The Real Jesus: Part 3. Why We Keep Our Scars

This is part 3 of a series leading up to Easter. It chronicles my spiritual journey these last several years as I’ve sought the touchable, real-to-me Jesus in the midst of my Unfixable Life.

The Real Jesus. Part 1: The Unfixable Life {posted on Monday}
The Real Jesus. Part 2: When Wounds Take You So Low, You Can Only Look Up {posted on Wednesday}

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When life seems woefully unfixable, when it really will take a miracle to stitch it back up, when nothing is going as you expected and you feel utterly alone in your particular mess, know that there is Hope. There is Hope because there is Jesus and because of the cross.

Jesus, as Kindred Healer, comes to you when you’re bowed low beneath the shadow of the cross and He tenderly lifts your face to meet his gaze. He sees what a mess you are — the bleeding wound here, the twelve-inch scar there, the heart that has been broken a hundred times too many, the conscience that is seared over and over again with shame, the mind that is clouded with doubt or confused by deceit or rattled with dysfunction. He sees you in that seemingly unfixable state and He comes to your rescue by journeying with you. {from Part 2}

Not only is Jesus with you, He acknowledges your hurt, your anger, your not knowing what comes next. He has been tempted in every way and experienced the depth of human emotion in a way we can’t even fathom. He’s taken on all of your sin and mess and taken on all of the the sin and mess thrown at you or at the ones you love. He died with this sin and mess and then was raised to life without it. He was and is our substitute and our savior. And because of this tragic and glorious reality, we too can be saved from the power and penalty of sin and raised to new life. Not just in the eternal, seemingly ethereal sense, but in the everyday sense too.

We can hope when the world says give up and count your losses. We can persevere when the world says run back the other way, protect yourself, play it safe. We can forgive when the world says that’s it’s all about your rights.

God’s love, shown through Christ, expands our reality so that all is governed by the cross and what that really means for us today. No matter how far life seems to have flung itself away from “normal,” the cross stays right there in the center, bigger than ever. God’s love, shown through Christ, actually has the power to refine and reorient our emotions. God’s love, shown through Christ, turns us upside-down and inside-out and it will make no sense to most people but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Ask me how I know.

As I have sought in the most raw and gritty sense to find the Real Jesus these last three years, He has met me exactly where I was. Often, I was in a raw and gritty place. Some days I was hanging on to hope and belief by the thinnest thread. Other days I was filled with worship. Sometimes I felt numb. Many days I was mired in a pit of disillusionment and pain, gripping tightly to the illusion of control I thought I had over my own life. Wherever I was, that’s where He met me, always with love, always without condemnation. But the sweetest thing to me was his acknowledgement of my pain, his understanding of the unfixable state I was in, the consolation I experienced simply by the awareness of his presence.

In my mind’s eye, my conversations with Jesus* went something like this:

Jesus, I cried, I am a mess. Life is a mess. Such a mess. When will I get better? When will I completely heal? When will life not feel like a tangle of loose ends?

Child, he replies, you’re right. This is bad. But don’t be afraid, I’m here. I, your Kindred Healer, am so very here. I feel your pain because I have been there. I have such empathy and compassion for you. Come, take my hand and let’s walk together. Our journey may feel long. Some of these wounds are going to need tending for a long time. But it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. I walk this road with all my children and each one’s journey is different. Don’t look at them and compare. Fix your eyes on me. You will always need me and your awareness of this is key to the healing process. Look, you’re feeling a bit better already aren’t you, wounds and all?

And you are. You’re walking with the Kindred Healer and nothing has really changed except your company. Much like Aslan’s conversation with Susan as she’s weary from the journey, doubting everything, and gripped with fear. {From Prince Caspian}:

‘Susan.’ Susan made no answer but the others thought she was crying. ‘You have listened to fears, child,’ said Aslan. ‘Come, let me breathe on you. Forget them. Are you brave again?”

That’s what it was like. I was Susan. Each day I would wrestle with fear. But Jesus would breathe and on me and make me brave again so that I could continue with the journey.

But there was this lingering question. Jesus, I’d ask, how long before all of these unfixable, messy, painful things are gone?

Ah yes, He replies. The scars. You’ll keep those. But don’t fret. Here, I want to show you something.

He stretches out his hands and you see them — scars.

See, I have them too. You’re in good company. Don’t resent the scars. They’re one of the ways you know I’m real. After my resurrection, one of my own disciples didn’t believe I could have risen from the dead. You’re human so it’s a normal thing to doubt. Thomas said, “Unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails and place my finger into his side, I will never believe.” My scars showed Thomas that I am real and they proved what I had done for him. My scars remind you of the same truths.

I’m God so I could have come back without the scars. But in Our Father’s perfect, compassionate plan, He uses the scars. I am always about the will of the Father and as you continue to walk with me, your life will conform more and more to the will of the Father too. Here’s the really interesting things about scars. You’ll meet others and they’ll have scars a lot like yours. Just as I am your Kindred Healer, I send you out with my Spirit that infuses your story. Together, we provide encouragement and hope for the others. Scars are sacred. Don’t disdain them.

This road we travel, it can be rough at times. And it’s also narrow — not many choose it. But you did and I am with you, always with you. I was forsaken on the cross and because of that, I’m able to promise that I will never leave or forsake you. Do you understand that? I was forsaken so you don’t have to be? The promise I gave to my disciples is the same promise I give to you: I am with you always, to the end of the age. When the path is especially steep, cling to these promises.

This Kindred Healer, He is Jesus. Yes, the one in the Bible. Yes, the One I was looking for. He has become so real and precious to me these last three years as I’ve prayed the same prayer over and over again, Jesus, make yourself real to me.

As I’ve mentioned, his realness to me was not instantaneous, not even close, even though I prayed for that. Rather, it was a slow knowing, a knowing that encountered {and may continue to encounter} doubts and setbacks.

A knowing that gently pressed itself into my life through a season of deep rest, quiet, and solitude. A knowing that has come through counseling, needful books written by other struggling and scarred saints, through sermons and sacred fellowship, through prayer in my minivan after I drop kids off at school.

I have needed all of these means of grace and God has used each of them in beautiful, unique ways. But perhaps most importantly, the slow knowing has come through the study and comfort and power of Scripture. All of it. From the Old Testament to the New Testament and all the way to Amen.

His word — love letter to us, a story of us.

His word — the ultimate story of broken people, hating people, indifferent people, reckless people, hurting people. A story of victims, the oppressed, the sick, the dying, the fearful, failing, and faithless.

His word — a story of how He kept holding out His love and His perfect, protective wisdom even though these struggling, resistant people kept taking it and rejecting it over and over again. And He kept loving them over and over again, holding out his promises and Truth to each generation.

His Word — the story that begins with Jesus and ends with Jesus and points to Jesus page after page.

Do you see? The Unfixable Life is what is saving my life in both the epic and everyday ways because The Unfixable Life leads me to the Real Jesus.

May it lead you to Him too.

Resources

For the seeker: The Gospel of John, found in the New Testament of the Bible. If you’re curious about the Christian faith, start here. If you don’t have a Bible and would like one, let me know and I’ll mail one to you. Also, there are all sorts of free online Bibles. You can read John on your computer screen at home or even on a computer screen at the public library. Biblegateway.com or Biblehub.com are ones that I often use. {If you click on that Biblegateway link, I’ve got it cued up to the beginning of John.}

For the skeptic: The Reason for God: Belief in an Age of Skepticism by Timothy Keller. Though I haven’t written a great deal about it on my blog, I have the heart of a skeptic and therefore a heart for skeptics. There is really no reason that I “should” believe in God, much less a Real Jesus. But I do and it is all grace. This book is a great resource for those who are reluctant, skeptical, or simply curious.

For the hurting: The Problem of Pain by C.S. Lewis. “The intellectual problem raised by human suffering, examined with sympathy and realism.” Shattered Dreams: God’s Unexpected Path to Joy by Dr. Larry Crabb. “Shattered dreams are never random. They are always a piece in a larger puzzle, a chapter in a larger story. The Holy Spirit uses the pain of shattered dreams to help us discover our desire for God, to help us begin dreaming the highest dream.”

