Foot. In. Mouth.

Dear friends,

I have a confession to make. Among the laundry list of flaws I ashamedly boast (chronically overbooked, obsessed with diseases I'm not likely to ever contract, unable to watch Lifetime TV without crying, devoid of any remorse for returning library books late), there's one in particular that I've had to do battle with lately. The thing is, I'm Chairman of the Party Planning Committee. The *Pity* Party Planning Committee. (We have branches in all 50 states. Ask me how you, too, can have a Pity Party all your own!)

I've been fighting the urge to throw myself a Pity Party these last few months. When I feel that need cropping up, I fight it with the best of my abilities. I cling to the things I have to be thankful for, like my clearly flawless skin and impeccable social reputation, not to mention my immaculate lawn and perfectly behaved child. (My penchants for giving to charity and ministering to homeless men make my life all the more fulfilling.) You might be asking yourself, "Melanie, with your blinding beauty and enormous heart for saving dolphins born with birth defects, how could you ever find a reason to complain?" The answer to that is simply, "I just made up that entire list." Hard to believe, I know. (You are very gullible, my friend.)

The truth is, I'm not who you think I am. I'm not who I want to be. If you think I'm being modest, think again. (Take a moment to reflect on the previous sentences about my stunning beauty. To my credit, false modesty is not yet a flaw on that laundry list.)

The thing is, folks, this has been a hard time for us. Thankfully, it has not been a senselessly hard time. Those seasons of life are the most difficult; when it seems that God's hand is writing in the sky, but you can't see it for the smog. God is always tender and clear with us, much in the way that a parent is tender with her toddler. "Oh, yes, I know. That ouchies. Doug and Melanie want to have a cookie? Yeah? A cookie make it all better? Here you go. Have a cookie."

(Disclaimer: I know the Lord doesn't talk like a giant, condescending grandmother in the sky. I think I just really wanted a cookie when I wrote that last little bit, so my subconscious made me go there. Moving on.)

I rarely have a doubt that God's hand is actively at work in my life. Over the last few months, as life kicked us repeatedly with her black leather boot, I have kept in mind that my God is healer; however brutal the injuries we incur, God is able to heal us for His glory. I know that truth. I cling to it.

And I thought I was doing well. I could feel myself wanting to boast about my awesome faith. "No, really, we're perfectly fine. Sure we're unemployed and I spent the last three weeks in the hospital. Sure, this pregnancy is high-risk and scary and exhausting. How do we maintain our composure you ask? Well, sit right down and I'll give you a tutorial in being a good Christian, like me."

Thank goodness the Lord smacked those words out of my mouth! It took only one more trial for my feeble house of cards to topple, and I praise God that they did. If it hadn't been for the misery that was about to ensue, who knows how much damage I might have started to bring to my most cherished cause-- the cause of Christ.

My demise came in the form of allergies. Allergies. Not global famine. Not another health crisis (though Lord knows we've had our share). Not family conflict or personal peril. Not even a long check-out line at Safeway.

Allergies. Green, gooey, itchy, disgusting allergies. That's all it took to undo this woman. Made from steel, I am not.

I woke up to one of the worst flair-ups of seasonal allergies I have ever had. In my defense, this was no normal allergy attack. This was a full-on assault on my immune system, ironically waged by my immune system itself. (Talk about mixed feelings! Me vs. Me. Who do I want to win?!) My eyelids were glued shut by extra-strength crusties. My voice sounded like it belonged to a 65-year-old smoker from Atlantic City. My nose made a perfectly charming honking sound when I attempted to inhale nasal spray. I was a papparazzi's delight. You know, if I were famous and all.

Commence the Pity Party montage! Tears! Angry, balled up fists! Tissues littering the bedspread! The stuff of movie magic!

The day dragged on and on. My attitude went downhill with each withdrawal from the tissue box. Finally my husband extracted himself and my two-year-old daughter in order to (escape the crazy person) allow me some alone time.

I was alone. Ironically, I realized, that I only feel alone when my attitude is bad. At that point, I'm such an unattractive person that I'm convinced even the Lord takes a hiatus from our relationship. He never leaves me, even when my health is going haywire and my life is on the fritz. I only feel alone when I can't see around my own ego. It was quiet in my room as I sat (with tissues shoved up my nose) making a half-hearted attempt at reading a book. I didn't want to be alone. I wanted to be having fun with my family.

