I'm watching things grow

In honor of the great green day, I’m making corned beef, just like my grandmother used to cook for our family. The nostalgic smells have me thinking about legacy and what a blessing my grandparents, especially my grandmothers are in my life. Not just childhood memories, the things they’ve passed on to me, practical and spiritual, that I see everyday. Regular Bible study. Scripture memory. Love for and loyalty to their families, especially their husbands. The universally appropriate advice, “take a minute away to read a book - you’ll feel better.” I am blessed, my children are blessed by their lives.

I see this blessing in Gwennan right now. Her four-year-old brain is processing the complexity of God in ways that astound and encourage me.

Just last night while we were praying, she says, “Dad, I mean God,” then her head pops up. “Oh, I have two dads! You, Daddy, and God is my dad.” Bows her head again, “God-dad...”

My heart is still smiling at that recognition. Especially on the heels of this conversation...

The house is quiet while the two little ones sleep. Gwennan is up from her nap early helping me in the kitchen. “Mother, when does God stop looking at people?” 

I’m caught off guard for a moment, “Are you talking about our prayer, ‘the Lord turn his face toward you?’” 

“Yes. When does God stop looking at people?” 

We embark on a long discussion about common grace (in 4 yo terms) and heaven and hell and who goes where, when they go, how we know we are children of God. She receives it all with her deeply thoughtful expression and sums it up, “Because I have a new heart, God never stops looking at me.”

She understands better than I do somedays.

I think to quiz her and ask, “What is the place God’s children go when their bodies die?” 

“Heaven.”

“Good. And what is the place people go when they don’t love God?”

“Hilton.”

“Nope. That’s the neighborhood we’re moving to.”

“Oh... hell.”

As I’m sure it was for my grandmothers and mother before me, the greatest blessing in my life is watching my little ones turn their faces to the God who always looks at them. Seeing the truth we daily repeat take root and grow. Witnessing the people you love best in the world learn to love the One you love best. Grace upon grace.

If I could speak to your little girls...

Mommas,

My heart is burdened to the point of distraction. How great is the loneliness of the teenage girl who is earnestly trying to please the Lord, adorn herself with the imperishable beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit. How despairing to realize that every guy you like can have Miley Cyrus or Rihanna naked in the palm of his iPhone, thank you Vevo.

Not that most girls want to suggestively lick strange objects or dance naked for the masses. But we want to be noticed.

What can we Mommas do when our little girls feel broken because no one follows them? Empower prudishness? Help them acquire a subtler sexuality? Encourage them to surround themselves with friends? Promise them attention and belonging once Mr. Right finally appears? Be their best friend?

Here I sit with all I dreamed of... husband, kids, family, friends, church. The connectedness I prayed for as a teenager. Belonging to a group and being comfortable in my own skin.

So why do I still feel lonely? Me, who cannot go to the bathroom by myself. And it's not lonely because the house is quiet or Tim is out of town or because everyone is too busy to call. I'm still washed with bone loneliness in a crowded room just like my teenage self walking around those blue and gold halls.

Loneliness exceeds human relationships. Even my husband, and he's my best friend, who knows me through babies and hard times and long nights, still can't know me like I want to be known.

A husband isn't the answer.

Neither is a best friend. Or a Mom. Or a sister. Or a daughter. Or a son.

But the Son.

I am lonely because I need my Father, his Son, the Holy Spirit. My deepest longing to be known is only satisfied in Him.

Loneliness is the human condition passed down with that first errant bite. Our walks with God were over, and the desperate search to be known began.

From the 'innocent' flirt to the brazen wrecking ball swinging wildest child, we are all buying fools gold. Believing attention from one person or the nation will make up for the one broken relationship. But it won't. From one who has every earthly relationship I ever hoped for, it won't.

Why leave adopted children lonely? Unless that loneliness serves us for good. A daily reminder that we're not home. We are strangers and exiles in this land, seeking a better homeland, that is a heavenly one. And we are walking among the dying.

But He hasn't left us wandering around a foreign land. The Lord God is with us wherever we go.

I can't talk to every daughter, young and old, but I can talk to mine, and you can talk to yours. To dispel the lie that loneliness is solved by human relationships. That women who are happily married are never lonely.

To encourage that loneliness might be recurrent, but it is not permanent.

To teach ourselves to be satisfied by the spiritual, not just the physical. As children, we require a face to look at or arms to hug, but part of maturing is training our hearts on the subtlety of God.

For though we might feel alone, we are never alone. God is with us, always. Reminding us that a better home awaits where we will never feel lonely.

I couldn't bring myself to look forward to Heaven or the returning of the Lord when I was a teenager. I too badly wanted the family I now have. Maybe my young ears couldn't hear that what I really wanted was Heaven. But we mommas plant a lot of seeds that must overwinter before they germinate.

