Pearls and Picket Fences

In our favorite rocket ship...

2012-02-13T16:27:00.010-05:00

It was our third date. It was at the base of July. I was twenty-six and even though just a few weeks earlier I had been completely, totally, unequivocally done with men and dating and dreaming and all that, I was rapidly falling in love. I had spent the previous decade entrenched in the ups and downs of relationship; the breakups, the blind dates, the awkward first dates, the even more awkward, "Sorry, but I'm not interested." conversations. The rejections from both them and me. I was so bone, heart and marrow weary of it all.

And then, suddenly, here I was with a guy that a friend had met at a local county fair. What?!

I'm not a big fan of Valentine's Day. Prior to Aaron, there was very little reason to get excited about it. I was always between relationships when February arrived. And the one time I actually had a boyfriend during this seemingly magical day, it was a complete flop. In all those years of dating, all those guys, not one good Valentine's Day? It seems impossible, but it was true. I told myself it didn't matter, but on some level it did.

It had been an impromptu date. I had just arrived home from a weekend away with my best friends and while on the phone once I returned, he stopped mid-sentence and said, "Do you want me to just come see you?" And so he drove the hour+ to do just that. I'm telling you, this guy is smooth. Somehow we ended up discussing Valentine's Day on our second date as I sat on top of a picnic table in the summer afternoon. I remember I wore a tank top, pink, with hearts all over it that day. And we held hands and talked and Aaron joked about how he wanted a wife who would stay home, barefoot and pregnant (he got his wish!).

And over the next week he told me that we had something to celebrate that coming weekend. We typically only saw each other on the weekends due to work schedules and distance and so I was anticipating Friday night regardless. But now that he was hinting at all this celebratory greatness, I was intrigued. Plus, as I said, I was worn out from all the other guys and this guy was different and focused and intent on, it seemed, proving to me I was worth some sort of pursuit and adoration. It was thrilling.

That night he picked me up at my parent's house and I had on a new sundress and I floated on air it seemed as I nearly skipped to his truck for our date night. He opened the door and told me he had surprises for me. First, flowers. And then a card. And chocolate. And a gift. This man, this guy who I assumed at the start was nothing but a "good ol' country boy" had created Valentine's Day for me.

In J-u-l-y.

I know. It's no real wonder I married him, huh?!

At some point in our relationship, maybe it was that night, I don't remember, but he told me that, "every day was Valentine's Day for us." And okay, that's totally cheesy and something you tell a girl you're just first dating and trying to get that first kiss from (ha!) - but now - now that we've been together nearly four years, I have to see some profound truth in that.

There's a Hallmark commercial rolling around this year that drives me up. the. wall. Every time it comes on, I want to scream. Instead I roll my eyes, because screaming randomly is a great way to strike serious terror into the heart of your sensitive toddler. Not the best idea. But the commercial flashes multiple individuals, all making requests such as, "Tell me you love me!' or "Tell me you miss me!", etc. Right. Okay. So, that makes things really meaningful when you demand a certain response or expression from someone. Yeah. That's real special.

A few days ago I watched the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy that I had missed and recorded on our DVR. It was their Valentine's Day edition and a florist ends up in the hospital. He's as cynical as they come and he says how people treat his flowers as though they're magic. And he went on to say how ridiculous it is that somehow receiving an expensive bouquet of flowers one day a year is going to make someone forget how you treat them like crap the other 364 days of the year.

Seriously! Seriously.

Maybe my husband doesn't focus on showering me with ridiculous stuffed animals and red hearts and over-priced roses on February 14th every year. Maybe I tell him not to (I frequently do, including this year). And I think - how sad would it be to get so worked up over Valentine's Day, because it's that "one day a year" when you're supposed to think about each other? And how sad if I had to trust and lean on that one, inconsequential day to assure myself of my husband's love? How wrong if I had to say, "Tell me you love me!" Right. Like one day that includes a card in a red envelope is going to make up for days and days of neglect.

Maybe my husband's "Every day is Valentine's Day for us" statement of a few years ago was silly and flirtatious and simply born from those early dating days when every day really does feel like a romantic holiday. And I smile and laugh about it in a sense.... but in another I don't. Because whether he meant or intended that phrase to be a promise those few years ago, that's what it has become.

Because every day he shows his love.

Whether it's because he simply comes home every night after a hard day at work or how he plays "airplane" with Joel just one more time because he simply can't refuse that precious, "Again!" from our firstborn. Or how he sleeps in the spare bed night after night so I can have our comfy queen bed for myself and my growing belly and all the pillows comfort requires. The way he'll bring home Wendy's whenever that cheeseburger craving hits. Or how he'll stop for milk when it's just too cold out and I'd rather not leave the warmth of our home.

There are tons and tons and tons of ways that he shows me love and kindness. I don't focus on when Valentine's Day rolls around because I don't need a mandatory day with which to require my husband to prove himself. Even our anniversary every year is relatively simple and we are usually just happy to end up at the local China Buffet, because hey, that's where we went the night we got engaged. It's really, really not about anything other than the person you're with.

My Mom has offered to babysit for us tomorrow so we can have a rare date night. Yes, it happens to be on the evening of Valentine's Day 2012, but that's not why we're going out. Aaron even commented that we'll probably go to Chicago's Pizza because he has a gift card. I mean, that's real life. And it's okay! It's perfect! Does it matter if there aren't any candles? Does it matter if we use a gift card and he doesn't fork over a majority of his salary to pay for an elaborate meal or flowers or something sparkly? Do I care if we end up at a yummy but non-dressy pizza place for our romantic Valentine's Day evening out? Is it about dressing up or is it about spending time with my husband?

I'm ecstatic. I get to spend time with the man I love! (and who loves me!) And that's all I'm thinking about. Flowers, chocolate, diamonds - none of it has entered my mind. And that's because I am loved, provided for and gosh-darn-treasured every day of the year, in some way, no matter how simple. I am so thankful that I don't have to rely on one day a year to feel truly precious by the person in my life who is supposed to love me the best.

No matter what the calendar says, tomorrow is just another Tuesday. What you do with it - how you love - is up to you. And then there is Wednesday and Thursday and Friday.... and those days are up to you, too. The flowers of tomorrow are going to wilt and die. They aren't going to make it very far. They aren't going to sustain you much longer than a week or so. Build and foster and invest in something that is about more than a panicked rush the night before to buy something special or find a $5 card that says all the right things.

Love is focused. Love is daily. Love is not a big box of chocolate. I hope your Valentine's Day is just plain more...

"And I need you more than want you...

And I want you for all time..."

~ G l e n C a m p b e l l

As long as I love, I will love you...

2012-02-01T17:38:00.012-05:00

She was always better at finding them than I was. It seemed as though every Sunday morning, on our exiting from church, they'd just fall into her little palm. Four leaf clovers. My sister frequently found them. Spied them out. I, on the other hand, never found a one. And I did look, but maybe I wasn't as diligent.

I thought of this recently as I kept my eyes low to the ground, not because I was seeking out special clovers, but because I was watching the steps of my little boy. Following his lead. And I was thinking about love and luck and how the two have nothing to do with the other and how yeah, maybe you do seek out a plant with an extra leaf, but how with love, you have to be just as aware. You have to keep your eyes on the prize. Maintain the focus. Count the steps. Have the hand ready to catch or brush off. You stop watching and you stop seeing.

When I was single there seemed to be some themes running through books and the like. A lot of it came down to the fact that, "Until you are content being just you and God..." or "Be the kind of person you want to meet!" Which puts all this pressure to be perfect, to be pleasing, to be a great catch. And why aren't we content to be who we are before God and to allow someone else to love those pieces - the imperfect and impatient and unlovely on a Friday night parts? There's nothing wrong with preparing for the future and working on your foibles. But there is also something beautiful about learning to love the incomplete and the unsatisfactory in ourselves and in others - because let's be honest - happily ever exists but fairy tale living doesn't.

You are never, ever really ready to die to your self. You're just not. It's an unnatural, uneasy thing. But sacrifice comes with love. The body that I worked so hard on to be bikini ready for my honeymoon to the man I love? Just before our first anniversary, the reality of my beach body got shoved to the back burner as I focused on another body: the little one growing inside of me. It was a blessing and it was a struggle. Not just physically, but emotionally and mentally. Suddenly I had someone 100% dependent on me and I couldn't focus on myself when I wanted (or many times at all). I wasn't prepared to give up as much as I did. But love demanded it.

A week or so ago, I stretched out in bed, ready, so ready, for sleep. And my spine readjusted and the weight of our new baby, this Little Brother, shifted and rested. And I thought, "Man, my body is so tired." But I wasn't physically tired from a long day... I felt blessed and the smile curled and I thought, "I am weighed down with love, with life." Literally. The life within, growing and kicking and keeping me up at 3 a.m... and the life of my day, chasing the toddler, cutting up chicken nuggets and grapes and saying, "Yes, that's blue! Yes, that's a chicken! Yes, that was a truck!" And then him in his recliner at the end of a long work day and me on the couch at the end of mine. Life and love. Together, peaceful; baby asleep in the crib.

I want to be weighed down, anchored by love. By life.

I stretch moments and expand time when I watch. When I take note of how he laughs or the adorable way he says "leaf" ("weef"). I won't remember everything. A photograph won't capture every expression, every hilarious event. But when I take note of how soft and small his hand is in mine, or how surprising his young obedience is when I say, "Wait for Mommy" and he stops, reaches back for my hand before going further - when my awareness causes my heart to lift with thanks - then I remember. Not only do I remember how heavy and important loving is, but it makes my eyes shine as I think about the love I have for the man that my little boy looks just like... and beyond that: a reminder that it's all been given and even when a little body falls headlong into a mud puddle - it's all a moment that I might not have had.

I want to be tired at the end of the day. I want my spine to protest a little as I straighten out, complaining at me for putting another life out in front and forcing internal organs and muscles to shift and stretch. To change. Go ahead, body. Whine at me for loving. Wear me out with living. Make my arms tired from holding and swaying a toddler in the middle of the night when he's feverish and can't sleep. Make me waddle up and down the aisles of Walmart and when I finally get to my van, let me be out of breath because of the life and love within that demands all of me for all of them.

Sometimes I can crawl into bed stressed. Worried about the dust I didn't get to (for the second or third week in a row!) or how I can't remember the last time I vacuumed the entire house. I think over my to-do lists and my day, wondering what I should have done differently, how I should have streamlined, how I shouldn't have wasted. And there's some truth in all of that.

But if I can crawl in bed and remember how my little boy laughed when I tickled his fingers with the duster (when I was supposed to be dusting the piano) or how intent he was on feeding me his apple slices (never mind the fact that I nearly chopped my thumb off cutting it in the first place)... If I can throw something together and call it dinner and have my husband hold my hand as we give thanks for whatever it is and he calls it good... Didn't I do good work on that day? Hard work, even? Even if there are still dishes or windows to be shinier. My family will, I hope, remember the care I took of them - including not becoming a hoarder and having our home be a safe, lovely haven to grow and to learn and to chase each other and hide in the closets. And cooking and cleaning is part of that.

But growing life and love is more than my daily to-do lists. It's about more than whether or not the dishwasher got emptied or that sticky spot on the counter got rubbed away or how fast I can get back into my pre-baby jeans. There's a weight to love that I just plain love. I want to take such thoughtful steps and pay attention to the small in front of me so that by dark I am heavy and weighed down with the living of the day. With the gathering of blessings. I may lay down and think of what I didn't get to... but I won't lay down and think about the cheeks I didn't take time to kiss or the time I spent just watching football with him and not asking dumb girly questions.

"I will shed the sins and struggles

I have carried all these years.

I will leave my heart wide open,

I will love and have no fear..."

~ Brad Paisley

I don't care about gathering luck. But I really care about gathering love and being able to walk around with the stem in hand, knowing it was because of love, because of a more important Life that I'm able to pay attention at all. Because God was weighed down with love for me. And now I'm weighed down by the love He has dumped on my often ungrateful, unfocused, complaining head. And when I pay attention, I notice Him. In all of the daily, in all of the simple, in all of the diapers and the dirt... I gather love.

I'm anchored by blessings. It all weighs down my days, drags time slow. Gives life. And I give back when I notice. That's how love grows. You give it one way and get it back another and give it out yet again. The road stretches long, but not always hard. It doesn't always have to be so tough and tired.

It's just one little step, one little thank-you, over and over again...

"Then King David went in and sat

before the LORD and said,

"Who am I, O Lord God,

and what is my house, that you have

brought me thus far?

And yet this was a small thing

in your eyes, O Lord God,

Because of your promise, and

according to your own heart,

you have brought about all this

greatness, to make your

servant know it.

Therefore you are great, O Lord God.

For there is none like you.."

~ II Samuel 7:18-19a, 21-22, ESV

Let's grab 'em and go...

2012-01-24T08:28:00.007-05:00

You know those days?

The ones where you go to bed anticipating all you will accomplish, how awesome you will feel, how little you will rely on caffeine, how you'll wake up early and care for your spirit and have a shower and joyfully make a roast beef sandwich for your husband's lunch. You anticipate the productivity. The blessing of another not-yet-promised day.

And then it rushes in too early, when it's still dark, by the demands of a toddler who doesn't see the need to sleep until the sun is ready to bloom. You wake with your to-do list nearly in your hands and a headache already ricocheting through what feels like your entire body even though it's isolated, you know, in your skull.

It's one of those days where I felt the tiny beginnings of a stranglehold of despair. That feeling where you know that today you're going to have to fight if you want to keep grasp of your joy. Those moments when you know it's all going to end up in a dark pit if you don't grasp for straws, grasp for something to give thanks for. Those days that feel like bad days before they even have a chance to prove themselves.

Sometimes we need to give the bad days a fighting chance.

I did the only thing I knew to do. I kissed my toddler and gave him his breakfast. I made my husband's lunch and shook his bottled water into a pink lemonade, because I know he'll like that. I blessed my Keurig as it bubbled hot chai into my most favorite of mugs. I punched the oven awake and cracked open a can of cinnamon rolls, knowing that they wouldn't be done until after the husband left for work, meaning I was making an entire can for myself. I didn't care. It was that kind of day. I needed to save it, redeem it. Make it special and sweet amidst the naked beds, their sheets already spinning clean long before 8 a.m.

As the cinnamon rolls baked and the little boy played and the husband left for work and the chai snaked down my throat, I felt it stirring. The edges of a smile. A wave of contentment rushing over me and making me realize that it's really not all bad and hard and just mindless routine. I added items to my to-do list, feeling ambitious and alive as joy began her happy dance. And then the oven dinged! Time for cinnamon goo and icing-coated goodness!

And the darn things were burnt. Toasty.

You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me.

I may have mumbled a dismayed, "Seriously?!" as I slid the pan onto stove top. Maybe a healthy coat of icing on each would redeem their crusty skins. It helped somewhat and I ate it anyway. Gave thanks for it anyway. A kind of disgruntled thanks, but thanks still.

And then the unexpected... a little boy at my side, looking interested and enthralled by the interesting item on my plate. A little boy who is notoriously picky as he delves deeper into the "I'm a big kid!" stage. And I asked if he wanted a bite and he opened wide, his perfect white teeth smiling at me and his eyes bright at the possibility. At the chance for something new. Unexpected on a Tuesday morning.

He took a satisfied bite, ran off to watch more Mickey Mouse, only to return moments later, mouth open, a little bird begging for more of whatever is being offered. And I smiled and felt the proud love of a mother who adores every bit of her child... and maybe a little bit of a humbled smile as I felt the sincere attention and love of a God who sees. Who notes the trying. Who gets the headaches and the responsibility and the pieces that never fit quite right. As I fed bite after bite to Joel, I felt myself fill, too.

Funny. All is not lost as I had feared. All is really, really grace, just as I have come to believe even when I have days when it's tough to want to live it out. In all the spaces, in all the rooms of a day, in all the scratches of must-do's in a notebook, there is always space enough to find a thank-you. There's always time enough and opportunity enough to slow down and take control of the wild thoughts, to conquer the mental exhaustion, to not allow the tone of your day to be set in stone before the blessings are even given a chance to be seen.

My boy and I are still munching slow on an unexpected sticky treat. I think I may end up liking today just fine.

"And God blessed them...

And God saw everything that

He had made, and behold,

it was very good..."

~ G e n e s i s 1 : 2 8 a & 3 1

You're a standing ovation...

2012-01-19T12:45:00.006-05:00

He's worn dinosaur pajamas all day. He slept in them for a good twelve hours, woke up and had breakfast and watched Mickey Mouse in them and then I hauled him to Walmart, shamelessly. His big puffy winter coat shrouding the t-rex and the snug hood squishing his precious face. We had things to do and it was more important that we did them than if we did them looking pretty.

I pushed the prized nap later into the afternoon - both in hopes of him taking a longer more full restful time and because he had been so contentedly playing and reading his books in the corner behind the front door. There are toys all over the main area of our house. Literally, all over. Buzz Lightyear lies face down on the couch, while all the pillows are on the floor. There are police cars and tractors, cows and a rhinoceros and my coffee table where I used to keep my journal, Bible, laptop, and planner is now devoid of anything if it isn't toddler approved. I told my husband, "If you let him play up there once, it will become an every day thing." Guess who insisted on eating his snack of Teddy Grahams while sitting on the table yesterday? Yeah.

I sat at my dining room table this afternoon post-lunch and wrote out a crazy list of goals for the next year. Things that I would love to see happen. Things that are more challenging and more specific. Things that push me outside my comfort zone and put me in a straighter line with the things - the people - that matter most. After handing a sippy cup of water to my son over the edge of his crib, I told him I loved him and shut the door, ushering in his nap time. I stood looking at the table - at my gratitude journal, my schedule, my lists. I took in the chaos of my house and relished in the toys in every corner. My eyes rested on the box on my counter, a care package for a best friend and I thought, "We did good today."

The day isn't over and while he takes his nap I will surely have one of my own. But there is something peaceful and smile-warming about knowing that I not only did what I set out to do, but I did what my heart wanted to do. I wanted to slow down and enjoy today (hence, the footy pajamas out in public). I wanted to pause in my list making and goal setting the instant little hands found my knees and blue eyes found my green ones and we coaxed smiles and passed them back and forth like a hot potato. I wanted to treasure what matters because it matters. Because it's a gift. Because it's here and now and I'm thankful.

There are many things I could and do get conflicted about. My mind can easily trip me up and I can start to gnaw my nails as I ponder more chaos and more change and more lack of a beloved routine. Sometimes life can seem overwhelming but I wonder sometimes if it only ever starts to feel like too much when I'm simply choosing the wrong things. When we have bad days within our four walls it's typically because I haven't rested when I could have or that I failed to accept help when it was offered or I'd rather be selfish and not be responsible. It's when my choices don't match up with the good I say I want. When I'm trying too hard to be too perfect and to do it all while standing tall and looking pretty... when I'm too scattered to notice the beauty of words from an open book or a seriously taped up care package for a friend. It's when I forget to look.

As I prepared Joel for nap time (ie: changed his diaper), I didn't hurry. There are days when nap time can't come soon enough (for him and for me) but today wasn't that day. And I prolonged the sleepy-time by kissing his belly every time he said, "Again!" and by holding him a little longer before putting him down, kissing him just one more time, patiently and joyfully watching while he took a drink of water before snuggling down into his blankets.

At bedtime I do similarly. By the time 7 p.m. rolls around I am beyond ready for my day to end. But I'm not ready to let him go. I'll kiss him as he drinks his milk and I'll distract him by blowing on his arm and making him laugh. We do the belly-kissing routine again. He'll push his foot into the leg of his pj's and say, "Stuck!" when his toes get hung up. I love that.

It's the littlest little things. And in the midst of it all we may get bad news. Or disappointing updates. Or I can sit here and look out the window and think of those with serious loss and my eyes burn. And I feel so simple and so blessed in our little house with our little boy and the leftover biscuits and gravy in the fridge. I don't want to take it for granted, but I also know I can't worship it or hang onto every second. But I can hold those seconds for a second. I can choose acceptance when things don't go the way I'd like. I can choose to trust God for peace and joy when the sun isn't shining and when grief seems to strangle all the hopes. I can choose to rush through precious moments like bed times and bath times and day times - or I can tug on the strands of time and say, "Hold your horses. This really matters."

Maybe it is just an open book. Maybe it is just a box on the counter. Maybe it is just another toy, just another cup of coffee, just another diaper. But maybe it's everything that really counts, too.

"So whatever you wish that others

would do to you, do also for them,

for this is the Law..."

~ M a t t h e w 7 : 1 2, ESV

Don't be stupid, you know I love you...

2012-01-18T12:12:00.008-05:00

A week or so ago I ambushed my kid while he napped. It's the only way to cut his hair (and now, apparently clip his nails, since he's become such a boy who despises all-things involving personal care, cleanliness and upkeep). He fights when I slather on lotion. He screams like I'm trying to pull his toes out if I attempt to bring them near a set of clippers. He waves me away if I play with the too-long hair over his ear. The only part of getting dressed that he likes is if he happens to be getting to wear his Buzz Lightyear shirt (which I faithfully wash about as soon as it comes off his squirmy little self.)

So, I snuck into his room during nap time, armed with a small pair of scissors and a lint roller (trust me, it works great for picking up those fine baby hairs from the bed!) And I went to work. The only problem is, Mommy was impatient and had entered too soon. It's my own fault for being in a go-go-get-it-done mood. I blame the beloved Second Trimester for making me a complete fool when it comes to to-do lists and accomplishing the most in the least amount of time.

As I snipped and lint-rollered-away, he woke up. And he was none too happy about it. Not only did I not get to do as good a job on his head as I would have liked, but he refused to continue his nap. Take that, Mom.

As I dealt with a toddler who had barely taken a 30 minute nap that day (as opposed to a more typical 1.5 hour rest), I had to deal with the truth that his poor napping that day had very little to do with him and everything to do with me. And not just me, but my insane impatience and inability to wait until he was truly asleep before I started tinkering. My problem was that I had things to do and cutting his hair was one of those things to do and I wasn't going to be able to rest until I did it. I walked around chagrined, thinking over and over, "Haste makes waste, haste makes waste, haste makes...."

A new life is on my horizon. It's going to involve another little bundle of joy, another boy. Another adorable, miraculous, mind-numbingly-exhausting tiny little man to interrupt the flow of my days and any hopes I have of getting the necessary sleep requirements to be a functional human being. And I anticipate new life and change and I try to get ready. Try to prepare, try to organize, try to make room in an already stuffed house for more stuff and another bed and another life. It can make me hurried.

Change can make us rush. It possess a lot of allure. We can think something is best for us, better than best, and we stand tall and ready to forge our way in a new world. But what if a change of scenery or occupation isn't what is needed? What if it is as simple as a shift in priorities, a bending low to listen, to pause, to take time to really ask, "What am I doing and why am I doing it?"

Today I sat and asked myself what the priorities are in my life. What the most important things, scenarios, people, are. And what am I doing that emphasizes (or de-emphasizes) their importance? Am I living as thought my priorities matter or am I falling into the trap of busyness and rush?

For instance, I choose to stay home with our children. I choose to make laundry and dishes and dinner my priority. I chose that. It is what my husband and I both wanted for our family, but it is one of those "deal breakers" that I presented to him early on (like on the first date - ha!) in our relationship. I was going to stay home with my babies. But when I'm home, if I choose a myriad of distractions (many online) over my children, what is that really saying about my priorities? If I say my primary job is to care for my men (big and little!), what does it say when dinner is a frozen pizza,.... again?

The problem with having an intentional set of top priorities for your life means that you're going to have to sacrifice other things for them. I can't say my relationship with my husband is in the number one bracket if I do little to care for him and/or nurture our relationship. Just because I keep making babies with him and choose to be faithful isn't all it means to make him a priority. And just being around to insure that Joel doesn't take a dive off the dining room table is not why I'm a stay at home Mom. It's more than that. But if I am focused on things that don't fit in with the desires I truly have - the ones I have been given by God to bless Him and to bless others - then what the heck am I doing? And why?

