BFF

Several years ago at a church conference, I saw a documentary that I'll never forget. The film-maker set up a camera on an Indian street corner, and trained it on a little girl as she made her bed for the night. She wore a bright yellow pinafore, the kind in which I would dress my daughter, if I had a daughter, for a birthday party. This little four or five year old girl arranged sheets of cardboard and pieces of tattered cloth on the city sidewalk, and then laid herself down to sleep. Moments before the screen went dark, a woman walked by. Her upper body was cropped out of the shot, but we could see that she was stylishly dressed, wearing trendy designer jeans and high heels. She zipped right past that sweet little yellow angel without missing a beat.

I prayed, God, please, use my life to help that little girl.

Ever since, I've been on alert, waiting. I was asked to go to India to speak at a women's conference, but the invitation (and the event) fell through. I've been called by God to foreign missions before, and when he calls, I go. This opportunity wasn't God's call. The timing wasn't right.

And then I met Navjot.

Navjot Bajwa caught my eye on Twitter as he was lamenting the content of his timeline (solely business advice + self-affirming quotations). His tweet was a farewell message. In response I smiled, waved, and wrote back, "Hey, what about me?"

I use Twitter to share verses from my daily bible study, and to promote authors who write for Jesus. I introduced Nav to some of my wonderful tweeps, hoping to get him to stay (which he did), and we all got to be friends. The two of us—Nav and I—are BFFs. We write back and forth via e-mail, sharing stories of our lives. He asks questions about Jesus, and I do my best to answer them.

On the surface we couldn't be more different, but we actually have a lot in common. Navjot is a 27 year old Sikh living in Mumbai, and I am a 45 year old Savannah suburbanite. Our vantage points are different, but we are both interested in Jesus. (In my case, this is a massive understatement. In his case, since Christians are persecuted in India, it's a dangerous one!) We also both like to write. I administer a blog for Christian writers. So, I enlist him to write essays for the blog.

Nav is seeking, spiritually. He looks at life, doesn't like what he sees, and hopes for something better. He wants to go farther in his faith. I keep inviting him to write because, as a professor, I can't help myself. The assignments are good for him, for our friendship, and for the blog's readership. In the editing process, as we go back and forth, we get to know one another better. I love editing N's essays.

Navjot has shown me how we (the church) are perceived by people in his culture. He challenges my thinking, and gives me plenty of opportunities to share the gospel, which is --> We are all imperfect sinners deserving of death, and God, our creator, is holy. He cannot tolerate sin, so he sent his Son, Jesus, to fix everything. Jesus, who never sinned, suffered and died for all of us, rising three days later, conquering sin and death. His substitutionary death paid the price for sin, once and for all. None of us can earn God's grace, but it is free for anyone who will accept Jesus' sacrifice. Jesus reunites believers to God, eternally.

I've told Navjot many times, if there is anything good in me, it comes from Jesus Christ.

Navjot has taught me a lot about Sikhism, the plight of his people, and, in his current post, about forgiveness. I am humbled when I read his writing, no matter the topic. Navjot has a brilliant mind, an interesting perspective on life, and a generous, compassionate, courageous heart. His friendship is a treasure. Perhaps meeting him is a partial answer to my prayer that God will somehow use my life to help the girl in the yellow dress, who represents forgotten and neglected children everywhere. Maybe Navjot is the answer. I suspect God has huge plans for his life. My BFF certainly has a desire to affect positive social change. Perhaps my prayers for Navjot and others in India, along with financial giving to missions through our church, will be the extent of my personal involvement with the Indian people. Or perhaps this budding friendship is only the first piece in a larger puzzle. Either way, I couldn't be happier.

A sweet friendship refreshes the soul. ~ Proverbs 27:9b, The Message

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Kruger Industrial Smoothing (thoughts on criticism)

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Words kill, words give life; they're either poison or fruit—you choose. ~ Proverbs 18:21

As a college art professor, I am basically a paid critic. I teach seniors at a prestigious institution of higher learning. It is my job to analyze their work, just as they're about to graduate. I have been a professional illustrator for well over a decade; my list of credits is half a mile long. Using the foundational elements of 2-D design and color theory in tandem with my "industry savvy" (ha!), I do my best to help my students figure out what's working in their compositions, and what isn't. Because I want them to succeed in life, I am honest when I assess their work. Artists are sensitive by nature, so the best teachers deliver Helpful Suggestions with kid gloves. I have learned to cushion my comments, padding each one with marshmallows to soften the blow. Explaining the need for sandpaper to slough off their rough edges, I reference "Kruger Industrial Smoothing," hoping for a laugh. Instead, tumbleweeds blow through the classroom. I hear a cricket chirping in the distance. Tough crowd. And, young! How can Seinfeld already be outdated?