So let's plant. Speak the truth to your girls in the face of their need to belong, on the playground or on Friday night. What Miley Cyrus has isn't enough. What the popular kids have isn't enough. What full grown mommas have isn't enough.

Only God is enough. Only He takes away our loneliness. And we must train our hearts to believe. We must train our minds to pray before texting our besty. We must train our bodies to seek God not attention.

For the daughters belong with their Father.


A music video to build you up...

A pattern for busy lives

I can't count how often I'm told to treasure these days with my little ones. Now, I'm pretty sure those parents are misremembering why 'these days' are also known as the 'terrible twos' and 'even more terrible threes.' But I also get that this period is short, and babies grow fast.

Maybe that's why I feel guilty when life runs, well, like Afton. She doesn't walk. She sprints, her slow speed a brisk jog. She doesn't sit. She squats. Even in her high chair, she crouches, all tight coiled muscles. A lot of days, our whole family paces with her, hopping from project to lesson to errand and back.

I feel like I'm supposed to artificially slow time so we can make the most of these young years. The uber-spiritual me begins equating slowly with Godly. As if I'm not really a good Christian momma unless I'm taking slow, deliberate steps. Some homeschooling monk-life figure.

Is it stupid guilt? Yes. Most of my guilt is. Just one more weight to carry while I try to keep up.

During a true slow time, I'm reading Mark. He must understand the whoosh of time. 'Immediately' is his favorite adverb. As in 33 times, his favorite adverb. Makes me think life with Jesus moved pretty quickly too. Rushing through miracles and boat rides and feeding thousands. Then Jesus presses [pause]. He pulls his disciples aside. Warns them of his death. Tells them who he is. Takes a deep breath. Then immediately takes over, they're off to heal a boy.

Pause again. Warn again. Teach again. Back to immediately, ministry frenzy.

Work, pause, teach.

The physical slowness accents the importance of the teaching. Quieting the body to let the mind wrap around something huge.

Slow moments to teach and emphasize.

But not all slow moments.

If we're all quiet moments, the emphasis is gone. A flat symphony no one remembers.

The rush isn't bad. The immediately is part of this earthly ministry where much and more hangs in the balance, and many people hurt, and many need to hear some good news.

If we're only slow, we might not cover all the ground. Jesus walked thousands of miles, touched ten thousands of people during his three year tour. It can't be done if we pause under every tree.

Work, pause, teach.

A pattern to reach the world and build disciples. Meeting immediate needs for many. Imparting a Godly understanding to a few. Sounds like the parent's job description.

A gray joy

Dark gray storming morning. Lying in corpse pose after my first dedicated work out since bed rest. The instructor on my iPhone tells me to focus on my worries and embody them. Seems counterproductive, so I pray moving through the fruits of the spirit. Thank The Lord for his love in our hearts. Ask for peace to be sown in our home.

You missed one.

Pause to recite the verse: the fruit of the spirit is love, joy.

Oh yeah, joy. The little one. That was my mental cue when I was learning the list. Joy was the little word tucked in. Three letters easily missed. Especially on a rainy morning stretched out like a corpse.

Isn't it human how joy can be overlooked in what should be our most joyful seasons? We have a brand new baby. I should be dancing around the house, humming to myself like a scene from Lady and the Tramp.

That's not happening right now.

It's been a very hard year, truth be told. Our assertive bossy one hit the assertive bossy three's. Our emotionally volatile one hit the emotionally volatile two's. We've discovered that personality times developmental stage exponentially exaggerates and elongates the behavior phase. Grr...

Tim and I have been the easiest either. I've been sick and pregnant or recovering and exhausted. Add walking through some difficult, painful issues in our relationship. And saying goodbye to good friends and my grandmother.

I don't mean this to be a gripe list. But in an effort at openness, we're in a long difficult season.

I want to grin and bear it until the next birthdays. Then pray expectantly for an easier year. But the last time I decided I should be done with trials my cousin died and my dad underwent radiation treatment. I don't mention that because I believe God will smite me if I ask for a break. God is not petty.

But 'hanging in there' 1) does not create joy in the present 2) teaches me self-reliance not God-endurance 

And I have no promise that any light at the end of the tunnel is daylight.

But if The Lord is my light, I don't need the sun. Don't need the day. I can walk through the tunnel for the rest of my days and never walk in darkness.

The Christian life is not trial-free but trial-proof. ~~Mark Driscoll

What a depressing, intellectual post on joy. 

Maybe that's why joy is the small one in my estimation.

Why the only "joy" associations I could make during my meditation were a Christmas carol and a verse about suffering.

Maybe this is a huge gap in my everyday that needs some serious prayer and practice. Not a dogmatic self-command, rejoice, damnit, but a new understanding.

Once again I write with no answer.

No answer, yet.

Joy is one of his gifts for all Christians, even the cerebral blogging types.

Shout 'YES!'

