Cultivating Compassion (part 7): Imagining Less

In the very first week of this series I discussed the notion that the feeling of compassion "commonly gives rise to an active desire to alleviate another's suffering."  So where does that leave us now?  We've spent the last few weeks discussing ways to increase our ability to feel compassion.  But obviously that is not enough.  We cannot leave it there.  It is not enough to merely feel, for true compassion acts.    

There are lots of starting points for action, and no two will look quite the same.  God has placed us each in unique circumstances and given us unique perspectives.  We will all express compassion to others in different ways.  Rather than spend time discussing the endless opportunities you have to show compassion, I want to talk about another tool that might free you up to do more for others.

I shared with you HERE about my belief that the imagination is a great teacher of compassion.  It can enrich our understanding and propel us into reality.  In that post I suggested imagining the circumstances, hurts and needs of others so that we are inspired to be compassionate.  This week I want to touch very briefly on the practice of re-imagining our own lives.  Specifically, imagining less in our lives so that we are freed up to do more in the lives of others. 

Yes, I am talking about "stuff" here.  Giving stuff to others isn't necessarily the only way to demonstrate compassion, but it is a very large element.  If we want to be ready to demonstrate compassion to those God places in our paths we need to be prepared.  The problem is that many of our resources are tied up not in transforming the lives of others, but keeping our own lives plump. 

We live in the midst of an intensely materialistic culture that preaches the "need" of things...MORE things...NEW things...the BEST things and LOTS of them.   Navigating our daily lives becomes increasingly confusing.  We become desensitized.  Our standards change.  We are blinded to the extravagance of it all because it is so...normal.

And it is so easy to acquire things.   Everyone else is doing it.  In fact, many are acquiring much more than we are, so we compare ourselves to them to make us feel better about what we have...or don't have.  This is why our imagination is so essential.  When we are saturated in an environment that tells us this is just the way life is, we must use the power of our imaginations to help us escape that trap and envision something better.


As I state above, my point here is not to compare ourselves with any other person.  I am asking us to use our imaginations to imagine a simpler, purer, nobler version of our own lives.  This is one of those tricky topics where there is no one size fits all solution.  And my goal is not to prescribe, but to inspire.  To inspire each of us to look at our lives and imagine less.  Less clothing.  Less indulgent food.  Less entertainment.  Less space.  Less...you name it.

And YOU must be the one to name it in your own life.  For some imagining less might lead to a radical selling of possessions.  For others this might be choosing to forgo a small something you want so that you can instead give someone something they need.

This is also not meant to be a tool to police ourselves...I will discuss fatal abuses of compassion more in depth next week.  But for now I will say that this is meant to be a freeing exercise, leading to contentment and peace.  So I ask you to pause momentarily now, and throughout your day to being searching and inquiring of God where you might imagine less in your life so that you are more open to compassion.

Consider what would happen if we were each to individually work to change our posture?  What if rather than living our lives climbing a scale that tells us we are entitled to increase as we progress, we chose to decrease?  What if we made active decisions that kept our lives quiet and modest?  Just imagine what we would then be able to do for others in the world.


Imagining less for yourself frees you up to act more compassionately toward others.  And less is not just more for others.  It is more for you too.

Making It

It's all downhill from here, y'all!  Scott's time in Uganda has hit the halfway point.  He'll be home in 9 days!

I wish I could give some sort of update on how he is doing, but we haven't really talked much.  This may sound strange, but I kind of prefer it this way.  Any time we have a drawn out or in depth discussion I end up feeling lonelier and saddened.  I guess it just reminds me more that he is not here and I am not there.

Overall Scott seems well.   He has been healthy and sleeping decently enough.  He has been busy, which is great.  Just keep praying that He accomplishes his many programs (that's what we call them in Uganda) before he departs.  With only 8 days left in country, I know he'll be working hard to wrap things up.

On this side of the Atlantic I have been faring decently.  It seems each time Scott goes to Uganda I deal with it better.  It also helps that Vivian is now older and more aware of where her daddy is and who he is with.  In fact, she gets concerned if "Daddy Ophilus" isn't with "Daddy Boy" when we call. (Yes, this is what she calls Scott...and she calls herself "Vivian Girl."  I am just plain old "mommy.")  She somehow takes comfort or pleasure in believing Scott and Theophilus are together 24/7.  Knowing who he is with and what he is doing has made her bear Scott's absence much more peaceably.

We SURE will be glad to have him home, though!  And once he is home I will be more than happy to hear those stories and reports he's been storing up for me.  And hopefully, I can pass pieces of them along to you all.

Thanks for your prayers!

Cultivating Compassion (part 6): Walk a Mile

Up to this point in the series, everything I have discussed has been cerebral and internal.  Now it is time to finally get our physical selves involved.  If you missed any previous posts in this series you can find them HERE.


In May 2007 when a little blue plus sign showed up on my pregnancy test, we were in the midst of loading up our large suitcases for our annual Uganda trip.  Well, I thought, this is going to be interesting.  And it was...interesting.

That summer we spent 7 weeks in Africa, all of them falling within my first trimester.  Every woman experiences pregnancy differently, but the common complaints for the first few weeks are nausea, exhaustion and loss of appetite.  I had all of them.  Compound this with the fact that I was staying in a house with 40+ other people, sharing a single bathroom with over a dozen other girls and occupying a room located directly across from the kitchen.

No, it wasn't ideal.  It was loud, crowded and stinky.  Each morning I was awakened at 6 am by the prayer meeting in the common room which shared a wall with ours and the smell of frying eggs wafting through the screen above our door.  I would curl up into a queasy ball, yank the covers over my head and think about anything other than throwing up.

Was it difficult?  You bet!  Would I do it any differently if given the choice today?  No way.

Why?  Because through this physically challenging, exhausting ordeal the Lord gave me one of the most powerful "walk a mile" experiences in my life.

Ever hear that expression "You'll never really understand someone until you have walked a mile in their shoes?" Harper Lee wrote in To Kill a Mockingbird, "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."  The idea of seeing things from another's point of view has been what I have been trying to encourage in the past two installments.  Now I want us to climb into others skin and walk around in it.