For the “bedraggled, beat-up, and burnt-out”: The Ragamuffin Gospel by Brennan Manning. I’ve read this several times and it has greatly ministered to me. I really can’t recommend it enough.

For the one who is stuck and joy-less and struggling to give thanks: One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are by Ann Voskamp. Another one to read and re-read. Proof that yes, even in our darkest days, we can count the gifts. Gratitude changes everything.

For the one seeking the “essential message of Jesus”: The Prodigal God: Recovering the Heart of the Christian Faith by Tim Keller.

For the lover of stories: The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis. These books “for children” have profoundly strengthened my faith and deepened my love for the Real Jesus.

For the child {and for the child’s parents who may be prone to cry every time he or she reads these stories}: The Jesus Storybook Bible: Every Story Whispers His Name.

The Real Jesus. Part 1: The Unfixable Life {posted on Monday}

The Real Jesus. Part 2: When Wounds Take You So Low, You Can Only Look Up {posted on Wednesday}

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* About my “conversation” with Jesus

The passage above is an imagined conversation with Jesus based on His words and character as revealed in Scripture and made personal through the Holy Spirit. The passage is not in any way “inspired revelation” from God as in the Bible. That canon is closed. These are not the literal words of Jesus except where quoted from Scripture. This is simply my own story of Jesus becoming real to me in the midst of this journey and put into conversational form, much like a novelist, artist, songwriter, poet or pastor use creative devices to personalize the truths of Scripture. I offer my words humbly and carefully, with the knowledge that I am human and fallible. I take ownership of any Biblical error.

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The Real Jesus. Part 2: When Wounds Take You So Low, You Can Only Look Up

This is the second part in a three-part series this week. If you missed the last post, The Real Jesus. Part 1: The Unfixable Life, you can read that here.

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It was about three years ago. I remember sitting on my beige {formerly off-white} sofa. The old one that sags in the middle, worn and well-loved and with our family’s very DNA pressed into its fibers. My husband sat across from me in the plaid overstuffed chair. In the most passionate, compelling, and authentic way, he was trying to point me to Jesus.

But it just didn’t resonate with me and I couldn’t manufacture what he had. He knew Jesus in a way that I didn’t. His own journey had brought him face to face with the Jesus I couldn’t quite touch yet. There he sat, encouraging me with the gospel of grace and I couldn’t grab hold of it. His brokenness and humility had taken him to the cross in a way that was so very real and life-altering. I envied him.

Don’t get me wrong. I knew Jesus. I loved Him. I believed in Him. Intellectually I knew that my faith, my worldview, my hope — they were all anchored in Christ.

What I finally figured out and admitted to my husband that night in the living room was this: Jesus seemed like an abstraction. I didn’t know Him in the needful and desperate way I longed to know Him. Yes, it grieved me that He suffered and died on my behalf, on the world’s behalf. And yes, I was so very grateful. Of course. How could I not be?

I don’t want this to sound sacrilegious but I don’t know of another way to explain it. I liken it to a soldier who died for my life and my freedom or my family’s lives and freedoms. If the soldier was my husband, my brother, my son — well … the sorrow, the disbelief, and the deep-down gratitude would obviously flow too deep for words. It would change everything. But if the soldier was a man I never personally knew, perhaps someone I’d only read about in the newspaper, I would be sorrowful and grateful but in a more detached way. That’s because I didn’t actually know him and love him and need him; I merely appreciated him and what he’d done for me.

And that’s sort of how I approached Jesus, with intellectual knowledge and detached appreciation.

I had grown up in church. Jesus Loves Me was probably the first song I ever learned. At the age of eight, I sought a personal relationship with him. Yet here I was, 37 years old, telling my husband that Jesus was an abstraction to me.

When I first began praying, Jesus, make yourself real to me, the prayer I’ve prayed for the last three years, I actually thought something crazy and supernatural might happen right there in my living room. A vision. An overwhelming flood of the divine. An angel sitting next to me on the dilapidated sofa.

I wish I was kidding.

Desperation makes us crazy sometimes. I naturally have the heart of a skeptic; belief has never come easily. I needed something undeniably real and I half-heartedly hoped {and feared} that He would answer me in a powerful way. And quick. I was that anxious for Him to show up in an unmistakable way. I longed for a savior and a friend and a healer in my everyday unfixable life. Having Jesus for eternity seemed fine and good but let’s be honest — when the heavy pain of the everyday is bearing down on us hard, it’s not easy to cling to an abstraction or even to eternity. We want flesh and blood real.

And that’s exactly how He showed up.

It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t a formula. It definitely wasn’t a vision in my living room. Rather, it was a slow knowing over months and years, a knowing that came to me through many different means of grace:

Scripture

Prayer

Counseling

Deep and honest community

Rest

Counseling others who were hurting

Listening to sermons {“The Wounded Spirit” by Tim Keller is a particular favorite.}

Reading books written by other struggling saints

Journaling

Conflict

Silence

Time

Practicing gratitude

As weeks turned to months and months turned into years, I realized that Jesus was becoming more real, more touchable. He really was answering that simple, desperate prayer: Make yourself real to me.

His flesh and blood real life began to show up in my flesh and blood real life.

Scripture says that by his wounds you have been healed. Here’s what I know about wounds. They leave scars. In my quest to find relief and healing, I was strangely fixated on the concept of scars and how we resent the marks of imperfection they leave on us, sometimes staying with us forever. But early on in this journey, I was struck by the fact that Jesus chose to keep his own scars and the irony of Jesus healing our woundedness with his very own wounds.

I’m going to talk more scars in the next post, but for now, here’s what we need to know about them. We can be raised to new life and never lose our scars, our keepsakes of redemption.

And while there is more grace and hope and “beauty from ashes” than we can fathom, sometimes we’re still left to grapple with the consequences and to suffer through them day after day. Sometimes the consequences we face in this broken world full of broken people keep us from being able to fully bask in the beauty because we’re so smeared with the ash.

We’re gripped with fear and set off by triggers. Our physical and emotional health unravels. We see good things we can no longer have and we gaze upon once beautiful gifts now tainted. Relationships break. Dreams shatter. Things fall apart. Loved ones die. The innocent suffer. People hurt us. We hurt others.

I used to fixate on the overwhelming nature of the unfixableness of it all. I may always be prone to wrestle with the pain of this world more deeply than most people. I’ve always been wired this way.

But here’s the tenderness of the Father. If I didn’t have all of this brokenness, I’d run to Him less. If I didn’t have these still-healing wounds, I’d have little need of his balm. If my problems were manageable, well, I’d be managing them all by my capable self.

On my not-so-good days, I’m still prone to stew in resentment. I want to hide myself and my story. Sometimes because I’m prideful. Sometimes because I’m overwhelmed. Sometimes because I’m scared. But then there are those days of unmistakable grace, those day when I remember that in all things I can give thanks, that for those who love God all things work together for good, that in Christ we are a new creation, and that in Christ there is now no condemnation. On those days, I can see my brokenness as a gift and I can even dare to give thanks for all of it.

A dear and wise friend has reminded me more often than she knows that God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble. It was the very theme of Jesus’ earthly ministry {in my non-expert opinion.} This is the best news and it’s really the lens through which we see the Real Jesus.

Cluelessness and neediness and brokenness take you low, to that low place at the foot of the cross. When you’re there, bowed low in humility and dressed in emotional rags, you just have to look up. You have to.

Because you can’t help but notice what’s happening there. You see — hurting friend, will you please see — that the only perfect man who has ever lived — perfect in compassion, in love, in justice, in mercy, in power, in wisdom — He has dared to sink even lower than you because of his great love. He came to save you from your broken and bruised unfixable life and He did it by dying for you. He broke himself to redeem a broken world filled with broken lives.

Here’s the real truth. Whether all is well or all seems lost, we’re all born into an unfixable life. We can’t help it. There may be seasons, maybe years on end, when things are so swell, we forget how broken we actually are, how broken the world actually is. Give it time. None of us walk around on this spinning globe for long without shards of its brokenness leaving scars.

