The Meager Few

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Three.  The meager number of times I posted here in 2011.  Once to tell you I have MS.  Once to share the blessed suffering of acceptance of said disease.  And finally, once to tell you I was back to blogging (which I obviously was not) and share how thankfulness changes our perspective, making beautiful to us things that once seemed undesirable. 

So much left out.  Such a gap of understanding between us.  2011 was surely more than was represented here.  I lament that.  I grieve that I did not do the work of discovering and testifying to God’s sufficiency in every circumstance  (that’s what writing is for me).  And I regret that I did not share it with you who have been so kind to me and who, for some reason, still come back here, still think this place is worth keeping.  Over and over God has used you to confirm that there is a gift that needs to be fanned to flame.  Thank you. 

I’m not making any promises for 2012, but I do truly want to respond to the Spirit’s prompting when the words start piling up and rearranging themselves in my mind.  I do want to share the encouragement I find so regularly in the person of God.  And I do want to honor what it is that you have worked hard to encourage in me.  

Thank you for being here at My Place of Peace.  It’s an honor to journey together with you!  Happy New Year, friends!   

You Fit

The voice comes out of nowhere, stealth belying it’s powerful cruelty.  “You don’t fit here!” 

At first, I’m confused, then incredulous that I should feel this way now, here in the midst of my own people.  But I still listen and believe and four little words derail an entire week. 

As  a missionary woman, I’m prepared to feel different when I arrive to a new country and culture.  It’s just stating the obvious to say I don’t completely fit here (yet).  As much as I work to become all things and strive to adapt to my new home, I know it just takes time.  So, I wouldn’t be injured if that’s what the voice was referring to.      

But it’s not.  No, it’s condemning me now, while I’m spending a week at our mission base, surrounded by my own countrymen.  I’m caught completely off guard by the echoes of “You don’t belong”.  I never expected to hear them here.       

(Lest one of my dear coworkers read this and wonder if something was done to make me feel this way, let me just state very clearly that no one did anything unkind or said anything thoughtless or was anything but gracious to me.)   

I let four words reverberate in my mind, pierce my soul.  With surprising speed they multiply, accusing me with increasing disdain.   

“You’re spoiled!  You have a dryer.  Everyone else uses a clothesline.”

“You’re frivolous!  You love to shop and wear high heels and dangly earrings.”

“You’re selfish!  You don’t enjoy your children as much as she does.”

“You’re soft!  You can’t endure a few hours of heat for the chance to visit with friends.”

“You’re shallow!  You spend too much time thinking about how to make your house beautiful.”

My soul is painfully crippled and I am exhausted from repeatedly telling myself that these things are not true, when all the while I fear that they really are. 

My soul needs true revival, not a pep talk, so I go to the words of life.  This time the voice I hear is His.     

“Oh child, you BELONG.  I chose you.  It brought me great pleasure to bring you to myself through Christ.  You are my masterpiece!  You fit in me. 

I carefully chose you, with your unique interests and gifts, to be a part of my body.  I put you where I want you, high heels and all.  It pleases me to see you doing the special work you were created to do.  You fit in my body, child.

And you are neither spoiled, frivolous, selfish, soft or shallow.  I never think that when I think of you.  My voice rises above all others to declare you Holy, Blameless, Complete, Accepted and Loved.  Will you listen to me?  Will you believe me, child?”

“Yes, Lord!,” I cry.  “I believe!  Help my unbelief!”  The condemning voices fade and I’m free. 

**As painful as it is to admit that I wasted so much joy last week, I know that there is nothing new under the sun.  I hope that sharing my experience will encourage someone else who is wading their way through a murky mess of lies.  There is never joy in comparing ourselves amongst ourselves, because we are such ignorant judges.  The only One that can declare the truth about us sit on high and has already made it abundantly clear.  We fit.** 

Scripture: Ephesians 1:3-8, 2:10, 2:21-22; I Corinthians 12:18-20

Fall Like Rain

Oh God, as your truth falls on my heart,  let it be to me a sweet rain.  Welcomed.  Savored.  Soaked up.        

  

For you are my Living Water, and your truth births fruit in the dry and desolate places of my soul. 

