Blog | Lindsey Staton Life Coaching

Whatever is lovely

May 6, 2016 By Lindsey Staton

There is a lot of ugly in this world.

I almost never use the world ‘ugly.’ It’s too harsh. On the rare occasion that I do use it, it’s usually about someone’s actions. And even then I would most likely go to ‘mean’ or ‘gross’ first.

But sometimes, there’s just no other word I can use. Sometimes ‘ugly’ is well deserved. And when ugly happens in my life, it’s usually in waves.

Don’t think for a moment that terrorists invented the concept of coordinated attacks, the idea of causing chaos and destruction in multiple locations simultaneously to cause the most death and damage possible.

September 11. Paris. Brussels.

There’s also a psychological aspect that continues to plague survivors even after the attacks have ceased. We look over our shoulders and wonder if and when more is coming and live life in a state of paranoia and fear. It’s a gift that keeps on giving.

No, coordinated attacks originate with Satan himself and he uses them with frequency and effectiveness. And over the years, I’ve learned to watch for them.

If I’m in the middle of something that poses a threat to the kingdom of darkness, I now prepare for the inevitable pushback. And once the first attack happens (once I regain the presence of mind to realize what it is), I prepare for others to follow in rapid succession.

It’s what some people call ‘piling on,’ and I used to blame it on God. Lord, it’s too much. This is just too much. I’m already dealing with this one issue. Why would You give me more? I’m not strong enough to deal with more than one crisis at a time.

Pain and suffering are ALLOWED by God (which is hard enough to accept), but they don’t ORIGINATE with God. And He only allows what will ultimately be for the growth and good of His followers and His Kingdom.

Knowing this, I have begun to train myself to chase beauty, to combat the ugly in the world that comes from the brokenness of sin, and the ugly that rears its head in my own life. Instead of just giving sweet times a quick, passing smile, I now try to freeze time in my mind and soak up every bit of beauty in that moment.

And I have found that my life is more beautiful than I ever realized.

We were at one of Sydney’s track meets the other day. Beau had joined a pick up game of basketball made up of other bored brothers. I watched him play as we walked by. He high-fived another smaller player and after a closer look, I realized his young friend had Downs Syndrome. Beau leaned down to talk to him, gave him his undivided attention and they made a plan for the next play.

Teenage boys trying to be cool in front of their friends don’t do that. They’re too busy protecting their coolness to engage with someone outside their circle, especially someone so different. But inside that tall, lanky body beats the heart of a man. A mighty good man. And I burned that beautiful image into my mind.

I’ve been snuggling Caroline to sleep at night ever since we converted her crib into a toddler bed and I’ve been able to get in bed with her. I hold her and stroke her gorgeous thick hair. We talk about the day. Sometimes I sing to her.

She’s now nine, right on the edge of the tween years, and time is running out on our nightly tradition. So I make every moment count. I tell her how much I love being her mom, how proud I am of her, I list the gifts and abilities God has given her, lest she ever forget. I memorize the smell of her hair, the feel of her not-so-tiny hand in mine, and her sleepy voice telling me she loves me. Beautiful.

Sydney was rushing out the door a few weeks ago. It was right before Spring Break and I wouldn’t see her for over a week. She had her arms full of stuff and I asked her if she had everything, listing the essentials as quickly as I could. She’s not as addicted to my physical affection as the other two are, but she always kindly tolerates and reciprocates my hugs and kisses goodbye. As she juggled her armloads of stuff, I reached for her and she leaned toward me to let me hug her.

Suddenly, to my great surprise and delight, she said, “Hold on, I can do better than that,” dropped all her stuff, wrapped her arms around me and gave me a full, tight hug. She picked everything back up, dashed out the door, looked over her shoulder and called back, “Love you!” and then she was gone. Brad looked at me and said, “I hope you didn’t miss that.” “Oh, I didn’t,” I assured him. Another beautiful moment catalogued forever.

Then just last weekend I was getting ready for church. Brad had picked a flower from our yard (as he does on occasion) and placed it by the bathroom sink so I could enjoy it as I was putting on my makeup. He had also brought up a brownie for a quick breakfast and a Diet Coke to help me wake up.

I was enjoying those gifts as I was putting on my mascara and then heard something downstairs. Brad had his music on and was singing along with Elton John. I also heard the water running and dishes being shuffled around as he rinsed plates and cups left from the night before and put them in the dishwasher. A flower, food, Diet Coke, music and a clean kitchen, all at the same time. In that moment, I stopped and thanked God for the beauty in my life.

I’m embarrassed to admit that spotting the ugly comes much more naturally than recognizing the beauty. Maybe because ugly is much more the exception than the rule (thank You, Lord). Maybe because ugly is louder, more biting, brings a sharp sting or a lingering ache. Pain will not be ignored.

But beauty does not force itself on you. It doesn’t scream in your ear, disrupt your day, break your heart or drain your energy.

It’s just there, hiding in plain view, waiting to be noticed, ready to be a blessing, a healing agent, a gift.

Ann Voskamp’s book One Thousand Gifts speaks to this. She talks about the holy sacrament of giving thanks, the Eucharist.

