for when you don’t know.

hiddenthings

Four years ago, my husband and I spent night after night kneeled over one of our children. We were begging God to give us wisdom, peace, guidance and insight. We were begging Him to work miracles in that little heart sleeping soundly. I still remember the afternoon in the preschool breezeway where I had to wrestle that little heart and body into our van. I can see so vividly the look on that other mama’s face as I forced one of my other children into her arms with I-need-help filling up the corners of my eyes. I hope I can be her for other mamas, just there and steady and gentle. I’ve never seen her again.

There are other moments just like that one, moments where I felt sad and angry and hurt. It was a sandpaper season. I had been unsure as a parent before but never so overwhelmed with feeling totally out of answers for how to steward my child’s heart. I felt lost. In over my head. Ill-equipped for my calling. My weaknesses and fears about my own heart ballooned and pushed peace out.

I needed a mast to hold fast to, steady and solid. I found it in a memory verse for Bible Study. We were studying Daniel; how he resolved to stay true to his belief, how God gave him insight no one else could grasp. I stumbled on a few words in the second chapter about how God is the one who reveals the things that are deep down and hidden away.

I clung to two verses like I never had before. I went to God over and over again and reminded myself that He knew and He was trustworthy. I confessed that I was afraid of what I couldn’t see and declared that I would believe that He could see what I couldn’t. I asked Him to show me how to love a little heart right then and there and how to shepherd a fierce and big spirit for not yet. And I resolved to believe on Him whether He chose to reveal the deep and hidden things or not.

God knows and He is trustworthy. There are things so deep-rooted and packed away: things that feel unreachable, unknowable, unsolvable. He knows and He is the One who can show us the way. Everything truth and light and real dwells with Him. Even if He doesn’t show us all the answers, God is the way through to the light. We have only to lean on Him.

We still have moments that seem like a mystery. I still wonder at how to be what my children need from me, pray joy and contentment over them. I know life will bring many more not-knowing moments. But. Salvation is from the Lord and I see, too, how He takes a little heart and makes it new. Emotions still run wild here and there but repentance is quick to lap up behind these days and I know where that comes from.

And I still cling to His Word, especially Daniel’s beautiful prayer.

tending day.

sunday

It’s midday on a Tuesday but it feels to me like Monday, since I lost mine to appointments and practices and hither, thither and yon. It’s not how my week usually ebbs and flows but this is life.

I’ve just cleaned the living areas of our house and I’m sitting down to a homemade chai with the hope that I’ll be able to cobble together a grocery list. My washing machine is working her hardest and whooshiest from the back of my house. I found a rotten potato in the kitchen, which explains the funny smell we’ve all been searching to end. The dining room table is clear for a few hours.

It’s my tending day. I tend and I think about yesterday, about how five o’clock came and I felt worn out and done in but the dinner still needed to be made. About how I slipped my rings off my fingers and plunged my hands into a bowl full of ground turkey, stirring up dinner. About how I felt the weight of hard questions with harder answers, hard questions with invisible answers and the uncertainty in between all of that. About how just when I was thinking with my feeler and about to topple over the steep edge of worry, God’s presence in me whispered a spring time bloom of a truth across my heart and mind. It tripped across not in words but in heart truths that can’t be captured by our language. I think about how He reminded me: He is God, good, for me, with me, Sovereign. If He goes with me? I can go anywhere. And He wants all my feeler-thought things because He wants me. I think about how dependance has become so much more meaningful to me than arriving.

It’s my tending day. I think, too, about how my children minister His sweetness and laughter to me. I think about Sunday morning, how I sat on the couch as the sun began to flood our den through the windows. About how I watched my eleven year old fit himself into a box and play spaceship and I don’t know how many more remembers I’ll have of a moment like that. About how my girl looked so precious in her new polka dot dress that I thought I might burst into a million bright-burning stars. About how my youngest can still fold up into my lap and put his warm cheek right next to mine, his nubbin fingers wrapped around my forearm.

It’s my tending day. And God tends my heart. He reminds me that worries and unanswered questions aren’t all of my story. He reminds me that He’s written both the raw and the resplendent into my life. I don’t always live in that tension well, but He’s written it that way just the same.

about waiting and work.

springknees

afternoontent

breeze

butternutsoup

newpainting

It’s the first day of Spring and we’ve had two full weeks of school with no snow, ice, freezing temperatures, fevers, sandpaper throats or hacking coughs. In so many ways, I am feeling swept up in new life. It’s how God made creation to mirror the way He regenerates our hearts and lives as we dip and surge through heart valleys and mountaintops. It’s sunshine and even the bitter smell of a Bradford Pear.