Duet. 32:2, Hebrews 6:7, John 4:14

The Mundane Reborn as Worship

It’s not just another pile of laundry…

or another stack of dishes. 

It’s so much more for women who follow Jesus.  Every laundry basket and kitchen sink becomes a heavenly altar, just waiting to receive our acts of worship, our acceptable sacrifice to the God of the universe.  

I long to know that what I do all day actually matters.  Yet no matter how many inspirational quotes I read about the importance of being a stay at home mom, no matter how many times my husband tells me he appreciates me, I occasionally still find myself resentful and grumbling about having to put the baby’s board books back on the shelf AGAIN.  

It’s become pretty obvious to me that the only way I can maintain any long term passion for this job is to see each moment of my day as an opportunity for worship.  Dirty nose needing wiped?  “God, this is for you!”  Peanut butter sandwich needing to be cut into triangles (squares won’t do!)?  “Yes, Lord, thank you that I can serve you!”  Superman’s cape needing reattached, “Oh God, my hands work for you!”

It’s nothing revolutionary, perhaps, but for me the simple act of speaking the truth changes my attitude about the mundane.  Somehow laundry and dishes become almost desirable when they are reborn as opportunities to offer praise to God, my Strength!   

And yes, I do need to say it over and over all day long because when I don’t, I forget.  I forget that this is holy work and suddenly all I see are the dirty diapers waiting to be taken out to the trash, the leftovers needing to be put away and the toys strung from one end of the house to the other.  I forget so quickly that these routine things have the capacity to be transformed into something with eternal value – the worship of the only true God.        

I’ve decided to join Ann’s Gratitude Revolution so here’s the start of my list of a thousand gifts: 

1) Truth – that it renews my mind and that it’s available in my language

2) Unexpected Hugs

3) Honey, Darling Little Redhead and El Principito…all producers of laundry and dishes…and opportunities to praise God!  :)

4) Pancakes made with my sous chef, Darling Little Redhead

5) Wood puzzles with the baby and barking giraffes

6) A husband who cooks and cleans when I am unable (both with my eye crisis and again this weekend when I cut my hand and had to get five stitches)

7) Family on the mission field and our weekly dinner and game night

8) Nephews and Niece who love playing with my boys

9) For friends who accept me as I am

10) For Skype and email to communicate with family back home

Two Messages on Her Phone

   

Standing next to me, arms around my waist, she holds tight.  I start to move away but her voice stops me and we remain in the comfortable embrace of sisters.  “I keep two messages on my phone,” she tells me. 

I know what she’s going to say.  The first is an encouraging message from a friend and the second is…her voice breaks into my knowing, “One says you are completely blind in your left eye.”

I’m genuinely surprised by her confession.  Tears burn my eyes and I squeeze my lids tight to keep them from falling.  I remember that message.      

The voice which started out strong now falters a bit, but she gathers strength and continues, “The other says that your doctor thinks it’s a miracle that you have your sight back.” 

With that, the floodgates are opened and my cheeks become spillways for tears.  Voice thick with emotion, I manage to say, “I didn’t know.” 

Now her tears join mine.  “It’s just such a miracle,” she whispers. 

“I know,” I say.  “It is.  It really is,” and for one holy, immeasurable moment we both marvel at the miracle. 

I can’t help but think how wise she is to keep that visible reminder of our miracle (it’s hers and yours too because you prayed).  Remembering the amazing things He has done for us not only brings us joy as we rejoice in the favor of our God, it also bolsters our faith that He will continue to work on our behalf and do exceedingly, abundantly above all we can ask or think! 

Are you needing a miracle today?  I encourage you to take a moment to strengthen your faith in His ability to do amazing things for you by remembering what He has ALREADY done!   

photo: tpacific

Does it Matter if Our Kids See Us?

 

A few days ago, I read an eBook called Maximize Your Mornings.  The author encourages early rising in order to assure that time in the Word, prayer and exercise actually happen each day.  The idea is to be able to do these things BEFORE anything or anyone else is needing your attention. 

While this is certainly logical and efficient, and even the way I generally study personally, I have began to wonder where it is that my kids learn HOW to study the Bible if they never SEE me studying the Bible. 