I'm an introvert. I like being home. And those two things can be a good thing when I use them to nurture those around me and to welcome the space and the quiet to give me opportunity to breathe and not turn into a crazy person. But it can also be taken too far and I can become complacent and lazy (gosh, I really hate that word) in my work and in the things that I deeply deem most, most important. I can swing from one end to the next one day, rushing to cut hair and to fold laundry, to fit in some devoted quiet time while I fold the laundry and think about dinner. I can try to do it all. And then the next day I may do it again. But eventually I hit a wall and crash because no one can do it all, all the time. And yet we try.

That's why I chose a journal and a pen and made a list. I wrote out what matters most, what things or situations in life I would feel so empty without. The things that not only make me want to be a better wife and a mother, but those items that are most important to me, myself. Sometimes it's hard to separate who I am from what I do. I'm currently growing a human being as I try to raise a human being and sometimes that's all I can do: exist and eat a sandwich and make it until bedtime.

But what exhausts me is very rarely my priorities. I mean, yes, I won't lie, my little boy makes me tired. But he also is my biggest joy. What exhausts me is everything else I pile on or the expectations I heap up onto my plate. Kind of like when you say, "Oh, yes, I'll have that healthy salad!" and then you destroy its purity by dousing it with a layer of fatty dressing so thick you don't even know if there's a salad still under there. That's what I do sometimes. And that's what I don't want to do at all. I want to choose the salad and I want to enjoy that salad and I want to know at the end of the day that I ate that salad.

That may be the dumbest analogy I have ever, ever used.

But it makes sense to me and I need things to be simple and to click and at the same time to be convicting. Because I don't want to look back and wonder what I "ate" (ie: how I lived). I don't want to wonder if I did enough with my boys; I want to know that I did my best and loved with all I had and that I was focused and intentional. I don't want to grow old with my husband and wonder who he is or who we are. I want to know. I don't want to wonder if my friends know they matter; I want to show them. And I don't want to wonder if I could have done better in the kitchen or with the organizing or with my own personal gifts and creativity. I want to know that I tried. That I had fun. That I wrote that song or wrote that story or painted that closet just for fun.

I'm tired of expectations. I'm tired of allowing myself to feel guilted into a path that does not match up with my core group of desires for this life and for my relationships. If I say that something matters to me, then it matters and I can't let something less take it's place. We are so easily enticed by things and situations and online this-and-that... and it sucks away our time and it sucks away our lives and it sucks away our love.

I don't want anything to simply take away my love and focus like that. I want the choice to give it. And the only way I maintain control is if I determine what matters most and live like it matters most.

"No temptation has overtaken

you that is not common to man.

God is faithful, and He will

not let you be tempted beyond your

ability, but with temptation he

will also provide the way of escape..."

~ I Corinthians 10:13, ESV

This is my song in the desert...

2012-01-02T18:31:00.019-05:00

I hadn't thought about it much, but when the new year arrives, you tend to embrace it like a jumbo bag of M&M's... and look on the year past as a stale bag of potato chips. (I'm pregnant; you're just going to have to forgive the food analogies.) Human nature tends to like to number the grievances and the hurts vs. the blessings. But, as much as 2011 devastated my heart, on more than one occasion, what came alongside to guide and to heal has made it all precious, in a sense. Bittersweet, really.

We had some definite hard times this past year. The aunt I was closest to unexpectedly passed away. Just like that. I got a phone call in the middle of the night saying they didn't know what was wrong and she was going to the ER. The next call I received was from my Dad, saying we lost her. And it makes my eyes sting with tears remembering my disbelief and the memory of locking myself in our bathroom to cry, so afraid my grief would scare my little boy and praying he couldn't hear my sobs as he and his Daddy played in the living room.

My Grandmother suffered a stroke just prior to my aunt's passing. I remember vividly sitting in the room with her and my sister and how Grandma just didn't know us. And I bit my lip and kept my tears between me and the ladies room. Family members and friends both received diagnosis of the scary "C" word: Cancer. My sister had a myriad of undiagnosed health issues. We suffered an early miscarriage. My grief spiraled me into depression and my fear turned my heart anxious to the point that I contacted my doctor: Something had to be wrong with me and couldn't we do some labs? Everything came back normal, but the weight was still heavy.

Then there were the "little" things. The days when I was impatient when I needed to be anything but. The misunderstandings that occur when living day to day life with another human being. Disappointments of friends and family and of self. The feeling of it all seeming so pointless and scary and just too much. Desiring a true church family and feeling, instead, so hungry and bereft and alone.

And I could look back on 2011 and think, man, that was a hard year. And that would be honest. It had some seriously trying times. But what it wasn't was something that left me bitter and tainted. It could have. God knows that if there are enough blows and if you continually poke and prod the sore spots, wondering if they still hurt (and yes, of course they do), you never heal. It's not about not feeling pain, it's about not numbering the scars left behind.

This past year taught me how to ask for help. It made me open up to close friends and to my spouse and even to my doctor that things weren't okay with me. I've always felt I was a very vulnerable, my life is an open book kind of person. But as wordy as I can be, it wasn't easy for me to articulate and to admit and to work through the tangles. And there were many times when I didn't want to work through it. I just wanted to be over it.

In thinking about goals and New Years resolutions, I was left wondering: What was so wrong with the past year? What did I do right, essentially? What things did I want to keep on keeping on with? I could choose to look back on this year and say, hey, this year taught me that life is hard. I could allow it to make me, to keep me, broken and bitter and despairing. But in the midst of all that hurt, God was. He was there and He was faithful and He taught me how vital it was to the life of my heart to give thanks in all times.

"When it's dark and it's cold

and I can't feel my soul,

You are so good.

When the world has gone grey

and the rain's here to stay,

You are still good

So with every breath I take in,

I'll tell You I'm grateful, again...

And the storm may swell,

even then it is well...

and You are good."

~ Nichole Nordeman, "You Are Good"

It's more than just numbering simple things in a pretty journal. It's a conscious effort to look at the situations I am in and say, "Can I thank God for Who He is even when everything else is so unstable and pain filled?" It's not about what is actually happening - it is always about who God is. And giving thank morphs all of that together into a delicious cake-like batter (I'm sorry, I warned you about the pregnancy and food correlations) and not only does your thanks-giving remind you of God's unwavering character and faithfulness... what it stirs around and bubbles to the surface is that you discover in all of those things, all those ways, all those moments that bless and break... you find how much you are loved by a holy God.

It doesn't mean you don't hurt. It doesn't mean your spirit doesn't writhe with pain and that you don't struggle for air in the middle of the night when the anxiety and the dark gang up on you. Believing in Christ doesn't exempt us from pain, but it also doesn't leave us in our bondage. It may hurt to breathe for a long, long time, but is God bigger than the hurt? Do you believe He loves you more than the unfair and the ugly and the messed up that you're feeling, that's happening, right now?

Hunger and God's providing ways pushed a book into my hands that I devoured with my eyes and wanted desperately to soak into my very skin. I remember as clear as day, sitting on my couch during one of Joel's blessed nap times and reading, reading and then stopping cold on page 177. I grappled for my highlighter but sat stunned and paused and aloud I said, "Oh, God." It wasn't a curse, it was a plea. Two sentences stopped my heart:

"Only self can kill joy.

I am the one doing this to me."

I am the one doing this to me.

I. I am the one. Doing this.

Grief and sorrow are not "bad". It's a natural part of life and our soul ebbs and flows with the emotions of blessing and loss. And it's natural to grieve loss and okay to admit fear or burdens too heavy to carry on your own. Being a Christian doesn't mean you're smiley-happy 24/7. That's not authentic and even Jesus wept and had a heart heavy loaded with grief. But what Jesus did - and what we all must learn to do - is to submit to the authority of God the Father. To say, "If it be Your will, remove this from us." But if He doesn't... if He doesn't... then what? More tears? Rage? Blind acceptance with tag-along bitterness?

What I have found in giving thanks is not that I have a lot to be thankful for (although I certainly do!) but it has made me conscious of a God Who sees me. It has put my heart in a sensitive place where I am learning that giving thanks in all things and praying at all times (ref: 1 Thessalonians 5:16-19) are somehow, possibly, mysteriously knotted together.

And things don't always go smoothly just because I'm thankful. Tonight I realized I hadn't said prayers with Joel over his dinner before giving him his first bite and so I thought about it and then paused and went to hold his hands to give thanks. And what happened? He slammed the sippy cup straight into the middle of his bowl of oatmeal. Seriously?! And my first thought was, "Lord, I'm TRYING here!" But my efforts are not what it's about... it's the fact that God is faithful even when situations are not ideal.

And that's what I've learned and that's what I hold tight to and that's why I have a pretty journal where I list out the simple and the surprised and the thankful. And I learned all of that in a year that was hard and tearful. As I worked through my thoughts and fears of death and loss, I came to love more than ever the God Who sits on the throne and the Son Who sits at His right hand.

So, 2011, I will remember you. I will recall the heart wrenching times, the scared times, the praying on the floor in a tight ball times. But what I will ring-around and remember forever is how God was faithful to see and to hear and to heal. One day I may forget many of the small things I numbered as thanks in my journal, but I will not forget the One who has loved me every day of my life.

That's what thanks does... it builds an altar out of our heart and all day long, you come back and back again, offering more and more incense... because you are constantly finding blessing and returning to tell Him you noticed. You don't just walk away healed. You come back as did the tenth leper to say, "Thank you." and in doing so, you are truly, truly healed (ref: Luke 17:11-19).

And that makes you thankful all over again...

"Gladness and grief,

both are in Your hand

And sufferings brief

carry out Your plan

And our fleeting sorrows will yield

an endless prize, when some bright

tomorrow we'll see You with our eyes

Grace upon grace

flows down, flows down...

through the precious blood of Christ."

~ Sovereign Grace Music, "Through the Precious Blood"

Even then...

2011-12-19T06:45:00.020-05:00

What do we do when God's gifts don't come to us pretty?

I find it difficult to tolerate negativity and ungra

tefulness. It's my pet peeve, if you want to call it that. It makes my soul twist inside of me and my heart literally constricts. I get that, "Something is wrong here." feeling. And I know what it is - because complaining about our lot is complaining that God isn't good enough. That He failed us. And if our God is one who fails... where does that leave us? Doesn't it mean that we then try to order and drive things all on our own?

"Never be sympathetic with the

soul whose case makes you come

to the conclusion that God is hard.

God is more tender than

we can conceive."

~ Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest

When I hurry to grab my gratitude journal and jot down something Joel said or did, or how a moment just came together unexpectedly and perfectly, it can feel kind of crazy. I'm giving thanks for my son's laughter? For the giddiness that fills our house when Daddy and Son are screaming, "Attack!" at each other and colliding in the hall in a fit of joy? For early mornings when I am able to pull myself out of bed and have quiet time with Jesus and a glass of iced chai? For fuzzy socks from a best friend that make me feel loved just by skimming them over my toes? Am I making little out of the larger... or is the little making the larger seem, well, not so big?

For instance, death feels unfair. It always, always feels unfair. It feels that something precious is torn from your heart and will never, ever be returned or fixed or healed. It feels so cruel. But doesn't death seem cruel and fearful when we view it outside of Biblical perspective? What is death, really? Death is an easing of all the crazy here on earth and finally, ultimate peace in Heaven. And not only that, but those we feel we have lost forever, they are not gone forever. They are waiting for us and we will never be apart and there will be a day with no more tears. (Revelation 21:4)

We tend to think as pain as a curse, as a hateful judgement - when in reality some of that is part of life and life is ordered by God - and so we are either loved all the time or not at all. We pick and choose what we are thankful for, but God doesn't give care and then turn away. He's steady and consistent. We're the ones who take the good things and call them good - but then are dealt the bad and consider it something that missed God's attention and just shockingly fell into our laps, onto our shoulders, to bear.

Even as Job suffered tremendously in the Bible, he would not say that God had failed him. He may have admitted that it hurt. He may have told God he didn't understand. But he refused to give up on the ultimate goodness of God. Even in the grief of losing his children. Even in the shocking display of unbelief by his own spouse. Even in the face of friends who wanted him to accept blame for his wounds, as though everything that occurs to us is in our hands. We don't always control (or are to blame for) our futures or our blessings or our struggles. God has ordered things, not only for our ultimate good, but for His ultimate glory. Job said it perfectly, "Should we accept good from the Lord and not bad?" (Job 2:10)

Should we?

We say we should. We say we know that God is love and God is good and that we can trust in Him. But when the really bad, the really ugly, the really hurtful happen - what do we do? Do we not complain in such a way that sounds very much like cursing the God you claim who loves you? What kind of witness is that?

What is different about Christians is not that we go to church on Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings. It's not that we take food to new moms and shut-ins. It's not that we donate coats or school supplies or sing in the choir. All those things may be the outpourings of God's Spirit on you - equipping you with a voice to praise or hands to serve or handiness with a hammer and the ability to make repairs. But those who don't trust God can do nice things for others, too. They can hold doors open and smile at little kids and donate to the Salvation Army bell ringer.

Those "good" things aren't exclusive to Christians.

What is exclusive to us is that even in death, we can rejoice. That even when the doctor insists you come into the office to talk versus hearing the news over the phone, we can trust. That even when babies get sick and live in a hospital room or when pregnancies don't make it to the delivery room or when car crashes change life as we know it - when all the scary happens, what is ours as God's people - what is ours to claim - is that God is in control of it all. If we only focus on the terrible, it's really going to be hard to imagine that God is sweet on us.

What builds trust in any relationship? Isn't it the little things? Don't you start to fall in love when you begin to realize all the ways that person is showing you they are faithful? That they choose you? I remember being in awe of my boyfriend (now husband!) who drove 1.5 hours to get my car started so I could make it home for the weekend. I remember sitting in the driver's seat, bawling my eyes out when he said, "Okay, try to start it - push on the gas." and I just kept thinking, "This is love, this is love." When someone goes above and beyond, especially in the little things - it takes us by surprise. Wow, he noticed? Wow, she appreciates that I didn't forget? Wow, they believe in me?

When we were first dating, I flipped through the calendar pages and counted until I knew what day would mark our 100th day together. And on that day I gave Aaron a small stack of cards that I had made for him, each one written with a different thing I loved and appreciated about him. And there weren't tons of big, outlandish things. It was all the little things he did - like asking a best friend to deliver flowers to me at 10 p.m. because I was having a hard time. It was buying me KFC after a Purdue football game when I had a migraine and was sick from barely having eaten all day. It was picking flowers for me at the park while he waited for me to get home.

And when I count daily blessings - I build and build onto how great God is to me. Listing praises, day by day is not something I do because I have to or because I feel like it's so very "Christian" of me. I do it because I want God to know I see. That I'm paying attention. That I'm doing my best to learn what it means to "pray without ceasing" (I Thessalonians 5:17) and to "give thanks in all things" (Ephesians 5:20). I'm writing out what He does and how He provides and how He heals because in numbering it all, I see how very much I am loved. I see how very much everyone is loved.

"People want the blessing of God,

but they will not stand the thing

that goes straight to the quick."

~ Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest

The tough pill is never easy to swallow. Saying you trust God with your past, with your future and with your right-now, doesn't mean you're giddy 100% of the time. That's not authentic. Being vulnerable, however, is very real and very glorifying. It's okay to say something hurts or that you don't understand. It's okay to say the day was hard and unexpected. There is a line between taking our cares to God and simply complaining or giving up or constantly saying that what you're dealing with is worse than anyone else's battles. The bad thing is, complaining is really easy and we can be negative out of habit. It is one thing to be like Job and to say, "These sores are driving me mad." and to want it to go away. But it is another to give up on God... or to assume, or to allow your words and despair to imply that He has given up on you.

Its hard to look at the deep ugly and believe God was there. That He saw the train coming and didn't do anything to stop it. Life in this sinful world is still life in this sinful world. Things are not going to be fairytale here and our expectations are out of line with reality. Just because you love God doesn't mean you get a free ride through life. It doesn't mean pain didn't happen or won't happen. And maybe it won't. We can't go through life either expecting the other shoe to drop any more than we can go around complaining that we lost a shoe. It is what it is. There has to be an acceptance of what is so that you can see the God who is. So that you can see how His grace covers you all the time. How He carries. How He loves.

We either choose to number life by the bad that happens or by the good that is. We either hang tight to all the ways and situations where we've felt let down or disappointed or harmed or we give thanks in all things. There's not really a gray area there. You can't trust God in only the good times any more than you can be faithful to your husband only when he's being thoughtful and romantic. We may be disappointed if he forgets our anniversary, but we most likely won't walk away from the marriage. You can learn to trust and to give thanks even when right now is less than ideal.

And more and more I think that's what following Christ - what being a Christian - is about. It's not about being perfect and shiny or volunteering until you're exhausted. It's not about never being weak. It's not about never asking for help or admitting that right now is really, really heavy on your heart and your shoulders. But doesn't God tell us He will bear our burdens? Doesn't He tell us to take His pack and carry, because it's light? (Matthew 11:29) If we trudge on and on, dragging our sorrows behind us - is it not our own fault on some level? Are we not doing this thing of negativity and unnecessary sorrow and prolonging healing to ourselves?

I may not always feel like giving thanks in every situation. But I want to learn. I want to do better. Not because it's going to get me to some holy, holy level, but because it draws me to the heart of God. Because in recognizing and noting all the things that are and maybe the things that have been, I count grace. I count mercy. I count forgiveness. I count love.

And when the really ugly happens... doesn't it always help, somehow, just to know you're loved in the middle of it all?

"Above all, look to Jesus Christ,

your Intercessor, and ask yourself,

while He pleads, can your

Father deal ungraciously with you?"

~ C.H. Spurgeon, Morning & Evening

Mother of All

2011-12-15T08:30:00.009-05:00

I thought of something this morning as I put my toddler down for a rare (but obviously needed) morning nap.

Mothering has absolutely nothing to do with pretty. It has nothing to do with things like Pinterest (and if you don't know about Pinterest, well, it's essentially everything beautiful, organized, clever and basically better than anything you are possibly doing right now, all in one mind-boggling space). And I'm gleefully addicted to the crafts and the sweater combinations and the perfect paint colors for that someday dream home. But if you're not careful, it can cut into your heart and make you feel that everything around you is too simple and everything you do is too base and everything you feel is too novel.

The past few mornings I have awakened early. I had originally set my alarm and then about thirty minutes before it's set to go off, I turn it off. I figure I'll wake up when I'm ready. Well, I have noticed a trend this week: God has let me know when He's ready for me to be up. And thankfully I have been able to control my body and not allow it to sink back into the cozy confines of my bed. I have had showers before anyone in my house even knew a new day was upon them. I've had quiet time while it was dark and calm out, before the school bus even arrived next door. I've had coffee and iced chai. I've sat on my couch and I've sat on the floor at my coffee table. I've read. I've written. I've begun my day.

It all has felt very Proverbs 31 of me and I've been a little proud of the steps I've taken that have me looking anything like a wife, a mother, who has it all together. Like the way I'm "supposed" to be.

Today started off promising, but even though I was up before 6:15 a.m. today, with my devotionals in my lap and my journal and pen at the ready, my toddler decided to pull an early morning wake-up. And refused to go back to sleep. I was thankful that he quieted and whined the least little bit that allowed me to still have some semblance of focused alone time with the Lord, but then our day started at 7 a.m. That's not what I had planned. Plus, I have a fairly detailed to-do list for today and it did not include a two-nap day. I had planned it around a one-nap day, post-lunch. But a two-nap day for my son is what he needs.

And as I tucked him in just before 8:30 a.m. and turned on the sound machine, closed the door and went to start a load of laundry, I felt peaceful. And I thought, you know, gaining patience has nothing to do with praying for it. People will joke, "Don't pray for patience!" because the assumption is that if you ask for patience, you will only get trials. But if you really want to learn patience, then you are, in a way, going to want trials. Not that any of us want harried days or hardships or broken hearts... but it's how we grow. And either we're sincere about wanting to grow up and be better - or we're really only saying we want "patience" because that's what a perfect woman, wife, mother, Christian would do. Pretty on the outside, ugly on the inside.

And when I prayed with my toddler over his NutriGrain Bar breakfast while he stared at me and pointed at the TV, it wasn't perfect, but it was right. And when I pulled him on my lap for a morning devotion, I read calmly and patiently even though he was eagerly looking for pictures on the next page. It wasn't perfect, but it was right. And when I admitted my impatient attitude and my inward seething disappointment of how the day was beginning, it wasn't pretty at all, but it was right. There's no perfection in making mistakes, right?

When I was younger, in my teens, I used to joke, "Imperfection IS perfection." And I wanted desperately for someone to agree with me, not just laugh because they thought I was silly. I wanted someone to say, "Yes! You are exactly right! Boo to the expectations and gloss!" But no one did. And so it made me feel like I was only looking for a way out. An excuse to not try harder, stretch taller, get up earlier, do more, be more.

Could beauty really be seen in the imperfect? Could I be loved if I wasn't a supermodel look alike? Could I be a good writer even if I didn't go to college? Could I be a capable wife someday even though I felt so lacking and small and so unnoticeable? Throw me into my early thirties and motherhood is only terrifying when? When I allow my expectations - those ideals of perfection and clean bliss - to override reality. It's all stress inducing and full of anxiety when you're convinced you're suppose to do it all (and in skinny jeans!) and you just can't. You admit you can't but then you see everyone else who seemingly can and where does that leave you? Shipped off to the Island of Misfit Toys. Scared to death someone will notice that you're not doing it all and so painfully, scarily convinced you're supposed to.

If I show up in a sweater to a Christmas party, it's okay. I'm not Barbie. (Maybe pregnant Barbie?!) If I can't make cookies from scratch for that Christmas get-together, that's okay. I can buy some. If I can't get my house spotless before we leave for the weekend, it's not the end of the world. If there's dust in a corner that I just couldn't find the time for because I was too busy reading and coloring and playing Play-Doh with my toddler - that's more than fine. And even though it feels like the easy road - is it not a better way? Is it not more important for me to spend my time, my heart on the human beings right in front of me? It may not be magazine pretty to be in my flannel pants all morning, but if it makes it easier to crawl on the floor and chase and wrestle with my son - is that okay? Isn't that pretty, too? Why do we feel we need permission to do what's right? Why are we so afraid that someone is going to peer in and take note of what isn't done and somehow ignore the sincerity and love that is?

I could people-please myself into the grave. There have been seasons when I very nearly have. When I've been so burdened by just trying to make someone happy. Make it work. Keep it together. Heck, I even nearly wrecked my own health trying to be skinnier than God intended and no one thought, "You look so healthy!" They asked me if I was okay. Perfection is cunning and tricky and a lie. You think you're aiming towards a noble goal but all you're grasping for is the shorter straw. You're going to come up empty and not understand why.

You get to choose things like patience. And joy.

Yesterday when my son refused to let me go, I chose him. I chose his happiness and didn't leave him to cry or worry where Mommy had gone. I took a deep breath and prayed our shopping trip wouldn't be a disaster. And I may have not found gifts for everyone on my list, but my son and I had a good time together. And it wasn't because he was an angel baby or because I was perfectly poised. My not-long-enough bangs still fell into my eyes. I still had lint on my shirt. The blankie still got dropped on the dirty store tile. But I chose to not allow the crashed and burned expectations I'd held ruin what God had given. Things didn't go as planned, but were they still blessed? Was there still joy to be had? Were there still ways to say, "Thank you", to realize how loved and seen by a Holy God I truly am?

Even if no one ever agrees that imperfect is perfect and lovely, I can hold fast to the truth that it is. That God didn't make us to be perfect, plastic people. He made us human with the ability to walk into a wall, stub our toes, fall down the stairs and say things we should bite our tongue in half to prevent from saying. We have to let go of what is fashionable and trendy and appealing sometimes to see what is tangible and heart-wrenching and makes you ache deep down in your soul because it's so basic and it's so pretty in it's own way.

That being loved when you know you're imperfect makes you feel more loved than anyone has probably ever felt. That being accepted when you know you're unacceptable and depended on when you know you've failed and trusted when you know you've been untrustworthy... That's grace. Overarching, overachieving, blanketing everything and bundling you tight: Grace. Grace forever, grace for right now, grace for what just happened that shouldn't have.

