The art of being Jami

Make a mental note: During our foster care home visit yesterday the vandals attempted to ride their tricycles down the staircase.  Granted, in a lot of ways this was a Godsend. I was fully cognizant of their scheme whereas – twenty minutes before the case worker’s arrival this might have been lost on me.

I was hobbled by an email Tuesday morning from a “conservative, Christian, non-Starbucks drinking, homo-phobic, one million mom” reader who was unfollowing me because I am “too arrogant to stomach” anymore. Later in the day I got an email from a dear “celibate, Christian, homosexual, foster father of four” praising a post that spoke to him, but he thinks I might need counseling.

This is what happens when the one woman circus that is my mind is unleashed.

And it is indicative of everything in my life. A parable in the art of paradox. And, fully represents what it is like to be me. Maggie, Lisa, Marcy, Kim, Stephanie, Stacey, Kelly, Shawna, Angie & Amy are the handful I can fully face after a post – because they generally accept the fact that at any given moment I could be any number of a Jami persona. Justin, my husband, doesn’t read my blog. He just asks for the daily stats. If they hit over 5k views in a day, I read them to him.

This is the truth. I have a brain like a thesaurus, and I can’t spell. I am dyslexic and math illiterate.  I am an excommunicated Mormon, a displaced Catholic, attending an “instrumental” Church of Christ.  I worship at the feet of Americanized Jesus’  when the line at Starbuck’s  gets too long and I am going to be late to Pilates. And I  curl up in the lap of the real Jesus and bawl like a baby when we have to turn away a foster placement. I will rant and rave about Americanized Jesus – but He and I are tight. So make no mistake, I do not have a compost toilet, and I love Kohl’s cash.  Which, btw, is on today.

The vandals ate lunch naked. With their shoes and socks on … I look forward to the day they recognize the awkwardness of nudity. I see naked people. Constantly. And it really doesn’t faze me in the least. The fact that it doesn’t faze me, and that I am like a mortician eating egg salad during an autopsy, bothers me.

We started the adoption journey because I dreamt of a little girl named Alison… I currently reside with five males. I don’t know where the heck Alison is… But if and when she shows up we will buy pink things and have a tea party. Then she can climb a tree or whatever but at a minimum – I want to play Barbies for an hour.

I am a mess.

And never claimed I wasn’t.

And I don’t read a lot of blogs but my favorites are ones that readily call out wrongs or wander about aimlessly looking for real Jesus.

My only earthly claim to fame is that even though I’ve had no training, I can play the drums like Phil Collins, and  I can rap perfectly in sync to the Beastie Boys, all of their songs. And I can do that without missing a lick after a sing along with Michael W. Smith… The weight of this contradiction is not lost on me.

So in case you haven’t noticed I am not Beth Moore – and if Beth Moore and I were ever in the same room and I tripped and fell…  She would be seriously injured. This is a reflection of my size and grace in comparison to a great theologian.

Recently my husband was asked if he was a Christian and he said, “I try to be…” I was slightly horrified as I thought this should be a blanket answer – and I still do in the state of being: I am a believer of Jesus Christ.  As is Justin – but is that what is being asked of us anymore?  Because I think, Justin is right.  Striving to behave as Christ would is more seeking than professing.  I don’t have the power, nor do I crave it, to rewrite the definition of Christianity, but I am grieved to my core at what social and mass media has been able to do with with the characterization of Christians.

And we fully participate.

Our actions speak louder than our words; she says as she types an 885-word post.

See? My entire existence is a metaphor in anarchy.

I will never deny Jesus Christ.

Without posting actual pictures, this blog has become the bearer of my bare bum.  And so be it. I took the Jesus fish off my car, not because I am denying Jesus, but because I am a distracted driver who cuts people off and I worry non-believers expect me to drive better with the Jesus fish. And I would much rather be seen as a seeker of Christ with no Jesus fish than an a colossal jerk who doesn’t appreciate the genuine goodness of a fabulous cup of coffee.

Now, I must prepare for a speaking engagement where I will be discussing the attributes of a good foster mom.  The Pharisaical shenanigans that are my existence continue to provide substantial material.

If it is too much to stomach, I adore Beth Moore’s blog too…

May your floors be sticky and your calling ordained.  Love, Jami

“Thus says the Lord who made the earth, the Lord who formed it to establish it, the Lord is his name: Call to me and I will answer you, and will tell you great and hidden things you have not known. ” Jeremiah 33:2-3