The root word of eucharisteo is charis, meaning ‘grace.’ Jesus took the bread and saw it as grace and gave thanks. He took the bread and knew it to be a gift and gave thanks. Eucharisteo, thanksgiving, envelopes the Greek word for grace, charis. But it also holds its derivative, the Greek word chara, meaning ‘joy.’

(Her style takes some getting used to, but words are her art. And I don’t think she can even help herself. And maybe she shouldn’t. The world can always use more beauty.)

She chronicles a journey of gratitude and throughout the book, she builds a list of 1000 things she is thankful for, from the very simple to the magnificent.

The book is a dare and I took it. For a few days, I trained my eyes to watch for things to be thankful for and I started writing them down. I was shocked at how quickly my list grew. And I was sad that despite this seemingly endless list of blessings, I spent most of my days focused on the problems (which is a much smaller list by far).

To be fair, problems and pain command our attention because they demand action. Something needs to be fixed, adjusted, changed. But my consuming thoughts of difficulty go far beyond the fixing stage to just plain old obsessing. Once I’ve done all I can, I should surrender the rest to God in prayer and turn my mind back to the beautiful.

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things. Philippians 4:8

I was dealing with a flare-up from an ongoing ugly situation in my life the other night. This issue is not going anywhere and the endlessness of it can be incredibly demoralizing at times.

It was bedtime and I desperately needed to find a way to drown out the ugly screaming in my ear. So I turned to one of my healthier addictions: words.

I plopped down on the floor in front of the half bookshelf upstairs that contains all my favorite books. The familiar titles and covers brought an immediate sense of comfort as I reached for one after another.

I carried an armload of them into our bedroom and placed them on my nightstand, wondering where to start. After a few moments I realized while those pages are full of beauty, challenge and inspiration, the words were not alive.

I abandoned my tower of bandaids and went looking for the antibiotic.

My huge study Bible lies open on the couch for my morning readings, but that wasn’t the one I wanted. I wanted my travel Bible, the one that fits in one hand, in my purse, the one I take to church and speaking engagements.

I found it and crawled in bed with it, back to the original problem of not knowing where to start. My mind was so scattered, I was afraid nothing would get through. So I just flipped open to where the bookmark was and found myself in the middle of one of my favorite stories: Joshua, the Israelites and the Jordan River.

As I reread the familiar chapter, my short, tight breaths lengthened into relaxed exhales. By then I was too sleepy to really make the connection between the Israelites’ situation and my own, but the living word of God had worked its small miracle and the reminder of the hugeness of my God put the tiny ugly in my life back into perspective.

So I fell asleep pondering, “How big was the Jordan River at flood stage? Are we talkin’ Suwannee or Mississippi? There were millions of people who had to cross. That must have taken all day….” instead of obsessing about my unsolvable problem.

We must become beauty hunters, not to kill it when we find it, but to SEE it, embrace it, cherish it and draw strength from it.

We were created for the beautiful. And when the ugly made its way into God’s perfect world, He knew that our bodies wouldn’t know how to fight this foreign disease. And so beauty abounds at every turn, ready to heal us, encourage us, bless us and strengthen us.

But we must train our dim eyes to see it and our foggy minds to process it.

And so I extend the dare. Go for a thousand if you want, but at least just take one day and take in all the beauty in your world, just in your small life. It may not entirely eliminate the ugly, but it sure puts it in its place.

I have decided to become a beauty connoisseur, a chaser of the lovely to combat the inevitable ugly that makes occasional unwelcome appearances in my life.

This is a winning and worthy expedition. And I don’t have to look far.

Stay together

April 29, 2016 By Lindsey Staton

This is an emergency public service announcement. [Insert obnoxious beeping noise here.]

Nobody has it all together. I repeat, NOBODY HAS IT ALL TOGETHER.

The jig is up. The secret’s out. It’s not just you. You’re not the only one who is a walking disaster. EVERYBODY is a walking disaster.

I have had several dear friends come to me very recently (and many others previously), their hearts breaking, their worlds collapsing and nobody knows. (I think the only reason they tell me is because I’m a bigger mess than they are.)

They have nobody to talk to, no support system to lean on, nobody they can be real with or open up to. They’ve been betrayed by dear friends and now they don’t trust anyone with their real selves. And behind the confident facades they present, they are so lonely.

When my sisters and I were growing up, whenever we went anywhere without my folks (the movies, the mall, the bathroom), Mom would always say, “Stay together!”

Safety in numbers. Keep each other out of trouble. Don’t let each other get distracted.

And I think sometimes God looks at His children, all walled off, closed up, bluffing perfection, maintaining distance and calls to us, “Stay together!”

We were created for community. And yet we’re lonely. All of us. Everybody’s lonely. And we’re not safe.

In Genesis 1 and 2, we get the description of God’s creation of the world. Let there be light, let there be stars, let there be land, let there be sea, let there be animals of all kinds, etc. And every single time He created something new He said, “It is good.”

Then He creates Adam, gives him his first job naming the animals, but none of them would work as a partner. The very first problem in the Bible, the very first ‘not good’ thing in the world God created, in His own words, is man being alone (Genesis 2:18).