But it’s the gaping wounds, the ones we can’t bind on our own, the ones that if left unattended will make us bleed out altogether, it’s those that bring us crawling to that low place. And it’s there on that sacred, scorned, blood-soaked earth that we find both our Kindred and our Healer, the One who has suffered with us and for us and who heals us with his very blood.

We see that He’s got a gaping wound too — lots of them — and we see that He bled out even to the point of death so that we don’t have to.

It’s at the foot of the cross where things get real because we see that Jesus — fully man, fully God, fully perfect — bled out his love all over us.

This is the Real Jesus and this is where He becomes real to us. This is where He became real to me.

He is not some haloed, abstract, first-century saint printed on a Sunday School poster or painted on a tacky interstate billboard. He’s not simply someone we are supposed to believe in and ask into our hearts because He’s a ticket to Heaven. We don’t cash Him in like that.

He is our life. Our life forever, yes, but that’s really too much for our mortal minds to comprehend. He’s our life now. Today.

This unfixable life of yours and mine? He came to fix it but not usually in the way we expect. And He came with a generosity so big, He dares to promise, I came to give you life abundantly. Not in a prosperity gospel sort of way; He’s not cheap and slick. He is our abundance and if we have Him, we really do have all we need. We have a Counselor who has given us a way to live through His spirit at work in us and through his Word. We have a Savior who not only saves us from our sin {that broken, unfixed state we can’t help}, but who also saves us from ourselves, from what we think we want, and yes, even from an eternity spent apart from his presence.

But here’s the one that really speaks to me on those particularly unfixable days. We have a Kindred Healer, one who was tempted in every way, one who has hurt in every possible way, one who has been wounded, forsaken, falsely accused, put to shame, mocked, and ignored. One who knows what it’s like to lose the person you love most. On a real day in history, a real Jesus died an actual death on a real cross. God the Father turned his back on his beloved Son to make us His beloved. On the cross, Jesus — an innocent, bleeding man — cried out to his Abba Father, My God! Why have you forsaken me?

On that cross every single sin in the history of the world — every murder, assault, violation, theft, and lie; every illicit behavior, perversion, and selfish act; every impure thought, malicious desire, and unspeakable indifference to the oppressed — was all laid upon a perfect man. He died with it, descended with it, and reckoned with it.

And then he came back without it. He came back without it.

Oh bleeding, wounded friend, do you know what this means? It means we can be rescued from the power and penalty of the brokenness too. In believing and receiving this truth, this person who is Truth — it saves us in both the eternal and the everyday sense. Jesus as Savior means He’s our Rescuer. Our Rescuer in an eternal sense, yes, but also our personal Rescuer as we put one foot in front of the other through each and every unfixable day and in each and every unfixable situation.

Jesus, as Kindred Healer, comes to you when you’re bowed low beneath the shadow of the cross and He tenderly lifts your face to meet his gaze. He sees what a mess you are — the bleeding wound here, the twelve-inch scar there, the heart that has been broken a hundred times too many, the conscience that is seared over and over again with shame, the mind that is clouded with doubt or confused by deceit or rattled by dysfunction. He sees you in that seemingly unfixable state and He comes to your rescue by journeying with you.

Sometimes the only thing that’s really changed is the company you keep.

And as you journey together through the Unfixable Life, you finally realize that He is Real. And He is all you need.

By his wounds you have been healed.

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Friday I’ll be back with the rest of the story. We’ll hear more about the journey through the healing process and the real truth about our scars. I’ll also share a few resources through which I’ve found comfort, truth, healing, and the Real Jesus. Thanks for grace as I offer this series that’s so very different than my usual fare.

May your own journey this Holy Week lead you that low place at the foot of the cross.

The Real Jesus: Part 1. The Unfixable Life.

The Real Jesus: Part 3. Why We Keep Our Scars

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The Real Jesus: Part 1. The Unfixable Life.

Several years ago, I entered into the worst season of my life. It was as if the sun and the moon flickered out and left me groping in the dark. All of my normal and taken-for-granted reference points vanished.

I wept face to the floor on that inaugural day of The Unfixable Life. I wept out of pain. I wept out of loss. I wept out of anger. I wept over uncertainty. I wept over the sin of this fallen world. I wept over utter helplessness. I wept out of fear.

I remember weeping bitterly again about ten days later. And then my tears dried up for a very long time and I numbly went through the motions of picking up the shards of my shattered life. I went into survival mode, as is our human instinct when we’re living new days in a barren land and nothing is familiar or comfortable anymore.

Care and counseling ensued. And for months on end, I felt like a bulimic as I emotionally vomited over and over again, thereby reliving the heartache that I never expected to be part of my story.

It’s not like I’d never walked through unthinkable {to me} circumstances. I definitely had. And as we’re prone to assume, one hard road certainly means we won’t have to walk another one, a worse one. But I was wrong. As broken people living in a broken world, our lives break too. Our bodies break. Our circumstances break. Our relationships break. Our “security” and expectations break. Sometimes they bruise. Sometimes they crack. And sometimes they just bust wide open.

The road to recovery has been anything but linear and steady. On the contrary, the road has been unpredictable and scary, filled with potholes, debris, and detours. Recovery can feel like one part progress, three parts relapse.

My long-term counselor said to expect a three to five year recovery process.

At the time, that was not exactly the truth I wanted to swallow. Three to five years seemed like a lifetime. He said people always overestimate the progress they can make short-term but underestimate the progress they can make long-term. When you’re in pain and utter chaos, you just want a fix-it pill, a speedy counseling session, a quick clean-up of the mess, a shot of magical perspective so you can get on with life, upside-down though it feels.

But as I type this, several years now into “recovery,” I get it. I’m not the same. I am both healed and still healing. And I can say with utter certainty, peace, and acceptance that my counselor was exactly right and I’m so glad he was.

Because this long and unexpected journey through The Unfixable Life took me to a destination I never expected. It took me to the foot of the cross where I encountered the Real Jesus, the Healer I’d never really known.

And though I thought the journey was only about one thing, it’s actually changed everything.

Jesus has a way of doing that, of seeping into all sorts of unexpected spaces and turning them upside down in the most needful ways.

Not the flannel-graph Jesus of Sunday School days. Not the doctrinal Jesus constructed and deconstructed by scholars and professional theologians. Not the untouchable and unrelatable Jesus that lived in my own finite understanding and incomplete Christian experience. Not the good example Jesus that I could never come close to imitating. Not the first-century Jesus whose life and culture seemed too removed from my own.

I found the real-to-me Jesus, the touchable Jesus.

The One with scars. The One who came to save me in both the eternal and everyday sense. The One who pursues me with an everlasting love. The One whose radical love compelled him to die for me. The One who journeys beside me every day and is with me in every situation. The One who points me to Truth and who is Truth. The One who grants understanding. The One who is Grace to me and in me and through me. The One who shines the light of his presence into my darkest days and ugliest thoughts. The One who loves me just as I am and not as I think I should be. The One who lovingly shows me my ignorance, error, and sin and simultaneously points me to the cross that paid for all of it so that I can live repentant, forgiven, free, and healed.

In the coming week, I want to tell you about Him, the Jesus who gradually and unmistakably unfolded himself into my story when I began praying a simple and desperate prayer three years ago in the darkest season of my life:

Jesus, make yourself real to me.

He has. And He is.

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A few words as I begin. {Because I have a terrible habit of over-thinking and over-explaining.}

The tagline of my blog is Writing the Real. Usually that takes the form of true confessions about everything from motherhood and mess to everyday grace and practical hacks. I share openly about my faith here and there but hopefully not in a way that’s preachy or esoteric. I certainly try not to. I want the themes of hope and redemption that spring from my faith to be more of an undercurrent rather than a tsunami.

While many of my readers are people of faith, specifically Christian, I hope that all sorts of people feel like they are able to draw some everyday inspiration and encouragement from this space. It’s my sincere desire that they do.

Whoever you are and whatever you believe, I’m glad you’re here.

This week is the week that precedes Easter. Christians all over the world refer to it as “Holy Week.” I hadn’t planned to write specifically about faith or Jesus as we move into this week. Quite frankly, I’m more than a bit uncomfortable with the very idea of it.

