Christy Foldenauer

Pulling out of my neighborhood a few days ago, I  ran through my mental checklist. I had conquered the morning routine and had exactly 33 minutes for a quick work out before heading to the Little Sprouts program I’d eagerly signed up for with my youngest, but was now regretting. Not enough time this morning! Just as I sighed and turned the corner, I saw them.

My fourth grade neighbor was racing toward school, and his mom trailed at least six paces behind. Recently diagnosed with breast cancer, she worked hard to keep up with him, but a drainage pump banged against her leg and she fell further behind. Realizing he’d missed the bus, I knew what I had to do.

I pulled over and flagged down the young neighbor. “Need a ride?,” I called. He hesitated and looked back toward his mom, who wildly gestured for him to take the help. With just a moment left before the first bell, he clamored into my mini van, and I peeled out for the school.

Moments later, after pulling through the loop for drop-off, I smiled the feeling of satisfaction that comes from helping another…and not falling too far off of my own schedule. Two minutes was all it took to do good. I could still work out! Sweet.

I chattered away with my three-year-old, who was quite excited by our brief guest-rider, as we headed for the gym. As we were nearing our destination, we came to a red light. That’s when I saw it: the neighbor kid’s lunch box.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! This cannot be happening! Not now! I have exactly 31 minutes to work out!

With a deep sigh, I pulled into a neighborhood to u-turn, and prayed aloud for God to reorient my heart, too.

Help me to remember that people are always the most important, God…that serving others is my highest call.

The truth is, serving one another is rarely, if ever, convenient. Picking up on the opportunities to help a neighbor or even a stranger requires that I let other things go.

Less time for me. Less chance for down time. Less opportunity for the ever elusive workout. Less pages read in the books on my nightstand. LESS.

Ironically, the very neighbor-mom whom I found myself serving on this day had shared with me just a week earlier this verse: “He must become greater; I must become less.”       -John 3:30 To her, it was a funny way to make my sad eyes smile as we discussed her cancer and treatment. To me, those words are a formidable challenge.

God is growing me here. Often, there is still too much of me in the mix. I protect my time like a mother cub looks after her baby, and I am reticent to give over a piece of my scheduled morning to help someone in need. So, God gives me the gift of a camouflaged lunchbox to help me see what is hiding in my heart. And He gives me the opportunity to make a choice.

Ten minutes later, the front desk woman looks at me incredulously as I try to explain how I have the lunchbox of a certain grade schooler who is not my child – whose name I can recall, but whose teacher has escaped me. “You can find him…,” I nervously exhorted and questioned, all at once, as my voice trailed off. She nodded in my direction.

They found him. I know, because later that day, he bounded off the bus, empty lunchbox in hand and offered a shy smile.

“Hey, thanks for the ride this morning. I really appreciated it.” No problem, I told him.

No, no problem. It turns out less of me is always something to feel good about.

I haven’t been sweating enough lately.

I’ve kept my regular routine at the gym, but due to a back injury (which is healing, thankfully!) I’ve been relegated to the squishy track that circles the place where people really exercise. I’m walking fast, but I’m only walking. No offense to those of you who walk to work out! For me, more aggressive exercise is a stress reliever and helps keep me feeling great. In short, I am missing the sweat.

I feel a twinge of guilt as I go to shower. Some people are really sweating at the gym, and I am taking up space in a locker room shower. Some days I feel slightly ridiculous. I remind myself that it will change soon – I will lift weights again, and rejoin the center of the gym where the more aggressive workouts happen. But not today. Today, I am marking time.

I am marking time because, if I don’t keep coming to the gym, it will slide off my calendar like hot butter slides off a dinner roll. I have to mark time to keep the time. So I show up, and I walk.

Last time I was rapidly circling the track, it occurred to me that sometimes I mark time spiritually.

I think this is somewhat universal. I’m talking about the mornings I show up to read the Bible, but don’t wait expectantly for God’s voice or invite the Word to read me. The Sundays I drag myself out of bed and meander into church, remembering I should be there, but forgetting that it is lifegiving. Nights when I drive to small group or a ministry event because I “have to” without the joy of “wanting to.”

You’ve been there too, haven’t you?

I think most of us wind up in this space from time to time, but we shouldn’t reside in this rhythm of faith. When we become aware of marking time spiritually, we need to reorient our heart, soul, and mind toward Christ, and seek renewal.

So, how do you seek renewal when you realize you’re spiritually marking time? I’ve got a few ideas on this. Because this kind of placeholder faith has a pull all it’s own, it often requires an intentional approach for change to happen.

One way to break out of this pattern is by trying something different. If you find yourself showing up for time with God, but not really meeting God, you might try one of these ideas:

1.) Join in wordless worship. I first experienced this quite by accident in January, and found it is powerful. After losing my voice completely, I was forced to stand shoulder to shoulder with others who forcefully sang their hearts out in worship. I joined with my spirit, but did not add to the sound. Once I got past the awkwardness of a different way of worship, my wordless worship helped me to meet God in a new way. I focused on the imagery and words of the song, and allowed them to take up residence in my heart.

2.) Adopt a meaningful breath prayer. Breath prayers are simple phrases that can be prayed repeatedly over the course of our day. One of the most popular breath prayers is the phrase, “Lord, have mercy on me.” Each of us has phrases that speak to us on the deepest level. The phrase might be scripture, but it doesn’t have to be. Perhaps it is a line from a favorite song or hymn. Let a phrase that speaks to you become your breath prayer, and when you feel difficult emotions rising, breathe deeply and whisper your prayer. Initially, this may take concentration! You might try jotting down the phrase on an index card and putting it in a visible place. Over time, this phrase will start coming to you, rather than you coming to it. That’s the beauty of this discipline!