Secular studies agree. Psychologists and neuroscientists at the University of Chicago conducted a study showing that ‘lonely people are constantly (and subconsciously) guarding against social threats.’ So already-lonely people try to protect themselves by isolating, which makes them more lonely and creates a downward spiral.

We all learned about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs in high school and college. The first and second needs are physiological (food, water) and safety. Immediately after that is love and belonging, even BEFORE self-esteem and self-actualization. Maslow said we need love of others before we can love ourselves.

But Satan feeds us lies about being alone. And often, we just eat them up without checking the label:

Pride: “I’m independent and that’s a good thing. It means I’m strong and brave. I got my junk together. I don’t need any help.”

Misunderstanding of personality traits: “It’s just my personality. I’m an introvert. I don’t need anyone.”

Excuses: “I’m too busy for friendships. I’m not really good at friendships anyway.”

And biggest of all, fear: “I’ve been hurt by friendships. If I confide in someone, they’ll have more ammo to hurt me and I’ll get stabbed in the back again. They won’t care or understand.”

And for every lie we swallow, we are poisoned just a little more against the community we were made for and so desperately need.

We turn inward and we get crazy. (You know what I mean. When people don’t have anyone to bounce stuff off of, they start to get weird.)

We have no accountability and we get stupid. (See Post-Divorce Brain Damage.)

We have no incoming truth and we get confused.

We have no encouragement and we get insecure.

Make no mistake: Satan wants you disconnected, isolated, ineffective. Think about the predators on all the nature shows. Their first move is to separate their prey from the safety of the herd.

So as my dad always said growing up when we would complain about something, “That’s the problem. What’s the solution?”

First, we must SHOW UP.

Uninvited, at times. We try to be so polite: I don’t want to get in their business. If they need help, they’ll ask.

No, they won’t. At least, I didn’t. Because I was also being polite and not wanting to put anybody out or be too needy. So I just said I was fine.

But my friend, Hannah, didn’t buy it. Still trying to be like her in proactively loving others. (See Obnoxious love.)

Secondly, we must BE REAL.

It’s very normal to try to impress someone you meet for the first time (or in an ongoing relationship). But here’s the problem with that: You can’t connect and impress at the same time.

If you impress someone or if someone impresses you, it creates distance. Someone feels less than the other. Connection can’t grow in that soil.

I know I quote this scripture often (Revelation 12:11), but remember, Satan, the one who seeks to isolate us and separate us from the herd to take us out, is overcome by the blood of the Lamb (check!) and the word of the testimony.

We must tell our stories to connect. Not to make it about ourselves or to get a bunch of attention, but to throw out a life preserver marked ME TOO to a soul secretly drowning behind a fake smile.

Thirdly, SHARE FAITH.

It was never meant to be done alone, people. Private, individualized faith is something we made up to not offend our friends who believe differently than we do. And sometimes we even carry it over to those who DO believe what we do.

In Ephesians 6, Paul teaches us about the ‘armor of God.’ When he talks about the shield of faith, he was referring to a shield soldiers used at the time, about three feet wide by five feet tall. It was covered in braided leather and then doused with water so it could extinguish flaming arrows.

But here’s the best part:

Each side of the shield was shaped like a puzzle piece that fit with the shields on either side. When it was necessary, you could lock shields with the soldiers next to you and create a wall of protection. So if your strength started to fail, you are protected by the shields of others standing with you.

The picture takes my breath away.

Sometimes my faith fails. Every once in a while, for different reasons or sometimes no reason at all, I start to question everything. And in those moments, I need to lock my shield with someone else.

There was a moment of absolute moral failure in my life several years ago in my single days when I was pretty sure I had disqualified myself from any future Christian ministry at all. My head knew that forgiveness was just a whisper away. But the weight of the sin was so crushing, I couldn’t even breathe a prayer of repentance.

So I called a friend. Late at night. Begged her to come over and scrape me off the floor. (I was LITERALLY sitting on the hardwood floor in a puddle of tears because I didn’t think I deserved to sit on the couch.)

“Tell me the gospel like I’ve never heard it before,” I begged her. “Tell me how I can KNOW that what I’ve done was on Jesus’ shoulders when He died on the cross.” My faith failed, and her faith shielded me. She spoke the truth over me that night and I was restored, with fresh wonder of my loving Father welcoming home His prodigal.

I was at a Christian conference with some dear friends. One friend in particular was standing in front of me facing the stage while we were all worshiping. It was a powerful song, eyes were closed, hands were raised.

Suddenly my friend turned around, leaned toward me and said, “Is this for real? I mean, is all this real? Or are we all just crazy? I need you to tell me it’s real.”

Her faith had been under steady attack from a family member for a couple of years and it was starting to take its toll. She needed to lean on my faith.

“It’s real. I promise. It’s all real.”

She let out a sigh of relief and nodded. “Okay, good. I might need you to keep telling me that.”

I squeezed her hand and said, “And at some point, I’m gonna need YOU to tell ME that.”

We locked shields and promised to tell each other the truth again and again and again.

Lastly, we must GET PRACTICAL.

