ghost writer

My feet are still throbbing from a week of hiking through magical moments at Walt Disney World. One of mine happened as we crossed a lackluster bridge in the Animal Kingdom that had some nondescript Walt Disney quotes stenciled on it to fill some white space:

The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing.

I cocked my head as I read this one, then walked away from it. But it didn’t walk away from me. I don’t have a huge dream that I’m always talking about or trying to achieve, probably, quite the opposite actually.

As I’m getting ready to put the last of our Scotts Tots on the schoolbus this year and testing the waters of changing my acronym from SAHM to WAHM, I’m finding myself about as skilled, vibrant, and confident as a piece of plastic wrap.

Only by a chain of events I can’t even string together, I’ve been given the opportunity to ghost write for a few months now, and while the work is challenging, stretching, and sometimes downright frustrating, I’m thoroughly enjoying writing shrouded in anonymity. Something I could have never imagined in my “I want to write a book” days of yore.

So I’m wrapping myself up in my invisibility cloak and snuggling up to covertly tap out letters then string them into words and thoughts that will be read in someone else’s voice. Even though you’ll never notice it, I prefer blending in.

And I cannot tell you how huge my grin was in the Haunted Mansion when we bumped our way through the graveyard of “famous ghostwriters”…the irony was not lost on me!

Be a missionary every day (clap-clap, clap-clap)

I used to think that missionaries were a specific category of people. That you either were one, or you weren’t but you knew about them and your church financially committed to raise a certain percentage of their support. That only those special, chosen few had the “call” to go and do their missionary thing. Looking back I’ve been blessed to support missions in my own way from a young age– before I even realized what I was doing–as I helped my grandmother sort clothes in the “missionary barrel” in the stuffy church attic!

I thought about missions once a year when our church would hang up the colorful flags from around the world in the main sanctuary during the “Missions Conference” and  highlight what was going on in the jungles and on other side of the world. I loved the slideshows with their exotic and intriguing photographs and listened to the numbers of converts, baptisms, and “new” attendees of church plants the missionaries were starting. It was a time for the church people “at home” to nod their heads in approval as the numbers of people being reached in another country went up (hopefully…I never heard of numbers going down or a missionary being “fired”) and to drop extra money into the shiny, gold offering plate so that the missionaries could keep doing what they were doing for another year and we could check that off our lists until next year’s conference.

It was, in my young mind, the one week a year our church did its duty to help fulfill the Great Commission. To me it seemed like missions was something to be taken out and packed away like the flags in the sanctuary. Not an everyday, all day, for everyone kind of thing.

But I’m learning that not just a few, chosen people can make local and global impact, everyone is supposed to play their part. There isn’t supposed to be a “category” in my life for missions, my whole life is supposed to be influenced and infused by having a missions mindset.

I have a special talent that allows me to be a missionary too. In fact, everyone has been given a gift and a calling to play a part in the spreading of the gospel–whether it’s being a steady financial supporter, an artist, oozing love, or being a pray-er, it takes every single person doing their part every single day for individual and corporate Christians to carry out the Great Commission.

That myself, my family, and my Church–and hopefully all individual and corporate believers–will understand that missions isn’t simply a piece of the puzzle, it’s one of the fibers weaved into the cardboard rectangle that comes with the set, framing in the pieces, giving them context and helping to hold them all together.

missionary musings

I grew up across the street from the missionary house. Every summer I had a new set of best friends…except for the silly rift and summer-long rivalry that happened between us and a set of brothers one summer. I think one of them beat us in a footrace or bragged about something that ticked us off; we were petty enough to hold it against him during his entire furlough.

The Baptist Church between our house and the missionary house was our common ground. Our bikes, whether shiny and new from Christmas or hand-me-downs from the church families all rode the same in that parking lot. Riding and launching ourselves over the speed bumps provided countless day and hours of entertainment no matter the differences in our ages. So did running on the grates behind the bushes–we loved the pounding sound our feet made on those grates as we ran back and forth until an office lady or pastor came out and gently versed us in the necessity of a quiet workplace for those doing the Lord’s work.

The missionary house was mysterious and intriguing–almost scary. Depending on who was living there it would be decorated differently with artifacts from the country where the family was ministering. The drab cream-colored walls would be draped with flowy, colorful curtains and ethnic cloth, brilliant fans or strange, dark artifacts from far away lands, beads and trinkets to remind them of their “home” while they were temporarily in the states making the rounds to churches giving their slideshow over and over in order to garner support that would get them back to the field for 4 more years.

I loved being invited over for dinner, always wondering if I would be served a snake or some other exotic food. Sometimes it was disappointingly Rice Krispies and bananas, but other times there would be a delightful mix of rice and strange vegetables–other than the canned corn I was used to– drenched in a mysterious brown sauce. On a “big” night, there might be wonderfully crunchy and strange shaped tidbits from an overly crinkly plastic bag they had smuggled back with them, sparingly shared, or my favorite–colorful shreds of this or that rolled up in some sort of weird and wonderful dough packet.