My husband, also an artist, is a golf coach and a PGA teaching pro. His job is very similar to mine, in that it requires a critical eye. As a coach, he has a harder row to hoe because golf is a singular game. Trying to get a group of ten individual guys to play as a team is a lot like herding squirrels: frustrating. My students know it's in their best interest to listen to me, even if they disagree, because in the end I'm the one who grades their stuff. Fred has a more difficult time. He faces a lot of resistance, which can be draining and even hurtful. Maybe that's why he doesn't appreciate my resistance to the multitude of Helpful Suggestions he offers around the house. And maybe, just maybe, his seeming inability to ever gain his parents' approval when he was a child has something to do with the way he deflects the Helpful Suggestions I sling back at him, in self defense. My mantra: "You're not perfect either, ya know."

Criticism. What a topic. Books have been written on the importance giving and receiving it well. Criticism is, er, critical to any creative process, in every line of work. This connection is especially easy to see in the arts. Art is self-expression, but if it resonates only within the confines of the artist's mind, the result won't pay many bills. You have to like the work you're creating, but if no one else does, you'll end up bitter, and under-funded. On the other hand, too much criticism results in blandness. Try to please everyone, and the results will be underwhelming, take it or leave it, unmemorable. That is not cool and, in the end, probably won't be profitable either. Where is the balance?

The bible recommends seeking wise counsel. Seeing the best path is easy when all of your wise counselors steer you in the same direction, but sometimes they give conflicting advice. This generally means there is more than one good way to go, in which case the choice is (prayerfully) yours. If you're a believer, it's between you and God. Prayer is a huge part of my life and my decision-making, and I advise prayer to my students, hoping that someone will hear me. They all pretend deafness at this point, doodling on their desks so as not to appear un-hip. But they perk up when I insist that my opinion is not the only one that matters. I don't think they hear that very often, from their other professors, or from anyone. I advise, "Ask for insight from a handful of trusted, objective observers, people with a good eye, who don't know you well enough to be swayed by relationship. In other words, don't include your mother in this group; she loves everything you do."

Or maybe she doesn't. Maybe you paint a portrait that rivals the Mona Lisa, and your mom shrugs and says, "Too much vermillion—I'm so bored with your palette. And you should have turned her head. A three-quarter view would be more interesting."

Most books handling the topic of criticism are written to help people recover from over-doses of it. Living with an overly critical person can be a nightmare. Adults read the aforementioned books and seek help from therapists and pastors and kindhearted, patient friends. Grown-ups can get away, or work to make changes. (If you are married to someone with a critical spirit, read Boundaries, and/or join a local Celebrate Recovery group. And, of course, pray, pray, pray.) But what about children? They are stuck, defenseless, and suffer life long scars as a result.

Because of the nature of Fred's job and mine, and the way we both forget to leave our critical hats at the office, I've had to give this topic much thought over many years. It seems to me that each of us, as fellow citizens of planet earth, has a responsibility to measure our words with great care. Jesus is all about relationship. We live and work with others, in community. People have opinions, and they matter, but what matters more is how they are offered, and when. Unsolicited advice, while sometimes necessary, is rarely (okay, never) welcome; learning restraint of tongue is a step toward Christian maturity. When we are asked to give advice, we should think and pray before answering. Requests for counsel or advice should be taken very seriously, and handled with care.

We all know, the truth can hurt—but hearing the truth is essential. Providing honest feedback requires courage and tact, and toughness from the one on the receiving end. This fact of life should guide each of us, whether we're prayerfully giving criticism, or receiving it. I think that overreacting to a well-intended helpful comment is as unfair as issuing criticism harshly.

Having just written the above conclusion, I must now follow up with an apology to my long-suffering husband, whom I adore. Fred, you are right. The meatloaf is better with onions, I'm terrible at arranging the cupboards, and if I want Gray to be healthy I have to stop buying him sprinkle donuts from the bakery at Publix.