Read this today, and it made me want to shout, "YES!!":

"For in him (Jesus), it is always 'YES.' For all the promises of God find their "YES" in him." 2 Corinthians 1:18-19, emphasis mine

Just wanted to pass on that perfectly succinct victory.

Anyone else care to say, "YES," with me?

In the Quiet

One of the most difficult things about blogging is writing for yourself. I find myself evaluating my journal entries for post-worthiness.  My very thoughts feel potentially public.

I'm left with an academic overview of my life, some removed third person narration.

The same thing happens when I read. I find myself flying through scripture seeking verses to teach the girls, verses to add to my memory app, concepts to write into a self-deprecating story.

So ironic... Practicing transparency and accountability with anyone who cares to read my confessions, while avoiding unfiltered honesty with myself.

Publicity requires filtered honesty. Not falsehood or misleading. Truth strained through the sieve of propriety. Sift out the complaining voice, the pious tone, the judgmental thoughts.

Filter long enough and you forget that all that ugly is still present.

In Kenya, we {the wimpy, visiting westerners} filled our water bottles every morning from the designated RO faucet. Healthy, bacteria-free water. Drink all you want. It lulled us into false confidence about the campus taps. Without thought, we started rinsing toothbrushes under the bathroom faucets, straining bacteria into the bristles, exposing ourselves to all the Kenya water had to offer. Filtering the water was necessary and dangerous at the same time. Dangerous by our complacency.

My heart is no different. I filter for the girls' sake, filter for the blog, filter for general politeness and good opinion. Until I convince myself that the danger is gone. That the sickness is no longer lurking. 

Isn't that exactly when I'm in the most danger? When I forget the danger. When I walk confident.

Throw a sheet over the pile of broken glass. Cover my ears to the lion's roar. I don't see it anymore, so it must not be there. I don't hear it anymore, so it must be gone.

The real source of my complacency is my own head racket. So busy forming pretty, filtered thoughts that I don't listen to the real noise inside me. Nor can I hear the words whispered by the Holy Spirit, prompting me to confess, not hide. To repent, not filter.

Because filters deteriorate. Time dulls the mind and all the built up sickness of the heart leaches through, revealing the sharp-tongued old woman who was always under the surface.

It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of The Lord. Jeremiah 3:26, emphasis mine

In quiet, the Spirit does his saving work. Doesn't just clean the outside of the cup, the words that pour forth. He digs deep to the source of the sickness, the very heart of the woman. He chips and digs away the stone heart with its selfishness and bitterness and envy and malice. He provides new, a heart beating with grace and love from the Father, so that what bubbles up isn't filtered. Doesn't need the filter. The words are lovely because he gives us love. The thoughts are beautiful because He is gives us beauty.

We are made pure in the quiet. When we turn off our own commentary to listen. When we release the marvelous thoughts that occupy the mind and practice still.

Still doesn't require rest. Quiet doesn't require silence. It's present in the pre-dinner kitchen clatter if our heart's ear is attentive.

And Still isn't forced by rest. Quiet isn't brought about in silence. Not if minds still race and write and filter the very words spoken to our own selves.

Quiet is a mental position, a humble posture of expectation before a God who speaks enduringly.

In the soul silence we find a new voice filled with honest words. God's gift in Still.

When hands bleed

Like most overly pious people, I like to tell myself that I'm not attached to 'stuff.' It feels other-worldly and spiritual to renounce trivial possessions. 

Then my stuff break.

And I shed tears.

Memories of Christmas morning with my Nannie, opening the box I knew was just for me. It was a ritual between us. These carousel horses. Every year, a new horse with a new song.

I climb the stairs with a heavy heart after Gwennan complains that Afton broke her favorite carousel. I know what this means. It's not just her favorite carousel; it's my favorite. The music box memory of Nannie that I wanted to share with my little girls

And there are their hands and feet stained with tiny smears of blood from trying to clean up their own mess. Shards of evidence buried in the carpet. Glitter and broken glass embedded in quilts and stuffed animals. A stack in the hallway where they wanted to hide their shame, remove it from the scene.

My heart breaks, and my eyes leak as I wash skin, checking for slivers. Wash carpet, checking for slivers. Little pieces of their disobedience lying in wait to pain them again.

The end result: pile of broken glass.

Picture of our sin. All sharp edges. Wounding us over and over as we run circles around the mess we made trying to fix it ourselves.

But this mess needs experienced hands. Fingers that know how to pick up the shards. Fingers that will be cut by our sin, cleaning up the remnants of their own broken treasure.

For he was pierced for our transgression...

He was crushed for our sins...

By his wounds we are healed.

Disobedience breaks God's world, God's order, God's heart, God's relationship with his favorite creation.

And cuts our hearts to pieces, slivers of sin piercing deep and leaving rivers of blood. Slivers of our sin lying around waiting to cut us again.