There’s a fairly old youtube video called the Battle at Kruger. I think it’s currently one of the top-viewed videos of all time. If you haven’t seen it, watch it. If you don’t have time right now, I’ll summarize it for you and you can go back and watch it later.

SPOILER ALERT:

There’s this herd of wild water buffalo (I think that’s what they are) and this pack of three or four lions. The lions manage to separate one of the babies from the herd and are getting ready to enjoy the feast.

Now I have always LOVED nature movies. The Planet Earth documentaries are the best. But this is the part I hate. I know, the Circle of Life, blah, blah, blah. I get it, I understand it, I respect it, but I don’t want to WATCH it.

We’ve seen it a million times. The predator(s) pick off the prey, usually the most vulnerable in the pack, and the herd moves on.

But not this time. This is the nature video I’ve been waiting my whole life to see.

The herd comes back. That’s right, THE HERD COMES BACK FOR THEIR OWN. I don’t know how they figured it out, but somehow the buffalo realized there were more of them than there were lions. And if they stuck together, they could take them out.

The massive herd moves toward the few lions, who have yet to really dig into their meal (due to the distraction of a crocodile who tries to steal their dinner). Closer and closer. The buffalo have horns. A few of the big ones charge the lions one at a time and eventually they lose their grip on the baby. Good effort, but it’s probably too late.

Wrong again. The dazed and confused little buffalo struggles to his feet and is ushered back into the herd by several larger buffalo, while a few others chase the lions off.

Let me type this through tears: THIS IS THE CHURCH.

So often, the weak ones get picked off, we shake our heads sadly and move on. Another one bites the dust. That’s so sad.

No more. We must go back. Go back for OUR OWN who have fallen prey to the enemy.

Go back for the addicts, the adulterers, the sick, the divorced, the bankrupt, the arrested, whatever. We cannot let our people go without a fight. The enemy is bluffing. Greater is He who is in us than he who is in the world.

It’s time to take our masks off. It’s time to breathe the fresh air of authenticity instead of wheezing the thin oxygen behind our barriers of self-protection. I know it’s terrifying. I know you’ve been hurt before. And you will be hurt again. Nobody has it all together.

But it’s worth the risk. We need each other. We were created for community.

There is an old Indian proverb that says, “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.”

We’ve got far to go, my friends. This life is a marathon, not a sprint.

And I say we stay together.

What do YOU say?

Trust the process

April 22, 2016 By Lindsey Staton

I hate process.

I used to hate change. All change. I used to be terrified of anything outside of my comfort zone. I established a happy little land where I understood everything and guarded those walls fiercely. But alas, despite my best efforts, the walls came tumbling down.

And God in His great mercy foiled every attempt I made to rebuild a comfort zone. My self-imposed limits of ‘this far and no farther’ were getting in the way of His plan for my life. So while I have a safe home base, my mind is now pretty much wide open to the possibilities God may have for me.

I’m not as afraid of things being different now. I can embrace different. I’ve grown quite adept to adjusting to new normals.

It’s not the actual change (noun) that makes me nervous anymore. It’s the changING (verb). The bleepity-bleeping PROCESS. The learning curve.

I’m good with where I am. I’d be better with where I’m going. But I DO NOT LIKE the process of getting there.

And here’s something I’ve learned: God LOVES process. The process is HIS FAVORITE PART. And because He’s God and He makes the rules, He always wins.

And on the eight day, God said, “Let there be PROCESS.” (Okay, that’s not in the Bible. But He could have said that. I think He says it over me every single morning when I wake up.)

And I think most people are like that. You hear people say they don’t like change. But I think more often than not, it’s the process that is most intimidating to them.

I want to lose weight and take care of myself, but I don’t like change.

I’m miserable in my job, but I don’t like change.

My marriage isn’t what it should be, but I don’t like change.

I want to be closer to my kids, but I don’t like change.

I’m lonely and miss seeing my friends, but I don’t like change.

I need to make time for my hobbies, but I don’t like change.

I’d really like to heal from some old wounds, but I don’t like change.

And what they mean is, they want those things to be different in their lives and they know things would be better if they did change. But they’re not willing (yet) to go through the PROCESS. I totally get that.

When I was in a sorority in college, I did not enjoy the rush/recruitment week. The first year going through it was nerve-wracking, but still fun. But then on the other side, on the INside, it was painful for me.

We were choosing who we wanted in and who we wanted out. A group of 90+ sleep-deprived college girls wrestling through who we liked the best out of the fresh-faced wide-eyed little freshman. It didn’t feel good.

We had structure in place to keep it more objective and that helped a lot. But inevitably things would start to get emotional. How could they not?

There was one girl in my pledge class (who is still a good friend of mine) who was the voice of reason when things looked like they might unravel. She’s tall and commanding, with a compassionate heart and a practical mind. She would stand up and remind us, “Y’all, we’ve just got to trust the process. The process got us all here. It works. Let’s just trust the process.”

And we did. And she always ended up being right. Every year it worked out just the way it was supposed to, even though it may have been different than what we thought we wanted. In the end, we were always thankful for the process.

Often when I dare to approach making a change in my life, I throw myself into it with everything I’ve got and end up burning out quickly. The idea is to get from Point A to Point B as quickly and painlessly as possible and to eliminate the need for process.