Until you have experienced something, it is impossible to fully grasp it.  So while we can make good and worthwhile attempts, nothing compares to the power of firsthand experience.  Connecting our own situations with those of others is awesome.  Being able to say you have walked a mile in someone else's shoes is even better!

The reality is, though, that we are never going to have the opportunity to walk a mile in everyone's shoes.  It is just impossible.  Many of us will never lose a child, fight in war, be raped, or live in a cardboard box.  How do we cultivate a deeply understanding compassion for those who have if we have not tasted it ourselves?

The thing about the expression "walked a mile" is that it does not suggest you must walk the entire journey, but only a mile.  Just a taste.  Just a brief portion helps spur you onward and supply you with a richer compassion. 

During my pregnant days in Uganda the process of eating made me feel ill.  If I didn't eat, though, I felt worse.  I went unsatisfied for weeks.  I choked down just enough to survive.  I can still hear Phiona urging me to eat "one more bite" of pumpkin as we sat in the restaurant at Fuelex.  It was torture.  I was miserable when I ate.  I was miserable when I didn't eat.

My life was consumed with thoughts of food.  I became increasingly despondent while simultaneously more irritable.  I was distracted...empty...worthless.

One afternoon-I snapped.  We had returned home to the smell of tilapia frying in the kitchen for dinner.  Once in our room I sank into Scott's arms and wept.  "I'm so hungry....I'm so hungry."  Over and over again I repeated the phrase until my tears choked me up.  I had never known true hunger.  Yes, I had felt hungry before, but I had never known the torment of chronically never being full...never satisfied.  The physical and psychological ache had encoiled me until I felt owned by it.

And once my tears of pain and self pity had dried on my cheeks, something very sweet and life changing dawned on me:  This is what the hungry live with...every day...every month...every year.  And unlike you, Jamie Laslo, they are not suffering because they are pregnant or do not desire the food before them, but because there is no food before them.  They have limited access.  Limited options.  This is why you see children digging through burning garbage heaps at dusk searching for their dinner.  Their humanity is being robbed by the ache inside, the mental and emotional tax of always being hungry.  Have you learned?

I had always considered myself a compassionate person toward the hungry.  But now when I think about someone being hungry, I feel an intense, personal pain.  I tasted a very small bite of hunger and found it's bitterness unbearable.  My heart is now consumed with ache for those to whom it is served day after day after day. 

This was my gift.  Yes, a gift.  These gifts are delivered to saints every day as the God of all comfort trains us to comfort others (2 Cor 1:2-4)

I know a dear Christian sister who several months ago was plunged into a deep and unexpected depression. She was always a bright and cheerful woman.  The experience blind sighted her.  But what I found most remarkable as she very bravely and honestly shared her troubles with friends was the way she expressed that she had a new found compassion and understanding for those who regularly struggle with depression.


She walked a mile.  It was probably one of the biggest hurdles she ever faced in her spiritual journey. The Lord has since lead her through the darkest part of the valley, and I am convinced that if you asked her today, she would tell you she is the better for the path she was called to walk.  She learned a new empathy for those who suffer in hovering shadow of depression.  She understands now what she could not have fully understood without experiencing it herself.  Her capacity for compassion expanded.

Maybe these experiences sound a tad dramatic.  They are.  They are extremes.  Life changing opportunities to grow.  But the thing that is so thrilling about walk a mile experiences, is that they don't always have to be big or dramatic.  In fact, it is possible to have one...more than one...each and every day.  In both small and large experiences, in the day to day of our lives, we are able to take adversity and transform it into a learning opportunity.


I really want you to see how very practical and easily applicable this is to do so here are some recent examples from my own life:

As I am home alone this month, taking care of my house and daughter while my husband is out of the country.  I am tempted to feel blue and pitiful.  But I am working hard to use this time to learn to walk a mile in the shoes of single parents and spouses of soldiers who live this way for long periods of time. 


When the transmission in our van died earlier this year and we were forced to use one car, I felt inconvenienced.  But I determined to walk a mile in the shoes of families who cannot afford the luxury of two vehicles.

Last month when I was sick for two straight weeks and living life at 50% I was learning to walk a mile in the shoes of those who suffer from chronic ailments that keep them feeling weak.

When I was picking strawberries at a local farm last week my back ached as I hunched over the strawberry mounds.  I turned my mind to the migrant farmers and field laborers who spend day after day tediously laboring picking fruit.  I used my time to walk a mile.

Trials and difficult circumstances, from the most exotic to mundane afford us a richness of opportunity to cultivate compassion in our lives.  What a revolutionary way to live-instead of seeing the negative we are able to see positive...an opportunity to become trained in compassion.

So let me encourage you.  The next time you are suffering whether big or small.  The next time you lose power in a thunderstorm, go a sleepless night with a sick child, have to eat a meal you dislike or lose something you value try to think the following:

"Thank you, Lord, for a chance to walk a mile, for a chance to increase my capacity for compassion." 

It takes practice.  It takes determination and perseverance.  But I promise, it breeds so much joy in the heart.

Tropical Fruit, Skinny Dipping and a Song About Beans

It is very quiet in my little Birmingham home tonight.  Vivian is tucked in.  The dishwasher is running.  I don't have anyone to talk to.  This is usually the part of the day where Scott and I swap stories.  And since he is asleep somewhere on a foam mattress in an African village, I thought I'd share my day with you all.

This has been a bittersweet week for several reasons.  Obviously, Scott left for Uganda.  He left for Uganda alone when we usually travel together as a family.  This is also Vivian's last week of Wee School.  On Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday mornings since August she has been attending a wonderful preschool program at a local church while I go into work at the Pearl office.  Since she's no longer in school I won't be going into the office any longer.  Part of me is secretly glad for a change in pace and reprieve.  Part of me thinks I might go a little crazy at home all day every single day.  And part of me wonders how in the world I am going to get any ministry work done.  I also have a feeling a certain little someone is going to be a bit sad not to go to class anymore.