(God, please, help me to be less defensive. Amen.)

What you say to one another is eternal. I mean this. ~ Matthew 18:18b The Message

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gray

When they've finished reading, Olivia's mother gives her a kiss and says, "You know, you really wear me out. But I love you anyway." And Olivia gives her a kiss back and says, "I love you anyway, too." ~ From Olivia, by Ian Falconer

I know every word of Olivia by heart, from years of bed-time reading when Gray was small. This particular conversation between Olivia and her mother comes to mind every so often as I spend time with my son, who is now ten years old. I can't get away with girly books at bedtime anymore. We've moved on to Captain Underpants, Big Nate, and The Mysterious Benedict Society. On his own or with his dad, Gray reads adventures and mysteries rather than picture books, everything from Treasure Island to The Call of the Wild. But I will always love Olivia.

In our case, the "wearing out" described above by Olivia's weary mother is not to be helped. Gray is, after all, a boy, and I am absolutely, one hundred percent not.  We are both artists who like to read, but there are thirty-five years and a gender gap between us. When we are alone, one of us inevitably has to step up, be a Good Sport, and oblige the other's entertainment preferences. Usually, that somebody is me. I am the mature adult, after all, and I want Gray to love his mother and look fondly back on all the fun times we had together. Surprise: he doesn't enjoy folding laundry, or watching me grade papers. He doesn't even like Scrabble. (Can you imagine...?) So I acquiesce to his boyish taste, which is sometimes amusing, sometimes an exercise in patience, and always wears me out.

I have no complaints though. God knew what he was doing, entrusting this particular male child to my care. Compared to other boys his age, Gray is fairly calm. He's a golfer, not a linebacker. No question there. He loves being outdoors but is equally happy hanging out inside, where he can be found reading, or designing yet another of his fictional cities. Yes, that's right. Since the age of six, Gray has designed civilizations. For each, he draws a color-coded map (to scale), and elevations of some of the city's more attractive architectural sights. He designs currency, front and back, to be printed at the mint, which is located on quadrant four on the map, with a little neighborhood nearby to house all of the mint's employees. He plants trees for them, because engravers are visual people. Sometimes he writes a story or two about the citizens of his townships and burgs. Currently he's half-way through the fourth chapter of his illustrated novel, a project he revisits between designing cities and bridges and skyscrapers and currency and etc. The whole thing is very Orwellian.

Despite these strange talents and tendencies, Gray is still every bit a little boy. He is silly. Always. Even when the situation calls for dire seriousness—like every other morning, when we just barely make it to the bus stop. "You're gonna be late!" I prompt, grabbing his book bag and running toward the door. Meanwhile he comes round the corner with his shirt purposefully on backward, a calculated effort to make me laugh. Like his father, Gray is a comedian. And he needs to run around every so often to blow off some of that youthful steam that little kids—boys, in particular—seem to bottle up.

Recently on a Saturday we can't find any playmates, and Fred is away. I have work to do at home, and I'm tired, but promised earlier in the week to take Gray and the dog for a walk at Fort Pulaski. He gets in my face, all big blue eyes and freckles, reminding me, "You promised." So, we go. As I trudge along behind, watching boy and dog bound ahead with gusto and joy, I thank God with every step. The fresh air is good for all of us.

We make our way past the fort, across a hilly expanse of grass to the mile long palm-lined path which leads to a tiny lighthouse. The Cockspur Light is just off shore, surrounded by brackish water. Brave adventurers swim over, at risk of shredding their feet on the oyster beds below. Fred has led expeditions for Gray and the dog to the lighthouse several times. No chance of that today. (As if.)

In its final quarter mile, the path emerges from the palm forest onto the open marsh, a breezy mix of tall grass, hermit crabs, and scrub brush. Footing can be unsure, depending on the tide. Walking farther is possible today, but the way through the grass is extremely muddy. I crinkle my nose. "I don't think so, Gray; not today. It's too messy." He groans as if I have just cancelled Christmas. "But mom, we came all this way!" More big blue eyes, more freckles—this time annunciated by a bouncing rat terrier. "Okay, okay. You go, and take the dog, but I'm not dressed for the mud. I'll stay here and watch you." I sing out to the back of his glistening red head, "Be careful!" He and Chip are already zipping off toward the water, making their way through the mud and grass without hesitation.