I threw the covers around like a petulant teenager, lamenting my fate. It felt like I had been alone for hours when Heidi, our dear friend and Fable's surrogate aunt, sheepishly poked her head around the corner. Her grin was enormous. Apparently she didn't notice my horrible attitude or the tissues sticking out of my nose like two badly placed pigtails. "You've got something special in the maaaaail," she sang. "I hope it's an enormous bottle of Benadryyyyl," I sang back.

Now, not a lot could deter me from my Pity Party at that point. I was miserable, but I was doing a good job at my misery and I don't like to be interrupted when I'm on a roll.

But as much as I like misery, I like packages even more. Even packages I'm expecting from Amazon are thrilling to me. And this was no ordinary package. This package clearly contained flowers. (Ironic, no? My allergies were going nuts as I tore the tape off the box.) Not just any flowers. SUNFLOWERS. The box contained sunflowers. I adore sunflowers. They are like gold on a stem. If you're not from Colorado, you simply can't understand the glory of sunflowers. They are the halo of the city, burning golden and bright as the sun sets. They are the crowning jewel of the season.

Flowers. For me. The girl with the sour face and spoiled heart. Can you imagine how I felt when I read the card that came with them? "Sunflowers always have their faces to the sun. I've noticed that you always have your face to the Son, too." Well, isn't that nice? My ego tucked its tail between its legs and limped away. My eyes leaked, this time out of gratitude.

Can you fathom the recoiling my spirit did upon reading that? It was a perfectly timed message, for sure. It was a blow delivered straight to the knees of my pride and sense of entitlement. How I so desperately needed that.

I love, and also sort of hate, the way God lavishes on me. Even when I'm an enormous ball of snot. Literally.

I know there's a more poetic point to drive home, but I wouldn't want to cheapen the lesson by wrapping things up in a trite little package. All I know is, I'm going to go think about this theme in my life. My prayer is that I learn to be a Christian who runs the race with endurance, one who doesn't get sidetracked by something silly, like a runny nose. I'll let you know how that goes. Hopefully, you'll just see it for yourself.

It's good, this life.

Reflections On Repentance.

I don't know what it is about 11:00 PM that triggers my brain to write a blog. It must be my writing witching hour, or my body's way of processing the day's events.

The sermon today was both thought-provoking and disturbing. It was thought-provoking in that the message was particularly applicable to my life as of late; it was disturbing because I came to the alarming realization that my pastor has been spying on me. I don't know how he has been getting away with it, but clearly he has been taking notes on the subject of my sin. The joke's on him, though, because I'm a bloated pregnant lady who spends most of her free time running around in her husband's boxer shorts. I think we all know who's getting the bigger end of the trauma stick...

Anyway, the sermon was awesome, and I was ROCKED.

It was about keeping up appearances, which is not a novel idea for a sermon. I don't know why... for some reason this one hit me. The pastor was preaching on the reputation of Sardis, a city universally known for its emphasis on education, class, social standing, and overall too-cool-for-school-ery. The book of Revelation is comprised of letters to different churches, including one Paul wrote to the believers in Sardis. In it, he says,

" [...] I know your deeds; you have a reputation of being alive, but you are dead. ² Wake up! Strengthen what remains and is about to die, for I have found your deeds unfinished in the sight of my God. ³ Remember, therefore, what you have received and heard; hold it fast, and repent. But if you do not wake up, I will come like a thief, and you will not know at what time I will come to you" (3: 1-3).

Let me just jump into the Insight Pool. When I read this, I had to ask myself some questions. They began cascading into my head, one on top of the other.

What do I have a reputation for?

What image do I strive to craft?

And are these two aligned?

Most importantly, are these things aligned with God's agenda for my life?

I was particularly struck by the imperative, "Wake up!" I feel like Paul could be translated as saying, "You're a zombie doing an impression of a living, breathing person. GET REAL."