I have yet to have any kind of lasting success with this approach.

I was in a conversation with a coaching client earlier this week and we were discussing his goals. One was getting healthier (eat better, exercise regularly, etc). He said, “I have a gym membership and everything. But my problem is I’m either all or nothing. I’m either doing nothing, eating junk on the couch. Or I’m eating SUPER healthy and working out all the time.”

I smiled knowingly and said, “And it’s not sustainable.”

“It’s not sustainable,” he agreed.

The truth is, no matter how much motivation we begin with, any lasting change takes time and, dare I say it, process.

I’m a big fan of finding ‘third ways.’ So often we feel like we have a choice between only two options. It’s either THIS or THAT, couch potato or gym rat, junk food junkie or Gwyneth Paltrow, helicopter parent or neglectful deadbeat, workaholic or slacker.

Some things are black and white. But most things are varying shades of gray and I’m finding more and more that there is usually a third option (and sometimes even more!).

And here’s one of the best third ways I’ve learned so far: There is great power in small changes.

Small changes are doable, less intimidating, easier to start and MUCH easier to sustain. Allow God room to work His beloved process of growing us. That’s a win-win.

This applies to so many areas of life: health, relationships, spiritual growth.

Here’s an example.

I was puttering around Facebook one day and came across that video about the Navy Seals and how they’re required to make their beds perfectly every morning while they’re in training. Perfect, as in, for INSPECTION.

Seriously? With all the energy those guys expend every day, we have to bore them with making their beds? Don’t they have a lot more important things to do?

The big dog Navy guy they were interviewing explained that it started their day with a sense of accomplishment and positive momentum.

I grew up making my bed every day and never planned on doing it ever again unless company was coming over. But then I heard that the NAVY SEALS do it. So I took the challenge.

One day before I left for work, I made the bed. Smoothed out every wrinkle. Arranged the pillows just so. I surveyed my work and was convinced it would pass inspection if a Navy Seal happened to drop by.

But with the bed looking so nice, the shoes strewn about on the floor and the books and papers piled messily on my nightstand didn’t really match. So I did another minute or two of straightening and got on with my day.

Later that afternoon, when Brad got home from work and went upstairs to change, I heard, “Oh wow, babe. It looks GREAT in here.”

“Really?” I walked in to see what the big deal was. “I just made the bed and picked up a few things real quick.”

“No, it looks so nice. The whole room looks different. It looks…relaxing. And pretty. It makes me happy.” Then he kissed me. “Thank you.”

Whoa. Didn’t expect THAT kind of reaction. Didn’t expect much of one at all actually. I probably spent a total of four minutes making the bed and straightening up. Cost me nothing. And it made him that happy. Well, dang. I can do that.

So now I make the bed every day. It’s a small change that pays big dividends in my husband’s heart. That small change ended up accidentally triggering a process of investing in my marriage. Who knew?

Made me wonder what other small things I can do that would cost me next to nothing but might mean the world to someone else or might lead to a big change in my own life.

Maybe when starting a new exercise regimen, I don’t try to exercise for an hour every single day. Maybe just 30 minutes two or three times a week.

Maybe when wanting to eat healthier, I don’t decide to cut out ALL CARBS AND DESSERT FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. Maybe I’m just more aware of food choices during the day and save desserts for special occasions.

Maybe when it comes to investing in my family, I don’t commit to an hour of face-to-face emotional bonding with each family member each day. Maybe I just make sure everyone gets a kiss goodnight before they fall asleep and take advantage of opportunities for quality time when they present themselves.

Maybe when I want to be intentional about my faith, I don’t start getting up an hour earlier every day to read the Bible and pray. Maybe just 15 minutes to start with. Or try praying in the shower or on the way to work.

Start the process, and start small. Sometimes it’ll work, sometimes it won’t. When it works, your confidence and momentum will begin to build and you keep moving forward. When it doesn’t work, give yourself grace and get back on the wagon and/or make adjustments.

God loves process. And He doesn’t just ASSIGN process, stand back and wait to inspect our work to make sure there are no wrinkles. The God of the universe who spoke all things into being, who’s got the whole world in His hands, walks through each step with us.

He loves process because it’s good for us, it grows us, it teaches us. But the other reason even dearer to His heart is because it’s something we can do together.

And THAT’S the ULTIMATE win-win.

Bloodlines

April 15, 2016 By Lindsey Staton

Families are not as clear-cut as they once were.

A family used to be made up of a mother and a father who were married to each other and had a kid or two. There were grandparents on both sides, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews and everyone was biologically related (except of course the married people who were legally related).

But now there are more step-people than ever. Divorces tear families apart and remarriages piece together the remnants of previous families.

Adoption is becoming more and more common (thank You, Lord) so there are fewer and fewer children sharing genetic material with their parents.

I know a number of adoptive families and I freakin’ live in my own blended family. And both scenarios come with their own set of excruciating challenges as family members adapt to their new configuration.

But perhaps the most devastating challenge from this new breed of families is the pushback that comes from those closest to them. Where there should be support, there is distance. Where there should be acceptance, there is (more) rejection. And I’m sorry to say, this is more common than I had originally thought.