I have to ask myself, am I willing to MODEL this personal communion with the Lord to my children?  It will no doubt mean more work and less effectiveness initially as I train them about not interrupting and respecting this time with the Lord.  Still wouldn’t it be awesome to transmit by example a thirst for the Word, the need for communion with the God of the universe?

What do you think?  Is it important that our kids actually SEE us studying the Word or do you think it is enough that we do it privately and they witness the fruit in our lives?

The Power is Broken

We were home alone that afternoon, my sisters and I.  I walked into the kitchen, for I know not what, and found them dueling with the kitchen knives. 

The little would-be gangsters froze as they turned and saw me.  Knowing exactly what I was about to say, they stopped me before I could get the words out.  “Please don’t tell Mom and Dad, please,” they begged.  “You can’t tell them.  You can’t!” 

For some reason, I caved to their pleas and agreed not to disclose their foolishness, as long as they promised never to wield knives again.  I don’t pretend to remember my motivation for this kindness.  I certainly wasn’t cunning enough to think that if I didn’t tell, I would have leverage for blackmail.  Oh, no.  That realization dawned the first time they threatened to tattle on me for something I had done.

“You go right ahead,” I’d smirk.  “But if you do, I’ll tell mom that you were playing with the sharp knives!”  Inevitably as fear registered, shoulders would drop, mouths would close and my own transgressions (which were surely many) would be forgotten. 

This blackmail continued for what must have been a months, a year even.  I remember feeling surprised every time my words still evoked fear, every time my power over them was unchallenged.   

Finally, one day my sister ended it.  When I threatened to tell mom about the knives, she look at me with resolve and said, “Go ahead, I don’t care.”  She had finally realized that she didn’t have to submit to my blackmail and just like that, my power over her was gone.

I wonder, how many times I am like my little sister, living under the thumb of that which has no power over  me?  How many times do I, as a Christ follower, surrender to the threats and manipulation of my old man, even though they should be nothing more than echoes in the far reaches of my memory?  How can they be anything else when he who spoke them is long dead?  Oh yes, he was crucified with Christ and thus rendered completely powerless over me.  I am no longer his slave, forced to do all he demands. 

“Our old sinful selves (old man) were crucified with Christ so that sin might lose it’s power in our lives.  We are no longer slaves to sin.”  Romans 6:6 NLT

How perplexing it is that I still voluntarily choose serve him, this old man of mine.  Every time I sin, I it is as if I am choosing to lift his putrid corpse up onto my back so I can marinade in his stench, so I can be poisoned again by his vile suggestions, so I can obey him.  Obey the dead.

Doesn’t it seem ridiculous to keep bowing in obedience to a stinking, rotting corpse?   To make a mockery of Christ’s sacrifice by putting our feet back into the stocks of sin rather than dancing in the freedom He purchased for us with His own blood? 

Indeed, it does.  It makes the voice unkindly raised at my son heartbreaking, instead of excusable.  It makes the pride in my heart revolting, instead of justifiable.  It causes me to evaluate every snide remark, disrespectful thought, gluttonous moment in a new light.  These  are the things My Savior at once paid for and freed me from.  But it’s not paid for so I can go on in this vicious, defeated existence.  It’s paid for so I can, being free from sin’s power, choose to live for the glory of God through Him and with His strength.  Oh, that I would faithfully, repeatedly, daily give myself completely to God and not to that which has no power over me. 

“So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus.  For the power of the life-giving Spirit has freed you through Christ Jesus from the power of sin that leads to death.”  Romans 8:1-2, NLT

photo: chowell958

Side Effects and Lies

It was Monday night.  Willing myself to sleep, I was quietly praying until that moment of surrender would come.  It’s been so elusive and hard gained lately, just one of the side effects of my medication.

My prayers stilled though as He began to speak.  “Child, you’ve been believing me strong and powerful enough to completely heal your eye.  Why won’t you trust me to help you cope with the side effects of your medication?  Have you forgotten how much I care about ALL the details of your life?  Did you not think my Spirit’s power sufficient to give you strength to cope in a godly manner?”

Humbled and a bit stunned I say, “No, God.  No.  You’re right.  I haven’t been believing you for that.”