On my way to pick her up after lunch, I swung into Winn Dixie to grab some milk and bananas.  I forgot the bananas because I got distracted with the pineapples.  I never buy pineapples because they are prickly, pricey and never as yummy as they are in Africa.  But today I guess I was feeling very sentimental or something.  I am terribly homesick for Uganda!  I wanted a pineapple...bad.  Especially when I saw they were only $1.99! Now we have a prickly piece of tropical love in our house.    Let's just hope it tastes decent. 

In the afternoon Vivian decided to carry on our "Ugandan shout out" day by stripping down to her birthday suit in the backyard so she could "bathe."  What was she bathing in?  A tub?  A pool?  Nope.  A Styrofoam cooler.   I keep it in the yard so she can pretend it is a fishing pond or fill it with bubbles.  But today it was a tub and she stood happily in it for a quarter of an hour.  (There really wasn't enough space for her to sit.)  The image of a nude toddler standing ankle deep in a little pail in the grass reminded me more of Uganda than I can say.  I have photos...but they're not exactly G rated.

And we closed our day with Veggie Tales...a new one.  Thankfully Netflix made a few more available to watch instantly, because I was getting pretty tired of our copies of Pistachio and God Made You Special!  Vivian's choice: Lord of the Beans, the vegetable's interpretation of Lord of the Rings.  It was utterly ridiculous...infinitely more annoying than most Veggie Tales.  So how did I end up responding at the end of it?  I was in tears.  Yep.  I cried.  Not because it was bad, but because despite the awful sporks, raspberry blowing trees and irritating silly song, the message was amazing. 

Toto Baggypants was given the gift of a special bean and goes on a quest to learn what his gift is for.  Others have used the gift of the bean for their own prosperity and gain, creating stuff and making themselves look better.  But Toto believes there is more than that.  In the end we learn that the point of the gift isn't to help ourselves, but to help others.  No amount of ridiculousness could drown out the beauty of that clear, godly message.  God gifts us so that we might gift others.

And so friends, thank you for letting me share my day with you.  No, I don't plan on making a habit of this...for which I'm sure you're relieved!  But tonight it has brought me ease to let the mundane details out.  To close, I'll leave you with the final song of Lord of the Beans. 

To have a gift is a wonderful thing
Your spirits will lift and your heart will sing
Though some might use it to live like a king
I finally know what its for!


At last your gift makes you feel like a king
When you see all the good and the help it can bring
And joy will bloom like the flowers in spring
When you finally know what its for!

Who Wouldn't Want to Go?

This morning we were buckled up early, sitting in stagnant traffic on Highway 74 as Vivian and I headed home to Birmingham.

"Look up, Viv.  Do you see that airplane?"

"YES!"

"You know, daddy is on an airplane right now.  He's riding it to get to Africa."

She thinks for a minute..."I want to go to Africa too.  I'm gonna see Mama Sarah and Daddy Ophilus and the kids and I'm gonna share my fruit bar!"

"Really?"

"Yes!  I am gonna share my fruit bar with the kids.  And I am going to Africa too!"

This grand plan of sharing may require some small miracle as this fruit bar is a skinny piece of fruit leather no bigger than a credit card.  Still I was very proud that she would be willing to divide her most cherished snack among so many others.

Yesterday went a little different than originally planned.  Scott was supposed to depart for Chicago in the early afternoon.  Then fly to Amsterdam.  Then to Entebbe.  But when he stepped up to the check out desk at 9:45 that morning, he was informed that his flight to Amsterdam had been canceled due to volcanic ash.

Thankfully there are other routes.  He switched his ticket over to a direct flight to Dubai then onto Entebbe.  The flight didn't depart until 9:40 pm, however.  So he turned around and came home for a few hours of respite.

We had already done the "big goodbye speech and farewell ceremony" with Vivian.  This involved her waving passionately in the driveway, tears streaming down her chubby little cheeks.  The strange thing was, she didn't seem very surprised or excited to see Scott walk back through the door so soon.  Little kids are so funny.  The concept of time is so vague.  Still I know that after a few days she is going to be pining away and getting very antsy for her dad.

We tried to keep the second parting brief...but saying goodbye again wasn't pleasant for her.  This time as she cried she wailed "I want to go to Africa TOO!"  It was very sad...but strangely it made me happy.  She really wants to go.  She is excited to go.  It is so awesome to have a toddler who is eager and enthusiastic to go see our friends in Uganda.  Come December, it is going to make our family trip so much happier and pleasant. 

Earlier yesterday morning, Vivian was watching parts of Snow White with my sister (while I went berry picking) and as Snow White and the woodland creatures wandered into the dwarve's little house Vivian looked at her aunt and said "They're going to Africa.  They'll be gone for a while."

Yes, apparently everyone is going to Africa, even animated princesses!  And why wouldn't they?  Who wouldn't want to go?  I know I do. 

Cultivating Compassion (part 5): Why You Should Get Netflix

Yes...I'm serious.  I actually think that getting Netflix can help you along your journey to cultivating compassion.  Last week we talked about using the imagination to spur us onto compassion.  But the reality is, some of us struggle to use our imaginations.  And there are some things that feel beyond imagining.  How are you just supposed to imagine what a village in Tibet is like if you know nothing about Tibet?  How are you supposed to conjure up feelings of deep sympathy for women being raped in Sudan if you have no idea that they even exist.

What we need is awareness.  We need some reality to fuel our imaginations.  There are many ways to do this, but I think one of the most affordable, accessible and powerful tools is film.  Film can be a portal into another world.  It enables us to see places we could never imagine.

Americans love film.  We love our movies and T.V.  The problem is that we are watching WAY too much and most of what we are watching is utter junk.  And even if it isn't junk it isn't doing much to help us enter into reality.  A lot of it is escape.  But I believe that in moderation and with discretion, it can assist us in cultivating compassion.

What if we opted to trade in some of our ridiculous and petty viewing pleasure for those that would make us wiser, wider people?

A few months ago my husband brought home the film, the Constant Gardener.  It rocked my world.  The story was good, but what I really loved was the powerful imagery of Africa, the sights, sounds and rawness.  Toward the climax of the film there is a series of scenes taking place in the camps of Sudan.  My body was physically moved.  My heart was captured.  Everything in me ached.  