And we have the choice to say, "Yes." to it without fear of condemnation. There's no necessity to try harder. There's no better or more efficient lists. It's just a simple, "Okay." An acceptance of what has been given - and an open hand to take it in for what it is and to give thanks for it. Because it's what has been chosen for now by Someone who knows better than you.

Grace turns the imperfect into the perfect, into the blessed, every time.

"Great is Thy faithfulness," O God my Father,

There is no shadow of turning with Thee;

Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not

As Thou hast been Thou forever wilt be.

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth,

Thy own dear presence to cheer and to guide;

Strength for today and

bright hope for tomorrow,

BLESSINGS all MINE,

with ten thousand beside!"

~ Great Is Thy Faithfulness, Traditional Hymn

Season's Greetings

2011-12-12T11:12:00.026-05:00

It's kind of funny. And when I say, "funny" I don't mean, "Ha, ha."

We just came off the thankful-high of November. Everyone on Facebook was posting status updates on how grateful they were for this, that and the other and then, bam! Hello, December. Know what happens in December?

People get MEAN.

Suddenly it’s too much to return a smile in the checkout line. It’s common and somehow justified to pull out in someone vs. waiting your turn. Everyone is in a hurry, impatient, too busy to notice the humanity they are trampling over, ramming carts into and generally, ignoring. I stopped by our local Walmart this past week just as two bus loads of children were being accompanied by local church members to meet their needs. Wanna know how many of those people were impatient, pushy and rude to me and my son, even as they were surely trying to set an example of God's love to these community children they had taken shopping?

It’s just plain shameful. And we joke, “Tis the season!” as an excuse for the attitude.

What’s even more embarrassing is the fact that the majority of those living in the United States claim to be a Christian. Which means, they claim to be following Christ. Which means they should be emulating Him in their homes and in their interactions with strangers and even, *gasp* allowing Him to influence their driving habits and curb their rushed road rage. And the majority claim a local church as their home congregation. Which means, it’s not the unchurched saying they’re Christians being obnoxious and rude. It’s the Sunday Christians. The Bible-study attending Christians. The volunteers in the youth group Christians.

It’s. Us.

A few weeks ago Aaron and I watched a very emotional (when is it not?) Extreme Makeover: Home Edition where a young boy (I believe he was only ten or eleven years old) committed suicide as a result of bullying at school. The majority of the episode was on getting the word out that kids shouldn’t stay silent if they are bullied and that kids in general need to, “Be a buddy not a bully!”

Aaron and I kept pausing it (thank goodness for our modern days of technology and DVR) and discussing. What is the root of bullying? Where does change need to occur? How do we protect our own children? That night after we finished and I had cried myself into a serious headache, I stood over Joel’s crib, rubbing his back as he slept and just cried and prayed and hoped that he would know - that we would show him - that he could always, always come to us. No matter what.

As with most situations, it's not just black and white and clear cut and do x and get y every time. But one of the things we concluded is that kindness is certainly lacking. And where do children learn to be kind in the first place? At home. And whom do they learn those charitable, unselfish, thankful-in-all-things traits from? Ideally, Mommy and Daddy. And what happens when they hear Mommy cutting down Daddy to her friends? What happens when they see Daddy being unkind to Mommy? What chain reaction occurs when parents fight and bicker for control? Or when Mommy is too over-scheduled and everything is rush-rush and she's gripping the steering wheel and sighing in exasperation at the elderly gentleman in his Ford F-150 moseying down the road to Burger King?

Recently the Duggar family (most notable for their Christian convictions and their growing family, now up to twenty children) has been a topic I've seen circulating just about everywhere. I may not feel the same conviction to have twenty or more babies (I also started about a decade later than Mrs. Duggar in the child bearing department, so that's my out!) but what is most admirable is their dedication to the Lord and growing their kids up on the Bible. Sadly, that is not what is talked about most among Christians. Instead of commending their convictions and the deep respect, love and giving-nature of their family, we sit around and determine whether it's wise for them to have babies and when are they going to call it quits.

Who's the bully, now? Are we really all that shocked about the behavior of school-aged children and teens?

We are an ungracious, blame-placing, grudge-keeping, impatient, negative and unthankful teaming mass of humanity. I am not saying things are all bad. I am not saying that God is not present. I am not saying that many churches aren't doing all they know to do to challenge their congregations and impact their communities. But I think we need to step back and take a long, hard look at our attitudes and our words and our habitual gossip and our tearing down of others. Especially as parents. As mothers. (Proverbs 31:26 ESV)

Here we sit and pass judgement on a Christian husband and wife who are raising their children Biblically and holding fast to truth despite what is "cool" or "relevant" in the world. Maybe they make us uncomfortable because as God's people we see them doing things we know we should do, too and we'd rather find a comfortable excuse to avoid being quite that dedicated.

Anyway, this isn't about Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar, but about us as Christians. Not as humans, not as Americans, but as Christ-followers. The Bible commands us as God's chosen people to clothe ourselves with a list of attributes, namely: compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, forgiving each other of complaints and above everything, loving each other (Colossians 3:12-14 ESV)

And there's nothing in there about only dressing up that way on Sunday mornings. It's Monday mornings when the coffee hasn't kicked in. It's the middle of the night when the baby refuses to stay asleep. It's the weekly grocery trip. It's when you're late and in a hurry and you slow down because it's not anyone else's fault that you poorly planned your day. It's when you're folding the fiftieth load of laundry and when you're sitting at a desk for ten hours, when you're standing in line, sitting at the License Branch and when your head is bowed when communion is served.

November doesn't make us sincerely grateful any more than December makes us raging to-do list obsessors. We do it to ourselves. We need to admit to ourselves that we are grown-ups, willing and able to exercise God-given self-control and behave in a manner that is in accordance with our faith claim (Philippians 1:27 ESV). If we don't want our kids to be rude, then we had better not be rude. If we want them to be kind, then we better be fair and charitable. If we want our children to learn about giving to others less fortunate, then they need to see us doing it. If we want them to value growing up in a family devoted to God then we can't sit back and tear down families who are doing just that.

Our kids need to see us grow up so they can.

"He has told you,

O man, what is good;

and what does the LORD require

of you but to do justice, and to love kindness,

and to walk humbly with your God."

~ M i c a h 6 : 8

Happily (Part Deux)

2011-12-12T08:19:00.021-05:00

Joel loves to read. Well, considering he’s 20 months old, what I mean is he loves his books. He has always had this thing where he’ll point at the pictures and then expectantly wait for you to tell him what it is. We are trying to get him to tell us what he is looking at and we are slowly getting there. He’ll be sitting off in his favorite corner, “reading” away and I will hear him say, “Duck!” And I will glance over and indeed, he’s pointing at a duck, but he’s not looking at the picture. He’s looking at me to affirm him. To tell him, “Good boy! That’s right! That’s a duck!” And I do. And he’s appeased and turns the page. But he doesn’t move on until Mom gives him a little confirmation and praise.

When he did this a few weeks ago, I had to smile. So like a man.

And I don’t say that with any malice or judgement. I married a man. A good, country, God-fearing man. And I love him. But I am learning more and more how the man works. How they think, what makes them tick, what aggravates them about us, their princesses. It’s been really eye opening and I maybe didn’t want to see all the truth at first, but now that I do, I feel like someone has dropped a book of secrets into my lap. I feel like I am seeing and hearing my husband better. And I get the sense that he feels very seen and heard, respected and affirmed because of it.

Told you. Man thing.

I recently read the book, “The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands” by Dr. Laura Schlessinger. I don’t know much about her, but I knew instinctively that much of what she said was true. To balance it, I would sit and read and when I came to a point that made me blink and kind of made my insides twist in that knowing, “Are you paying attention?!” way, I would turn to Aaron and ask, “Is this true? What do you think about this?” Kind of hoping he’d disagree and I could feel justified in whatever I was feeling. He never once disagreed with Dr. Laura.

Figures.

And as uncomfortable as it made me to maybe admit where I was being less than hospitable to my own husband, or less understanding or loving, it was eye-opening. And what they say is really true - men aren’t that hard to figure out. (I still maintain that women aren’t either - however, women make themselves and situations more complicated than they should. They

do the whole expectation thing way more than the men.) Many times you will ask a wife if there are issues in her marriage and she’ll have a long list to hand you. Ask her husband and he’ll tell you everything is fine. And he probably means it. He has no idea of all the negativity and inner turmoil that is raging in your head. Which means your dissatisfaction has more to do with you than with your man. Which also means it’s your issue to fix.... not his.

We “know” the facts, but in our every day life, in our marriages, we don’t act like that’s real. We seem to think that what we think is going on is in fact reality. That because he’s not talking, it means our marriages are falling apart. Or because he’s low energy it’s because he’s hiding some deep dark secret, even though he says he’s simply tired. What happened to believing our men, of taking them at their word?

Did it somehow happen when we stopped seeing him as the hero?

When we were dating, I was completely understanding of Aaron’s work schedule, his sometimes late nights and his exhausted evenings. I rolled with it. I was proud of him and how hard he worked. I would make him his favorite meal. We would watch football and I wouldn’t complain or ask dumb questions. Once I even had a pizza delivered to his apartment, knowing he needed to chill and watch some basketball and unwind. We are crazy thoughtful, understanding, patient and respectful when we’re dating. We want to be with them, we think so many of the things that they do are “cute” (but then when we marry, they are annoying). We fall in love hoping he’ll never change, so satisfied with everything he is. But after we get back from the honeymoon, suddenly it seems we set to work on “changing him”. You loved him as he was enough to marry him. Why can’t that be enough to stay (happily!) married to him? To be happy together?

In her book, Dr. Laura quoted one of her listeners: “If I really believe all the things I say/think/complain about him, why on earth are we married? If I love him so much, why do I act so unloving and disrespectful? What will make him continue to love me if I continue to act in this way?"

One of my best friends has commented recently that there aren’t very many verses in the Bible about how a man should treat his wife (other than the broad spectrum of loving her) but there are multiple verses about the nagging wife. Our complaints are like waterboarding to our men. We may not thinks so, especially when so many of our “suggestions” seem warranted, justified, even necessary... but when you criticize you destroy feelings of love and tenderness towards the object of your criticism. It’s kind of hard to feel madly in love with someone that you feel aggravated with just by looking at them.

Dr. Laura further state that, “One of the most typical ways that a wife misuses power over her husband is by her angry disappointment.” Most of us are married to good-hearted, wants to do right by you, kind of man. That means they want to make us happy. In decisions in my own marriage, my husband will say, “I just want you to be happy.” If I pout and huff and am generally a brat, I am not only annoying him, I am hurting him. His intentions are my continued welfare and happiness. That’s why he works so hard. That’s why he maintains our house so well. He wants me to be okay. Content.

Women have lots and lots and lots of power in their marriages. This ain’t no lie. You exercise a little tenderness and understanding and suddenly you’re Super Woman in his eyes. It doesn’t take much to impress them. If you’re respectful, thankful, and understanding of the fact that he’s a human being that you love, not simply a human being who is put on this earth to make your dreams come true... well. You’re halfway to your happily ever after and then some.

The problem is, with great power comes great responsibility. And sometimes we would like to just be powerful and use our wiles to get what we want. Uh uh. That isn’t going to work, sister. Not in the long run. The power comes in when you recognize the responsibility towards your spouse, to treat them the way you want to be treated. That means being understanding when they need to detox from a hard week and watch football and not turn it into a “Why don’t you ever want to spend time with me?!” argument. He’s at home, in your living room. He’s not avoiding home (and that’s a compliment to you!) But so many times, the man isn’t cutting it if he’s not cutting it the way the wife wants to.

Nag, nag, nag. Drip, drip, drip.

Sometimes you need to stop and ask yourself if you truly honestly care when your man is going through, feeling and/or needing. Many times we don’t want to know what’s really going on with them, we just want to know they still feel all ooey gooey about us. All we want is a little positive reinforcement, we say. Just give me some compliments, a great hug, a Hallmark card and I’ll be good. Again, we’re making our issues, our ultimate happiness, his job.

That’s not his job.

And dare I say that sometimes women need to stop thinking like women and start thinking like men? Men are pretty black and white about things. “I do this because I feel this way.” But women make everything a house of mirrors at the circus. We can be pretty crazy. Men, well, they are rarely seen as overly emotional and unrealistic. They operate on facts.

What if we operated on facts?

When I step away from how I think marriage should be or how warm and fuzzy I would like to be treated or all the compliments I’d love to hear... when I look at the facts I see a long list of ways my husband loves me and is in love with me. When I go back to how he was when we dated and how much I adored him, was proud of him, etc., that’s when I realize he is still that guy. Nothing changed. What changed is that we got married and I suddenly had wild expectations about how life should be. Or rather how I should be adored.

We go from wanting to hang out with them while they work on their trucks for hours to rolling our eyes and feeling like we’re one foot to divorce court because they don’t bring us flowers very often. It’s kind of silly, really. When we’re dating we think about pleasing them, surprising them, making out with them (don’t lie)... but when we’re married, we start thinking of our needs and our wants and our levels of fairy tale level happiness.

And a man is not going to feel romantic towards someone who is never happy or sends the message consistently that he’s to blame for the discontentment. We have power to make or break our men. And that means we have the power to make or break our marriages. It doesn’t remove responsibility from the husband - that’s not what I’m saying. But what I am saying is that much of the issues or unhappiness in marriage stems from a woman’s unhappiness with the way her man is or is not doing something. And usually it’s little things. Don’t major in the minors.

There is nothing wrong with wanting happiness and warm feelings in your marriage. But they don’t come about in the way you would (or fairy tales) would have us believe. It’s not about kissing in the rain or surprises in little boxes or dancing in the kitchen (although these are all great things when they occur!)... Genuine warmth and deep happiness and contentment comes from a heart that is grateful, not a heart that is constantly in want.

When Aaron and I were dating, I marked on my calendar the 100th day we were together and when that day came around, I gave him 100 cards that I had made, each with a simple statement of how I loved him. A hundred little things. We’ve now been together over four years. Made a lot of memories. And a couple babies. And when I stop to think, there are many, many more things I love and appreciate about him. Maybe more than I could list if I tried. Especially when I stop thinking about my “You do this and it makes me want to shove your head through the wall” list.

Set fire to the score card. And pull out some paper and start making a new list.

"I love you for putting your hand

into my heart and passing over all

the foolish, weak things that you can't

help dimly seeing there, and for

drawing out into the light all the

beautiful belongings that no one else

had looked quite so far enough to find."

~ R o y C r o f t

Happily (Part One)

2011-11-22T09:44:00.012-05:00

A few weeks ago I was working out and the song, “That’s How You Know” from the movie, “Enchanted” came on. (Yes, I realize my workout playlist needs some help.) I was in a happy frame of mine, both from the wonderful endorphins from working out, the euphoric pregnancy feelings that trail along with the beloved 2nd Trimester and feeling high on life. Grateful for the babies and the man.

And as I listened to the words of this kind of silly, full-on fairy-tale lyrical madness, I became more and more aware of what a lie it all was. The words sing of how you will know if a man loves you. How he’ll “send you yellow flowers when the sky is grey” or how he’ll prepare a “private picnic by the fire’s glow” just for the two of you and on and on and about taking you dancing just so he can be close to you. Oh come on. If that’s how we, as women, are supposed to know that we are “loved”, then I’d say many of our men come up short.

I love fairy tales. I always have. I was ecstatic when Disney brought “Beauty and the Beast” to life and I sat enraptured in the theater, feeling my heart stir and lift at the opening scene of the deep, red roses, the never-ending waterfall,... the castle. And I was equally psyched out of my mind when I found that the heroine, this princess, was a brunette.

About time.

And then real life happens. The kind where you end up meeting the man of your dreams and you’re wearing jeans and a ratty t-shirt. There’s no fluffy dress. There’s no glass slipper. There’s a quote that I’ve seen that says, “Disney gave me unrealistic expectations about hair.” That’s true. It’s also true that the happily ever afters have given us an unrealistic expectation about life with a flesh and blood man.

ABC has a new series, “Once Upon a Time” (as you can imagine, I was hooked by the title alone.) In the first episode, Snow White and Prince Charming are promising forever. Stars in their eyes, the future bright and bold before them, a castle to dance around and fill with babies. But then, as is always inevitable with a happy ending, in comes the swirling black of evil and as she races through the throng gathered to see the “fairest of them all” and the handsome prince ride off into the sunset, your breath catches. Something is coming and it’s going to be ugly.

The Evil Queen, embittered and jealous, rages succinctly and states how they will have their happiness... today. But their happily ever after? She’s going to take it away. She’s going to send them to a place where those kinds of things don’t happen. A place where fairy tales are on the casualty list. She enacts a curse and forces them into a new world. Our world.

But in our day to day worlds of babies and husbands who work and come home tired... what do we do with that? What do we do when we stop seeing hearts flying around our heads and our handsome prince no longer seems as charming as we thought and we are surely less princess-like by the day. Maybe it’s the yoga pants. I can’t say.

So, we get married. We get the gorgeous dress, the well-wishes, the table full of presents. We get the magical first-dance and he wears a suit and your hair, for once, is very Disney-like and your expectations soar. But what happens when you get home and you’re no longer walking down a rose-petaled aisle or dancing beneath sparkling stars (or is that a disco ball?). Just as the Evil Queen promised Snow White and her love.... you’ll have today. You’ll have the joy of your perfect wedding, the hope of your perfect life. But then tomorrow? Tomorrow you’ll lose your happily ever after.

In a way, this happens. It’s called reality. I adored my wedding dress, but it would be a little impractical to wear around the house. (Not to mention it isn’t going to fit again for quite some time.) My hair is currently air-drying after a hasty shower while my toddler napped. And I may or may not be wearing a t-shirt that belongs in my husband’s dresser.

Expectations kill a marriage. They kill any relationship. It’s amazing to me how patient we are with our girlfriends, but with our husbands, we are so quick to be sharp. To roll our eyes. To be disappointed. Our girlfriends can change their minds, forget to call, send a late birthday card and we roll with it. We understand their crazy lives and we are secure in their love. But our husbands? Eek. I am guilty of sometimes being way more loving and understanding with my best friends than with the man whose name I took. The man I have a family with. The man who works every day to provide and care for us. But if he forgets my birthday or our anniversary or Mother’s Day or Valentine’s Day or any other day that I decide has some sentimental importance to me.... watch out. Here come the disappointed tears. Expectations. Bleh.

The main drive behind expectations is self. We want what we want when we want it. And we feel we deserve it. And we have our heads filled with these “truths” that “if he really loves us” he will do x, y and z. And if he doesn’t do those things, well, then we need to work on him, change him, or pout until he figures it all out.

In the book, “Love and Respect”, the premise is that men do unloving things to get respect and women do disrespectful things to get love and the cycle goes on and on. No one is happy. The women feel unloved, their men feel disrespected, and they just keep on being sarcastic and sullen. No happily ever after here.

Aaron told me yesterday how he was listening to a segment on the radio about relationships or whatever and one of the points were made of how when single, women are independent and sure of themselves - but put them in a relationship and suddenly there are expectations and they require frequent “I love you’s!” and cards and flowers and surprises to feel like they have worth. That they have your love. Dating sets the bar for marriage - and while it is important to “date your spouse”, you have to grow up, too.

Dating is for dating. It’s for the purpose of winning.

Marriage is not dating. In fairy tales, you see the kiss that makes the princess come alive and then they ride into the sunset, set up house in an elaborate new home. And you never once think that she’s going to get bitter and sullen when he has to go off to war or work late running the country. You never think about him leaving his armor and chainmail in the middle of the bedroom floor for her to roll her eyes at and pick up every single day.

What happens when you own your ability to choose your perspective? What happens when you look long and hard at your own face in the mirror vs. analyzing all the ways you feel he’s not showing you love. It’s like how it is when you start giving thanks... the more you give thanks, the more you realize you have. And suddenly you’re giving thanks for smaller and smaller things, because it all feels huge. A weight seems to lift and you’re grateful for all you have. Marriage works like that, too. The more you focus on what you don’t have, or how the expectations aren’t being met or how the love languages aren’t being spoken, the more unhappy the days, the more tense the conversations, the more distant your Prince Charming is. But turn it around and start seeing what love looks like from his side. Look at how he is showing you.

When he remembers to fix the garbage disposal after days of it being out, even without you nagging him, that’s how he’s loving you. When he comments on how good it is to be home, that’s how he’s loving you. When he wants to make more and more babies with you, well, hello, that’s love. When he comes home from working all day and still wants to grill pork chops because that’s what he said he would do, that’s because he loves you. They come home every night, faithfully, because of love. When you start paying attention and stop expecting, that’s when you’ll see all he does. How brave and strong and handsome he really is. How much he truly cares.

When you start paying attention that’s how you’ll know he’s your love.

"... so many women struggle to hold

on to some jerk, keep giving an abusive

or philandering man yet another chance...

risk making babies with an opportunist or loser,

all in a pathetic version of a pursuit of love,

but will resent the hell out of treating a decent,

hardworking, caring husband with the

thoughtfulness, attention, respect and

affection he needs to be content."

~ D r . L a u r a S c h l e s s i n g e r

My Choice is You

2011-11-21T13:39:00.011-05:00

Yesterday we had a meltdown because of a Buzz Lightyear sippy cup.

It was in the dishwasher along with other dirty items and desperate little hands couldn’t get to it. This resulted in a full-blown tantrum and mommy using her outside voice (ie: yelling) and utilizing both the first and middle name.

And as I consoled him with the still clean Woody, Rex and Jessie sippy cup, filled quickly with cool water, I had to smile a bit as I went back to loading the dishwasher. Sometimes it’s easy to look at what I do on a daily basis and just sigh. So much of it is trivial. So much of it is just.... little. No, don’t touch that, it’s Mommy’s. No, don’t touch; hot! Yes, that’s a cow! No, that’s not a pig, that’s a horsey! By the time my husband gets home, it’s really no wonder that I can’t form a sentence that doesn’t have to do with animal sounds or what Joel ate that day.

But then my perspective changed as I tried to search out the bigger lesson. To get past the annoyance and frustration and my son’s angry outburst. What must God feel like? He is our Father and isn’t so much of our day-to-day griefs, well, ... little?

She hurt my feelings. He didn’t listen like I wanted him to. I didn’t get what I wanted. She cut me off, he drives too slow. He’s in my space. My food isn’t coming fast enough. The bath is too hot. Too cold. Not soon enough. And on and on. We are so petty. We are so... young.

I don’t want to be a spiritual toddler. I don’t want to flip out the instant things don’t go my way or even when the bigger things strain and break my heart. I don’t want to keep reaching for a dirty cup when a clean one, full of goodness, is right there. But if I don’t train my eyes to see bigger, then I will only see small. If I don’t take what’s handed and pause just one second and take a deep breath to evaluate what my real response should be... well... then I guess I’ll be having tantrums on the kitchen floor along with my 20 month old son.

I want to show him that it’s okay to wait for things you want. That it’s right to not always have things work out the way you want. But what happens when Mommy wakes up with a headache and stumbles around on too-little sleep? What happens when the bad mood wraps me up like a blanket and I feel justified in it’s false warmth? What am I showing him? What am I showing myself to be true?

Laziness promotes pity-parties. The less you do, the more overwhelmed you feel and you just come out feeling all kinds of lousy. Whether it’s putting off the laundry for one more day or just ordering pizza again, no matter what the easy options are, eventually they kind of nauseate you. Because you know, deep down, it’s not meant to be like this. It’s supposed to be bigger. Brighter. More.... just.... not what it is right now.

In midst of writing this, I stopped to thank my son for leaning into the Kleenex vs. fighting me. Isn’t that where we all need to get? To say hey, here is my messy. Here is my sickness. Here’s the gross. Take it away. You have to choose to see it and you have to choose to surrender.... and you have to choose to trust the hand reaching out to clean you up.