The realization is sickening.  I’ve been trying to deal with it all on my own.  The heart pounding anxiety that creeps up, the lack of patience I feel when I’m surrounded by chaos and most of all the harsh tone my words take on as they fly from my mouth in an effort to make it all stop. 

It dawns on me that deep down a lie is lurking.  I’ve been believing that God is not enough, that He doesn’t really care about something as pesky as side effects.  The fact that I didn’t even think to ask Him to empower my mind and my will to overcome the negative effects of my medication shows me one thing.  At the core of my belief system, I am lacking faith in His character as the God who is passionately interested in renewing every detail of my life.   

Though tempted to feel shame, I at once feel delight and freedom.  For a betraying lie once captured and identified can be imprisoned and put to death.  And as the traitorous soldier is carried away, I find there is room for truth to enter in and dwell. 

I’m so thankful that His Spirit is faithful to reveal to us the darkness in our own hearts, the lies lurking there that we have yet to confront.  And I praise Him that He really is enough, that His power is unending, that His character is sure, that His works are perfect and His words are right. 

Whatever you are facing today, I pray that you will look to the truth of God’s character and be changed at the core of your being as you cry out together with me, “Lord, I believe!  Help Thou mine unbelief!

“Lord, you have brought light into my life: my God you light up my darkness.”  

photo: egahen

A Father’s Presence Changes the Storm

I’ve never been afraid of storms.  In fact, I rather love them.  Some of my favorite memories with my father include sitting out on the porch together during a good storm: watching, listening, being awed by a powerful lightening strike and feeling thunder reverberate through my body.  I love storms because my father loves storms. 

 

Last night, I had the joy of storm watching with my Darling Little Redhead.  We laid on our tummies and watched from the bedroom window.  He talked and giggled and gasped occasionally.  And I smiled repeatedly, because he wasn’t afraid.  On the contrary, he was actually delighting in the storm and in being together through it. 

The thunder is still rolling now twelve hours later.  All through the night she woke me with her groans.  Sometimes near, sometimes far, but consistently reaching my heart with her message.  “I am not to be feared!  I only exist to give you a chance to sit next to Your Creator God, where He can guard your heart with peace, in the midst of me.”   

Are you going through a storm of your own today?  Is fear gripping you?  Keeping you inside your cozy home, cringing at the sound of thunder, frozen so you don’t move?  My friend, step out onto the porch with our loving Father!  Behold the power of the One who made the storm.  There is such joy in riding it out at His side, holding His hand, looking into His heart and knowing NOTHING can touch you that He doesn’t allow .

“Who is this man, that even the wind and the waves obey him?”  Luke 8:24 

photo: nespresso

P.S. With everything going on, I forgot to announce that my friend Alisha in Argentina won the My Two Favorite Things Giveaway!  Congrats, Alisha!  

Bruises Fading, Fears Rising

There are only four of them left.   Streaks of purple and brown, standing as gates marking painful entrance to the river of life, to my life blood.  Gates pried open to give carriage remedy for my blind eye.

Fading to green and yellow now, they’re very unbecoming.  Still, I look at them and cringe a bit as they fade, crumbling away, being toppled by time.  Resentful, perhaps that they are stealing my reminder that I was sick.  That I was blind.  That I was broken.  That I called out to God in desperation, in full trust.  That He was there completely, powerfully encompassing me.

It’s not that I want to stay blind, to stay sick.  I want to see.  I plead with God for His mercy and the complete return of my eye sight. 

But as they fade, these bruises of mine, I find in their wake a wicked host of fears rising.  I should be honest.  It’s really only one fear.  The fear of forgetting.  But this woman, this fear, she quickly gives birth to a thousand children and before I know it they are surrounding me, laughing at me, mocking me.  Their names are mediocrity, normalcy, routine living, lack of the passionate pursuit of Jesus, failure to acknowledge His power and presence in my life again. 

And I don’t want to forget.  I can’t afford to forget.  I want this to be my Ebenezer, an indelible landmark upon the map of my life that God has been my Helper. 

Oh, I know fear will not guide me to the place that I long for.  For my fear is born of self dependence, of self effort, of self importance.  Self would never allow me to circumnavigate these treacherous, rocky straits.  It would not, because it could not for self can only return to self. 

