I love this piece from Lindsey. I am way not into cars, but I have some of these folks in my life! I hope you enjoy it, and stop by her place to see what else she is up to. 

The Kingdom of God is like a Big Blue Pickup Truck

Lindsey Smallwood

My dad loves all kinds of cars.

He doesn’t just love to drive them – sedans and SUVs and trucks and go-karts and racecars – he’s a student of how they work. He has no fewer than five subscriptions to car magazines. He can explain why a particular car is making a particular sound better than the guys on Car Talk, although admittedly without their great accents.

When he goes on vacation, he plans his trips to coincide with events at racetracks so he can check out the latest and greatest racing in other parts of the country. On weekends, he and my brother take their own racecar on the road. Nine months ago, Dad sold me his old Suburban and sometimes when he calls he asks how it’s doing before he inquires about the 2 year old I named after him.

I told you, the man loves cars.

For most of his life, the choice about which vehicle to own for his personal use has been an expedient one. There were kids who needed seatbelts so he sold the two-door coupe. There were icy roads in Alaska where we live so he got a four-wheel drive. Once he even won grand prize in a poetry context and received an SUV for his efforts. But none of these were exactly what he wanted. They were free or sturdy or useful for transporting a hockey team.

Until last year.

After agreeing to sell me the Suburban since I have my own growing brood on icy roads to consider, Dad was in the market for a car and for the first time since before he got married 37 years ago, he was free to pick any car he wanted. Up to date on all of his options due the aforementioned magazine subscriptions, Dad jumped to test drives and quickly settled on an enormous Chevy pick up. I’m sure it has a real name, like the Megatron Truck Monster 3000, but I don’t know it. Trust me when I say, it’s big.

At the car dealership, Dad was given the option to customize his own version of the giant truck, which would then be assembled at the Chevy factory. He spent a long time pouring over the details, selecting the color of the leather seats, the high quality surround speakers he’s always wanted, the tow/haul features that would make it compatible with pulling the racecar trailer he loved. No detail escaped his attention.

He was given a code by the car dealership that allowed him to track the truck’s progress at the factory. One Wednesday morning he got an update that his carefully designed truck was born in a factory in Detroit. (Cue rad Eminem song here.) For the next two weeks, Dad watched online it was loaded onto a semi, driven across country to Seattle, packed onto a boat and shipped north to Alaska. On the day his big blue truck arrived, gleaming in the Alaska sunlight, Dad took Mom on a date way out of town to enjoy it’s long-awaited appearance.

Today, Big Blue, as we call it, is as beloved as when it arrived in the port 7 months ago. Dad fills it with gas every Sunday, keeps it washed and polished. He’s carefully made a couple of needed repairs after problems arose, which he can do because he’s read the entire manual on how it works, knows it inside and out. It sits, shining in the driveway, ready to take him to work or on a park-date with his namesake two-year-old grandson who also happens to love “Big Boo.”

And as I watched my dad tinkering with it tonight, it struck me that the kingdom of God is like a giant Chevy pickup truck and you are the truck.

Yes, you.

You were dreamed about, longed for, carefully planned no matter what story you’ve been told about your conception. Each part of you was designed with intent by a maker who calls you “good” and “beloved.” You’ve got bells and whistles and they’ve all got a purpose, even if you can’t see it yet. You are known, so fully, so completely, that no part of you is a mystery to the One who loved you first. No matter what happens – what messes cloud the view or problems need repairing –  the King of this kingdom is cleaning and restoring and making you like new again, every single day.

If you need to find Him, He likes to hang out in His truck.

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Lindsey Smallwood is a former pastor and teacher who is currently working, writing and raising her babies in Boulder, Colorado. She hopes to leave a legacy of good relationships and bad dancing. Read more by Lindsey at her blog (http://www.songbirdandanerd.com/) or connect with her on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/songbirdandanerd) and Twitter (https://twitter.com/lindseysmallw).

Priscilla took communion today. We went to one service for the summer and now everyone over the age of two comes trotting out of the side door and rushes into their parent’s pews sometime between offering and communion. When we pass the peace, the kids come rushing in, ready to tell us what they learned in Sunday school. I’m not sure about peace. They sure do bring enthusiasm.

Priscilla has been thinking about communion all summer. While Juliet inherited my leap before you look mentality for life, Priscilla got the, let’s wait and see temperament from her dad. She just has  not been quite sure. We take communion one at a time. We stand in line and wait our turn to take our bread and drink the cup. We receive communion in front of the rest of the congregation. Priscilla isn’t so sure of that part either.