If I talk about too hard days, what am I really saying? If I have a string of bad days and if I line them up like a set of wooden blocks, always before me - what am I seeking to prove? That I have been dealt a worse hand? That my lot in life is harder than anyone else’s? And ultimately, with all that whining and reaching and begging.... am I not acting as though I don’t believe I have a good enough God?

Are we satisfied with the manna that we’re given? Are we okay with the little?

Joel can’t demand that I love him but not care for him. He can’t expect me to give him handfuls of Goldfish but ignore his drippy nose or stinky diaper. And while sometimes I try to explain away the tears and frustrations, other times it’s a firm, purely parental, “No, honey. Just no.” And I expect him to accept that as much as the times that I explain and hug and kiss away the big, fat alligator tears. I wouldn’t be a good parent if I gave him everything he wanted when he wanted it. I would ruin him. I would wreck this perfect, beautiful little soul that I absolutely love.

"... Be at peace. Bend the knee

and be small and let God give

what God chooses to give

because He only gives love

and whisper... thanks."

~ A n n V o s k a m p

This is why giving thanks at all times - not just in November - is so important. Being thankful makes the little, large. It puts a magnifying glass on all the things that you hang tight to and call a life and makes you see that there’s a bigger story and that the blessing is greater than your natural eye can take in. Only when seen through a different lens, a new focus, can you see that it’s really not all that small at all. It never really was.

Inherently we know that the more we focus on what we have, the more we try to hide our blush at how ridiculously blessed we truly are and know ourselves to be. While we kick dirt and complain and harbor seemingly justifiable hurt feelings and righteous anger and downright selfishness, isn’t it when we notice the things around us, the people, the home we come back to... isn’t it then we realize that our daily bread comes with a lot of side dishes?

"Our Father in heaven,

hallowed be your name.

Your kingdom come,

your will be done, on earth

as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread..."

~ M a t t h e w 6 : 9 - 1 1

Make Love Last

2011-11-12T11:05:00.008-05:00

I think I probably talk a lot about being grateful. It’s something that I have worked hard to drill into my spirit. Especially over the past year. Paying attention to all that we have - even in the more difficult times - reminds us of how loved we really are by God. When we focus on all we have, our perspective is challenged. Our minds are renewed. Our thoughts are controlled.

We all know it can always be worse. We say it all the time. But we don’t live it all the time.

Today I was feeling super optimistic and good. Just one of those days where everything feels bright and shiny right off the bat. Joel and I headed into Walmart early to beat the crowds and so I could have him back in time for the sacred morning nap. I was conscious of my full cart in comparison to the less than ten items in the cart behind us. The guy was texting, so I waited until he was through and asked if he wanted to go ahead of me. He said it was no big deal, that he was happy to wait. And I had that feeling that you get when you were uncharacteristically nice to a stranger. Maybe it was the Christmas music pumping through the sound system.

But what happened once the car was loaded, the baby was buckled in and we headed home? I was singing to the radio when someone pulled out in front of me. And of course, as always happens when someone pulls out in front of you, they decided to go so slow that you had to question whether or not their vehicle was actually moving. I was immediately aggravated. I mean, seriously? They couldn’t have waited two seconds for me to pass?

It’s amazing how quick those flares in us come to life. We can go from being happily smiling at strangers to wanting to run over them. What is that about? Pride? Selfishness? Lack of self-control? Pure habit? All of the above?

“We say it all the time.

A fight with the boss.

Stomach flu. Traffic.

That’s what we describe as terrible...

when nothing terrible is happening.”

~ G r e y ’ s A n a t o m y

I’ve seen lots of complaints recently about Daylight Savings Time, for instance. Jokes about how the leaders who put that into action must not have babies. Because if they did, they would understand the pure havoc it wreaks on all of us young mothers. My son is waking up an hour earlier, no matter how I try to retrain him. He’s not the only one. I’m not the only one with an overly tired toddler in the early evening and a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed kid, ready to take on the world when it’s still pitch black out. But, I mean, really? In the grand scheme of things... when you step back and look at the big picture... okay, so it’s an hour earlier. But you still have your healthy, perfect baby waking up every day. In your own home. You aren’t holding a sick child as they go through chemo treatments in a sterile hospital room.

We say it could always be worse, but we don’t love like it. We say we know we could have a worse schedule, but we still complain about the one we have. We understand that people suffer loss that we don’t quite understand and resolve to hold our husbands tighter and make more time for our grandparents and not get so impatient with Cheerios thrown on the floor. But do we? Do we make the time? Do we pause and weigh our words, our attitudes? Are we just focused on all the minute details... and why? Why don’t we look around? Why are we so focused on how bad it is right here in front of us vs. focusing on how gosh darn blessed we truly are?

I think sometimes we believe it’s beyond our control. This is just how the world works, how moods work, how things go. Everyone complains about the same things. But what happens to you, to your day, to your entire perspective, when you turn the every day complaints into a time to give thanks?

For instance, Joel just woke up from his nap. Wasn’t as long as I would have preferred, but he’s awake. And I could roll my eyes and sigh and not go get him until I’m done here, or I could rush to his room, excited to see his smiling face. I could feel annoyed that my plans for the morning got interrupted and the shower is going to have to wait until later, or I could take five minutes and cuddle down into the couch with my son, enjoying his warmth and taking in how kissable those sleep-reddened cheeks are.

We need to slow down. The way we savor our favorite warm beverage on these cool days is how we should be with those every day moments in our lives. The way we swirl the taste around our tongues, reveling in how much warmer we feel already - that’s how we should live our days. Not necessarily running from one thing to the next, trying to cram more stuff into a life. We don’t need to be hoarders or rabid to-do-list finishers (although I do so love my lists).

But we need to be lovers. Givers. We need to slow down enough so that we can realize that maybe the person ahead of us is driving slow because they don’t feel competent to drive any faster. Maybe the stranger who won’t stop talking to us is merely lonely, not creepy or weird or not worth our time. Maybe our husbands need more kindness and less nagging. Maybe our kids need softer reprimands from us instead of sharp and quick tugging on their little arms.

We are so quick to jump on things to be flustered about.

If it’s a habit, beat it out with a new habit. If it’s pride, get over yourself. If it’s impatience, well, then you better start praying for patience. If it’s a lack of self-control or a lack of mind control, then you better start washing things out and starting over. A friend once said that sin is not something to manage. And it’s not. It’s something to eradicate from our lives. We justify too much. And are ungrateful for too little.

It’s easy to focus on the big sins. It’s easy to avoid those. But it’s a bigger challenge to pull the naughty out, piece by piece. It is the “little foxes that ruin the vines” (Song of Solomon 2:15). It’s not always a roaring stampede. Sometimes it’s those fast little blurs that skirt around. Don’t explain or wave them away. Confess the impatience, the judging, the selfishness for what it is. Sin.

And then give thanks.

“These are the things we beg for. A root canal.

An IRS audit. Coffee spilled on our clothes.

When the really terrible things happen

we start begging God...

It seems quaint now, doesn’t it?

The flood in the kitchen. The poison oak.

The fight that leaves you shaking with rage.

Would it have helped if we could see what was

coming? Would we have known that these

were the best moments of our lives?”

~ G r e y ’ s A n a t o m y

Here Comes the Dirty Sun

2011-11-01T12:22:00.010-04:00

Did I mention I'm pregnant?

Because I am. Almost into the 2nd Trimester and doing great! We're very excited and this past week I got to see our little peanut and my heart thrilled. Baby. Little profile, flailing hands, perfect design. I'm going to be a mother of two. That's exciting and scary. When I think of the harder days, those early months when everything is chaos and nothing makes sense and you fear a routine will never enter your life until the kids are out of the house... then it can seem overwhelming and you get those, "What are we thinking?" thoughts. At a recent health screening I had the nurse tell me, "Wow, you're a glutton for punishment!" when I told her I had a 19 month old son at home.

I think I'm blessed. That's what I think I am.

I'm going to be really honest and I'll probably step on some toes and that's okay. But... and here I take a deep breath... but mom's can be really, really prideful. I'm including myself on this one, before you start sending hate-mail my way. I have seen and have experienced how easy it is to fall into the trap of, "Oh, we're a minority and no one understands how hard life is at home with kids." Really? Do we really think no one gets it?

What about our grandmothers? Or our own mothers? Some may have stayed home full-time while others split the responsibilities of a job outside and within the home. We're all busy. We're all trying to do the best we can. We all want to be patted on the back for a job well done. We all want to know that we haven't been forgotten or overlooked. But most of all? Most of all I think we want people to tell us what awesome little martyrs we're being. That's where the pride comes in. That, "No one sees all I do!" mentality or "My husband just doesn't get why I'm tired at the end of the day!" I bet he does, honey. Do you get why he's tired at the end of the day?

On a good day, mothering is still tough. It's still a job. But what we do at home and what our husbands do at work all day all come together to form the life of a family. Some women complain their husbands don't "pull their weight" around the house. Do you pull your weight around his job? Do you take time to do filing for him or make calls or appointments? It sounds ridiculous, but for many of us, I think we think that way. That they should do their job and they should come home and help us with ours.

I see so many blogs that are focused on encouraging the tired mother. And I get that. I really, really do. I've been downright exhausted for the past three months. I don't think I cooked more than one real meal in the previous twelve weeks (thank God for the most patient husband on the face of the earth). It's felt like too much.... the dusting, the laundry that just kept piling up (clean! But still piled!)... it was overwhelming. But sometimes I forget how overwhelmed I felt when I worked in an office. Sometimes I forget how brain dead I felt by 2 p.m..... pretty much like I do now. Work is work. I don't remember reading blogs for the tired office managers and secretaries and professionals.

I think we need to get away from focusing on how hard mothering is and instead be encouraged by how special it is that we get to stay home. Yes, it's still work and yes we want everyone to know we didn't just take the easy way out. I don't think many think that. And those that do, well, they can think what they want. It doesn't have to affect you or how you view your self worth. But we need to, as my Mom has said many times, "Get off the cross. Someone needs the wood."

It is a privilege to get to spend so much one-on-one time with the children we make with our husbands. It is an honor to have delicious meals on the table or fresh bread in the oven. And I know I have been guilty of complaining about "never having any time". Sister, that's a downright lie. You cannot tell me that you never, ever have time. Because I see your blogs. I see you on Facebook. I buy things from your home-based business. We have time to meet with friends (granted, typically with babies in tow, but that's part of being a mother!) and we get Starbucks. We have lunches out and time to workout and read and have devotions.

We may not have all the time we would want to spend in certain areas. A fifteen minute workout may be all you can get in because you have to make sure you have time to shower and get dressed before the baby wakes up. You may need to lower your expectations. But there is no reason why you should "lose yourself". There is no reason to become resentful of one of those best, best, best eras of your life.

We need to be honest with ourselves and others. I know we don't want to be failures at home. I know we want to do a really good job and have our house humming and our children taught well. I know so well that feeling when you want people to recognize how much you sacrifice to do your job well. But for those who do their job well, there is always sacrifice. For political leaders and soldiers, doctors, nurses, pastors, missionaries... to do anything well, it's going to have the difficult days. That's just a given. We need to stop acting so surprised that something worth doing and worth doing well is going to wear us down sometimes. And we need to stop wanting so badly to be validated by the world. When has that ever really helped anyone?

The truth is, it doesn't matter if people see all you do. We were never meant to do our work with someone else in mind. Unless that Someone else happens to be an Almighty God. All of our tasks point back to Him and we should be grateful for the work we have been given. Whether we sit at a desk all day or we sit indian-style on the floor playing with trucks and puzzles. We need to stop the pity parties. We need to stop the gossip in our mom groups. We need to stop tearing down our husbands or expecting them to award us with medals every day of the week because we did loads of laundry, kept dishes clean and the kids alive for one more week.

Being a servant of God's means that your focus is not on, ultimately, serving anyone on this earth (Galatians 1:10). And sometimes we forget, because we're so focused on keeping things sanitary and picked up and ensuring our kids don't have a steady diet of Fruit Loops. The way we keep our eyes on God is by being thankful. Not by being stuck in the moment or focused on how hard it is to be a stay-at-home-mom. We open the windows to fresh air and mercy when we are thankful for all God has given.

And we will become increasingly thankful and joyful for and in the work He has given us to do when we get back to the basics of what we're really supposed to be doing: serving Him. Get your eyes off of your own reflection and get back to the real work that you've been given. The work that you have been perfectly cut out and equipped for. You are not alone, forgotten or unseen.

God has always known exactly what path He wanted your feet on.

"Servants, do what you're told

by your earthly masters.

And don't just do the minimum

that will get you by.

Do your best. Work from

the heart for your real Master,

for God, confident that you'll

get paid in full when you

come into your inheritance.

Keep in mind always

that the ultimate Master

you're serving is Christ.

The sullen servant

who does shoddy work

will be held responsible.

Being a follower of Jesus

doesn't cover up bad work.

~ C o l o s s i a n s 3 : 2 3 , T h e M e s s a g e

Kissed me till the morning light...

2011-09-15T08:41:00.007-04:00

When you become a parent, it seems you think a lot more about what you're going to leave behind. You wonder if you're teaching the right lessons; the most important lessons. You wonder what kind of legacy will be left in the hearts of your children. You're curious as to whether or not what you're insisting on is the right thing. You analyze your life and actions and think, "Am I a good example?" And we think the big things as we are in the middle of it all; as we demand that they not throw toys in anger or kick furniture and beat their small foreheads on the kitchen floor in a torrential rain of toddler angst.

There are many moments in my life that have shaped who I am. Who I am with God. There are people who have done things, said things (good and less good) that have molded, pushed, challenged, hurt, healed. Some I know, some I only read their words in books and on blogs. But their walks with the Lord - their transparency of their own struggles, their own search to the full life - has shaped mine. And in turn, it shapes my children.

Earlier this year I wasn't in a good place. Outwardly I was still there, doing the right things, but inwardly I was not in a good place. I was not in a place of peace or joy. It was all fear and anxiety and overwhelming, crippling fear. It was sadness and grief, despair and broken pieces in my bleeding hands. But all that changed when I began to learn the art... the very Biblical act... of giving thanks. For everything.

Someone, from their experience, dug a well that drowned my thirsty, aching, hot soul. I came along and it was cool on my face and my hands dipped low and lifted high. My life did not change. Circumstances remained what they were and in fact, harder things came along the way. But I stood at the well and peered in and the depths were infinite and whether I knelt to cry or knelt to praise, I was grateful for all the pieces that I had been given - whether seemingly deserved or not. And the more I gave thanks, the less I thought about what I was owed... I was just plain grateful that I had anything at all in the first place.

I began writing points, every day, in a journal. One by one, every little thing that made me pause or think, "Wow, this is remarkable when

you think of it." I wrote it down. I wrote about birds and cool air. I wrote down iced coffees and quiet times and baby naps that lasted longer than I had hoped, giving me a break I didn't know I had needed until it was given to me. I wrote and smiled as I logged moments with my son and I would watch him and his Daddy wrestle and I would write that down, too. The blessings all mine.

I've said before that I think it's so very important for all of us to tell our stories. To tell the hard ones and the easy ones. To talk about the messy, to not pretend. To put to death the proud, got-it-all-together and dig toes into sand and thrust arms elbow deep into unknown waters to sift and search and mine. To walk through the waters and know He is there. And to talk about it. To walk through the fire and know He is there. And to talk about it. The nights when the babies won't sleep and the days when the phone call comes and drops our knees and drives our heart into our throats. All of it.

And all is grace.

A few weeks or more ago our Pastor said that grace is receiving what we don't deserve. If you started making a list, do you think it would be hard to fill? If you recognize that you deserve nothing that you have, that all is a gift, how would that change you? Would you dig a hole and drill a well of your own? Would you open up the wide mouth to receive from God whatever, whenever, because all is grace? Would the throat smooth and stretch to accept, to swallow, to whisper, "Thank you." ? Would your well fill and brim and would it be there, standing, blessed water to refresh and feed another heart who has given up or bitten their nails down to skin or cried until they are bone dry?

Mornings ago I read in Charles Spurgeon's well loved devotional, Morning & Evening, that we should not despair when there are hard times. For one, if we do that, how are we different than those who do not profess Jesus as Lord? How are we, in those moments of complaint, doing service to the grace and power we claim we have been given? Do we mumble and thrash against God? Do we kick the legs of the coffee table or slam our head down onto our plate when it's not what we want (like my son does)? Why? Why do we do that when we know the God that we have? The unbelief give up, but they don't have our God.

Giving thanks for the small may feel like child's play. When you're giving thanks for warm showers and afternoons at the park and Friday night pizza. But is He not our Father? And are we not His children? Is there ever a time when "thank you" is not appreciated? Ever a time when an accepting, "I'll take whatever You give." spirit isn't welcomed and blessed?

When I was a kid, my sister and I would often go with my Dad to go visit my grandfather on Sunday afternoons. My Grandfather had Alzheimer's and Parkinson's and there weren't many toys at the house, but we gladly went. We would play with the half-door in the kitchen, marveling at it being just our size and enjoying those black and orange wrapped peanut butter candies. It seemed they were specifically for Halloween and yet there were always in that dish on the shelf by the door. When we would leave, we would sit in the backseat and whisper and nudge, "You ask! No, you!" and say quietly, earnestly, down-right-hopefully, "Daddy? Can we go to Dairy Queen?" Sometimes he would look at us in the rearview mirror, smile and take us directly there for Blizzards. Other times he would say, "Not tonight." and we would go home with non-sweetened tongues.

But we quickly learned that if we accepted Dad's, "No." with a good attitude and didn't throw a fit or beg or kick the back of the seat, that he would many times drive us straight to where we wanted so much to go. Sometimes we accepted his "No." with hope that our sweet dispositions would get us what we wanted. That wasn't always the case. Sometime we went straight home anyway. But sometimes? Sometimes we got that Blizzard and went home in pure delight. Little hearts brimming; tummies happy.

I've learned that it's not even about the end, anymore. It's not about whether we get the ice cream or the job or the dream we can't give up. It's about our response. Biblically, God-glorifying, it is about our response to what He gives... good, bad, big, small.

When it comes to what we leave behind... whether it's lessons instilled or good, sound doctrine or Biblical knowledge... I want to leave a well. I want them to know where to go when they are thirsty. I want them to know that giving thanks every time is what they, as God's, should be doing. Giving thanks enlarges your life. The realm of everything grows out of your reach when you recognize how blessed you truly are. It's no longer about what is or isn't. It's about what you have been given, right now and it's a lot. It's worth noting.

It's worth saying, "Thanks." for. Or better, simply, "Amen."

"Give thanks in all

c i r c u m s t a n c e s,

for this is

God's will for you."

~ I T h e s s a l o n i a n s 5 : 1 8

By and By

2011-08-20T11:58:00.009-04:00

I like it... how good God is at the stories. I like how I don't feel foolish with my little lessons, because He taught of how to be a good neighbor and how to return to the arms of God in those little stories. He showed us what He really meant by talking about a sower and a handful of seeds.

Sometimes I think Satan likes us to lessen the lessons, to feel silly about the small notes we feel God is leaving behind for us, because he doesn't want those stories told. He wants our day to day living to be tangled up with impatience and red lights, with bills and people who need us that we resent. He doesn't want us to sit at the Lord's feet and learn and listen. To recognize lessons in life... to recognize that Jesus is in this life. It's not just a Sunday morning, listen to your preacher kind of thing. We honor God by paying attention. He's in it all.

"You have to want to see the well

before you can drink from it.

You have to want to see joy,

God in the moment."

~ A n n V o s k a m p

A day or so ago, I believe it was Saturday morning, I felt desperate for my coffee. Not in a wake me up kind of way, but just that routine. Just that comfort in beginning another day when things are maybe not exactly how I would have dreamt them up to be. I would have written the story differently. I spooned out the instant coffee into my favorite mug, filled with clear tap water and microwaved for 1 minute and 20 seconds. I swished my favorite Belgian Toffee Nut creamer within the bottle and once the coffee was the perfect temperature, I plopped a dollop of creamer in.

I felt time slow and I watched as the cream cooled and swirled into the darkness, changing it forever. It was still coffee, but it was changed. It was drinkable, now. I can't drink my coffee black, no way, no how, but add some sugar to lighten the load and it's tolerable. It's strangely comforting. The bitterness gives way to something I end up giving thanks for.

We all have cups of brew that we would rather not have to drink. If it were up to us, we would push far that mug of abandonment and divorce, that mug of infertility and miscarriage, that china cup of cancer, that ceramic handled mug of tumors the size of small fruits in the small brains of children. We would do away with it all. We would never make that. We would never drink that. We would throw it out before it could stain the rim.

When we say that God gives all things... that He is all knowing, all controlling, all seeing eye on us and within... what does it mean that we are doing when we grimace and push back the bitter gall and say, "No thank you. This is not what I asked for." God is not Starbucks. He doesn't give us a Venti just because we want it. Sometimes things aren't made to order. But we get to choose how we respond. And how we respond is vital to how we live in communion with God.

At any time, if He wants, He can take that warmed glass from our hands and dump it down the drain. But if He doesn't... if He doesn't... what do we do with that? When children stomp and throw tantrums in the toy aisles, do they end up getting what they want? Don't we tell them they are being selfish, ungrateful;... brats. Our complaints against God's will for us are blasphemies. Our refusal to trust, to give thanks, to believe in the promises... it makes us blasphemers. When we do that, we are giving power back to Satan and saying that we believe in the power of his darkness. That we believe he's stronger after all.

"It is suffering that has the realest

possibility to bear down

and deliver grace."

~ A n n V o s k a m p

Even Jesus knew what it was like to be handed a cup that was hard to swallow. Even Jesus knelt and prayed and cried for it to be dumped down the drain. Taken away. But even in His desires to not have to go through what He knew was ahead, He submitted. He trusted and brought it to His lips: "... And going a little farther, he fell on the ground and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him. And he said, 'Abba, Father, all things are possible for you. Remove this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will." (Matthew 14:35-36, ESV)

The more bitter the brew, the harder to swallow. The more strong the aftertaste. But strong coffee is strong for a reason. It has the most power to shake us awake, to animate the blood. Sometimes things have to be swallowed down so that we can go forward. There is joy in that. I feel God sweetens circumstances for us with His presence and His Word. With His people to comfort and encourage. He hasn't left us alone, to sit in a dark corner and drink in the hard.

Whether we see the sugar swirl in the midst of the dark velvet is up to us. We choose what we see and how we respond to it. We can take what we are handed, give thanks, trust that He knows what will best suit our tongues, our hearts. We can risk having that story, that meeting, that parable of our own, with Almighty God. As believers, we have hope and we have assurance. We have the comfort of our Savior. He hasn't left us to swallow it down alone. He doesn't leave us when the results come in or when the diagnosis stops our breath or when the dreams just don't happen.

But He has everything. And that means we have more than all we need.

"You may suffer loss but in Me

is anything ever lost, really?

Isn't everything that belongs to Christ

also yours? Loved ones lost

still belong to Him -

then aren't they still yours?

Do I not own the cattle on a thousand hills;

e v e r y t h i n g?

Aren't then all provisions, in Christ

also yours? If you haven't lost Christ,

child, nothing is ever lost.

Remember, 'through many tribulations

we must enter the

kingdom of God.' (Acts 14:22)."

~ A n n V o s k a m p

Ivory High Gloss

2011-08-17T13:13:00.012-04:00

This is a simple lesson. I sit here and think how I should probably just bypass blogging and go straight for the shower, since I am post-workout and a little unlovely. But I am reminded of the church marquee down the road that says, "Don't lessen the lesson". Sometimes it's the small things that bear repeating. I once heard a pastor say that Max Lucado shouldn't be the only one telling stories. This is why I love blogging.

A week or so ago, while my husband was out of town, I decided to be all crafty and homemakey and repaint the old rocking chair in our son's room. The chair belonged to my parents; they bought it when Mom was pregnant with me and once I knew we were expecting Joel, I called dibs on the chair. I felt like I could handle some spray paint and so I set to work once little man was down for the night. It took two nights to complete (I had to run to Walmart for more paint on the second day) but I did it! And I was ecstatic about the results and couldn't wait to show it off to my husband so he could laud my home making skills.