There’s only one way I’ll only survive this storm of reproach and condemnation.  If I look up to my True Compass, God my Helper.  Only then can my ship be guided safely to the peaceful harbor of His grace.  Only then can I arrive whole at the beautiful banks of my homeland and run into His open arms.  Only then can I remain in the land of remembering.

“For the word of God is full of living power.  It is sharper than the sharpest knife, cutting deep into our innermost thoughts and desires.  It exposes us for what we really are.”  Hebrews 4:12, NLT

The Gift of Lost Sight

Last Thursday, I began to lose sight in my left eye.  It just so happened an eye doctor was in our little town for three days.  I saw him that day.  And then the next day, when my sight deteriorated further.  And again the next day when the darkness continued to creep in.  It was nothing to worry about…just a little inflammation.  No work was allowed, just rest and a drop in the eye. 

Somewhere in one of the quiet moments of rest, the Lord planted a seed in my heart.  “This is a gift,” was all He said.  No explanation.  No pretty package portraying what kind of flower would bloom from this seed He had carefully buried  in my heart.

And then, the gift was everywhere.  It was the sweet things I saw with my right eye.  A smile.  My husband working tirelessly.  My sister-in-love laying on the bed with me to talk.  It was the sweet things I heard.  The laugh of two sweet redheaded boys, a prayer said over me, text messages pouring in from concerned friends.  And it was what I felt.  Blessed for the chance to slow down and appreciate all I have been given.  

By Sunday afternoon, my eye sight had continued to deteriorate.  We packed up the house and prepared to head to the capital for a second opinion.  Friends were already praying, making appointments, and providing a safe and loving place for my children to land. 

And the gift was love.  Always much love. 

Monday.  Oh, how long ago it seems.  We arrived to the capital in amazing time considering the fact that the drive shaft dropped out of our car a short way into the journey.  A friend quickly loaned us his car and we arrived, dropped the kids off to a saint of a woman, and made our way to the clinic. 

The appointment with the ophthalmologist led to an MRI.  What at first seemed like wild video game noises, led to a migraine and tears, but still…this was a gift, right?

Yesterday, how strange it seems to type that word for it could have as well been a year ago, I awoke to complete loss of vision in my left eye.  I noticed that when the light flicked off, a strange desperation filled my heart to flick it back on as soon as possible.  A bit of fear finally settled in my heart.  Tears waiting to fall, I opened to the Words of Life.  “For when our sufferings increase, so does our consolation.” 

This time the gift looked a bit less becoming, more foreign to my eyes, for the gift was suffering, a greater chance to know the immeasurable depth of His consolation. 

Calmed, we headed out for another day of pokes and prods and questions.  Our attending physician speaks perfect English, strange comfort since I feel at home in Spanish, and the other is a world-renowned Retinologist. 

“I can’t promise you that you will regain any sight, but we must act quickly to protect the other eye,” they warned stoically.  Prepared to receive a diagnosis of a virus or even MS, I had not allowed myself to entertain the notion of the permanent loss of my sight. 

That of course, is still to be determined.  The door is not shut.  For in these days, the Lord God of the universe has at His step another persistent widow.  She bears the face and speaks with the voice of a thousand friends around the world, unceasingly begging for grace and peace and if it would please Him, the restoration of sight. 

I too pray.  Mostly, mostly for the ability to see the Gift.  To accept whatever should fall from His hand as something beautiful and perfectly chosen for me, be it blindness total or partial, be it complete healing and a life much unchanged.  And I pray that this tender green shoot of faith, which I hold onto for dear life, will be a gift back to Him as well.   For there is no offering too large to be placed on His altar, especially the altar that birthed the Gospel, of which we came to speak. 

Currently, I am undergoing a series of high dose intravenous treatments.  After but one night hospitalized, I was allowed to come to be with my family, to wade through these murky waters together.  I would be a fool to deny that we feel the threat of flood, but we are not afraid for we hear His voice echoing, even in the unknown closets of our hearts, “when you walk through the flood, I will be there.”

And that, for today, is the gift

I will likely be unable to post regularly for some time.  Even now, this is a stolen moment, a forbidden one, but I had words which needed escape.  I hope God will speak to you through them and that you too will take on the face and the voice of the persistent widow on my behalf!

