The Ugly Reality: A Response to Ashley Judd

    If you're like me, you're a big fan of heart-pounding thrillers with strong female heroines like Double Jeopardy and Kiss the Girls. You may also enjoy sentimental films that make you laugh, cry, and ponder the relationship between faith and morality such as my personal favorite, Simon Birch. Or maybe you connect with a Southern drawl and the woes of the dark histories, in which case you're drawn to Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood or A Time to Kill. If you fit into any of these categories, I'm sure that you, like myself, have enjoyed the dramatic talents of Ashley Judd.

    But, whether or not you're a fan of any of the movies listed above, you probably have read about the Ashley Judd firestorm created this week, when the star wrote a searing criticism of the objectifying, "misogynistic" assault on women perpetrated by mainstream media. After much chatter that Judd's cheeks have appeared "puffy" in recent television appearances, Judd decided to respond on behalf of herself and the sisterhood of women at large. The Daily Beast article has gone viral, and feminists, journalists, and Judd fans everywhere have applauded her apt and meticulously worded argument against an intrusive and female-degrading industry. Her vocabulary makes it evident that a Harvard education has not gone to waste on this girl, and judging by her sass, neither has a Southern upbringing.

    Having been a Judd fan since the late 90's, and considering the fact that I am a female, I feel semi-qualified to pitch my two cents into this conversation. Let me begin by confessing that I have seen Double Jeopardy so many times that I've nearly memorized it word for word. I also firmly believe that every woman should perfect a strong jab punch and decent upper-cut because of Kiss the Girls (Bring it, Cary Elwes).

   That being said, when Judd's article hit the press this week, I initially read it with great delight. I love her tenacity, spunk, and unapologetic ownership of her personhood and her body. Go girl! But, when I reached the article's end, something felt a little off. Sure, Judd makes a accurate observation that the objectification of women in our culture is wrong.    W-R-O-N-G. But, with an acting career that has often kowtowed to our culture's demand for illicit, meaningless, and gratuitous sex, when did Judd become such a passionate guardian of feminine inner beauty?

    While I love Judd's girl-power edge and some of her more wholesome fare, I feel most confident approaching many others of her films with a finger securely placed on the fast-forward button. From tongue-in-cheek chick flicks ala Someone Like You to edgy mysteries ala Eye of the Beholder, Hollywood has enlisted Judd on several occasions to promote a culture of casual sex and disposable lovers. Though it presents an innocent enough veneer, (who doesn't feel compassion for a barefoot, pregnant teen living out of a Wal-mart?) Where the Heart Is vacillates between presenting sex as a weapon that incurs molestation and unplanned pregnancies, and relying on the presence of casual sex for many of the film's more humorous moments. And, then there is the dark thriller, Twisted. The name alone sums up the plotline, so we won't even get into that one.

     Judd has also, unfortunately, been a party to this misogynistic system by shedding her own clothes for several roles and leaving nothing to the imagination in the way of sexual intimacy between two people. Otherwise smart films like High Crimes and Double Jeopardy would have been much better sans the one or two (completely unnecessary) salacious scenes. While it is incredibly entertaining to watch Tommy Lee Jones chase a fugitive Ashley Judd across the country, I prefer to watch the TNT version, censored to perfection.

   This isn't meant to be an indictment, but rather an observation. Judd ultimately arrives at the conclusion that men don't bear the blame alone, but that women (herself included) become entangled in, and even promoters of, a degraded female sex.

"Patriarchy is a system in which both women and men participate...It is subtle, insidious, and never more dangerous than when women passionately deny that they themselves are engaging in it."

But she fails to acknowledge that the media which she so passionately accuses is the same media that vaulted her to success, touting her as well, a sex symbol. Indeed men and women, actors and audiences, have contributed to the media machine's insistence that sex is sport and bodies are toys. When this is the case, all humans are devalued to their potential as a sexual partner. And if that's where our value truly lies, then it is perfectly acceptable for us to critique one another's waistlines, bust sizes, and yes, even cheeks.

    For the record, I happen to think Ashley's cheeks look just fine. Anyone with two eyes and a pulse will agree that she is still a beautiful woman. But, now that she's opened this conversation and invited others to join in, I hope it becomes evident just how deep this issue runs. The rude commentary on Ashley's puffy cheeks only skims the surface. In a world where young girls are bought and sold on the streets nightly, where predators lurk in every corner of the internet, and where babies are abandoned by unwilling fathers, it's clear that somewhere along the way we allowed sexuality  to trump personhood. So, the question left to us today is, what role are we playing in this unfolding disaster?

