Amanda Jenkins's Blog, page 5

A Princess, a Baby, and a Call to Arms

A recent article I wrote for Christianity Today:

http://www.todayschristianwoman.com/articles/2013/june/kate-middletons-pregnancy-and-call-to-arms.html?start=1

Pint-Size Perfectionist

I’m raising a very spunky nine-year-old who is as big a joy as she is a challenge. She’s outgoing and brave, competitive, focused, and extraordinarily people-smart. She reads faces and doesn’t miss a beat. She knows what I’m thinking before I say it, and she’s a sponge—a super teachable people pleaser, which makes her an amazing athlete and student, and a quintessential overachiever.

And so, in spite of her giftedness, I worry for Maya because not only does she experience a lot of self-imposed pressure (especially for someone so young), but she also often accomplishes her goals for the wrong reasons. She wants people to like her. She’s zealous for rules. She trashes a picture she spent an hour coloring because she made one mistake. She adjusts quickly to instruction because she’s got to do it right and be impressive.

In a lot of ways, she’s just like me. Sigh. So sorry, kid.

When I see the burden to do everything right sitting squarely on her little shoulders, I’m sad for her. It grieves me because as her mom, I know the pressure is unnecessary—she’s loved and accepted already, without condition. I wish she were motivated to obey in school because she loves to gain knowledge and honor her teacher, or to strive in athletics because she adores the intricacies of the game, or to do the right thing at home because she trusts her dad and me and wants to show her family love. I mean, there’s some of that, but it lives alongside the yolk of slavery I’ve experienced for so long—the drive to obey so that.

I obey so that people will like me. I obey so that people will think I’m awesome and have it all together. I obey so that I don’t get in trouble or cause a scene, thereby drawing attention to the fact that I didn’t obey. Grief—I obey so that I can obey. It has become its own end. Obedience for the sake of obedience—which, by the way, is a motive with no staying power, no gratification, and no attraction for nonbelievers.

And it doesn’t please the Lord.

Come to think of it, I often obey the letter of the law for the wrong reasons—I do the right thing with the wrong attitude or misguided motive. And sadly, that’s how it’s been for a long time.

When I was exactly Maya’s age, I happened upon a group of kids plotting to be horribly mean to a girl in our class. I had just gotten hot lunch and was carrying my tray toward the tables where we usually sat, when my classmates gestured for me to quickly sit down in the last available seat. I did, though I was confused by all the urgency and whispering. Seconds later I realized they had conspired to make Colleen sit by herself. I don’t remember exactly what they said to her as she approached, but it was awful. She sat down at the other table and started to cry while they jeered and laughed.

I was horrified. It was so wrong, and the Holy Spirit stirred in my little soul, though I sat frozen, weighing my options. Then I remembered Colleen was a bit of a teacher’s pet, and I certainly didn’t want Mrs. S. to think I had any part in the cruel plan.

My self-preservation tipped the scale.

I stood up, tray in hand, and sat in the seat next to Colleen. The meanness of the crowd transferred to me, but it didn’t last long—I think they were surprised anyone had the guts to defect, and they just went back to eating. I don’t remember either of us saying a word, but Colleen eventually stopped crying and I stayed with her for the rest of lunch and recess. I didn’t have a choice, really; in a flash, it was us against them. Even my best friend and blood buddy (such a weird and gross pre–AIDS era ritual) symbolically washed her hands, which included her previously pricked finger, and stormed away.

And all that to say, now that I’m a mom, I’m so, so, so glad I sat next to that precious girl—so thankful she didn’t have to endure the torture alone. I can’t stand bullying, and I cringe at the thought of it happening to one of my own. I’m glad God used me to help stop Colleen’s tears, but I wish I’d done it for the right reasons. I wish I hadn’t hesitated when Christ’s compassion was convicting my heart. I wish my good standing with my teacher hadn’t been more important to me than what pleased the Lord. I wish I had obeyed because I’m unconditionally loved by God and I couldn’t ignore something that hurt His heart. There were lots of good reasons to sit by Colleen that day, but impressing my teacher wasn’t one of them. Her approval was a pathetic consolation prize compared to how proud God might’ve otherwise been.

But in spite of my tendency to obey for the wrong reasons, God in His sovereignty and abundant grace still draws near to self-centered people like me. And that's what perfectionism is: self-centeredness. The more I understand how yucky my heart really is, the more I'm understanding the grace that is my ticket to freedom--from my vices and from myself.

Praying fervently that I pass on what I'm learning to my precious little girl, and that she would experience freedom from perfectionism a lot earlier in life than I did.

Keeping Up With the Joneses

I live next to the Joneses. And they’re everywhere. On my right and my left and behind and down the block. They have expensive cars, perfectly manicured landscaping, exquisite moldings, custom window coverings, marble, iron, and tile from impressive places, and professionally installed twinkle lights at Christmas time. They’re the people who live in magazine houses, keep Merry Maids® in business, and travel every time their kids have a day off from school.