Then he comes, perfect unstained hands picking up all those pieces in his own skin. Wiping clean our bloody stains. Perfectly gentle and patient with those who deserve the blood and pain. He runs his hands over the wake of our disobedience, leaving nail-shaped scars.
Blood and tears. The price of relationship. The cost of sharing.

I could keep memories packed up, out of reach, safe from damaging forces. But they would never share those memories. Never see the memory of Nannie spinning slowly, plinking out a lullaby.

I could keep my heart packed up, out of reach, safe from rebellion and dishonesty. All those child sins that break momma's heart over and over. But they would not see forgiveness and grace, love from their momma.

I could hide my sin, bury it deep in dark shadows, safe from exposure, conviction. But I would never see the bleeding hands of a savior picking up the shards, taking the pain himself.

The break is good. The shatter a glory. To see the beautiful work of the cleaning.

Faith created

We are learning the 'fruit of the spirit.' Count three fruits three times: love, joy peace. patience, kindness, goodness. faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. We pray for these fruits. Ask the Spirit to give us kindness towards one another. To bring us happy hearts, his joy. To give self-control when we feel none.

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I'm stuck on these gifts. How they can all be faked, learned behavior, masquerading as heart change, hiding the hypocrite inside. All, except faithfulness.

We can't fake faithfulness, not for long anyway.

Life is built to challenge our faith, that the one who is faking it will be revealed and the one bearing true fruit will be pruned.

In that realization, I find a terrifying, freeing parenting truth. No earthly thing creates faithfulness.

I brought you into a plentiful land to enjoy its fruits and its good things.
But when you came in, you defiled my land and made my heritage an abomination. Jeremiah 2:7

How can I bless my children more than God blessed his? How can I give them more, train them more, cite example upon example of God's goodness more than God himself did?

But my people have change their glory for that which does not profit. Jeremiah 2:11

Earthly blessings do not produce faithfulness. No amount of blessed rituals or sacred family practices. I cannot create faith.

Nor can I force it.

In vain have I struck your children; they took no correction. Jeremiah 2:30

How can I discipline more effectively than God? How can I hope to correct my children perfectly, justly, lovingly, in proportion, faithfully at all times?

Yet my people have forgotten me days without number. Jeremiah 2:23

Discipline, even Godly discipline doesn't force faith.

Terrifying. This human momma wants control, wants results, wants a formula. Blessing + discipline = faithful children. Isn't that in Proverbs somewhere? Do it right, and they have to respond.

No. It isn't. And how many times have I watched parents 'do it right' before the eyes of unrepentant children.

Terrifying.

And freeing.

Because I won't do it right. I don't do it right. I will never balance blessing and discipline. I will never parent so diligently. I am frail and weak and prone to wander myself. How can I teach anything else to my children?

And freeing because the book doesn't end with chapter 2 {how horrifying if it did}.

I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts. And I will be their God, and they shall be my people. For I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more. Jeremiah 31:33,34, emphasis mine

He sets his word in place, in hearts made fertile to grow and bear much fruit.

To guarantee that this new covenant will not fail, Christ takes the initiative to create the faith and secure the faithfulness of his people. ~~John Piper 

Faithfulness isn't about training, but covenant. Promise from God through Jesus that he will change our hearts. Create in us a new person that longs for him, that blooms with faith.

His steadfast love completes what all the parenting in the world fails to achieve. Create faithfulness in his children. Amen.

The painful looking glass

I watch a Godly woman anointed and prayed over. Her body attacking itself and causing endless pain. Forced to quit her full-time ministry job for surgeries and therapy. Where is God in her pain?

Or my dad. Almost daily migraines for decades. Stare at a computer until he physically can't sit up any more, lay down in a cold, dark closet until the pain subsides enough to earn the next pay check for his family. Where is God in my dad's pain?

Or my friend whose pastor husband unexpectedly died, leaving her a widow in her 30's with two young sons. Where is God in my friend's pain?

And please don't tell me it's sin. That we live in a broken world, and pain is part of it. If pain is brought on by sin, I feel like the child molester should have the debilitating auto immune disease, not my college pastor. Can't God alleviate that suffering for the faithful? Why are we declared righteous in Christ and still suffer? Why heal some and not all? For every blind or lame or bleeding person Jesus healed, hundreds of others must have believed that Jesus could heal and simply never ran into him. For every Godly person who lives a peaceable day in the West, there are ten who are martyred in the East. Is God's relief random chance? Does he leave some to suffer the consequences of a fallen world and deliver others?

Surely God is bigger than that.

Above all, how does suffering because of a sinful world explain Jesus? If pain is only the product of human sin, how could sinless Jesus face pain? How could sinless Jesus die?

Unless pain is bigger than we know. Unless God is bigger than we know.

I can't speak to every example, but I can speak to two:

1 My own pain - Without chronic migraines, I would remain firmly convinced of my own ability to parent my children, love my husband, serve the church, and build our home. I spend hours, sometimes consecutive days in bed, ice on my head, watching all my hard work give way to time. It only takes a couple hours for the dishes to pile up, for the girls to turn feral, and for Tim to wear down. Not because I'm so good at spinning plates. Because my work on Earth is meant to unravel, so I recognize that my toil under the sun is a breath.