Have you ever seen a movie like this?  Where you were educated, empowered or changed?  Has a film ever stuck with you for days, forced you to broaden your horizons or changed the way you perceive others.  By taking us to places we may never ordinarily go with people we may never ordinarily encounter, film can increase our awareness, increasing our imagination thus increasing our capacity for compassion.

I was haunted for days after watching the Pursuit of Happyness.   I cannot watch the close of To Kill a Mockingbird with a dry eye.  Life is Beautiful.  Nowhere in Africa.  These and many other films changed me somehow.  I can't explain it all, but they opened me up to other perspectives, hardships and hopes.  I can also think of countless documentaries that taught and compelled me.  They took me into South Asia where sex tourism binds eight year old girls in brothels.  They took me into impoverished coal mining communities and cancer wards. 

Nowadays there is really no excuse not to know about what is going on in the world.  Incredible documentaries, exposure pieces and feature films aren't hard to access.  The biggest struggle will be weeding through all the garbage to find them!

When we got rid of our cable back in January, we weren't planning on ridding our home of all forms of entertainment.  We were just determined to rid ourselves of the most expensive, brain sucking form.  We still watch "TV" sometimes in the evening.  We do so on our computers. Now we have to go through some effort and discussion before choosing a show.  We don't just watch something because it is on or flick aimlessly through channels searching for something.  We think and plan for it.  Because of this we watch a lot less quantity and a lot more quality programming.

We don't just watch free stuff, though.  When we voted to kick cable to the curb we mutually agreed to welcome Netflix into the house.  This was a GREAT decision.  This has proven to be an amazing, affordable tool for sifting through the fluff to find worthy and substantial media.

A lot of you normal folks out there reading this probably already have Netflix.  I realize it has been around for a while, but Scott and I are always behind the times it seems.  Netflix was a big technological/pop-culture advance for us.  Thankfully for our sakes, it is super simple to figure out!

I love having Netflix.  I think if you don't already have it, you should get it.  Netflix is a little treasure trove of obscure and informative media that you will not likely have such easy, affordable access to anywhere else.  For a low monthly fee you are able to choose from thousands upon thousands of viewing options.  Your local library isn't likely to offer many of these titles.  You're local Blockbuster certainly won't.  Netflix is an easy, affordable way to get to view interesting and educational media.

I have been continually impressed with the richness of content available and have learned of so many powerful pieces that I  would never have known about otherwise.   

But be warned:  With all of the excellent choices available on Netflix, there is still A LOT of garbage available as well.  Netflix can offer a lot of good opportunity to grow, but if misused it can be a complete time/thought waster.  If you are not a wise steward of your time you could easily get sucked into so many random shows and movies that your eyeballs explode!  The secret, as with anything, is self control!  If self control in this regard is going to be hard for you to exercise...I'd recommend avoiding temptation altogether.  In the end, it just wouldn't be worth it.

Because while a moderate dose of informative media can teach us much, overindulgence squanders the gain.  For the point is not to spend all of our time in front of a screen, but to use that screen from time to time as a propulsion out into the world depicted there.  I suppose this is much the same as how we use our imaginations.  It is not to pull us from reality, but to push us into it.

But yes, I do think that if you can spare the small sum, it is justified as a means of learning.  And it doesn't have to be Netflix.  Your local library probably does have some intriguing historical documentaries.  Even the selections in your local red box might surprise you.  The point is to start using the film in our lives for less self indulgent purposes, and more compassionate ones.

Pause.  Think.  And Pray before you play.  But with wisdom and discretion you may find new windows into the world opening up in your own living room.  Use what you see and learn to help you open your heart to others in need.

When a Heart Stops

Having spent much of the last month thinking and writing on compassion, I want to be plain that I am not always on the giving end of compassion.  I am often on the side deeply needing and, many times, receiving it.  This is one such story. It is one I finally need to share.

Almost a year ago today I was lying on my back in the ultrasound room at Birmingham OBGYN, anxiously awaiting my first glimpse at Laslo baby number 2.  Vivian (still not walking at the time-ah, those were the days!) squirmed in her daddy's lap while I squirmed at the feel of cold jelly on my tummy.  I was ten weeks pregnant.

We hadn't made the big announcement yet, as we were leaving for Uganda in a matter of days.  I spent my first trimester of my pregnancy with Vivian in Uganda.  Most folks remembered how physically miserable that was for me.  I knew people would be concerned...maybe even critical.  So back in March when we saw that blue plus sign on the pregnancy test, we decided not to share the news until just before our KLM flight left the runway.  That way everyone would know to pray for me, but no one would have time to try to talk me out of travel.

My symptoms with this pregnancy mirrored those with Viv's.  I was nauseous, hungry and wanted red meat.

"How are you feeling?" Cindy, he Dr.'s assistant had asked me when I stepped on the scale.

"Lousy," I said.

"Good," she smiled.  "That's a good sign."

The first time I looked at that positive pregnancy test I felt a bit stunned.  This is what the world calls an "oops" baby.  Of course, I know there is no "oops" in God's vocabulary.  My first thought was, "Well, this is what God wants for our family."  My second thought was, "I'm not ready."

We had tried and hoped for Vivian's conception.  I had months to emotionally and mentally equip myself for the prospect of pregnancy.  This time there was no comfortable prep time.  All of a sudden our family was bigger and I had to wrap my head around that reality.  Morning sickness.  Back pain.  3 am feedings.  This time with a rambunctious toddler in the mix.  Honestly, I was scared and not very thankful.

I knew my attitude was wrong.  So I decided to give myself time and allow the Holy Spirit to change me.  You know what?  He did.  In a matter of days I was not only at peace with this new baby.  I was excited!  I began to imagine all that this new life would bring to our family and home.  I understood the blessing.  I saw it as a gift-no matter the challenges.  And as I laid on that ultrasound table holding my breath I couldn't wait for December 5th to arrive.

The sonographer was doing her usual business of swirling around my stomach, and staring very intently at the moniter screen.  It occurred to me that she wasn't saying much.  Of course, it was hard to get a word in edgewise with Vivian babbling in the corner.  After a moment, the sonographer stood up and said sweetly, "I'll be right back, hon."