I met a friend for lunch at Chipotle the other day. She’s been married a year or two and has had her heart set on adoption for as long as she can remember. (Again, thank You, Lord, for these people.)

We were discussing the idea of the couple adopting one day when she hit me with, “Oh, and get this: My in-laws have told us on no uncertain terms that if we adopt, that child will not be their grandchild.”

I nearly choked.

After a few throat-clearing coughs and a sip of Diet Coke, I countered, “Come on, they did not say that. Seriously. There is no way.”

“Yep,” she said, defiantly stabbing at her burrito bowl. “Those exact words.” She took another bite at stared at me with a mixture of anger, hurt and resignation.

I was aghast. “What? Do they have too many grandkids? Oh no, wait. They don’t have any. They must have too much love in their lives. You know, no more room in the inn,” I snarled in disgust.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. So THAT’S going to be interesting.”

I just couldn’t get over it. I’m STILL not over it.

Caroline was almost four when Brad and I got married. Brad’s sister’s family has an adopted son a few months younger than she is and they’ve been cousins for as long as they can remember. Two kids whose paths would have never crossed if not for the miracle of adoption and the adventure of remarriage.

Caroline and I were in the car a couple years ago and the subject of adoption came up. We were mid-conversation and I said, “Well, you know, like Noah and Aunt Ashley…”

Caroline’s head snapped up. “What? What do you mean?”

I continued, “You know, like when Aunt Ashley and Uncle Matthew adopted Noah when he was a baby…”

“WAIT…” I glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were big as saucers and her hands were up as if trying to stop time. “You mean, Aunt Ashley isn’t Noah’s REAL MOM?!”

I cringed at the ‘real’ part, but let it slide because I knew what she meant. “Uh, no, honey. He’s adopted.”

“MOM! Why didn’t you tell me?!” She was horrified that I had kept something so important from her.

But here’s the best part of this story: Noah is biracial. He’s got skin the color of milk chocolate, big brown eyes and dark curly hair. Ashley is fair-skinned, with blond hair and blue eyes.

I stifled a giggle and said, “Well, babe … I’m sorry, I didn’t think I HAD to.”

But nobody told her. Nobody told her they weren’t really cousins. Nobody told them they weren’t really in the same family.

And you know what? Nobody told our teenage nephews that Caroline wasn’t really their cousin so didn’t have to carry her around on their backs or play with her on the trampoline.

Nobody told Beau, Sydney and Caroline they’re not really siblings so they have to always put ‘step’ in front of ‘brother’ or ‘sister’ (which they don’t). Nobody told them that since they don’t share genetic material that they’re not really family.

I wish no one had told me that either. But unfortunately, I had one well-meaning friend tell me early in my marriage that we weren’t REALLY a family of five.

Huh? What were we then? A bed and breakfast? A foster home? A youth hostel?

Maybe she was trying to take off some of the pressure that comes from blending a family. But instead she invalidated everything I was trying to build, told me that it wasn’t real and never would be. I was crushed.

But the longer I do this blended family business, the more certain I am that she was wrong. Well-intentioned, but wrong.

I couple weekends ago I had buddy from college come into town. We had her family over for burgers and swimming. They have an eight-year-old biological son and a five-year-old little girl they adopted from China when she was two.

The grownups chatted while the kids swam. And their son picked and their daughter squealed in protest, like I had seen Beau and Sydney do a million times when they were younger. Nobody told them they weren’t really siblings so they didn’t have to act like it.

We took a picture of all five kids before they left. My 13-year-old stepdaughter held the five-year-old adopted girl in her lap. My 15-year-old stepson sat down with my 9-year-old biological daughter and my friend’s eight-year-old biological son.

Only two of the five kids in that picture were related by blood, eight different biological parents represented in those faces. And yet it was all kids from just two families. Hell, if someone didn’t know any better with all the steps and adopteds, they could have all been in the SAME family.

You know what? Jesus was not concerned with the legalities and formalities of blood relations when it came to families. He referred to His disciples as brothers. And check Him out in Luke 8:

Now Jesus’ mother and brothers came to see Him, but they were not able to get near Him because of the crowd. Someone told Him, “Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to see You.”
He replied, “My mother and brothers are those who hear God’s word and put it into practice” (vv. 19-21).

Did He not love them anymore? Of course He did. But the Kingdom of God had come. And in that Kingdom, believers are all in the same family. Blood relation gets no preference.

This was a hard pill for the Jews to swallow. For generations, they had pointed back to their genetic connection to Abraham as their guarantee of salvation. Suddenly Jesus told them their passport to heaven was null and void without the stamp of His blood.

In John 8, He blows their minds (and pisses them off):

            To the Jews who had believed him, Jesus said, “If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

            They answered him, “We are Abraham’s descendants and have never been slaves of anyone. How can you say that we shall be set free?”

            Jesus replied, “… I know that you are Abraham’s descendants. Yet you are looking for a way to kill Me, because you have no room for My word. I am telling you what I have seen in the Father’s presence, and you are doing what you have heard from your father.”

            “Abraham is our father,” they answered.