God does the real work in our house. I change sheets. He changes hearts. I point out stains. He convicts of sin. I present basically clean, half-mussed children one day a week. He presents his Son with a spotless bride.

I wouldn't see this without the pain. I know I wouldn't because I didn't for years. Could not see the futility of my work for my efficiency. Years of migraines showed God's work.

And I wouldn't take pain free years in exchange for a glimpse of the glory of God.

2 Without the cross, we would remain firmly convinced of our ability to make up for our shortcomings, to earn good.

Christ's pain was the plan before God said, 'light.' Through his pain, we see God's perfect justice, no sin in his holy presence. And we see his never ending mercy, complete forgiveness, unfailing love. Who else can be both just and justifier? How else can we see his character except through our pain and his? In the ultimate miracle, sin and pain and death serve to reveal God's nature. As the girls' Bible storybook says, "everything would be better for once having been so bad."

We wouldn't see our fallenness without Christ's pain. We wouldn't see His grace without Christ's pain. I know we wouldn't because we don't. Because every other religion is based on our earning. Every other religion says that our condition is one we can atone for. Only Christ says, You didn't earn, you can't earn, I gave. He gladly shouldered the pain of the cross for God's glory that would be revealed.


God's glory gives my pain purpose. Redeems the effects of a fallen and broken world. I'm not just a victim of meaningless suffering. He doesn't withhold his power to heal and abandon me to pain. Suffering can be a looking glass into the glory of heaven. As Christ's suffering was.

And as a mother endures labor to hold her newborn, I wouldn't trade the suffering for the glory.

Misunderstood downpour {or how rain saved a party}

A dead car battery. I can postpone a trip to the grocery store or library. But this trip is special... a little girl valentine's day party. And we're buckled into car seats, boots and coats on, ready to go.

Big one bursts into tears when I tell them the car is dead. 'C-c-can't you find some battery juice, Mommy?'

Now I'm desperate. Scanning my contacts - Monday morning, everyone's at work.

Scanning the street, up and down for anyone with a car in the driveway. I knock on a neighbor's door, not a complete stranger, thank goodness, but a retired missionary couple. He looks puzzled to see a panicky, soaked momma on his doorstep. Please, can we have some battery juice?

A jump later, and we're back on track for the party. The girls shout their thanks to our neighbor. He smiles and says, 'That's what neighbors are for.' Then adds, 'Ya know, we were supposed to move into our new house last week, but with all this rain, they couldn't pour the driveway yet.' He wisely winds up his jumper cables and climbs back into his van. Smiles again and waves.

And I thank the Lord for the rain that has turned our yard into a swamp and held up a build site. For a neighbor who wouldn't mind saving the day for two very disappointed little girls {and one disappointed momma}. For a large grace on a small day. He sees the little stuff.

As I thank Him for the rain, I remember my own bitter heart toward that rain which fell as I was planning our spring garden. The rising puddles still present five days later irk me, especially the ones over last years' garden plot. I recall how beautiful my plants looked covered with tiny white flowers, only to drown the next day in a summer rain storm. Raised beds for tomatoes and eggplants, pots for root veggies, and I'm griping. Griping the drainage and the cost of good dirt and the general inconvenience in a Spring full of projects.

Now I sit, engine running, watching more large unrequested rain drops plink against the windshield. What if these drops fell, each one divinely directed, so we could go to this party? What if Mr. Don's house was held up, so he would be here to save the day? What if I've been grumbling all week against the blessing God was about to give?

Our family reading is in the wandering years of Israel. Each time they gripe about water, complain about manna, threaten to return to Egypt, slavery was better than God, DH and I shake our heads. How could they believe that? How could they grumble against a God making food fall from the sky every morning? This morning, I understand.

God didn't give me what I expected, what I understood, and I didn't trust.

And His grace abounds all the more - grace to forgive my untrusting heart and peace to believe him next time more misunderstood blessing falls from the clouds.

More joy in my heart

We laughed last night as a Baltimore Raven made a purple and gold confetti angel on the field. Grown man giddy and childish. Joyful over a goal complete.

A sweet friend birthed her second this morning. Everyone is happy and healthy. Delighted. Joyful over new life and love and family.

I'm happy enough for the Baltimore Ravens. The Lombardi trophy is nothing eternal, but their excitement was infectious.

I'm much happier, thrilled, in fact, for my friend. Can't wait to give her a hug this evening and present little man with his quilt. Your own pregnancy or a friend's, doesn't matter, those nine months stretch like an eternity. The anticipation of meeting a brand new person, well, I have goose bumps.