I knew before her pink scrubs disappeared through the doorway that our baby was gone.  My mind frantically tried to rationalize other explanations for her silence and awkward exit.  Scott looked nervous.  He held Vivian tighter and tried to look brave for my sake.  I looked at the profile of the little baby floating on the screen and felt a cold tear run past my ear and down my neck. 

Minutes later Dr. Christine's petite white coat slipped through the door.  I saw her face and knew.  We had lost it.

She sat on the stool to examine the image.  Body.  Arms. Head.  No heart beat.  The baby looked to be ten weeks along.  It must have just happened.  She started to explain things.  Things about "missed miscarriages," placenta and normalcy.  I wasn't absorbing.  All of the joy and hope I had been anticipating in that ultrasound was suddenly death and loss.  I was fighting hard not to crumple. I focused on keeping my face frozen.  But I could feel the tears running faster and hotter past my ears and down my neck.

I was helped off the table and tenderly escorted toward Dr. Christine's office.  The lights were glaring.  I felt naked, flushed and red eyed shuffling down the hallway past happy, pregnant couples sitting cozily in upholstered chairs.  In a building full of bright expectations I was a public, tearful exhibit of everyone's worst nightmare.

My doctor wanted to rush me immediately into the hospital for an emergency DNC.  They would "take care of it" quickly and as painlessly as possible.  This, she explained, is what most women do.  I suppose most women don't like spending much time feeling like a casket.  That's what you feel like, you know, a living tomb.

Scott and I don't do anything quickly, though.  I wanted time to think.  I wanted to go home and cry.  I didn't want to be rid of this baby as soon as possible and try to forget it ever happened.  It was all like a dream.  I wanted to wake up.

I knew, though, that I was going to have to go in for the operation.  We were leaving for Uganda in a week and a half.  It might take up to two to three weeks for my body to reject the baby naturally.  I couldn't risk this happened on an airplane halfway over the Atlantic.  The DNC is what needed to be done.

At home I curled up into the corner of the couch and wept.  In another room I could hear Scott's muffled voice phoning the hospital and then phoning the precious few who knew I was pregnant.  I could hear my mother's cracked sob through the receiver.  I imagined her walking toward her car to go home and pack her suitcase.  Of course she would come.

Scott and I were very quiet after that.  It was not a painful sort of quiet that was awkward or disturbed.  It was a quiet of togetherness.  At some point, I stopped crying.

Rachel from outpatient surgery scheduled me for 8:30 the following morning.  I took a Toni Morrison book to the waiting room.  I must have read the first chapter three or four times.  I saw the words, but did not absorb them.  I observed the other families sitting at socially polite distances from one another, passing the time with magazines or text messaging.  I imagined why they were there.  Maybe the round guy in the red shirt was in for knee surgery.  Perhaps the lady with the perm was there to get her melanoma removed.  I was there to have my dead baby cut from my uterus.

Before we checked into outpatient surgery we had made one last visit to the OBGYN.  This was an optional visit I elected to take-a chance for another ultrasound to be 100% sure that the pregnancy had "failed."  Because my body had not started to miscarry naturally it was important to double check and confirm the loss.  And honestly, I just wanted to see the baby one last time.  I wanted to stare intently at its shape so that I would never forget it. I held no real hope that this ultrasound would tell a different story, though I do remember telling the Lord that I knew He had raised others from the dead before.  But just as I suspected, this second ultrasound mirrored the first.  In fact, there was further evidence of miscarriage.

Back in outpatient surgery they called my name.  It was all so sterile.  Hospital gown.  Blood pressure.  Pee in a cup.  All dehumanizing.  The anesthesiologist who pumped me full of drugs was especially cold.  I wanted to say something witty or poignant so that he's look me in the eye.  But I was too tired.  Before I knew it the lights in the operating room faded to white.

Sometimes I still wonder what they did with my baby after they took it from me.  Did anyone look at it?  Did anyone feel sad? Did they throw it in the trash?

Looking back I think I was a little stubborn not to share the news of my pregnancy more openly.  It isn't like me to keep secrets.  But I also understand it now as God's way of protecting me.  Grieving became much easier when I knew I didn't have to face a facebook wall full of "congratulations" or worry about having to repeatedly tell the story until word got around.  It was all just...safer.

Those who did know of our loss called lovingly.  Those nearby brought food...LOTS of food.  Our pastor came to pray with us.  He sat on our sofa and talked about not being able to know why God works this way. "Some women take comfort in the knowledge that God knows what it is like to lose a child," he said.  I smiled, grateful for his sincere efforts to encourage me.  Though I really didn't think the comparison was just.

The most encouraging thing he offered was his presence.  Being there.  In Uganda when there is a loss...and there are many...friends and family gather for days to "mourn with those who mourn and weep with those who weep."  There is little talking.  There is mostly sitting.  Comfort is found in the presence of the life of others.

In my heart I never asked why I lost this baby.  Why does anyone suffer?  Why does anyone die?  The answers to these questions, I learned long ago, were best locked in the hand of the wise Author of us all.  My heart was not created to hold them.  But just because the why's do not consume, does not mean the ache is any less sharp. 

In the icy silence of my home, after all the casseroles and well meaning messages were gone, I curled up and waited for my heart to start beating again.  When I was very still I could almost hear the wails of my African children wafting up with mine to the throne of God.  In my mind I saw Jesus standing with the mourning crowds before the tomb of Lazarus.  As He wept I believe He was weeping for all of us, for all of His sheep who would lose someone they loved to death.

These are the balms that soothe the ache.  He stores all of our tears in His bottle. (Psalm 56:8)

Standing days later with Theophilus in the cool of Ugandan afternoon, he looked across at me and in his rich, wise voice said "I was very sad to hear it.  We needed that baby."  I sighed.  And no more was ever said.  This baby was important, this baby was welcome.  It was wanted and loved...not just by me.  He was letting me know this.  But, of course, I already knew.

