October’s done.

“Don’t let USC beat you twice.”

That’s what Brian Kelley, football coach at Notre Dame, told the team last week. It’s what coaches often tell their teams.

On October 22, ND lost to USC. On October 29, they were playing Navy. The challenge for the team during their preparation process was to quit thinking about what the loss meant. They could learn what worked or not. They could learn how to run routes better. They could watch films to see what mistakes there were, what good moves there were.

However, any time spent thinking that the USC loss meant that the season was ruined, that the team was doomed to fail, would let the memory of the USC game lead to a loss against Navy.

It’s the end of October. Our plans for 2011, many of them, have gone awry. We aren’t where we thought we would be.

Don’t let June beat you twice.

Paul was writing to some friends in a Roman colony called Philippi. He’d spent some time there, been beaten there, been in prison there, left there. Some years later, he writes to them … from prison.

Sounds like Paul had issues with authority. But his life-goal wasn’t to stay out of prison. It was to know Jesus. As well as he possibly could. To understand giving up your life for God and for others. To understand what it was like to completely trust. To understand what it would be like to be completely attuned to God.

Paul tell his friends that he doesn’t have that figured out. But, he says, he keeps pressing on. He forgets the losses. He forgets the hardships. He keeps focused on the relationship. It’s the one thing he does.

Paul doesn’t want his last loss to beat him again.

Happy Monday. I’m cheering for you.

pages, dogs, sabbath and slack.

If you read this blog by Mailchimp email, you didn’t get anything from me on Thursday. You are getting two posts today.

It wasn’t that I didn’t write anything for Thursday morning. It’s that, with more than 2000 posts written at various blogs, I wrote created a page instead of a post on Wednesday night. And a page doesn’t get recognized by Mailchimp.

So I fixed it Thursday morning. And didn’t get mad. And never once called myself an idiot.

I was talking to a friend earlier in the week. He was trying to figure out why he was getting so mad at the dog. I reminded him of all the things that were chaotic in his life, things that he couldn’t do much about. I told him about how mad I used to get at our dog. I told him that I realized that I was mad at the dog because I was mad at myself and frustrated with changes that I wanted to make and couldn’t. I was getting upset because I wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t about Shiloh at all.

And he said, “So you are telling me I should give myself a little slack.”

I was.

Which I did for myself when I realized what I had done on Wednesday night. I had simply made a mistake. I didn’t ruin your life. I didn’t ruin my life. Nothing happened other than maybe you had one less distraction in your morning.

It’s a good idea for this weekend, perhaps. Cut yourself a little slack. Take some Sabbath. Quit trying to be god. We already have a perfectly good one available.

If you want to see some hats and help some people in Joplin who got hit by the tornadoes and are still helping kids through art, head to ErnestineEdna.com

Ellen left.

Yesterday we talked about Ellen.

Wednesday afternoon we went to check on her. I’d asked her to stop by and she didn’t come.

In the morning, I had made a couple calls for help. I had figured out some places for her to call. I asked friends to ask God to give me wisdom because I didn’t know what to do.

Wednesday afternoon we went to check on her. I’d asked her to stop by and she didn’t come.

Jesus was pretty clear about the need to respond to people in need. He said that at the end of everything, people would be sorted out based on how they responded to him when he was hungry and thirsty and a stranger and without clothes and sick and in prison. He said that the way we respond when we see his brothers with those needs counts as taking care of him. He said that we can’t say, “Well, of course I would do that for Jesus. But I just can’t see him.” I’m wrestling pretty hard with how to be responsibly responsive.

Wednesday afternoon we went to check on her. I’d asked her to stop by and she didn’t come.

It’s challenging. Which hungry person? How much clothing? Does it matter new or used? What if they lost their house in a poker game? What if they are in jail for molesting? What if they have a dog and so can’t stay in shelters? Those are the questions that we ask all the time. Sometimes hypothetically because we are trying to find the edges. Sometimes devastatingly close to home. Sometimes not at all.

Wednesday afternoon we went to check on her. I’d asked her to stop by and she didn’t come.

It’s possible that Jesus only wanted to spend the night.

helping ellen.

I walked toward the front door of the church building, carrying a cup of Starbucks, my Chrome laptop, and my Kindle.  Sitting inside, I knew, was Ellen. She’s a woman who didn’t have a job, a house, a car, parents, family, or a place to stay. She ended up at our church because she had run out of options in the big town and came walking toward us.

I don’t think she was intending to come to our place today. I think she was asking churches if they knew of any place to stay because that’s one of the options when you don’t have anything else.

I was acutely aware that the technology in my hand could, new, pay for a month’s rent for her. I was aware that the coffee in my hand could buy a dozen eggs.

Often at those moments I have a twinge of guilt, followed by writing a post like this in which I talk about the need to share resources and deal with inequities. And then we have conversations about whether we should always live in guilt and can’t we have fun sometimes and technology isn’t wrong. But I realized that I didn’t want to write that post.

But I gotta ask about how I’m using what I have.

For example, the Kindle can be an amazing tool. I have the pictures of everyone from our congregation that would let us take their picture for a directory. I have my 99 goals list. I have drafts of some writing of a friend. I have a couple Bibles and a book on Everyday Justice.

I have the potential to stay on task. To learn names and faces. To pray specifically.To learn for writing.

If I do, we will all learn to help Ellen.

If I don’t?

By the way. Ellen’s got a place for the night and a couple meals and we’re working on tomorrow. I knew you’d be wondering. Because you care.

Unless I am wrong

I am acutely aware of expectations, even those that do not exist. I have lived much of my life as a pleaser. To avoid conflict, I have appeased, placated, avoided and feared. And I am increasingly aware of the dangers of living according to the standards and expectations and boundaries of others. “How we used to do it” and “How it’s always been done” are problems. “I’m disappointed in you” can be a deadly constraint, keeping us from doing what we are actually called to do.

Unless I am wrong.

If I am wrong, if I have broken trust with you or with God or both, if I have looked at what Jesus clearly taught and have ignored it, then I need to know. I need to be confronted. I need you to say, “When Jesus was talking about relationship, he said to love our enemies and pray for those that persecute us. And last week, when you were talking about those ____ in ____, that’s about as far from loving your enemies as a person can get, as least as we look at how Jesus demonstrated love.”

Because sometimes we are wrong. Not in some “I misspoke” sense or in some “I was tired” sense or “I made a bad choice” sense, but in an “I sinned” sense. I did evil.

We often want to hit reset. We want to walk away, to ignore the past. And I’m all for do-overs and fresh starts. So is God. That’s the whole point of Jesus and Christmas and Good Friday and Easter. But the way to start over in relationship with ourselves and with God and with others isn’t to just walk away. It’s to walk through a simple, gut-wrenchingly honest process: “I was wrong. I went the wrong way. Please forgive me.”

Related posts:

The hard work of repenting

I did it