With all the surrounding excitement, my heart was a bit downtrodden and raw when I opened my Bible this morning. Accumulation of small stuff weighing on me. But my should be joyful heart wanted very much to curl up on the couch. When I read:

You have put more joy in my heart than they have when their grain and wine abound. Psalm 4:7

And I saw that football player rejoicing in confetti, the team crying and hugging. Big contracts about to be written. Big rings about to be forged. Top of the world. All their grain and wine before them.

You have put more joy in my heart.

I thought of a hospital, my own babies laid in my arms for the first time. Tears of joy and wonder at their tiny noses and pillowy cheeks. Dreams for a family fulfilled. All our grain and wine before us.

You have put more joy in my heart.

Do I really believe that he is my joy, more joy? Yes. And no. But mostly yes.

I do believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living Psalm 27:13 and will recognize the fullness of his joy that he has put in my heart. And I do believe that in him this day is my fullest joy.

When worry hovers

I don't want to write on ugly days. When the cold comes from inside. I hide on those days. Hibernate in pity.

The last two weeks have been wonderful. Sister in town, camping with friends. Tim was home, and we spent time taking stock of our days, counting our blessings. My heart should rejoice before the Giver of every good gift.

But anxiety takes hold. My head makes my stomach turn. And the coffee helps me worry faster.

My anxiety isn't my situation - it's my heart. My heart that mistrusts God. Not even a specific mistrust. General misgiving and unbelief.

I would ask if anyone else struggles with unbelief, but that's a ridiculous attempt to self justify. You're either struggling with unbelief or overcome by unbelief. Anxiety is common, not right.

Break through from the God I'm barely speaking to:

The story of Esther preached - a woman who never records a prayer, doesn't even identify herself with God's people until the last second, and God uses her to save His people. Not even all of his people. His obedient people returned to Jerusalem with Nehemiah and Ezra. This was the rebellious crowd who chose to live in paganism. God used a borderline believer to save a hardened people.

I don't want to stay in a godless, wrestling state with barely a prayer recorded. But I needed a reminder that God doesn't 'need' good people. He uses struggling cowards too.

Today, I am a struggling coward, fearing man and striving after foolishness. There's still a place for me in God's kingdom. Amen.

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{In the beginning} GOD

Have you ever noticed how many times God appears in the story of creation? I haven't. It took a study asking me to underline his name for me to see him. And when I saw him, the creation became a blur, just a new list of stuff that HE was creating.

I usually read the first chapter of Genesis with a kids' Bible in mind. With questions like: What day did amphibians show up? Were they with the sea creatures or land animals? Were sea turtles and land turtles created at the same time? How about bacteria? And fungus? Where do they fit in? How did flowers pop up? {I envision time lapse.} Pointless ponderings. Fun to consider, but pointless.

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Then I underlined the word God.

Did you know? It's not about the flowers or turtles or mountains or stars. It's about God. Over 50 times, about God.

And when you put aside the felt board illustrations, you see God and again, God.

Artist Alfred J. Smuskiewicz

The power in his word. He spoke, and it was so.

The wisdom in his plan. Everything ordered and provided for. Wisdom to build a universe in days that could sustain life for thousands of years.

The goodness of his will. The creator is very good, thus the work is very good. A reflection of its originator.

His sustaining hand. Oceans and land and plants first, then sun and moon. How can that be... except that every system is held together in him. Not a house of cards that must be built in an exact order or crash. He upholds this frail ecosystem even now.

The majesty of the creator reflected in the creation. And he saw that it was very good. As a building reflects the skill of the architect, so the world radiated the creator's glory. 

This is my Father’s world, the birds their carols raise,
The morning light, the lily white, declare their Maker’s praise.
This is my Father’s world: He shines in all that’s fair;
In the rustling grass I hear Him pass;
He speaks to me everywhere. ~~ M.C. Babcock, 1901 

Artist Michaelangelo

 P.S. Bible Study Fellowship is studying Genesis this year. As I learned from Acts and the epistles last year, I'm sure many lessons and posts will come from working through Genesis.

To bloom in native bower

I read this article the other day quoting an interview with Michelle Obama. The first lady casually observed that staying home with her girls could be boring. She enjoyed her work outside of the home and was glad to juggle both. {my paraphrase}

Any time someone describes your day-in, day-out work as boring, hackles raise. Boring connotes dullness, weariness, devoid of challenge or excitement. As if I sit around all day wondering what to do while my children buzz about their lives {anyone who has met a child can guess that isn't a mom's day}.

Boring. It irks me. I hear the same sentiment rephrased by so many people: That might be alright for you, but I need something more. I can't just be a stay at home mom. And I want to lash back with how difficult my day is, and how I keep my mind active, and how important my family is.