I needed to hear that. I don't know what my reputation is for, but I'm sure it differs depending upon whom you ask. (Of whom you ask the question? Gah!) I bet on any given day, a sampling of people would say that my reputation is for being sassy and brash, impulsive and judgmental. On a better day, a particularly merciful/delusional friend might say I'm kindhearted and generous, silly and compassionate.

Don't you see the problem with that? There's a PROBLEM when two people could walk away with two very different impressions of you. Don't get me wrong; I understand that we're all multi-faceted, and how we express that plays out differently depending upon the audience. But I am *striving* for consistency of character, and that's where I see a gaping hole in my identity. I think it comes back to this question: Who am I trying to please? When I lose sight of my identity in Christ, the answer is, "Everyone and anyone who might just praise me." When I realign myself with God's truth about my identity -- that I was created by and for Him, with unshakeable value by virtue of that fact -- the answer suddenly becomes, "Christ and Christ alone, at any expense." How freeing, that I can be myself entirely when I'm only trying to please ONE master, instead of 1,000.

That subject alone is enough to write a blog post about, but Paul didn't really care about my need to keep my blogs succinct. I was also jarred by the statement, "[...] I have found your deeds unfinished in my sight." Translation: Melanie, you half-ass your way through life. Right you are, Lord. Right you are. (Also, watch your mouth, Lord.)

Don't you see the problem with that? When was the last time any of us gave 100% to anything? When was the last time I focused solely on Fable, instead of dividing myself between Facebook and cleaning and finally, giving her the dregs? When was the last time I went the distance in a tough friendship? Hell, when was the last time I finished a needlepoint?! (I suppose I would have to start a needlepoint in order to answer that question honestly. I also suppose I'll have to wait until I'm 65 before that question is really applicable. But when I'm 65 I'm sure I'll still be having these issues. I digress...) The point is, I have a hard time committing and following through on the little things in life. It's not hard for me to see how I have left the spiritual matters unfinished, and those are the issues that really, eternally count.

By this point in the sermon, I was so moved with conviction that I felt like lecturing myself. For all you Lutherans out there, don't worry; it was a healthy dose of conviction that I'll probably forget all about by tomorrow morning. ;)

The only thing I care about once I've been convicted of something is the practical step I can take to rectify my situation. How can I make myself right with God? How can I make my ways more like His ways? Thankfully, Paul predicted my need for practical guidance and summed it up in one word:

Repent.

And there's the punch to the gut. Let's make this personal. When was the last time you sincerely asked for forgiveness for something you did wrong? When was the last time you and your husband argued and you stopped mid-sentence to say, "You know what? You're right. You're completely right. I have no defense, no explanation worth giving. I'm just sorry." If you're anything like me, you'd sooner go down with the ship than wave the white flag. I claw tooth and nail, cling to any plausible defense, because I'm self-righteous and prideful, and I want to be in the right, even if it means professing half-truths.

And really, what place does repentance have in a postmodern faith? A light bulb went on my brain when I heard that word today, almost as if I was hearing it for the first time. Christians today are so consumed with preaching *love* that we have done away with the need for change. Don't worry, Jesus loves you just the way you are-- so much so that you needn't feel a modicum of discomfort about your sin! Just vaguely love Jesus and/or others back- in whatever way is most convenient for you-- and you're golden. I'm frustrated with myself for internalizing that deformed doctrine. It seems that this approach to faith is a response to the legalism of previous generations. People were so oppressed by the practice of trying to earn God's love by good works that they burnt out on faith. So now, in an attempt to reintroduce unbelievers to the Lord, Christian doctrine has gone to the other extreme. We don't have to *do* anything to be a Christian anymore-- whether that's physically, emotionally, or spiritually. And that leads us to believe that so long as someone seems to love others well, it doesn't even matter if he professes to know the Lord. "God judges the heart, and that person seems to have a really good heart, so she must be safe in God," is the thought.

But, don't you see what's wrong with that?! What's so sadly, scarily wrong with that? First and foremost, the notion that any of us is a "good" person is just ludicrous. When you don't have a standard for "goodness" that is external to you-- when you get to be the judge of your own character-- your esteem of yourself is bound to fluctuate with any given mood. But that's for another blog entirely (one I will most assuredly write).

Mainly what bothers me about this mindset is that when our focus is on being nice and good and kind -- or whatever other thing the world values at the moment -- we miss out on a crucial element of our salvation, our very relationship with Christ: repentance.

