they rested. They woke up to water in the desert.

For me, maybe for you, dear one, we need a short season of rest, even though a battle is impending and we are surrounded by sand, parched. Maybe we need to trust God just enough to close our eyes and believe Him for water in the morning. After all, “this is an easy thing” for the One who has already redeemed humanity.

The night is upon us; our hands are spent from work. The only sane thing to do is rest. God sometimes does His best work while we entrust ourselves to his overnight keeping. Our responsibility is laying down the tasks, setting aside the duties, which is much harder than it sounds. There is never an end to the work; just an end to the day. Sometimes the very hardest obedience involves stopping for the night.

Somehow, God managed to fill the pools with water “about the time for offering the sacrifice.” This is so dear to me. I know how many people need you. I know that so many things depend on you showing up, same as me. But if we are obedient in this, God will renew us in time…in time for the kids, in time for our spouses, in time for our community, in time for our ministries. He will not restore us too late. He will renew us just in time.

His mercies are new every morning. Great is His faithfulness.

Thank you for letting me confess this to you. Are you on empty? Count on my prayers.

Kony Critics & Throwing Rocks

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 15:07:03 +0000

When I was a senior in college in 1996, the administration assigned us all an “email address.” I distinctly remember rolling my eyes, saying: “Who in the world is going to send me a [finger quotes] email? Like anyone is going to use this! How would they even know? If someone wants to talk to me, they’ll just call me, for cripes sake! What a waste of time!”

I got my first real email address in 2005. You read that right.

I am often slightly late to the proverbial party.

So it is today with my response to the Stop Kony campaign last week. (I like to strike when the iron is tepid.) The thing is, the response evoked such strong emotions in me, I decided to let the dust settle so I wouldn’t rip off a hysterical, manic blog while my cooler head was waiting to prevail.

With every new cynical response that hit the interwebs after the Stop Kony campaign was launched, parroting each other, citing the same (sometimes unvalidated) statistics and coining exact phrases, my blood boiled a little more. I wrote scathing rebuttals in my head. I had imaginary confrontations. I dug out my Lamaze breathing techniques and tried to go Zen.

Here is where I’ve landed:

There were plenty of good, solid points made on either side of the issue. (Rachel Held Evans did a great job compiling resources already here, if you'd like a glimpse into the controversy.) I’m always encouraged when a justice issue finds its place in the spotlight. It’s healthy to discuss integrity, empowerment, sustainability, and philanthropy ethics. These are often shoved into a corner, neglected and abused. I deeply appreciate people who address these matters with respect and intelligence. Discussing how to help well, how to serve well, how to live well, how to really, really improve Planet Earth as its citizens…I’m for this. I’m for learning. I’m for educating ourselves. I’m for reforming. I’m for constructive criticism. I’m for evaluating. I’m for reevaluating.

I’m not for throwing rocks at the soldiers from the sidelines.

After sifting through all the rubble, when I dug deep to discover what was upsetting me so deeply, a couple of things rose to the top.

The Invisible Children folks have been at this for almost ten years. They’ve sweat blood and tears over the carnage in Uganda. They’ve rallied students, Senators, soccer moms. They’ve begged policy makers to listen and care. They’ve stood side-by-side Ugandan children and families. This is their mission. It’s very unambiguous. They never claimed to be anything other than exactly what they are. Their records are transparent and available.

In their own words: “Our work in the United States focuses on advocacy and inspiring America’s youth to ‘do more than just watch.’ We believe that by uniting our voices we can use the systems, influence, and resources of the United States to expedite an end to the conflict.” This is what they do. And today, tens of millions of people know who Joseph Kony is and the atrocities he has committed because of IC. They’ve refused to sit silently by, choosing to raise their voices instead, telling victims: We see you. We are not okay with this.

So this aggressive, even brutal attack on them in the aftermath of the campaign explosion has me deeply unsettled. People have lobbed every sort of criticism their way. Why don’t you care about people in America? What about the other issues in Uganda? Why do you spend money on filmmaking? Why are you making a big deal out of something that occurred over 30 years and created fewer victims than other crises?

They’ve been called “self-aggrandizing foreigners”, “attention colonialists”, “slacktivists,” “soft bigots”, “delusional marketing experts out for an adventure,” “miserable frauds.” Then critics galore casually reduced this effort, including every single white American who dared be moved by the horrors in Kony history, as perpetrators of the “white man’s savior complex,” patting the poor Africans on their simple heads as we rush in to save the day.

What if it is just this:

We care so much about their suffering.

We ache for the seven-year-olds who were forced to kill their parents.

We grieve the loss of innocence and life.

We yearn for justice and stability for the people of Uganda.

In the scope of humanity, we consider Ugandans our brothers and sisters.

The critical spirit of this is what has me so down. If we can’t address it all, we shouldn’t address anything. If we can’t explain the complexities of this crisis in one sitting, then we shouldn’t explain anything. If we care, we have white savior complex. If we can’t advocate perfectly, how dare we advocate at all.

What if the IC folks never fancied themselves policy makers or international strategists or war tacticians? What if they simply raised their voices for justice, knowing US rainmakers would not rush in and invade the country or arm the Ugandan army or shoot down child soldiers because some activists suggested this nonsense end?

And this is crazy, but what if they also expected their advocacy to simply be the impetus for further education? They never claimed to be the end all to our knowledge of the Kony reign of terror and the recent history of Uganda. What if their role was to place the basic context in our line of vision – where it has been hidden for thirty years – and expect responsible justice to rise up?

Is that not exactly what has happened? We are not idiots. (Say what you will.) The IC folks have raised a humanitarian issue to global attention, and more people now know the nuances of Ugandan instability for the last half a century than ever in history. We read. We researched. We joined discussions. We asked questions. We listened.

Any injustice this complicated will take a plethora of advocates and revolutionaries and strategists and leaders to address it thoroughly. IC is just one piece here, which is all they ever claimed to be. They are simply working in conjunction with Ugandan leadership and citizens, government allies, and international supporters to bring justice to a people that deserve it. And among all the rhetoric and intricacies and dense data, this remains:

Joseph Kony should indeed be brought to justice.

I believe we can engage a complicated crisis with respect for one another. We need not resort to name calling and slandering and throwing rocks at the soldiers on the frontlines while we write blogs on the couch. The lowest common denominator should not be our benchmark any longer. If you want to take a stab at someone, go for child predators and human traffickers and corrupt officials and complacent, indulged elitists who have made a living out of criticizing while not lifting a finger for their fellow man. Or Joseph Kony.

As for me, I’m going to move with the movers.

When it is all said and done, when my grandchildren read about Joseph Kony and eleven-year-old sex slaves in Haiti and children sleeping on the streets in Ethiopia and foster kids in their fifteen home, and they say, “What did you do about all these tragedies?”

I am not going to say, “Well, I didn’t want to be labeled a white supremacist, so I wrote mean blogs about folks who threw their hat in the ring.”

I am not going to say, “It was complicated. So I didn’t do anything.”

I am not going to say, “People were extremely critical back then. It was PR suicide to engage difficult issues. I remained troubled but silent on the sidelines. I cared in my mind.”

I am not going to say, “I researched and debated and read a lot of books and articles. I was very, very informed. Believe me, I understood the issues. I waxed very poetic about it all.”

I hope to say, “I joined the fight, because justice denied anywhere means justice denied everywhere. I jumped in, imperfectly, even though I knew critics would come out of the woodwork, questioning my motives and methods and ignorance and intentions. I decided to use my voice and my resources, because that could be my daughter and my sister and my community. That mother is me. Those children are you. I didn’t get it perfectly right. I couldn't address it all. I couldn't even address the entire scope of one problem. I didn’t change the whole world. But I moved.”

May we not move foolishly.

Or arrogantly.

Or rashly.

Or naively.

But may we move.

I am inept. Thank you for understanding.

Jen Hatmaker — Sun, 04 Mar 2012 20:41:00 +0000

I spent last week at Verge 2012, teaching a teeny bit, but mostly listening to simpletons like David Platt and Alan Hirsch and Dr. John Perkins unpack Scriptures and exegete passages with such precision, I’ve decided it is a travesty people are ever subjected to my teaching and I am, in fact, a legitimate threat to the kingdom. Plus, half the other speakers had foreign accents, and I simply cannot compete with that. I simply cannot.

Because my mind is simmering with some bothersome little nuggets David Platt dropped on us, namely that I am in violation of the Great Commandment in terms of taking the gospel to all people groups, and every time I try to process it, my brain screeches in protest and says I DO NOT WANT TO FIGURE THIS OUT AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME LA LA LA LA, I’m going to write about something else instead.

Let’s talk about things I’m bad at, then you can tell me what you’re bad at.

Sound fun? Mkay.

I don’t mean things I possess no natural skill set for, like playing the pan flute or sticking the landing on a vault pass. I mean things I regularly fail at that I should be pulling off. Tasks that grown-up, mature, responsible people accomplish with ease, and my malfunctions suggest that perhaps I am a moron.

I cannot manage and maintain a chore schedule.

You don’t understand. I cannot do it. Please do not tell me your method. It doesn’t matter. I can’t keep up with it. I mean, I can, for like three to four-and-a-half weeks, and then it sinks under the weight of neglect. I find a way to sabotage the system every time. One inevitable Wednesday, I will let them play with their friends at the park instead of folding the laundry. Why? Because they are at the park instead of here. I don’t even know why I have to explain this to you.

Plus, after I get them all excited about scrubbing toilets because they are going to earn points or credits or Hatmaker Bucks™ to convert to cash, it turns out I never actually have cash, so I just tell them I’m “keeping track” of it all, which I may or may not actually be doing (not). So they may or may not actually ever get paid (not). I believe I owe my children approximately fourteen million dollars in defaulted allowance. This doesn’t bode well for team morale.

I am on par with those heinous fundraising abusers who come to the elementary schools, peddling their wares, working the kids into a frenzy over the junk they can earn if they sell $750 worth of processed cancer cookie dough, sending my spawn racing home screaming I CAN EARN A LIMO RIDE and I’M GOING TO WIN A LIGHT SABER MADE OF PLATINUM and I’m all, we’re not selling that crap and I throw their fundraising packets into the recycling bin and crush their little dreams.

I cannot answer my phone like a responsible grown up.

You might think answering your phone is not really a skill one needs to master, but you would be wrong. I don’t know how to defend my breakdown in this department, but this is simply how I am. I believe it has to do with my neurons or my atoms or the plasma science. My phone rings, and I think NO. I WILL NOT ANSWER IT. I just can’t. I just can’t answer the ringing phone. I just cannot talk. These irrational thoughts flood my brain and I think them. I listen to the thoughts tell me that answering my phone is just not doable, and I think, “Yes. My thoughts are correct.”

My friends – my friends, the ones I’m supposed to be friendly with – will tell you that I only answer my phone during one perfect storm: when I am driving somewhere. If I am doing absolutely anything else – sitting on the couch, doing important Facebook work, eating chips – I will let all calls go to voicemail.

Then, against all reason and explanation, I will not check the voicemails. My husband actually has nightmares about this. My thoughts have ideas here too; they tell me, “If you don’t listen to the message, then you don’t have to do anything about it. It’s like it doesn’t exist.” My thoughts are always looking out for me, helping me avoid the dark struggles of life, like talking and answering questions.

Right now, I have 17 unlistened to voicemails. I don’t know how I have any friends.

I have a small issue with planning ahead, meaning I don’t.

I mean well. I have good intentions here. My thoughts try to tell me three weeks or nine days or four hours in advance that I need to do some preliminary work, like arrange childcare or order books for an event or take a shower. They try their best, the thoughts.

But then I remember my thoughts also tell me that answering the phone could potentially ruin my life, so I don’t listen to them.

As I mentioned before here, I married a person who is exactly like me in this department. OPPOSITE DAY! This behavior actually makes Brandon hate me. I believe Mr. Planner wishes me physical harm for these transgressions. This is the man who can’t even handle a spontaneous invitation for lunch, because it messes with his “game plan.” (My dad also references his “game plan” approximately twelve times a day for the last 37 years of my entire life, so I frequently marvel that I married my father.)

I procrastinate, therefore, I scramble. I panic email. I pay double for expedited shipping. I beg and make promises and swear. I make my poor planning someone else’s problem, which is why I’m so popular. I create systems to check-and-balance myself, then I stage a mutiny against my own regulations. I am like Jim Carrey who beat the crap out of himself in the bathroom in Liar Liar. (“What are you doing??” “I’m kicking my own a**!”)

I’m super bad about getting ready. Worse than you think. Worse than you.

My high school BFF once wrote a paper on “contrasts.” She talked about how she was tailored pants and belts and I was jeans and a t-shirt; she was hot-rollers and I was ponytails. Yes, I was seventeen when she wrote this description, but I’m sorry to tell you I have not evolved in twenty years.

The universe is conspiring against me here. Listen, I have problem hair. You don’t understand. It is curly and course and it doesn’t ever feel like behaving. In order to be pretty, it must be round-brushed and smoothed with product then flat-ironed and coddled and baby-talked. Then my hair acts like Charlie Sheen and starts throwing punches and cussing innocent people out, getting all drunk and sloppy screaming, oh yeah? You think I’m goin’ down like this? I HATE YOU! I’ll do what the #!*$ I want!

And then I put it in a bun, because it is just so naughty.

And because I need to be somewhere in 20 minutes and it’s a 25-minute drive (see #3), I throw on jeans and a t-shirt and flip-flops and race out the door with my bun. This is how I look always. Also, I wear hats. In the winter, I wear a hoodie and TOMS. I barely wear make-up. I recently learned about the special spray that makes your filthy hair look not greasy, and I’m on my third can.

This is all well and good for a nineteen-year-old college student or a missionary in Kenya, but I’m a 37-year-old author and speaker with daily access to a shower and electricity. This is not okay. (Shut up, thoughts. You can’t shame me into caring.)

So until I’m ready to talk about taking the gospel to unreached people groups, this is where we are expending our emotional energy together, Reader. I know you’re not bad at anything other adults are perfectly capable of, but maybe you could share the deficiencies you see in other people?

What does everyone else manage that you could just perish over?

For the Cheaters, Shirkers, and Cherry-Pickers

Jen Hatmaker — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 20:35:00 +0000

When I take personality tests, I always bust the matrix. Just when they almost have me all figured out, I answer “strongly disagree” and the whole trajectory falls apart. On question #9, “I do a thorough job, valuing completion,” and on #10, “I am easily overwhelmed and often abandon projects.” I love people, sometimes, just certain ones. I am creative, except when I get stuck in a rut. I am kind, except when I’m mean. I am comfortable socially, but I’m a 75% introvert. I was always a super straight square, but I chose friends (and boyfriends) (and a husband) who were naughty.

And my whole life, I’ve been a total rule follower. Except when I’m so not.

You may not be shocked to hear that my teachers never really liked me, and they were often surprised I was smart. (My college professor examining my resume my senior year: “Really? Magna Cum Laude? Seriously?”) Perhaps this was because I would lay my head down and fall dead asleep in the middle of their lectures, or sail a note across the room to my friend while they were watching. Maybe they didn’t like the sullen girl who rolled her eyes and SIGHED VERY LOUDLY at the question-asker who lobbed her burning inquiry up with twelve seconds left in class.

Which is all very weird because I love to learn. (Certain things.)

And I’m a people pleaser. (But only sometimes.)

So it has delighted and amused me to receive a deluge of emails from 7 readers, professing their consent while confessing their shortcomings as they’ve launched into their own little mutinies against excess. It appears you are selective rule-followers too, cherry-pickers if you will. You like the ideas, but not the ones that make you give up coffee. You are all for spending less, except for restaurants and stores. For instance, from Twitter and Facebook friends just in the last few days:

Re: 7 month 3: If I buy I Coach purse, I won't have a problem giving away the rest of mine. #failingalready

First day of #7 and I have a Superbowl-gluttony-food-hangover. Oh, this is gonna take a lot of Jesus and spiritual caffeine.

Halfway through the book, and my wife already gave away half our clothes. WHATEVER. #classichusbandquote

Is this a book a nerdish football fanatic/Popsicle enthusiast such as myself would enjoy? Otherwise, I’m out.

Reading Food ch. of #7 & had to put it down. Had to finish Skittles before I could read in good conscience. #ohtheirony #repent

I bought the boots I had my eye on and felt a twinge of conviction at the checkout. It was probably the Holy Spirit, but I blamed your book instead, and may or may not have cursed your name under my breath. I'm going to hurry up and wear them a few times before I start your book, so I won't be able to return them.

These make me laugh every single day. People, I said 100 times that 7 wasn’t a template, wasn’t a prescription, wasn’t a challenge, wasn’t a program. I find it hilarious that most readers have jumped in, excited to emulate the experiment…sort of. You’re busting the matrix. You are so my people.

So I’m coming to your rescue today with seven mini-7-projects (See what I just did? That’s called synergy, y’all), giving you a pass from the Seven-Month Full Monty Version For Crazy People, and offering some simple, easily implemented ideas you can choose from without being labeled a “hippie granola” or “Commie Socialist.” If your mind is spinning and you need a focal point other than simply grabbing trash bags and throwing in everything you own, try just one of these on for size:

1. Pick one item you buy regularly, and go without it for a month. Reallocate the savings. (One reader went without soda, calculated the savings at $34 a month, which turned out to be the exact amount needed to sponsor a Compassion child. AWESOME SAUCE.)