But several weeks ago a strange thing happened. I was scrawling a few post ideas in my journal. As I scribbled some supporting notes under one of the headings, my pencil kept writing and writing…and writing. Nine pages, cramping fingers, and many tears and Kleenex later, I finally stopped.

Don’t misunderstand. This wasn’t “magic,” like something out of Harry Potter. It wasn’t involuntary. It was simply an unexpected and uninterrupted flood of words in a way I’ve never experienced. I closed the journal and never even read what I’d written until many days later.

I didn’t know what it was or what it wasn’t, where it would go or not go, who it was for or not for. And I didn’t have to. It was a gift to me and I am deeply grateful. All I know is that a deluge of words about Jesus showed up that day in graphite and on paper, scrawling out my journey to Him and alongside Him these last three years. After much doubting and running the other way, I decided to translate that stream-of-consciousness scrawl into three posts and to offer them up this week, Holy Week.

It’s a story about how The Real Jesus met me and continues to meet me in my Unfixable Life, a story about gaping wounds stitched up, a story about the redemptive beauty of hard stories and the scars they leave, a story about what He’s done for me and what He’s still doing. It’s a story about the cross and about new life. It’s not a story with specific details about my personal hard road; it’s simply a story of how He’s journeyed beside me as I’ve walked it.

But more than anything, it’s a story about the Realness of Jesus and about the invitation extended to all of us to know Him for ourselves.

I hope you’ll join me this week for a series of posts as I share my story, a story that would be terribly incomplete if I didn’t mention Jesus. You should know that I’m way out of my comfort zone talking so much about Jesus. I’m far more relaxed writing about grocery hacks and unfinished laundry. Thank you for prayer and for grace.

The Real Jesus: Part 2. When Wounds Take You So Low, You Can Only Look Up

The Real Jesus: Part 3. Why We Keep Our Scars

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The Non-Guru’s Guide to a DIY Photo Shoot

Welcome to the most superficial post I’ve ever written. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

So. You’re rolling out a new blog. It’s been many months in the making. You want things to look lovely and artful and professional.

You need a profile photo that’s polished and presentable.

Preferably not one that you crop really tiny out of your most recent family photo. Otherwise your husband’s shoulder will be visible behind your head and your son’s head will block your other shoulder. You will simply be a head flanked by other peoples’ appendages and that will surely scare readers away.

But good photos usually require real photographers and real photographers deserve to be paid with actual money. This is a problem because you don’t have a “head shot” line item in your current budget. But more than that, you loathe having your picture taken. It probably stems from the childhood trauma of disastrous school photos year after year. Some of us had and awkward stage that started in about the third grade and ended right before college. The thought of a real photographer making you pose and tilt your chin makes you feel self-conscious and itchy and 12 years old {pre-contact-lenses and pre-braces.}

Finding yourself in this dilemma, you may be tempted to employ those who live in your home to take a few photos for you. You might drag them out at dusk even though they are hungry. Perhaps you become a bit obsessed about harnessing that perfect light and you get a tad bossy because you might miss The Light “so please hurry.” You might force them to traipse through the unpretty brownish-yellow backyard sprouting bright green onion grass.

You might end up with a whole lot of this.

With lots of cropping and iPhoto hacking, you may get a few decent shots. Shots that are actually good.

And you are shocked that in all of those pics of bark and forehead, you ended up with some usable photos. {And yes, the said usable photos do actually show your face, unlike the samples above.} But the backyard photos are just…not quite what you had in mind. It feels contrived. Who drags a kitchen chair into the middle of their backyard? With a basket draped over the chair? While posing at dusk for a photo? And staring off dreamily into the neighbor’s yard?

Also, that weird grass bothers you.

It’s simply not the photo you were hoping for even if you can’t articulate why it’s not “the one” and your husband so does not get you on this but he’s trying to be supportive because he knows you are nothing if not fickle and complicated. And you know he is nothing if not patient and supportive.

You might be tempted to fret a little bit on the inside. You might be tempted to feel guilty because you are fretting over a dumb profile photo for your new blog and what mature grown-up even does that? You might fall into a pit of guilt over the inexcusable fretting and wonder if you are sliding down the slippery slope toward full-blown narcissism. You might even consider not wearing make-up for the rest of your life just to prove to yourself that you’re not overly vain.

Thankfully, you snap out of the fretfulness and come to your senses!

You remember that you are nothing if not resourceful!

You make like Rosie the Riveter with her digital SLR and say to yourself, We Can Do It!

Armed with caffeine, a fully-charged camera, and lip gloss from your new Clinique bonus, you devote a Friday morning to hacking your way through a DIY photo shoot.

You thank the Lord that the best natural light in the house is right beside your writing nook, a perfect backdrop. What are the odds? Why didn’t you think of this before?

You clear all the junk off your desk and throw it on your unmade bed.

You move the nightstand’s pretty lamp to the desk and steal a splatter art canvas off your daughter’s wall.

You replace the stack of bills with a stack of books.

You take blurry photos of yourself with no make-up and an ugly sweatshirt to make sure the lighting and height are workable. It’s hit or miss, emphasis on the miss.

You make like a 15-year-old and change outfits 10 times. You are still without a stitch of makeup. It would not have killed you to apply some tinted lip gloss for these practice photos. You wonder why your lips are the same color as your sallow skin and vow to never wear chartreuse without a generous application of blush and lip color.

You consider why you have folded prayer hands in every. single. picture. You tell yourself that it’s because you’re so holy and the prayer-hands posture just comes naturally. Also? What are you doing to your pretend coffee? How embarrassing. You are violating the dignity of that innocent coffee mug. If this photo goes viral you will surely be sentenced to hand management class.

You prop the front of your camera up on a cardboard toilet paper roll and take roughly 124 photos with the camera’s timer using the toilet paper roll and your nightstand as a makeshift tripod. Between each round of shots, you see how the photos are turning out and adjust things accordingly.

You make pencil marks on your nightstand to remember where the camera is supposed to go. Surely this is exactly how the professionals do it.

Armed with a few good pictures and iPhoto, you crop and fade the colors. You make some of them black and white just for fun. It’s not Photoshop fancy but it’s good enough.

Yes, it’s still contrived. You don’t pose for photos every day at your desk. But this is the actual place where you ponder and make notes and do the real work of writing and therefore it feels legit. Even if you are wearing a rhinestone necklace and more blush than usual on a Friday morning at your writing desk even though you normally are wearing the ugly sweatshirt and looking rather haggard. {You may be Marian Vischer: Writing the Real but even “Real” has its limits. Marian Vischer: Writing the Real But Faking Her Face? Marian Vischer: Writing the Real But Crying Out for Concealer?}

Moving on. You sit back and realize that you’re no longer fretting. In fact, you are rather pleased that you did this all by your big amateur self. Best of all, you’re finally convinced that you are not a narcissist after all because you posted photos of yourself without make-up on the internet for the whole world to see. You are so very thankful the whole world doesn’t read your blog right now. You fold those pretty little prayer hands of yours and thank the Lord for your small-ish readership.

Most of all, you remember that every limitation actually holds an adventurous challenge, an invitation to carve possibility out of imperfection…

Even for something as superficial and ridiculous as a photo of yourself.

Non-Guru “Instructions” for a DIY photo shoot:

1. Go outside or find a place in your house with good natural light. Morning or dusk natural light is best.

See how lovely this photo is? No editing. No special manual settings. The mid-morning light through the window is the superstar in this photo. Natural light will be your best friend.

2. Grab a camera that has a timer.

3. Make sure the flash is turned off. Remember, natural light is magic. Flash is only for pitch-black emergencies and professional photographers.

4. Stage your vignette by clearing away the mess and shopping the house for pretty props. Don’t be afraid to change things all around. You can just put it back when you’re done.

5. Do not become distracted by the ugly carnage surrounding your pretty vignette. Throw papers and lamps around with reckless abandon. You’ll clean it up later. Just focus on your one pretty corner. Laser focus, people.

6. If you don’t have a tripod, no worries. Grab a toilet paper roll, a cardboard box, a wadded up sock–anything that can get your camera to the right height and angle.