3.) Ask God to reveal Himself to you. This is perhaps the most powerful way to break the pattern of marking time. Start your morning with a simple invitation: Lord, right now You feel distant. I want to come closer to You. Please show Yourself to me today. Put up your spiritual radar, and consciously look for God. You will be amazed at the varied and unexpected places you might find Him.

Sometimes Lent, and life, are heavy. I wonder why Solomon did not write about this. He could have just added to his time and season poetry, There is a season for light weights and a season for terribly heavy things. That feels natural to me.  And I think it is true.

For me, Lent is proving to be a heavy season. And I think that’s exactly right.

There is nothing light about Jesus humbling himself to a cross. When I think about what it means to “take up a cross,” the imagery that comes to mind is that we might stumble along under a dense log’s weight, rather than skip with driftwood resting atop our shoulders.

Don’t get me wrong here. I understand grace! I understand that the work is done. I am understanding it more now than ever before.

But maybe that is why I also understand the need to feel the heaviness of the cross. Grace that runs so deep means a staggering debt was paid.

So, this year for Lent, I’ve given some things up, and I picked something up. I picked up a manuscript that I’ve known I was to write for two years now. But I haven’t. Because, well…

It’s heavy.

In fact, at times it feels I might be carrying a load of cinder blocks over my shoulder this Lenten season. This writing requires reentry into some of the harder places of life. And then, there is the hope of exiting the other side.

There is the audacious hope of bringing others with me through the tunnel of grief. That is part of my call, my mantle. That is why I’m writing for these 46 days.

Lent can be heavy, and yet our hearts can still find light. If you are carrying something heavy right now, be encouraged. Press in to Jesus! Carrying the cross also means this: there is resurrection power at work in you. Let us never forget what awaits us on the other side of heaviness.

Eph 1:18-20 I pray also that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, and his incomparably great power for us who believe. That power is like the working of his mighty strength, which he exerted in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly realms…

I get the privilege of ministering to people whom I meet for just a weekend, but many of you stay in my heart for the long haul. Over the course of any given ministry event, there is always one brave soul who catches my sleeve and pulls me in to whisper a secret.

It’s always the same secret.

I think I might be called to…do what you’re doing. To speak. To write. To teach. But I don’t know how to start.

I want to tell you two things, dear friends. No – three.

1.) You are incredibly brave. Finding the voice to speak what God has put on your heart takes courage. You have sufficient courage to speak what you are feeling in your soul. Once, someone I admire called that “completely audacious.” I agree with her, and I’m always privileged to meet another sojourner who could be audacious, just like me; audacious enough to believe that they are called.

2.) Listen to your heart. You ARE called. If you follow Christ, you are called to tell His story. Some of us tell it by speaking, others by serving. Some tell it by writing words on a page, others by rounding up two and three year olds on any given Sunday at 9am and lovingly caring for them each week. The part you play matters less than playing a part. When you get that straight in your heart, all the rest becomes secondary..but there is something that warms the heart about finding the thing that God has truly purposed you to do. I affirm your call; you are important to God’s story.

3.) Start right where you are. Listen, I know this sounds simple – maybe too simple. But it’s true! When you plug in to your community and use your gifts there, you have opportunities to learn, grow in your call, and get better at your part of the story. Often, when we are faithful right where we are, opportunities open up for us to do more.

So, here is some encouragement for you, friends. Thank you for using your gifts – whatever shape and size they might be – for Kingdom purposes. That is the highest calling of all. May God bless you in the work of your hands.

I think it was January 12th…or the 13th or the 18th. I’m not sure, really. The details don’t stay with me. The date and time, the paint color on the wall and the little black and white pictures – those details have faded. But the feelings do not leave. They have moved in like the clutter that follows Christmas, only I cannot organize them and put the dross out on the curb. These feelings have permanent residence in my heart.

I don’t remember what the woman looked like who delivered the news. I do remember the crushing blow of her words, “I am so sorry. Twin B’s heart has stopped.” Silence. So much silence. And then, “Is there someone I can call to be with you right now, honey?”

I felt blank. Empty. My soul was a chalkboard without words…foreboding blackness. I stared back in disbelief. “Excuse me?,” I managed to sputter…and so she repeated it all again so my disbelief could become understanding.

I’ve never written about this before. January comes, January goes. Once, six years ago, my baby’s heart stopped in January. In the coldness of this month, it is never lost on me. The wind bites, but not as much as the sadness. I do not speak of it, but I carry it. I have never really put the loss down.

My husband and I planted a dogwood for Isaiah. It stands, naked, in the backyard.

But in the Spring, it will bloom. Yes, the dogwood will bloom again this Spring, both from its branches and in my heart, because death has no finality for me. I am a Resurrection person, and I will see Isaiah again. Next time I see Isaiah, I will hold him and tell him how much I’ve missed him.

My dear friend said to me years ago, “Your joy goes as high as your sorrow goes deep.” I didn’t understand. I couldn’t understand. But after losing Isaiah, I came to know how right this friend was. So my daughter, Isaiah’s twin, carries the middle name, “Joy.”

When I look now at my Lauren Joy, a healthy, vibrant 5-year-old girl, I am reminded often of my sweet Isaiah. Lauren is Joy today, and this brings me strength to face the blustering winds of January.

Because I…I am a Resurrection person. And I will know the full joy of my little Isaiah in the next chapter.