   And Ashley, I'll always love watching you kick the bad guy's butt. I hope that you're one day able to find the justice that you seek.

When They Don't Come Back

     It’s funny how a simple sound, like the ring of a telephone, can affect you. At the pregnancy center where I work, every time our phone rings I become excited. And fearful.

     

     A couple of months ago, just before closing time, a sweet, smiling girl came in accompanied by her frowning fella. They had rushed across town to reach our center before we locked up for the night. The boyfriend had done the calling and appointment making. Unusual. They were in need of a pregnancy test. And one look at his furrowed brow made me think the boy may have confused us with a medical clinic where he could "fix" the problem.

    I brought the sweet girl back to a counseling room. With the door closed, her smile dissolved and she poured out her deep hurts and fears. She became real and honest and fragile in our quiet little space. When it was time for the pregnancy test, she and I both took a deep breath. While escorting her to the bathroom, I noticed my co-worker, full of wisdom, compassion, and motherly care, talking with the boyfriend in the lobby. His hands were open and his brow was no longer furrowed. The clock ticked in the background, it was getting late. Finally, the sweet and fearful girl cracked open the bathroom door and invited me inside. The test results would appear in just a moment...

    Blackout. In an instant, the lights died and we were suddenly swallowed by shadows. The sun had long since punched out for the day, and our bathroom door opened into a hall with no windows so that not even the moon could lend a helping ray or two. I felt and grasped my way out to the lobby, where my director appeared with a single flashlight to rescue us. We all smiled in the darkness and spoke quietly. Time to improvise. The girl and the boy said they'd like to finish their appointment even in the dark. So, I left my co-worker counseling the fella by the blue glow of a cell phone. I couldn't help but smirk at this bizarre turn of events. The timing of the blackout seemed impeccable. And strangely, there was no storm outside. No overblown fuse. We had seemingly been chosen at random for a counseling foray into the dark ages. So, in the flickering light of our little AA-powered plastic lantern, the sweet girl and I peered down at the pregnancy test.

    Positive. We sat in silence. She looked at me, her eyes welling up with many things she didn't need to speak. Of course, she could love this baby. But her boyfriend could not. Without his help, she didn’t see how she could provide for herself, much less a little one. In our dim little room, with two pink stripes staring at us, she confessed to me that she did not know if she would become a mama. We talked for what seemed only a few more minutes, but ended up being closer to an hour. When we walked out to the still dark lobby, the frowning fella was now smiling. He’d told his counselor of his surprise that everyone remained so calm in the blackout. No one got upset. No one treated the unforeseen issue like a crisis. Maybe his girlfriend’s pregnancy was the same way. Maybe it wasn’t the crisis that he felt it was.

     They said they'd like to come back again, together. They asked me to make an appointment for an ultrasound. In my heart, celebration was well under way. The next day I called them. He texted back. I made the appointment.

     And they never showed.

     Every time a new client calls for an appointment, I welcome her with hope in hand, ready to offer it freely to her. But, then fear grips me for just a moment. What if she talks and shares and cries...what if we are greeted again by two thin pink lines...and what if she walks out our door and never comes back? To know that a life exists right now, but that it might not exist tomorrow is heart-breaking. And when tomorrow comes and goes, and that life is perhaps extinguished, it is a tragedy. What if I meet yet another sweet girl unknowingly traveling the road to destruction, and she heads down that path anyway?

    It's never simple for me to process this real concern. So, daily, I must return to the promise of my Father’s involvement and investment in these girls, in their babes, and in my life as well. Colossians 1:16-17, “For in him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things have been created through him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.”

“Unspeakable joy all day long and every day, was my happy experience. God, even my God, was a living and bright reality, and all I to do was joyful service.”                           - Hudson Taylor

On the Days When I Feel Small

  Two nights ago, I laid in bed tossing, turning, adjusting and readjusting my pillow, unable to go to sleep. Over and over my mind reconsidered the events of my day, and the longer I pondered, the more deeply unsettled I felt.