7. Liberally apply mascara and concealer. And for the love, put some color on your lips. Especially if you are 40 and the natural pigmentation that used to reside in your lips has migrated north in order to add a pinkish hue to the circles under your eyes. Vow to never wear that beige sweatshirt again. It is the color of death.

8. Take lots of photos and remember, you only need one. We did a family DIY photo in January using a coffee maker box as the tripod and Nerf gun bullet to prop the lens angle just so. We ended up with a great picture. But we also got a whole lot of this. The outtakes always end up being my favorite. We should send Christmas cards with the family photo outtakes, don’t you think?

9. Transfer photos to your computer and use whatever photo editing software you have. Play around and have fun. Enjoy the creative process. If you don’t have photo editing software that you like, I love using Picmonkey. It’s how I made all the photo collages in this post and it’s also what I use to layer text onto photos I use for the blog. {Like the header photo for this post.} It’s free and easy to use.

10. Apply an antique effect, fade the color, and then crank down the contrast for a soft muted look. The possibilities are endless. Experiment with black and white and add a color boost to it so your black and whites have more depth. {My niece, Marlowe, always provides fabulous photography and fashion inspiration.}

11. You can use the retouch feature in iPhoto or in Picmonkey to blend away grays and smooth out fine lines. Hypothetically speaking of course. A little goes a long way here. Do not go overboard with the retouch or you will resemble Kim Novak at this year’s Oscars. {Bless her.}

So there you have it. The recipe for an amateur / hacker DIY photo shoot.

Now you can spend that cash you saved on a package of Oreos and a pint of Cherry Garcia.

Or you can use it to hire someone to clean up the mess that now litters your house because you turned it upside down in a photo-shoot frenzy.

Or you might choose to order pizza because hours spent on a DIY photo shoot means you didn’t make dinner.

Or you can save up some cash toward a new camera. I received a digital SLR camera five years ago as a gift and it’s one of my most cherished possessions. I’m no expert on cameras but this one has been super easy to use. It’s a Canon EOS Rebel XSi. My favorite lens is a 50mm 1.8. I love it because it’s an affordable lens gives you that great “bokeh” {photographer speak for blurry background.}

This post linked up to Grace at Home, a lovely link-up at Imparting Grace–hosted by my lovely friend, Richella.

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Sacred Inconveniences

Two nights ago my daughter and I went to a local consignment sale. We’d planned the evening out ahead of time and lined everything up just so, the way families do. My husband would get home about five. My daughter and I would leave about 5:15. We’d be at the sale for an hour and then I’d drop her off for youth group at 6:30. I needed to pick up a few things at the store on the way home, dinner being part of the list, and then I’d hurry back to eat a late supper with my husband and boys.

Everything went as planned. We shopped the sale, found a few things, and made the long walk through the crowded parking lot toward our van. We parked in a smaller, separate lot behind the main parking area. When we got there, we saw three or four women standing around looking agitated and anxious. Apparently we were all blocked in. Though we had parked our minivans and such in neat rows, the driver of a luxury SUV had seen fit to park in such a way that blocked in the entire lot.

Despite multiple announcements inside the rec center where the sale was held, the driver didn’t show. A local police officer came to assess the situation and mamas were getting more riled up by the second. As the minutes ticked by, my daughter realized we weren’t going to make it to youth group on time and that she might miss the dinner altogether. My sweet girl has many fine qualities but staying calm when things don’t go as planned is not one of them. Between her and the mom parked next to me who had a starving four-month-old at home waiting to nurse, things were getting tense.

At long last, the poor driver arrived, utterly shocked by all the commotion. She had no idea she had blocked in 20 cars. Women huffed and puffed, aghast that we had all been standing in a parking lot for 30-45 minutes, put out that we had all been so rudely inconvenienced.

A good friend of mine happened to be stranded in the lot with me. At one point she said, “Don’t you just wonder what God is doing in situations like this?” Honestly, I wasn’t thinking about that at all. I was well aware of my own lack of grace but I kept that to myself. I didn’t want to be part of any “scene” or have a hissy fit but I was more than irritated on the inside. I told myself that this was an opportunity to show grace, if only on the outside. Besides, public displays aren’t really my thing. I’m much more mature and prefer to write angry pretend letters I never send and make angry pretend speeches I never deliver.

As we finally made our way out of the lot, my teary-eyed daughter said “I hope that police officer gave her a ticket.” And I agreed. When we are grossly inconvenienced by others, we want them to pay. But the unsettling truth is, I’ve got an absent-minded streak a mile long and it’s not that far fetched that I could block off a parking lot. I’d like to think I’m more mindful than that, but sometimes I’m not. I’ve had my fair share of embarrassing mistakes. I’ve inconvenienced others and I’m sure I’ll do it again.

I spent the next five minutes trying to calm down my child. I gave the predictable speech about not freaking out when we encounter inconveniences that are beyond our control, about being flexible, about taking deep breaths. I dropped her off at youth group, both of us frustrated and frazzled. The evening had not gone as planned. My family was going to eat dinner way too late. I was tired and hungry and a tad stressed.

Laser-focused, I hurried into Walmart to grab the five items on my list. For Walmart, it was surprisingly vacant. I walked through the self-checkout and bagged my groceries. As I left the area, I heard a terrible sound behind me. I turned around to see a woman on the floor, convulsing. She had been checking out right across from me. One second she was fine and the next moment she was having a violent seizure. She and her sister had been shopping together. Kneeling beside her on the floor, crying and in shock, the sister called 911 and we waited for the ambulance to arrive. You could tell by the sister’s reaction that this had never happened before. It was terrifying for all of us.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t just leave but I didn’t want to stare and gawk. Another shopper in the checkout area had rushed to the other side of the woman and was holding her hand. It had all happened so quickly and I was just standing around stunned, confirming with the sister and a store clerk that an ambulance was in fact on its way.

And that’s when I saw her, a small girl with long blonde curls and light-up glitter shoes, looking down with wide eyes at the unconscious woman. Mommy? Mommy?

Immediately I went to the girl and got down on my knees. I can’t remember all that I said, but I know I told her not to be afraid, that some helpers were on their way to take care of her mommy. She told me her name was Arianna and I led her away from the scene to the checkout aisle treats. Within 30 seconds she was distracted by a box of multi-colored goldfish crackers and jumping up and down as she put the one dollar bill into the machine. We sat on the floor, “criss-cross applesauce,” and chatted it up about everything from Hello Kitty accessories to Dora. She turns four this month and I was reminded of why I love that age so much; she had more personality than my heart could hold. “You are absolutely going to love being four,” I told her.

I don’t know how long we sat there. Twenty minutes? Thirty? The EMTs came and attended Arianna’s mother. She was conscious by the time they got there. I think she’s going to be okay. I hope and pray that she will. For a few moments I feared I might see someone die right in front of me. I think the sister did too. It was that scary and intense. We all waited in uncertainty for what seemed like forever until she came to. I’m no medical professional so I couldn’t do much of anything. But I did know that a little girl shouldn’t see all of this and I just happened to be the one available to feed her goldfish and talk about Hello Kitty.

A family member came to take Arianna home. We said our goodbyes and she was sad that I couldn’t go out to the parking lot with her. I was sad too. But I promised to look for her in Walmart every time I’m there and she promised to look for me too.

Before I go any further, please know that this post is not about Marian the Good Samaritan. Not at all. Remember, this is the same mom who, an hour earlier was silently fuming and graceless in a parking lot. Any of you reading this would have done the same thing if you’d been in Walmart. We see it on the news all the time. The people who are there when a crisis hits are the ones who swoop in. They’re not super heroes. They’re simply present, at the scene. There. All they do is show up.

And that’s the thing. I was there. But I wasn’t supposed to be. According to my plans, I should’ve been at home eating pizza with my husband and boys. Instead I was sitting on the cold tiles of the local Walmart, distracting a child I’d never met.

All because a woman blocked my minivan in a parking lot.

As I walked through the automatic doors to leave, the gravity of the situation descended on me. You know what I’m talking about, being “grace under pressure” when an emergency hits and then a crumpled emotional mess once it’s passed. I started to shake a little bit and felt the tears well up. And that’s when it hit me. I was there because of the “inconvenience” at the parking lot. If I hadn’t been held up for those 40 minutes, what would have happened to Arianna?