And of course we both knew that we didn't really "need" this baby in the way most might use the word.  For if we had "needed" it, our Lord would have spared it for us.  For this dear child I can never know why its life was formed, then taken.  But I do know that He formed it and sustained it the exact number of days He determined.  Each one was precious.

I will never be able to forget.  I will never be able to lie on an ultrasound table without thinking of the baby I lost.  I will never be able to allow another Christmas to pass without wondering how many birthdays that child would have just celebrated.  I accept the realities of that pain.  In the shadows of it the blessings surrounding me now shine brighter.  My husband.  My Vivian.  My distant children. 

I have asked for more to love, for a new heart to start again where the one was taken.  But none have.  Anxiety replaced the pain.  Resentment replaced anxiety.  Resignation replaced resentment.  And now peace.  A peace which produces hope sits in that empty place and waits for the Giver of good gifts to continue tell His story.  He teaches us much patience.  Patience teaches us much.  I trust Him. 

My body may remain empty, but truly my heart is full.  My life is full.  I am full of His love.  I am full with the lives of children who need me. How can I dwell on what I do not have when I have so much?  So much has been given to me to love.

Cultivating Compassion (part 4): Imagining More

Thanks to so many for your prayers and encouragement while I was ill.  I am feeling much better.  Still not back to normal...but getting there by the grace of God!  Scott is still quite rough around the edges.  So keep praying he recovers his strength.  He'll be in Uganda exactly one week from today!!!

I am getting this installment of Cultivating Compassion up a day later than I hoped, but am happy I was able to get it up today. If you have missed previous entries of this series you can read them HERE.

Today I want to talk about a very simple and easy way to grow in our compassion:  Imagination.

As I type the word "imagination" I can imagine my friends and family rolling their eyes.  I have spent my the majority of my life suffering from an overactive imagination.  Loved ones have always likened me to Anne of Green Gables.  My imagination has a bizarre life of its own.  I am prone to the dramatic.    Being a tall red head only made the comparison more obvious.

As a child my imagination got me into trouble a few times.  It has scared me out of my senses on other occasions (yes, college roommates...surely you remember Hangmaid Hilda?).  In my teenage years I used my imagination to escape, creating entire worlds where I could make myself whoever I wanted to be and direct my life any way I could choose.  This, my friends, is unhealthy.

I've heard some Christians argue that the imagination is not good for much.  It only leads to evils and distracts us from the reality around us.  My sister and I grew up watching this old Danny Kaye movie called "The Secret life of Walter Mitty" about a man who spends his life in a world of day dreams (HYSTERICAL day dreams I might add).  This causes everything in his real life to suffer, until one day his real life becomes entangled in an all too true mystery.  Naturally no one believes him as they think he has finally lost the ability to distinguish the boundary between the real and the imaginary.  I suppose the lesson to the tale is keep your eyes open as real life is just as engaging and important as the imagined one.

I know all too well that the imagination can lead many astray and leave individuals distracted and distorted.  However, I firmly believe the imagination is a gift from God and if sanctified, can produce worlds of good in the life of a believer. I am not suggesting that we, like Walter Mitty, day dream about being heroic fighter pilots while we should be working.  The imagination, if used wisely, will not help us escape reality.  Rather, it will assist us in entering deeper into reality.

Here is what I mean:  the imagination allows us to escape ourselves and assume the identity and/or circumstances of others.  It is a tool in "putting off self."  It can enrich the ability to enter into one another's sufferings and carry another's burdens the way Scripture commands us to do (see Galatians 6).

The following commercial demonstrates what imagination can do.




I LOVE this commercial.  I'm not necessarily advocating for this charity.  I don't know enough about them.  But this commercial asks us to imagine our life without running water.  It is powerful.  It shifts our perspective.  It creates compassion.

The imagination, like any powerful tool though, needs to be regularly trained and exercised.  When we see a commercial like this we empathize (or at least I assume most do).  We feel something.  We imagine ourselves in their shoes.  When we hear about a tragedy like the earthquake in Haiti, learn of a friend's marital problems, or discover a brother without work, our imaginations immediately kick in.   

Sometimes we cannot bear to imagine it...so we change the channel and start thinking about happier things.  Sometimes we dwell in the imaginings for a moment, then become quickly distracted by something easier to bear.  Our imaginations are weak.  They need some weight training.

I force my imagination to work.  Sometimes when I lie in bed at night I imagine what it is like for families sleeping in makeshift shelters with rain water dripping on their cold heads.  My imagination takes my heart there.  I am in the grocery store and I imagine the faces of women who do not have enough rice to put in front of their hungry children.  It changes what I buy.  When I wash my dishes I imagine barefoot women fetching water in the developing world.  I force my imagination to go to these realities so that I will not be blind or complacent.  I imagine so that I am better equipped to impact reality for Christ.


Opportunities arise every day to train the imagination not to get tired or run.  You don't always have to go searching for them. When you see need, tragedy or pain, choose to sit with it for a time.  Ask yourself questions.  Look into it deeply from many angles.  Remind yourself of it throughout the day.  Allow your imagination to take you deeper into it.  As you do, your compassion will grow deeper as well.


Here is what I have discovered.  By intentionally focusing my imagination on the realities of others,  by systematically training my mind to go to the places where others hurt I am less and less drawn to use my imagination in unprofitable, selfish ways.  Imagining myself in a bigger house, imagining the possibility of accidents, these unprofitable modes of thinking seem ridiculous when I turn my attention to the plight of others.  Not only has it produced more contentment in my life, it has thrust me deeper into reality.  For you can only dwell on the plight of the hungry, frightened, lost and orphaned for so long before you are driven out of compassion to intervene and bless.
 
One simple warning about imagination, though.  Sometimes we can get so caught up in imagining what we would feel like in a certain situation that we forget, not everyone is the same.  Just because something would impact you a particular way does not mean it would influence another in the exact same way.  It is easy to get so caught up imagining how something would make us feel that we forget to stop and ask the other person what it is like for them.  How they are really dealing with it.  How it hurts, doesn't hurt, etc.  We assume.

The last thing a grieving widow wants to hear is how you can "imagine exactly how she feels" when you have never lost a spouse.  The last thing an infertile couple wants to hear is you can "imagine exactly how they feel" as your five young children run giddily around the room.