Repentance isn't the act of berating ourselves, nor does it require embracing shame. Repentance is simply and beautifully the act of acknowledging where we fall short of our calling. It's humbly assuming the right posture before our God. And what a fundamental part of the Christian life that is! When we don't engage in this process, we rob ourselves of the utter relief and astonished joy we feel when we receive God's forgiveness. What a startlingly gracious gift. When we don't repent, we find ourselves slathered in cheap grace instead of basking in the real thing.

I don't know about you, but I can't remember the last time I truly repented of anything to the Lord, or anyone for that matter. Instead, I go about the cycle of falling short again and again because I HAVEN'T been transformed by true grace.

I'm just so dog tired, so bone weary of all of that.

It's not enough for me anymore. It's NOT enough for me to have my outward appearance put together-- to hide behind the diplomas and handshakes and pats on the back, the nods of approval and invitations to parties, or any of that. It's not enough for me to build a reputation as being a "nice" or a "good" person. More importantly, it's not okay for me to preach that false gospel to other people. The only way to know the fullness of my relationship with God is by assuming my true identity, and being willing to assume the right position in relation to that God. That means I have to check my motivations and ask myself the hard questions. Why am I doing this? Saying this? Making these friends and maintaining these relationships? Is it for the Kingdom of God, or is it give glory to myself? And it requires true self-examination, and being willing to admit that I'm not above apologies, not without needing transformation.

Maybe then I won't yearn so much for the approval of other people. Maybe then I won't be plagued by guilt, since I'll have received true pardon.

See, I told you I was rocked.

Lilac.

Last night, a dear friend watched the Fay for me whilst I whittled away the hours on bed rest. That's a good friend, my friends. As I lay dying of terminal boredom, Jes, her daughter Aspen, and Fable did all manner of crafty things. (Including painting with stamps made of carved potatoes! Who does that?!)

One is wont to notice all kinds of things while horizontal. (Keeeeep it clean, people. Jesus reads this blog.) First off, popcorn ceiling is the everyday Rorschach Test. I got a glimpse into my psyche last night as grinning circus clowns, old ladies with crooked spines, and stampeding horses emerged from my wall. That was a fun five minutes. Then I was back to having nothing to do.

So, I tossed and turned a little. Did some praying. Daydreamed about what my life would be like if I had longer hair (radically better, with far more fashionable montages). At about mile marker 2000, I decided to get out of bed. Who says bed rest needs to be literal BED rest? I mean, aside from my doctor and all.

I putzed around the house in my usual, albeit slower, style. Tidying this thing and that (read: moving it from one unorganized drawer to another). Starting a skein of crochet, only to undo it again. Went up the stairs for some reason, only to forget why when I reached the handle to the bathroom door. (How does a person forget what she intends to do in the bathroom? There are only so many things one can do in there; the options are easily exhaustible.)

Finally, I bunkered down in the black armchair in the living room. I sat in the quiet. I'm so shamefully bad at sitting in the quiet, either in my head or in reality. (Philosophy majors, feel free to quip that what's in your head should count as what's in reality. When you're done, call yourself a pretentious twit for me.) Truth be told, I didn't know what to do with myself without Fable around, yapping at my heels.

I've become so accustomed with multitasking, with putting on a puppet show with one hand and disinfecting the countertops with the other. At the end of a day filled with Legos and puzzles, meltdowns and "More juice, Mommy!" I am thoroughly exhausted and satisfied. I'm acquainted with that form of exhaustion. It's fulfilling, unlike the kind of exhaustion that camps in your bones when you're sick. This kind, the new and harder kind, makes me cry at the drop of a hat. Makes me need to rest in the middle of doing the dishes or having a conversation with my husband. It makes me restless and irritable, but somehow more contemplative.

I feel like a butterfly pinned down by the wings, under the giant lens of the Lord. It was C.S. Lewis, I believe, who said something to the effect of, "God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world." Oh, Lord. Have I been deaf? Is that the root of this pain?

Lord, I prayed, let me hear you. Still me. Wrestle me to the ground as you did Jacob. Leave me with a wound, but don't leave me here.

