Ish-Ness: The Tattoos of a Life Well Lived

There’s something about Christians, my self included, in that we can be ripe for parody or satire.  Among any group of people within an organization or common interest there are always terms and common phrases that anyone outside of the group would know nothing about.  They are like Holy In-Jokes.

Let’s take the phrase, “Traveling Mercies.”  Anytime a Christian goes on a trip, they ask or are given a prayer for traveling mercies. There were a few times I herd the word mercy growing up, namely my dad.  Whenever he spotted an attractive woman—and I mean anywhere, apartment complex pool, grocery store or on a tv show—he’d say, “Mercy,” in such a way that it felt like a grope, a mind-undressing and sexual connotation all in one breath.  Marvin Gaye used the term in the classic song, “Mercy Mercy Me” to draw attention to the ills of society on the late 60’s and early 70’s. 

The Dictionary of Christianese says that traveling mercies were first derived in the 19^th century for church workers who were about to embark on a long journey or mission trip.  Somewhere along the line, affluent, suburban Christians took claim to the term as a way to bless vacations, road trips, weekend getaways, and especially when someone was late to a Bible study. 

Maybe this is why I’m having such a hard time with the phrase.  Since the summer has arrived, my Facebook and Instagram accounts have been inundated with a spike of vacation photos, check-ins at out-of-state eateries and selfies from road trips.  When someone in your family or a neighbor went on vacation before you had to see it on their slide projector or waited for them to pull out the Polaroids, or later, the 100 page photo album.  Now, social media has conveniently rubbed our faces in American excess, and there’s nothing more prominent than vacations and lake outings.

These too are ripe for parody.  The image of the bare belly of a bikini-laden body, stretching to her feet where the beach or some other Corona-inspired landscape awaits in the foreground (even better when we see the person’s pierced belly button).  The close-up of the Starbucks mocha latte whipped cream soy drink, the selfie facing the bathroom mirror, or the group photo around a city landmark that designates we-aren't-normally-here.  Nothing says Christianity quite like tanned bodies, pierced navels and pictures of excessive food buffeting. 

At first, the novelty of the photos and posts was a way to bring myself to the action, even if I was sitting at a desk teaching summer school.  You felt in some way that the happiness of your friends was something they wanted you to partake.  I have to confess now that I’m beginning to feel bitter.  These judgmental thoughts of mine have been directed at anyone from old high-school friends to people I see at church.  I even blamed our family history—my mom nor my mother-in-law can foot the bill for the Cordova family vacation.  I had to find the root of my problem.  I prayed, I sought out help from my share group, but inevitably I kept scrolling through a feed of materialism.  Suddenly I was becoming one of those Christians that I would typically blog about.  Shouldn't I be happy for my friends and acquaintances as they sat in front of a resort swimming pool?

I do confess, dear reader, that is hasn't been easy to rid myself of these thoughts.  I know I have been guilty of these same sins of ignorance.  When I blast a photo of ribs or a brisket I’m smoking on the grill, is it demeaning to those who barely have enough food in their fridge?  When I take selfies with my son at a baseball stadium, is it showing up those who can’t afford to take their kids out to a ballgame because ticket prices have gluttoned?  In my prayers and reflection, I've began to understand that despite the plank that protrudes from my own eyes, I have much to be thankful for.  God has provided for me with exactly what I need.

Years ago, my wife and I took a marriage course.  Each week we watched a video of suburba-Christians share their experiences, frustrations and troubles related to the time they didn't have for one another.  Listening to the discussions afterward about how couples were balancing their budgets for weekly date nights and yearly getaways made both my wife and I feel inadequate.  Our budget as new Christians hadn't really been established.  Tithing was not something we were fully trusting God with (and to be frank, I didn't want to, and sometimes still am reluctant to deprive myself of my wants), and we were still one foot in the world and one foot in the church.  So each week we felt like targets, walking in with our McDonald's cups and t-shirts, among this group of suburba-Christians (what I mean is the slacks, dress, uptight look).  We were labeled the “ish” family (and we are great friends with the couple of coined us such, the only other “normal” couple in the bunch).  Meaning when we made a time commitment for something, it was to start at 5-ish instead of 5 pm. 

My entire house is indicative of my ish-ness.  Our wood paneled floor has a few spots where it has slid out of place or the edges have lost their trim because the kids have continually ran them over with the feet of excitement.  The outdoor exterior trim needs repainted.  Our deck needs stained again and our garage resembled a thrift store back lot.  The lattice that surrounds our pool is missing pieces from various storms.  Even after several hundred dollars in repair for pumps, pipes and hoses, my pool water remains a distinct cloudy blue.

On Father’s Day we had one of our ish-ness get-togethers.  They always begin with a pool invite.  Or sometimes we already have kids with us so we invite more.  The grill gets lit, the wife begins her kitchen chopping and assembly.  Other friends are invited, they bring what they have and there isn't a particular schedule.  Everyone is fed, the kids swam till dusk.  The evidence of our fellowship is found on the water droplets that lead to the bathroom and the deflated juice boxes that litter the trampoline.  There were no travel mercy prayers performed but the Holy Spirit was present.  Days like these are proof that I’m thankful for my everyday, ordinary, sleeping,eating, going-to-work, and walking around life.

To coin another Christianese phrase, I’m not just “blessed” simply because I believe.  Believing in Christ does not stamp act my admission to heaven.  We, the priesthood of believers, typically say we are blessed with our jobs, salaries, 2-car garages and our vacations, too.  It does not guarantee that turmoil, danger or defeat will not exist in my life.  As the last 5 or 6 years can attest, the enemy continues to pursue me just as diligently as my Father.  In times of my closest mountain top experiences, sin has always been waiting for me when I shield my eyes from the brightness of grace.

Perhaps that’s why my ordinary, walking around, eating (lots of eating) life is what is meant for me.  I surely will not become rich by teaching fifth graders how to perform the order of operations.    Nor will I earn badges for sleeping on air mattresses in the summer months at work camps or mission trips.  My blueish pool water, the flooring of my home, the chipped exterior paint—they are the tattoos of a life well lived, a life worth living, a life in worth.