On Discipleship

disciple” (noun): someone who adheres to the teachings of another. It is a follower or a learner. It refers to someone who takes up the ways of someone else. Applied to Jesus, a disciple is someone who learns from him to live like him — someone who, because of God’s awakening grace, conforms his or her words and ways to the words and ways of Jesus. (Jonathan Parnell, Desiring God)

A little over two weeks ago (seems like a year ago), my daughter and I attended The Gospel Coalition (TGC) Women's conference, something she encouraged me to do, and then, when she asked if I would like her to join me, I ecstatically concurred. Leading up to the event, I was excited, anxious, nervous, albeit sometimes a bit nauseated, at the prospect of being in a convention center with thousands of women, women whose objective was to learn more about their faith, about Jesus, about God. And despite having attended countless work-related conferences, heck, I even taught at quite a few of them, I had no idea of what to expect; military and government conferences are a far cry from spiritual ones. My daughter on the other hand was an old pro at this sort of event, so I gladly latched on to her coattails and off we went. My expectations were nebulous--at the very least, though, I was thrilled about some mother-daughter alone time. Ha. That's hilarious. Alone time. In a convention center filled with women from all over the globe, most of whom seemed to know my daughter. 

Remember me? The introverted, highly sensitive person? What was I thinking? I was not equipped for this experience! We hit the ground the day before the conference began, and the next morning we embarked on a 72 hour kaleidoscope of breakout sessions, keynote speakers, a bookstore with over 60 vendors, and yes, tons of women. Old, young, middle-aged women. Single women, married women. Nursing moms. Moms with baby carriers and strollers. Women of every shape, size, color, and denomination. The speakers were fervent, knowledgeable, articulate, and the breakout sessions I had signed up for (at my daughter's recommendation) were germane and on point. I bought more books that weekend than I have in the past 10 years (most of which still sit on my bookshelf waiting to be opened). By Saturday evening, I was exhausted--emotionally, spiritually, physically, and mentally--overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information and prayer and a very obviously active Holy Spirit. I even ventured out of my comfort zone and joined Mandy and her friends for dinner on at least two occasions. During the conference, though, I would look around the giant arena, and I felt very alone. At one point I wrote in my journal: 

Here at this conference with my daughter and 3500 other Christian women this weekend, I am simultaneously thrilled, inspired, awed, and humbled. I listen to the talks and read the words and sing the songs and worship our God, and I excitedly buy books to help me and guide me on journey through sanctification. I take  notes and pray and grow, and internalize all the beauty and pain and sorrow and joy around me, but despite being surrounded by other believers and sisters in Christ, and believing the same things, I feel alone and alien and unworthy to be here. It’s as if I’m counterfeit, a distorted reflection or pixilated version of these Godly women. I cannot match their fervor or relate to their gospel soaked lifestyles, and my sinful past and lack of a Christian upbringing are glaringly obvious and crippling handicaps.  My daughter and her friends and, let’s be honest, most of the attendees, are so far ahead of me in their growth and their sanctification that I feel I will never catch them. Inside I feel what they feel, and my brain and my heart are there, but I cannot even begin to relate intellectually on their spiritual level. It’s as if I’m in a different dimension, on another plane. I’m alone and different and I don’t belong. Oh but how I wish, I yearn, I ache to be in their sphere, to be a part of their group, a member of this elite club, and to be seen as one of them.

After praying about these feelings, I vocalized some of this to my daughter, and she reassured me that this was normal, and a lot of it was a combination of being new to faith conferences and an introvert. And don't get me wrong: I loved every minute of the conference, and am still listening to sessions I did not have a chance to attend. The real kicker though? We had some fairly frank dinner conversations about spiritual growth; one in particular stands out during which my daughter unceremoniously announced my urgent need for discipleship...to which her friends nodded. Such a humbling experience. I mean, my daughters, both of them, have taught me things and broadened my knowledge base in many areas, and I am not foolish enough or vain enough to think that, just because I am older and "the mom" that I cannot be taught. But being informed you are in need of mentoring and discipleship, by younger women, especially one you gave birth to, is quite a different item than advice on baking bread, fundraising, or gardening. Again, humbling. With a capital H. But the more I contemplated it, thought about it, turned the idea over in my mind, the more sense it made, the more I wanted to act on it. Book recommendation received (Growing Together" by one of the keynote speakers), and subsequently ordered on Amazon (the bookstore, by the way, was completely sold out...a good sign). And a few days after I returned home, I reached out to my pastor's wife...a young woman at least 25 years my junior...and asked if she would be willing to disciple me, to mentor me, and to work through the afore-mentioned book; I even ordered her a copy as well. 

So, here I am, less than 24 hours after our first "session," and I am at once (again) excited, nervous, anxious, and yes, a bit queasy at the prospect of learning and growing and sharing with this younger woman. Our first meeting, intended to be "about an hour" at a local coffee place, lasted nearly four hours, and did not even cover the entire introductory chapters. And, like after the conference two weeks ago, I am overwhelmed and awed at how God works in my life, brings people into my life, and gently puts my feet on the path He has designed for me. 

THANK you Mandy, Cheryl, Amy, Blaire, and especially, thank you Melissa for agreeing to go on this crazy trip with me. This is definitely going to be a bumpy ride!

Reminiscing

After my parents divorced in 1964, we visited Dad every other weekend (when mom would let us) and for two glorious weeks each summer. Those summer vacations were a welcome escape from a less than pleasant childhood, and some of my most precious memories. Every summer Dad would drive all five of us kids to Florida for two weeks of sun and tourist traps and sunburns and cheap hotels (all named the Pelican or the Sand Dollar or the Seafarer or the like), and each year we’d end up in a different city.  