Over the last week several doctors have lain me down, told me to prepare for the pain of a needle or of morphine coursing through my veins. But nothing has compared to this, the pain of holding still for the Lord.

And so, I finally did some musing. In a silent house, in the space inside a whirring mind, I settled-- as much as I know how. Minutes passed, but they felt much longer, as if the Lord were stretching them to their fullest. To think of all the minutes in a day, and how few of them I spend before the presence of God... no wonder it hurt so much.

My time alone came to a close. I heard Jes and Fable approach the door. Finally, my sweet, sticky distraction was home. It's indescribable, the way her rosebud mouth and forever curly hair warms me up from the inside. The warmth was almost unbearable within the walls of my freshly scrubbed heart.

Fable trotted up to me, as she always does, in the the style that so reminds me of a baby beagle tripping over his ears. Sometimes I just want to hold her so much, I can't help but scoop her into me. When she is 16, I will still be pulling her into my arms, despite her protestations.

This time, though, the singularly most amazing thing happened. Fable held out her hand to me.

"Here go, Mommy." And just like that, the Lord came rushing in to mend the wound. Clutched in her tiny, sweaty palm was a thick shoot of lilac.

My first ever flower from Fable. It smelled so good to me.

I found a glass for it, but by the time I filled it with water, Fable had all but demolished the poor thing. No matter-- none at all.

With all the pride and thankfulness in the world, I put the dilapidated petals and naked stem into the glass. It sits now on my dining room table, proudly displayed for all to see.

Today I don't feel so raw. Not much better physically, truth be told. But no worse. And my spirit? It has rarely been better or healthier. I suppose this whole blog started when I realized that I sit here, in this dilapidated state, proudly on display for *my* Father.

There's no better place to be.

A Mauss Family Update

"I can thank my God for every wave that has wrecked me upon the Rock, Jesus Christ."

-Darlene Deibler Rose

Dear friends and family,

We sit to write you with very full hearts. Normally we don't send correspondence en masse. Those of you who know us well would laugh; we hardly send correspondence at all! But given the recent turn of events, we feel compelled and inspired to get in touch. We've had an incredible series of weeks, and we knew we needed to write.

This is a long story, so maybe prepare yourself with a cup of coffee. Or two. (Or three, in my case!)

To begin, it must be noted that the last two years have been the most trying of our marriage-- perhaps our lives. But as we reflect on those difficult times, we see the hand of God repairing our brokenness, polishing our imperfections, and crafting us into something better than ever before. Our lives-- and particularly this season-- have been a testament to the truth that "suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope." This truth informs our current season. And by the end of this email, we think you'll share in our hope, too.

A few weeks ago, Doug went on a retreat through our church, Family of Christ. (Rather, he went on a trip with our church-that-meets-in-a-building, Family of Christ. We have a lot of churches, and we're all the church, and so on and so forth. :)

So, anyway. He went on this retreat. This retreat is notorious. Men talk about it all year round. As the date approaches, men huddle in corners to murmur excitedly about "all-terrain vehicles" and "shooting ranges" and "poker tournaments." Men travel across the country to attend this retreat, started by our humble church. And when the men return, they are completely and utterly shaken. Moved. Changed. I saw it not once, not twice, but in all the men who had gone on the previous year's retreat. So, as the retreat approached, more and more men started pressing Doug about going. He's not your stereotypical "man's man," so he was a little hesitant. Doug's idea of an edifying retreat equates to holing up in the basement with a massive pile of books, obscure old movies, and his Bible on the iPhone. But something compelled Doug to go, so on a Thursday evening we scrambled around the house trying to find anything that could remotely come in hand on a camping trip. Fable and I waved goodbye to Doug for the weekend as he piled into a car full of men and drove off into the sunset.

Meanwhile, back on the ranch, I had forged a plan with the other castoff wives to spend the weekend tag-teaming with the children. The plan looked a little something like this: Take several field-trips with the kids, wear them out, and cram them all into sleeping bags on the floor of one house for a sleep-over. Somehow margaritas got thrown in there for good measure, but I digress.

What ensued was the beginning of something wonderful. The weekend was long for the both of us, and full of lessons and opportunities for growth that were surely inspired by the Lord.