Sometimes I do feel wont to cringe that it is almost April and I don’t have a clearer vision of what my life is supposed to look like in this vast new season: a season where my boundaries are not marked out by naps, diapers, preschool drop offs and pick ups or feeding schedules. I don’t really trust myself with time management and, to be honest, I’ve battled the fear that everyone else is working harder than I am. Even as I verbalize that I see myself with a third baby nestled in my arms and wild wisps of hair framing my sleepless face. Younger me wants to take today me by the shoulders and give me a good shake.

I have tried to run ahead and build some things into my life that make me feel accomplished, covering over the best I can that fear. But God is faithful and Christ is enough. He doesn’t need my abilities and accomplishments. I am learning what it means to walk out the truth that Paul wrote about.

“We through the Spirit, by faith, are waiting for the hope of righteousness.” | Galatians 5:5

Instead of scrambling ahead and trying to pull accomplishment and worth and an answer toward myself, I am learning heart-deep how to wait on Christ, the ONLY hope of my righteousness. I cannot pull righteousness or right living or inspired living to myself. Only Christ can work this in me. He rescued me in His timing. He will return in His timing. He does His good work in me in His timing. So, I wait for my only hope of righteousness to draw lines around any next thing for my life.

In the waiting, I see that the best gift I can give to Him and His body and my craft is be totally present in my own little neighborhood of His kingdom. I am beginning to accept that the gift I can give right now is to come back over and over again with love for my people, to pray that they would know head high and toe deep that they are Known and Loved. So, I focus on being totally present in the lives God has placed within my little spot of land-inheritance. And I stuff each of these moments pocket-deep, my stones of remembrance.

This right here is these things.

It is boys and muddy spring knees. It is how six year olds sing, “How Great Is Our God,” in their own key and at the top of their lungs over and over again while I cook dinner. It is learning that pre-teen emotions come and go faster than my own;  learning to be less carried by my own emotion and more rigging-like–something to cling to and find footing.

It is mothering a girl and facing all the expectations I carried along the way. It is understanding that God creates his children as He sees fit and not always in line with how I dreamed them up because He likes to do things upside down most times. And that is righter than right. It is learning who my God dreamed my girl to be and how I can love her well, her creative and wild and strong spirit with the windows always down and fingertips in the breeze.

It is looking for things that are true truth and not false truth, the kind that puffs up with promises but leaves me empty all the time. It is shifting from focusing on weight to focusing on wellness. It is taking another 30 days to eat well and whole (and not writing about it here because I am weary of talking about food) and to discover how food really affects my body. It is the smell of roasting winter squashes with garlic and onions and how your tummy rumbles the whole time they’re in the oven.

This is waiting. Watching. Cementing. Believing that God is my only hope and that His plan is good no matter how much I know of it.

a letter: hope.

clippings

quince

A letter to my self a year and a half ago.

I know. Right now, you are drawing lines in the sand. You’ve reached the end of how far you’ll go. You’ve surrendered as much as you’re willing. In a stand-off with God, you’re declaring you won’t go any further until He changes something, anything. Everywhere you look, you see a no from Him. The maybe nevers weigh so heavy on you. What you want is a good thing and your heart is pinky tender from the sandpaper of hurt feelings.

A year and a half later, you still won’t have what you want. That longing will go unmet.

But. You will have more, and you’ll see it on a spring-laden weekend in March. In the over and over again of asking God, you will begin to see with different eyes. The no and the fear of maybe never will still be there, stinging from time. But yeses will be louder. You will learn to hope in God and not what He can do for you, what you think He should do for you.

You’ll read this:

“FOR GOD IS SHEER BEAUTY, ALL-GENEROUS IN LOVE, LOYAL ALWAYS AND EVER” (PSALM 100:5).

His beauty will call up your hope as He casts the sun high in the sky and makes it’s warm rays stronger than the last grip of winter. You’ll be boueyed high on a quince bush laden with buds and the snow-petaled ground under a blush-blooming camellia.

His generosity will call up your hope as you jump to the rap on your door on a Saturday afternoon. You’ll watch little legs toddle around your yard, and that will give way to your other kind of neighbors–long on life and big on spirit. You’ll tromp through their backyard and feel a little pink-cheeked as you walk under their laundry strung overhead. You’ll feel His love course strong as you stand by the street and watch knowing hands guide your girl’s as she plants her tiny cabbage plant.

His loyalty will run strong on a Sunday when you open the curtains wide and let the light cast shadows across your bed. You’ll feel just a touch of that always and forever as you lay beside your girl and read. You’ll never want to forget they way she lays belly down and legs bent upwards, ankles crossed. How she holds her chin in her hand will call up a strong and end-of-the-world-fierce love in you for her. He is loyal to you, to you becoming whole in Him, however it might smart. And you will know that as you feel how hard you will fight for your girl course through you.