He’s My Home

We had just moved again. Tearfully saying goodbye to a beautiful season of ministry, I was propelled into another unwelcomed one. For the first time in my life, I was somewhere I didn’t want to be. I was hanging onto my calling to missions, but only loosely. My hand limp, I cried weakly, “God, I can’t do this. It’s too much, this missionary life; this inevitable, unstoppable series of moves from one place to another.”

In the darkest and loneliest season of my life, I wanted only one thing. I wanted to go home. Except we couldn’t. So my cries of inadequacy were quieted only when I sat down with my Bible. One day in that fleeting quietness, I reached Psalm 90: 1, “Lord, through all the generations you have been our home!” Tears streaming down my face, dotting the page, I could not move my eyes from that word. Home. It wasn’t a place 3,000 miles away, it was a person. It was Him.

Slowly over the course of the next few days, I was able to identify what home meant to me, release it and delight in the perfection of my new Home.

I started out by declaring that I wanted to live in the same house on the same street for the rest of my life. No more moves. No more suitcases. 

He gently corrected me.  What I really wanted wasn’t a white house on Main Street, but Him. “Child, the stability you crave is only found in me! I am the eternal, incorruptible Lord. I do not change! I’m the same yesterday, today and forever. I am your home.”

Then I explained that I wanted to be one of the belongers, to have my name written in the collective story, the shared history of a people. No more wondering how I fit. No more being an outsider.

He spoke back, “Have you forgotten? You are already one of the belongers. I chose you before the foundation of the earth. I wrote your name in the epic of the redeemed with My own Son’s blood. You’re not an outsider! You’re accepted in the Beloved and seated at My right hand forever. I am your home.”

Finally, I confessed my longing for deep, meaningful relationships. Friendships that would allow me to barge through the front door with barely a knock, plop down on the couch and tell my truth without fear. Ties unthreatened by the brokenness of my humanity, ties unadulterated by judgment. No more being weighed in the balance. No more exhausting guardedness.

This time He whispered. “Child,” he said, “this freedom to barge into an earthly den and be met with open arms? It’s only a shadow. I am the fulfillment, the One casting that shadow. You have free access to Me through the Spirit! I welcome you to pour out your heart boldly and frankly, though you are broken and naked and lacking. There is no condemnation for you at this throne. Only grace. I am your home.”

It’s been seven years (and as many moves) since the light of Home shined hope into that dark season of my life. Still, I have much to learn about this exchange of temporal for eternal, of seen for unseen, of the shadow for the fulfillment. How thankful I am that the Spirit faithfully directs me Home to the One who satisfies my every longing.

“That something we long for, whether it be an island in the west or the other side of a mountain or perhaps a schooner yacht, long for it in the belief that it will mean joy, which it never fully does, because what we are really longing for is God.” --Sheldon VanAuken, A Severe Mercy

The Stench of Paint Thinner and Guilt

They’ve been piled on top of the dryer for a month now, the turquoise tee that's just my color and my last pair of comfortable jeans.  They speak to me every time I put in a load of wash, “It’s not that hard.  Just get out the paint thinner and take our stains away!” But I drowned out their accusing whispers. 

“Hush,” I say. “I’ll deal with you when I want to.  I hate the smell of paint thinner!”  So there they sit, reminding me of my own selfishness, my embarrassment at my lack of gumption, my shame that I even went so far as to pick up two pairs of thrift store pants to avoid them. 

Still, yesterday their cries were louder and more haunting.  I can't get them out of my ears.  “Doing all you can to avoid what stinks?  You know that what stinks worst of all is inside of you!” 

“Hush, hush!  Let me be!” I cry, but I fall to my knees, broken.  Humbled.  It’s true.  There are piles of stained laundry in my heart.  Some might call them filthy rags.  The cleanser is there, but I don’t want to smell the stink of the revelation, to feel the ache of the process of change.   

I don’t, but I do.  My new man fights with my old man.  “Be new!”  “It’s not worth it!” “It’s been accomplished already” “Lies!  The cost will be too great!”   Back and forth, back and forth they alternately whisper and scream, offering peace then stealing joy.

So I run to the only place I know to silence the struggle.  To truth.  To Him.  I need to hear His voice.  Desperately. 