            “If you were Abraham’s children,” said Jesus, “then you would do what Abraham did. As it is, you are looking for a way to kill Me, a man who has told you the truth that I heard from God. Abraham did not do such things. You are doing the works of your own father.”

            “We are not illegitimate children,” they protested. “The only Father we have is God Himself.”

            Jesus said to them, “If God were your Father, you would love Me, for I have come here from God. … Whoever belongs to God hears what God says. The reason you do not hear is that you do not belong to God.” (vv. 31-33, 37-40, 42, 47).

Their blood rights as children of God had been trumped by faith and grace. Children of God were suddenly ALL who believe, whether they were genetically in the family or not.

Even as Jesus is dying on the cross, He’s piecing together families of people with no genetic connection.

He’s suffocating under the weight of His own body, in more physical pain than I can even get my head around from all His massive internal and external injuries.

When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to her, “Woman, here is your son,” and to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” From that time on, this disciple took her into his home (John 19:26-27).

According to the teachings of Jesus Himself, the only blood that matters is His. His holy blood spilled for us for us to secure the salvation for all who believe, Jew and Gentile alike.

Belonging. Acceptance. Family.

From what I can tell, the occurrence of steps and adopteds is only going to rise from here. Families continue to fall apart and as part of Jesus’ beautiful plan of redemption, He keeps putting pieces of different broken families together and making new families. Making broken things new. Kinda one of His things.

When Jesus brought the Kingdom, He created one family of believers.

And I don’t want to just generally support that aspect of the Kingdom with OTHER people OUT THERE. I want to bring the Kingdom in my own home. And in my own heart.

Contribute to those fundraising sites for families trying to bring their adopted children home. If God leads you to do so, consider bringing an orphan into your own home or serving as a foster parent. Celebrate blended families and the redemption they’re trying to live every day. Shower them with love and support, parents AND children. They’ve all got beautiful, but difficult roads ahead.

As we seek to make the best of this fallen world we live in, let’s raise our understanding of ‘family’ to a biblical level. Jesus said we’re family, whether we’re related or not.

And I believe Him.

Love letters

April 8, 2016 By Lindsey Staton

I’ve always been a big fan of love letters.

I’m a word nerd, so that’s not surprising. I love words. An email or a sweet text can make my day. But man, a handwritten love letter on actual stationery? I’m sorry, that’s just hot.

When I first got to college and joined a sorority, I was in complete awe of the seniors. I was a clueless 18-year-old girl a few months out of high school. They were WOMEN, in their TWENTIES. And they were talking about things like getting jobs and getting married. They were GROWNUPS, for heaven’s sake.

I quickly learned the importance of a good engagement story. Whenever somebody would get engaged, we would all gather around to hear how it happened.

Now let me just take a moment to say there were no cell phones, there was no Facebook, no choreographed flash mobs. Nobody hired a photographer and/or videographer to capture the whole thing, put it to music and post it on the couple’s wedding website.

It was a different time. The story usually involved flowers and dinner. Maybe a walk on a beach or a hike to a beautiful mountain view. Sometimes a place of special significance (where they had their first kiss, first date, whatever).

So these beautiful, intelligent older girls would tear up and giggle, flash around their engagement rings and as soon as we all stopped squealing (Yes, I had moments of squealing in my sorority days. I don’t know. It was contagious.), the storytelling would commence. And we all hung on every word.

There were plenty of perfectly timed gasps and awwwwwwwws. But there’s one part that always bothered me.

In almost every story, the soon-to-be-blushing bride would get to the actual proposal, the guy would take a knee and inevitably she would say, “and he said a bunch of sweet stuff I can’t remember and then he said ‘Will you marry me?’”

Of course more squealing and awwww-ing would commence and I would join in. But inside I was kind of indignant. He said a bunch of sweet stuff that you can’t remember?! That’s the good stuff! THAT’S what I want to hear about! That’s the best part!

This need for love letters has been pounded into Brad’s head from the moment we got married. But even before that, he was good at it. (Probably one of the reasons we GOT married, actually.)

He would MAIL me love letters from Orlando when I lived in Ocala. (Are you kidding me? Who does that?) And I could always expect one on special occasions and sometimes for no reason at all.

And now whenever there’s a birthday/holiday/anniversary and he asks me what I want, my response is always the same: A date, flowers and a love letter. And being the smart man that he is, he always obliges. (And being the BRILLIANT man that he is, last year on my birthday, he threw in a cookie cake. I mean. Just pardon me while I swoon.)

But here’s why I need love letters: When we hit a rough patch or when life is anything other than perfect, I forget.

I forget the things he loves about me.
I forget the things I love about him.
I forget how far we’ve come in five short years.
I forget all wonderful things he’s said and done since we’ve known each other.

So in moments of sadness and discouragement, I’ll pull out the ever-growing stack of love letters and read through them so I can remember. And as I retrace our love story, I begin to function from a place of feeling loved again. And that changes everything.

Research shows that we remember more negative things than positive things.

Professor Clifford Nass says, “The brain handles positive and negative information in different hemispheres. Negative emotions generally involve more thinking, and the information is processed more thoroughly than positive ones. Thus, we tend to ruminate more about unpleasant events — and use stronger words to describe them — than happy ones.”