Early this summer, Priscilla told me she didn’t want to do it. She just wasn’t sure. She would wait in the pew for us to return, or get in line with me but then offer a polite no thank you. But yesterday after checking things out for a while, she thought she might be ready to give it a try.

But then she got up to the front and wasn’t quite sure. She decided she didn’t want to accept the body of Christ. As I took my bread and dipped into the cup, she began crying. First because she really did want to take it, but just wasn’t quite ready, and then because she had missed her chance. Finally I think she was crying in church because she was crying.

With my baby on my hip we took a u-turn, got to the end of the line and received the bread that represent our savior. Then, a woman who had just put the cup on the table, went back to get it so that Priscilla could dip her bread in. We messed it up, the rhythm that you are supposed to follow as you participate in the church rituals. We took too long, we were too loud, we didn’t do what we were supposed to do, and we were sort of nuisance to the people who were offering it. We were tired. We haven’t done a great job adjusting to the school year schedule, even at the end of week two.

But all of that was okay, and that is the part I hope Priscilla remembers. I hope she remembers that she was given the body of Christ by name. “Priscilla, this is Christ’s body broken for you.” I hope she remembers that it didn’t put anybody out to go by her own timing and even if it did they wanted to. I hope she remembers the kindness of a woman walking back up the stairs to get the cup so it could be offered to her tiny body. I hope she remembers the way that woman looked her in the eyes and said “this is reminder, of how much Jesus loves you.” I hope she remembers just how very loved she is.

I  hope I remember too, that sometimes coming to my faith like a child means coming in my own time. I hope I remember that it is okay to show up sometimes a little late and a little confused. I hope I remember that God wants me to make space for me, even when I am tired and crying and not quite sure about how exactly this whole thing works.

I hope I am always ready to offer a reminder, to anyone wanting to receive it of just how much Jesus loves them. I hope I am willing to ask when I need a reminder too.

Yesterday, Governor Kasich of the great state of Ohio (Toledo proud right here! Born and raised.) opened his misinformed mouth and let the world know that if HE were king HE wouldn’t allow teacher’s lounges anymore. Apparently we teachers use teacher’s lounges to “sit together and worry about, ‘Woe is us.'”

BAHAHAHAHAHA! I saw this and almost peed I was laughing so hard. Seriously. In what world do the teacher’s lounges get used at all? While I am at it, I will stop using the mimeograph to make worksheets and stop using my laser disc player to show video. I seriously think the last time the teacher’s lounge was regularly used at any school in the United States of America was in 1973 when you could light up a camel light and drink your Tab in peace.

The last time on record a teacher used the lounge.

Since recess doesn’t exist anymore, and never has for high school students, and since lunch has shrunk in the hopes that tacking on three extra minutes to every academic period will sky rocket us past the Chinese in test taking abilities and we can once again prove American exceptionalism in a way that matters actually very little to the future of our country, no one uses the teachers lounge anymore.

Ain’t no teacher got time for that! 

Seriously, the teacher’s lounge? Has this man even stepped foot into a school since he was not allowed in the teacher’s lounge because he was a student? In an official poll (i.e. I asked all my teacher friends on Facebook.) I discovered that NO TEACHER ON THE PLANET has more than thirty minutes for lunch. Most have between 22 and 27 minutes to execute all lunch time activities.

Abby, what do you mean all lunch time activities? What else could a teacher need to do during their luxurious 27 minute lunch where they sit in the teacher’s lounge and use dated phrases like woe is me?

Well, for starters, pee. Turns out, you can’t just leave 35 ninth graders in a room by themselves for three minutes while you sprint to the nearest restroom, relieve yourself at record setting pace (thank you two older sisters and one bathroom for giving me the neccesary skills to teach in the public schools) and sprint back to your room. Turns out, they may not quietly do their work, they may start arm wrestling, or throwing paper, or smacking each other because freshmen boys are at a special age when, like pit-bull puppies, they don’t always remember the lessons you have taught them about sitting and staying, and they severely underestimate their own strength. They are also perpetually hungry and sometimes smell bad, but God designed them to be so adorable you will love them anyway. But I digress.

Freshmen boys, pit bull puppies, they are the same. Now STOP WRESTLING IN MY CLASS!

There are a lot of things that need done during lunch that have nothing to do with eating. Sometimes you have to make ten extra copies during lunch because ten kids lost their paper, or give a kid a make-up quiz, or give the kid the extra time they need on an assignment, or give a kid some extra tutoring, or give a kid the being a teenager is really hard but it gets better pep talk you have perfected. Sometimes, during research paper season, you eat with your left hand while furiously grading with your right because 35 kids times 5 periods means you have approximately 70 million hours worth of grading to complete and your own children have stopped recognizing you without a red pen in your hand and a crazed look in your eye. Sometimes, during lunch you answer emails, because, if you are lucky, all 35 kids have a parent who wants to occasionally check-up on them and the best time to answer emails is during lunch. It is hard to answer emails during class because SURPRISE! you are actually teaching.