I tasted these new foods fearlessly, my world expanding a million times farther than the street I had just crossed for the visit. Often they spoke in the language of the country they were ministering in and used native names for each other. I called them by the names they carefully enunciated for me a few times over until I was able to get the correct nuance and flow to roll off my tongue. I think it was music to their ears to hear words from “home” while living in the Baptist Church’s backyard.

I think back now and realize that these families, comfortable with their being different and okay with wearing secondhand clothes and having “old” haircuts were years ahead of me in loving God and loving people. They were on a mission, even when they were off the mission field. Nothing mattered but getting back, picking up where they left off, hoping things hadn’t fallen apart while they were gone raising money to return and advance their influence and work.

I’ve been enjoying the memories I hold dear from my encounters with missions as a child–from the oversized spiral bound missionary stories to the postcards tacked onto a map in the church narthex, to walking the sheet a missionary cut out to show us the size of the houseboat his family of 6 lived on in Peru. I feel at the same time so lucky at my rich experiences and sad that my own children may never get to talk to their best friend on the other side of the world via ham radio and have to say “over” after every sentence or giggle. I got to experience missions and missionaries in a surreal way back in the ’80′s, and because of them there is something in me that has always taken missions seriously.

Being confronted with a new world and a new way to do missions has stretched me, and while I’m sad that the “old days” are gone, I’m excited that the new wave of missiology  is leveraging influence over current resources and connections in order to multiply the efforts of the faithful that have gone before and paved the way for many across the globe to know the Savior in a real and relevant way.

I have to be okay with the fact that I’ll probably never help my child hand-write a letter to a missionary and wait months and months to see if they write back, study the foreign stamp on the strange-colored envelope, and watch their faces light up in wonder as the letter tells about an intriguing trinket the missionary included or taste and gag over a disgusting packet of dried sea weed they sent for us to taste and experience their culture.

food chain

My 5 year old asks me a lot of questions. Like a lot a lot. As smart as I think I am, they’re often questions I literally cannot answer. As creative as I aim to be, I cannot even make up a fictional answer to assuage this little tyke’s inquisitiveness.

• Mom. How do trucks get so long?
• Mom. Why can’t glass break itself?
• Mom. What two colors are infinity?
• Mom. How do we put things inside our bones?
• Mom. Which frog can jump the longest?

So today on the drive to preschool I shuddered when I heard him utter, “Mom.”

I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and braced myself for the impossible question that was about to be lobbed in my direction. I scrunched my brows together in concentration trying to prepare a new and “exciting” way to drop the “I don’t know” bomb.

Today’s question was, “Mom. Why did God make crabs?”

I exhaled a silent prayer asking God to please give me an answer today. You see, I’m so tired of having to say that I  just don’t know in answer to this inexhaustibly curious little boy’s every innocent query.

Today, I had an answer. Suddenly I had this picture in my head of giant, gentle hands crafting the appendages of a crab like a child makes a creation out of Play-Doh.

“Maybe God was just feeling really creative that day. Maybe He just wanted to make something that was really new and different when He made a crab.”

My little guy didn’t miss a beat and shot me the follow up question, “But why did He make a crab so it could pinch people?”

Again, praying for the mind of God, I inhaled thoughtfully.

“Well, you see, there are a lot of bigger creatures in the ocean that are mean to the crab, so God gave the crab a special weapon so he could defend himself from the bigger sea creatures and stay safe in that big ocean.”

By that time, the stoplight had turned green, and I was trying to eek out those words in a wavery voice while trying to see the road through watery eyes.

I needed these questions today, and the answers God gave me were just as much for my tot as they were for me. I’ve been struggling with my uniqueness and my gifting lately.

And through tiny questions, God gave me huge answers.

I’m special. I’m unique. I’m on purpose. God delighted in making me. And God has given me a special weapon to help me survive in this big, sometimes scary place.

Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous–how well I know it.
Psalm 139:14 (NLT)

Liam Daniel Scott, double-digits!

During my first pregnancy, my biggest craving was anything with melted cheese on it. Mexican food–spicy, Spanishy, burritos, chips w/ cheese, chicken with cheese melted over the top, etc. And I remember a day I drank almost an entire 2 liter of grape soda while at work.

The doctor stopped weighing us after I had gained 54 pounds by the 38th week of the pregnancy.

Due to toxemia AND my being strep B positive AND having family so far away, my doctor scheduled my induction for May 5–about a week before my due date.  I had a fantastic birth experience–love hospitals with heated sheets, cold popsicles, and staff paid to make a big fuss over me while I’m there.