Professor Roy F. Baumeister puts it like this: “Bad emotions, bad parents and bad feedback have more impact than good ones. Bad impressions and bad stereotypes are quicker to form and more resistant to disconfirmation than good ones.”

Well, that just sucks.

I’ve got a fairly strong long-term memory and I consider myself a typically optimistic person. But I can totally see the validity of those statements in my own brain.

Which brings me back to the critical importance of love letters. Over the years I’ve also printed out positive emails, saved Facebook comments, squirreled away Mother’s Day cards from the kids. I’ve even started a document for kind text messages. I call this collection ‘the rainy day file.’

Because, you guys, I just forget. I forget how loved I am. I forget that I’m making even the smallest difference in my world. I forget the good things I’ve done and I’m eternally grateful for the people who have called it out in me in savable ways.

The Bible is the ultimate rainy day file and the love letter to end all love letters. God knew we would forget. We forget the history of our faith and the stories of our ancestors and how God came through for them. We forget how Jesus lived when He was here and therefore how WE’RE supposed to live. We forget what He went through to secure our salvation. We forget how unbelievably loved we are.

Just the other night, Caroline was just being eaten alive by the actions of some stupid little mean girl at school. (Seriously. Mean girls in third grade. God help us.) My daughter is a friend to all and was a particularly good friend to this little snot at one point, which made the betrayal all the worse.

We talked through her feelings and how she was going to handle it, but she was frustrated that she couldn’t get the thoughts out of her head. And we all know how that goes: The harder you try to NOT think about something, well, you just end up obsessing about even more.

I said, “Caroline, listen. You gotta go get in your Bible. Remember Philippians 4:8 and all the things we’re SUPPOSED to be thinking about?”

Her teary eyes lit up. She was familiar with that verse, as we used it a lot in her younger days to combat nightmares.

“Yeah, go read that. And make a list as you go through it of all the good, noble, true, right, beautiful, praiseworthy stuff you can think of. Focus on that stuff.” She rushed to her bookshelf, grabbed her Bible, plopped down on her bed and flipped to the familiar passage.

I smiled as I closed the door behind me and reminded myself I should probably go study the same verse to interrupt all the evil plots that were forming in my head toward that bratty little turd who hurt my kid. (Mama Bear needed a Xanax. Or a drink.)

I remember years ago when I was wrestling against the crushing regret of my Post-Divorce Brain Damage. I was feeling so ashamed, I wouldn’t even allow myself the comfort of sitting on my bed so I sat on the hardwood floor of my bedroom. (Dramatic, I know.)

With my face in my hands, I turned my sins over and over in my brain and wondered how I could ever walk into a church again. And then my head snapped up. Hold on a second! There is therefore now NO condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, right? Didn’t I read that somewhere?

I reached for my Bible and flipped around until I found Romans 8:1-2. The rest of it beautifully promises, “And the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has set me free from the law of sin and death.”

I read the words over and over and over and finally buried my face in the pages, trying to absorb the truth by osmosis. A wave of forgiveness washed over me. A few minutes later, I took a deep cleansing breath and climbed back into bed. No condemnation. Free. Those are the kind of words that help you sleep at night.

We just forget. Our loving Father KNEW we would forget and He wasn’t going to make our faith rest on our fragile, failing memories. So He compiled a love letter to read and reread again and again as often as needed. Praise You, Lord.

But the Bible isn’t God’s only message to the world. Paul says in 2 Corinthians 3, “You yourselves are our letter, written on our hearts, known and read by everyone. You show that you are a letter from Christ, the result of our ministry, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts” (vv 2-3).

Oh crap. I’m a walking letter from God to everyone? What the heck has my life been saying? Ugh. (Wait. No condemnation. Okay. Whew.)

It’s not pressure. It’s an unbelievable privilege. I’ve experienced the shocking and humbling phenomenon of God using my voice to speak His truth and it never ceases to take my breath away. Yes, He can use even me. The bar is pretty low. All He needs is a willing vessel.

God knew we would forget. And the thought of us not remembering His insane, ridiculous, undeserved, unearned, unconditional love for us was just not acceptable to Him. So He made sure we had a rainy day file, a love letter for all time.

Then He filled those who believe with the Spirit of Himself so He could use us to remind each other of the truth of that love.

So when anything is less than perfect, we have pages and pages filled with words of love so we can remember.

Wonder what our days would look like if we started each morning with a love letter? Or with a note from our rainy day file?

People who know they’re loved, who live loved, do it differently. Their eyes sparkle. Their breath comes easy and even. Their shoulders are relaxed. They’re harder to rattle, nearly impossible to discourage. They take risks in the security of their standing, not in an attempt to prove themselves.

If a love letter or encouraging text from a flawed human can have that much of an impact on my day, how much more should the very words of God minister to my oh-so-needy heart?

We can’t afford to waste one extra minute living an unloved and doubt-filled life. Read The Love Letter for your own heart. Then BE The Love Letter for someone else’s.

That’s the good stuff. THAT’S what people want to hear about.

That’s the best part.

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