He was impressed. However, being an inexperienced painter, I was unaware of something: not only did I spray paint a 30 year old rocking chair, but... I also spray painted our garage.

Oops.

So, there is overspray e v e r y w h e r e. On every surface. Nothing was necessarily damaged, I mean, heck, if it's in the garage the odds are that it's not something super duper precious (I had backed the car out... hallelujah for that). So, everything is fine, aside from my husband's lawn mower seat that now has a permanent image of some pliers and a roll of tape or something that he had sitting there.

Oops.

This is how memories are made in a life, right?

But I began thinking: what is the overspray in my life? What am I reaching, touching, covering? Shoot, what am I wrecking? What am I doing and what is the effect and is it a good thing, a pretty finished product, or is it miniscule damage that has a wide reach and a heavy hand? What looks like a faint dusting actually leaves a mark... like the seat on our lawn mower.

The past few months I have been concentrating heavily on making an effort, a genuine act, a habit out of being grateful. There have been some hard, hurtful things, but there has been beautiful things. And I'm finding reasons to be thankful in the teeniest, tiniest moments of every day life. And it fills me up with joy and peace and so instead of walking around, carrying a perpetual rotten tomato, ready to hit the next slow-poke on my way to anywhere (because we all know that our hurry is always justified) I am walking around and calming the heck down.

But for those who don't... for those who are negative, who make a habit of only seeing the bad or only sitting outside the porch of yesterday... Well, honey, I'm sorry to tell you, but your overspray is ruining stuff. It reaches farther than just your own soul bitterness. My Mom always said how it's easier for someone to pull you down than it is for you to pull them up... same lesson applies here. Sometimes we get with our friends and we just vent and the words out of our mouths are words that shouldn't even be spoken anymore. It's over. It's done. Stop the overspray. Stop painting things that were never meant to be painted. Do what is intended and necessary, but stop being the wrecking ball in your life.

We all know the admonishing speak in the Bible regarding our tongues and the damage that can be done with it. There is a lot of correlation between our hearts and our minds - what you think is what you speak. What your heart looks like, well, it falls right past your lips and onto the ears in front of you. We have to renew our minds, train them, guard them... we have to take the reigns with our thoughts. And if you're thinking, thinking, thinking about all that then that felt like this and looked like that, well, it's quite possible you're going to ruin more than yourself. When we are griping about things, do we ever stop to think what this means to our witness? To our professed life as a Christ-follower?

We are commanded (commanded!) to give thanks in all things. To pray for everything with thanks. How is gratefulness moved to the front of the line if we're complaining? How is it thankful, content, well-fed peace when we are saying words to garner sympathy and attention? In the Song of Solomon it says that, "... it's the little foxes that spoil the vines." (Song of Songs, 2:15) It's not the big stuff - many times those are the good stories. The ones that have hope somewhere deep inside, underneath the poisoned apple skin. What damages us are the day to day little things.

The day to day ungratefulness.

I think sometimes we are too easy on ourselves. Convinced that what we do isn't that bad. That we've earned the right to be a little ugly sometimes. But when Christians sin, we pay a high price. It's a big deal when we're not doing the smallest lessons. As Charles Spurgeon said, "Christians can never sin cheaply; they pay a heavy price for iniquity. Transgression destroys peace of mind, obscures fellowship with Jesus, hinders prayer and brings darkness over the soul; therefore do not be a slave to sin." I hear that. It burns. I can't sin cheaply. It's expensive to do the wrong that I do. The wrong that I think and say.

I will choose to spray paint in the open air next time vs. in our garage because I know better, now, and we can choose different with our conversation. That's grace. That's the beauty of a new morning and new mercies. I mean goodness, you get to pick out the paint color and how you want the finished product to look. That's up to you. You get to choose. Spray paint stays in the can unless you do something. You point, you guide. You alone.

We see what we want to see.

There's a lot in this life we can't control; but whether or not our tongues stir love or burn down houses isn't one of them...

"If you want to hear God say,

'Well done, good and

faithful servant.'

You have to do what God says."

~ Veggie Tales, Gideon the Tuba Warrior

Thou Shalt Bite Thy Tongue

2011-08-02T08:09:00.017-04:00

One of the things I love about being a Mom are the life lessons. I like finding out, for instance, that I am capable of more than I think I am. When I gave birth to Joel, even though I was slightly panicked and thinking medication might be the answer, I was encouraged to press on without and I did. And it was a defining moment for me. For the girl who was told she doesn't handle pain well or that I just "wouldn't be able to do it"... well, I did. And it's amazing what one moment in time and sixteen hours in pain will do for your mental strength. When you know you can do something, well, then you know you can do something.

I have found good truths about myself and less flattering ones. I've found I really can exist on less than eight hours of sleep, but I have also found myself short tempered, impatient and aggravated. Having a baby is like that first year of marriage... where you think, oh hey, I can't wait to be this man's wife and live in his house and cook him dinner and wash his socks... you can't imagine being anything apart from him. And then you wake up post-honeymoon and you think, umm, what happened to my life? My space? My way of doing things? Loving someone means getting over yourself and that's not always an easy thing. It doesn't mean you don't love them to pieces. It only means that everyone is sinful and we all want what we want sometimes.

Joel is becoming more and more a kid. He is exhibiting a wonderful little personality and also a strong, stubborn will (that's his father's German side coming out). While he recognizes tons of words, phrases and commands, he's reluctant to say much other than "Dad" and "Dog". However, he's excellent at getting his message across. I wonder how many times during a day I correct his tone and say, "Joel, stop whining." I think I've already said it a half dozen times today and he's only been awake two hours.

I had a kind of light bulb moment as I was changing his diaper and he started to fuss at me. He's a kid and he wants to play indefinitely. He doesn't want to stop and have to mess with some menial task like diaper changing or eating. He's too busy. And while I hate disrupting his play and his learning,

sometimes duty calls. So as I laid him up on the changing table and set to work, he expressed his annoyance with me. I tapped his little baby leg with my index finger and said, again, "Baby, don't whine."

And I thought... Hmm. Even though I haven't had anyone to express my ugliness to yet this morning, mentally I've been very whiny. In my head I griped as I drank my coffee, focused on how I didn't feel real great, how I don't want to go to Walmart, how I wish my husband wasn't working an extra long day today, meaning that I'm going to have an extra long day alone with Joel-Baby, and, and...

Stop whining, Mama.

Because we are now sponsoring a child in Africa (see previous post), my thoughts are frequently on her these days. Aaron and I were commenting on a picture of her that a friend posted last night, just how happy and joyful she is. She doesn't even know how little she has. She's just grateful for the formula in that cup and those loving arms and the cuddles and attention that I know she's getting. Her needs are met and she is content. When I think of her and the other children in that home and elsewhere, I feel juvenile and guilty and painfully ungrateful and immature for complaining about ice cream from McDonald's that was melted before I got it or for being ugly to other drivers or impatient with those in line at the grocery store. Why are we in such a hurry? Why do we think we're so important?

Why are we so two years old?

I saw a quote the other day that said, in essence, for all the ways we say how amazing this life is, we sure complain about it a lot. Isn't that so true? We say we're grateful for life, but we don't act like it. Why do we think we deserve one more day and why do we fill it with discontent? We should be joyful, always. Grateful, always. I realize we're human and we're still sinners and we're never going to be perfect... but that's no excuse to stop trying. To stop melting ourselves into God's will and design for us. You really do have a choice. You really can exhibit self control, bite your tongue, not complain about the plate set in front of you.

"For God gave us a spirt,

not of fear, but

of power and love

and self-control."

~ 2 T i m o t h y 1 : 7

While my son is still learning what I mean and what I expect from his behavior, I certainly know what God expects of me as a thirty-year-old adult and follower of Him. Yes, I have a headache. What of it? Yes, I may have a long day ahead, but so will millions of people all over this world for different reasons. Are my discomforts and less than sparkly moments really worth the breath that God has given me to spend whining about? Is that why He's given me another day? Just so I can greedily take it in and misuse it?

I wonder what would happen to me if I disciplined myself as diligently as I do my boy. I wonder what I would sound like and act like if I was continually directed back to the right path vs. just sitting and calling up a friend and going on and on about what I don't like about my day or my feelings or about someone else's behavior.

We have made a habit out of being ugly and we're all so justified. I mean, of course you would be frustrated, irritable and snippy about that situation. Anyone would. But still. Just because a situation justifies an ungrateful attitude, is that ever really a justifiable option for someone who claims to be redeemed by God? We act like spoiled children much of the time. We stomp through the store, through the Post Office, through the church, even. We are so good about being in a hurry and we skim right over the humanity in front of us. We cut in front of someone. We don't give the elderly respect. We yank on little arms and roll eyes and grit teeth.

I tell Joel not to whine because I don't want him to make those whimpers a habit, a way of expressing himself. I'm not angry at him when he whines because I know right now it's his only way of getting me to understand that he wants (or doesn't want) something. But I correct him because I don't always want him to stand at the fridge and say, "Uh, uh, uh!" when he wants a drink. I correct him because I am teaching him the right words to use. I smile at him, as if to say, it's okay, I understand you, but say it this way.

I understand life has its frustrations and pains. But you know, there's a reason why there's that saying about crying and spilling milk. We get worked up over the little things that shouldn't even be things. We write statuses and blogs and send tweets that are ultimately, frequently, just whiney responses to life. To something God has given.

If I don't want Joel to grow up griping at me, then maybe I shouldn't let him grow up watching me gripe about traffic, my day, his Daddy or when things are simply moving slower than I'd like. I can't demand a behavior and response out of my child that I'm not willing to discipline and cultivate within myself. I have to practice what I preach unless I want my child to grow up and realize that his mother was false.

When you stop complaining, you redeem the moment you are in. When you are focused for what is joyful in it, what there is to be thankful about, you quickly diffuse the impatience, annoyance and spike in blood pressure. I don't want to waste my days whimpering. I don't want to look back on my mornings of coffee and sunshine as merely another moment to sigh and wish I was back in bed. I mean, seriously? We need to stop grunting at what we want and crying about what we don't.

It's time to grow up and use our words. Real ones.

"A man without self-control

is like a city broken into

and left without walls."

~ P r o v e r b s 2 5 : 2 8

Storyteller

2011-07-26T16:46:00.046-04:00

Yesterday, four weeks ago to the day, I sat near the back of our church's sanctuary, crying through every praise song, every prayer. The sermon entitled, "The Valley" was appropriate and so perfectly timed that I knew it was God. It had to be God. I sat and twisted my fingers and took huge gulps of air, blinking away tears as I stared at the ceiling lights. I couldn't keep the salt in. The day before I had suspected a miscarriage while at a friend's wedding and this morning, this Sunday on the 26th of June: I was certain. Once life, but now...

The message focused heavily on Ezekial 37 and the talk and explanation of the valley of dry bones made my heart ache and pound. And it gave me hope at the same time as only God's Word can do. It is God who gives life. Who pumps the heart, pushes the blood,... blows the breath

The Greek word, Pneuma, was presented by our Pastor and I felt the ears of my heart stir, perk, hang on for dear life. The word meaning, "breath ~ air ~ spirit" was the same one used in Genesis when God first created the human form and blew breath, His own breath, into a man and a woman in a garden. And for whatever reason, my thoughts turned from the baby that would never be to the babies that are. The ones that are born all over this big world. There is death, yes... but there is life.

My mind drifted to my close friend, Ashley, who would be leaving soon for Africa with her church. And I thought... what a beautiful name "Pneuma" would be for a little girl. (Except, I later told Ashley, without the "P" because that makes it look strange. Ha.) And the more I thought of it, the more peaceful I felt in my loss, because there is always, always hope... because there is always God. And the more I pondered whether or not to tell Ashley of my crazy thought process, the more I felt that Neuma existed. She was real. She just had to be out there.

I debated whether to even tell Ashley. Maybe I was just being emotional and (a little) crazy. Making up stories and ideas in my head. But I couldn't shake it... didn't want to. I waited three days and finally messaged her, explaining about the service and the weight of "Neuma" on my heart and why.

Ashley has been gone nearly her full two weeks and I hadn't seen any Facebook updates so I thought well, maybe this was just one of those things. One of those things that give us hope and brighten our eyes but is just that. Just a thought. Plus, since I am a writer, I pretty much live in a dialogue. I'm always writing. I'm always living my writing, ready to put pen to paper or fingers to keys. And as the days have passed, I think, okay, I'm just a really obsessed romantic. A dreamer. An author.

And here is where I smile and pause.

But...

But you know Who else is an amazing storyteller? Who else has more experience, more stories to tell, the number one bestseller? He is referred to as Omega, the end... but also, beautifully, Alpha, the beginning. He romances us with words that we read over and over, paint onto walls, stuff into picture frames. His Words... His imagery, His stories... I mean, man, He is a good, good writer.

I'm not the only one who hopes for a good story.

My eyes swell with tears as I remember the phone call I received mid-day yesterday. My caller ID said it was Ashley and I marveled. What? Wasn't she supposed to be in Africa until Saturday? She wasn't home. I knew she couldn't be home. I hesitatingly answered - perhaps it was a fluke. But her voice was warm and true on the other end. Clear. She explained that the phone call would have to be quick and that the day had been crazy and she had stories to tell, but there was something she felt I needed to know right then. Right now.

"I just had to call you,.. Laura... she's real."

My left had clutched the phone and my right hand reached to catch sobs. Fresh, relieved tears, pouring from my eyes, flushed from my soul. And I cry tears again just as I did when I first heard those words. She... is? She's... real? A little girl, seven months old, was brought to them yesterday. And while she already has a name, Kirabo (meaning "Gift"... how utterly perfect!) Ashley told the pastor there my story and they have decided that she will have two names. "Neuma" being added to the name already given.

"I have made,

and I will bear;

I will carry

a n d

I will save."

~ Isaiah 46:4b

God is a God of details. I am in awe of this. I'm one of those people who love dates and timelines. I love looking back and seeing patterns, answered prayers, messages on a wall. I am surprised, but I shouldn't be, that four weeks to the day following my miscarriage, four weeks to the day from when I sat in that sanctuary and felt the weight of an unknown life, a need-to-be-given name.... that God had it all planned out. We think sometimes He's not paying attention... but He is. When He says He knows the numbers of hair on our heads, He's not kidding around. I may not know the number of freckles that dance across the bridge of my nose, but He does.

And something that I think is just a really good story, a fairy tale in real time, He breathes life over and makes it all come true; alive. And you realize very quickly that the best stories you could ever tell, ever live, are His from the very start.

"... since he himself gives to

all mankind

life and breath

and everything."

~ A c t s 1 7 : 2 5

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

EDIT: More about this sweet baby can be found here:

http://thisismyjoy.tumblr.com/post/8100378306/god-brought-us-another-gift-he-brought-me-two

http://flightrn82.wordpress.com/2011/08/13/random-moments-of-grace/

The Olden Days

2011-07-18T09:35:00.012-04:00

There's nothing like having to do without a modern convenience to get you thinking of "way back when" and how in the world people possibly existed without DVR's, frozen pizzas and Netflix. We're having a smoldering week in Indiana (as are other areas, I realize) and on Saturday our air conditioner's fan motor died. It was a little warm in our three bedroom house and I may or may not have whined. Just a bit.

Last week on our way home from vacation, we visited the birthplace of Abraham Lincoln and snapped pictures of the teeny tiny one room cabin, wondering how a family of four lived within its walls. But they did. Somehow. And even without modern conveniences they somehow loved, learned of God and one of them became a very notable, honorable man of integrity who briefly led this country. You don't have to have much to become more.

Aaron mentioned this to me as I fanned myself and packed a bag to escape to the cool environment of my parent's house. It's one thing to sit under a ceiling fan in an 80 degree house. It's another to chase a small person around all its walls for an entire day. So as I quickly packed an overnight bag for me and the boy, my husband mentioned (as he ate a Freezie Pop, shirtless), "Man, how did they do it?"

I've been turning this thought in my head for a few days, even before air left our home and the heat seeped in. I heard the old classic, "Coal Miner's Daughter" on the radio and the lyrics regarding a mother who washed clothes every day on a wash board and read the Bible by candlelight and who had bloody fingers but never complained... how can we, in our age of Facebook and Walmart understand? I have laundry going right now and I don't have a darn thing to do with it other than switching it out and putting it away.

This all led me to think about my Grandma Mary who is an incredible, incredible woman. You want to talk about backbreaking hard work and painful heartache? Try losing your mother in a horrific house fire when you're only six years old. Try having six children with the handsome man of your dreams, only to have cancer take him away in his early 40's. Try carrying on and continuing the family farm, life, raising, loving, rearing children. How about not becoming bitter by it all but continuing on in faith and grace and finding love yet again with a tremendous man who becomes father and grandfather to a passel of more human beings, generations who love him, can't wait to go fishing with him, who laugh at the quick thumb that tells you to get out of his favorite chair.

I adore my Grandmother.

She is simple and she's strong and you know, back when she was a stay at home mom, there weren't blogs or Facebook. There weren't playdates and girls night outs. There was work and cooking and laundry. There was church to go to and children who needed baths. And the thing that I marvel at... that I am a little jealous over... is that there was no shame in that. There was no shame in being in that white house with the fields all around. There was absolutely nothing for her to feel guilty about. She served, she loved, she mothered. That was her calling. It was her job. And there was no glossy magazines to tell her otherwise.

I think of this when I begin to fight the overwhelming urge to do more than home and husband and baby. There's so much to get caught up by. As mothers we're supposed to do so much more than "just" stay at home. Like seriously, I nearly feel guilty because I don't have a home business. That seems to be the thing right now. Or if I have a blog, it should at least be making a profit. It shouldn't just be for a handful of friends who read and comment and share life together. I mean, goodness. What a waste.

I'm not bitter or upset by these things, but I do feel their weight as I buck the pull and obnoxiousness from my shoulders on sometimes a daily basis. That pressure to do more. Be more. No longer does it seem okay to stay home, cook, raise babies, go to church. Now you need to be out and about. If you're home the majority of the time, then you're not doing it right. If you're not super tan and super fit, then you're doing it wrong.

"We have too many

high sounding words

and too few actions to

correspond with them."

~ A b i g a i l A d a m s

And I think of my Grandma who was too busy working and living to worry about such silly things as what was fashionable or "in". She was too occupied with what God had filled her hands with to complain or to fuss with what someone else thought she should do. I am envious of that spirit because I can so quickly get sucked down into feeling that I'm just not cutting it. It would be so freeing if I didn't have to think about pre-baby jeans the second I walk out of the hospital with my new baby. I wish everyone could be free of all these man-made, popular "standards". I don't see the health in them for your spiritual, mental or emotional health. Because if we're focused on all that.... well... then what is happening at home?

Maybe my views are old fashioned. I was raised by a mother who sewed our best and favorite dresses, encouraged excitement when Daddy came home and even went so far as to educate my sister and I at home. Later she involved herself in the ares of activism that God had placed on her heart, but her outward activities never trumped what went on in that little house I grew up in. She learned well from her mother what mattered most. And it wasn't what happened outside the walls of home.

I'm a third generation mother, now. And as I sit here with my pearly white MacBook and my fancy schmancy iced coffee, I smile. I smile and my eyes fill up a little because you know, I get to choose where I look for examples of what is true. I get to admire and absorb the traditions of times gone by. My Mom lived it. My Grandma taught it. And now I have the opportunity to be that kind of mother. I have the space to make our home that kind of home.

In our fast paced, Google-everything-you-never-needed-to-know age, it can still be done. Simplicity can still be had. You choose what fills your calendar. You have a say in who takes up space in your heart, who you make time for, what controls the majority of your thoughts. I think sometimes we think we don't have a say anymore. That we just have to obey what is placed before us. But you know what, you don't.

I want to be less concerned with what "they" say and be more of what God says. I want to find comfort and strength in my calling and my place in life right now. I don't want my energy to be zapped away because I'm trying so hard to meet some unattainable goal set by people who have personal chefs, trainers and nannies. It's foolishness.

I want to be more like my Grandma as I grow up. I want to be more concerned with actions that matter versus just life fillers. Life is short. None of us know how short. This could be my last blog post. My last day. And if it was, would I even think about the home business that never got off the ground or the book I never completed? Will I care that I couldn't get back into the jeans I wore when I was in my 20's? Will I fuss because I didn't eat enough spinach or content because I always ordered tiramisu when given the chance?

And will I look back and regret that I stopped to read a book and make animal sounds in the middle of blogging like I did just now? You always, always have a choice. Your time really is your own. I hear all the time, "I never have enough time! We're so busy!" Sometimes those words come out of my mouth and I feel so stressed out that I just want to pass out on the couch and have Aaron bring me home a Rolo McFlurry because it's been that kind of day. But the truth is, we write things on our calendar. It's our hands. Our Sharpie.

My Grandma didn't have to worry if she should do more because she was. She didn't have to stress that she should do this or that because she was doing the best she could with what she had and with what was before her. I wonder what things my mind would be set on if I was living and mothering that way. If I was just focused on being at home because I am at home and not getting caught in the net of silly mandates that seem to change all the time.

What doesn't ever change - whether nowadays or back then - is that words and actions matter. What we choose to say can't contradict what we do. What we do can't take over what we say counts the most. Simple or busy, full calendars or weeks that are wide open, what continues to matter through the ages is the influence we have on one another. The words we give, the love we have. What we do still matters. We just have more to weed through, now.

But I'm thinking that what matters most is most likely what has always mattered most.

"We must take care to know our place,

take it and keep to it.

We must minister as the Spirit

has given us ability..."

~ C h a r l e s S p u r g e o n

Little Things to Love, Over and Over Again

2011-07-15T15:23:00.013-04:00

I think that's possibly the longest subject line I've ever had.

Because today is the anniversary of the first date with my now husband, I'm a little wispy eyed and dreamboatish. Just a little. I remember the nerves and the polo shirt he wore. I remember how I didn't want to go, how I was so set on eating and going home and being rid of this good ol' country boy who was that and nothing else. In near tears (or were there actual tears?) I called one of my best friends, Holly, on the drive to the restaurant, "I don't want to go! He's just going to be stupid like all the rest of them!"

I was deliciously wrong.

I knew I was wrong the second I wheeled my cabernet wine shaded Volkswagen Passat into a free parking space, one over from a shiny, impressive looking deep blue Ford F-150. He was sitting there, waiting on me and his profile alone made my heart drop down to my toes and then flood my face with heat and possibility. We got out of our respective vehicles, had our awkward, nervous, first-smiles hello and the rest was history.

It was already history and we hadn't even had chips and salsa, yet.

And now, four years since that date and nearing three since he gripped my hand so tightly that I thought the bones would break during our wedding ceremony... it still feels new. It feels old, too. I feel that I've never loved anyone else, ever. And while I know we had our own dating histories and ups and downs and broken pieces and dreams... it's as though that evaporated forever and we're left with hands and rings and a house and a dog. And a baby.

I still can't believe that the two people nervously talking and walking endlessly around a park walkway for hours turned into a husband and a wife. Turned into parents. What are we even doing? It's humbling and it's huge and it's best. Having our son is the best thing we have ever done together or separately. He's the pinnacle. He's the genesis of our marriage, as a quote that was placed in a scrapbook by my sister in-law for our boy so says.

I can't believe it all started so simply. Almost oddly. I love our love story. I think it's important to remember and appreciate where you were, where you've been. I love that I was so tortured and over it all that I didn't care anymore. (Aaron probably would have loved it if I hadn't been, considering this made his job a little harder in terms of convincing and winning my trust). I love that a co-worker turned friend just happened to find him, this stranger, at a local county fair. Grateful she took his business card and left it on my desk with a post-it note.

I believe so much more than I think I ever have before that it's truly the little things that matter. Maybe it's because I've been focusing on all the little details of life, some shiny, some cloudy, some bittersweet, some profound and logging them and thanking God for them. It's the small things I think you remember the best. Like the funny, random things he says that make me laugh until I cry. Or the times when I have been unable to be strong and he has been unmovable. For the times when I needed him to be braver than I was, and he was. For silliness and tickle fights and chasing our little man around the house just to hear that high pitched, adorable squeal we are addicted to.