Then a little voice says, Aren't you bored sometimes? What about when big one insisted on singing "Old MacDonald had a Farm" every second she was strapped into a car seat for a year?! After months of coming up with animals to imitate {our MacDonald runs an exotic farm}, did I not dread hearing 'Mommy, we sing I-O-I-O'? Am I not bored during the 4th daily kitchen clean up? or the 400th time reading through 'Corduroy'? {yes, yes, I love that book too. I just don't want to read it again... ever}

Our daily rhythm is full of beautiful moments, but that isn't our whole day. So many hours are monotonous busyness, getting-life-done moments. Common. Mundane.

And I am ashamed of how small my world is.

And I wonder why anyone asks about my day knowing that it is mostly messes I cleaned up and phonics I over-emphasized.

Blogging is hard from this perspective. Life is hard from this perspective. Who wants to feel small and tedious?

But boring has blessing.

I once heard, now I don't remember where, that we are never more like Jesus than when we are serving. My small life presents endless opportunity for Jesus practice: serving clueless people who don't understand most of what you say. Pouring out self only to face more demands. It's exhausting work.  Daily meekness lessons.

But the meek shall inherit the land and delight themselves in abundant peace. Psalm 37:11

This momma practice of decreasing has the potential to mirror God in detail mostly missed this side of heaven.

And my joy comes not from my children, but from seeing God increase.

Only in a kingdom where the king takes off his robe to wash the feet of homeless men, momma lives of unwanted chores are turned to brilliant lighthouses. Only in God's other worldly values is mommahood a cherished career with value immeasurable.

Not because we work so hard. Or because our children are the future. But because we are allowed Jesus practice. Our service points to the servant king.

In "Prayers for Children," I found this:

God, make my life a little light within the world to glow: a little flame that burneth bright wherever I may go.
God make my life a little flower that giveth joy to all, content to bloom in native bower, although the place be small.
~~M. Betham-Edwards

Maybe a prayer for mommas as well. Content to serve an enormous God in a small world.

Seeking out a quiet moment

More so than January, September is a habit-forming time. The good kind {I don't reach for a bottle with the changing leaves}. Early fall is ripe for evaluating the summer rhythm and adjusting for a new school year.

With two new babies to care for, my rhythm is grossly off kilter. Where I once had quiet afternoons to spend on study and writing and baking, big one begs for extra books and hungry infant screams for a bottle.

I rise early for the quietest moment I can find. Only God is stirring. Even the sun is hitting snooze. I sit over my tea replaying how many times I have failed with an early morning study time. But I can't fail this time. I've written my day twenty ways. This early moment is the only one.

I beg grace to wake me early and with gladness. That my joy in uninterrupted time at the Teacher's feet will override the urge to ignore my alarm.

The still moment is everything I need for a day. To calm and quiet my soul before the busyness begins.

I feel selfish taking this time for myself, hoarding God's attention. What an awesome God?! That He can give singular focus to His every creature at once. That I could sit seen by God while he infinitely sees 7 billion other people. He is not the great heavenbound multi-tasker, but the Great I Am who sees in secret and in full.

Grace will keep me rising early to seek His face and steady my heart on the cross. Grace will make a hard-kept habit into a relaxing rhythm.

Scratching early in my journal, I remember Brother Lawrence, practicing God's presence in a bustling monastery kitchen after rising for midnight prayers. He lived the schedule of a newborn's mother. God doesn't require quiet and tea. But my frail flesh does. He speaks everywhere if I train my ears to listen.

Timely encouragement: I'm not the only one seeking new habits in a revised routine.

Hypo- and Hyper-

I learned in Endocrinology that hypo- and hyper-, low and high, were opposites that could not exist together. You cannot have both an over-functioning and under-functioning thyroid, both too much and not enough calcium. One or the other.

But that's not the law I see at work in myself. Instead, I see hypocrisy coupled with a hyper-critical nature, feeding each other. Staring at and pronouncing judgment on specks in others' eyes. Blinded to logs in my own eye. Matthew 7:1-5

When I finally catch sight of the log in my peripheral vision {who wants to look at sin head on}, I'm revolted and ashamed. Head hung in hands before the throne. Only half believing God's grace is big enough for the darkness inside.

Recently, I heard a man say that he felt like he believed in God, but God didn't believe in him.

That idea sat with me in a troublesome way. The lie behind it so insidious and pervasive that it took a while to dig it out.

God is the only one who believes in us. He is the only one who sees who we actually are, I mean deep into the shadows we don't even travel to.


We never disappoint God because we never surprise him with our sin. Not that our sin is trivial to him; it's just not disappointing. Disappointment finds it's root in unmet expectations. God expects us to be exactly who we are. And He extends grace to exactly us.

Grace to exactly me, hyper-critical hypocrite that I am.

Big one says of her sin that it breaks God's heart. But immediately follows up with, Jesus fixed God's heart on the cross. Jesus fixes my heart. Jesus fixes Mommy's heart. Jesus fixes Daddy's heart. Jesus fixes Sissy's heart.

Only Jesus can tackle hyper-, hypo- conditions. Only he washes so completely that even the sin we can't look at is covered over, leaving nothing but Christ-righteousness.