Not knowing whether our baby was a boy or girl, we went to the hospital with a short list of names. (We mailed out cards with lists of possible boy names, possible girl names, and some blank lines for write-ins to get some family & friend suggestions to help the out-of-townness of everyone feel a little less far).

When we found out that we had a boy, we looked at our boy name list and  had Nicholas (Cole for short), Aidan, and Liam on the short list. Our little guy was definitely not red and fiery, so Aidan got struck, he just didn’t look like a Nicholas to me and so Liam it was. We had a different middle name chosen (which I forget, Dan, do you remember?) but in the hospital I really wanted Liam to be named after his father. So says the Jenna, thus it was done. (Not too much fight put up by a very proud, albeit tired of writing a seminary paper in the hospital using a flip-open keyboard with his PDA, father)

This little dude turned my world nether. For a career-oriented gal in the midst of her MA in Management, I was totally blindsided by the motherly instincts that kicked in after Liam was born. And thus began this crazy adventure into being a mom. Being good at it, being bad at it, being OK with it, being not OK with it, but from that day on being a mom.

Liam, thanks for making me who I am today. I have loved being a mom because of you. Despite your sleeping in our bed with us for practically the entire first year of your life. Despite always having to be held, and generally not being a happy kid until you learned to walk and could go, go, go. Despite knocking out your two front teeth at the tender age of 2 and some change. (We’re still waiting for the new ones to grow in…I don’t think I’ll recognize my son with teeth when that does happen) Despite battles of your strong will, night-owlery, and inordinate amount of independence.

I am amazed at who Liam is today, but not surprised. As soon as they laid him on my stomach after delivery, he lifted his little head up–looking like a pale, wrinkly turtle–to look around. He’s still like that. Pale, not so wrinkly, but super observant. He didn’t cry right away or make a fuss, and that’s how he is today. He takes everything in stride and is a very low-key and laid back guy.

Don’t get me wrong, if someone so much as thinks about crossing a line, he is the first to cry “foul”. And we jokingly call him our little pharisee because all rules apply to everyone else except him, and he has a gift for pointing out everyone else’s faults without (yet) being able to recognize his own. (I freely admit that this comes from me, myself, and I. I’ve had 32 years to recognize and work on it…and still am…let’s hope I can re-direct that “gifting” by having been “stretched” through it for so much of my life.)

This is the first year I have had to give up total and complete creative liberty and execution of the birthday cake. That is both an exciting and I-need-to-have-my-hands-tied-behind-my-back kind of feeling. We collaborated on his Scooby-Doo cake and it turned out a masterpiece. In his mind. It tasted good and hopefully was what he envisioned and I have to be OK with that.

Liam, your heart is so good. I can’t imagine how much gooder it will be when you decide to ask Jesus into it. Maybe 6 will be the year? I know faith is hard for you. You need to see and touch and feel to trust. I’ll just keep praying that something or someone will be able to demonstrate or communicate the wonderful truth of Jesus into your life, and that we can celebrate the day you ask him into your life. I’m loving trying to figure you out and directing you to play to your strengths without trampling others in the process, and coaching you to persevere through things that challenge you or don’t come easily to you (which ain’t much, lucky kid)

I say it all the time, and for now you still let me.

I love you, bugaboo!

Happy Birthday to my burrito baby on this Cinco de Mayo. (I like to tell him, there will always be a party on your birthday!)

5/5/13 Update

I can’t believe it’s year 10! I can honestly say “it just keeps getting better!” with you. A few years ago we started to see signs that you are an introvert, and put you on a soccer team just to give you some outside interactions besides the solitariness of reading books and playing Legos. Little did we know that soccer was one of your languages. When you are on the field, you ROAR. Your quiet intensity and strategic, yet team-oriented plays, set you apart as a a gifted athlete  whose talent is only matched by your good-sport attitude during every single game. We’ve been proud to see you take your enjoyment of Legos to a whole new level–competing for and winning a spot as a Lego Junior Construction Panelist and getting your first paid Lego set-building job this year! I adore how you create a unique “set” or birthday card from your own Lego stash for your siblings on their birthdays–your tender, gentle spirit is still intact despite the pre-pubescent moodiness that sometimes gurgles up and pushes someone’s buttons on purpose to provoke them.

You claim to have Jesus in your heart, and I believe that you do as I see the buds of fruit in your life via Bible reading and praying.  I know you desire  to take the next step and get baptized so you can tell the world, but I know that video has you scared to take the leap. Praying for supernatural courage in the coming year to take that step so that it will help strengthen the wings of your fledgling faith, and that I’ll be a nurturer of your love for God and for others in the coming year. I pray that you’ll keep living up to your name as “protector” of your  younger siblings, and of your own heart as well as we are beginning to enter what can be some very rocky years for most kids. I know you’re not in the category of “most kids”, you are truly something special and different, and we love you ardently in your own quiet way. 