I went through the motions of dinner and clean-up and packing lunches, dazed and emotionally drained. Sometimes I need days to process and sometimes it comes tumbling out in the immediate aftermath and I just have to write it down. This was one of those times.

Why am I telling you this? Why did I tell my daughter this story when she came in from youth group?

Because we never know. We don’t. I’m reminded of Proverbs 16:9.

In their hearts humans plan their course, but the LORD establishes their steps.

We make our plans and our lists. We watch the clock. We hold things so very tightly and when it all goes awry, we find that we’re the ones wound so tight, undone by the little things that get in the way of our goals or even our dinner. The reality is this: God is working all the time in ways we can’t even imagine and in ways we rarely even know. We go about our business and He is using us, working in us and through us whether we know it or not.

But sometimes he lifts us up and lets us peek through the window. He allows us to see. This was one of those times for me.

It’s probably no coincidence that one of my recurrent prayers lately is that I would simply be available for whatever He has, that I would notice and be mindful and not begrudge the ordinary. I’ve been studying some difficult passages in Matthew 25, sobered by how I often resent the acts of love and service that are actually unto Christ himself:

For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’ {Matthew 25:35-40}

But I was also struck by the ordinariness of this service: food, clothing, water, hospitality. We offer these every day, unaware of how the mundane is actually bursting with sacredness. We are simply showing up. And He is kind enough to notice that which often goes unnoticed. I’ve wanted to notice these things more too, not so I could feel proud and worthwhile but so that I might be more mindful of the beauty and opportunity found in the everyday, more willing to give what I have.

I’ve never seen inconveniences in any sort of glorious light even though I’ve paid lip service to God’s sovereignty even in the little things. I’ve certainly never seen them as sacred. Until two nights ago at Walmart.

What if inconveniences usher us into the very presence of Christ himself?

We can say yes to these “interruptions” and derailments every single day. We can see them as divine invitations. Stopping to get my thirsty child some bottled water at the store even though it will make me late. Cooking dinner again even though I just did it last night and the night before that and the night before that. Taking time for someone even though I don’t really have the time. Putting away the laundry so that I can clothe the ones in my care. Giving away clothes so that I can clothe ones in others’ care.

These are not small things. They are not things to disdain or ignore. They are everyday invitations to simply show up with what we have and pour out our meager offerings. Our water. Our words. Our money. Our multi-colored goldfish.

Will inconveniences still be bothersome? Of course. Will I still react less than graciously in the future? Probably. Will I ever see inconveniences the same way? I hope not.

I pray that I can trust, that what may seem like the worst timing may actually be a most divine appointment.

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When Monday Takes on a Different Voice

Mondays used to be the worst. The end of the weekend, the end of “leisure,” the unavoidability of the daily grind and messy realities of life.

Maybe I’m able to see Mondays differently now because I’m not in school or working full-time or homeschooling my kids. Maybe. But even though my Mondays now look different than they have in other seasons of my life, Mondays still have a way of making like a mirror and reflecting the real that we’d rather escape, numb, or deny. The job we don’t like, the responsibilities we begrudge, the wounds that seem less acute when they’re covered up by the full swing of the week or by the distractions of the weekend.

Mondays have a way of saying, Hey! The fun is over. It’s time to reckon.

Or at least that’s the way Mondays have often been for me.

But what if we saw Mondays as a reset button for our souls? What if we approached this first day of the work week with the hope of renewal and new rhythms? What if we saw this first day as a day especially tethered to the truth of the Father’s new mercies awaiting us at the dawn of a new day?

What if Mondays started speaking differently to us?

What is we squashed the voice of the angry drill-sargeant Monday and invited a gracious, tender Monday through our doors instead? A Monday voice that’s an invitation instead of condemnation. A Monday voice that says, Hello you. Welcome to the week. Welcome to fresh starts and new perspective. Welcome to wide-open plains of do-overs. Your life and responsibilities and gifts are wonderfully unique. Isn’t originality refreshing? I know you may be tired, not as rested as you’d like to be as you face all of the newness. I know there are too many loose ends. I know you feel like you’re not enough to go around. Or just not enough. Here’s the sobering, beautiful truth of the matter. You’re not enough. But I am.

What if Monday took on the voice of Jesus and what if you began to believe Him?

What if you looked up into his face and said, Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you for showing up, for always showing up even when I forget you’re there with your grace and forgiveness and tenderness. Jesus, I know it’s a new start and all but honestly, I’m a little overwhelmed. I’m disillusioned. I doubt my abilities. Sometimes I even doubt you. I’m still struggling with stuff I feel like I shouldn’t be struggling with. Instead of embracing the new mercies of the day and the fresh possibilities of the week, I want to crawl under the covers and let the world fend for itself without me today.

You can say that, you know. You can unload on Him. Sometimes confession is conversational like that. And guess what? He’s already invited you into that conversation. These are his real and true words to us: Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

He is not overwhelmed or disillusioned. He doesn’t doubt your abilities because He gave them to you. He walks behind you, beside you, and before you. Acknowledge his presence and find peace in his company. Confess all of the hard stuff and bring it into the light of his love and forgiveness.

On this Monday, hear a different voice. And instead of being overwhelmed by your real life, be overwhelmed by the real grace and companionship that awaits you today in the person of Jesus Christ.

Scripture:

Lamentations 3:22-24 and Matthew 11:28-30

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Things I Learned in March

It’s the end of the month, y’all. You know what that means. It’s time to share the things we learned in March.

The What We Learned posts are hosted by Emily Freeman as a “monthly community link-up to share the fascinating, ridiculous, sacred, or small.”

Mine is usually just ridiculous.

Want to know more of what I’m talking about? Go here.

In no particular order, here are things I’ve learned in March.

1. I confess that I’m a tad embarrassed for not knowing this, seeing as how I taught American History and all. Apparently I now study history via Twitter, which is where I first saw this bizzare bit of trivla. John Tyler, the 10th US president, has two grandsons who are still alive today. Tyler died at the age of 72. That was 152 years ago. What? I did the math and still couldn’t figure out how this is even possible. I discounted the fact than Tyler was still fathering children {15 in all} well into his 60s. And then one of those sons fathered children into his 70s. There is much inappropriate commentary I could offer right now but maturity prevails.

2. You can go straight from yoga class to the boardroom. Dress yoga pants are an actual thing. You can thank a company called Betabrand for this fashion hybrid.

{via}

Here’s a quote from the designer: A lot of women wear their exercise leggings just about everywhere — they practically live in them — the Dress Pant Yoga Pants allow you to do that but look classier in the process. A faux zipper, belt loops, and “non-functional front button” = “classy.” Um, okay. I have nothing against the pants. I’m just wondering how many excuses are really necessary for not wearing real clothes to the office. Carry on in your dress yogas but if I see “dress pajama pants” as the next I-don’t-want-to-change-my-clothes-in-order-to-go-to-work trend, it’s time to protest. I am all about comfort and I practically live in loungewear but are regular pants really that constricting? Are khakis going to become the corset and girdle of the 21st century?

3. The 80s will always have the last laugh. I was in Starbucks this week and saw a darling college girl with high-top, solid-white Nike sneakers straight from 1984. I distinctly remember my fellow 6th-graders wearing those to school with their parachute pants and breakdancing during recess. But that’s not all. Cropped tops, the ones that show your stomach, are actually being sold in real stores for real money and being worn by real girls. I say “girls” because if your stomach skin has stretched thin enough to house a growing human, cropped tops are not for you. To be honest (or “TBH” as I learned from my 13-year-old), I’m not sure they’re for anyone. But wear them if you wish. And college girls, enjoy your crop tops now. Your midriffs’ days are numbered. The 80s don’t have the last laugh after all. Stretch marks do. {Seriously, are y’all seeing this mega trend too? Crop tops? Really?}

4. Just because someone lives in your house doesn’t mean they should take your profile picture.

That’s all I’m going to say. You’ll hear more about the travails of DIY-ing your new blog’s profile picture next week. But see that little profile picture up there in the corner with the lovely office backdrop and Marian with an actual head and body? It was almost this, which might have turned the blog into Marian Vischer: Writing About Foreheads and Trees.