2. Help a family in need. Call the counselor at the poorest school in your city and ask if he/she has a student or family with specific needs you might be able to meet. I am getting the coolest emails about folks doing this, taken from a tiny paragraph on page 92 in 7, ironically, the year I graduated from high school. Ninety-two! Ninety-two! Ninety ninety ninety ninety ninety-two!

These Prom queens now have 19 kids. Tomorrow came.

3. Put a "cell phone bowl" near your front door with this sign: "Be with the ones who are here." Ask family members and guests to leave their phones there as they enter. Maybe include a shelf for laptops if that is your poison.

4. Commit to eating the food you already have as well as all leftovers for two weeks. This throws a wrench in the waste machine. We often have a freezer, fridge, and pantry full of food and exclaim, “We don’t have anything to eat!” Bull butter. (I am currently doing this too. Last night, we had shrimp gumbo I had in the freezer, but we were out of rice and bread. So we ate it over pasta. With tortillas. It was Cajun Mextalian. Solidarity, people.)

5. Declare "screen free days" for your family: Pick two days with no TV, gaming, computers, phone apps, and games. Intentionally fill that space with time together. If you aren’t scared of a revolt, pick three days.

6. Freeze spending—do not buy anything you don’t need for a month (clothes, shoes, whatever). This stops the hemorrhaging so you can breathe and think. Just press pause and see what happens.

I’m super excited about Tip #7, so it is getting its own section. The most frequent response from 7 readers is that they just started purging the stacks, piles, drawers, and closets full of stuff until they knew what to do next. And I started thinking…

What if we harnessed this response for great good?

Because here is the deal: all those clothes and sheets and pots and mattresses and bicycles and jewelry represent a bunch of potential cash. We’ve already spent money on it once. What if we found a way to redeem those expenditures for something good and noble? Rather than simply gnashing our teeth and wailing over the indulgence of it all, what if we rolled up our sleeves and converted it to mission?

Enter my friends at Help End Local Poverty (H.E.L.P.), whose mission is this: “To be a global tribe dedicated to ending extreme poverty by helping to rescue orphans, restore their hope, and renew their communities.” They are pioneering innovative, sustainable initiatives in Haiti, Zimbabwe, and South Africa. They are bad to the bone and I want to be exactly like them when I grow up.

As you might remember, I’m into orphans.

I'm particularly fond of these two FO's (former orphans).

And this Zimbabwe punkin’ we sponsor through H.E.L.P.:

Caleb: "Mom? Let's pick the oldest kid to sponsor. No one wants the big kids." Oh my heart.

And these two Indian doll babies we sponsor through The Miracle Foundation:

I could put them on a plate, pour syrup on them, and eat them with a fork.

H.E.L.P. has this smart idea: Use our excess to serve the poor. Clever, right? And this is how: Garage Sale for Orphans. Sell what we’ve already bought and give the money to support the most vulnerable kids on earth.

There is a paper-thin line between orphans and human trafficking. Kids on the streets or those just aged-out of the system, children with no options and no advocates, are targeted almost immediately for sex and labor trafficking. They are exploited and abused relentlessly, low-hanging fruit for predators.

H.E.L.P. is stepping in, building safe homes in Haiti for the whopping price of $6000 each, out the door. This is how Chris Marlow, founder of H.E.L.P., explains it:

One of the best and most effective ways to fight trafficking is to prevent trafficking in the first place. Traffickers TARGET orphaned children.

We will build these homes within 20 minutes of the Dominican border. Kids are being sold at this border right now, into the Dominican Republic, where they will become sex and labor slaves. H.E.L.P., in partnership with Austin New Church and Restore.com, is going to build 12 preventative safe homes in 2012.

We will rescue "the worst case scenarios" orphans - kids that are homeless, doubled-orphaned, abandoned, etc. And we will rescue girls that age out of their current orphanage. Which means: 12- and 13-year-old girls kicked out of the orphanage because they're too old. These girls usually become prostitutes locally in Haiti or sold into the DR.

Each home will have an overseer, or house mom/dad, potentially a widow. We hope to create a family style orphan care. Our local leader in Haiti will oversee the entire project. The kids will be sponsored, so they will get food, water, clothing, and will also be able to attend school. Once we rescue a child, we will raise that child until they graduate college or trade school, so they can then take care of their own families.

DUDE.

Good reader, let’s knock out one of those homes together, yes? Two? Five? And by the revolutionary idea of selling what we’ve already bought. Redemption! What if we took trash bags and dollies through our homes and purged, purged, purged, converting our indulgences into bricks and mortar and safety and a future for these precious, beloved-by-Jesus Haitian girls? Plain old garage sales, reimagined. (Our little church does this once a year as a community and raised 12K in four hours. From our excess, yall. &!%$#.)

At our last ANC GS4O: Those are nearly ALL my books. I'm sorry. I need a moment.

You could do this with your little family. Or your community group. Or your neighbors. Or your soccer team. Or your Bible study group. Or your book club. Or your sisters. Gather the troops, price everything to sell, and turn your shoes and books and couches into cinder blocks and plaster and a roof.

H.E.L.P. set up a project page just for us, 7 Readers and Doers. The goal is 6K…one house. We could blow right past that if we all got crazy. Maybe you make $200 on your sale. Or perhaps you are a freak of nature like my friend Jenny who has never made less than a grand on any garage sale ever. Add it all together – your stuff, my stuff, their stuff – and we could do something amazing, literally changing girls’ lives who are headed into the sex trade as seventh graders otherwise.

Sell your stuff.

Go here and donate the proceeds. Or just donate period. For real, man. (Snag the button for your blog and trick your readers into joining us.)

Together, we’ll watch the little orange line move to “100% funded.”

And maybe we’ll need to start a new page for a second house.

So, the 7th tip (synergy again) (which is a word I keep including for 7 readers who are familiar with my horrid confession on page 204):

7. Turn your excess into justice. Help build a safe house for the most vulnerable Haitian girls through the Garage Sale for Orphans initiative at H.E.L.P.

Isn’t this fun? We have the potential to be the answer to so many problems. What we can pull off together is so powerful. I believe this is the gospel Jesus has called us to, the one burgeoning with teaching, proclaiming, feeding, housing, loving, sharing, studying, and worshipping. This gospel combines learning with loving, studying with serving; it emulates a Savior who fed and healed and touched and restored…AND taught and proclaimed and challenged and led. It is born in our hearts, expanded in our minds, declared with our mouths, and transferred to our hands.

It’s such an exciting, stirring time to follow Jesus, isn’t it?

See anything you might try? Or mind sharing what you’ve already done? How about sharing this blog with your people so we can KNOCK OUT THAT SAFE HOUSE IN HAITI?

An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 21:19:00 +0000

For some time, I’ve had this feeling messing with my faith. That one when you’re trying really hard and adhering to most of the rules and checking a lot of boxes, I mean, some boxes that seem really important, legit boxes, and yet…I don’t know. Something feels wrong. The mechanism is off. The parts are not creating the whole like people said it would. And despite my best efforts to kick that self-condemnation thing, I can't help but think:

"This foreign policy stuff is a little frustrating."

To the other 99%, it’s probably obvious, but for me in my privileged 1% demographic, it left me puzzled and frustrated and discouraged. A bunch of my generation, millions if you want to get nitpicky, up and left the church over it, because the template didn’t end up changing the world or even changing lives. It left us with a laundry list of behaviors but conspicuously ignored way too many elephants in the room to be taken seriously. For me, the tension had many facets:

Why are we still starving for nourishment after our sixth Bible study in a row? How can people supposedly filled with the Spirit be so enamored with the luxuries of this world to the detriment of the other 99% who suffer so? How can be the richest people on earth still be so unhappy? Does my craving for more neutralize the enough that Jesus says He is? If I'm patterned after my Savior, why does my life look exactly like everyone else's, with the exception of some stellar church attendance? The tension finally pinpointed here:

As believers in the western church, how can we have so much and do so little with it?

We have so freaking much. So much money, education, resources, opportunities, knowledge, possessions, gifts, consumer power, privileges, advantages. We have every tool at our disposal, yet we are chronically plagued by ailments - social, spiritual, physical, emotional. Good reader, hands up if your heart is too peaceful, your life too simplified, your hands too generous, your spirit too content, your space too sacred, your stuff too unimportant, your devotion to Jesus too concentrated. Millions of voices are raising, some publicly, some in private turmoil still searching for the words, saying:

Enough.

Enough with the obscene excess while the rest of the world is burning down outside our windows. Enough with the waste as 25,000 people die today of hunger, while I throw away another pound of food we didn’t get around to eating. Enough with the debt, the spending, the amassing, the irresponsibility, the indulgence, the fake discipleship, the rat race, the hamster wheel, the power and positioning and posturing with a hunger still for more, more, more, all the while pretending to follow a Jesus who didn’t even have a place to lay his head.

This started making me crazy. I just wanted to be more like Jesus...except when I didn't.

*Sigh*

For the love of Michael, it's such a battle to be human and love Jesus well, isn't it? For people mired in luxury and privileges, the gospel is dangerously simple. It completely fails to secure our station. It's like it doesn't even care. It doesn't offer the exemptions I'm comfortable with or the clauses that keep everything decent. Worse, it outright threatens a bunch of things I like. I mean, I really like them and Jesus doesn't seem to give a flip. In fact, he talks kind of ugly about rich people and seems to think we will have the very hardest time finding his kingdom... the.very.hardest.time. Harder than a camel fitting through the eye of a needle. Harder than that. I'm no scientist, but one of these things appears harder, and Jesus chose the other one.

Now I'm freaked out, because Jesus also said, listen, a bunch of people think they are following me, that they "get" the gospel, but they so don't and are actually extremely self-deceived because you cannot love God and money. I'm not even playing. You cannot. You cannot say you love me yet hate your brother. That makes you a liar, not a disciple. The way is narrow. Kate Moss narrow. Few will find it, and the richer you are, sorry, but the harder it's going to be for you to actually give up everything you have and follow me, because you have so much to lose.

This stuff makes me hyperventilate, not just because Jesus said it, but because I feel it.

So my little family said, God, if too much stuff is standing in the way of your kingdom coming in our lives, then help us break up with it. If it has stolen our allegience and hijacked our obedience, give us the courage to wage war against everything that is ruining us for your gospel, substituting comfort for bravery, aquiring for sharing, appearances for obedience, personal glory for worship.

Enter 7.

A seven-month experimental mutiny against excess, tackling seven areas of overconsumption in the spirit of a fast; a fast from greed, irresponsibility, apathy, and insatiability. Each area boiled down to just seven choices for a month:

Food.
Clothes.
Possessions.
Media.
Waste.
Spending.
Stress.

Only seven foods for a month. Only seven pieces of clothes for a month. Give away seven things we own a day for a month. Eliminate seven forms of media for a month. Adopt seven substantial habits for a greener life. Spend money in only seven places. Practice "seven sacred pauses" a day and observe the Sabbath...a deeply reduced life to find a greatly increased God.

I don't know how else to talk about 7 other than to say it changed our lives. The discipline of fasting from such cherished, abused luxuries was transformative in the most difficult, painful, beautiful way. It shined a spotlight on dark corners, corners I wanted hidden and kept from scrutiny. 7 held my life up to God's Word and said, "One of these things is not like the other." It pried our eyes open to needs and abuses and the far reaching effects of unchecked consumerism, and it would not let them close again in ignorance or obstinance, I tell you. It hurt. We bled out in parts. We celebrated in others. We pushed through the chaos of repentence and found liberation waiting on the other side.

I put it so humbly, so gently in your hands.

I simply cannot tell you how much I wish I could control your reaction to 7. With every thump of my beating heart, I hope you'll receive it like I'm offering it. This is not a template. This is not a formula. This is not a guilt-mongering, sanctimonious rant. 7 is not a prescription. I wrote it humbly, saturated in repentance, face down.

I wish I could sit next to you as you read it and explain things better, and then we could talk about it for hours, dreaming and scheming together. I wish you understood that my life is messy and so often I still feel like I am barely failing forward. I wish you would stop posting on Twitter and Facebook about how reading 7 on your Kindle makes you feel weird. Stop saying your Kindle makes you feel bad, man. I have a Kindle. Do you understand what I am saying?

This so isn't about some getting it wrong and us getting it right, because we are still struggling and wrestling and trying to choose 'dying to self' each day but often choosing just 'plain self' instead. I also wish I could stop you from turning a critical eye toward my little family, because writing this from the middle of the pack meant setting myself up as a hypocrite for everyone to scrutinize. And you'd be right. You would be so right, Jack.

That's why this cannot be about me. I'm a barely passable representative of the gospel. I'm struggling with the same tension and the same sin issues and the same double standards as everyone else. I just happened to have a laptop and a willing publisher and an editor who deleted all the ellipses I included. Please let's not compare or judge or self-condemn. Oh my stars, no self-condemnation, do you hear me? If you take the guilt route I will jump into an icy river and drown myself. Like I wrote in 7: Don't imagine I'm writing from the cardboard house I chose to live in next to the homeless refugees I feed with money diverted from our health insurance. Everyone be cool.

7 is for my brothers (yes it is, dudes...this is no chick book) and sisters who are looking around saying, "Something feels wrong about being at the top of the food chain and still clamoring for one more rung." I'm saying that. A bunch of you are saying that too. We are in this together. I have this vision of thousands, millions of us throwing wrenches in the machine and refusing complicity in the ravaging of the earth and its precious inhabitants. I see us transitioning bravely from the screaming voice that yells ME to the quiet one whispering we, the marginalized voice of the international community we belong to. I see us grabbing our friends and families and dreaming up ways to unhook from the system; I envision late night discussions between couples and roommates and sisters asking "what if?". I imagine a generation realizing that private consumer choices have social consequences and public outcomes, and when Jesus called the poor his brothers and sisters and our neighbors, those relational metaphors included deep ramifications for the way we spend our time, our money, our lives.

This is for people who are just ready. Maybe you've managed the tension as long as you can, and it's breaking you. Or you walked away from the church, hungry for Jesus but disenfranchised from a system that builds 60 million dollar buildings while the earth is groaning for intervention from the Bride. Perhaps you haven't even had the words yet, but your spirit is restless, roving. You could be like me and Brandon; frustrated with the ethos of the church, but in our most honest moments admitting we are part of the problem. Maybe you are looking at your storage unit, holding things that can't even fit into your house anymore, wondering what the point of all this is. Or you are camped under the steeple and still can't find God.

I believe something exciting is happening. I see it everywhere; I hear its whispers. And not just from the young revolutionaries, but from soccer moms, pastors, men in suits, students, urbanites, country folk, old, young, left, right, Christ-followers everywhere. God is stirring and moving us together. He wants to save our lives and save the world, and if the treasures of this earth are holding us back from the rushing wind of the Holy Spirit, setting our lives ablaze and sending us to the ends of the earth, Good News in the flesh like Jesus, then maybe it's time to wage war.

Join me. Let's start a little revolution.

Quirky

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 09:46:00 +0000

About this time of year, I become terribly enamored with people’s End of Year Lists shared on the interwebs (Top Ten Books I Read in 2011, Top Five Influencers in My Life This Year, Top Twenty Songs that Mattered in 2011). These blogs and articles discuss issues that matter, helping humanity evolve into a kinder, braver species. They give readers edifying information, important thinkers to listen to, profound books to read, noteworthy leaders to follow. These writers take their platforms and use their influence for great good. I admire them so much.

I’m joining their ranks, but with *slightly* less necessary information.

People, I have issues, and I believe it is time to air them. I’ve covered plenty of serious material on this blog, like this and this and this. I might have even tricked some readers into believing I operate only in deep thoughts and serious scholarship. Some of you haven’t recovered from my last post, when my family jumped off Santa’s sleigh and half the world came apart at the seams (let it never be said that I don’t employ a healthy amount of melodrama). So it’s time for some lighter fare, or as one of my commenters said on a previous blog about adoption: “You are the worst writer I’ve ever seen! This is exactly what I would expect from a girl from Texas, land of big hair bows and empty brains.” Good reader, I shall dabble in that of which you speak.

Here’s the deal: I’m plagued by a few idiosyncrasies, certain quirks, if you will. I exhibit some behaviors and tendencies that cause people to say, “Really? Get a grip.” I’m daring to believe there are more of you out there, and hear me say right up front: I expect you to offer some quid pro quo at the end of this little piece, because nothing fuels our eccentricities more than another human saying, “You think that’s weird? I’ve saved all my toenail clippings since 1991.”

So without further ado, I give you: Jen’s Five Top Quirks of 2011 (ok, and forever):

1. I’ve let on that I’m not a hovering Mama. My kids slide down banisters and build skateboard ramps and shoot each other with airsoft guns. I parent this behavior by saying, “Don’t cry about it if you get hurt. Or cry in your room where I can’t hear you.” But I have two issues that make me a candidate for Most Neurotic, Controlling Mom Ever: my kids’ sleep and their body temperature.

Since the day they were born, I’ve been a sleep Nazi. I count their hours. I watch the clock. When someone with credentials said, “Children needed ten hours of sleep at night. Believe me”…I did. I believed. I’m a believer. I enjoy my true comfort zone when they get twelve hours. I spaz out – one might say irrationally – when bedtime boundaries get pushed past my liking: “OHMYWORD. It’s 10:13pm and Gavin is still up. We might as well keep him home tomorrow, because he will not be able to lift his head from exhaustion.” I am a freak about a good night’s sleep. A full freak.