I don't love my husband because of the things he does or how hard he works to provide for us or how well he cares for, protects and does everything in his power to make sure I'm simply happy. I love him because he's him. Because he's this surprising person who came unexpectedly into my life and turned everything around. I am continually amazed by how tremendous he is. I am so grateful that God let me have him. I could fill an entire journal and then some with simple thank-you's just for that. Just for that man.

And sometimes I'm a little bit of a diva and even in the times when I can't stand myself one more second, when I feel I'm beyond repair, beyond everything, he proves that it's not so bad, that his love stays. It's amazing what love can do. There was a day here recently when I was sitting on the couch in tears when he came into the room. I wanted to deny I was crying (and did) but he teasingly said it was okay and poked at the end of my nose. And I smiled.

I think... you know... that's just love. That's what it is. When you're lost and you're stuck and you're just plain sad about it. Sometimes that's all you need, just that confirmation and reassurance that you know, it's okay to be down but look, I can still make you smile. I can still remind you of what's important. I can still show you little things that are worth loving, worth living. Love is an awesome, grateful thing. I feel so blessed that God lets him and me be a part of our own little corner of it all.

When we were first married we ran into quite a few people who, while they probably thought they were being well-meaning, came off discouraging. They would tell us, "Oh, just wait until you've been married for ten years!" or "Oh, just wait until you start having kids!" The bleak pictures was terrifying to a young bride of four

weeks. But my husband was steady. Reassuring. So much of life is common sense, he would say. So much of people's problems are because of selfishness. And of course when fights do occur what is the frequent, underlying current? Self. Isn't that so life?

Years and children don't wreck marriages. Selfishness does. Sin does. I don't know everything or anything about marriage. I'm still incredibly new at this. I've been a wife for a short time and a Mom for even less. I don't have anything figured out or perfected or failure-proofed. And I'm not looking at the future thinking we ever will. I think we're always going to be two sinners who love each other, live in the same house, watch MythBusters, have babies. I don't think you ever reach a point in life, in love, when it's not about getting over yourself.

But it doesn't just fall in your lap day after day. You have to look for it. Appreciate it. Nurture it. Give thanks for it. Love is work, but not the kind of work some think... such as you have to fix the person or eventually get them trained to behave well in public and to fold laundry just the way you do. No, the work has more to do with meeting needs when you see them, not keeping score and determining to concentrate more on the things that are done and said vs. the things that aren't. It's an age old thing, isn't it? Focus on what you have and realize how blessed you are or spend time and energy and passion on what you don't and wind up feeling empty and losing it all.

Sometimes I wonder if the love you have is based on the love you think you have. Not in a delusional, self-convincing, "Oh no, he really loves me despite how terrible and awful he is." But you can convince yourself of pretty much anything. And if you want to see good, you will see good. But if you want to see failure and shortcoming, you'll find that, too. But only one of them will foster love. Only one of them will encourage someone else's spirit and love in return. The other options will just kill it all off.

Just like it was on that first date... I could hang onto my fierce defense mechanisms or I could give this great guy a chance. I could get over my expectations and the past or I could go on my merry way, convinced no one would be different. Convinced they all really are stupid. I'm grateful I picked up on the little things even then. I'm grateful for smiles that made my heart roll over like a contented puppy and text messages that I looked at over and over again, just to remind myself that it was real. That this was real life ever after happening. And it's the happily happening every day.

And I say thank-you often.

" Come live in my heart

and pay no rent. "

~ S a m u e l L o v e r

Everyday Clean

2011-07-14T09:10:00.012-04:00

We just got back from our little family vacation to the Smoky Mountains. It was beautiful and fresh and it was wonderful to escape from the daily work, the dishes, the trips to Walmart. It was beautiful to just be with my boys exclusively. But it was good to get home and it was marvelous to use my own shampoo vs. what was provided at the hotel. I couldn't believe how different it felt just to use what was familiar. I was thankful for that.

The past couple of months, I have focused heavily on gratefulness. I'm typically a glass-half-full kind of girl, but then things knock the wind out of me, tear my heart out and leave it different than it will ever be again, it's easy for me to fall into somewhere less lovely. Somewhere depressing. I was concerned that it was "in my head" and expressed many times to one of my best friends that I was scared... what if I was doing this to myself? The bloodwork came back a-ok which left me sitting on the floor at my coffee table with my journal and Bible, setting forward to do the hard work with God to get right. To be clean.

I began logging simple praises in an ivory embossed journal that the sweetest friend gave to me for my birthday. I had kept it, unsure how I wanted to fill the pages, but knew it had to be with something more than just my daily ramblings. In grasping for the good to pull me out of the dark well, I found that day after day, the thankful was making me better. Grief is a tough thing. It's heavy and it breaks you and it forces itself onto your shoulders, into your mind, into your words... it takes over. But you have to be grateful or else you'll just stay gone.

The pages in the journal filled up with simple things... the way Joel would smile or how proud of him I felt as he figured out a new toy or embraced a new skill. How thankful I was for the funny man I married and how much he makes me laugh. For new candles and fresh air and the hum of the dishwasher. I felt relief sink into that space between your shoulders where it's so easy to haul it all around and tense up. I saw the bruised colors of blues fade into that nasty yellow green and then to yellow and then eased away, back into myself. Healing. Cleansing.

"The things that make God

dear to us are not so much His

great big blessings as the

tiny things

because they show His

amazing intimacy with us."

~ Oswald Chambers

While God was teaching me the art of saying thank you, I was unaware that He was preparing my heart, my outlook, for what was up ahead. While new life was being breathed back into my lungs and I was no longer feeling so much anxiety that I couldn't sleep or enjoy those around me, new life, the human kind, was starting. I was unaware until it was gone. It was supremely early and my doctor assured me it was no fault of my own, just something that happens. One of those things.

Disappointment flared and the daydreams I had of how I would tell friends and family flickered and faded. But I was thankful that it had happened at all. Thankful that I have a precious little boy at home who loves me and needs me. Thankful at least that, though brief, I had carried life, again. And thankful that at night my arms were not empty. Dark and light. Gray and yellow. Empty, now full.

And then last night, while my husband prepared to attack the jungle that is our yard, Joel and I were reading story books and winding down for his bedtime. And then it just happened. Short legs, unstable little feet and a coffee table that I can barely stand to look at, now. He wailed and I grabbed him, holding him close, thinking we were going to have a big ol' goose egg on that handsome little forehead... but then I saw blood and my stomach dropped. I grabbed a cloth and yelled for my husband. We were out the door and on our way to ER in a flash. I didn't have anything but my baby and his blanket. What else could I possibly have needed?

Less than two hours later, we were back home and I was cuddling a tired boy whose inch or so gash had been closed up with surgical tape and was covered nicely with a bandaid. We rocked in Daddy's big chair, just my little boy and his blanket and me. And as miserable as I felt, as many thoughts flew through my head of how it could have been prevented... if I had only put him to bed earlier, if I had just stacked up the books, if, if, if. But he was happy and content and fell asleep just the same. Unfazed by the day, by the bump and the blood and all the kisses.

Tucking him in bed, I thought about my grateful journal. I was thankful for so much. It could have been worse. There are parents at hospitals right now with babies who would give anything for it to be just because of the coffee table. For it to be something that a bandaid and a hug could fix. To go home, to tuck that baby in their own bed, to wake up and play and read books and then do it all over again. It was scary, it was upsetting and I hate my coffee table with a passion... but it's okay. We're all okay. The wound is clean.

While on vacation, we picked up a CD of worship songs by Randy Travis and listened to it over and over and over again. The mix of traditional hymns and a few modern praise songs thrown in for good measure were as refreshing as the waterfalls we viewed or the white water that tumbled over dark stone. It was as uplifting as the mountains we viewed, the haze that covered it all early in the day and late in the evening. My favorite quickly became, "Softly and Tenderly". I think sometimes we know God is there... watching, protecting, planning... but sometimes when we're just down here, low sitting at a coffee table, we forget the soft and the tender and how Jesus calls us.

I bought a plaque at one of my favorite Christian stores while in Tennessee and it bears the image of a cowboy on a horse with a lamb under his arm and a lamp in his hand. The words read how we are His. How He rescues us, names us, never loses us. It's sweet and soft and tender. It's love. In the dark, where we're lost and cold and hurt... it's still sweet and soft and tender. Softly and tenderly He calls us to come home, come home. And home is Him. Whether you're here or someday There, it is home. And there is still love even with broken skin beneath bandage. He is not unaware. He is not absent. He is not giving up or stopping the search. He knows us by name. He knows us by heart.

The smallest light overpowers the darkness, just like that. The smallest praise... the smallest thank-you for the smallest of things in life... it is great. It is strong. It conquers the negativity and the fear and the anxiety. It fights down the doubt and the should-haves and the if-we-had-only's. We can show up as dirty as we are, but we will still find mercies. We will still end up whole, again. We will still go to bed with fresh, wet hair and curl clean toes into clean sheets. It's not a once in awhile thing. It's a new clean. Over and over again.

Every day.

"... And be thankful.

Let the word of Christ dwell

in you richly, teaching and

admonishing one another in all wisdom,

singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs,

with thankfulness in your

hearts to God."

~ I Corinthians 3:15b - 16

The fishing was good...

2011-04-15T15:49:00.016-04:00

My Grandpa is a fisherman.

A crazy, every-day-of-the-year fisherman. Guess that's what happens when you build a house on a lake and perpetually have a boat tethered to the dock. He has a collection of fishing poles that always intimidated me (maybe because we all knew that as mild-mannered as Grandpa was, if one of us kids messed with them, we would get "the look". And no one wanted that.) and so many bait and tackle boxes full of, umm, bait and tackle. When I was little, he would let my sister and I choose certain worms to keep. Of course I always chose the ones with sparkles.

For as long as I can remember, Grandpa has kept a log of the days catch (or lack thereof). He documents the weather and how many crappie and blue gill he nabbed. He would use those little yearly calendars and just jot down the pertinent information. It always amused and touched me. I guess because I love my Grandpa.

I don't know when he began doing this, but over the past few years at least, I have noticed when I have visited that his log has grown into a larger calendar and he writes more than just the day's catch and thermometer readings. He writes that he went to coffee or that he and Grandma had lunch at the Dairy Queen. He'll make notations about who visited and how nice it was. I love seeing his days summed up in two or three sentences.

This morning, because I visited yesterday and spotted his daily notes, I was thinking of them and how, for one, Grandpa never says anything bad about anyone. He doesn't even complain. I've never seen a note that talked about how some young teenage whipper-snapper cut him off in traffic or how something made him angry. Part of that is his disposition, I know... he's not an angry, hot-headed person. He's genuine and kind, honest, fair and giving to a fault.

That doesn't mean there aren't bad days recorded, however. I couldn't help but notice how he had written "bad day" over March 5th: that was the day my Aunt Joyce went home. He recorded how it was a bad day for everyone, how sad we all were. He made notes of when family visited, whether or not Grandma had a good or bad day while she was in the hospital due to her stroke, what a good boy my son is.

He writes about what matters. In three sentences or less.

And I am thinking that there is a lesson there. He doesn't focus on the trivial things. Who said what. Who hurt his feelings. Who took too long scrambling his eggs or how his coffee was too strong, too weak, too hot. He doesn't complain in life about aches and pains or weariness. And he doesn't write about it, either. I think most of us do the opposite or both: either we talk about it to all who will hear and also write it all down just in case we need to remember how miserable we truly are - or we give a happy face to the world and then rattle on about how unfairly life has treated us.

There have been hurts and unfairities in my Grandfather's life... in my Grandmother's, too. That's just life, folks. We see it all the time. We hear about it, read about it, post statuses about it for all of our world to see. Are we that desperate for recognition? I'm not saying you shouldn't hurt when life hurts and invite others into your pain. I think that's what the Christian community should do. But sometimes it's so easy to focus on truly the little things. We major in the minors. We stress about this annoyance or that person that drives us bonkers.... and really, does it matter?

Today I was clearing out some of the clutter from Joel's bedroom closet, because pre-baby, that closet was my scrapbook hoarding station. Now, to make room for little plaid shirts and pants and pajamas and diapers and every other form of baby paraphernalia, some restructuring has to occur. And along one wall in his room is a massive bookcase housing, you guessed it, books. All mine. And two shelves are just journals. And I thought about just pitching them or setting them all on fire. Cause, you know, there is a lot of drama there that no one needs to relive. And that got me thinking about my Grandpa's simple little logs and you know... he has nothing to regret. There is nothing said that he has to worry will hurt someone's feelings should they stumble across his thoughts.

We all have bad days. Messy days. Days when it doesn't go as planned, when the flames rise up, when the harsh words are thrown, when the anger boils. And we can talk about it and call up our friends and get some sympathy, or you know, we could just let it go before it even has a chance to bloom. Before the bitterness sets in, give thanks for what there is to give thanks for. Before unthankfulness stirs the pot, maybe we should stop and think. Is this what we want to be known for? How we'll be remembered? Thought of? When someone sees my number pop up on their caller ID, do they groan, anticipating some exhaustive diatribe about my woes? Or are they excited because talking to me is uplifting? Are my words simple and focused?

I'm beginning to think at the end of my day, maybe I should jot down a few sentences about what went down. And you know,... maybe if I focused on what the blessings are, maybe I could sum it up in a few simple, beautiful sentences like my Grandpa does. Maybe I would relish the fact that I had coffee and got to soak up my son's smiles. Maybe I would write about a friend who had a new baby and how sweet that is. And after I wrote that, it wouldn't matter if my feelings got hurt or if I was extra tired or if I didn't have the kind of productive day I had planned. Okay, so maybe I didn't catch a boatload of fish like I had hoped. But I bet I caught at least one... and if not, well, I guess I'll take the boat out anyway.

That's what Grandpa does and the thing is, it's not some process for him. It's not some test to see how thankful he can be throughout the day, how unconcerned with pettiness. It's just how he has chosen to live. The sun shines, well, you put the boat in the water and have a go at it. It's overcast? Well, you put the boat in the water and have a go at it. And he comes in, never dejected over how little his honey hole produced. He sits down with a couple cookies and writes in his notebook about his coffee, that my Grandma had a good day and that he caught this and if not, well, better luck tomorrow. No need getting in a hissy fit about it.

I think there is very little worth getting into a hissy fit about. Just by the few notes I have caught sight of in my Grandpa's little faux leather calendars, he has yet to find anything worthy of being negative, angry, unlovely about. He notates bad days and when he is sad. But he doesn't push it to a level where it shouldn't be. A level where most of us take things.

Grandpa has tried to teach me the finer elements of fishing. No matter what I do, my line always gets caught up in a tree or over some sunken log. Or, hooked on the jacket behind me. Yeah, that's happened. So, he has tried to teach me how to fish and it's just not something I'm ever going to have any great skill at. So, I haven't been able to learn to fish from my Grandpa. But maybe I could learn how to live in the midst of what matters from my Grandpa.

No sparkly bait and tackle required.

"God blessed Noah and his sons:

he said, "Prosper! Reproduce! Fill the earth!

Every living creature - birds, animals,

~ f i s h ~

will fall under your spell

and be afraid of you.

~ Genesis 9:1, The Message

Superwoman & God

2011-04-12T06:53:00.018-04:00

This morning after starting my day at 4 a.m. with a baby who didn't want to sleep in his crib and a day that officially started at 5:30 a.m. when said baby decided enough was enough and it was high time for a sippy cup and some oatmeal, I sat down to email a good friend. And just after I hit "send" I had this thought: "I'm going to try harder, today." It was a prayer. A promise. A habit.

I think I say and think this every day. I'm going to try harder, Lord. I'm going to cook an awesome dinner, maybe even a pie! (from scratch, of course!)... and we're going to go to the grocery store and use my stashed coupons; we're going to have sunshine time; I'll shower, do my hair, put on make-up. I'll refrain from popping in Veggie Tales and spend all day reading books and teaching words and colors and animals. I'll do dishes and laundry, put clean sheets on all the beds, change the bag in the diaper pail and of course I will do an hour long workout and eat healthy all day long. I'll limit carbs and eat tons of fruit and baby carrots!

No, seriously. These are the promises I make (you make?) at the start of the day when it's dark and it feels as if you will have all the time in the world. And more than that, you feel this is how it works. This is what you do. What a Mommy does. Because you know, Mom's do everything, all the time. And just to add humor and reality to it all, my husband just came out to where I sit, just after I've put the baby down for his first nap of the day and says, "Can you make me lunch?"

Of course I can, honey!

...

Okay, I'm back from making that lunch, feeding the dog, opening the blinds so that the first beams of the day can leak into the house and my soul. I had to move a school bus and a dump trunk out of my kitchen, as well. I do so love this life. This husband. This baby. But back to the subject at hand:

I have a lot of mom-friends. I have a lot of tremendous, Godly women who love their kids and their husbands. They have home businesses and home school their munchkins, volunteer at church, work part-time and sometimes full-time outside the home. They are part of Bible studies and book clubs and mommy groups. They keep up on the hustle and bustle of life on Facebook and are always faithful to comment and encourage. And they manage to visit with friends and family, plan date nights (rarely, but it does happen!) with their hunka-hunka-burnin'-love. They are busy doin' it all, too.

And they, like me, feel there is something missing. They are frustrated within their relationship with God. Whereas they used to have quiet times - moments to read Scripture and scribble away in a leather-bound or flowery-embossed journal - now they can either barely read a verse without feeling disconnected or the majority of their quiet time, like mine, is often interrupted by a little person bringing me a toy and wanting my attention or coming close enough for me to realize it's time for a diaper change. This is life. This is life with God and babies.

I'm beginning to think that we feel guilty for sensing that things have to be altered. That our private time with God can't be the same it was when we were single, in our apartments, listening to MercyMe and the David Crowder Band. Not only do I not eat an entire pizza by myself any longer, I also don't spend all day listening to Christian radio and conclude the day sitting in the middle of my bed praying to my Heavenly Father. But I still think I'm supposed to. I still think I'm supposed to do all that, birth babies, keep them from turning into rebels and heathens and be that kind of wife that causes other men to look at my husband and think, "Dang, he did good."

I still think I'm supposed to have, a minimum, an hour of solitude with God. A solid hour. Every day. But who am I kidding? There are some days I can't even manage a shower. There are days when the dinner plans don't happen and it's pizza, again. Is that bad? Does that mean I'm failing as a Proverbs 31 woman? There's a lot of pressure and I don't think it's all from society or the church. I think it comes from ourselves. From, maybe, a more wicked place within that thinks the better we do or the more perfect we seem, the more we arrive. The more complete or at peace we will feel.

Maybe we're all control freaks. We don't need to do less, we think, we need to do more! So we volunteer, pledge to cook that casserole and sing in that choir... and then wonder why we are stressed, exhausted and feel completely disconnected from the God of our youth. I think there is enough blame to go around: Satan, us and even the church sometimes push and require too much and leave us sacrificing the blessing of our family: the children that we claim are such a heritage at their baptism or dedication service and the husband we swore up and down was God's gift to us and the parents we are still to honor.

In one of my favorite books of all time, "The Allure of Hope", author Jan Meyers writes:

"... why is this echo not resounding, increasing, expanding in the hearts of women who know the love of Christ? We are far more disciplined than we are at rest, far more committed than winsome, far more "nice" than passionate, far more dutiful than free. Far more weary than filled with hope... how do they live above and in the midst of a frenzied church culture that does not seem to stir their hearts?"

My thoughts are beginning to be these: If I genuinely miss God, I will find Him. I will see Him in the little moments of life. I will feel Him in nature. I will hang on the words and praises coming from corporate worship on Sunday mornings. I will murmur prayers of gratitude as I drift off to sleep. But, on the flip side, if I am merely striving to "fit God in" or seeking to have a Christanized "quiet time" because "that's what Christian people do", then I'm missing it. When I am seeking that, I think that's when I begin to feel hollowed out. When I get caught in the net of striving, that's when I feel far off. When I make promises to the God of everything and who is so unimpressed with my fumbles and my to-do list, that's when I feel that my heart has been carved out and lost somewhere along the way.

We all know that not every day is going to be a mountain-top day. We know that not every day is going to carry with it sunshine and inspiration and boundless energy. There will be days when the linoleum is so shiny it hurts your eyes and days when you hope whatever your kid just put in his mouth wasn't too bad for him. I talk a lot about boundaries... I am a big fan of setting parameters for your life. I think you can do, you just don't have to do it all. I'm not saying it's a bad thing to sing in the choir (I love it!) or bake that apple pie for your man using Grandma's never-fail crust recipe. I'm not saying you shouldn't read your Bible and journal and join a Bible study. I'm merely saying: find out why you are doing these things. What's motivating you? If you are trying to do more so you can feel more holy, then I think you might end up feeling burnt out and burned up, frustrated and tired and unthankful. I know I do.

The truth is: God knows you. He made you, He loves you, He gave you that husband and those kids. You are not messed up. Your desire to write out to-do lists and find the best deal and make the days matter - that's from God. It's not separate from Him. Sometimes the outline of the woman in Proverbs gets a bad rap because we feel overwhelmed and annoyed by her. I think she's kind of like that woman we spot while we're out running errands: she's wearing a cute outfit, her hair is perfect, her make-up is flawless... and she's skinny (even after having like twenty kids!). And we feel frumpy and tired and our kid is throwing their Cheerios on the floor in aisle 5. We're uncomfortable around her, because deep down, we want to be her. We want to do it all and have a manicure, too, by golly! But that's the thing.... where are manicures in the Bible? I think our view of the woman that is put together and who is praiseworthy is really not all that Biblical.

We are insecure about the wrong things.

The passage in Proverbs talks about, first of all, the worth of a woman of character and how trusting and honored her husband is to have found her. There is an emphasis on the marriage relationship - it's not just a passing thing. Marriage is a big deal and I think it should be the first big deal, always. The more secure the husband and wife in the marriage, the kinder they are to one another, the happier and more at peace the children, the more happy the home life. This woman works hard for her family. She focuses on the things that matter: fearing God and in that, providing for her husband and children. She's wise with the checkbook and discerning about how she spends her time. I think she probably had some good boundaries, too.

I don't think it's an either or thing. I am beginning to think sometimes that the things that God sees as holy and good aren't necessarily what we have been taught or pressured to believe are righteous. That, let's say, I spend the day loving my husband and children well, I take the time to talk to a friend and neatly put away the laundry, making my home a haven for all of us, but I don't spend an hour dissecting a verse or two of Genesis. This doesn't mean I don't pray or that I don't ponder the Scripture that I have tucked into my heart. I think it can all be wrapped up together. We just have to change our thinking about what is "acceptable".

This morning, while it was dark out and the coffee was still warm, I settled into my cushy couch to read some of my morning devotional while the little man played with his toys. I had barely gotten into the main idea of the passage before someone with bright blue eyes crawled over, scooting a book of baby animals under his hand. He pulled himself up to the couch, flopped the book onto my lap and smiled expectantly. I put aside my book, lifted my son onto my lap and read about how pigs oink and ducks quack... at least five times.

And you know... I think that was one of the best devotional times I've had in a long time.

"Then He told them what

they could expect for themselves:

"Anyone who intends to come

with me has to let me lead.

You're not in the

driver's seat... I am.

Don't run from suffering; embrace it.

Follow me and I'll show you how.

Self-help is no help at all.

Self-sacrifice is the way, my way,

to finding yourself, your true self.

What good would it do to get

everything you want and

lose you, the real you?..."

~ Luke 9:23-24, The Message

Spring Eternal

2011-03-15T11:15:00.021-04:00

A few days ago I was trying to take a nap (I was unsuccessful and that stinks) while baby recharged his batteries and I laid there in bed and listened to the chirping of the birds outside. It made my heart flutter. Spring. That feeling filled with sunshine and first kisses and nights sleeping with the windows open. I imagined the scent of lilacs stealing my senses just like it always has, thought how my soul kind of trips up on its self to see flowers flourishing in the large ceramic pots my husband bought me last year and anxious to introduce Joel to family outings at the park.