The imagination helps us better understand and show compassion, but it is only a tool.  It doesn't make us authorities.  You do not have to have experienced something necessarily to have compassion toward others who have, but you need to make sure to educate yourself, humble yourself and remember that you are never the ultimate authority on another's circumstance.  ONLY the Word of God and the Holy Spirit Himself has that kind of power.  And even if you have experienced the exact same grief or trial as another, you are still different people who process, learn, feel, act and trust in different ways.  You may also be at different stages in a journey.  This is particularly true in cross cultural circumstances. 

So I would suggest that a good rule of thumb is to allow the imagination to propel you into compassion for others, but not to allow it to draw you to any conclusions or judgments.  Imagining is a great starting point.  And I assure you that if you thoughtfully and wisely begin to allow your imagination to assume the identity of others in need you will find new channels of compassion opening in your heart.

Maybe imagination isn't your strong suit, though.  Or maybe you can't even begin to imagine certain realities in this world.  Well, we are blessed to live in a time that gives us tremendous learning aids.  Next week I'll share about fueling our imagination with a very popular gem...film.  Stay tuned.

On Becoming My Mother

I have a wonderful mother. Carolyn Rosser is an amazing woman. Truly, I adore her more than any other woman in the world. She loves me more than I ever rightly deserve and has taught me most everything I know about loving others. The following essay is a tribute I wrote for her for Christmas last year. I also submitted it for an essay contest…some of you may recognize which one (no…I didn't win ;) But my primary reason wasn't to win a contest. It was to pay homage to my mama. I am publishing it here today in honor of Mother's Day. She will be terribly embarrassed that I did, but Mama, I do it in love. I am sure many other ladies out there will relate to these sentiments.

 

"On Becoming My Mother"

It happened one fateful morning just prior to my sister's wedding. Standing in my parent's kitchen discussing the events of the day, I shuddered with horror as my mother and I simultaneously opened our mouths and in a lilting unison uttered the exact same irritating phrase. I gasped inwardly. Here it was. After years of denial and carefully crafted repression, the inevitable had finally occurred. I had become my mother.
 

I suppose it happens to every woman at some inescapable juncture: the moment she realizes she is no longer a little girl, but the one grown up she said she'd never be….the one who raised her. When I was nine I wanted to be an archeologist when I grew up, or the star of a Broadway show. My goal was to be somebody interesting who did interesting things. My mother was the least interesting person I knew. Over the years I made noble efforts to spice up her life. As an adolescent I coached her in pursuing hobbies and personal interests which I deemed to be of appropriate intellectual and cultural value. I wanted her to be someone I could emulate. Someone more dreamily self absorbed and indulgent…like me. 


But instead of crafting my mother into my own image, she'd been slowly infiltrating my personhood with each passing year. Like emerging symptoms of an incurable disease, I tried to cope with the signs of my fate, hoping to defer the inevitable and praying for escape. As I stealthily trailed behind the inhabitants of my home, turning off lights and scooping wet towels off the floor, I consoled myself that these were signs of household responsibility, not just breeding. 

When I declined to turn the heat up in December and compulsively cut coupons from the Sunday paper, I reminded myself that many women embody such thrift. Admittedly it always took a large sum of will power to keep from blurting out the tell-tale phrase, "Waste not. Want not."


There were more conspicuous signs as well, like my intense fear of water fowl and refusal to shower during a thunderstorm. I began being the bearer of lame jokes and embarrassing puns. I was known to state the obvious and become ridiculously excited over things like wisteria.


My mother's influence extended well beyond the trifle. She owned me on ethical levels as well. Her goody-two-shoes, by-the-book approach to everything had her reporting income from family yard sales on our taxes. When my husband suggested doing something slightly less than code with cash income he'd earned, I tried to act nonchalant. Inwardly I was hyperventilating.


My mother has always been a soldier about her convictions. She sticks to them the way she does her taxes. By the time I was three I knew I'd be breastfeeding my children. Not because nurses were wearing buttons saying "Breast is Best," but because my mother had made it clear that there were no other options. Thanks to her, my daughter has never used a pacifier either. I avoided placing one on my registry for fear of the "the look" I knew it would garner. Even though I am sensible enough to know that my mother is merely emotionally caught up in long established extremities, I find myself legitimately entangled as well. It wasn't only her guilt trip preventing me from embracing that paci; it was mine as well. Irrational and unexplainable, she had weaseled her way inside of me. Her beliefs, anxieties and compulsions were now also my own.


As I sat stewing, meditating on all the peculiar and neurotic characteristics my mother had marred me with; I tried to turn my mind to her better qualities. After all, I do love my mom. She is lovable for many reasons. Surely being her replica wasn't the worst of fates.


Although my mother can lecture about her idyllic convictions, she is never one to condemn. Love and compassion always triumph over her "rules." No matter how harrowing the internal battle, she always leans toward charity. So in the winter of 1980 when a drunk driver plowed through the median of Alabama's Highway 280, striking their car and instantly killing my mother's young husband, she chose not to condemn. As she sat bruised and heartbroken in her bed at Brookwood Hospital, my grandmother told me that my widowed mother extended her thin hand toward the open door to welcome her husband's murderer in for forgiveness and hope.


My mother has endured disappointment in her life. Children who defied her. People who neglected her. She says she yelled at us a lot when we were kids, but I don't remember. What I remember is my mother's empathetic tears when I came home from kindergarten, ashamed that I had wet my pants. I remember the handwritten notes on the napkins in my lunchbox. During a fit of creativity in high school my mother allowed me to paint the trim on my white bedroom furniture bright pink. She never laughed at my short stories, no matter how melodramatic. And when I stayed up crying till 3am in existential crisis, my mother held me silently in her arms. Never judging. Always patient. She gave herself for others. She gave herself for me. All she asked was that I not leave my wet towel on the floor.


What I ignorantly observed with childish eyes as weakness was secretly my mother's strength. Through her faithfulness and quiet devotion she caused others to shine. This spirit made her radiant. Now that I am no longer that idealistic girl sitting in the back seat, passively absorbing the life of the woman up front, I can either complain about the bizarre traits I'd gladly do without or I can choose to appreciate the many beautiful features she crafted in me.