Also? I have a very weird fixation about their body temperature. Are you hot? Are you cold? Are you feeling chilly? Are you overheating? Do you need a coat? Where is your coat? Give me your coat. Are you hot? Take off your undershirt. Do you need some water? Do you need to sit in the shade? Do you need to sit in the sun? Do you have enough blankets? Is this blanket too heavy? If you get hot, push this blanket down. If you get cold, here is an extra blanket. Are you hands cold? Are your feet hot? You need a hat. Put on this hat. You can’t go out if you don’t wear this hat. Take off your hat; it’s too hot outside.

After asking Ben about his heat level 28 times from the sidelines at his soccer game, my friend Tonya was like, “Oh my gosh, Jen! Crazy alert! Leave him alone! You are even freaking me out.” I believe she was one second away from slapping me across the face.

I evidently don’t care a whit about other issues, for example, safety or ingesting poisons. This clearly doesn’t bother me:

"Don't worry, Babe. The eleven-year-old is in charge."

My kids could jump from a second-story window onto a mattress below while testing the feasibility of wind-resistant capes/umbrellas, and I believe my only concern would be if they were getting too hot or if was getting too close to bedtime.

2. For nearly my entire adult life, I’ve lived in Austin, “Live Music Capital of the World.” We are chock-full of serious musicians and indy singer-songwriters. We have actual producers and artists in our immediate friend circle. I can listen to interesting, unique, creative music any night of the week at two-dozen different venues. Austin hosts ACL and SXSW, two of the best music festivals in the country. This is a city where musical taste matters and is evaluated as a potential character flaw.

I love Top 40.

Like, love it. The sillier, the boppier, the more likely a twelve-year-old girl will have their poster on her walls, the higher the band is on my Love List. If it’s in Tiger Beat, I’m down. Almost every song I love ends up on a Kidz Bop CD. My musical preferences are fully juvenile and unsophisticated. My friends groove to bands called My Morning Jacket and Fleet Foxes, discussing the genius of the songwriting and creative brilliance. You know what I love? A sixteen-year old covering a Bruno Mars song on American Idol. (My friend Andy is a musician’s musician, and when Brandon mentioned my AI obsession and Andy gave me that look, I yelled at Brandon, “Why did you out me! I want him to take me seriously and now he pities me!”) Sydney, my sixth grader, and I were talking to a friend who casually mentioned Maroon 5 was coming to Austin, and we screamed in unison, “OH MY GAH!!!!”

Yes, I turn the channel when the raunchy fare comes on, and even I cannot listen to K$sha, but Flo Rida? Get in my ears. And don't mind me while I dance and sing at the top of my lungs. Whatever. This is my jam, keep me partying till the a.m. Yall don’t understand, make me throw my hands in the ayer, ay-ayer, ayer, ay-ayer…

3. This is unfortunate, because I’ve gone and put five kids in this family, but I have a teeny, tiny issue with sound. I call it Noise Pollution, and it makes me a little bit of a crazy person. White, background noise has been known to make me unravel like a lunatic. My family has been carrying on, just going about their business, talking to each other with a show on the TV and living a normal life, when all of a sudden, with no warning or even any red flags indicating an impending meltdown, I’ve flown into their midst like the Wicked Witch snatching remote controls out of hands, turning off every beeping, clicking, humming, buzzing, ticking electronic or instrument offending me, yelling at everyone about appropriate sound levels and demanding to know if they think causing deafness and anxiety in other human beings is acceptable. Usually, six bewildered people look back at me with mouths hanging open, as it might appear the punishment did not fit the crime.

Except that it so did.

The amount of sound trapped in my car between kids + music has actually made me consider sticking knitting needles into my eardrums. Once, the unceasing noise enclosed in the small space of my car pushed me to such despair, I pulled over on the side of I-35, locked my children in the car, walked fifty feet away and sat in the grass bawling, while my kids pressed their faces to the windows mouthing, “MOMMY! MOMMY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING, MOMMY?!”

I cannot write one word, not one, if there is a single decibel of sound in the room. What? Try a little quiet Adele in the background? Are you trying to sabotage my career? Because that is what would happen. I would start typing song lyrics and lose fifteen minutes thinking about how to kidnap Adele and lock her in my closet and make her sing to me whenever I just feel like rolling in the deep because no one in my house understands me. I need an empty, dead silent house to eek out a ten-word sentence, so when “someone” who lives here with me, who doesn’t go to school and is sometimes home during the day when the quiet space is possible keeps asking me questions like how do you spell in lieu of and did you put that thing in our shared iCalendar and I’m thinking about getting a new tattoo, I might accidentally come freaking unglued and threaten to move into an apartment. (This scenario is hypothetical.) (No it’s not.)

4. I love humor. I love to laugh. I love funny, stupid movies. I love funny people. I love sarcasm and banter. I love witticisms. I love Will Ferrell. I love banal comedy. I am a recent convert to Melissa McCarthy and plan to be her loyal disciple until I die. I believe laughter is the best medicine, and laugh and the world laughs with you, or some such.

But I cannot handle pranks. Can. Not. Even. Handle. Them.

Remember The Tom Green Show and Punk’d and The Jamie Kennedy Experiment? These shows almost put me into a coma. When a bunch of people are in on it, and one person doesn’t know it, and they are forced into an awkward/horrifying/embarrassing/confusing/distressing situation, AND IT IS BEING FILMED, I start praying for the rapture. My anxiety goes straight through the roof. I spontaneously develop hysterical psychosis.

When we were caught in massive delays for our son’s adoption, my friend Missy decided to post a funny Youtube video on my Facebook wall every day until we passed court. It was her Youtube Ministry, and it gave us such gems as this:

This made me happy for like 11 hours.

But a couple of months in, she started posting some prank videos, and they strangely drew no response from me. Finally she was like, What up, Mrs. Ungrateful?? That video was GOLD and you didn’t even comment! And I was all, I JUST CAN’T DO IT, OKAY? *in a small voice*…I couldn’t even watch. Then she was like, you’re weird, weirdo.

So please just note, if you invite me in on a prank, I will be voted Most Likely To Prematurely Yell At The Top Of My Lungs:

It’s not true! She’s not really hurt!
Oh my gosh! It’s not even your real car!
The waiter is an actor!
Don’t cuss! He’s not cheating on you!

I will ruin the prank. Count on it. And if you pull one on me, you’re dead to me.

5. So, I hate good-byes. And not just the legitimate kind like when someone is moving to Boston or going back home after visiting. I just hate them all. I can’t explain this. I am absolutely that person who slips out of a party like a ninja rather than doing a big good-bye scene, which if you’re still with me and on your toes, you might recognize is WAY WORSE. If my purse is in the hostess’s line of vision and Brandon won’t indulge my eccentric exit habits by getting it for me, I will leave it behind and make her put it on her porch where I can retrieve it the next day. I can’t tell you how many texts like these I’ve received:

Hey! Where did you go?
Did you leave?
What happened to you?
Did someone kidnap you? Are you in a trunk?

Even if I am 100% positive that this is the last time I’ll see you for a year, your bags are packed and in your car, which is running, and everyone is buckled in except you, your husband is giving the wrap-it-up gesture, and we’re standing in front of your sold house where the moving van just pulled away to head to your new life in Atlanta, I will say, “Let’s just talk later. I’ll see you before you leave.” I will say this. I will find a way to not have the good-bye moment, even if it is clearly, clearly the good-bye moment.

I can talk in front of 5000 people without so much as twitch, but give me a farewell to navigate and I shut down, a tad bit fixated on just getting away to a safe place where no one is saying the good-bye words and/or watching me say the good-bye words and I’m just nice and happy in my own home, even though Brandon is all, knock it off and stop being rude and just get in there and say good-bye, and I’m like, I DON’T WANT TO AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME. I am like Rain Man and Brandon cannot handle my neuroses:

Charlie: What's it going to be Ray? What's it going to be?
Raymond: This is a very dangerous highway.
Charlie: How am I going to get to LA?
Raymond: Course driving your car on this interstate is very dangerous.
Charlie: You want to get off the highway will that make you happy?
Raymond: Yeah.
Charlie: Well, you gotta GET IN THE CAR SO THAT WE CAN GET OFF THE HIGHWAY!
Raymond: Course in 1986, 46,400 male drivers were definitely involved in fatal accidents.

Please someone diagnose what sort of weird social disorder I have.

So there you are, folks, the top five. Please trust me, there are many, many others, some that make even less sense than these. (I didn't even mention my physical need to use italics and ellipses. I can't explain my need to emote.) Now your job is to share your "issues," because I know you people are weirdos. I cannot be the only one.

What are your quirks, tendencies, neuroses, or bizarre fixations? And if you say “my strangest habit is being too kind,” I will delete your response. Fo’ realz. Spill it.

The Christmas Conundrum

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 17:46:00 +0000

When I was in sixth grade, I received two Christmas presents I distinctly remember:

1.) The most coveted, desired beautiful "Forenza" tag on a pair of black leggings with a corresponding purple and black plaid shirt. (The outfit could've been anything, as long as it was from The Limited. Outback Red, anyone? Omg. If I could've conjured riches back then, I would've spent every red cent on OBR.)

2.) A fun, quirky red "football jersey type" sweatshirt.

I loved them both. Loved, loved, loved. I was certain these gifts were my ticket out of Dorkville. The feathered, product-less boy haircut and Bargain Selection glasses would become moot in light of my new, stylish garb. The popular kids would wonder what they ever didn't see in me. The cute boys I pined over would fight over inviting me to Sadie Hawkins, and they would say things like, "Why haven't we noticed her before? We're like Saul after the scales fell from his eyes." Or at least something very, very similar to that.

Until one very unfortunate eavesdropping session.

Supposed to be in bed but creeping in the hall listening to my parents' conversation which simply seemed like a naughty, awesome thing to do, I heard my mom say this:

"Her red sweatshirt? I found it at Walmart for $3.00."

Oh.
No.
She.
Didn't.

And just like that, the sweatshirt was ruined. In front of my eyes, it lost all its charm and it simply became something a Walmart girl would wear because she couldn't afford Esprit and her mother refused to buy her Guess jeans. All of a sudden, it communicated: I'm poor. (I was in sixth grade, people. It was a very dramatic time.)

Here's why I tell you about my persecutions: That is the only thing I remember from Christmas 1985. Not Jesus. Not reverence. Not generosity. Not gratitude. Just a selfish, materialistic reaction because every single gift of mine wasn't from an overpriced store with a namebrand I could casually brag about wearing. What a brat.

This sort of bull crap is still happening every year.

What happened to Christmas? What on earth happened to it? When did it transform from something simple and beautiful to what it is now? How insiduously did the enemy work to slowly hijack Jesus' birth and hand it over on a silver platter to Big Marketing, tricking His own followers into financing the confiscation?

We all know it. We all feel it. Every year we bear this tension. Each December, the world feels off kilter. But in the absence of a better plan or an alternative rhythm or - let's just say it - courage, we feed the machine yet again, giving Jesus lip service while teaching our kids to ask Santa for whatever they want, because, you know, that's really what Christmas boils down to.

I just cannot take it anymore, yall. I cannot.

What if a bunch of us pulled out of the system? What if we said something very radical and un-American, like: "Our family is going to celebrate Jesus this year in a manner worthy of a humble Savior who was born to two poor teenagers in a barn and yet still managed to rescue humanity."

I'm going to throw out some ideas for what I hope is a more meaningful Christmas; you may take some and leave some. Good reader, you may take none. Maybe you'll tweak an idea to fit your family. You might say, "For the love of Baby Jesus! She's ruining everything! We'll try one little thing this year, ok?! And then we'll quit reading her blog." Here goes:

1.) Because I'm anxious to make enemies and isolate myself from any goodwill you've ever felt toward me, let me just start with a biggie: We've pulled out of the Santa charade. Our newest kids are 5 and 8, preparing for their first Christmas in America, and we're just not doing it, yall. Maybe because we've spent the last four years trying to unravel the mess we've presented to our other kids all these years, but hear me say it: We are giving Christmas back to Jesus. Not a corner of it; all of it.

There is no fake benefactor this year my kids can petition to get more stuff. Because honestly? For a five-year-old, how can Jesus compete with Santa? Our children don't have spiritual perspective; when faced with the choice of allegience, they have a baby in a manger, or they can get a jolly, twinkling, flying character who will bring them presents. This is going to be an easy choice for them. My friend Andrew, who identifies himself as a member of the "non-believer corner" put it this way:

I always thought it was strange how Christians will tell me they have this giant and awesome truth they know is true deep in their soul and want to share with me, but when 12/25 comes around they lie to their own progeny because, apparently, that giant, liberating, and awesomely simple truth is somehow just not enough. It may be a good narrative, but it needs a little something to give it some panache.

As importantly, it sets this tone for Christmas: Be good and you'll get stuff, which becomes so deeply seeded, undoing that position is almost impossible. When we teach our children to understand Christmas through this lens, then tell them at nine-years-old: "Never mind! It's all fake! Oh, and stop being so selfish because Christmas is about Jesus"...we shouldn't be surprised when our kids stage a mutiny and ask to move in with Grandma. Young parents, this is so much easier to do right the first time rather than try to undo later. Give your kids the gift of a Christmas obsessed with Jesus - and no other - when they are little, and it will be their truth all their lives. Some practical points:

* When faced with Santa everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, we told our kids the story of the original St. Nicholas from the 3rd century, and his devotion to Jesus and the poor. We explained that Santa is a character based on his life, but one was real and one is pretend. We also told them some children believe Santa is real, and it's their parents' job to talk about that with their friends, not theirs. In other words, DON'T BE THAT KID WHO MAKES EVERYONE CRY IN THE MIDDLE OF CLASS. You're welcome, teachers.

* For the most part, we are not watching TV this month. We're allowing movies and Netflix, but the less commercials our kids have to digest, the less confusing this month is for them. Um, ditto for all of us. When there are commercials that say, "Hey? You know how to avoid the terrible Disappointed Face when you give your loved one her gift? Buy her a Toyota!"...we have seriously derailed, folks.

* Take a big breath: I got rid of all my Santa paraphernalia this year. No more severed ceramic Santa heads up in here. Try not to flip out. (I am in the "undoing" category I mentioned above. So freaking hard.)

* This is big: I AM NOT JUDGING YOU. If you put carrots on your front lawn for the reindeer and stamp bootprints all over your living room from Santa's shoes, that is fully your prerogative. You don't need to hide your Santa wreath when I come over or defend your position to me or anyone. For us, Christmas has gone through four years of reconstruction, each year progressively more simplified. I know God is doing all sorts of different things with different families at different times; everybody be cool.

2.) While you're stewing over Santa, let's go ahead and tackle this one: spending. Whatintheworld? We recently watched a video from Christmas 2004 when our kids were six, four, and two. (Sidebar: Those of you with a 6-year-old, thinking he is so big? You will die one hundred thousand deaths in seven years when you look back at videos and realize he was just an infant baby. And then you will cry drippy, sad tears because you'll realize that when all those old women told you to enjoy early childhood because it will pass so quickly, and you wanted to kick them in the shins, they were right. It is over in a nanosecond and the next thing you know, your "six year old" is texting and getting ready for high school and smells like the inside of a trash can.)

I digress.

When we saw the mountains of presents in front of our P.R.E.S.C.H.O.O.L.E.R.S. and watched them rip through boxes so fast, they had no idea what they even received, I caught Brandon's eye across the room and mouthed, "We were freaks!" Not to mention all this bounty was brought into a home burgeoning with loot already, so we had to get rid of a bunch of toys just to shoehorn in the new stuff. Kindly note that the recipients of all this commerce couldn't even wipe their own butts yet.

Insane at best, sacrilegious at worst.

Four years ago, we started this gift-giving policy for each kid: Something you want, something you need, something to wear, something to read. That's it. (This year we are adding something to give, and I'll talk about that in a minute.) Brandon and I don't buy for each other, and we draw names with our extended families, so each adult only buys one gift.

Friends and countrymen, we simply need to spend less on ourselves. There are plenty of practical reasons, like debt and financial strain and untold energy and stress. But even if we could afford to spend $500 on every important person in our lives, that sort of egregious consumerism is unbecoming for the Bride of Christ during a season that is supposed to be marked by the worship of Jesus.

We can find alternative rhythms to show each other our love. My mother-in-law is so very, very good at giving meaningful gifts based on making memories together. She takes my kids to plays and museums and day trips. She invites them to her house individually and spends precious time with them. My kids gobble this time with her down. Let's give the gifts of time and experiences and our creative talents and words this year. They will last long after the electric griddle has been forgotten.

3.) Let's MAKE DADGUM SURE the products we do buy don't come to us courtesy of slave labor. Like Ashley Judd said in Call+Response, "I don't want to wear someone else's despair. I don't want to eat someone else's tragedy." Our little church has joined the dog fight against human trafficking, and let me tell you something: When I refuse to carefully examine the vendors I buy from because it is inconvenient or overwhelming or I just really want that, I am turning the key that shackles the enslaved hands forced to produce my little goodies. I am as complicit as the abusers who exploit these laborers. And please don't tell me, "Not buying this one thing produced through a corrupt supply chain isn't going to make a difference." All that means is I don't care. If it was our children forced to work relentlessly in bondage, we would we hope and pray rich consumers across the world would battle that injustice by directing their consumer dollar with purpose, communicating to capitalistic opportunists "NO WE WILL NOT." We will call unethical business leaders to task with our words, our votes, and our money.

So many fantastic resources to help us become responsible consumers, calling vendors to reform and repentence using the language they truly understand...lack of profits:

* Download the Free2Work app, which allows you to scan barcodes and find out if that product is made responsibly or by slave labor.

* New to this conversation? Learn from our friends at Not For Sale. They are LEGIT.

* Need convincing? Download this Slavery Footprint and see where you land: "How many slaves work for you?" (Holy moly.)