Meanwhile, despite our new house on the it cul de sac, I’m selling stuff on craigslist for gas money.
Our location wasn’t the wisest choice for a girl who struggles with materialism. When we moved from LA to Chicago, our primary goal was to find a great school for our autistic third-born. And the school in my now neighborhood was perfect—small and friendly and well-ranked, and the brand new building in the center of a beautifully laid out development. Ponds and parks and sidewalks and trails weave through wooded areas that surround our community. It’s a great place to live, and I’m super thankful.
In theory.
Because, as disgusting as it is, I’m jealous of the Joneses. We built our home but couldn’t afford the bling. We have a nice lawn, but we also have a five-foot drop out our back door because we can’t afford a deck. Or stairs. Our cars are old and super tired. We have a two-story great room but can’t afford a ladder tall enough to change the light bulbs. We have a lot of square footage we can’t afford to furnish. We’re lucky to live in an upscale place, but we’re definitely bringin’ down the value of the real estate around us.
It’s obnoxious and plain wrong to be ungrateful when I have more than I need in the first-world country where I live. But the truth is that my ungrateful heart would be ungrateful no matter where I lived, because even when I get what I want, the things I pine for today wind up in yard sales tomorrow. Pottery Barn® mails out a new catalog (like every four weeks) and thankfulness flees.
And therein lies the real problem. Because just like God says, money—along with all the stuff it can buy—doesn’t satisfy. It’s never enough.

Whoever loves money never has enough;whoever loves wealth is never satisfied with their income.This too is meaningless.Ecclesiastes 5:10

I’ve been a Christian for most of my life, but that doesn’t mean I’ve always understood how to be content.
But there’s a secret to being okay with every circumstance, whether fabulous or not-so-much.

I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is tohave plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in anyand every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whetherliving in plenty or in want. I can do all this through [Christ]who gives me strength.Philippians 4:12-13

So what’s the secret?
Relationship. The Apostle Paul said he learned contentment, in spite of being poor and hungry, because he could live through anything with Jesus by his side giving him strength. I’ve tried hard to be content with what I have, but I’ve missed the point and contentment has eluded me. Satisfaction has nothing to do with what I have. Or don’t have. If I chase money to bring me security or comfort, no amount will suffice. I know, because I’ve spent a lot of years loving money and drinking the Kool-Aid of materialism.
The antidote to my lust for stuff is simple: love Jesus more. The more time I spend with Him, the more I’ll love Him. The more I love Him, the more willing I’ll be to lean on Him for strength to control my thoughts and spending urges. And when I lean, Jesus will loosen the money chains.
And I’ll be content to barbecue with the Joneses. On their deck.

The Elle Train

My sweet girls had their summer dance recital last weekend. They're in a tumbling class together, and their  performance was a combination of dancing and gymnastics. We worked hard in the weeks leading up to the show to straighten legs, point toes and practice, practice, practice.

In spite of the stage and curtain and large audience, Elle wasn't the least bit nervous (autistic kids usually don't anticipate, and don't experience butterflies or fear as often as rest of us). As I watched from backstage, I noticed Elle adding extra moves--a jump here, a leap there, a kick, a ponytail flip. She changed her back walkovers to switch-kicks, and her good side cartwheels to her bad side cartwheels. A lot of the stuff we practiced was missing, along with her straight legs and pointed toes. But she was smiling ear-to-ear, skipping her way through the performance, clearly having a blast.

When I asked her about it later, she said she added extra stuff because it was fun. I suggested next time she do the routine she practiced. She said no thank you.

Since her little contributions didn't affect the other girls, and because Elle feels so free to be herself no matter the situation, I say go for it, my love. Life with you is always like a box of chocolates.

Camera Lies

Most of the time, I equate being thin with being beautiful. And so I work hard to be thin, and feel not beautiful when I don't feel thin. So it did my soul good to spend time googling advertisements from a few short decades ago, when skinny was out and fuller figures were in. Because beauty doesn't hinge on just one thing, nor has it always been so narrowly defined.

 

 


Oh the joy of nowadays.

 























And is this where we're heading?? I can't read the words, but whether it's an ad for bikinis or how to lose, um, all your pounds, it's an image that burns our brains and opens the floodgate for eating disorders. 


Lord, have mercy on us, especially on our little girls who are growing up in a world where looking like a skeleton is considered desirable by so many people. Give us eyes to discern the truth, and may we cling to you, defining ourselves and our beauty by what's on the inside. And ultimately, by our relationship with you.

The Elle Train

Yesterday, Elle and Max played at the park next to my son's Lacrosse field. From a distance, Elle appeared to be acting as personal trainer to a group of children, commanding them do push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, and laps around the swings. Above the cheers of the Lacrosse crowd, I could hear her barking orders and counting reps.

I was proud to see her be bossy, because she always either follows the crowd or avoids it. I was encouraged to see her be bold.

But just to keep it real, about fifteen minutes prior she was telling me about her imaginary shepherd friend who is 87, and apparently very nice. She asked me to hold the bark, rocks and grass he kept giving her. Said he takes care of the earth and helps her dig rabbit holes.

I told her to maybe keep that info to herself.

From the looks of things she did, or I'm not sure she could've maintained such authority.