Doug could fill you in on all the details of the trip. From what I understand, it was exactly as macho as was rumored. But the report from all the men is this: It didn't end there. The trip was a strange and amazing hybrid of masculinity and vulnerability; hiking and repelling, while strengthening their spiritual muscles as well. My husband came home with a renewed faith, an inner peace, a commitment to integrity and family... These are all things he possessed before the trip, but were brought to maturation while he was away.

While he was gone, I had some time to connect with the Lord, too, but in a much different way. Over the weekend, a dear friend wrote me an email that started a difficult chain of events. I had no idea how to handle the sudden strain imposed on our friendship. Without Doug's guidance, it was hard to know how to react. Most people told me to walk away from the friendship. But something didn't feel right in my soul. I needed Doug to come home.

When Doug and I met back up on Sunday evening, we were each brimming with emotions and stories we just had to share. Doug told me about the retreat, and the warmth and strength emanating from him were palpable. I was so relieved to have him home. Finally, I told him about the difficult time I had with my friend. I felt a mixture of emotions when he said, "Instead of reacting out of woundedness, too, I think you have a chance to rise above it and give God the glory." Finally, the discernment and clarity I was looking for. That night I met up with my friend. Ultimately we were able to have grace for one another. We have spent a lot of time talking about Christ, and I see how God redeemed that difficult situation. I am SO glad we didn't just leave things where they were, but I never would have gotten there if it weren't for Doug.

There was no doubt about it. God had started a work in my husband and in me.

Doug and I barely had time to unpack (in any sense of the word), when we got some surprising news. The Monday following the retreat, Doug came home early from work. I was busy cleaning the kitchen and keeping an eye on Fable when Doug walked through the door. He put his arms around me. There was a softness in his voice, tinted by a quiver.

He told me that he lost his job. The words, "laid off" rang in my ears.

In that moment, I felt so honored to be his wife.

And we were relieved. God had finally released us from Cook. We were so grateful for Doug's job-- especially after we had Fable and I left my job to be a stay-at-home-mom. But we had felt for all too long that the time had come to make a change. Release!

In the days that followed, we were flooded with an outpouring of love. Emails, texts, and phone calls from loving friends and family wanting to know if we were okay. We were so grateful for their concern. Our response was, "God's hand is all over this, and we have REAL joy!" This peace truly does surpass all understanding.

How differently would we have handled this news if not for our weekend retreats? Six months ago, would this have sent us spiraling into despair? A year ago, would we have clung to each other like we do now? The more we think about it, the clearer it becomes that God has been paving the way for this for a very long time. With every passing day, the Lord was cultivating in us the right hearts to tackle this obstacle with strength and grace. We are more convinced than ever that God's sovereign plan will always prevail. Each and every day is crafted by the Lord for a greater purpose. We are so glad to be a part of that glory.

Over the course of that weekend, God taught Doug so much about what it truly looks like to be a man in this world. How to truly invest in one's family, instead of prioritizing work to an unhealthy degree. How to pursue the Lord on a daily basis. How to lead by example. How to trust God instead of man. And God taught me about being vulnerable, about God's wisdom looking different from man's, and about redemption for all circumstances-- even and especially this one!

At this moment, Doug is spending his final hours at David C. Cook. He is cleaning out his desk and saying goodbye to his friends. He has been determined to leave Cook with a blessing on his lips. He has done his job thoroughly in these last weeks, not slacking because the end was coming. He has conducted himself with so much dignity and humility. I'm continually amazed by this man's character.

So, where do we go from here? Who knows! The Lord does, of course. And we're grateful for the clean slate. We're extremely excited to see where God is leading us, because clearly He is! We are fully aware of the power of our God. It's the same power at work in us that raised Christ from the dead. We have so much trust in Him, and we pray for even more.

On a final note, we want to give glory to God for already tending to our needs. A few days ago we sat down to pay a mountain of medical bills. Near the end of the task we opened a letter that contained $50.00 more than the total sum of our bills. Isn't that amazing? How could be anything less than joyful?! God is on our side!

So, that's that! Please continue to pray for us to stay positive, to trust in the Lord, and to cling to one another. We love you, our dear friends, and we pray for you, too.

Much love,

Doug, Melanie, and Fable.