* Know the top products made by slave labor, so you can be extra diligent on who you purchase them from. Careful...some of your faves are on the list (coffee, chocolate, cotton, sugar).

* Learn trusted vendors and stick with them, even if they cost more. We will not finance the slave industry because we are addicted to artificially low prices made possible by not paying the labor force.

4.) On the other hand, we can do so much good with our dollar! I think about the Acts 4 church, redistributing their resources "to anyone who had need." Such beauty. We can direct our Christmas dollar in two ways for great good:

Buying Products with a Conscience

These products range from beautiful artisan crafts made by former sex slaves or recipients of microloans; they include companies who use profits for international justice or employ vulnerable workers. Fabulously, these options are legion, and you don't have to look hard to find them. I'll include a few, then hopefully readers will add to the list of responsible vendors in the comment section:

www.cometogethertrading.com
www.redearthtradingco.com
www.furnacehillscoffee.com/index
www.preemptivelove.org
www.noondaycollection.com
www.bethejoy.com
www.goodnewsgoods.com
www.theopenarmsshop.com
www.commonthreadz.org
www.globalgirlfriend.com
www.3seams.com
www.ravenandlily.com
www.tradeasone.com
www.thehungersite.org
www.funkyfishdesigns.com

Giving

The second stream we can choose to float down this Christmas is out from underneath the consumer umbrella altogether (mixed metaphors, anyone?), and it is simply sharing our resources with those who need intervention to break the cycles of poverty and despair. This year, we are giving each of our children $100 to spend on the vulnerable. This is part of their Christmas present, because as you and I know, it just feels so awesome to be a part of Jesus' redemptive story. We will give them some options, and they can distribute their money however they want. Here are some trusted, responsible organizations to partner with, donating in increments as low as $10:

www.IJM.org/GiftsofFreedom
www.worldvision.org
www.mercycorps.org
www.miraclefoundation.org

5.) Finally (and all the readers breathed a sigh of relief), instead of just pulling old habits off the shelf and leaving a vacuum of void and guilt, let's replace American practices with - and I mean this in the most sincerest sense - Christian practices. Let's fill our homes with Jesus and find ways to worship Him with our little families every day this month. Let's join the Advent Conspiracy, daring to believe that Christmas can still change the world. May beautiful words fill our houses; lyrics like Come and behold him, born the the King of angels. As much as possible, let's mute the competing chatter trying so hard to invade our spaces; turning it down, turning it off. Celebrate Advent with your kids with diligence and anticipation. We ordered a fun version of the Advent Calendar, and each night the kids open a new envelope full of Scriptures and family activities. (Tonight we are reading about Jesus, the Light of the World, talking about what being a light in the darkness means, then playing flashlight tag. Yes, I'm sure someone will get hurt.)

Believers, let's do beautiful things together this month like serve and share and spend time with one another. Let's invite the loneliest people we know into our homes and show them Jesus. How about we make lovely food together, then share it. Parents, talk about Jesus' impending birthday like it is the most precious, thrilling, miraculous moment you have ever heard of in your life. Can we be brave enough to say "enough" to any further ruination of Jesus' day? Can we risk difficult conversations with grandparents and friends and our own children, understanding that Jesus called it the narrow way for a reason, and he wasn't kidding when he said few would find it? Let's listen to divergent thinkers and spiritual leaders who are courageously leading us in the ways of Jesus this December, helping us resist consumerism and selfishness and giving voice to our radical thoughts and inner tension.

Despite what your mother might say when you tell her you're scaling back this year, I am not trying to ruin your Christmas. On the contrary. I'm dying to rediscover what is simple and magnificent about the Savior of the World coming to earth, putting on flesh and saving my life. I so want my kids to marvel that Jesus came, just like God said he would, and he split history in two, forever transforming the concepts of hope and peace and salvation. And I just feel like when I create a season revolving around wish lists, frenzy, and alternate characters of honor, my kids will never understand any of this.

And neither will I.

Together, we have the opportunity to show a watching world something truly hopeful and sincerely beautiful this Christmas. We can live alternative rhythms in front of people, showing them something better than stress and spending and tension and exhaustion. We can raise children who understand exactly why the songwriter wrote: Oh come let us adore Him. We can partner with Jesus and bring good news to the nations yet again, fighting injustices and carrying hope to the ends of the earth through something as simple as sharing our money. Most importantly, we can render to Jesus the reverence he is owed, pushing all substitutions to the side and making our homes holy ground. This is why (from my favorite singular lyric in any hymn ever):

Long lay the world in sin and error pining
Til He appeared and the soul felt it's worth.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn...

The weary world rejoices indeed. Thank you, Jesus, Lord at thy birth. Joy to the world.

Readers, how do you give Christmas to Jesus? What alternate rhythms have you established? What vendors do you love to support? And if you find yourself disagreeing, I welcome your comments as well. This is a worthy conversation and I'm just glad we're talking about it.

Words

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 07:35:00 +0000

Some of you are lucky enough to know my dad. If you fit that category, you just started smiling/laughing/shaking your head. Larry is legendary; to know him is to love him. And to marvel at his ability to wield inappropriateness and godliness at the same time. You kiss your wife with that mouth? Yes, yes he does.

My dad thought me and my siblings were the most spectacular children ever born to humans. From the time we took our first breath, we were encouraged within an inch of our lives. In the throes of teen angst but with no genuine parental grievances to moan about, we complained about Dad's long, never-ending encouragement tirades. ("Gah! It's so annoying how Dad is always affirming us and validating our passions and loving us. This house sucks!")

According to him, we were smart, almost embarrassingly gifted, our athletic prowess was Division 1 material obviously, and our collective skill sets should've been harnessed for world domination. Also? We were first-rate spellers. We could and should be varsity starters, class presidents, Most Likely to Succeed candidates, Homecoming Queens and Kings, National Merit Scholars, and award-winning break-dancers.

This was all obvious to Dad.

Also clear was this: Anyone who failed to recognize our awesomeness - teachers, Drew's 6th grade baseball coach, my 12th grade Media Arts instructor, the registrar at OBU, head hunters, colleagues, a smattering of ex-boyfriends and girlfriends, neighbors, youth pastors, arresting officers, principals - were not only imbeciles, but they were unfit for their careers and destined for personal ruin. They were, in fact, endangering civilized society. Can fresh water pertaining to your children and salt water regarding their enemies flow from the same mouth? Yes, yes it can.

What I'm trying to tell you is that I've been overvalued my entire life. My siblings and I grew up believing we were so incredibly important and special, that it wasn't until somewhere in our 20's that we realized we were just sort of medium. (Dad still refuses to swallow this pill and offers to contact my critics to "tell them a thing or two about what idiots they are." "Dad, I'm 37 years old." "Well, that doesn't make that guy any less of a fool. Fools need to be told they are fools.")

Dad is a country boy. He will be on Facebook the day Satan becomes a Christ-follower.

Say what you will about his tactics, but we grew up with a dad who had our backs, people. There was never any question where his loyalties rested. We were Club King, and he was our bouncer. Oppose us at your own risk; you will certainly pull back a nub.

Because of this, my sisters and brother and I were launched into this world loved. We grew up under the staggering weight of my parents' affirmation, and somewhere along the way, it accidentally made us secure. We never had to create enabling, pleasing personas because Dad battled injustices and taught us self-respect. We had no concept of the term passive aggressive. We didn't fall to (complete) shreds over every biting remark, because who cares what you think of me? Dad thinks I'm awesome, and he would never lie.

Along with a tangible love for Jesus, my parents gave us the gift of security - secure that we were loved and valued and precious and worthy of respect - and let me tell you, I'm not sure they could've given us anything more important.

And let me be clear: We didn't have cable, we didn't take fancy vacations, we didn't shop at the Limited. I had no idea kids my age went to Europe or had time shares. I often drove my mom's truly horrible station wagon (The Gray Ghost) to school because our family collection of Rabbits and Chevettes were all broken down. Our phone attached to the wall with a cord. We didn't consort with the famous or notorious or attend expensive concerts.

Folks, I got home perms.

We once walked outside and The Ghost was just sitting there, spontaneously on fire.

Do you know how often any of that mattered? Never. I didn't even know we didn't have money until I was an adult. What I did know is that my parents loved us; with words, with actions, with their presence. Dad covered us with encouragement in a near constant stream of words, then he lavished it after every failure or success. He spent copious amounts of time talking to us about our sports, our boyfriends/girlfriends, our clubs, our projects. Dad tried very hard to care about our stuff; before every single school dance, he told us we looked beautiful for "the prom."

It occurs to me now more than ever, as we have two children in our family now who've been wounded so deeply by words, that I have all the tools I need to become a healing parent for them. I learned the most important tricks of the trade not at an adoption conference, not between the pages of a book, but at 315 Basswood in Haysville, Kansas, growing up as Larry King's daughter.

I don't have to give my kids the motorized cars they've been begging for since arriving in America. (Thanks, All My Friends Who Own Them.) Because it's not the fancy cars that will heal. Nor must I ensure their playroom is stocked with hundreds of toys they'll play with for three days then forget because their choices are so vast. It's not the toys that will mend what is broken.

I don't have to be perfect or give them some perfectly controlled life. I don't have to wield adoptive phraseology with precision every time. I don't have to create the ideal environment where struggling is minimized and sanitized. I don't have to make up for a lifetime of their losses with a new world of unchecked materialism. I might not even need to make perfect injera.

My task is to tell my children they are beautiful and wanted, that God thought long and hard about how to create them exactly right, and the heavens burst into applause when they were born. I'll tell them that Jesus sometimes sent grown-ups away but always called the children right into his lap. I'll make sure they know being abandoned was not their fault; they are innocents in their trauma. They are good and precious and special and important. By gosh, they are first-rate spellers.

Like my dad, my job is to study Remy's artwork and act like Picasso himself would shrink in insecurity to compare his little silly drawings to hers. When Ben accomplishes the task of breathing deeply and controlling his anger, I will lavish praise on him as if he learned to split atoms. When my big kids show mercy as their moments are once again hijacked by the heavy needs of their new siblings, I will kiss their cheeks and hold them tightly and marvel at how proud I am to see so much Jesus in them.

I read this post by Christine Caine last week, and it really stuck with me.

It is the words we use that will raise our children out of the mire, healing words of love and belonging and affirmation. Similar words that God took great care to speak over us through Scripture, reminding us that even in our pain and sin, we are loved, adopted, important, valuable. It is not coming unglued over spilled drinks and lost shoes and daily mistakes, choosing not to further injure their little spirits over non-essentials.

This will never be encapsulated in one moment or even one year. It isn't wielding an adoption/parenting dialect better than the next frazzled Mama. It's thousands of ordinary sentences filled with millions of loving words spoken to our children while they live under our roofs. The collective impact of years of encouragement will imprint our children with ideas that will become so intrinsic, they will never question their truth:

You are loved.
We believe in you so much.
We are for you, always.
You belong with us.
You are valuable and important.
You are forever safe with us.

Will we raise little narcissists who think the world revolves around them and owes them a happy life? Listen, I'm not talking about neglecting discipline and allowing our cherubs to turn into miniature terrorists. Nor should we cushion every blow or clean up all their mistakes so they won't feeeeeeeeel bad. Believe me, we keep it real in the Hatmaker house. You open up a sassy mouth and you're gonna pay the piper. (When Gavin told me they were the only kids on earth who didn't get an allowance, I told him: "Listen, kid, I'm not going to pay you to live in my house. You want money? Get a job.")

But trust me, this world stands ready to criticize our children, mock their dreams, underestimate their potential, and pulverize their spirits. They have an enemy and he wants them destroyed. They will encounter antagonists and haters, and they'll be wounded by wounded people. They will get their fair share of humiliation. Our children will be betrayed and disappointed as sure as I'm sitting here. We need not worry about keeping our kids humble by withholding verbal praise or being stingy with affirmation and quick with criticism.

The world will do that for us.

Our job is to make sure our children know that no matter how messy life gets, regardless of how epically they fail, they will always find an open door at home. That family is forever, and our well of love for them will never run dry. And if along the way we accidentally make them believe they are the most gifted, hilarious, clever, wickedly talented children on the planet, well, perhaps it will just become fodder for their blogs one day, and they'll have to email us special links with instructions on how to open it because, BLAST IT, we can't figure out this newfangled technology these days on the internets and our laptops have scuff marks and dents where we banged them on the desk in frustration (hi, Dad).

Fake Family

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 26 Sep 2011 10:48:00 +0000

The other day, I turned the corner and saw Remy straddling the banister, preparing for a leisurely slide down the stairs. (Related: This is why our banister has been pulled out of the sheetrock twice. We can't have anything nice. Our kids can find a way to destroy solid cement floors.)

Me: Remy, we don't do that. It's not safe.
Caleb: Yes we do.

Ok listen, some things have been happening around here that I feel the need to unload. Do we slide down banisters? Perhaps. And maybe my sons and their friends sometimes line the stairs with sleeping bags and surf down on boogie boards where they crash land on the pile of pillows arranged at the bottom. It's certainly not with my approval.

Um, that is not my voice. I would never condone this behavior.

I realize this video causes you alarm if your babies are all six and under or if you only have one precious cherub, but trust me, a few years and few kids later? You won't be nearly the Safety Susan you are now. You'll be all, "Oh well, it's just 22 miles away. Yall double buckle..." when you're out of seats in your car because all your kids' friends have piled in and you have to get to Schlitterbahn or die trying.

You will sell the "elbow and knee pads" in your garage sale to a mom with a preschooler.

Despite your best common sense, you will send your kid to school with a Lunchable.

You will leave the trampoline up long after the net has been torn down by your savage kids.

You will lighten up. And miraculously, your kids will still live despite the absence of your hypervigilance. (My mom didn't know where I was for approximately one-fourth of my elementary years. She saw me at dinner after I wandered home from my adventures. "Where did all those scrapes come from, Jen?" "I fell off some scaffolding at that abandoned construction site where me and Amy were hunting for scorpions." "Well, you seem fine. Set the table.")

Clearly, I'm not the hovering Mama I once was. As this picture demonstrates:

We add water to our Death Trap Trampoline to expedite the possibility of a broken femur.

But something has happened to me since the arrival of our newest Hatmakers from Ethiopia. I've taken a couple of steps backward...past caution, right through watchful, beyond fastidious, and all the way to fantasy, apparently. Conversation between me and Brandon:

J: I feel so frustrated.
B: Why?
J: We have a fresh slate with Ben and Remy. We haven't ruined them yet. This is the time to introduce our systems and chore charts and stuff. We need a marble jar for good behavior. I read about that somewhere. I really want to show them how we run a smooth, efficient home with teamwork and diligence.
B: (after five seconds of silence) What family are you talking about?
J: The Fake Family I invented in my head.
B: Uh-huh. And how's that working out for you?
J: It's awesome. I love Fake Family. Their kids wash their hands after using the bathroom every single time.
B: Because they have such organized, responsible parents?
J: Yes. And Gavin is the starting quarterback on the high school varsity team. As an eighth grader. He's that good. Mack Brown is interested; he started following me on Twitter. And in Fake Family, I'm a size four because I make better choices.
B: Wow. Fake Jen sounds awesome.
J: Really? Did I mention Fake Brandon always closes the cabinet doors after he opens them and he never complains when I ask him to "fix my iTunes" again? He is spectacular.

I had these ideas about bringing the kids home to a perfectly run household with impressive structures and systems; our food was all organic obviously, and our kids miraculously stopped fighting. In fact, after Ben and Remy arrived, there would never be another argument in our home. We would be the ideal prototype for responsible child-rearing. Our kids would track with math and science scores reported from Japan. They would certainly not become addicted to Movies on Demand or Angry Birds, because they could only earn a maximum of fifteen minutes of screen time a week after completing their required chores and "bonus exercise points" through the online job chart we complete by 6:30pm each night, after enjoying the traditional Ethiopian meal I made from scratch but before their systematic language instruction (their bedtime ritual), which would really just reinforce the conversational practice they'd enjoy with our Amharic tutor three days a week, refreshing their native tongue and instructing the rest of us as well. We'd all be pretty fluent by Halloween. (It's just because we love them so much. Don't make a big deal out of it.)

Fake Family is impressive. Let me tell you. They would sail through their post-adoption social worker visits. People would talk. You couldn't ignore their awesomeness for long. They would be invited on panels. Dr. Karyn Purvis would comment on their blogs.

But my actual family is just messing all this up, including the person typing this blog. As it turned out, Ben and Remy didn't join a perfect family; they joined a real family. Oh sure, we chased the dream of raising model children when our bio kids were tiny, but it didn't take long to release that delusion. Mainly because we weren't raising characters in books, but human children. We also accidentally discovered that we were human parents and capable of *occasional* missteps.

Our life is no prototype. If you wanted to find holes in our parenting resume, it would take you three seconds. Any critic or unsympathizer could make a quick list of our faults, hypocrisies, blind spots, and double standards (and then send them to me in a direct message...awesome). It would be so easy. We live a messy life in a messy world. There are a zillion ways we could be better. I have no idea if my kids will make the Top 10% of their graduating classes or 'Just Say No'. Will they choose organic? I feel the chances are slim; it seems certain their college pantries will be rife with Pop Tarts. If they fail half as epically as Brandon and I did as adolescents, we are in for some serious retribution.