One year it was Treasure Island, where we visited the Sunken Gardens in St. Petersburg (formed by one of the huge sinkholes that frequently plague south central Florida.) We saw the replicas of the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, and attended a great dolphin show at the local outdoor aquarium where trained porpoises jumped over bars and leapt high in the air to grab fish out of trainers’ mouths, and seals thrilled audiences with their comical belly slides and rollovers and flapping of flippers. We went to Busch Gardens and sampled beer when Anheiser Busch was still American owned,  and attended a  bird show, watching in wonder as trained parrots, cockatiels, and parakeets slid down slides and pushed tiny wheelbarrows around a stage, and beautiful pink flamingos stood on one leg and peacocks showed off their magnificent fantails.  Another year we visited St Augustine, where Dad made sure he took us to every single, historical building: the oldest school, church, jail, courthouse, fort, etc, making sure to take movies at each one.  Dad’s penchant for taking a movie of the historical signs, moving the camera back  and forth as if the camera was “reading” the sign always made us laugh.  

A visit to Daytona Beach had us marveling at cars driving on the beach, and of course we collected tons of seashells and even rented a paddle boat to trek out to a sandbar for a picnic lunch. As luck would have it, though, paddling back to shore was a lot harder than paddling out, as we were going against the tide, so my sister and I had to get out and swim to shore; I got the worst sunburn that year and spent most of the rest of that trip pouting, wearing a long sleeve shirt and putting vinegar on my blisters.  

Yet another year found us in central Florida at Cypress Gardens watching pretty ladies in swimsuits waterski across blue waters, and later we would be traversing lakes in glass bottomed boats, our little faces plastered against the glass to see manatees and fish and alligators. We visited Weekiwatchee and watched, enthralled, as “mermaids” performed underwater and waved to us.  Walt Disney World was still a dream in Walt’s head, and Orlando’s biggest attraction was Gator Land, where kids could feed live gators, and watch big, burly trainers throw sides of beef to crocodiles as audiences screamed in mock terror. We saw beautiful birds with feathery plumage: snowy egrets, great blue herons, pelicans, and shorebirds.  

The trip down was never boring, albeit five kids in a car for two days got a bit noisy at times, and there were the requisite tussles and spats.  The interstate wasn’t completed all the way from Ohio to Florida back in the 60s, so we’d have to take US 41 through the Tennessee Valley, but we loved stopping at all the roadside stands, where locals sold handmade quilts, pillows with pom-poms, freshly made jam, and local honey; seeing all the dams created as part of FDR’s New Deal was quite the educational bonus.  Then there were stops at Stuckey’s, home of the famous (and deliciously sticky sweet) pecan log, the various welcome centers at the borders of each state we entered, and overnight motels. The Florida welcome center served fresh squeezed orange juice back then, and we’d eagerly line up for cup after cup; now all they have is vending machines. One year we even stopped at Rock City in Chattanooga, TN, and spent three wonderful days exploring the caverns and magical gnome dioramas; if you’ve ever seen the words “See Rock City” painted on the side of a barn, you’re seeing roadside marketing at its finest.  Then there was the year of the ham:  Dad decided he’d buy a huge ham to help defray meal costs.  We had ham and eggs, ham sandwiches, ham soup, ham and beans, even ham and potatoes; it was like the Bubba Gump of Ham, and we never let him live that down.  

How my dad managed to retain his sanity for two weeks taking care of five children (four girls and a mentally handicapped boy) is a mystery—our ages the first year were 2, 5, 7, 9, and 12, and believe me, as we grew into puberty it didn’t get any easier. We all had our share of temper tantrums and teenage angst.  One year he did hire a college girl, a daughter of one of his friends, to help him wrangle us girls—two of us were adolescents and he did not want to deal with questions about feminine hygiene products or processes 

One of the stories Dad loved to recount concerned my stubborn insistence on ordering the soup du jour for lunch, even though I had no idea what that meant-it just sounded grown up, and at 14 I really wanted to be grown up!The soup arrived at the table:  clam chowder. I hated clam chowder, so I just refused to eat it and demanded a hamburger instead.  Dad told the waitress no way, and told me I had to finish that damn soup; I did, and I learned a valuable lesson that day: know what you’re ordering, and eat what you get. Dad never tired of regaling my friends and husband and kids with  that story. 

As far as I can recall, Dad never alluded to the cost of anything, or denied us souvenirs, or neglected to take us to any attraction in the city being visited.  He let us be kids.  We’d climb on fort walls, shoot imaginary cannons, swim in the hotel pools until we were waterlogged and had bloodshot eyes, and build countless sand castles.  Somehow we’d all make it down and back safely, and we’d wait with anticipation until the next summer.  The days, weeks and months seemed to drag on and we thought summer would  never arrive.  But it inevitably did.  

Those cherished memories will always be with me, and I count myself blessed to have experienced places and things and events of yesteryear. Busch Gardens no longer showcases  cool bird antics,  and the old Busch clock tower and beer gardens are overshadowed by modern roller coasters. Legoland sits where Cypress Gardens once was, and the pretty ladies waterskiing are long gone; only a few acres of the botanical gardens remain.  Most of the open air aquariums and amusement parks in Florida have succumbed to the “progress” of giant corporations such as Seaworld, Disney and Universal, and the quaint pink and blue Sand Dollar and Pelican and SeaFarer motels are gone, replaced by shiny modern, towering condominiums and resorts. Little did I know we were receiving a priceless education in history, zoology, geography, and the like, but isn’t that always the case with children? Experiences taken for granted then  are that much more  appreciated now, both new and old, and I’m all the more complete  to have experienced both.  Divorce is never easy—for parents or for children. But my dad made sure he made the most out of every moment we spent with him, and for that, I am eternally grateful.