Spring is intoxicating. The honeysuckle, magnolia and hyacinth all holding hands and playing nice with each other. I always joke that I want to bottle the air and sell it. It's that wild. It's that perfect. It's long-awaited and longed for as I look at gray skies and twirl my hair, wondering when all the blah will drain away and I can bask and bake in sun. Everything smells better with the sun on it. Everything feels better. It's as though vibrancy is pumped back into my veins and everything feels like worth living again, even if the dishes, the laundry and the child rearing has increased rather than let up.

Just as there is contrast between the seasons, the cold, the warm, the gray, the yellow.... there is contrast in life. There is birth and there is death. A year ago at this time I was waiting for my body to kick into gear and send me to the hospital. My son turns a year next week (don't even ask me how that is even possible, I don't understand time anymore) and I remember how I spent all afternoon managing contractions, cooking my own recipe of homemade pizza (which ironically I made just this week) and recalling how I insisted we finish watching "24" before heading to the hospital (this had more to do with needing a goal to focus on and less to do with not wanting to miss an episode of Jack Bauer, I swear.)

But in the midst of reveling in the miracle of birth, I am also grieving for a loved life that has ended. Everything feels so human and so fleeting and so very precious. Nearly two weeks ago we lost my Aunt Joyce. Actually, I will rephrase: we didn't lose her. We know where she is. She is in our Heavenly Father's very loving palms. But the fact is, she's not here and so that does really feel like we've lost out. I always joked with her that I was her favorite and she always said she was mine.

She really kind of was.

I've thought for days about what I'm doing right now. I didn't know if I felt the call to write because it would be healing or because I felt I needed to pay tribute to a wonderful, beautiful woman who loved her family and her church. Who treated nieces like daughters. I have been close friends, not simply cousins, with her daughter, Jenny my entire life. There's only a couple years spacing us apart and we played Barbies and Monopoly and slept over on occasion and I inherited all of Jenny's clothes until she stopped growing at barely 5 feet and I kept getting taller (sorry, Jen.)

Because of my closeness with Jenny, it was always natural, always fitting, to be that close to my Aunt, too. Just after Joel was born, she showed up a few times in those early days to just drop by and see the baby. She brought my Grandma Mary with her one time and a friend I didn't know the next. Her excuse was that she was always coming over here to go to her favorite fabric store, but I'm pretty sure my precious little seven pound boy was a bigger draw than any bolt of paisley. She held him and loved on him and I felt she was proud of me, of my new calling as a mother. I felt like we hit an even deeper level of familial bonding: we weren't just a niece and an aunt. We were both mothers.

I cry nearly every time I head to Walmart, now, because in getting there, I have to drive by Main Street where that fabric store is. Just three or four days ago, I burst into tears because I had picked up a gift certificate for her for Christmas - Jenny had asked me to. And my heart broke: did she even get to use it? And I thought of the deli where I had lunch with her, my Mom, another of my aunts and my Grandma. It would never be all of us doing that ever again. I remember that day, what we ate and how the air conditioner next to us nearly blew us all away. I remember her holding Joel and snapping a picture with my camera phone.

I read a few days ago in Donald Miller's book, "A Million Miles in a Thousand Years" and cried understanding tears in the first few chapters as he wrote of his uncle's death. He said, "If you aren't telling a good story, nobody thinks you died too soon; they just think you died."

When my Dad called me to tell me the news of my Aunt Joyce's passing, I bent over in half and sobbed. I kept saying I couldn't believe it. For days later and even now, I often think and say to anyone near, "This has to be a mistake." Part of me kept expecting another phone call. One to tell me that it was really a massive error, they had gotten patients switched or charts confused or something, anything to explain that what was, wasn't. But that call never came. And so we gathered together, we cried while looking at old pictures and giving long hugs. We gave tearful smiles across the room and over flowers. And we said our goodbye for now.

The thing I am thinking today, on another tantalizingly spring morning, with cool and beautiful air circulating through my stuffy house, is this: why do we see death as the "bad ending" to the story? I don't know if it's because we're fearful of death or of leaving loved ones, or even, of leaving earth. I realize death is the great big unknown. But God is the biggest known we can have. Do I think my Aunt died too young because she was telling a good story? Yes. In a very big way, I do. Another quote from the book is this: "Somehow we realize that great stories are told in conflict, but we are unwilling to embrace the potential greatness of the story we are actually in. We think God is unjust, rather than a master storyteller."

Is there potential greatness in this story? Is the fact that my Aunt is now fully with God mean that her story is over? As Christians we know and believe that we are made fully alive in Christ... how much more is she fully alive now in Heaven than she ever was on earth? We tend to think so often that this world is it. That all of our committees and shopping trips and parties are the end all. And it's just not. What matters on earth is that you look like Jesus. And what matters in death is that you go to be with Him.

I fully believe that God is a master storyteller. The Master storyteller. I've seen it in my own life and as much as we have been broadsided by this grief, this aching in our spirits, we can see God's mighty hand. For instance: My Grandma suffered a minor stroke the week leading up to my Aunt's unexpected death. Because my Grandma was ill and in the hospital, it immediately drew the family together. My Mom got to spend nearly a solid week with her sister and their Mother. Had the stroke not occurred, when would have been the last time they were all together? Christmas?

My cousins and my Uncle were able to spend the last moments my Aunt Joyce had on earth with her. Near her. Loving on her and praying and grieving together, not separately or miles apart. Together. They got to say goodbye and not everyone gets that opportunity. Another bend in the story: my other Aunt lives in Japan, near Tokyo and we got word to her and she arrived in the States to be here for the visitation and funeral... she was here just before tragedy struck Japan.

I don't believe in coincidences. Years ago, my youth pastor's wife would say she believed in: "God-incidences". I believe in that, too, more than anything. I believe we are created in a story, even as we are blessed to create within the story we were created in. There isn't always rhyme and reason to everything immediately and sometimes you never figure our why this happened or why that person was in your life. But we do know from God Himself, that He works all things together for our good (Romans 8:28)... and we know that He finishes the work (the story!) that He begins in us (Philippians 1:6).

Who am I to say who goes to be with God "too soon"? In the program for my Aunt Joyce's services, there was an anonymous poem, entitled, "I'm Free". The final paragraph continues to make me choke on tears:

"Perhaps my time seemed all too brief.

Don't lengthen it now with undue grief.

Lift up your heart and share with me.

God wanted me now. He set me free."

I remember reading that the morning of her funeral and thinking: "What if that's true?" What if I believed that God really does want what is best for us and that no matter how much it burns and pains us, God loves my Aunt Joyce and He brought her home. She is free from this world and its stresses, burdens and heartaches. And not that He only wants what is best for her - but what is best for all of us. Who's to say how this story will end? I don't believe it is over now. I believe the reaches of my Aunt's love, her influence, her death, are far from over or explained.

A garden bench at the funeral, a gift to the family, had a quote carved on top that said something to the effects of how our chain on earth has been broken, a link gone, but someday, in Heaven, we would all be connected, again. I keep thinking about that and every time the sorrow feels so big and I sit here and I have no one to cry with, I think about how this is not the end. How my Aunt Joyce's story has a happy ending... and that ending will be when we are all together, again, in Heaven... where we will never, ever, ever be apart.

"When the perishable puts on

the imperishable, and the

mortal puts on immortality,

then shall come to pass the saying that is written:

"Death is swallowed up in victory."

"O death, where is your victory?"

O, death, where is your sting?"

~ I Corinthians 15:54-55

Like water, like breath...

2011-02-21T17:51:00.026-05:00

A few nights ago, I sat on the floor while Joel played around me and I painstakingly went through every toy distributed among the three (yes, three) baskets of toys in the main area of our home. I started by linking all those little rings together. Then I put blocks back in their buckets and assigned cubes, I even made it harder on myself, pushing the triangles through the triangle slot and the oval through the oval slot, vs. just opening the lid and dumping them in.

I was going all out.

I organized the baskets, placing the larger toys in the first, his books, blocks and Bob the Tomato (his stuffed friend from Veggie Tales) in the second. It bothered me a bit that I had "three B's" in the third basket. I mean, I'm not that OCD (but OCD enough to be aware of what I was doing - ha!), but I really wanted books, blocks and Bob in the second, so that's where they stayed. The third basket was filled with smaller, frequently drooled and chewed over toys.

Today when I picked up his toys and reorganized his treasures, I told myself that I was doing this to keep my mind sharp. That I was giving myself an activity that wasn't completely mindless. I think when you're a Mom you do more and more of these activities. You have to. Or else you'll go mad. Or maybe you go a little mad when you give birth and classifying toys based on whether they light up and play music or whether they are interactive means you're already half-way to crazy.

I prefer to have my glass half full, thankyouverymuch.

Anyway, where I'm going with this is not that you need to be obsessive about how you organize your child's playthings (although I personally feel some organization works best for you and for the child - but I'm a newbie, what do I know?), but that you need to keep your brain active in any way you can (this is how I justify playing Scrabble with his wooden blocks. Try it! It's fun!). If you are a stay at home Mom and particularly if this is your first child, my thoughts are these: learn the lessons and find your coping mechanisms now. As we race towards our son's first birthday (oh my word, how is that even possible?!) and contemplate when to add another bundle to the mix, it feels more vital than ever for me to "get my act together".

What exactly does that mean for me? (These are not in order of importance!)

First, you need to know yourself - that means

your limits, as well as your hobbies. I've recently recognized and confessed that I flip (and not in a good way) when my schedule is too full. One of my best friends jokes, now, every time she calls to schedule a play date, "But only if this won't overwhelm you." She's teasing, but she's also allowing me a graceful space to decline (whether she's doing it intentionally or not) if it's too much. I am finding that it's not a sin to say, "No." or to spend days on end at home if that's what I feel I, and my baby, need.

Second, you need to find a physical outlet. If you were a runner before the baby, become a runner again. If you still hold close dreams from your adolescent ballet class days, then find a way to dance. If you need fresh air, then get out there and walk. But every day, as much as it is possible, move. I understand it's hard with small children, whether you have one or five, but if you can find time for your social network (blogging, emailing, Facebooking, etc.) regularly every day, then you can probably find time to be active. And it'll benefit you in so many ways. It won't just help you get into shape and give you energy, but it will clear your head and quite possibly give you the patience you need when someone throws his sippy cup on the floor and flings milk all over creation. Trust me.

Thirdly, you need a treat for those days when you need a nap just like everyone else, except everyone else won't let you. Sometimes what you need, let's be honest, is some chocolate. I keep a stash of dark chocolate in my pantry and have for months now. Initially I thought having a treasure trove of sweets hidden away in my kitchen would be a bad idea for my weight-loss goals and I may or may not have eaten my first bag in less than 72 hours, but eventually knowing it is there is sometimes just as good as having it there... and on the days when knowledge is not enough, it is there for that mid-afternoon pick-me-up.

Fourthly, and most vital, is nourishing your relationship with God in a new, Mom-friendly/Baby-consuming-environment. In my last post, I talked about how I've had to reevaluate how I "find" God now that I don't have scads of time to sit alone and study. Whatever you have to do in this department, do it. More than the chocolate, more than putting in time on the elliptical.... put in time here. Find it and keep it.

Fifthly, be a grown-up. Go on dates and when you do, get yourself all hot and primped out, just like you did when you were trying to catch his eye the first time. I can count on one hand the number of alone dates my husband and I have had since last March when our son entered the world. This is something that has to become more of a priority for us. Even if it's dinner at a local Mexican restaurant and a walk around Lowe's (this was us a few Saturdays ago!), it doesn't matter. As long as it's just you and him. Also, make friends, keep friends, and be a friend. You don't have to volunteer where you don't have time or heart to give, but love those you love. Choose who is best for you and for the space you are in. You don't have to be everyone's friend. Have dates with the husband and dates with your girlfriends.

And lastly... be present. Don't get lost in your to-do list or your dreams of domestic goddess-ness. If you can do everything and then some and not burn out at both ends, then honey, more power to ya! But I think, for the majority of us, we can't do it all, despite a nagging desire to want to do it all. Many times whenever frustration or impatience boils up inside of me and I start spewing, it's because I have chosen a bad time to not be present with my child. And at the end of my life, what is going to matter more? My goofing off time or how I trained my son? The fact that I blogged consistently or the fact that I read lots and lots of stories about cows that go "Moo" and sheep that go "Baaa"; that I wore out the knees of my pants crawling around the living room chasing our little man just to get him to launch into a set of wild giggles or that my kitchen rug never showed need of a good vacuuming?

I really believe that you have to take care of yourself if you're going to be able to take care of others and be tangibly and lovingly present. You have to care for your physical, spiritual, and emotional health. It's okay to do it for you, because afterall, you are a child of God and He loves you, gave you a body to take care of and not abuse. Just because you become a mommy doesn't mean you stop being your own individual. It's just a little tougher sometimes to find her. But she's there... and you need to take her on dates, workout with her every day and sit her down on the couch with her Bible on a regular basis. And maybe rewarding her with a hunk of dark chocolate every once in awhile wouldn't hurt.

And now, with all that said, I need to go play cars and trucks,....

"She senses the worth of her work,

is in no hurry to call it

quits for the day. She's skilled

in the crafts of home and hearth,

diligent in homemaking..."

~ Proverbs 31, The Message

Holy Little Steps

2011-02-16T21:30:00.006-05:00

My "quiet time" or ideal "God time" involves me and no one else. Preferably I have my iTunes playlist of instrumental music strumming or a quality Christian radio station, a candle lit and various books, Bible and journal strewn on my bed. In the days when I was apartment dwelling with just me and my cat, General Maximus, I spent a lot of time doing just this. And it became, in a sense, "how I found God" and in my mind, it's still how I must find Him, if I intend to at all.

Enter in late nights and nearly a year of interrupted and poor quality sleep, along with days spent trying to balance what I want to do and what I need to do and that has left the books, the Bible and the journal sorely lacking. Not to say I don't try to read or study, but it's not the same. I don't often get that long drawn out time... many times I sit down to get my focus where it needs to be and the baby cries or if he's awake, he's suddenly clawing at me and clamoring for attention. I am learning that God made me a mother and to be a mother that glorifies Him, it means I have to mother. I have to find ways to be me with God with baby.

It ain't easy.

But with all of that said, in the midst of motherhood and of watching my son grow, teaching him how words sound and toys work and which things in the house are off limits to his chubby little paws, I am finding God. I am seeing Him more clearly in some ways than I ever did in that one bedroom apartment with a cat named after a gladiator...

Exhibit A ~ Sleep Training & Night Waking

A month or so ago, we became convinced that we had to start training Joel to fall asleep on his own. He was painfully dependent on Mommy and would not go back to sleep without cuddles, multiple times a night. This was just not going to work long-term. The first time he cried for 45 minutes (with us going in to calm him every 10-15 minutes) before passing out and when he finally did, we were so proud. We were proud of him and proud of ourselves. And in just a day or so, he was going down for naps and bedtime without any fuss whatsoever! Impressive! And what it made me think of was difficulties in our lives and how we have to learn to deal. We have to readjust our expectations. We have to be retrained sometimes. As Joel's parent, sometimes I have to do what is best for him - change his diaper when he wants to stay in it all day, for instance, or aspirating his nose when he'd rather drown in snot, or in this case, learn to fall into a deep sleep that he desperately needs without my constant consoling. I'm still here, I'm still watching, but he has to learn some things sometime. We all do.

Because Joel had become so dependent on me rushing in to check on him and rock him back to sleep or hold him and sway back and forth until he could get back into a sleepy state, we had to exhibit some tough love, meaning: once you're in your crib, you stay in your crib. Joel likes to get up on his hands and knees and crawl around (i.e. run away from you) so there was a lot of pulling him back into place, laying him back down, saying, "No, no, it's sleepy time." patting him and walking out, only to hear immediate screams. But in no time at all he learned that he was okay and could fall back asleep on his own. Why? Maybe because he knows that if he really ever needs me, Mom is there. In my room hangs a picture with the verse, "The sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord will watch over your life." Every time I see that, I think of my Heavenly Father who never sleeps. I like to think that I'm a very doting young mother, but the truth is... I fall asleep. A lot. I wake up as soon as I hear my son's cry, but I still rest. I still nod off as soon as I can. Not so, God. When I get up in the middle of the night with Joel, sometimes I have the clarity and awareness to think of the fact that God is already awake, taking care of both of us. I like that. I like it a lot.

Exhibit B ~ Learning & Growth

Not only do I log all of my little man's accomplishments on a hand-dandy "Baby's 1st Year" wall calendar and baby book, but I file them tightly in my heart. That's because every time he does something new or right, my heart grows and I want to just sit there and cry: I am so proud of him. He's learned to eat "big boy foods" and can hold sippy cups and bottles with enormous confidence. He has stood, unassisted, for the splittest of seconds, before realizing he's not leaning on a piece of furniture or me.

Today, our proud moment was him stacking two large, pillow-like blocks on top of each other. He did it over and over again, so I knew it wasn't a fluke. Typically he flings blocks (and everything else) and is more into knocking down your tower than building one of his own (such a boy!): but today he chose to do something new. To do something totally big kid. I am proud of him when he eats well, proud of him when he stops when I tell him to stop, proud of him when he goes and gets his book when I ask him where it is, proud of him for learning to crawl into my lap to read stories, to "dance" to music, the list goes on. Some things he picks up on his own, but the majority are things that he has seen his Daddy and I do. He's learning by example to stack blocks and eat grapes. And so often when I sit there watching him mature before my eyes, my heart tightens and think: "Is this how God feels?"

When we finally "get it", do we do Him proud?

Exhibit C ~ Peek-a-Boo

Joel LOVES to play peek-a-boo. He thinks it's hysterical. I'll be trying to feed him and he'll throw his little arms up and over his eyes until all I can see is a toothy grin. I know this is my cue to say, "Where's Joel?!" He loves to "hide" from me when we're playing on the floor - to scuttle under the dining room table or set up a fort under the coffee table. Today we were playing his favorite game, which involves me chasing him around and around the outside of his exersaucer, while he giggles and tries to move fast enough to get away from Momma (he never wins!) Today he squealed and crawled as fast as he could under an end table and sat looking at me and I said, "I found you! You can't hide from me! I'll always find you!" And immediately I thought, "That's God. We can't ever hide deep enough or run fast or far enough. He will always, always find us." And as I pulled my grinning boy out from under the table by his chubby legs that make my heart melt, I just smiled. Because I've been pulled out of tight spaces and my own personal forts before. What a relief to be found.

I think all the time how my love and devotion to our baby has to, somehow, dim in comparison to the love "that the Father has lavished on us". It's hard to comprehend such a thing, because I love him so much than I can express or ever write about. I know, too, that as natural as it feels to love Joel... as instant as my fierce devotion was to him from the second he entered this world and was put in my arms.... I know that I know how to love because I was first loved by God. And that's why I can't help but think, in all the milestones and the sleepless nights and the days when I want to lose patience and especially on the days that I do... that I know how to love, only because of what has been poured out on me.

And yes, sometimes I miss the ability to have consistent, long, absorbed quiet times with my Bible and journal and colored gel pens. But the thing that makes me smile is the thought of how I used to view my apartment as a sanctuary. It was just me and God (and General Maximus). But now... now that I am in this house, with this husband and this baby... I think, wow, if that was a sanctuary... then this is a temple. This is a temple with refining fires that burn night and day. This is a temple where we take pictures and where I journal and scrapbook memories as virtual altars of what God has done. Is doing.

As a single woman, eating entire pizzas by myself, or as a stay at home wife and mother, learning to leave the extra pizza for someone else, I am finding that I am not lost. Even though there are days when I may be all fogged over and unshowered, I am not lost. I am still here. I am still God's. I am still worshipping, learning and serving. It's not what it was and for that, I'm thankful. Because now,... now I have a child. Now I have a living, breathing opportunity to die to self. To love as God has loved me.

I have so much more to give... and to gain... than I ever, ever dreamed.

"We love because

He first loved us.

Whoever does not love...

whom they have seen,

cannot love God,

whom they have not seen."

~ 1 John 4:19-20

Sonshine

2011-02-15T14:20:00.013-05:00

On Saturday the sun came out of hiding. She burst through her sky's closeted doors of clouds and paraded around in her favorite dress, the one she had to pack away as Winter approached, the one she's been dreaming about twirling in ever since. The one she has been waiting to show off, because maybe, just maybe, you forgot how the colors swirl about her fiery ankles and cause you to dream, complete with full orchestra accompaniment.

This is what the sun does. It bursts through, it blinds,... it frees.

Thank, God for the sun.

My husband kept little man at home and I ventured out to do my own version of twirling. I drove with the windows down enough to feel the cool air and smell the warmth of Spring crawling back into the earth, back into Indiana, back into me. With my house only five minutes away, but feeling like years, I went shopping. Of course.

The store was unusually crowded with women touching brightly colored dresses, smoothing hands over flowing tops and feeling about thirteen taking in all the variations of pink, coral and blistering orange beaded jewelry. You could feel the heartbeats. I knew I wasn't the only one with flushed cheeks and the feeling of being human and vibrant, especially when I overheard one woman say to the clerk at the counter, commenting on how many people were buzzing about: "We needed this day."

I kind of felt like crying.

Because, I had needed that day. More than the outing by myself and the empty carseat in the back. More than spending a teensy weensy bit of my husband's hard-earned money. More than wearing "real" clothes and not spending another day at home in my stretchy pants. I needed the sun to come back. I needed her to grab my hand like an exuberant best friend who hadn't seen me since school got out and drag me head first to the swings and the merry-go-round and then would boisterously beg me to help her flag down the ice cream truck.

Today is a similar day and I'm enjoying a new Hyacinth scented candle, root beer, french fries and the cool air tickling my toes through the cracked patio door. I had been having a poor day, to put it in the nicest of terms. Poor mood, poor eating, poor time management, poor attitude... you get the idea. Baby boy and I loaded up and headed out to make good use of the coupons this mommy has been hoarding.

I am brought back to my elliptical workout on Sunday (do you like how I'm jumping from one day, to the next and then in between? Keeping up okay?) and I was thinking of that simple statement, "We needed this day." that has caught and held my attention for days since. We do need the sun.... we hear all the time now about how if you don't have enough Vitamin D you'll probably implode or something (I do realize it's a necessary vitamin, I'm just being a snarky writer at the moment).

But Sunday morning had dawned with little to no sun and I was stuck in my house, no worship at Church for this little family, since the littlest of us was sporting an awesome amount of nasal drainage. While Daddy slept in and baby took his first nap of the day, I cuddled up to the table with my Bible and journal and set to work on the most important thing that is most often neglected. And after an hour of reading, underlining and making notes in my journal, I felt my spirit lift and spark. And I thought, "I needed this day."

Speed up to my workout later that afternoon, since I was so restless that I had to do something. You know it's bad when you think spending time on a piece of fitness equipment sounds like "fun". And despite how much I love the sun and her wily ways... I love the Son, too. I know, I know... did you just cringe? I kind of did. There's been so many delineations between the sUn and the sOn.

But despite how quirky and slightly cliche it sounds.... think about it. What if we ached for the Son as we do the brightness in the sky? What if on those cloudy, blah days, we were want to reach for our Bibles instead of scanning the clouds with longing? Lines from a song by Michael Card ("The New Jerusalem") keeps ringing in my ears....

"There is no temple in this town

No sun, no moon, no lamp

For God's own glory is it's light

Illuminated by the Lamb."

My love affair with the sun and my feelings of desperation for Spring to arrive and never, ever leave, are starting to fade. I still can't wait until driving with my windows down is an every day thing and not something I do while also blasting the heat. But what about my love affair with the Son of God? Think about all the things that the sun is and then think of who the Son is. He is God's sun.... He is radiant, He is bold, He is overwhelming. While there is the flaming sun in our atmosphere, Jesus Christ is the flame within us. What the sun does to the sky, turning bleak days into perfect outings, shopping trips and picnics, the Son does within us.