I'm not sure when I got the idea that adoption required perfection or that there was some exacting formula that prevents grief and struggle. Maybe it was through the year and a half of daily discussions with my adoption community which: 1.) prepared me more than any other resource, 2.) encouraged, prayed, cheered, and commiserated with aplomb, and 3.) made me a teeny bit paranoid. You know when you over-talk about something, and it takes on this huge life of its own and increases your idling levels and fills your head with more ideas than you can execute, especially considering most of the advice is "before the airport" and super skewed toward other people's preferences, and it's kind of like reading those 80-pound bridal magazines that tell you no wedding is complete without pashmina shawls for the bridesmaids and a guided tour of a local museum for guests arriving early? No? Me neither.

Of course, manufactured entirely in my own brain was the notion that their lives have been so unfair and their circumstances so heart-breaking, that surely I owed it to Ben and Remy to bring them into a nearly perfect environment. I would do this so well.

As it turns out, I'm still susceptible to fatigue and discouragement. My other kids didn't kick that selfish gene. I still don't have a working laundry schedule that I stick to for more than two weeks. I fed my daughter Chick-Fil-A on her fourth day in America. My lentils don't taste right. Ben knows how to work the Apple TV by himself. All seven of us have cried in the last two months. The kids' closets are galloping toward entropy.

Ladies and gentlemen, we've had lice.

So for those of you trying to dodge the idea of adoption because your marriage is not perfect and you don't have your crap entirely together, please let me dispel the notion of "necessary impeccability." I'm learning this: Orphaned kids don't need a perfect family...they just need a loving one. You needn't be fit for display and ready for the adoption speakers' circuit.

Can you enter into the grief of a child and stay there until God heals? Do you have room on your lap for another daughter who would delight in the same "Carl Books" you read the rest of your kids? Could you direct your diligence toward becoming a healing parent, even if that just means listening and affirming and acknowledging and holding a child through the storm? Can you be miraculously, fantastically present for a child that is positive you too will disappear one day? Do you have the gumption to be oh-so-very consistent with boundaries and discipline, understanding that requiring their respect supplies them with the very security they crave in a parent who is actually in charge, freeing them up to be a kid instead of a survivor?

Then Kelly Ripa or not ("Be even more amazing!"), you can throw your hat in this ring.

I suspect one day our kids will not recall the laundry piled on our couches or every little time we blew it, but I hope they carry into adulthood the security that they were wanted, they were adored, they were cherished, and they were loved. So very loved. Parents, we might not get it all right even seven out of ten times, but failure is not a deal breaker inside the safety of a family. I pray one day we launch our kids into this world whole and healed, redeemed by the touch of their Savior and transformed simply because we loved and we stayed...imperfectly and beautifully.

Admittedly, I miss Fake Family. I loved them so much. On paper. I told Brandon:

J: I'm still holding out hope for Fake Family. I think I might be able to pull it off.
B: You put body lotion in our daughter's hair.
J: Alright. Never mind. Pass the Pringles.

I'm Not Done Yet

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 16:14:00 +0000

Please sit down, because I am about to reveal something monumental, perhaps never before seen. With Remy in our home the last four weeks, Ben's miraculous Embassy clearance, and Brandon's spectacular reunion with him yesterday, I've had so many, many things to say, things I wanted to write through, things I wanted to share and show...

But no words.

Contain your shock. It won't last. It's some sort of temporary disorder, as I've never been short on words since the day some woman handed my mom the book, "Parenting the Strong-Willed Child" when I was two-years-old.

But the things I have to say are so deep and personal, so profound and overwhelming and constant, I've not been able to wrestle one thought to the ground long enough to write about it. My heart is Purgatory and these ideas are all stuck there, somewhere between the actual seconds they happened and the coherent, developed, processed account of them later. I'm riding the fence between wrangling deep, life-changing observations out of this season and - let's just be real - surviving until the next hour.

So I'm lassoing one idea that keeps circulating through my thoughts in between fetching Remy her thirty-eighth granola bar of the day and bribing her to bed with the promise of Chick-Fil-A fries. (My No-Compromise Organic Food Plan is shoved in the corner, beaten down and bloody, looking at me with eyes that clearly communicate: "Really? Flax seed over Cheezits? And you thought that dog would hunt? Idiot.)

This adoption has been a long journey for us, with lots of unexpected turns. To be sure, other families have endured much longer, much worse. Different countries have programs that run upwards of ten years. Other parents have lost savings accounts, friends, years, referrals, children. We've read stories that absolutely drained the blood from our faces.

So ours is certainly not the worst story, but it is ours, and it's the only one we have to tell.

As I look back over the last year and a half, I see a rhythm between God, our leader, and us, his clueless followers. The tune changed as the story unfolded, but the rhythm stayed the same.

It started after God made it *crystal clear* that we were to adopt two children. We applied for two kids. We got approved for two kids. We planned for two kids. We prepared our bio children for two kids. We told everyone we were adopting two kids.

And then we got our referral. For one girl.

Our referral call. This is not how parents' faces are supposed to look on this happy day.

Yes, this girl was beautiful. Yes, she was the perfect age for our family. Yes, we died over her shy smile (that was a clear fake out). Yes, her story broke our hearts and reminded us why we decided to adopt older children in the first place.

But where was our second child?? We were positive about this one. We couldn't have missed God's leadership on the two-kid agenda; it was one of those ridiculously clear moments where you either respond obediently or prepare to be immediately struck with cholera.

So this rhythm emerged:

"God, we're confused."
And he answered, "I'm not done yet."

As we begged for clarity and tried to decide if we should reject this referral out of sheer blind obedience, God nudged us toward the same darling boy we'd been eyeing on the Waiting Children's List. The one I had emailed our family coordinator about three times. The one she told me we'd have to get special approval for. The one with the 1000-watt smile, on a waiting list for his crime of being 7 years-old.

God reminded us, "Yes I said two, but I never said they'd be related. Go fight for that boy." Well, listen lambs, God doesn't tell me to fight for something lightly. Do I need to reference "The Strong Willed Child" observation again? Fight? Oh, I'll fight alright. What? I need to explain in writing why this placement makes sense for our family? A FIGHT WITH WORDS?? Bless the poor receiver of the footnoted dissertation I sent. And the phone calls I made. And the passionate plea (harassment) I unleashed. And just like that, we got our boy.

This was Ben's WCL picture. Please note the Run DMC shirt. Destiny brought us together.

So three cheers! God really had a plan; an unconventional plan that required a half-crazed Mama who would enter the ring and use words and persuasion to win a referral. (My little eye spies some typecasting.) We had not one but two kids after all! And they happened to be the two cutest kids in the whole country, which we considered our prize for actually completing the 700,000 page dossier, which - let's get serious - was spearheaded by moi, and if you remember my bent toward details, well, this is really something noteworthy and please act impressed because (allegedly) I cannot remember to put gas in my car, yet I pulled off a completed dossier in three months including multiple check lists and a 50-pound page-protected binder that I would've rescued from a burning house before my three children.

This was the hot mess AWAA sent me in 98 attachments. "Here. Do this." Tra la la.

Instead of getting overwhelmed like usual, I got awesome.

Fast forward to March 10th, that blessed court date. Now understand that I had already informed God that I didn't want to be "one of those families." The sad, sorry folks who didn't pass and had all the troubles and waded through messy bureaucratic drivel and watched as everyone else passed them like they were going in reverse. The ones that clogged up the Facebook feed with bad news and had to answer the same questions twenty times a day about any movement? and who seemed like they had lost the will to live.

I mean, I thought I had made that clear.

So when Remy passed that very day like she was just taking a leisurely stroll through Central Park on holiday - exactly how I told God to work it out - we were devastated when Ben didn't pass. Devastated. And the rhythm repeated:

"God, we're confused."
"I'm not done yet."

We'd seen other families who didn't pass court get their clearance within a week or two, so we naturally assumed our happy phone call was coming any day now. Remy was submitted for Embassy. Any day now. One month. Any day now. The court asked for additional documents on Ben. Any day now. Remy was cleared for travel in April. Any day now. We turned in some other official decrees. Any day now. Two months. Any day now. Three months. Please, God. Please. Any day now. "It doesn't look good for this case." Any day now. Crying, begging, pleading, cursing. Any day now. Four months. No. No.

"God, we're confused."
"I'm not done yet."

Let me be fair: When I recount our line as "God, we're confused," that sounds tame, almost like a little old grandma who got lost at the corner of 5th and Lamar until a kindly police officer asked if he could help her and she chuckled and shook her head and said, "Well I guess I got a little confused!" and they shared a knowing laugh about who can figure out all these confounded streets down here? and he pointed her west and she made it to her destination just in time for the quilting guild.

When we said "we're confused", it involved crying and wailing and days when I couldn't get out of bed. It included a string of months where, I swear to you, time stood still. I sobbed over other people's happy adoption news as I typed nice words on their Facebook pages. It included a phone call from my mother-in-law after my daughter told her, "I'm worried about my mom." My hair started falling out in clumps and my fingernails peeled off in layers. I lashed out at Brandon and my kids and Jesus on bad days; on worse days, I wondered aloud if God had any control at all over this chaotic, broken world. I doubted his invervention and questioned his sovereignty.

So yeah, that's what I mean by "confused."

And then we got this: "We're getting a rejection letter for Beniam's adoption, and we think you should consider coming to get Remy." No. No. How could this possibly be our situation? How? We were the compassionate mother who refused to split the baby in half even if it meant separation from us. How could we go back to Ethiopia and fly away with just one of them? How could we break our son's heart like that? How could God possibly be in this? Is he just mean? Has he forgotten us? Has he forgotten Ben? This is not the story we signed on for. This chapter stinks. I'm starting to hate this book.

"God, we're confused."
"I'm not done yet."

In the dead of night as I sobbed into my pillow, begging God to comfort our son as we prepared to travel for Remy, he delivered "Love Ben" fully developed into my mind. And if you're the believing type who buys the "God works all things for good for those who love him and are called according to his purpose" stuff, then you might not be surprised to hear that we witnessed hundreds of moments of glory through Love Ben.

Hundreds.

Like the 80-year-old outspoken racist who set his alarm for 1:00am to pray for Beniam at the start of the Ethiopian work day.

Like the multiple emails I got from adopted adults who were prompted to reconcile with birth parents, deal with decades-old wounds, and find peace.

Like the birth mother whose heart God healed after giving up her son 17 years ago.

Like the entire church who highlighted Ben's story and set up a Love Ben Photo Booth after both services.

Like the college friend who told me she was praying again for the first time in 20 years.

Like the bundles of you who emailed to say you've decided to adopt.

Like the mamas and daddies who taught their children about orphans and God's mercy and used Ben's little face as a tangible tool.

Please believe me, these could go on and on. Rays of God's light kept bursting through the dark. Just when I though my heart would expire, I'd get an email that said, "I told Ben's story at the camp we're running for foster kids, and they broke out in spontaneous prayer and singing for God to rescue him."

Evidently God can wrestle glory out of the hard parts of the story.

Ben passed court the week before we traveled to get Remy, but our agency prepared us for egregious delays and possible litigation at the Embassy stage because of his rejection letter (I assure you, this had nothing to do with his orphan status). So Brandon and I prepared for a fight. We threw down fighting words. We said stuff like, "What happens in fight club stays in fight club!" We kicked some chairs over and threw gang signs. We were all, "WHATEVER, HATERS! You messed with the wrong peeps!" It was all super aggressive with loads of swagger.

Then we flew to Ethiopia. And held our son while he threw up and sobbed in our laps and clung to our necks, as we drove away with Remy, his only family on the same continent. And all the bravado disappeared into sorrow. I cried for 24 hours without stopping.

"We're so confused, God."
"I'm not done yet."

Are you sure, God? Because I'm pretty convinced all our hearts are broken. Is there work left to be done? Is there something we can't see? Would you please just assure us that you haven't forgotten Ben and our family? Can we trust you to make this beautiful? Because it doesn't feel beautiful. It feels aching and devastating and horribly unjust. We believe you but we can't see.

But let it be said that God is still in the miracle business. As our agency prepared to submit Ben for Embassy, they were asked to try to secure his approval letter one last time, attempting to avoid the cluster ahead of us without it. Just as a courtesy, our agency went back to the government office, the same one who refused to write the letter for five months, in an effort I dubbed "the biggest waste of time on planet earth." They'd made their position clear on Ben's case, and had already died on this hill if you will. So whatever. Thanks for this great idea, Embassy. Maybe they can suck another five months of our lives away.

They wrote it.

SHUT UP. Yes they did. They wrote it on a Thursday, and Ben was submitted for Embassy the very next day. With all his paperwork intact. Every last piece of paper. They cleared him for travel four business days later on Thursday, and Brandon got on a plane three days later. Last Sunday.

This is what God does.

When God said he wasn't done yet, he just wasn't done yet. He wasn't speaking in code. It wasn't a trick. The story was still in the middle, but I wanted to flip ahead to the end, past the conflict and struggle and straight to the happy ending. As Keeper of the Story, God knew the whole plot. He promised us way back that he planned on seeing these two children all they way from brokenness and abandonment to our home in Texas, an unlikely journey if ever there was one. And at the risk of whitewashing the difficult middle, we have one of them here and the other will be here Sunday, so he was faithful.

God doesn't promise us a clean middle part of the story. He never said we wouldn't encounter antagonists and drama and surprise twists and heartbreak. We weren't assured a G-rated plot where good feelings are peddled and no one dies or leaves or fails or waits. God promised things like healing and restoration and redemption. Which implies there will be injuries and broken relationships and losses. When he speaks of beauty from ashes, he seems to know there will be actual ashes to resurrect beauty from.

If you are confused right now, if your story isn't going the way you thought, or if you're tangled up in the messy middle where hope is deferred, dear reader, it could just be that God isn't done yet. Your story is not finished. Every hero and heroine must wade through the conflict to get to the end, and you can trust God because he is good. If you have nothing else to cling to, remember this: God is good. He loves goodness and justice. He heals and redeems. He is on the side of love and beauty. He is for you. He is never against you. You may be against you, other people may be against you, but God is not against you.

It is okay to be confused; I'm afraid that is our lot as finite creatures dealing with an infinite God. Some of God's best heros were confused in their subplots. But I can see a light that is coming for the heart that holds on. Because God is good and he is for goodness.

And he just isn't done yet.

MOPS Session Notes: Letting Go

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 17:20:00 +0000

Last Friday, I woke up at 3:30am, caught the earliest flight to Nashville, hung out with a few thousand crazy women, taught for one hour, and flew home. It was the 2011 MOPS Convention, and trust me, this thing is always a good time. They brought in Max Lucado, Mandisa, Travis Cottrell, Lisa Harper, Jon Acuff, Steven Curtis Chapman, Kathi Lipp, and a bunch of other rock stars this year. I slid in and pretended like I had any business being there.

Women kept saying, "We can't believe you're here! How do you feel about being here?? Was it so hard to leave? With Remy at home??" And after deciding to say the true thing instead of the nice thing, I answered: "It feels awesome."

Whatever. It did.

Assuming we would bring home our two new darlings this SPRING, I basically took this year off from traveling and teaching. If you would've told me in February that we would bring only one kid home at the end of July, I would've punched you in the spleen. So I haven't taught this year at all, and lawd have mercy, I've missed it.

Of course, I laid awake the night before, fretting like I often do before a talk. Here I was headed to MOPS Convention, where all the mamas are measuring their days in poop blowouts and mourning the loss of peeing in private, and rather than bring a helpful message on how to just get through the freaking day, I'm bringing a discussion on our postmodern children and how to let them fail and maybe go to Africa instead of college.

You can see why I'm so popular.

But even after sweating it out pre-session in the bathroom (for 20 minutes), fussing over my notes and wondering for the thousandth time why God always makes me talk about these things when other speakers get to talk about fun things, I remembered after the session why this sort of stuff is my deal. When the women flood the book table with tears and stories and that look on their faces, and they nod and grab me by the hands and say:

Yes.
I get it.
This is how I've been feeling.
This is what my husband says.
This is what my kids say.
I was just having this conversation.
I've been trying to explain this.
My heart is saying there has got to be more.
This is my tension.

Then I remember: God is doing something big and deep and important in the body of Christ right now, and I am but one tiny little voice joining a chorus. The Holy Spirit is moving and messing a lot of us up right now, and I may have the words, but thousands, millions of us are having the same feelings.

So as promised, I'm posting all my "notes" from my session, a term I'm using loosely here since I went through my notes and expanded/decoded all the cryptic chicken scratch and basically transcribed the entire hour+ talk. I was going to include just the modern/postmodern discussion, but then I couldn't find a good stopping place and then all of a sudden I was at the end.

I would love to hear your input, folks, because this is stuff we better take seriously as parents and Christ-followers. We are raising a different generation than the one we grew up in. The tension many of us carry with the gospel and the church and authority in general is undoubtedly the theme song of our kids' generation, and they are headed into the next phase of culture, with or without us. Let's make sure it is "with."

Without further ado...the quantity of notes I'm about to post is ridiculous, the formatting is all jacked, and if you actually get through this and still have something coherent to add at the end, I will give you a cash prize.

Letting Go

Life is messy. Parenting is messy. Kids are messy. The Christian life is messy. And that is ok.
• Our worst enemy as moms is trying to maintain the illusion of control. And not just because it’s hard to keep that up, but because it actually sabotages our own and our kids’ spiritual development.
o It substitutes some “ideal, dream life” for the one we actually see in Scripture, which is laced with adventure and risk and failure and sacrifice and transparency.
o The whole concept of “letting go” begins in our hearts and minds. The practical application comes second, not first. This is something I wish I’d heard when my kids were babies. I think I would’ve found a lot of freedom I craved in those early years
o The time to define your parenting philosophy is now.