Most often, during the beginning of the year, you will find a teacher during lunch running reconnaissance on her students. This kid has a poor grasp of English, better go check with the ESOL teachers. This student seems angry or distant, better go check with the social worker. This student may not be on track for graduation, better go check with the counselors.

I have worked at three different schools, with very different populations and I can tell you, with absolute certainty that the only place that is consistently not being used by the teachers, is the teacher’s lounge. Go ahead good sir! Get rid of the teacher’s lounge. We probably won’t even notice, we are too busy doing our job.

Governor Kasich thinks the problem with teachers is the teacher’s lounge. The problem with teachers is this: we are having to deal with laws that are being passed by people who have not one single clue as to what our job entails or how we do it. 

But if you want to get rid of what you clearly think is copious amounts of complaining, and a sense of dread when it comes to the state of education, may I suggest actually understanding what teachers do, listening to us when we say something isn’t working, and having half an understanding how a child’s brain works before you pass some ridiculous law that holds ME accountable for the brain function of a fifteen year old boy? No one knows what is going on in there. No one. But thanks to legislation, I am responsible for it.

So, good Governor of the great state of Ohio, if you would like to hear about teaching, and why the teachers in this country are nervous about the state of their jobs, I would be happy to schedule a lunch meeting with you. In May, when the kids are gone and I have time to eat lunch like a person again. We can even meet in the teacher’s lounge. I am sure no one else is using it.

I met Bree Newsome at the Wild Goose festival this summer. That festival changed me. Not only did it challenge me to do the work, it showed me how. This is just a small part of the things I learned that weekend. 

When I was little, my daddy was friends with a street minister. If you were homesick, Brother Richard would pray healing over you in a phone call, and you almost always went to school the next day. My daddy used to say that he could see the Holy Spirit shining on Brother Richard, that when he was outside he would notice the gleam on his forehead and assume it was from the sun, but when Brother Richard would step inside he would keep on shining. Like Moses coming down from that mountain, the close encounters with God were literally radiating from Brother Richard. You could see the anointing.

I don’t know that I ever really believed in the shine of the Spirit, until I met Bree Newsome. The woman literally shines. Last month I was at a Christian festival with an emphasis on arts and justice, and somehow, someway, they got Bree Newsome and her accomplice James Tyson to come speak to us about taking down the Confederate flag in Charleston, South Carolina. She told us about the reconnaissance missions and the team of people behind her. She told us about the moment she knew this was hers to do.

But mostly, she told us why.

I LOVE writing for SheLoves and I am particularly proud of this one. Read the rest here. 

I bought my girls the Jesus Storybook Bible on a whim. I bought it because not everyone was white. I bought it because all my friends were talking about it. Mostly, I bought it because it was a great price on Amazon, under 10 dollars I think. That book is worth more than I can say.

My husband and I were in a major de-construction phase in our faith. We were pretty  sure we believed in God, we were pretty sure we were down with Jesus. After that we weren’t so sure. What the heck do we believe about all of the old testament? We didn’t know. We didn’t know if it was fact, or if it were metaphor, or how much the answer to that questions mattered. We didn’t know quite what to make of the passages in the new testament saying I needed to cover my head and be silent. We were surprised at how little the Bible actually said about issues we had been told were “clearly stated.”

We just had a lot of questions, and not a lot of safe places we felt like we could put those questions. We had a lot of questions at about the same time our girls began asking their own.

This is a guest post in a really cool series about books that contributed to your understanding of God. I was THRILLED to be asked, you can read the rest here.

I was in the second grade when I asked Santa for a remote control car. I didn’t really ask Santa. I gave me master list to my mom and she sorted out who to ask for what. This way there was no doubling up on the Christmas toy action. I put remote control car on the list, but I didn’t mention that I really only wanted Santa to bring me that one.

Christmas morning came and went and I did not receive the remote control car I had been hoping for. It was okay. It had always been made clear to me that Christmas lists were suggestions, and you were not going to get everything you wanted. I didn’t really think about it.

I didn’t really think about it until I opened the remote control car I had been hoping for in front of all fourteen cousins and numerous aunts and uncles. I didn’t really think about it until I burst into tears. It wasn’t that I didn’t want the car. I had asked for it even. It was that I didn’t want the whole family to know I wanted the car. I knew remote control cars were for boys, and I was ashamed that I really wanted one.