  Earlier that day, just before I shut down my computer and left the Pregnancy Center where I work, my boss shot me a quick e-mail and asked me to post a link to Facebook. It was an article urging readers to petition their Virginia state senators concerning a bill that would be voted on the next day. This bill, SB 484, proposed an update to Virginia's "Informed Consent" legislature. Basically, the bill required that every woman seeking an abortion first have an ultrasound performed prior to any procedure. Myself and my friends who work with pregnancy centers know that many women who see the image of their unborn child, already taking the shape of a little person with fingers, toes, legs, and arms, ultimately change their mind and decide against having an abortion. So, that evening I posted the link to Facebook and even sent a pre-written e-mail off to my State Senator asking for their participation in voting in this new bill. This is Virginia, after all, a notoriously conservative haven for advocates of life like me. I had no doubt my petition would be well received by some dark haired, middle aged Republican man somewhere with a slight Southern drawl and an approving smile. And, I went home feeling content that I had done my part as a lover of life. Way to get involved in political advocacy, Natalie. You are a truly an exemplary American citizen.

   Yeah. Right. Such an exemplary American citizen am I, that I had no idea who my represented my county in the state senate because I have a history of skipping out on local elections. I learned my lesson when I checked my inbox later on and saw that I had already received a pre-written response to my pre-written letter. But, as I skimmed the opening lines I realized this was not a reply from the charming, blue-blooded, baby-kissing state senator that I'd expected. The representative from my local area is a woman and she supports a woman's right to choose. Her letter expressed that she felt requiring an ultra-sound would be unnecessary, costly, and harmful to a pregnant woman's health and she would therefore, not vote in favor of the SB 484 "Informed Consent" bill. I literally gasped. I scoffed. I scatched my head in disbelief. This woman and I were diametrically opposed in our convictions. And at the end of the day, she is the one who gets to vote in the state senate.

   If you're not on the same page as me, let me explain further why this nagged at the very fabric of my being. I love life. I mean, I really really love it. I think every life is valuable, intentionally created, and deserves to a have a go-around on this spinning blue sphere where we live. I love babies. And I love women. And as a counselor, I've seen the painful effects of abortion over and over and over again. It's not just about the ending of an infant's life (which is unjust enough). It is an experience that pierces the souls of women who go through it. It haunts them, hangs on through the years, and rocks them to the very core. It not only has serious physical risks (infertility among them) but it can leave emotional scars that stubbornly refuse to heal decades later. So, when I hear words like "Informed Consent", I interpret this as meaning that a woman has a right to know the risks involved with the path she is choosing. She has a right to see the body in her belly that already has her nose and bears a striking resemblance to a person. A bill asking for Informed Consent wouldn't stop abortion. But it would inform a woman about what's going on in her body before she makes a potentially life altering decision.

   I share this with you all, because I can't share this with my state senator Barbara Favola. Additionally, before I hit the hay on the evening of our correspondance, I read about several major corporations that use the cells of aborted fetuses to test and design their products, PepsiCo among them. I realized that this battle is not only to be fought in the chambers of state and national legislators, but also in the corner offices of major companies that stand to benefit from the process of abortion. Like slavery, this systematized de-valuing of human life has penetrated the social, politcal, and economic spheres of our country. And this recognition two nights ago left me feeling very, very small. When I closed my eyes to sleep that night, I saw an ummovable, impenetrable wall in front of me growing larger by the moment, as state and national senators and representatives and Pepsi and seeminly a million others all lay their bricks on top of this fortress. I thought of David standing in front of Goliath with a small stone and a sling.

  And then I remembered who won that battle. And, I think it will help me sleep a little more peacefully tonight.

Passing it Along

   Most days, it's pretty easy to take for granted the simple freedoms and privileges we're allowed in this country that you and I call home. In the spirit of gratitude, let's take a moment to walk down the road of a much darker reality, outside the safety of our generous motherland. To make this more comfortable for you, I'll put on the proverbial shoes of the one taking this journey.
   
   In this foreign place, my government is intimately involved in the details of my life. The laws and standards of social propreity and loyalty to my country are the parameters in which I must exist to live here. It's deemed improper to discuss the particulars of relationships with the opposite sex, so I float through life blissfully ignorant until I find myself unexpectedly pregnant. Uh-oh. What are my options now? Well, I'm young, still only a college student. According to government regulations, a couple must have a combined age of at least 48 to legally marry. Even if we wanted to, my boyfriend and I miss that standard by a long shot. And, even if we were married, every expectant mother must recieve a "birth permit" to have her child legally. Birth permits are not granted to any woman under the age of 25, in addition to the fact that they're not granted to single women at all. I realize that even if I chose to have my baby illegally, single parenthood is so shameful that it isn't even recognized as a possible option by my village or my family. My country makes a clear perscription for cases like mine: abortion. This is the mandatory and only legal course of action.