Defining characteristics of our kids’ generation:
• We are standing on the fault line of a huge paradigm shift in our culture, and it is a transition from one worldview to another. Most of us have a foot in both.
• Not an endorsement or a criticism - both views have the fingerprint of God in them…neutral information, but this is the world our kids are growing up in, so it is essential to our discussion of parenting. We can’t parent what we don’t understand.

BOIL THIS WAY DOWN, a total reductionist explanation:

Modern thought was the driving worldview for the last 3 centuries: Birthed through the Renaissance, Industrial Revolution, modern invention, opened up “The Age of Reason”:
• Marked by: rational linear thinking, pragmatic thought, science, education, dogmatism, individualism, fundamentalism and absolute truth, authority was unquestioned and respected…emphasis on the individual man’s capabilities, logic, and knowledge
o Modern soundbyte: “I have all the answers, and so can you.”
o Affected how the Christian life was interpreted: faith was proved through factual research (systematic theology classes abounded), apologetics was the primary evangelical tool, come to Christ as a logical, measurable decision (I walked the aisle when I was nine…)
• Christianity was tightly organized around gaining biblical knowledge -“discipleship”
o Modern thought affected Christian parenting:
• The drive to control our environment, plus black-and-white thinking created a very one-way relationship btw parents and kids:
• I am the authority. The end. That is all that should matter to you.
• The rhythm of family life was not a discussion or a group process
• “The way things are” and “the way we think and believe” was pretty much set by the parents, and questions weren’t encouraged.

Postmodern thought is the prevalent mindset/worldview of people today, specifically our kids. So love it or hate it or ignore it, this is the world our kids will grow up in and marry and have children and discover Jesus, so we owe it to them to take a careful look at what it is and be careful and humble learners:
• Marked by: spirituality, experience, community, betterment of the world, justice, creativity, relative truth, environmentalism, globalism, deconstruction/skepticism, and authenticity
o Postmodern soundbyte: “I don’t have all the answers, and neither do you.”
• Our kids are part of a postmodern generation who is highly skeptical of authority and aren’t going to believe or do something because of tradition
o They’ve been let down by parents, government, spiritual leaders…
o They are going to understand God through story and community and justice, not apologetics and dogmatic theology.
• Most churches are still operating out of a modern mindset, and you’ll notice that teens and young adults are FLOODING out of the church.
• PM’s have a genuine distrust of organized religion and perceive it to be arrogant and consumer-obsessed.
• They will respond to parenting marked by humility and authenticity, not control and power.
o They will be moved by how we live for Jesus far more than what we say about him.
o They want to experience the rich, meaningful Jesus…not be entertained or impressed.
o Consumerism to the neglect of a suffering world will turn our kids off. If we want to bring them deeper in the heart of Jesus, we are going to have to care about the people Jesus cared about.
o Our deeds will matter far more than our creed. PM’s want authenticity above all else, so empty words have no chance.
• We must consider this paradigm shift, because the words we’ve puppeted for years have lost their meaning and will be mostly ineffective with our kids.
o We can try to shove a square peg in a round hole, but maybe we should be willing to learn about this postmodern generation, let go a little here and parent the kids we have, not the kids we were.
o Bottom line: Knowing they WILL EVENTUALLY buck dogmatic authority and hyper-controlling Mamas, we have to parent our kids wisely, first through the grid of the gospel and second through the grid of their culture.

Phase 2: Letting go of some old dreams for our kids that are not only unbiblical, but they will rob our children of their true life’s work.
How can we unhinge our kids from the dream this world wants to sell them and attach them securely to God’s dream for their lives? Jesus made his dream for us very clear, and he called it “the kingdom.”
What is the kingdom?
• Jesus described the kingdom constantly, in sort of cryptic ways:
o It’s a new way of living, like a hidden treasure, like yeast changing the dough, it belongs to the poor and meek and the humble and children, it is precious and surprising, the arrogant can’t even recognize it in front of their faces, the lower you are, the easier the kingdom is to embrace
• “kingdom” = “dream”…Your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven = God, may all your dreams for this planet come true.
o God has dreams for us: salvation, mission, redemption, community…
o God has dreams for this earth: no more hunger, healed families, healed land, justice, His glory…
• This is the dream we want to plant deeply into our children’s hearts.
• What dream are we giving them? Most of us are imprinting our kids with the American Dream
o Most of our parenting choices, goals, efforts are geared toward their success, happiness, security, comfort, and prosperity
o We sprinkle Jesus in there but not enough to alter their entire life’s course– more like a system for acting good
• We take our kids’ lives and add Jesus to it; don’t start with Jesus’ kingdom and process our kids lives through it. True biblical dreams for our kids are so rare:
• How many of us are dreaming that our kids will live among the poor one day? Or foster a bunch of kids? Or spend their lives on justice? Or love Jesus to the exclusion of every normal sounding achievement?

o This old way is not holding.
• We are not making disciples. The postmodern generation is rejecting the church in record numbers.
• Our kids are not going to be afraid of risk and sacrifice like we are, and they are unwilling to turn a blind eye to the brokenness of the world, so if the dream we teach them is about gaining the treasures of this world while behaving and tithing, that is not inspiring enough to keep their loyalty.
o Our goal is not to get them to behave well; our goal is to teach them to love Jesus in the most reckless, single-minded way.
• I have a daughter telling me she might bow out of college for awhile to live in Africa.
• I have a son who can’t stand children’s church because he cannot see what the silly songs and videos and craft projects have to do with the Jesus he knows from the Bible. 9 years old.
• A couple of months ago, our teenagers from church slept on the streets downtown for an entire weekend to identify with the homeless and walk a day in their shoes.
• Are we willing to get ok with this? Because this is the heartbeat of the next generation, WITH OR WITHOUT US.

• We love Romans 8:28 for our kids, but do we actually understand the very next verse?
o Being “conformed into the image of Jesus” is not a pretty process, because our kids are born into sin and God has messy, real work to do to transform them into disciples.
• This process involves sacrifice and loss and struggle and failure and courage and maybe even danger and cultivating a single-minded obsession with the kingdom.
• They may embarrass us or disappoint us or scare us as they wrestle with God, but can we see his redemptive hand in their lives even then?
• When have we grown the most? Changed the deepest? STRUGGLE. Failure. Loss. Risky obedience. Messy relationship mending.
• Our kids are the same. Our job is not to shield them from everything hard, but to parent them through it with wisdom and discernment.
• We should not pull our kids completely out of this culture in some sort of parallel Christian universe, but teach them to navigate the real world with grace and conviction.
o This requires a gradual process of letting go, so our kids can actually live a real life with real people and real problems and discover the real God who shows up there.

What do we do???

There are some postmodern ideals that line up nicely with the kingdom, and if we want to raise children who love Jesus passionately and pour their lives out for his kingdom, we need to capitalize on them.

1.) PM’s are wildly attracted to those who love the unlovely and care about the poor.
a. Guess who else is into that? Jesus. He’s obsessed.
b. Want to show your children the Jesus they’ll follow for life? Love broken, poor, marginalized people. Love them like crazy.
i. Your attention to the poor and unlovely will go a million miles further with your kids than checking off a devotional every night.
ii. Giving you permission to pull out of some Christian program to make space for actual ministry, particularly to the marginalized (Do we really need to serve the saved any more?)
c. Have littles? This can fit into your life.
i. Open your home, take sandwiches to the homeless in your city one afternoon, connect with foster kids and families, sponsor international kids, send care packages to orphanages, let your kids see you hug necks and kiss cheeks and pray with hurting people and welcome them into your life.
ii. Pepper your language and prayers with words about people at the bottom.
iii. Make tangible financial sacrifices YOUR KIDS CAN SEE and reallocate that money to the most desperate people you can find.
1. You cannot put a price on this sort of discipleship.
2. Be warned: this is transformative for you too.

2.) PM kids will respond to authenticity and honesty and genuine parents, as opposed to a very controlling, dogmatic appearance-based approach.
a. Don’t hear me say we should all be loosey-goosey, hippie-dippy parents who have no rules and just live by their feeeeeeeelings.
i. We are still responsible for leading our children in the ways of Jesus, but our kids will be watching for transparency…I cannot tell you how much this will matter.
b. This gets real tangled up with how we want people to think of us.
i. We’re uncomfortable with failure; ours and certainly our kids. Our instincts tell us to protect our image to a watching world as moms who are doing everything right and whose kids are always happy and well-behaved
ii. This creates bondage, because in the name of measuring up, we’re doing our kids a real disservice by robbing them of the messiness that is the actual Christian life and preparing them for an unreal world where sin and problems are hidden away and only accomplishments are paraded
1. Bible is clear: Hiding produces shame.
2. Shame sometimes prevents bad behavior, but it doesn’t bring life or freedom or grace

c. False or unrealistic expectations can destroy a healthy family.
i. Some of you didn’t expect what you have (more babies by now, less babies by now, difficult child, child with special needs, job situation you don’t want, you want to be home, you want to be back at work….)
1. Let go of what you expected, and embrace what you have
a. The tug of war between expected and actual is what kills the spirit.
ii. God does his best work in reality. That gap between expected and actual is where grace takes over.
1. Tell your kids: It’s ok to mess up. I don’t expect you to be perfect and I will not be a perfect parent. Say those words, and you’ll create a house of grace.
2. Let them risk something and fail…even if you knew they would.
3. Then teach them what to do with failure: this will serve them the rest of their lives: we apologize, we try again, we try a different way, we learn from it, we don’t regret every mistake.
4. Say “I’m sorry” often and sincerely. Accept your kids’ apologies.
5. Let them enter a hard or challenging or difficult relationship with your guidance….you do the same and let your kids watch you navigate it with grace and truth.
6. Help your kids make amends for their mistakes without shaming or humiliating them. Act proud of how they respond to failure, not just when they get things right the first time.
a. They’ll learn that they can mess up, and no one will die.

d. Imagine your role as a coach rather than a dictator; this perspective will help our kids move from dependence to independence, and it eliminates the controlling approach we know our kids will rebel against.
i. Shift in thinking: “What do you want to accomplish?” and guide them into making their own decisions on how to get there.
ii. A coach asks good questions: What would it look like if…?
iii. Keep their goals in front of them, and shut down the lecture circuit.
iv. Speak of God’s plan for their lives from the time they are in diapers:
1. “Well done, good and faithful servant.” What would ‘well done’ look like here? What would servanthood look like here?

3.) Trust God that he is playing a crucial role in our kids’ lives, and we are just one piece of their story; we can fail and make all sorts of heinous mistakes, and God is still sovereign over our children. We are not responsible for controlling every minute detail of their lives.
a. Our authority over them is only the first small fraction of their timeline, but God’s leadership lasts their entire lives. We better get them properly introduced.
i. Let’s teach our kids to love Jesus, not a set of rules. We should be talking about his character and love and passion and heroics as much as we are talking about biblical behaviors.
b. As we consider the scary concept of letting them go, hear this: Our kids will not get lost in culture if they have experienced the dynamic, loving, radical Jesus.
i. If they know him in a life-changing way, they will learn to engage culture as a change agent and advocate without getting tainted by its influence.
ii. This is how God designed the kingdom. He raises up disciples and releases them on the planet.
1. There is no prototype for this. Your kids don’t have to fit an image or a mold or follow a specific script and neither do you.
2. God has always allowed every sort of personality and quirk and unlikely disciple into the family.
c. Believe it or not, the kids who go to Sunday School and Awanas and don’t drink in high school and go to college and vote Republican and keep everything between the lines are not a discipleship-prototype. Just let go of that notion.
i. There are actually all sorts of radical, unconventional pathways in the kingdom.
1. It’s made up of artists and dreamers and rapscallions and risk-takers and strange birds and dark horses and redeemed screw-ups and even suburban moms.
2. Do not fear if you or your family or your child colors outside the lines or wanders down unlikely roads or zigs left when everyone else zigs right, because if they love Jesus and contend for his glory in their few days on this earth, then they will indeed hear one day, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

The Cat that Swallowed the Canary

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 09:25:00 +0000

This is an apt description of me this last week and a half. While having a rather violent connotation which I had to explain to Caleb last week after he heard me say it, and seeing how he loves animals more than people, he did not like it Sam I am, nonetheless, it's fitting. I am the cat. I got a big, huge, luscious canary on Monday the 11th. I swallowed it whole. It was delectable. And I was instructed to digest this canary without telling anyone because it was "sensitive." Some canaries are like that.

Curtains open; begin scene:

Ring, ring.
Jen checks phone.
"AWAA: Anna"
Jen sighs, as she and Anna have done this dance 1000 times.
"Hey Anna," Jen says in a flat tone that suggests blah, blah, blah.
"Jen????? I am finally, finally, finally calling with good news!"
Jen freezes. Time stops. She considers jumping through the phone to make Anna talk quicker.
"OMG. What? WHAT?? Speak, girl!!"
"THE JUDGE PASSED BENIAM THIS MORNING!!!"
Jen screams bloody murder.
Then she starts bawling.
Anna considers Jen a decent candidate for bipolar disorder.
Anna says a bunch of words Jen didn't process.
Jen calls back 30 minutes later and asked, "Now what did you say after the Ben passed part?"

Curtains close; end scene.

And the crowd goes wild!!!

Ladies and gents, HE IS OURS. Let all the earth rejoice!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The cat has been DYING to tell everyone that she ate a big, fat canary!! It has been giving me the worst indigestion! Oh happy day! That boy is ours, ours, ours! He is an orphan no longer! Now he is a Hatmaker, which, sure, creates a new set of issues for him, but STILL. Ours all ours.

Now, will Ben get to come home with us on this trip??? No. Boooooo. There is still quite a bit of procedural mumbo jumbo to wade through after passing court, and we are expecting delays at Embassy because the judge passed us without an approval letter, which makes things "dicey."

Side note: If I could, I would get down on my knees and kiss the soles of the judge's feet. She has been in Ben's corner since Day One. After our original court date on March 10th, she called Ben in the following day to hear from him herself. This was because he had a rough relinquishment, creating all this drama for the last few months, causing us "mental anxieties that are unpredictable!" But on March 11th, after hearing Ben's tearful plea to let him join our family, the judge looked him in the eye and said, "You will." And he is. Because she made good on her promise.

Dear Judge, you are my best friend. I would like to buy you a lifetime supply of puppies.

Here's what is next:

1.) The judge submitted the court decree to our agency yesterday (which she took great pains with).
2.) Our agency couriers this over to MOWYCA to see if they'd care to write the letter now that Ben has passed court via the judge. They may or may not give us the middle finger again.
3.) Our agency submits either just the court decree or the court degree + the MOWYCA letter to the Embassy to release Ben's vitals (birth certificate, visa, and passport). We are hoping for the second but expecting the first.
3.) We hope/pray/wish/beg/plead/dream that the Embassy will accept the court decree and release Ben's vitals without the cursed letter.
4.) The Embassy may open an investigation on our case, which we expect if the court decree is submitted without the letter.
5.) We will give the Embassy whatever they ask for so they will give us our kid.
6.) Once Embassy clears us for travel, we get on a dadgum plane and fetch our boy. Currently, Embassy appointments are being issued about 3 weeks after getting cleared.
7.) Our Ethiopian director told us, "Hopefully about one month." OMG. That is so soon.

But aaaaaaaaalllll these details can not erase the fact that Beniam is our son forever, and soon he will be sitting at our dining room table eating Lucky Charms. This is our son, our beautiful, hilarious, smart, sparky, funny, silly, brave, beloved son:

Thank you, Jesus. You remembered him like you promised. You are good, and we'll never stop telling of it. Our children will know that you are their Redeemer, and that your eye is always on the sparrow. They will hear every moment of your faithfulness, every detail of your heroics. This is your story, and until we take our last breath, we will make sure you get the glory for it. We serve a Savior who finds a way to get abandoned, broken children into families, and if you don't love a God like that, well, you just don't really know him.

“When we see Jesus for who He is, we must turn away or else shamelessly adore Him.”

~Dallas Willard

As for me, I will shamelessly adore Jesus for being a champion of the underdog, a defender of justice, and the Savior of the world. Thank you for bringing beauty from ashes and redefining "family" from a straightforward matter of biology to one bound together by faith, love, salvation, and adoption. You are good, and your mercy is forever.

Ethiopia: Day One

Jen Hatmaker — Mon, 18 Jul 2011 21:40:00 +0000

[Disclaimer: Sorry there are no pictures. We are having issues. In a city where donkeys roam the streets, the internet is something of a crapshoot.]

The second we deboarded into the Ethiopian airport, the smells hit me first. It is the smell of the country, and I'm not sure how to describe it, except that if you've been here, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Some sort of mixture of incense, coffee, earth, and bodies, and there is nothing exactly like it. We'll leave it behind Thursday only to get another reminder of it when we open our suitcases back home.

I love Ethiopia.

I especially love how we're here this time during the rainy season, where the temps are in the 60's and the rain falls at night, and the air is crispy clear awesome. (I do not love how the airlines take this opportunity to double all prices. Dear Airlines, WHATEVER.)

We are traveling right now with the most fantastic families with our agency. We've kind of hit the motherload of cool travel companions; there are about 20 of us or so, and it's rad (yes, I said it) to meet each other in person after being online friends all this time.

About half of us are here for Embassy (trip 2), which means we have our kids with us all week, and the other half are here for Court (trip 1), which means they actually have time to take one million pictures and go wherever they want because they are not toting around a kindergartener from morning till night who wants to be carried because she is just a teeny weeny bit freaked out and doesn't care one iota that she weighs 50 pounds and that we are at 7000 feet above sea level and her mom is freaking totally out of shape and her dad is all, my back is pinched, and there is not enough air to get into my lungs and my arms are on fire, and I should've just brought a Granola Girl Sling or whatever they are called like the baby mamas.