He speaks.  “You did right to barge into My presence.  Just think how My son’s blood has purified your heart so that you can worship Me.  His blood has made you clean.  You are perfect forever, even though you are still being made holy! ”

Unlike the stink of paint thinner, His perfect cleansing is sweet and soothing because it carries with it no condemnation.  It’s devoid of the acrid, disdainful stench of guilt.  The smell that I had feared so much wasn't the cleanser at all, it was my own guilt.  

When you've been made perfect, there's no need to fear being made holy.

Scripture: Hebrews 9:14, 10:2, 14, 19-22

Hospitality at the Zoo

Every once in awhile, you get a glimpse of how God has changed you.  For me that glimpse came last night.

Busy, crazy day.  Clap much too loud for Darling Little Redhead at his end of school program.  Grocery shopping.  In and out of the car with one functioning door.  Lunch, naps, and "what? the groceries still aren't put away?".  Off to a friends for tea.  Hurry home to start dinner for company.  Realize I have a text message saying nephew is in the hospital for an emergency appendectomy.  Kick into overdrive making phone calls and sending emails.  Hubby picks up other two nephews and niece.  

Chop, chop, dice, dice.  Stir fry ready to hit the pan.  Put kids to work making lemonade and setting the table so they don't worry about their brother.  Company arrives.  Sit down and enjoy scrumptious Teriyaki ribs.    Power goes out halfway through serving dessert.  There are officially two usable candles in the house.  We laugh.  "Oh well.  That's the stuff memories are made of, right?"  Nephew 2 starts an asthma attack so he and hubby run home to get inhaler.  Guest washes dishes in the dark while I put food away.  Hubby and Nephew 2 return. 

Nephew 1 comes through surgery fine.  "Praise God!"  Parents at home while grandparents with Nephew 1 in hospital.  Hubby runs kids back home.  Power returns.  Visit with our guests for a bit before Hubby runs them home.  Call it a night.  

Are you getting the sense that things were rather a zoo at my house last night?  And yet, I was surprised that the chaos didn't settle down into my heart.  Granted, I was a bit distracted and my nephew had to ask for the lemons four times, but I wasn't franticly worried about how it would all turn out or if I had enough food for everyone.  Strangely enough, I was happy (though obviously concerned for my nephew) and at rest.

And that's where the glimpse of growth came.  I used to be so worried about perfection and everything being just so, that I missed the joy of just BEING with our guests.  I rarely let people help and often was snappy with my hubby right up until the moment company arrived when I pulled out Little Miss Perfect.  Hospitality back then was at the expense of the peace of my home.   

What freedom there is in recognizing that we are imperfect and yet, God can redeem all our chaos and bless us...and hopefully make us a blessing as well.  I'm not saying Little Miss Perfect never rears her ugly head...but thanks to His grace there is usually true hospitality...even at the Zoo. 

Photo: Blue Skies Inn

I Wish I Could Do More

I got a letter from a dear friend the other day. She's going through an unspeakable trial. Heart breaking, gut wrenching, wake-you-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-thinking-about-it kind of a trial.

As I finished reading her letter, I found myself thinking, "I wish I wasn't so far away! I would love to do more than just pray"! You know, take a meal, watch her kids, be there to listen.

But in about one millisecond, the Spirit pressed in on me. It was quite uncomfortable actually.

Ouch. But He was right. It's so much easier for me to bake some cookies, or babysit, than it is to do the work of prayer. Once again, I showed that my knee jerk response is to try to DO something in my own strength.

Prayer wasn't my preferred response because prayer is an act of surrender, of utter dependance. It's proclaiming to God, "This is beyond me, but You are capable!" And I wasn't feeling desperate in that moment, I wanted to DO something to help.

But now, I do feel desperate. Desperate for the deep down soul belief that I NEED to pray and desperate for a behavior that manifests my belief.

"You can do more than pray after you have prayed, but you cannot do more than pray until you have prayed." John Bunyan

How have you grown in your appreciation for and need of prayer? At times like these, I'm so thankful that though I often fail to pray, the Spirit intercedes for me!