5. WordPress. Yep, I started learning WordPress this month after almost 7 years of using Blogger. I’m sort of clunky and awkward with it and I have already accidentally deleted stuff. Maybe this is just how it goes when you’re 40 and trying to learn new computery things. Which leads me to my next point.

6. If you build a new blog, they will come. I’m still a bit overwhelmed by the outpouring of well-wishes over the new blog. The morning I launched it, I feared my phone and laptop might blow up. There was a lot going on in my teensy little corner of the internet. I was so giddy and grateful I think I wrote every single person back in the comments section. It felt like an open house minus the cookies and punch. Thank you, thank you for coming to visit, for being so kind, for liking my blog’s Facebook page, and all of that stuff. If this is your first time here and you have no idea what I’m talking about, just go here and I’ll fill you in.

Enjoy your weekend whether you’re sporting dress yoga pants, casual yoga pants, Run DMC throwback Nikes, or cropped tops.

Your turn. What did you learn in March?

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Welcome to my new home!

Hi! I’m Marian Vischer and this is my new blog. {Insert pinching myself.}

Do you know how long I’ve waited to type those words? Years. I can’t even begin this post without crying. This new space is a dream come true.

First things first. I cannot write another line without thanking the sweet, creative, generous friend who’s made it happen. Her name is Kindel and she is all kinds of awesome. She blogs at Willow White Studios. {Check out the fun 31 Days of Free Printables she did in October.} I’ve known Kindel since she was a college student and I loved her from the start. Plus she has put up with me and my picky ways. She pretends like working with me has been this easy, lovely process but we both know the truth. I’m very particular. I know what I want except for when I don’t. I suffer from “decision-making anxiety.” I’m useless without a deadline. I would hate working for me.

This new space was supposed to happen a couple of different times over the last few years and each time it fell through. I like to think it’s because Kindel and I were destined to do this together.

So let me show you around!

This is like most any new home. It’s shiny and awesome and mostly finished. But like a random piece of moulding that hasn’t been nailed down or wires still hanging from where the light fixture has yet to be installed, my new home still has a few projects waiting in the corners. It’ll probably be a month or so before we get all the right links in place and fix photos and formatting that are wonky. But we just couldn’t wait any longer.

At the top you’ll see a row of the must-have’s. Home, About Me, Archives {all pretty and nicely categorized}, Favorite Posts, Booklists, and how you can connect via social media or e-mail. Regarding the archives, some of my categories are changing and we still have to align all of my posts into their new labels. For now you can still find specific posts by clicking back to the labels a la mode or you can search for them in the search bar here. A la mode will stay up and running until we get all the bugs worked out here.

Moving on down, behold the header. Kindel made this blush beauty. {I must be a lifelong fan of blush because my bridesmaids dressers were that same color 18 years ago.}

There on the right is my new profile photo that I took all by my big self. It’s a ridiculous story and I already have a post coming up about how to do a DIY photo shoot, inspired by my own crazy shenanigans. Behind the scenes of that pretty little picture, things were nothing but a hot mess. I’ll save the details for later but let me just say that there are photos forthcoming in which I am wearing a chartreuse shirt and sporting pale winter skin and not a stitch of make-up. You cannot even tell that I have lips anywhere on my face. Also? My tripod involved a cardboard toilet paper roll.

Below the profile pic is one of my favorite surprises that Kindel whipped up. It looks like a row of quiet, unassuming social media icons. But move your cursor and hover over one of them. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

Surprise splashes of watercolored goodness hiding beneath! It’s the little things that make me giddy.

About social media, I now have a Facebook page for the new blog. You can also follow me on Twitter, Pinterest, and Bloglovin too. {Bloglovin is the heart icon. It’s my favorite way to read blogs.} You might be wondering where an Instagram icon is. I love Instagram but it’s one form of social media I’ve chosen to keep private and tucked away.

Just beneath those sneaky watercolored buttons are the different series I’ve written. Click on one and it will take you to all the posts in the series. Some of them still link back to the original posts at a la mode but you’re not missing out. The content is all the same. We’re working on getting all of our links transferred soon.

Perhaps the biggest question of all is: Why Marian Vischer?

For over 5 years I blogged as “Scooper” and was sort of anonymous like that. Talk about extremes. Hi world! I’m no longer a fake name and while I’m at it, how about I just go ahead and name my new blog after my big ol’ non-anonymous self? Here. I. Am.

It feels simultaneously right and awkward. I chose it because it’s my name and that won’t change. I also chose it because it provides a platform and flexibility if I pursue future endeavors as a writer. I was Scooper at a la mode for five and a half years and I’ll always love it. But I no longer wanted to be a la mode: a little scoop for every slice of life. I didn’t want to become tired of a phrase or have to worry about it no longer representing the content. So we {my husband and I} finally came around to using my name. We thought about it, prayed about it, and dialogued for months. It’s no small thing to put your real name out there as a dot com. At least it wasn’t to us. We wanted to be wise and sure.

Names are handy. Names work as an umbrella for all sorts of topics and projects. But they can also be original and specific. I think I’m the only Marian Vischer? Or at least the only one who wanted marianvischer.com. And if you’re wondering, yes, it feels weird and narcissistic to have my name as a web-site even though lots of people do it.

If you’d like to know more about me or what “Writing the Real” is all about, here’s my brand new About Me page. {Yep, that feels narcissistic too. Hey everyone! Here’s my new blog with my name so that it’s all about me and oh, if you want to know even more about me, click on About Me and also you can follow ME on social media and do you like that huge picture of Me at the top of this post right beside a smaller picture of Me?}

I am already sick of myself. {And for the record, I don’t ever look as put together as those photos of there. Just ask my family, neighbors, or the friendly baristas at the local Starbucks who literally don’t recognize me if I’m not in a sweaty running hat and exercise pants. To prove it I will be soon be posting photos of the chartreuse lip-less nightmare.}

But in case you’re not sick of me, you can subscribe to the blog via e-mail up there in the top right corner. That way you’ll never miss a post. And of course, you can click on those cute little social media buttons again because they’re so pretty.

Thanks for letting me ramble on about my new digs. I’m so glad you’re here. Oh and one more thing! We’re still deciding how we want to do comments. For now, scroll back up to the title of this post and click on comments if you’d like to leave one.

Okay, that’s all. Thanks for visiting my new home!

Why Every Mama Needs an Office {and how to make your own, no matter how small the space}

I took early retirement at the ripe old age of 33. That was 7 years ago. Though I haven’t looked back, I’ve been surprised about one of the things I miss the most about working: an office of my very own.

So. Over Christmas break I decided to give myself a little gift and it didn’t cost me a dime. Yep, this mama rigged up an office of her very own. I don’t know why I didn’t do this years ago.

This fancy sophisticated office sits in a tiny corner of my bedroom, wedged between the chifferobe and the window. It’s roughly 3 feet wide and 2 1/2 feet deep.

I plundered the house for my office furnishings, dragging in one of our former homeschool desks and snagging a lone mismatched chair from the attic. A spare lamp, a pin-board, my diplomas {only because they are pretty} and a few pieces of art finished off the space.

This makeshift office works hard every day. Though we can all agree that a writer needs her own desk and chair, I’ve been surprised at how much I use this small space for all sorts of work. I pay our bills, plan our groceries & meals, study, e-mail, make lists, and return phone calls, all at this humble Ikea desk with the $5.99 table-top.

It gets messy every day and each morning I clean it up and start over again.

Though I don’t know why, my desk has made me more productive and serious about my work. It’s provided a designated space to ponder and plan, listen and write, and tackle the mundane with a bit more gusto than I possessed pre-office. There’s just something about having a legit place that belongs only to me tucked back in the corner of our little home. It makes me feel official and allows me to work with intention and a I daresay a bit of professionalism. Even if I’m just paying bills or making my to-do list in my pajamas.

Plus, a mama’s office can feel like a makeshift retreat, a quiet{ish} space away from the dishes and the legos.

Do I have dreams of a bigger office? Sure. Perhaps one with a tufted chair and ottoman in the corner {so I can read in luxury}, lots of bookshelves, liberal doses of art, two lovely lamps, and a desk that allows for a bit more sprawl.