    I wish I could say that this scenario is the synopsis of a new sci-fi thriller, in the same vein as Orwell's 1984. The details and particulars outlined by this government certainly seem so specific and far-reaching, that it's easy to assume such a place could only exist in a fictional novel. But, unfortunately, this is a story borrowed from a different kind of book, the true auto-biography of a woman named Chai Ling who lived this story in China during the 1980's. By the time Ling was in her twenties, she had undergone multiple "required" abortions as she pursued her studies at one of China's leading universities. Ling went on to become student leader at the infamous Tiananmen Square massacre in 1989, where peaceful student protestors were over-run by government tanks. Targeted by the Chinese Government as one of the top "21 Most Wanted" student leaders from the event, Ling went into hiding for months before escaping with her life to the U.S.

    Maybe you're aware that faith in God and religious practices are not legal options in Communist China. Maybe you've also become aware in the past year of the growing concern over "gender-cide", and the reality that hundreds of thousands of Chinese families have aborted their little girls in hopes of conceiving a son under China's "one-child" policy. Have we, however, taken a moment to think of the countless women moving through life like the walking dead, seeking survival in the wake of forced, mandatory abortions? This is not merely an issue of pro-life versus pro-choice, this is the brutal intervention of a government that is not only killing off its future, but slaughtering the souls that comprise its present. This is a reality that's worthy of our consideration as we pray and yearn for the deliverance of our Chinese brothers and sisters.

     I met Chai Ling in person about a month ago. Now an American mom and wife, as well as a Harvard Business School Graduate, and a follower of Jesus Christ, Chai Ling works to save the little girls of China through her organization All Girls Allowed. I spoke with Chai for a few minutes at a banquet we both attended, and told her how excited I was to get a copy of her new book, A Heart for Freedom. Chai looked at one of her interns, "Why don't we just...? Hand me that, will you?" She grabbed a book from her table and placed it in my hands even as I stammered, "I can't accept this, let me pay you..." She smiled, "No way, just pass it along to someone else when you're done."

     Here's to passing it along.

Price Check

     Today's post will require a little bit of imaginative effort on your part, readers. So, I hope you'll humor me on this one. Imagine for a moment that you've been diagnosed with a very rare, very swiftly acting terminal illness (think Gwyneth Paltrow in Contagion). There is only one doctor in the world that has the skills and resources to save your life. What lengths would you go to to get this doctor at your bedside?  Now pretend it's not you with the illness, but someone you love dearly - your spouse, parent, best friend, or child. How much money would you be willing to pay, how many miles would you be willing to travel, what possessions would you be willing to give up for the assurance that this person could receive the treatment they require and survive?  What is the value of that human life to you? I'm guessing you don't need long to think about this one. You're thinking, "obviously the life of someone I love is worth more than anything to me - more than any monetary amount, physical possession, or personal hardship I must undergo". Good. Now, add one more twist to this scenario. Imagine that the ailing individual is someone you've never met. What is the value of a stranger's life?

     Lately I've begun investing my time in a local pregnancy crisis center. The center is a place where women facing an unplanned pregnancy can come for pregnancy testing, resources, and counseling. When I'm there, I am reminded of the immense, immeasurable value of human life. The women I've met there devote each and every day of their existence to promoting human life in its various forms and stages - the life of little ones still inside the womb, the life of the anxious mama who didn't plan to carry such a load at this time, and the life of the crushed woman who decided not to continue her pregnancy. Even the life of a young seminary graduate still trying to figure out her role to play in the "real world". It's challenging to witness a community that is willing to pay any price in any currency of money, time, energy, or resources to promote life. Particularly, the lives of those they haven't even met.

     So, these days I've been asking myself, "what does the way I live my life say about the value I place on other people?" Loved ones and strangers alike. I'm no Mother Theresa. I'm probably not even a regular Patch Adams. The harsh reality we all must face is that we make choices every single day that say something profound about our hearts toward others. These choices reflect our priorities, our convictions, and our beliefs about the inherent value of ourselves, and of others. In my life, it frequently plays out like this: I'm worth another Caramel Macchiato at Starbucks, but the guy who cuts me off in the parking lot is not worth the ounce of grace it would require of me not to honk the horn. I'll probably even honk it twice to ensure I win the last say in this battle, as if my blaring horn can communicate a final, "so there!"