I Declared Thursday "Pajama Day"

It had been a rough week. I was feeling blue and flat. Lacking energy to come up with one more meal. Lacking patience for my precious family. Lacking positivity to be able to respond to the emails awaiting me in my inbox. Lacking interest in decorating projects yet to be completed. Bottom line: all the things that normally make me tick, felt about as desirious to me as eating a piece of cardboard. And that scared me.

So I declared Thursday to be "Pajama Day". A day to sleep in and hang out in my pajamas until noon. A day to forget my laundry, and allay any guilt for feeding my son chocolate bombs for breakfast. A day to read as many decorating blogs as I wanted and watch a girly movie. It sounded really good to me.

And the truth is, it FELT really good to let go of all the work and expectations for one day and just enjoy myself. At least along until about 1:00.

I was taking a long, hot shower, congratulating myself on the wisdom of my Pajama Day Declaration. And then, He spoke.

Everything slowed, my heart dropped, and I was rebuked. I was no different than Adam and Eve who sewed clothes out of leaves, or the children of Israel who built the golden calf. I was looking for my own redemption. Trying to figure things out on my own. Trying to fix it in my own strength.

But just as soon as my disappointment started to rise, He spoke again. This time, with familiar comforting grace.

So then and there, I rested. I truly rested. Pajama Day was redeemed. Not by me, by Him. By the One who interrupts my feable attempts to rescue myself with His voice, with His truth, with His rest.

Have you been dreaming of your own "Pajama Day"? Oh, you might call it something different, but are you longing for an escape from the mess of your life? For something to bring you alive again?

I'm here to encourage you to look deeper, to look behind "Pajama Day" and see what you are really longing for. I bet it's redemptive rest and it's only found in Him.

"I suspected that all the yearnings for I knew not what that I had ever felt - were in truth yearnings for him. For God. I yearned towards Him." Sheldon VanAuken, A Severe Mercy

I Should...

Do you have a list of things in your mind, that you SHOULD be doing at this very moment? Maybe it's folding the laundry, maybe it's starting dinner. As women, we tend to be real doers. We don't slow down very often...and when we do, we feel guilty about all we could be accomplishing.

Today I SHOULD be packing. But instead, I've been holding my baby, and sitting down to visit with family. And strangely enough, I don't feel guilty. I wonder if I'm finally believing the message I've been preaching to myself for so long. The message that says I SHOULD be still and listen, that I SHOULD slow down and enjoy.

No doubt the battle in my mind will be on again tomorrow. But for today, it's laid to rest and I'm thankful.

What God is Made of

They say that hard times show you what you're really made of. I think they're right.

They reveal that I am unqualified to handle the problems of life on my own. That I lack understanding. That I am weak and tired. That I desperately need the God of the universe to reach down, take my hand and lead me. Hard times prove that I am merely dust.

I'm ok with that. Because out of these excrutiating moments is born the rememberance that my God is with me. He's perfectly sufficient. He's infinitely wise. He willingly infuses my life with His power. That in my weakness, He is shown strong.

Maybe they would do better to say that hard times show you what your God is really made of.

photo: Migrant Mother, Dorothea Lange, LIFE

Yearnings - A Prelude

"I suspected that all the yearnings for I knew not what that I had ever felt - 

when autumn leaves were burning in the twilight, 

when wild geese flew crying overhead,

 

when I looked up at bare branches against the stars, 

when spring arrived on an April morning - 

 -were in truth yearnings for him.  For God.  I yearned towards Him."  

Sheldon VanAuken, A Severe Mercy

photos: allposters.com

The Gift of Courage

Photo: allposters.com

I KNOW that it is possible to give courage. I know because I've been blessed by the gift of courage over and over as we prepare to leave family and friends and move to Paraguay.

It was a tear streaked face and a hug so hard that it took my breath away.

It was a group of teenagers and children that surrounded us, laid on hands and prayed after they presented us with nearly $1500 (I know...AMAZING).

It was a group of women offering to bring meals, babysit while we pack, and scrub our floors so we can spend more time with our family the week before we leave.

It is their belief that we can do this. It is their empathy and encouragement.

And it is what has caused my dread to turn to courage and expectation. It is their gift to me. It is God's gift to me. Courage.

*I should clarify that my dread has nothing to do with our future in Paraguay, because I am very excited about that, but rather the whole process of moving and saying goodbyes.*