Just for fun, here are some of my favorite smallish-space office inspiration photos:

30 Creative Home Office Ideas: Working from Home in Style

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And last but not least, can we just have a moment over Ann Voskamp’s writing space, which really is like a tiny chapel retreat. Isn’t it just the loveliest?

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Though I’m so grateful for my own small sacred space {even though I still indulge in dreaming of an office with its own door and walls}, I’m reminded that I somehow scrawled about 450 posts during the past 5+ years on this blog. And I did it without a dedicated space of my own.

I wrote at the kitchen table while the kids did math, on the sagging-in-the-middle sofa, and cozied beneath layered blankets on my bed. I wrote in local coffee shops and on trips to the beach and sitting in a folding mesh chair in the driveway while the kids rode scooters around me. I’ve paid bills on my iPhone and from the living room floor, scribbled to-do lists in pick-up lines, and held important phone conversations in my van while it’s parked in the garage because the noise inside the house was just too dang loud.

The art of the multitasking mama knows no bounds. Her work is not dictated by walls or swivel chairs or well-designed interiors. Amen?

But if our own workspace / dreamspace is just one hour and a few random pieces of furniture away, it’s kind of a no-brainer.

Why not carve one out today? I wish I’d created a tiny office years ago. If we wait to have the perfect space in place, the world may well end before we ever pound the first nail into the wall.

So fetch that tiny table from the attic and steal a chair from the kitchen table. Shop the house for a lamp and some pretties for the wall. Heave the dresser to the left a few feet and stake your claim on that little corner there beside the window. Yep, right there.

In a house that’s bursting with laundry and crumbs and plastic super heroes, save your own day and set up shop.

It’s time mama got an office of her own

How about you? Do you have a designated work space just for you in your own home?

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This post first appeared at Marian Vischer: Writing the Real.

Full Disclosure: On Writing, Mixed Motives, & Redemption

If all goes as planned, I roll out a new blog in six days. I am equal parts terrified and excited.

Remaking what I’ve had in place for five and half years at a la mode has caused me to reflect {and overthink} on blogging and why I’m still doing it after almost 450 posts.

I’ve considered the positives and the pitfalls. I’ve obsessed far too much about silly things. I’ve had to repent of messy motives.

Most of all, I’ve doubted and despaired that I may never be able to pursue writing with complete purity of heart.

And that has caused me to wonder whether I should do it at all.

Then I apply that line of thinking to all of my pursuits. Marriage? Motherhood? The years I spent in school and college teaching and then homeschooling? All of these relationships and endeavors have been and still are a perfect storm of actual giftedness mixed up with selfishness and pride and all sorts of messy motives. Good and bad and everything in between all swirling around together.

I love this excerpt from A Million Little Ways, a recent book by Emily P. Freeman:

The art I believe I was born to make lingers even in the midst of my inadequacy.

Just because you can’t fully live your life the way you so long to live it doesn’t mean you don’t fully believe it’s possible with all your heart. And it doesn’t mean you are forbidden to share what you’re learning unless you are living it perfectly.

Christ is in you and wants to come out through you in a million little ways–through your strength and also your weakness, your abilities and also your lack.

I call it art, someone else calls it rubbish.

So what? Call it what you will. God calls us his poem. And the job of the poem is to inspire. To sing. To express the full spectrum of the human experience–both the bright hope that comes with victory and the profound loss that accompanies defeat. “

So I realize that if I wait to pursue anything–relationships, vocation, service–with only 100% pure motives and with a 100% pure product and with a 100% track record of living perfectly what I believe to be true and right, I’ll be waiting until I die.

I’ve mentioned before that I’m knee-deep in the study of Matthew this year. Getting to know those in Jesus’ inner circle has been refreshing, encouraging, and sometimes hilarious. Whenever I’m tempted to think I’m too much of a mess or too unprepared to really be of much good, I’m wise to consider the disciples. They fought over who would sit at Jesus’ right hand, wanted to be considered the greatest in his kingdom, tried to send away children instead of allowing them to be blessed by Jesus, and were rebuked for their weak faith. Some even denied the very One who came to give them life.

Talk about mixed motives. But God used them to change the world anyway. He used their strengths and their sins. He redeemed their pasts and their positions. He used their God-given gifts and their God-allowed inadequacies. Either way, it was all God and all grace.

Like the disciples, I’m a broken person living in a fallen world. My marriage, my mothering, my writing, my many relationships–they’re messy, laced with my good contributions and also many failures. But because of more grace than I can comprehend, they’re being redeemed all the time.

And because of this overwhelming grace and redemption, I can be a-very-much-in-process wife, mom, friend, and writer.

I can write imperfect posts with honesty and with hope. I can keep putting my art out there with truthfulness and humility all the while acknowledging that there will inevitably be some hypocrisy and pride tainting its edges, whether I’m fully aware of it or not.

I don’t write that because I’m fatalistic about my depravity or because I’m light-hearted about it. I write that because I want to be honest and because I have hope.

Hope that God, in his love, will continue to show me my sin and mixed motives. How else can I attain the freedom and joy that only repentance brings?

Hope because I know I stand loved, forgiven, and redeemed in the messy midst of all the sacred work I do with my life. {And it is all sacred.}

Hope because I can gaze back and see how far I’ve come, not because of self-effort and boot-strapped righteousness but because God has set his love upon me and is remaking me.

The remaking, much like pruning a delicate plant, is sometimes painful. It means cutting away things I’d rather keep. It means waiting. It means rest. It means seasons of ugly barrenness in order to give birth to new seasons of fruitful beauty. And this process of cutting away, waiting, ugly, beauty is a cyclical one. I’ll never arrive and simply live in a state of blossomed beauty for the rest of my days. Redemptive pruning lasts a lifetime.

So I will keep writing in this remade space, mess and neuroses and all.

Bear with me as I try to write with humility, honesty, humor, and hope.

Bear with me as I do this imperfectly and inconsistently.

Bear with me as hypocrisy, pride, selfish ambition, and fear of man are inevitably thrown in the pot and mixed up with all the good stuff.

I dream that I might make a difference with the words I write in this space. But I try to let go of any hard and fast visions of what that might look like.

I hope that I’ll have words to write, hope to share, grace to give, and humor to lighten our hearts for many posts to come. But I try not to cling too tightly. I want to be ready to lay it down and walk away should I ever need to.

Being known and loved perfectly and intimately by the Creator of the universe is an incomprehensible gift. And I want this to matter more than being known and loved by those who read my posts. I don’t want this space and the person typing out the words that fill this space to ever become too important. This is hard. Because the things we love most always have a way of becoming the things we love too much.

This is a season of new opportunity. And though I certainly have a few ideas and hopes and dreams, I teeter on the scale of acceptable enthusiasm versus unacceptable ambition.

I accept that there are good things here: finding gifts in the mess and the mundane, spilling encouragement from the overflow of my own life, writing honest stories of hope out of imperfect marriage and crazy motherhood, and even sharing the magic popcorn recipe. Yet these spiffed-up posts can still have a bit of muck at their core.

I suppose I write all of this because I need you to know. And because I need to remind myself.

Something about the shiny new blog that I’m unveiling–this lovely, long-held dream of mine–urges me to pull back the curtain so that you can see me in all of my shaking, sweaty, lounge-pants-wearing, people-pleasing, mixed-motived glory.

Putting one’s art out there is a such a paradoxicial gesture–humility mixed with pride, confidence blended with fear, a longing to encourage followed by a longing to be loved for it.

Welcome to the neurotic life of a writer. Welcome to the mixed-motives that characterize each one of us, if we’re honest. Welcome to a God who’s big enough to use it all anyway. Welcome to redemption.

If you’re interested in more on this topic of mixed motives, I appreciated this post that Emily wrote a while back: For the Artist Who Worries Her Motives Are Wrong

Thanks for counting down the days with me to the new blog. I can’t wait to show you around. I’m hoping and praying that we won’t have debilitating glitches but that’s always a possibility. I’m so glad my life doesn’t depend on a smooth transition.

If you’d like to weigh in on some of the questions I asked in this post, I’d love that.

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