    I'm working on it, okay? And, in full acceptance of my own personal failure, I am so relieved to relay the message that someone bigger than you and me has already issued the final decree on my value and yours. That's right, we've all got a price tag pinned to our ears. Thank God (literally) that someone decided that we were of the utmost value, in the moments we do and don't treat each other like this is true. Jesus Christ paid for the price for our lives at the cost of his. We didn't even need to exist before he decided our lives were worth all he had. And it's a sweet reality to know that there's not a single one of us who could lie on our virus ridden deathbed, looking as horrific and infected as Gwyneth, that Christ wouldn't be willing to pay any price to save. He already did just that when he found us in the filth and foulness of our disobedience and died so that we could be pulled from it.  It's a great thing to feel valued. And it's an amazing thing that God has told us we're worth any price.

Charting a Course

    Navigation is a highly valued skill in our ever commuting, traveling, jet-setting world. So, important, in fact, that GPS devices and mapping tools are installed not only in our computers but in our cars and cell phones as well. In modern society there is little need for the old fashioned gas station stop to ask a passing stranger where the closest diner is so we can grab a chocolate malt with Fonzie and the gang. If we'd like to go somewhere, anywhere, most of us can trace a path to our destination before you can say "doo-wop". As glad as I am that transportation has been revolutionized by Tom-tom, Garmin, and the like, I sometimes wonder why we can't take this technology and apply it more broadly than just to travel. Like for instance, to life.

   Take my life, for example. After wrapping up ministry in Chicago, I returned to my home in the D.C. area armed with an M.A. in Counseling, a youthful passion and idealism not too tarnished by the grit and reality of the big city, and a zealous desire to love people on behalf of Jesus Christ. Now, it's my job to take these tools and chart a course for the path my life will take. What would be preferable, however, would be to simply pick up my Tom-tom and enter my destination: "successful counselor who specializes in work with crisis pregnancy, birthmothers considering adoption, and troubled teenaged girls", and simply follow the route it outlined for me. (Wait for it, this technology will someday be developed... most likely the day after I retire.)  

    That being said, here's the upside to these course charting days in which I live. I've got a greater navigator who is outlining my path through the murky waters of transition, change, and career seeking. I have found deep, abiding rest in knowing that my relationship with Christ is the single most defining and pivotal aspect of who I am, what I do, and where I'm going. If you know Christ and have experienced this yourself, then you're nodding and thinking, "Come on, Natalie, tell me something I don't already know." So, I'm really talking here to those of you who don't know Christ. I want to encourage you that if you find yourself in a place of charting the course for your life, and if you also find yourself overwhelmed and intimidated by this thought, then please hear me when I say we weren't meant to do this on our own Even more jarring is the reality that as much as we'd like to be, we weren't made to be the captain of our own ship. As we strive to direct our own path and find our own way, we are easily misled and misdirected. And a misdirected ship is one that usually ends up overtaken in the sudden storm, submerged in the heart of the sea, or shattered among the rocks.

     I tell you this honestly, because I want you to know that there is a very willing navigator, not simply for your life, but for your soul. Even in the tempests of this life, I find encouragement in knowing that these waters are transient and temporary for me. I'm being led to something bigger than this life. I'm being guided towards a harbor that lasts forever on the other side of this life. Maybe you've thought about what comes next, maybe you haven't. Maybe you're too busy thinking about what's coming tomorrow. But just hear me on this, Jesus is standing by ready to know you and let you know him, and he wants a relationship with you that will last longer than just a lifetime.

    When I remember this truth, I no longer worry about the fact that I can't let my Tom-tom plan my life. I continue making choices, decisions, and plans that I hope and pray will lead me where I want to go. And more importantly, I know that as I follow Jesus' leading in my life, and as I let him work out his design through those choices, decisions, and plans,  I will most assuredly end up where he would like me to be. And when I arrive at my end point, I'll be with the one who got me there.

    I'd like to leave you with with one of my favorite series of paintings at the National Gallery of Art in D.C. It's called The Voyage of Life by Thomas Cole. These four images trace a man from infancy to old age under the guiding watch of God. I never fail to see myself in the various stages that Cole so beautifully portrays. I'm not going to promise you a personal angel decked out in white, but I can promise you the same intentional care and guidance of the God who wants to know you. He's just waiting for you to invite him aboard, step back from the ship's wheel, and rest in the course he's charted for you.
                                    