My family was supportive. The boy cousins peaking over my shoulder and telling me they thought the car was cool, my aunts and uncles entirely unconcerned that I had asked for a gender-non-conforming toy and only concerned that I was crying. My grandparents, ever generous, took the toy back at my insistence and I received something else. The next year in the privacy of my home, in front of only my sisters and my parents, I opened up the remote control car I had been hoping for all along.

I don’t know exactly when I got it in my head that cars were for boys. We had them in my house of only sisters growing up. One of my favorite toys in pre-school was the race car you could take apart with the giant plastic screwdriver. We had almost no barbies, and very few dolls outside of our beloved cabbage-patch kids. We were super into stuffed animals. But by second grade I knew, I was not supposed to think remote-control cars were cool, at least not enough to want one.

Somewhere between pre-school and second grade I learned that being a girl meant I was supposed to like certain things, want certain things, be certain things. Somewhere between pre-school and second grade I learned that I did not totally fit into the mold I was supposed to. I wasn’t that into dolls and I kind of hated Barbies. I learned that if I wanted to get the hot wheel instead of the Barbie in my Happy meal, I would have to ask for the boy one. Somewhere between pre-school and second grade I learned how to be ashamed of my desires. Even in a supportive house, with a generous and supportive family.

As of this week Target changed their policies and will no longer be labeling toys and bedding according to gender. Instead it will all be mixed together and the kids and parents can pick what they like. My friend Abi Bechtel wrote the tweet heard round the world, the one that caused Target to take note and change their policies. I am grateful to both Target, and Abi for making the change.

Some people are not so grateful. Denny Burke thinks it is silly to call gender labels on toys harmful, and the Council of Biblical Manhood and Womanhood takes it one step further, saying that the Bible supports the idea that God hard wires boys and girls to like certain toys. It is biblical for girls to not want remote control cars. But I did.

It is harmful to label toys boy and girl. It does limit kids. It is dangerous to tell parents and children that gender conformity is God’s design. Kids get the message loud and clear, that they are wrong for wanting what they want, that they were in fact made wrong. 

As a child I was mostly gender conforming. I liked girls clothes. I liked to hang out with the girls. But I didn’t like dolls and I wanted a remote control car. That was enough for me to feel shame. enough for me to return a toy that I did in fact want. I am grateful to Abi for speaking up, and I am grateful to Target for hearing her. We have to stop telling boys and girls, children made in the image of God, that they are broken because they want what they want, because they like what they like. I don’t think God cared that I wanted a remote control car. In fact, I think God made me like that.

It is Monday, 8 am, and it is my last first day of school. I have told my principal, my department, some of the cheerleaders so word will get around. This is it for me. Nine years, it turns out, is enough.

I really thought I would do this job for thirty years. When a student asked me, my very first day as a a teacher, how long I thought I would last, I told her she would have to pull my cold dead body out of the classroom. I have lasted longer than the people betting on my departure at my first school thought I would, but I am 21 years short of where I was sure I would be.

I thought I was a lifer. Turns out, I am not.

I have big plans for my exit. As Christian graduates and Priscilla gets to go to school, I will go to seminary and prepare to be a pastor. A youth pastor I think, I still love teenagers, but I would like to maybe leave that possibility more open. After all, I thought I was going to be a teacher forever. So I guess anything is possible.

I spent last week unpacking my posters, my stapler, my literary action figures. I can’t believe I won’t need the parts of speech super hero posters ever again. I bought them my very first year. I don’t know an adult life where I am not a teacher. I don’t know a career where you don’t get a spring break or one where you do get a lunch break more than 25 minutes.

I don’t totally know who I am if I am not Ms. Norman, the crazy english teacher who loves and yells with equal ferocity so it is best not to cross her. But I do know that it is time, that all signs point to it being time to pack up the puppets and the intricate knowledge of Romeo and Juilet, Antigone, and Of MIce and Men, and follow the still small voice off into the wilderness.

I know a lot about education, and later I am sure (probably when the testing season begins) it will be time to explain clearly the policies of the day and why I can’t do this job the way the legislation says I have to. But that day is not today.

Today is my last first day of teaching, and it is so very bittersweet. At the end of this year over a thousand people will be able to say that I was there teacher. And even when some of those kids were a pain in my ass, it is an honor and privilege that I got to teach them. As I explain to my students on the first day of class, if you are my kid for a year, you are my kid forever. I reserve the right to holler at you any time you are doing something crazy, and you reserve the right to ask me for help. That is just the way it is. Forever.

What do you say kiddos? Let’s do this one more time.