Can I get a "Hallelujah!"

Sufficient Grace

I run through lyrics in my head, where the "oh-oh's" come in, that unexpected C natural. Worship is all business this week. How many times do I sing the words before I hear them?

He who has ears... Listen. To the words pouring from your own mouth. Listen.

What are you gonna do when the doctor comes into the waiting room, puts his hand on you, and says, he's sorry. What are you gonna say to God when all you do is pray to God to take the thorn away, and all you hear him say is, "My grace is sufficient."

And I hear, My grace is sufficient for her.

I can accept sufficient for me. My hurts covered. And keep pressing on. I can accept grace for my trials.

What I didn't want and needed to hear, My grace is sufficient for her. Grandmother, all her pain and exhaustion and drowning surrounded by air. How many times have I raised my voice to the heavens and pleaded with God to take her home, give her a new body? How many times does she pray for the same thing?

And all I hear, My grace is sufficient for her.

What are you gonna do when your neighbor walks into your living room, and you tell them he could deliver them, like he delivered you? What are you gonna say to God when all you do is pray to God for them to know his name, and all you hear him say is, "My grace is sufficient."

I grow weary of the continuous rejection of God by people I love. But God doesn't. He offers over and over, no matter the rejection or hate or spit or disdain.

In my weariness, all I hear, My grace is sufficient.

What are you gonna say to God when everything you prayed to God came your way, but you forgot to thank him, and all you hear him say is, "My grace."

And my heart breaks and mends at how wretched I am and how great he is.

But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, and my power is made perfect in weakness."

2 Corinthians 12:9

Compulsive Listing

I love lists. Writing them, organizing them, checking them off {I smile just thinking about checking a box}.

What? No one is surprised?

Actually, I love lists because I'm not naturally organized. I'm a habitual forgetter - drove my mom nuts. When I can't do anything, I remember, then forget when I could. This causes great anxiety because my forgetfulness always lets someone down, usually DH.

But once a task is on the list, it's as good as done. No more forgetting. It's in black and white on Evernote, so computer and phone and even DH can remind me to get it done.

When I sit down in the morning to read and pray, my mind spins with what I need to do, when I have time to do it, what order, what priority. I want to start my list. Then I won't have to think about it any more. I can focus:

God, let me get my stuff in order, then we can talk. Just let me schedule my day, then you can have my full attention.

That sounds so reasonable. 5, maybe 10 minutes to order my tasks and clear my mind before I spend time with God. But it never works. Now I am distracted by the list. Did I forget to add something? Should I plan the rest of the week too? Did I leave room for blogging and cleaning and playing with the girls?

An Encouraging Word

God still feels removed most days. Not Jesus or the Holy Spirit - they feel close. But my thoughts of God the Father tend to future tense: I will see Him in heaven. Or as the distant Calvinist director of all humankind. God in glory and splendor, pillar of fire, blazing throne room. Holy. Holy. Holy. Father doesn't feel like an accurate moniker.

Then that brilliant light breaks through. Reveals Him on the earth. Him, big God, universe-in-palm creator God right here, intimate and invested.

And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you. 1 Peter 5:10

God himself. The one I assume has better things to do. The one I don't bother with my sufferings. God himself.


Restore. Confirm. Strengthen. Establish. Reminds me of the girls: trip and crash, goose eggs and scraped skin, looking to mommy to kiss it and make it all better. Teary eyes pressed into my shoulder.  Nothing removed and distant about that. All access. All present.

All through Christ.

Elijah and Jesus {!} weren't tended to by God. The angels ministered to their needs 1 Kings 19:48, Matthew 4:11. God's open arms come through grace and the cross. A gift when the veil is torn.

See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; 1 John 3:1

Children who suffer and fall and cry, only to meet the arms of the Father himself.

My words fall short. Overwhelmed by gifts of grace.

Offering Dirty Hands

Hold-a my hand, Mommy.

We sit at the lunch table. Her chubby fingers reach out. All I see is unnaturally orange mac and cheese. A mess ready to spread from one person to another.

My detrimentally practical side spoke first. The side of me that would ask Jesus to stop teaching long enough to eat my gluten free vegetarian meal. No sweetie. Look at your hands. Not until we clean up.

A holy voice questioned Is that really most important to you? Avoiding a cheese mess at the price of holding her hand? What does that teach her about her Father? Clean up first. Scrub off that sin. Then I'll love. Then you can enter my presence.

Seeking to undo damage I'm so sorry Baby. Please, can we hold hands right now?

Her sticky fingers wrap around mine, squeezing cheese and pasta glue into cracked skin. She looks in my eyes. I like you, Mommy. So quiet I might have missed it.

I like you, too Baby.  

We hold hands, and I sing silently:

Come ye weary, heavy laden, lost and ruined by the fall.

If you tarry til you're better, you will never come at all.