Camera Lies

I'm a recovering Housewives viewer (now two seasons sober), so I'm posting today in all humility. But I gotta say that even when reality shows like the one below are designed to point out hideous behavior, they move the cultural needle regarding what we consider hideous. We get used to watching extreme materialism, over-the-top vanity, monumental self-absorption, and insane gossip under the umbrella of things that are fun to watch because they're so egregious. Problem is that after a while they no longer seem egregious, they just seem bad. And the stuff we considered bad becomes average, and the stuff we considered average—you get the idea. The more we tolerate the intolerable, the more acceptable it becomes. And also, yucky women get famous for being yucky. Perhaps we should sit this new one out, and just say no to giving the awful people a voice. s

Wow to this...I laughed out loud. PERFECT and spot on. Love.

http://living.msn.com/family-parenting/mom-to-mom-blog-post/?post=b1775da5-fef6-4e61-9e8e-51f5a048f5c2

Awkward for Jesus

Kids are out of school for the summer, and let's just be honest...it takes time to acclimate to being together all day—which means I haven't had time to write anything new. Thankfully, I wrote a book I can pull from at will. This is an excerpt from my chapter, Obedience:

Awkward for Jesus
I rededicated my life to Christ when I was a freshman in college. Everything I had learned growing up and lukewarmly believed because my parents did came alive, and I was on fire. I couldn’t get enough of apologetics or courses in Scripture or theological discussions. God was real to me in a way He hadn’t been before, and I was all in. Sold. Down. Stick-a-fork-in-me done. Life had significant new meaning and purpose and focus, which always feels great . . . until something hard, or in my case, super awkward, comes around.
 
Late one Friday night when I was driving to my parents’ house from campus, a car began to swerve from lane to lane in front of me. I eased off the gas as the zigzagging became more extreme, ultimately ending in a violent crash when the driver over-corrected and plowed into the shoulder wall—at, like, fifty miles an hour. 

I was the first witness on the scene, so I parked, ran to the car, and opened the passenger-side door. The inside was littered with beer cans and marijuana joints. Blood covered the woman’s head, and she was crying and yelling at her wasted boyfriend behind the wheel whose eyes were open but unresponsive. I tried to keep her calm while we waited for the paramedics, who finally arrived and took over, though they asked me to stay and give a statement.
 
It seemed to take forever. A crowd gathered, and all of us just stood on the highway, our cars unattended. After watching the EMTs work for a while, I looked beyond the wreckage and saw two good looking college-age guys. And then came that darn unmistakable still, small voice: “Go pray with them.”
 
Um . . . what? Surely I heard that wrong. I will assume I heard that wrong.
 
But there it was again, like I was being tapped on the shoulder: “Go pray with them.”
 
Lord, um, hello? What on earth are you saying? Pray with them? Those guys? No. No. No thank you, Lord.
 
Again: tap, tap. “Go pray with them.”
 
Holy moly, Lord—that is a terrible idea.
 
But there it was again—tap, tap, tap, and it wasn’t going away.
 
All right, God. Fine!
 
I walked slowly around the wreckage and sidled up to the boys, who were tall and smelled good and dressed well.
 
Gulp.
 
“Um, hey guys. Pretty bad accident, huh?”
 
They looked around. It took a second for them to even realize I was talking to them. ’Cause why on earth would I be talking to them?
 
Sigh.
 
“So . . . uh . . . can I pray with you?"

Guy 1, “Pray? Uhhh . . . I guess. I mean, I used to be Catholic.” Guy 2 just stared at me like I was insane.
 
“Okay, let’s do it, then,” I said. “Pray, I mean.”
 
Ahem.
 
“Dear Lord, we pray for these people. Please help them. Please, um, help them. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
 
Ugh. So awkward. I think I actually thanked them before I walked back to the other side, where I remained in their line of vision until the cops finally took my statement. And here’s the thing: I have no idea why God made me do it. There was no conversion on the side of the road, and I can’t imagine my ridiculous prayer even planted a seed. I can only assume it was an exercise for my sake—a test of my newfound commitment to the Lord. Was He more important than my comfort level? Was I willing to obey, no matter how foolish I looked or felt? Was I really all in?
 
I was. Still am. I hope I don’t have to be super awkward for Jesus very often, but I will when He asks. I want to be whatever He wants me to be because the older I get and the more sadness and hardship I witness and experience, the more I see Him at work, loving people, pouring out grace, and remaining faithful to sinful children like me, who don’t deserve it. He’s worth being a fool for. Worth sacrificing my comfort for. Worth turning my life upside down for. Worth growing in my capacity to give and receive grace for. Worth dying to self for.
 
He’s worth it.

“Blessed are those who trust in the Lord
and have made the Lord their hope and confidence.
They are like trees planted along a riverbank,
with roots that reach deep into the water.
Such trees are not bothered by the heat
or worried by long months of drought.
Their leaves stay green,
and they never stop producing fruit.”
Jeremiah 17:5-8

Everything I need to know to NOT be a perfectionist

This is one of the best sermons I've ever heard. If you really want to live a life of freedom and joy and love, you should listen.

http://www.harvestbiblechapel.org/content.aspx?site_id=10780&content_id=307740