I still roll my eyes at my mother's corny jokes and daily stresses, but now I pause before I do. It is convicting to know that as I chuckle because middle age has made her easily frazzled, frail and slightly more eccentric, I am actually gazing down a tunnel into my own future. It is spooky, and it is sobering. My mother, however, would tell me not to worry. That while we are all traveling roads that have been cleared by others, we each find our own way of walking down them. For all her indoctrination (both good and ill) my mother and I can often be two very different women. She exudes a bizarre affection for bookkeeping. I am lucky to balance my checkbook once a year. She cooks meat and three for dinner. I serve homemade pesto. None of us is doomed to be a robot. No one is made to be another's clone. Besides, she'd say proudly, You're a much greater woman than me. I am pleased that she thinks so, but I know deep down that she is still my better in all the essentials.


Watching my daughter toddle around our living room, I am keenly aware of my influence upon her impressionable life. It makes me feel powerful. It makes me scared. It is humbling to realize that without her even being aware of it she is already mimicking my mannerisms and learning my traits. The way she will (or won't) make her bed, fold a towel, and treat others will be highly impacted by me…her mother. Soon the little girl in diapers will be a grown woman too, realizing how I've cursed her, realizing how I've blessed her. Will she be happy with the lines I've drawn in her life? I can only hope.


The more I age, the more aware I am of my mother's influence upon my behavior, belief and very selfhood. But the less I seem to care. I think I realized I had grown up when I had the maturity to accept the grown up I had become. I am still early in my journey of adulthood, with much maturity and wisdom to accrue. But I can now say confidently, with no grimace on my face, that when I am done with my growing up, I won't mind if I have become my mother.

FREE COPY: The Radical Question by David Platt

I've been hearing the name David Platt a lot lately.  David is the pastor of the Church at Brook Hills, a large church in south Birmingham, AL, the city where we live.  The church is about 40 minutes away from our side of town, but since living in Birmingham our connections to members there have multiplied.  Our Pearl Ministries' COO, Josh Lewis and one of our Board Memebers both go to Brook Hills.  Some of our new neighbors are members there.  We inevitably end up connecting with other members at events we do around town.

Scott has heard David Platt preach on a few occasions.  I've not had the opportunity yet, but hope to soon as it seems he has been clearly anointed with a gift of powerfully preaching the Word of God.

David is calling his congregation...and all of us who say we are followers of Jesus Christ...back to a more radical, sacificial life of discipleship and mission.  Rather than me explaining what he means by that, you can hear it yourself from the horse's mouth so-to-speak as David's booklet "The Radical Question: What is Jesus Worth to You?" is being offered for FREE to individuals in the U.S.A.

This is a 64 page version of David's full length book "Radical: Taking back your Faith from the American Dream."  Josh brought a small stack of copies of "Radical" to the office this week and today I sat down with it after lunch today.  It is only 217 pages.  I made it about halfway through during Vivian's very short nap, "amening" my way through the chapters as I read.    


I really recommend every Christian getting their eyes on a copy.  I'm not recommending it necessarily because I think it is awesome writing...(the writing is fine, but he's a preacher...not necessarily a writer...).  Rather, I am recommending it for the content.  It is the Word of God unfolded and delivered in an undiluted, straightforward way that is intended to make all of us Christians think about what we really believe about the Bible and about our lives.

Here is just a short excerpt to give you a small taste:

"...we need to pause.  Because we are starting to redefine Christianity.  We are giving into the dangerous temptation to take the Jesus of the Bible and twist Him into a version of Jesus we are more comfortable with.     
     A nice, middle-class, American Jesus.  A Jesus who doesn't mind materialism and who would never call us to give away everything we have... A Jesus who is fine with nominal devotion that does not infringe on our comforts, because, after all, he loves us just the way we are.  A Jesus who wants us to be balanced, who wants us to avoid dangerous extremes, and who, for that matter, wants us to avoid danger altogether.  A Jesus who brings us comfort and prosperity as we live out our Christian spin on the American dream.
   ...We are beginning to mold Jesus into our own image...And the danger now is that when we gather in our church buildings to sing and lift up our hands in worship, we may not actually be worshiping the Jesus of the Bible.  Instead we may be worshiping ourselves."  Page 13, Radical

This is just from chapter 1.  The deeper I have gotten into it, the more I have enjoyed and benefited from it.  I by no means feel I have even come close to arriving in these areas of disciple making, material sacrifice, etc. that Platt discusses in the book.  But this is the deep desire and inclination of my hearts.  I am excited to see other Christians in my city thinking and growing in such a radical way. 

Go HERE to request your free copy of the "Radical Question: What is Jesus Worth to You?"

Sick Leave

For the past week I have gone to bed each night thinking, "I will feel better tomorrow."  So far...not true.  OK, I feel a little better than I did a few days ago, but overall, I'm still pretty run down.

Some sort of evil little cold virus paid our family a visit last week.  All three of us (though in different stages) have been victims.   We are rarely sick.  I can count on one hand the number of times my two year old has  been even mildly sick in the course of her life.  (I know I'm spoiled.)  Speaking of sick two year olds, why is it that toddlers still insist on running around like energetic maniacs when they have a cold?  Getting Vivian to rest has been like trying to tie down a wild alligator!

Scott leaves for Uganda in two weeks and I have LOTS to do to get ready for his departure.  (I'm sending oodles of letters, photos and treats for the kids).  Being sick has slowed me to a crawl, but rather than foolishly pressing forward in my ambitious schedule, I'm holding myself back until I'm more recovered.  Everything I seem to attempt at the moment doesn't turn out quite the way I wanted anyway...By concentrating on rest, I hope to mend faster. 

This means a blogging break (which I have actually already been doing for nearly a week.)  Hopefully I'll emerge from the fog soon.  If possible I plan to get Cultivating Compassion (part 4): Imagining More posted mid week. 

Thanks to those of you reading and praying along.  Just pray Scott gets to 100% health before he boards that KLM jet in a few days!