                                         

  

A Real Good White Girl

A few days ago as I was walking with a few of the neighborhood kids, one of my girls holding my hand looked at me and said, “I ain’t tryin to be racist or nothin, but you’re a real good white girl”. I tried to suppress my laughter while graciously accepting her very unique compliment. I’m not sure what qualifies one as a “really good white girl”, but I’m pretty sure if this little girl could see how messy and selfish my heart is most of the time, she wouldn’t place me in this category. Lucky for her and me both, I’m able to mask my depravity behind a smile or a quick witted joke much of the time. On one particular day I spent with the kids a couple of weeks ago, however, I had a much harder time disguising the true nature of my heart.

It was our last day with our last mission team, and it also happened to be one of the hottest afternoons Chicago had seen in six years. I met the team, a group of Texas teens visiting Chicago on a choir tour, in the park and prepped them for the service project we were about to undertake. As I explained that we’d be visiting local businesses offering to clean their toilets for free, several of the younger street kids I know ran up and asked to join. Sure, what a great idea to let the kids take part in our service! Ha. Unless you’re as naïve as me, you can probably guess what’s going to happen next.

I enthusiastically set off from the park, holding the hands of four sweet kiddos ranging in age from 4 to 8, with a group of about 30 teens trailing behind me, feeling something like General Grant leading the troops. Did I say Grant? I meant Custer. We were immediately halted by a film crew that had blocked off the street we were on, inadvertently trapping us in the scene, and the director wasn’t too excited that he would now have 30 kids in matching bright blue mission team shirts in his shot. So, we waited and looked on as a stunt driver sped a police car past us. We waited. And we perspired. The sun beat down and I watched as my team’s spirits wilt in the heat. Finally, I persuaded the director to let us move on and we marched onward. Armed with their potty polishing weaponry, my group split off and began making their way from business to business offering their free services. 

By this time however, my little tagalongs were feeling the heat and getting restless. Four year old Richi tugged on my arm over and over in an effort to make me acutely aware of his discomfort. The girls initiated a three-way competition for my attention, clamoring for my free hand, or my arm, or my back. When they realized that the mission teams were getting a brief respite from the heat by entering air conditioned businesses, they rushed into an upscale clothing boutique on the heels of one of the groups. Within seconds Dooka was in the display window pounding on the glass, Richi was dodging beneath racks of shirts that probably cost more than my car, and Toochie and Tee-tee were jumping on a couch. I wish I was exaggerating. I frantically grabbed their little wrists and attempted to direct them back out the door. When that didn’t work I started begging. Store owners took one look at my little clan of hooligans and anxiously looked around for the adult responsible for these street urchins. Their gaze landed on me, the unexpected leader of this ragtag crew. As I apologized and urgently hauled the kids back outside, I was hit by the stark realization that no matter how much Gilmore Girls I watch, I am not ready for motherhood. At least not if it involves adopting four small children all at one time and parenting them entirely on my own.  Needless to say, the next hour involved much re-enacting of this same scene as we worked our way down the street. By the end of the afternoon, the mission team was exhausted, the kids were dehydrated, and I was exasperated.

As we trudged back to the park, I passed an actress walking through the set, and we made eye contact for a brief moment. Suddenly her flawless make-up and perfect hair made me painfully aware of my sweat drenched face, frizzy hair, and cotton sundress which no longer seemed as chic as it did when I put it on that morning. She sauntered off towards stardom, and I looked down at the wet plastic bag and used toilet brush I was carrying. Cue Bananarama’s "Cruel Summer".

I am positive that in that afternoon, my mask of being the capable, compassionate leader was utterly shattered with every stress-filled sigh and short response to a team member that I uttered. Anyone within ten feet of me must have felt tension and frustration radiating from me like heat waves. In fact, I’m pretty sure that no matter how hard I tried to disguise it, it became pretty evident that day that I’m human, and not a particularly “good” one at that. I’m thankful that the Lord gives us days like these and somehow gives us a desire to repeat them. I don’t particularly enjoy being reminded of my limits and incapability, but I’m thankful that the Lord reveals them so clearly to us anyway. And I’m very thankful for the hearts of the kids that came up to me later that afternoon and apologized for being so difficult. Sometimes they do a better job of imitating their Father than I do. Glad the Lord gave me enough sense to take a hint and learn from them.