Frog Breathing

I was in a supreme hurry to get dinner on the grill during a very tight window of time after homework and before soccer practice. I flew out the back door and whisked the cover off the grill only to be startled out of my skin by a tiny green frog cowering on the control panel between the flame-adjuster knobs.

I hate to admit this, but I screamed. And not a cool, high-pitched, girly movie scream, more like a kind of gutteral manly groan–like the one you make after coming around a bend in the road to find fresh roadkill with blood and entrails and crows picking at it, or the noise you made just now.

No one heard me. I could have poked the frog with a stick and sent it hopping. But the shock had halted my mad dinner rush and forced me to stop and breathe. The surge of adrenaline bathed my brain and birthed a great idea.

I called my kids from the creek below, “Hey guys! Come see! There’s a FROG!” There was a blur of boots as my kids scrambled pell-mell up the hill trying to be the first to lay eyes on the creature, “I wanna see! I wanna see!”

After staring at the huddled creature, we got a box and a stick. Then I gently prodded the poor thing to leap from the grill and caught him in the box, which caused much hilarity and screaming amongst the littles.

The three amigos trilled in excitement as they transported the frog-box to the creek, then quieted as they settled it on the ground and peered over the top.

After plopping the teriyaki chicken breasts onto the sizzling grill top, I stopped to take in the picture of my children huddled over that box, waiting, watching, anticipating.

The displaced frog was sitting in the corner of the cardboard prison as if it were frozen, or a fake plastic toy. After a minute of staring down the tiny green creature, Ellison shrieked, “Mom! Mom! It’s BREATHING!”

They knew the frog was alive from its initial leap into the box, but because it was sitting mannequin still, they weren’t sure it was still alive, and began to doubt. It took them a while and a good look to make sure it wasn’t dead.

I don’t want people to wonder if I’m spiritually dead. I shouldn’t have to make a big leap every now and then to show that I’ve got God inside of me. I want people to see me constantly moving so fast they just assume that I’m alive and breathing because of all that that is being done to further God’s kingdom. Not peering over the edge of the box, waiting to see a breath, poking me with a stick and wondering if I’m still alive.

In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind.
Job 12:10  (NIV)

I’m not losing my marbles, I know right where I planted them

I didn’t get to attend the Orange Conference this year, but tracked along–mostly while waiting in carlines for the four Scotts Tots– via Twitter and the #OC13 hashtag.

Trending during Reggie Joiner’s session was a quote from a book he wrote called “Losing Your Marbles: Playing for Keeps“. Basically, if you put a marble in a jar for each week of your child’s life from birth until high school graduation then remove a marble each week, you’ll see how many you have left. It’s a powerful visual. So much so that there’s even an app called “Legacy Countdown” that lets you see how many weeks (or marbles) you have left with each of your kids!

Throughout conference week, people used the app to calculate the weeks left with their children and posted this quote along with the picture of how many weeks they had left:

“When you see how much time you have left, you tend to do more with the time you have now.”

Comments being left on these infographics, Instagrams and TwitPics were along the lines of,

• “Wow.”
• “Please make it stop!”
• “It’s going too quickly.”
• “I have so little left.”
• “Scary.”

I have to admit, these diffident comments upset me.

You see, I’ve been making a concerted effort to fully engage with and invest in my four children. I chose to leave a career that I triple-heart loved to intentionally focus on each individual child since day one of them being home from the hospital or the airport. I felt that they were more worth my time and effort than a paycheck.

I’m not a robot, and I will miss my children when they leave home to embark on new post-graduation adventures. I think the tinge of wistfulness I felt about sending each child off to kindergarten might return at high school graduation, but I have to hope that the tiny drop of sadness I feel for myself will again be completely and utterly deluged in my elation for them.

I have so much confidence in the work that I’ve been doing in their growing up years that I admit, I’m eager to see my investment pay off. I can’t wait to sit back and watch them navigate the world on their own two feet putting the skills and practices I’ve helped them learn to use in the “real world” outside of our four walls.

So I don’t look at those countdowns and feel sad or sick or scared. I’m excited for the launch! I get Jerry McGuire “Show me the money!” ecstatic thinking about the ROI that will be my kids in their future years.

That thought has me digging deep and investing generously in anticipation of the payoff. And I’d like to change my visual metaphor from marbles to seeds. Each time I take one out of the jar, I’m planting it. Knowing that I’ve prepared the soil, gone after those weeds with a vengeance, nurtured that seed, paid attention to the climate and adjusted accordingly.

I’m  not losing my marbles, I’m confidently and carefully sowing them knowing that astounding, exquisite, breathtaking things are getting ready to grow in their seasons.