So we went to the Transition Home after lunch, and out came our darlings straight into our arms. I don't know if I've mentioned this, but they are the two cutest children on the continent of Africa, and that is not an opinion but mere fact, and if you'd like to argue it, I'll fight you. Remy has lost two more teeth, and Beniam was taller. BLAH. I'm totally over missing their days and months and birthdays and firsts and milestones.

I took my first deep breath in four months the second they ran to us.

As we kissed our sweet boy good-bye with a promise to see him tomorrow, our girl skippy skipped her way into the van with all her worldly possessions (approximately 1/100th of everything we've sent her and the clothes on her back), and she headed home with us to Jimmy and Rachel Gross's house, the most fabulous, kind, accomodating, laid back, precious, loveable, darling Texas-transplanted family living in Addis.

The second our driver pulled up to their house and let us all out and drove off, Remy had the most epic meltdown in the history of time. She was screaming and crying and muttering in her language, and she was clinging to our necks like her life depended on it. We left our bags and made a beeline for our rooms and sat with her on the bed, holding and whispering and kissing and rocking her, as tears streamed down her cheeks and her little body shook like a leaf.

This is the fear abandoned orphans carry.

She was terrified we were leaving her with this strange family, and her insecurity and fear came raging out of every pore. It was heart wrenching. No five year old should feel that scared that she will be left again. After ten minutes of terror, I started channeling Karyn Purvis. WWKPD? She would redirect. And folks, do you want to know what brought her out of her grief spiral and into giggles and smiles?

That's right. Her new clothes.

Dear Everyone Who Made Fun Of Me For Packing Too Much Frou-Frou Stuff For Remy, I will accept your apologies in writing.

Daddy started popping out one outfit after another, and within ten seconds, she transformed into a character from The Devil Wears Prada. For the clothes she liked, she'd nod and point, as in, "Put my treasured belongings in this pile, Tall White Man," and when she didn't like something, she'd shake her head once, wag her finger no, and point toward the Banished Pile; the Queen wanted the detestibles out of her sight.

She spent the entire night glued to our laps/hips/arms/sides. Being out in the house with the whole family made her extremely nervous; she never spoke a word and was clearly uneasy that we might leave her with these people who, although highly fashionable and superior in culinary taste, were strangers. Gone was the smiling, silly, happy girl we knew from the TH.

But as soon as the three of us went to our room for the night, and it became clear we were all staying, she popped right out of that shell. She giggled and chattered and did her little Ethiopian dance. She tried on clothes and played with her toys and fawned all over us, yammering the whole time about who knows what. The three of climbed into bed together, Remy sandwiched between us, and she was the happiest little lark in all the land. For 15 minutes, it went like this:

Mommy, I love you so much!
Doddy, I love you so much!
Mommy, Doddy, Matawi.
Mommy, Doddy, Matawi, Beniam, Gabin, Sinney, Cilab.
Giggles.
*She kisses her hand and puts in on my face.*
*She kisses her hand and puts in on Brandon's face.*
*She puts our hands to our lips and then to her face.*
Mommy, I love you so much!
Doddy, I love you so much!
Giggles.
Mommy, Doddy, Matawi!

Then she leached onto me like the little furnace she is, snaked her skinny brown legs all through mine like a pretzel, ran one arm around my neck with her hand in my hair, the other wrapped around my waist, fell asleep in less than two minutes, and didn't budge until morning.

It's been a long time since she got to fall asleep in a mother's arms, safely tucked in next to a daddy. Brandon and I caught each other's eyes over her curly head and just grinned.

We've got her.

Details

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 13 Jul 2011 08:48:00 +0000

I’d like to think that the older I get, the more self-aware I am. I recognize my personality quirks and preferences. I can predict how I’ll respond to pretty much any scenario, because I know what makes me tick, what makes me crazy, what terrifies me, what motivates me. I get why I love what I love and hate what I hate. Now, am I bettering myself in these areas? Of course not. But I’m aware of them. I’m sooooo self-actualized, yall.

For instance.

I’m what you might call a “big picture girl.” I like ideas. I like gigantic, stimulating concepts. I’m totally into words and books and fascinating conversations. Adventure? Yes, please. I love the fun parts of the story. Give me an experience to feel any day. You want thoughts? Oh, I have thoughts. Tons of thoughts. Ladies and gentlemen, I think things. I love to bang out my little ideas on my MacBook Air and stand on stages teaching these truths and thoughts about Jesus and life and how it all intersects in this tiny sliver of time we occupy here on Planet Earth.

But details? Not. So. Much.

I would sever a limb if I could seize the adventure and the experience and The Big Moment without wading through the ten million steps to get there. Details utterly overwhelm me. It’s severe. I think I have a disorder. My brain doesn’t contain a satisfactory compartment for minutia. Concurrent details get all jumbled together into one giant potential aneurysm, and something just clicks off. *CLICK* *GOOD-BYE* *JEN HATMAKER…OUT*

Girlcation in NYC. My friends are planning our day and route. I'm on Twitter.

Now, take every word I've said and think of the exact opposite. Imagine: detail person, iCalendar, spreadsheets, ledgers, To-Do lists, phone alerts, long-range and short-range planning, time management, stability, and extreme left brain functionality: That is Brandon. (The first description under left brain is "logical, sequential, rational." Under right brain? "Random, subjective, looks at wholes instead of parts." Have these people been spying on us?) I'm the partner who takes our offspring swimming all day. Brandon is the one who keeps the electricity turned on.

He LOVES how I manage details.

This has never caused an ounce of tension in our marriage.

When it became clear that Ben's case was in distress and we needed to bring Remy home, we (meaning Brandon) looked at our adoption account and did some quick math. This added a third trip to Ethiopia onto the budget. If you'd like financial details here, you'll have to ask Brandon, because I don't know how much money we make, how much our bills are, how much it costs to fly to Ethiopia an extra time, or where our money comes from. (I tried to wade into these waters once, and after a rather aggravating conversation with me, Brandon said, "Awww. At least you're pretty.")

So for about a week, our plan was for me to fly to Ethiopia alone and bring Remy home, saving the exorbitant cost of a second round-trip ticket. I tried to act brave and self-assured, like, "Who can't get to Ethiopia and back with one smallish former orphan by herself?" Forget the fact that after 12 days in the country in March, I still have no idea how many birrs equal a dollar or what street the Guest Home is on even though we (Brandon) told cab drivers the address twenty times. With Mr. Responsible by my side, I had the luxury of kissing babies and taking pictures of camels and drinking the Best Coffee On Earth every day while he worried with exchanging money and making sure we got to court on time and littlestufflikethat.

Me reading under my mosquito net in Ethiopia while Brandon does important stuff.

So I'm certain the notion of me traveling to Ethiopia alone to bring Remy home petrified Brandon to no end. We probably had a 58% chance of making it home. That train could derail at the slightest curve. I've already jacked it up, in fact, and we haven't even left. I told my sister Lindsay in NYC that we'd be there Thursday for our layover and YAY I'll get to see you for nine hours, so get off work because we need to make the most of our time, which she did, and I tell Brandon aaaaaaall about it, because OMG I haven't seen my sister in a year so good on me for this awesome layover for once and I'm so glad her boss let her off on a busy Thursday, then Brandon tells me:

"We'll be there Friday, not Thursday, Genius."
"Oh my stars. Where did I get Thursday??"
"God only knows."

And now she has to work an overnight shift because the only person who would trade with her for Friday works graveyard. This is how Brandon feels about these moments with his beloved:

So back to the doomed single parent trip. Evidently, we had enough saved for him to make the trip too, but we needed to jettison some to fund the impending third trip to bring home Beniam. Until my sister-in-law Lana and her new hubby TJ stepped in and bought Brandon's ticket and wouldn't hear boo about it. *Insert warm, loving feelings toward Lana and TJ* This is their Love Ben picture. On their honeymoon. In Italy.

*Insert jealous, green-eyed feelings toward Lana and TJ*

So much love and thanks to them, because now Remy will probably actually get home with a mother who has not been thrown in Ethiopian jail for forgetting to exchange birr back to dollars before leaving the country (leaving with the equivalent of $23 is illegal, and "oops, my bad" would probably be ineffective). With Brandon on board, this trip is back on the rails.

However, the quantity of details I am managing would even overwhelm The Fly Lady (I once read four sentences of her website and curled up in the fetal position. She and I would never, ever be friends.) In a helpful twist, Brandon left yesterday for the week. That's right. The four days before our international trip, with three bio kids going in fifty different directions, bags to be packed, donations to be organized, church camp to engineer, Art Camp to figure out for Sydney next week, Caleb's football registration, getting phone numbers/paperwork/release forms/keys/suitcases/cars from this caregiver to that one (as every kid has 1-2 house transitions in the 8 days we're gone), and making sure we have a spotless house to bring our newest member home to, Brandon left to do the Lord's work.

"I'll just meet you in New York," said Brandon Hatmaker casually.

Tra la la.

So understanding my visceral reaction to a long list of details, this week I have:

Gone to Schlitterbahn.
Taken two naps.
Invited my friends over to sit on my porch.
Invited my sister and mom over to sit on my porch the next night.
Gone to the movies.
Read "The Postmistress."
Written a silly blog about avoiding details to avoid the details longer.
And I'm about to go to the pool.

Never fear, lambs, it will all get done. I'll cram it in at the last second and run around like a whirling dervish, annoying everyone and acting melodramatic. And even as my detail-laden brain is suffering overload and threatening to implode, I'll remember one last little detail and it will all be worth it:

Fighters

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 06 Jul 2011 19:16:00 +0000

368.

That is how many people have submitted "Love Ben" pictures so far. Some of those pictures have 75+ people in them. There are thousands of smiling, encouraging, dear faces in those 368 pictures. Well, most are smiling.

This one seems to communicate: "Boy, you better get your &^%* home."

So I've written a few things in the last few years. Generally speaking, I write stuff down after I've learned it. I factor in plenty of time for research, first drafts, pilot groups, and perspective. Sometimes, this gives me the benefit of healing and distance, which slightly softens the raw edges. (Not always: Interrupted was like writing from the eye of a hurricane. It was borderline hysterical.) It's kind of like making a baby album on Shutterfly when your cherub is already dating; you gotta wade through several degrees of separation.

Not so with this little bloggy blog. I guess with a blog, you can write about something that happened four hours ago, hit "publish", and it immediately launches into the interwebbings. This has a downside for a loose cannon like me who clearly needs four editors between me and the general public [Note from my editor for 7: "Please just accept this edit. I'm saving you hundreds of emails"], but it also has an upside in that I can write without distance or perspective or resolution sanitizing the actual experience.

So I'd like to weigh in from the dead center of an excruciating adoption wait, long before homecomings and time erase the intensity of this season. In fact, just this morning we received our rejection letter for Ben's adoption, placing a huge question mark on the future, while our daughter has waited in the Transition Home three months longer than necessary. We are in the thick of disappointment, well past any date we thought we'd still be waiting, thrust into an unknown future for Ben with no precedence. We're in Crap Town...Population: us.

A month or two ago, after yet another disappointment in the battle to pass court for Ben, I posted something on Facebook from the deepest part of my broken heart; pretty raw, full of tears. A lady followed it up with:

"It's so good to know that even a woman like you can lose faith and fall short publicly."

Um.

In addition to that awesome statement, I've received the wagging finger from several Christians, essentially saying, "Stop whining. What sort of example are you setting with all these tears?" Ladies and gentlemen, grab a cup of coffee and settle in, because I have an opinion here and I'm about to broadcast it.

Faith has nothing to do with being stoic or "chipper" or falsely propped up. We have entered the suffering of the orphan, the mission of Jesus. It is hard and painful. It hurts and makes us cry. Suffering is like that. Spouting off Christian clichés or pretending to be strong isn’t helpful and it isn’t true. It cripples true community and confuses and isolates a watching world.

Adoption means we are willing to enter the devastation of fatherlessness and struggle mightily to free children from the bonds of orphanhood. It is OKAY to struggle and cry and grieve and mourn while we wait. That is exactly the kind of suffering we said “yes” to at the beginning of this journey. We are taking on the pain of our Ethiopian children, and guess what: Their pain is real. Who would dare look into their eyes full of loss and grief and say, "Buck up, kids. Someone might think you don't trust God."

And like my good friend Leslie reminded me, home with her adopted daughter for five years, adopting parents agree to suffer with their children long after the happy airport homecoming pictures are scrapbooked. It is only then we get a true picture of their trauma, fear, insecurity, and loss. Ask any Mama or Daddy who is parenting an adopted child about bringing their baby's suffering home.

Struggling isn’t a “lack of faith” like some have insinuated. It’s not that I doubt the calling or power of God at all; it’s that we've entered the pain of orphanhood and it hurts. Something about adoption seems to exempt waiting parents from permission to rage and wail. Would anyone observe an abused child, trapped in his own home, held captive because of senseless bureaucracy and say, "Well, it's God's timing"? Would we counsel a grieving mother whose child was wasting away with cancer to try not to "fall short publicly"? Of course not. But for some reason in adoption, waiting parents are expected to put on the brave face and whitewash the agony of it all.

So, fellow adoptive parents out there, I want to tell you something: I know your tears, and I know where they come from. I don't think you are doubting your God. Who can doubt the heart of a God who says, "Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the fatherless; please the case of the widow" (Isaiah 1:17)? God is clearly on the side of the orphan and all those who harbor them.

I don't believe for a second that we are fighting against God who is withholding favor while we and our children wait. I'm totally with Paul on this one: "For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms" (Ephesians 6:12). To the degree that God loves something, we can expect our enemy to hate it in equal proportions. With a mission to steal, kill, and destroy, redeeming abandoned lives out of the rubble of injustice is surely at the top of his Hate List.

So go ahead: Cry. Grieve. Wail. Scream at the top of your lungs, "THIS IS NOT FAIR!!" Mourn for the birth mamas who can't raise their own babies. Rage at a system that keeps the rich richer and the poor poorer. Rant against corrupt bureaucracy and power politics that perpetually victimize the most vulnerable ones under its authority. Grieve every single second you are kept apart from your babies, because let me tell you something: If that is wrong, I do not want to be right.

That's why we are not mad at God; we are mad with God. We are not fighting against God; we are fighting alongside Him. We are not crying because God is failing us; we are crying out because 170 million children will go to bed tonight with no parents, and we can not stand this injustice one second longer. These are the tears of the heavens that have been shed since the beginning of time for the least and last, the forgotten and forsaken.

What might appear to be a faith crisis is not. Don't mistake our tears for doubt. It is something like Jesus crying over Jerusalem: "How often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings..." (Matthew 23:37). It is the same brand of grief God displayed when He wept over His people: "Let my eyes overflow with tears night and day without ceasing; for the Virgin Daughter, my people, has suffered a grievous wound, a crushing blow" (Jeremiah 14:17).

Christian community, let us not fear real emotion attached to struggle, confusing it for a lack of faith. Like I heard recently: It makes sense that the Holy Spirit is called a Comforter, because if you actually follow where he leads you, you're going to need one. It would be easier to lead a safe, comfortable life, void of sorrow, unattached to human suffering and bubble wrapped within the predictable western Church. But alas, I can't find that brand of discipleship in Scripture, and believe me, I've looked.

So YES, we are fighting, but not against our good God who redeemed our own lives and invited us into a great mission. We trust that the God who begged us to care for the orphan actually cares about them and is weaving this beautiful story together right in front of our eyes. Enjoy these LOVE BEN pictures, because they represent the fight God has planted in us, the determination of our son, and the victory we are watching for through our Jesus.

It.

Is.

ON.

"Love Ben" Pic of the Day

Jen Hatmaker — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 16:19:00 +0000

What am I going to do with all of yall?? ("All of yall" is an agreed upon phrase in Texas. Can be shortened to "all yall" in a pinch.) Love Ben poster pictures have flooded in from state after state, from camps and vacations, from back porches and beaches, and as of today, Ben is an international sensation: We got our first picture from Australia. You could argue one jpeg file from Down Under doesn't make Ben an international phenom, but my response to that is, "Why do you hate orphans?"

Because I evidently have a bunch of Type A friends (read: Must.Be.First.Place.), Love Ben has turned into something of competition. You know the kind of Christian competition I mean, right? Like Sixth Grade Regional Bible Drill Finals when the announcer calls out Habakkuk 1:5 and you cut a sideways glance at the girl next to you like: So help me, you beat me out last year on that Nahum debacle, and if you get there before I do now, I will cut you.

I mean, I'm not like that, but I know people who are.

Oh sure, at first everyone was keeping it simple, sending the standard markers-on-a-poster-board-from-Walgreens pics. But recently it has started getting fierce. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you equines:

The signs say "Praying For You Beniam"...only elephants can top this.

I hope Ben doesn't assume horses are a part of the American Package, even here in God's country. The best we can give him is a lazy Springer Spaniel who eats airsoft gun pellets and chases lizards until she runs squarely into our fence.

And I don't mean to brag, but we have garnered celebrity attention with Love Ben. I mean, I wasn't even going to mention this, but since you just WON'T LET IT GO, here...feast your eyes.

Billy Graham is totally into us.

But the pic of the day goes to one of the simpler submissions, one with great meaning. When Brandon and I traveled to Ethiopia for our court date in early March, we had the privilege of bringing a beautiful little girl her very first care package from her new family. Her name was Nazeret. (That's right. As in "Nazareth." As in Jesus' hometown. Bestillmyheart.) She had not yet laid eyes on her parents or her two new sisters. Like most older orphaned kids, she had waited far too long for a family. We got to bring those precious first gifts, that hopeful first touch. We got to say the words, "You are so wanted. You are a beloved daughter."