While they are away, as I watch them, I pray for Gray: I thank God for this joyful person and his boundless energy, and for all that his future holds. Whenever I pray for my son I ask that, no matter what he faces in life, he will always move closer and closer to God... that he will never drift away.

As I pray I come upon some beautiful wildflowers mixed in with the muddy marsh grass—a tiny bit of femininity in this very boyish place. I take it as a hug from above, and think what a lovely end this discovery will make, for the essay I will one day write about this afternoon's walk.

Twenty minutes later Gray and Chip return, covered in mud and muck. I take the dog's leash intending to lead him tidily through the palm-lined walk back to the parking lot, not noticing the clay on the leash until it has marked me up and down with a hundred wet, muddy lashes. I look as if I've been sitting at a potter's wheel all afternoon. After all of the trouble I took to remain pristine, suddenly I'm as much a mess as the dog, and my sweet little mud-covered red-headed son. I laugh at myself, knowing I should have gone the whole way with them. And I'm worn out, but I love him anyway.

Sons are a heritage from the LORD, children a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one's youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them. ~ Psalm 127:3-5 NIV 1984


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coach

My husband is a both a sports enthusiast and a channel flipper. As a result, the focal point of our den is a La-Z-Boy recliner. Its position in the room—the angle of the chair and its distance from the plasma screen TV—was calculated with the precision of a Swiss clockmaker. Fred will watch any game played by opposing humans, from pro wrestling to poker, but he is passionate about three sports in particular: American football (professional), basketball (collegiate), and the second great love of his life (after me), golf.

I, myself, am not athletic. I was "encouraged" to play softball, volleyball, and basketball as a child, but stunk it up in all areas. As an adult I have picked up the habit of running, but Lord knows, that, for me, is anything but a competitive activity. I am simply not wired for sports. Fred is constantly frustrated with me because I can't even sit and watch games with him. My eyeballs repel the information. It doesn't sink in. I look as if I'm watching, but my brain is far away. This saddens him.

After sixteen years of marriage to a college golf coach, however, I've come to appreciate the beauty and purpose of sports. It's heartwarming to observe comradery on a team, inspiring to hear stories of individual athletes who overcome obstacles on their way to greatness, and thrilling to watch them perform well, even under pressure. It's all about people, isn't it? People and their stories. Finally, I get it.

As a coach, my husband forms close bonds with a handful of young guys from all over the world, who spend an average of four years each on his team. Unlike their professors, from whose classes they come and go, my husband the coach spends time with his players several days a week for four solid years. They often travel together as well.

Let me tell you, Fred invests himself in these young men. He loves them with a big-burly-guy kind of love, as if the lot of them are his brood of younger brothers. He prays for them, agonizes over them, cheers for them, butts heads with them, jokes around with them, and above all, hopes the best for them. He is an excellent coach. That's what they call him, by the way. "Coach." The moniker is music to his ears.

Last fall, Coach hosts a tournament which begins with an international flag-raising ceremony. Along with the few parents and girlfriends who come out for the event, I sit and watch, shivering as each player in turn carries his home flag across an expanse of grass to the tune of his national anthem. One by one they situate their flags in a row, hoisting each up a pole until all eight flutter high above. In a moment of particular beauty, the breeze loosely wraps one young freshman's billowing flag completely around him as he is en route. Lit from behind by the sun as he walks, the form of his body shows through the silk—he doesn't look much older than my ten-year-old son, Gray. He must be eighteen, but he's still just a boy. Knowing his story and envisioning his future, I am overwhelmed. At a young age, this one was abused, neglected, and eventually abandoned by his single mother. You'd never suspect any of this by looking at him. His sunny disposition covers the damage. We have seen glimpses, though, of the wounds underneath. Here he is, because of golf, far from home—separated from his adoring grandparents by oceans and time-zones. He is now under the care of a solid Christian man, an excellent Coach, who will invest in him. He will be loved and nurtured and prayerfully coached for four years, and then, all grown up, he'll fly away, in a much better state than when he arrived. If this is not a good use of sports, I don't know what is.

The victim's faint pulse picks up; the hearts of the hopeless pump red blood as you put your ear to their lips. Orphans get parents, the homeless get homes. ~ Psalm 10:17, The Message

For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you, and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." ~ Jeremiah 29:11, NIV

I am pleased to help my husband introduce his new website, coachofgolf.com. Love you, Fred.