The sun makes me feel all these things outwardly that affect the inner me. What does the Son of God do to me inwardly, that affects the outer me? Can you imagine a world with no sun.... no moon? As much as our days are currently ruled by them, it will not always be that way. Why should my spirit - which is of God - be turned upside down and back again, based on the weather? Even if the sun is not out, the Son is still in.

I understand that the sunlight is necessary and wanted. I'm just beginning to wonder, though, if we are giving the wrong sun (Son) the majority of the power. What sways our moods when it's gloomy out.... do we swing down because the sun is not to be found or swing away because the Son can always be found?

Anyway, just thought I'd share while I sip my root beer, sniff my awesome new candle and thank God for the sun in the sky.... and for the Son that lived, loved and died for me. Just so I could one day shine with Him, for Him, in the new kingdom where we won't want for anything as lackluster and puny as the sun in the sky.

"I did not see a temple in the city,

because the Lord God Almighty

and the Lamb

are its temple. The city does not need the sun or the

moon to shine on it, for the glory of

God gives it light, and the Lamb is its lamp.

The nations will walk by its light, and the kings of the earth

will bring their splendor into it.

On no day will its gates ever be shut,

for there will be no night there. The glory and honor of the

nations will be brought into it. Nothing impure

will ever enter it, nor will anyone who does

what is shameful or deceitful,

but only those whose names are

written in the Lamb’s book of life."

~ Revelation 21:22-27

Ding-a-ling, hear them ring...

2010-12-05T09:56:00.017-05:00

So, two mornings ago, little man woke up ready for the day (it was still dark out, which means Mommy was less ready for the day). As is our typical routine, I put him in bed with me while Daddy got ready for work. In our room we have a slightly goofy, trailer-esque fiber-optic tree that Aaron bought for me when we were dating. I thought, "I'll go plug it in! Joel will be fascinated with the colors as we lay here in the dark."

Can you see where this is leading?

I hopped out of bed to plug in the tree (which is on top of my dresser, right next to the bed) and as I was fumbling around in the dark, trying to find the electrical socket, I hear the most sickening *thud* at my feet.... and then a terrible wail. My son had decided to crawl towards me and, not having a concept of the bed beneath his hands ending, crawled right off the edge and fell a couple feet+ (our bed is unusually tall). I wanted to puke all over myself and very nearly did.

Joel calmed after about five minutes and went back to his MO: smiling. So, that was relieving but I still felt like the

worst mother on the face of the planet. And I knew that when my husband got out of the shower, I'd have to explain the huge thud that he had heard (he had called out from the shower; it felt like it shook the entire house). I was beyond sick to my stomach and equally sick at heart. What would he say? Would he reiterate all the times he had cautioned me about putting him on the bed? In my head I was busy tearing myself up one side and down the other. I didn't need anyone to reprimand me or make me feel bad, I was doing an excellent job all by myself.

As the day wore on and as a fierce red blush began to creep up one side of my son's face and around his eye - I couldn't stop mentally ambushing myself. The recurring conclusion of every lashing was, "I shouldn't be a mother." That's all I could think, over and over. Joel would be better off with someone else. Anyone else. I was not equipped, I wasn't smart enough, careful enough, attentive enough,.... basically not enough of anything that a child, my child, could possibly require and need. I mean, wasn't it obvious?! I had allowed him to step off a cliff into absolute darkness! Gratefully no harm came to him, but still. It never should have happened in the first place. I was destroyed. I felt I had been "weighed, measured and found wanting".

In the midst of the day, as I relived the morning's events, my mind kept centering around a devotional I had read a few weeks ago. It was from Swindoll's "Morning and Evening" book (evening entry for November 11th for those curious) and I kept thinking of these words:

"Remember this: if any other condition

had been better for you than the one you

are in, divine love would have put you there.

You have been placed by God in the most

suitable circumstances... Be content with

what you have, since the Lord has ordered

all things for your good. Take up your daily

cross. It is the burden best suited for your

shoulder, and will prove most effective in

making you perfect "in every good word

and work" (2 Thessalonians 2:17), to the

glory of God. Down, meddlesome self

and proud impatience! It is not for you,

but only for the Lord of Love, to choose!"

In hard times, in good times: it is the best situation for me to be in to learn, to grow, to be taught. I am the best woman to be Joel's mother: that is why I am Joel's mother. For this child, we have been chosen to be his parents - not just for our benefit and blessing, but for his, too. When I'm feeding him breakfast and staring at an angry red mark around his eye, it's hard to believe that I am what is best for him. That someone more careful, more aware wouldn't do a better job.

But not only am I meant to be Joel's mommy for him, I am also Joel's mommy for me. There is something in mothering that God is and will teach me. There will be, I suspect, many, many lessons down the road. Many moments for me to die to myself, to learn to love unconditionally, to exhibit God's grace and forgiveness as I extend mercy and kiss bumps and buy Transformer BandAids. "All things work together for the good of those who love Him." is one of God's many promises in His Word (ref: Romans 8:28).

Perhaps the tumbling-off-the-bed lesson, for me, is not only about being more aware of my son's abilities and antics (I think every mother is aware that something could happen, but we are frequent sayers of, "Oh, he/she is fine!" and going about normal business until something accidental and scary occurs.) but to make me see that in the hard times, those are times God has allowed, in His wisdom, to teach and train me. To make me better, not just for my little boy, but for my great God.

Last night, I thought of this "I am in the perfect place for me" as I was trying to keep my patience while Joel fought bedtime. He typically goes down without a fuss, so when he is contrary, it's tough sometimes to remain calm, because he "knows" how to sleep and what is required. And he's just fighting it, for whatever reason. But last night, as I made multiple trips into his room to tuck him back in (he likes to crawl around the crib, beat the railings with his pacifier, pull himself up and bounce around, etc.) I had to smile. I rubbed his back, smoothed his hair, told him, "You're okay. Mommy is right here. Go night, night, buddy." I had to breathe easier and soften a little, because you know, maybe this is how I'm finally going to whip my selfish nature into shape. Maybe this is how I'm going to make some head-way in the self-control department. Maybe this is how I will finally learn to exhibit more patience.

Parenting is, in many ways, like those early days of marriage. When you come home and the honeymoon is over and you realize your amazing hunka-hunka-burnin'-love does things differently that you do - than you prefer. You put the glasses rim-down in the cabinet, he insists they sit rim-up. You throw laundry immediately in the basket, he leaves his socks wadded up inside his pants. And not only do you find out how real your spouse is, you find how incredibly selfish you are. How set in your ways. And you have to compromise. You have to decide which things are worth fighting for and over and which things aren't.

It's the same with mothering. I am finding, all over again, just how faulty and selfish I really am. How much farther I have to go in the holiness and perfecting departments. It can be daunting. Overwhelming. Too much. And I can feel completely inadequate and hopeless if I focus on how to fix things and "do better" on my own. It's just train-wreck after falling-off-the-bed train-wreck when I try to mold myself into a better myself.

So, I'm trying to remind myself on those days when everything goes wrong, and sometimes especially on the days when everything goes right, that I am where I am because God is sovereign. Because God is all-knowing and wise, He knows what is best for me. The Bible says that parents know how to give good gifts to their children (and desire to!)... and to think how much more our Heavenly Father desires to give us good things, too. Even in the seemingly less than ideal times, they are what is best - in the long-run - for us. No kid wants to be given a Savings Bond for Christmas.... but down the road, it'll be a blessing. It'll prove to be an investment, a benefit for future life.

In the small, in the mundane, in the difficult, in the sickening falls - God is still God and He desires what is best for us. He doesn't stop being God just because a mother turns her back for a second and a baby bumps his head. He doesn't stop being God when the days are long and the baby won't go to sleep. He doesn't stop being God on the days when more coffee just doesn't do the trick.

He's always God. And He knows - with every fiber of a loving, amazing, gracious parent - what situation is the safest, the best and the most beneficial for us. He won't let us continue to fall and bonk our heads. There's lessons to be learned, definitely... but there are many, many gifts under this Father's Christmas tree.... all day, every day.

We have hard times - and good times - because we are so, so loved.

"Whoever spares the rod hates his son,

but he who loves him is

diligent to discipline him."

~ Proverbs 13:24, ESV

Something Learned

2010-11-18T14:39:00.009-05:00

Today has been one of those days. Last night during small group (we are studying Philippians by Matt Chandler) and he said that there are highs and lows "... and sometimes there's just a Wednesday." That middle of the road, nothing special, everything blah: Wednesday.

Except it's Thursday. But it's a Wednesday.

My son learned to officially crawl yesterday. It was an awesome moment and (of course) I had the video camera at the ready. This morning he woke up with more momentum than before, as if he had been working out the kinks of the maneuver last night and was now raring to go. He's in the kitchen before I can blink, chewing on the area rug. He's in my book basket within two seconds of me moving him away from the book basket. He has my magazines in his mouth and recently wrapped Christmas presents crunching and tearing beneath his chubby paws.

I don't mind chasing him. I really don't. I'm happy to be at home with him and I'm excited to see him becoming such a big boy before my eyes. But even the good things can become hard things on Wednesdays. Or Thursdays. Mix in a baby who just discovered he can own his world a little more with every nudge of the knee with a Mom who is sick and hasn't been sleeping and who probably needs to sleep all day, along with a trip to Walmart, back strain and a Dad who won't be home until late. Oh, and despite the fact that baby is basically the Tasmanian Devil (but so much cuter and less annoying), he is also sick.... which means medicine and vapor treatments. Plus there's always the puke. Always.

It's not even 3 o'clock yet and I don't know whether to laugh ironically or burst into tears. ONLY 3 p.m.?! You mean the meal I just fed my son is not the last of the day? That I have one more time of highchair antics and medicine and vaporizing and then bathtime and more playtime, which will mean more puke time and then, finally, bedtime? I fear it will never come. And then feel slightly shamed for my whining, considering that little man is now playing contentedly on his blanket. What a little prince.

Before I sat down here I was fixing up a pan of enchiladas to freeze. I've never made a meal with the intent to freeze (i.e: plan ahead) in my life. No, seriously. I haven't. I have friends who cook and cook before their new baby arrives, for instance. Me? I mean, you're supposed to do that? Huh. Weird. I had my husband order pizza and we were lucky enough to receive some meals from sweet friends and family. Anyway, I figured I'd make a pan of enchiladas because we had the meat, it was going to go to waste and needed to be cooked up. We have lots of leftovers to eat up, so making a meal for us to eat right now didn't make sense. Freezing, for a first, did.

So I'm browning meat and baby is getting into things. So I'm stopping and moving and cleaning up messes on the carpet and going back to the meat. All the while my back is screaming at me every time I dare to move in any direction. Then it comes to putting the enchiladas together and cheese is everywhere and I keep dropping the meat on the counter instead of on the tortilla and I just wanted to bawl. You know, cry some of those big, fat, dumb tears because I'm spilling the milk and I haven't had a shower and I just want my back to stop hurting. And why does it hurt? Because I love my son and I was swinging him around wildly this morning. Smart.

And in the midst of a pretty involved pity party, I thought of our Small Group lesson from last night... of how Paul learned to be content in all of his crazy and various circumstances (he had way more lows than I ever have, that's for sure!). And I said aloud, "Could I learn to be content right now?" as I slopped more meat anywhere but on the tortilla. And I sarcastically said back to my self, "Yeah, sure, if I wanted to." And kind of smiled at my own nastiness to myself.

Could I learn to be content even if the day wasn't going as smoothly as I felt it needed to go? Could I be thankful for my baby and that his puking was just because he's a baby and not because of a serious illness? Could I learn to be content that hubby will be home later, but he will be home eventually. Could I find some sort of joy in the remainder of my day instead of thinking how great a good cry would feel? Could I be thankful for the extra meat we have that caused me to make a meal for a rainy day? I mean, how awesome that I actually have too much food. How awesome that I have a baby who is developing and can be under my feet in no time... and how fantastic is it that he wants to be there because of me? Me, who is standing above him all sighing and eye-rolling. Nice.

I just stopped to take some video of Joel playing with one of his toys. It's a little set of musical bongos that we bought for him when I was pregnant. He just figured out that if he keeps beating them, they will keep playing (that annoying) music. I had to smile. Could I learn to be content in my circumstances of a Wednesday on a Thursday?

Yeah,... I could if I wanted to.

"Not that I am speaking of being in need,

for I have l e a r n e d in

whatever situation I am to be content..."

~ Philippians 4:11

Welcome Home

2010-10-30T12:52:00.016-04:00

I grew up in the church that my parents literally turned around in one Sunday back in 1979, fell madly in love and got married. The air conditioning in that church owes their thanks to my parent's union: it was so hot that June and everyone was so miserable that they immediately voted to put in air. My Dad served as an Elder, my mom was a frequent soloist (Sandi Patty anyone?) and I was the church pianist from around age sixteen until I was twenty-eight. I was practically born into church attendance. I was even born on a Sunday. I've always known church.

I have not, however, always known about finding a new church.

A few months after my husband I married, we felt very called to leave where we were currently and set down roots elsewhere. This was not without fear or heartbreak. Leaving anywhere warm and familiar and comfortable is terrifying. It just is. It's also hurtful and confusing and something no one wants to do if they don't have to. Ironically, we "ended up" in the midst of a much larger church body than we were accustomed and also a church body that I had been a limited part of for years and years, once upon a time when I served as a youth leader. I used to lead a girl's small group and made lessons and newsletters every week, went to Sunday night youth group, Summer trips, and the whole nine yards. I was committed. I was exactly where I needed to be. And now? Now, we're back, again.

This time, however, I am married and a young mother. This time, I am not known by the youth kids and the ones that knew me are getting married themselves (crazy!). This time, I am still involved with the choir, but no one knows or remembers me - I guess time and baby weight will do that to a person. Many of the people that I knew and served with and adored have been placed by God elsewhere... so I'm new. I'm just one of many in a sea of faces during one of the three services.

When we found out we were pregnant last year, I recall vividly sitting in service at our new church and wanting to bawl my eyes out. There was no one really to tell. There was no one who really knew us well enough that would burst into joyful tears with me. There was no one to ask us out for lunch afterwards. That day, I wanted my prior church family in the most painful of ways. I wanted to announce our coming child and have everyone squeal and us all join downstairs for a carry-in lunch. I wanted community.

This past Sunday we had our son dedicated. Our families were there and I was so excited. I was excited to be doing this, because I felt that it was intrinsically important. Despite taking a five month hiatus from church (I know, I know) and very nearly not returning... we did. And God is blessing us so much that it makes my toes curl. The day we finally returned to church post-baby, I told my husband as we pulled into the parking lot, "I feel giddy." I wanted to jump out of my skin. We were back.

And now, a year+ since that lonely day, sitting in the pew all pregnant and hormonal and tearful, we are joyful. We are received. We have people who notice if we are not there. We are loved. We have friends who practiced with their video camera days before Joel's dedication to make sure it was ready to go. When we arrived for church, they were already seated on the very front row. For us. For our son. How beautiful is that? We have been welcomed. We have been offered hospitality in a land where we didn't belong and where we felt that we never would.

Once we decided to stand tall and dig in our heels, we (my husband and I) told each other that if we were going to go back - we had to get serious. We had to start being givers, not just takers. If we wanted to make friends, then maybe we needed to make the first move. If we wanted to not be strangers, then maybe we needed to get involved. We joined a Small Group, he played softball and I nervously joined a MOPS group. I frequently stalk people on Facebook that I meet just once or that I haven't even met at all in an effort to branch out. Not just for my benefit, but hopefully for theirs, too.

Because, the way I think, I bet they don't want to be alone, either. I bet they feel nervous and scared and wishing to belong more than maybe they do. Sometimes I see young mothers, just like me, and I wonder how long they've been attending and do they still feel brand new? Has anyone helped them carve out a place for themselves? Has anyone said, "Here, let's dig you a place right here for your roots. Right here next to mine."

I was reading last week and came across a quote by Julianus Pomerius that said, "Un-bend one's self." And that's such a hard thing to do. But it's what you must do. You have to open your life, your home. You have to get past your nerves and join a group or sing in the choir. If you don't, you won't stay. And if you don't... maybe they won't stay. We can't stay wrapped in the same cocoon of friendships, small groups or activities. You have to branch out. Serve where you've never served before. Sit in *gasp* a new pew on the other side of the sanctuary. Learn names, not just faces. Study the church directory. These people are your sacred family.

Neglecting to show hospitality is a Biblical no-no. We focus so much on not killing, not envying, and not cheating on our spouses with each other's spouses, that we overlook some simple things like loving as Christ loves us and being hospitable. "Be alert servants of the Master... don't quit in hard times; pray all the harder. Help needy Christians; be inventive in hospitality." (Romans 12:1, The Message).

For the record: we're all needy Christians. We're all in need of some kindness and outreach.

If there is a place where people should never feel alone, it is in the midst of the Body of Christ. The last place you should feel like an alien or an outsider or a very nearly unwelcome observer is in the church. What is a church really accomplishing if the people within its walls feel as though they are invisible? Is it their fault that they feel that way... or is it the fault of us, as Christians (Christ-followers) not executing the commandments of kindness and mercy very well? Church can't just be about what you get from what - it has to be about what you can give. Where you can lend a hand. Who you can hold a door open for or who you can invite to your mid-week Bible study. It's about asking God's people - young and old - into your home. Into your lives. It's about the older mingling with the younger - learning, growing and serving together.

It's about being the Body. Some are hands. Some are feet. But we're all connected. We need to make sure that when we gather together on Sunday mornings (and the days in between) that we're acting like it...

"For this very reason, make every effort

to add to your faith goodness; and to

goodness, knowledge; and to knowledge,

self-control; and to self-control,

perseverance; and to perseverance, godliness;

and to godliness, brotherly kindness;

and to brotherly kindness, love. For if you

possess these qualities in

i n c r e a s i n g

measure they will keep you from being

ineffective and unproductive

in your knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ."

~ 2 Peter 1:5-8

And you call my bluff...

2010-10-15T09:23:00.006-04:00

We've been doing a study on Philippians in my Small Group and the past few weeks have been eating away at me. And it's not the first time that these things have shoved their way to the front of my mind, waving and screeching, "Look at me! Look at me!" I need to pay attention. I need to be decisive.

With a little boy at home who is daily becoming more and more bright and aware (despite the fact that he will not do it when his Dad is around, he does look for our dog when I ask him where Ruger is) it is even more convicting to put "the first things first". But it's so easy to get distracted. Just this morning I even said to Joel, "Now we need to pray before your breakfast." and what happened? By the time I got him settled in his chair and he started wildly kicking his legs in anticipation for his oatmeal and mangos, I went straight to feeding his little face and forgot my goal of less than five minutes earlier. We did, however, redeem the time by talking about God and how He made us for His glory (yay for my early catechism instruction as a kid) and we did thank God for mangos and oatmeal, even if we didn't bow our heads and hold hands.

The past few studies from Small Group have involved talk about what is "rubbish" in our life and what are the things that are not necessarily sin that cling to us, slow us down, distract us from genuinely pursuing God. I was reminded of this, again this morning when I was checking Facebook and author, Shauna Niequist's status read: "A lot of the most important things in life don't happen online. Hug people tightly. Look them in the eye. Be present. Live well today."

As my pastor is fond of saying: "Amen belongs right there."

My husband and I talk a lot about what things are important and how to balance the gifts God has given with living intentionally and not wasting the time we are given. I don't think there is anything wrong with watching football. I don't think there is anything wrong with sharing pictures and life on social networking sites. I believe in the power and authenticity of a blog. I love email. I get a kick out of new music and blaring my iPod Shuffle as loud as my ears can reasonably handle. I enjoy trying new foods and visiting new places and holing up in my room or on the couch with chai and a book or a journal or my Mac.

I don't believe it's a sin to enjoy the blessings God has given us. It is true that there is "nothing new under the sun" and most everything is, in essence, "meaningless". But it seems that because of this pointlessness, that it makes even more sense to enjoy what is good. What we have been given:

"So I decided there is nothing better

than to enjoy food and drink and

to find satisfaction in work. Then I realized

that these pleasures are from the hand of God.

For who can eat or enjoy anything apart from Him?"

~ Ecclesiastes 2:24, NIV

The next chapter states similarly:

"He has made everything beautiful

in its time. He has also set eternity in

the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom

what God has done from beginning to end.

I know that there is nothing better for me

than to be happy and do good while they live.

That everyone may eat and drink, and find

satisfaction in all his toil ~ this is the gift of God."

~ Ecclesiastes 3:11-13, NIV

God has given us things in life that are enjoyable and they are enjoyable because God gave them to us. The Bible talks about children being a gift and about enjoying "the wife of your youth". I think sometimes the messages (well-meaning, all) we receive in Sunday School can be a bit daunting. We did a study once by a well-known pastor and inevitably you left every week feeling like absolute crud. Not because you were convicted, but because you felt like you had just received a beating. That if you found joy in anything other than the Scripture between your hands and if you ever did anything other than kneel and pray, then you were missing the boat. This same pastor would talk about giving away all that you had, and yet in video segments his kids would be playing on laptops, or a Wii gaming system on their massive plasma television screen. Huh?

I know I talk a lot about boundaries (or feel that I do), but they are so important and there's a need for them, for different types, everywhere! Not only do I need boundaries for my

relationships and boundaries for my son and boundaries for what we do or do not get involved in - but I need boundaries on my words. Boundaries on my thoughts. Boundaries on my time. And even though I don't always want to talk or think about setting restrictions on myself, it's necessary. Very necessary. Why?

Because it's all rubbish.

In essence, Facebook and blogging are not important. There are many people I talk to frequently that I have never met and may never meet on this side of Glory. But in my house, there is also a little person who is wide eyed and daily picking up on more and more. Not only is my job to be a mother, but also a wife. And that means more than just having dinner on the table when he walks in the door. But beyond my daily responsibilities or my "roles" in life, I am, above all, a follower of Christ. But what does that mean? How does that manifest itself in my life?

I have to make time. I have to decide what I need to fulfill or become more of who God is calling me to be. Outside of being Aaron's wife and Laura, the mother of Joel, I am God's. I am in a relationship with the Almighty. How am I spending time with Him? When am I talking? When am I listening? Where am I studying, praying, applying?

I need boundaries. I need to make better choices. I need to not be mindless about the down time I am given when the baby is finally down for a nap. Over the past few days I've really tried to make some lists concerning the different areas in my life (body, mind, spirit, etc.) and what I need in those areas. What are my passions? What are my gifts? What are my callings?

Will I be a better me if I workout every day? You betcha. Will I be more calm and focused if I read my Bible and listen to Christian radio? For sure. Will I benefit from getting involved in my church and throwing myself headlong into making friends? No doubt about it. It's not easy. It's much easier to stay in my house, watch re-runs of "Grey's Anatomy" (which, admittedly, there are days that I do) and waste time online.

But I don't want what is easy. I want what is noble and right. I want what is worthy. I want what matters. Even though it feels like we're going to live forever, we aren't. Even though it feels as if the days just go on and on without end, they don't. There will be an ending. I heard a quote on Christian radio a week or so ago during a discussion on parenting about how the days seem to last forever, but the years go fast. It's so true. I feel like every day is so long and so full. But then when I look back on the past 6 months of Joel's life.... where did it go?! When did he stop being a newborn? He's sitting up, now. He eats "big boy" food. It went by fast. It's still going by fast.

I want to be intentional. I want to be redemptive about the time that I use and the people I spend time with. I don't want to expend the majority of my energy and purpose on pointless pursuits. I believe caring for my home, cleaning, laundry, etc. is important to the well being and harmony of my family. I believe teaching my son shapes, colors and about the Trinity is imperative. I believe I'm a better me if I get time to workout, time to be creative (blogging, writing music, etc.) and that I benefit from being involved and loving on and being loved by the Christian community God has set me in.

What matters? What is its benefit? Evaluate, make a list and take the trash out.

"Gonna hold who needs holdin'

Mend what needs mendin'

Walk what needs walkin'

Though it means an extra mile

Pray what needs prayin'

Say what needs sayin'

Cause we're only here for

a little while."

~ Billy Dean