On Thursday evening, Andrew and I kissed Liam and Elliott goodbye, hopped in the car and headed for Denver. My cousin was getting married and we had decided a couple months earlier (after confirming with my mom that she would be happy to babysit our kids) that we would turn the occasion into a childless roadtrip and seize the opportunity to reconnect. Seeing that the drive was long and the duration of the getaway short, we decided to catch up on our reading and enjoy some of the time together in the car listening to books on tape.
Thursday night we got several hours under our belt and made it to Des Moines. Friday morning, settling into the car with our coffees, it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't brought anything to do. What a waste of time, I thought. I could be embroidering (something I oddly like to do but never have the time to) or knitting. In fact, I actually would have enough time to knit something significant, like a hat (or two!) or part of a sweater. I could move beyond scarves with these kind of hours ahead. What was I thinking?
I briefly considered asking Andrew to pull off in Omaha to look for a Hobby Lobby or the like. But we were trying to make it to Denver for a celebration dinner and time was tight. Plus, I knew he'd never agree. He already thinks I focus too much on doing and accomplishing. And, for crying out loud, this was vacation.
So I sat and tried not to seem irritated with myself as we listened to one of the books we brought,
A Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible by A.J. Jacobs. I had started reading this book at home so I knew it was funny and clever, but I wasn't expecting to learn much or have it spark an intense and thoughtful discussion that would lead to some significant decisions about how we are spending our time as a family and living our life together. I wasn't expecting to give up my desire to knit so easily.
For the book, Jacobs, a very nominal Jew, read the entire Bible four times through and wrote down every law, rule and suggestion he found in its pages. Then he set off to live "as Biblically as possible." Each day Jacobs tried to focus his actions and behavior on the ten commandments and at least one other more obscure Biblical command. He wore a copy of the commandments on his forehead, tied tassels to the edges of his garments, let his beard go unshaven and tried to avoid clothes of mixed fibers. But he also battled his tendency toward coveting, his struggles with lust and the near impossibility of keeping the Sabbath holy - no working, no email, no cell phone, etc.
As we listened I began thinking about which rules and commandments I follow, which I justify, which I condem others for blowing and which I flat out ignore. In the end, postulates Jacobs, all Christians are cafeteria Christians, picking and choosing what to put on their trays and what to leave behind. In the law-abiding sense, I'd definitely have to agree. Who could do it all and who would want to? Seriously, if Andrew refused to touch me in any way (including sitting in a chair that I had sat in - yes that's in the Bible) seven days a month, I'd probably clock him. But what struck me more than anything in Jacobs' book was how the Bible is not meant to be a rule book. It's meant to tell a story. And it tells lots of them. Crazy stories. Horrifying stories. Sad stories. Incredibly profound stories. And stories so simple and humble, it's easy to miss them. All in all, stories that point us to God.
The stories were not lost on Jacobs. Throughout the book, he tells his wife Bible stories to help them both make sense of their lives, their circumstances, their struggles and their joys. He doesn't do it because the Bible tells him to; he does it because in all his reading and living Biblically he realizes that the stories have a lot to say. More than meets the eye. More, perhaps, than the laws. More than the most Biblically literate among us might be seeing.
Because this is the thing, stories are messy. They have contradictions. But they are how we live. And, even more, how Jesus lived and how he taught. The laws and rules, definitely important to the story. I won't argue that. But, for the most part, we do them alone. And, if we pick the obscure ones to follow, we can probably expect to live alone as well. (Not a lot of camaraderie for a bearded guy in tassels, carrying a staff and the ten commandments strapped to his forehead in modern-day America.)
So, what will our story be? This is what Andrew and I debated and pondered for a few precious hours of our 29 hour drive. We could sanitize it, choose the cast and the setting, and try to write the script in advance. But, truly, one only has to read the Bible one time to know that this is a fool's errand. And even if it "works," where is God in that?
At the wedding we attended, my uncle Dan conducted the ceremony for his daughter and son-in-law and made reference to the Three Dog Night song, "One," which begins, "One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do." His point was that one is, in fact, not the loneliest number if it's done right. It's the least lonely number. Two becoming one in marriage, the church becoming one body, this is what happens when the story is lived, not according to all the rules (although some key ones do help), but in the grace and love and forgiveness of the greatest storyteller of all.
As for these two who became one just about seven years ago, we'll be focusing on some of our newer cafeteria choices, including keeping the Sabbath, with no computers, email or cell phones sundown to sundown (which, for the first couple months, no doubt, will be more competition than holiness), and finding real ways as a family to care for the orphans and the widows. These are just a few of the things we've decided that we hope will shape our kids' stories.
But most importantly we'll be trying to live a story that is full of love and grace and forgiveness. A story that includes and embraces. That questions and doubts. That hopes and prays. And that, by grace, points people to God.