I had planning all last week so I was at work. The kids arrive in my class on Monday and my girly goes back to school as well. We have both cried about that a little bit, me because summer is over, her because she isn’t allowed to go to school yet. But what a summer it was! I seriously had the best summer in perhaps my entire life. Two amazing Christian experiences, a trip to the lake, a visit from a dear friend who I had never met before. It was so incredible. I am hoping to keep some of that magic as I head into this school year. We did a LOT of awesome things this summer, but in hopes that this blog post is less than 7000 words I will just give you the highlights.

Weddings: We attended three beautiful weddings this summer. As we get older and the weddings become more reflective of people’s personalitites. I really enjoyed all three weddings, the state park wedding with the beautiful views, the wedding on a boat and the tour of the Detroit river, and the July 4 wedding where we all danced our hinies off. Bonus points to the Detroit wedding for being kid free and close to my sister who then took the girls to church with her kids (She got 6 children ready for church. Do you know how many hair bows that is?) and let us sleep in.

The Collegeville Institute: On a whim because my friend suggested it I applied for a writing retreat in Minnesota. Then I promptly forgot about it and went about my business. Then I got the YOU ARE IN email and had to tell my hsuband he was solo parenting for a week, over Father’s day. I really had no idea even what Collegeville Institute even was. I didn’t know that it was on the same campus as a monastery, that it has an incredible long history of writers who I deeply respect learning and writing there. I spent an entire week having to only think about writing. I didn’t even have to think about my meals or anyone elses for that matter. As someone who didn’t start writing until I had a baby, this was like an out of body experience. The people I met were incredible, the things I learned and the ways I was poured into is a gift I still don’t have words for. Then on top of all of that, the last night I saw the most spectacular showing of the Northern Lights. It was amazing, just an embarassingly lavish gift I will treasure forever. The people, the place, the history, the learning, everything was incredible.

The Wooden House: 24 hours after I came home we re-packed and headed to my family’s cabin in upstate New York. The girls call it the wooden house, and even though there is a beach, and a motor boat, and swimming and tubing, the most important thing to them is that their cousins are there. Every day with thier cousins, what could be better? We had a great time as usual, going to get icecream at Stewarts and trying out knee-boaridng (Juliet) and wakeboarding for ten seconds just to make sure I can still get up (me). I am very close to my cousins so it is awesome to see Juliet and Priscilla forming similar relationships.

The Wild Goose Festival: 24 hours after we came home from the wooden house, I picked Esther Emery up from the airport. This is a big deal y’all. We had been friends and writing partners for a couple of years, and told each other pretty much all of our secrets.so it was really really exciting to meet in person. We are exactly the same in person as we are on the internet and that is amazing. I loved having her sit at my table and tell my girls about herr chickens and ducks and kids. It was so great. We started our togethereness by sitting in a car for four hours and heading to the Wild Goose Festival, a festival about Jesus and Art and Justice. Sometimes I feel like my charismatic side and my progressive politics side cannot be together or inter-connect. There I found my people. It was really amazing and the experience will likely leak out for a couple of months in my writing. If you have the chance, you should absolutely go next year. I will be there. Hair: I dyed my hair purple for the festival. I like it so much I am keeping it. Sorry mom.

ABD!: Christian, while watching the kids for weeks at a time while I ran off here and there also managed to complete his perspectus and become officially ABD! He just needs to finish his dissertation to become Dr. Norman.  This means we have one more year of graduate school in Atlanta, and then who knows where we will be. Prayers appreciated as we discern our next steps and prayers especialy for an early job placement so there is plenty of time for the next dominoes to fall. Summer

Hanging out: We hit the pool a lot. A lot. So, both girls know how to swim and Juliet can swim across the pool with zero problems. There has been some, but not enough back yard grilling, and we went down the slide into the pool at Aunt Jill’s house, and also the slip and slide. We went to cheer camp for three days and had an awesome time even if we didn’t quite know the moves at the end of the week. We went to Sonic a lot. We celebrated national hot dog day. We hit the splash pad and the hippo hop. The girls thought that a day where they did not get to do anything fun was a totally wasted day. I quite agreed.

Stained Glass: I found out that you could fake stain glass and finally had a thing that I wanted to do with the windows I pulled off the street a couple of years ago. I really really love the way they look and have NO place to hang them. What the heck do I do with these gorgeous things? I did have a truly amazing and remarkable summer that I am deeply grateful for. This next year is likely to be a year of major transition (more on that Monday) and I am hoping to cling to the summer magic to get me through.

What did you do this summer? Is your summer still going strong? I am too late to be linking up with Leigh but I do love this idea, and wouldn’t do it without her invitation!