I have a real problem respecting personal space.

We have felt connected to Nazeret ever since. I am so happy to tell you that she and her beautiful family sailed through court and Embassy, and she arrived in Texas three weeks ago forever and ever, amen. She'll never know another lonely night alone in this big world. Jesus be praised.

But just three weeks ago, she lived with Ben and Remy, one of 40 or so older kids orphaned by poverty or disease, young victims of an unjust, broken world. Those kids are like a pack of very, very cute wolves, closely knit and unified by survival. (Another adoption friend recounted a "goodbye" last month between the two oldest boys in the TH as one was leaving with his family, and she said the boys cried and clung to each other for 20 minutes. I came utterly undone.)

That is why the 'Love Ben Pic of the Day' is an easy choice. Because I know when he sees this picture, he will lean down and kiss the page. I know his heart will leap for joy when he sees his friend Nazeret, home forever in the very state Ben is headed for. I know this picture will communicate to him: "You are next, my friend Ben." This is the other side of abandonment; the side the kids dream of, pray for, hope to find. Ben will see this picture of one of his own, liberated from the despair of poverty and coloring barefoot on her back porch with a family who adores her...and hope will rise.

Your Prayers Have Been Answered: Another Blog

Jen Hatmaker — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 14:00:00 +0000

I was recently ruminating on the problems of this broken earth – poverty, orphans, homelessness, oppression – and after thinking many deep thoughts and pondering many possible solutions, I concluded: “You know what this world needs? Another blog. Not enough people are saying stuff.”

Ahem.

Anyhow, whatever. I’ve been writing plenty of stuff that no one reads for some time now, so what is one more tiny little blog launched into the blogosphere? Plus, I have a real reason: orphans. (Don’t you feel bad for rolling your eyes now? You’re forgiven. And I’ll pray for you.)

In addition to all my important writing on orphan care, I suspect a handful of other topics might sneak in, essential things like my training for So You Think You Can Dance reenactments with my friends and pictures of sandwiches. I’m very deep, yall.

Now I know several of you have popped over here because you heard about our adoption saga in Ethiopia. If you’ve not been lucky enough to be my Facebook friend for the last two years (missing riveting posts like “Dear Laundry, I hate you. I mean, I really hate you. I wish you were dead”), I’ve included some FB notes below as blog posts that should catch you up to speed on our adoption, the highs and lows, the recent developments, and the Love Ben campaign.

We have managed to get the two cutest kids in Ethiopia as our next two family members, and we’ll be bringing one of them home three weeks from today. Look at this face and tell me she isn’t so adorable that it makes you want to throw up:

I have in my possession Moroccan Oil, Miss Jessie’s Baby Buttercream, and four varieties of combs so that my little Baby Love does not end up looking like this (and kindly note the naked baby I sent her draped carelessly over her arm):

As for our handsome boy, we are in a real struggle for him. Brandon and I have rolled up our sleeves and said, “BRING IT ON.” We’re not even playing. Ben may be left behind on this next trip, but he will know he is loved, I guaran-darn-tee you that. For every person who has joined Love Ben, we say “thank you” from the bottom of our hearts and you all deserve cash prizes. Because how can THIS not help?

Anyways, if you would like to join the Love Ben campaign, make a poster, take a digital picture of your people holding it, and send it to me at jenhatmail@aol.com. Related: I am certainly the last living human on AOL. My account regularly gets hacked and sends out poorly worded solicitations like this gem last week: “Goodday!!! We wish to inform you that your overdue payment has be scheduled to pay to you through certified ATM Card which you will be only required to proceed to any ATM Cash Point to withdraw $50,000 per day till your complete payment fund are completed.”

You’re welcome, everyone.

"Love Ben".

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 23:59:00 +0000

Our daughter Remy passed court on her actual court date (WHAT??? That happens????) on March 10th. She has been cleared for travel since mid-April. At that point, we still believed we were going to pass court for Ben ANY SECOND. So we just hung on. Now our last chance to pass "the easy way" is shattered and we realize we are in for a huge fight. We have no idea what that means. Hopefully something clearer will emerge from the cluster fog this week, and we'll have a better idea what our next steps with his case are.

But we do know this: It will not be quick. If we are dealing with higher courts and lawyers and tricky documentation, we are in for the long haul.

Which is why we're going for Remy. She is a precious little gem too, and her last year (and whole life) has held too much tragedy to even comprehend for a five-year-old. She is a mess. She is like a feral cat. She needs us desperately. Yesterday. So we're getting her in 3 weeks.

Oh, Ben.

Ben and Remy are not biologically related, but he has taken to big brotherhood like you cannot imagine. They are too precious together. This separation is going to be devastating. Having me fly back to Ethiopia and taking Remy without him is pretty much the worst scenario we can think of. But here we are, choosing between two terrible things knowing that either way, it's crushing. I cannot sleep. I cannot think. I can hardly bear this. I'm so worried for him.

I was awake from 3:30-6:00 am last night, thinking, praying, crying, and brainstorming about Ben. God said, "How have I encouraged you more than anything else during this wait?" That's easy. People. Tons of people. Thousands even. "How about you ask your people to comfort Ben? What's good for you will be good for him."

This is where you come in.

I'd like to take Ben a photo album of friends and family and strangers even demonstrating your commitment to him in prayer and love. I'm asking for you (and your kids, or just your kids, or your whole family, or your neighbors, or your small group, or whoever) to make a simple poster that says something like:

We love you, Beniam!

We are praying for you, Beniam!

Can't wait until you are home, Beniam!

You are loved, Beniam!

You are so brave, Beniam!

Whatever. Pick one. Make one up. (Please use his full name: Beniam!) I want him to see people holding signs full of hope, saying his name. I want him to know YOU ARE LOVED, SON. You are not forgotten. Not for one second. You have an army of friends who are on your side, praying for your homecoming.

Take a digital pic of you and your people with the poster and email it to me at jenhatmail@aol.com. I'll print them all out and make a Love Ben photo album to bring with me. I leave on the 15th, and I'd love to have all these in by the 8th.

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ" (2 Corinthians 1:3-5).

You have been such comforters to me and Brandon. We are so grateful and overwhelmed by it all. Nothing you could do would be more meaningful to us than helping us comfort our son.

Pretty People

Jen Hatmaker — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 00:54:00 +0000

I know everyone always says Ethiopians are beautiful, but let me tell you something: Ethiopians are beautiful. Like, so-beautiful-I-can’t-quit-staring-at-you beautiful. Ethiopians hit the genetic jackpot with features unique to this world. Now that I know them, I could spot them anywhere: lean bodies, high, wide forehead, pronounced cheekbones, almond shaped eyes, a creamy, chocolate-milk-colored skin tone – almost Indian in complexion. Their skin looks like chocolate butter. It appears the entire country invested in rhinoplasty, so exquisite are their noses.

The women are so gorgeous, it’s almost ridiculous. Most pull their hair straight back, giving their stunning faces center stage. I gape at them in utter appreciation and a moderate-to-high amount of envy. It’s all I can do not to kiss their high cheekbones, or at the very least ask to stroll down the street holding their hand and laughing like their other girlfriends are getting to do. I want them to love me like I love them, but I’m just an awkward white girl wearing a Freebirds t-shirt.

Most of the young Ethiopian guys are strikingly good-looking. Like cover-of-a-magazine-Taye-Diggs good-looking. They wouldn’t last a nanosecond on Match.com. The cutest ones are tall and lean with that crazy pretty Ethiopian face. They have a casual fashion sensibility, pulling off faded jeans and t-shirts like African Matthew McHonaheys. I particularly like the longer hair dreadlocked into three-inch coils sticking straight out from their heads. I cannot wait to do Ben’s hair like this. Brandon likes buzz cuts. He says we’re going to fight about this. I’m prepared to die on this hill.

Americans are a complete smorgasbord of races and features. There is no “American look.” Sure, we have our own beauty, but we are completely indistinct, a result of centuries of melding and crossbreeding. Ethiopians are completely homogenous. Everyone in Ethiopia is totally Ethiopian, except visiting white people who stand out like a donkey-drawn cart on a freeway. I spent most of my time in Africa feeling unexotic and stared at.

But here is the good news: I get two beautiful Ethiopians in my very own family, and one day they will give me grandbabies. BOOYAH.

Our Referral Story...

Jen Hatmaker — Wed, 10 Nov 2010 15:18:00 +0000

During the first week of October, I suffered inexplicable sadness for our Ethiopian kids, yet unknown to us. I couldn’t quit crying. I couldn’t stop worrying. I felt heavy and dark without knowing why. With tears burning at the slightest provocation, I threw my emotions into the Facebook ring for some backup. From adopting friends, a common thread rose up:

“God is prompting you to pray for your children for some reason. You don’t know them yet, but he knows they are yours. Intercede for them this week, then write these dates down. Once you receive your referral, check their paperwork and you might discover divine timing.” A slew of similar stories were posted.

So Brandon and I prayed desperately for our kids. Were they losing a parent? Were they suffering? Were they tender and lonely? Were they feeling hopeless? Their need was unknown, but the ache was acute. So I cried the tears I just knew they were crying, and I begged Jesus to be so near, so gentle in their young lives while they waited for a family.

Sensitive to their fragility, I spent that week checking (obsessing over) the Waiting Children’s List on our adoption agency’s website. I’ve been drawn to these kids since the beginning of our adoption journey. These children have not been requested or matched, unwanted even within the adoption community. Their crimes: 1.) Too old – meaning over five, 2.) too sick – HIV, TB, birth defects, or 3.) too many – siblings.

This very week a new little face hit the WCL: a darling, bright and shiny seven-year-old boy. I instantly loved his personality. He looked like Gavin in an African way. He seemed ornery, which I adore. So I pulled him up every day. Every day. Every day. I sent the link to Brandon. I sent the link to friends. I checked back in. I watched other WCL kids move from “available” to “file under review” while his smiling face remained “available.” On a Wednesday, I sent this to our family coordinator:

Hi Caitlin!

Sweet adorable Beniam is a healthy seven-year old on the WCL. He totally falls within our request range and since he's on there, I'm assuming there are no other requests for a seven-year-old boy. Would AWAA consider placing him with an unrelated younger girl and allowing us to consider them together?

We were exactly hoping for a seven-year-old boy and a younger girl. We would be so happy to apply for unrelated kiddos if this was a possibility.

Thoughts?

Jen Hatmaker

For a week, we emailed back and forth about unrelated kids (sweet, precious Caitlin – extra jewels in her crown for fielding my relentless emails). I cannot explain how drawn to Ben we were. Every time we looked at him, he became more beautiful, more precious, more Hatmaker-ish. Our social worker needed to approve us for an unrelated placement, as we were only approved for siblings. That, friends, sounded like a formality, so we got our ducks in a row to speed that process up.

Exactly one week after that email, my phone rang the following Wednesday with that heart-attack-inducing-breath-stealing caller ID: “AWAA – Caitlin”. Adopting parents with submitted dossiers wait for that with such anxiety and anticipation, that should we be on a conference call with the President of the United States, we would scream in his ear, “I GOTTA GO!!!!!” and click over. Parents call their agencies ten billion times; they call us never, but when they do, this is what they say:

“Jen? It’s Caitlin. Sit down…this is your referral call.”

The world stopped spinning.

Time froze.

Nothing else existed.

“SHUT UP!!!” is how I responded as a mature, emotionally controlled girl. Our dossier was submitted 48 days ago; this referral was fast. I couldn’t think straight. The referral call includes sitting at your computer while your family coordinator introduces your child with the highly anticipated email file, including pictures.

I told Caitlin I’d call her back in ten minutes, because I needed to get Brandon home. Ring-ring:

“Are you stalking me? I just left! You know you can’t live without me.”

“Brandon, zip it! We. Just. Got. Our. Referral. Call.”

(Insert screeching brakes.)

We called Caitlin back and discovered our referral was one gorgeous, unbelievably perfect five-year-old girl. She was beautiful in every way. Brandon fell especially hard. With her little chicklet teeth and her shy smile, it seemed we might finally get a “gentle child,” which required adoption since our gene pool squashed that characteristic.

But besides “adopting” and “Ethiopia,” the other crystal clear detail was “two children.” Back in December when adopting from Ethiopia was imminent, Brandon kept bringing up two kids. Normally the bleeding heart, I was reluctant (could also be: defiant, obstinate, terrified) to consider two, knowing we are already a circus and doubting my ability to parent five kids. But Brandon couldn’t shake it, so we spent a week praying and fasting about one versus two.

On the final day of our fast, unknown to anyone but us, one of my dearest friends called: “Jen? I’ve been praying about your adoption. If this is irrelevant, just forget it, but every time I pray, I get the feeling you and Brandon are considering siblings…”

*Jen stops breathing*

“…I don’t know why I keep getting this message. But if you are, we’ve prayed about it, and we want to pay for the second child. Whatever the cost increase is for adopting two instead of one, we’ll cover the entire amount.”

*Jen bawls eyes out.*

God? We’re fasting to hear from you: One or two kids?

Insert: The Most Obvious Answer Ever Received In Our Lives.

Without question, we knew God had two kids for us, so this referral for just one was terribly confusing. We were starved for clarity, staring at each other like one of us had an explanation, the key to unlocking this baffling development. Do we accept it? Do we wait? Our strategy has been, “Go back to what you know for sure. What was the last thing you heard?” The marching orders for two children was iron-clad, so I went three weeks back to those dark days full of prayer and sorrow. I confirmed the dates then searched this beautiful girl’s file:

It was the week she was brought to the orphanage.

Shipped twelve hours north of her village, her people, everything she knew to a crowded orphanage with children and workers who spoke a different language, it must’ve been devastating. She must’ve felt so alone. At age five. Except Jesus never leaves his little ones, his most vulnerable. He was there in the scary van ride north. He was there in her confusion and fear. He was there as she was assigned a bed and communal clothes and had her beautiful head shaved. He was there that first heart-breaking night. And he made sure we were there in spirit, too.

I am telling you, we felt her grief. We carried her turmoil. We cried her tears. Jesus made sure we sat watch with Him over her. He invited us into the vigil he was keeping on her behalf. Exactly three weeks after her first lonely night in the orphanage, we got her referral.

She was ours. We knew it.

She was the “younger unrelated girl” we asked for when pursuing Ben. It all locked into place. Within hours of the call, we asked for him too. For four agonizing days, we fought for his referral, this bright, shiny boy who’d seen hundreds of babies and toddlers come and go. For four days, we pleaded our case against staunch resistance (our social worker never approved unrelated double placements; only biological siblings). For four days, prayers and emails and calls flooded in, as our Christian community rallied for this boy.

Enter The Great Silence, Compline, the prayer of completion. Every Sunday night at 9pm, the parents adopting through our agency join in prayer all over the world. We pray for our children, the nannies, our paperwork, referrals, court dates, traveling mercies, approvals, and grace. I told my adoption community: “Please pray for our expanded referral. We want this boy so desperately, but it feels impossible.”

We were hanging on by a thread. We knew God said adopt two children from Ethiopia. We knew he connected us in prayer to our daughter’s traumatic abandonment. We knew he imprinted Ben on our hearts already, before we even had a referral. We knew these two children were ours, but the approval looked hopeless.

From nearly every state and several other countries, we prayed at 9pm, the hour of The Great Silence. We interceded for each other and begged God to move for the orphan. We voiced our impossible circumstances and trusted him to work the common, everyday miracles that surround adoption. We acknowledged his sovereignty over bureaucracy, embassies, social workers, and poverty. We prayed for completion: Our children home. Hesitantly, timidly, I said, “I trust you, God.” At 9:27pm, our social worker sent this:

“I am going to approve this referral.”

The first day we got their pictures.

No words can describe the rejoicing in our house, and certainly in the heavens. Another son coming home, despite the odds, regardless of “the rules.” Yet again, God moved mountains for his kids. The day our Ethiopian children were born, the angels celebrated their immense value, the image of God they each bear. Their circumstances didn’t lessen their worth but raised them to the highest level of divine attention:

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
I love the Lord, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy.
I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.
God sets the lonely in families.
Blessed are you who are poor, for your is the kingdom of God.
Our God is a God who saves; from the Sovereign Lord comes escape from death.

We’ve been invited into a beautiful story, involving hundreds of saints in prayer for two treasures. God captured an entire community with love for two children whose names we'd never even heard.

I want you to know their names.

Our Beniam is seven, and we’ll call him Ben; the son we fought for. Our daughter’s name is Matawi, which means “Remembrance.” We will call her Remy, because she was never forgotten; not by her Creator, not by her Savior, and not by us. God walked with our children through every sorrow; their plight was ever before him. God never forgot, never slept, never stopped working until his children were restored.

He remembered them.

For the LORD comforts his people and will have compassion on his afflicted ones. But Zion said, “The LORD has forsaken me, the Lord has forgotten me.” Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me.

See, I will beckon to the nations, I will lift up my banner to the peoples; they will bring your sons in their arms and carry your daughters on their hips. Kings will be your foster fathers, and their queens your nursing mothers...Then you will know that I am the LORD; those who hope in me will not be disappointed.

Can plunder be taken from warriors, or captives be rescued from the fierce? But this is what the LORD says: “Yes, captives will be taken from warriors, and plunder retrieved from the fierce; I will contend with those who contend with you, and your children I will save.”

~Isaiah 49