Right now? You are looking in the wrong place for hope. You are looking in the wrong place, but you will learn heart-deep that hope is the thing that lives inside you especially when there is still sandpaper in your life. You will learn that hope isn’t much about a when or why or how. Hope is about a Who. And He will be faithful to teach you that over the next 18 months.

about fear and comparison.

comparison

I’m at Starbucks on this sunshiney day and I’m still thinking about fear, about how much I depend on it to motivate me. And it does. It can easily drive my heart and take advantage of my insecurities until I’ve made a mess of my feelings-holder and my day.

I’m afraid I don’t stack up, so I serve lists in my day and look for validation there. I end the day defeated and trying to find marrow in a dry place.

I’m afraid someone else won’t do it just right, so I hover. I rob others of joy and myself of the truth of my weakness.

I’m afraid I’ve made all the wrong decisions as a parent, so I walk around with my heart sinking into my stomach and keeping me unsettled and unfocused. I miss opportunities to just move into my people anyway.

I’m afraid that I’m not a good enough friend, mother, wife and child. I’m afraid that a season isn’t just a season. I’m afraid that God’s good thing for others means there isn’t enough for me, even though my brain knows His goodness, His largeness, His beauty.

So, I look around. I watch what happens in other people’s lives. I store away all the ways that they are better, that their life is better, that they have better good things.

I compare.

But, that’s not how God made me to live.

I believe that God’s love for me is the death of comparison. I believe it. And I’m teaching a class on the truth about comparison and the freedom God wants for us tomorrow night. I’m inviting you. Thursday, February 20th. 9 pm (Eastern). The Influence Network (you don’t have to be a member to take the class). Sign up right here.

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I wanted to mention that it is my joy to be a part of The Influence Conference again this year. In a turn that only God could design, I’ll be speaking this year. He has already begun to till up my heart soil about this weekend and what His words through me will be.

It’s going to be a sweet weekend of community with a list of speakers that you will want to hear from. There’s a place for you. Tickets are on sale right now. I hope you’ll consider joining this community of women who long for God-bent hearts.

saboteurs.

sabotage

When we are afraid that we aren’t good enough, what if we said, “I am Loved?”

When we are afraid we’ll fail again, what if we said, “I am Loved?”

When we look around and see that others do it better, what if we said, “I am Loved?”

When the way looks unclear, vague and overwhelming, what if we said, “I am Loved?”

John wrote this truth: that Perfect Love tosses fear to the side. There is one Perfect Love: found on a Cross, in an empty grave, alive again. Christ tosses fear aside like garbage. It is not precious to Him. We are. We are, and it isn’t possible for us to walk in Perfect Love and fear.

What if fear is the greatest weapon against us? What if Love is the greatest form of sabotage? What if we take up arms and strike down every fearful thought with the truth? What if our world becomes gloriously ruined because we choose to believe that we are Loved?

Let’s be saboteurs.

about coffee and the flu and a snow day and expectations.

snowdaybirdhouse

It was a Friday morning a few weeks ago. We slid into the worn booth of a local coffee shop, my friend and I. The air was full of that heavenly, earthy, roasted smell of ground beans and hot water. It’s my favorite smell God ever made. We sat there with an hour to fellowship and a million little things to cover. She asked, “How are you?” And it was not the kind of how-are-you that you can skirt with an oh-you-know-same-old-fine. It was the kind of question that deserved an honest answer. And the honest answer is that I’m doing things but feel like I’m getting nowhere. I am afraid: afraid that I’m not productive enough.

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It was a Monday evening last week. I sat with my feet dangling off of the doctor’s exam table, a fevery and mostly delirious mess with a heavy heart. My body ached and I was sure I’d never been hotter than that moment. Tears came easily as the nurse swabbed my nose, pricking my eyes first and flowing freely as she turned to leave the room. All of the sudden the weight was more than just my sick body. The exam room became a sanctuary and the place where I sat–feet dangling–an altar. It was the flu and it came without reason but there was more than just a body sickness. As I waited for the doctor to come in masked up and prescription ready, I went over all the corners of my life and how they have been left untended lately.

My expectations were too heavy for me. My expectations are too heavy for me.

And so I did what I’ve learned to do. One by one I placed all of the things in God’s lap. Is this for me and from you? What about this? And this one, too? That one? That one I want so much. But You can have it if I’ll move forward in You. You can have it if it will unparalyze my heart. You can have it if You want it: the most painful but productive words I’ve learned in my 19 years of walking with Him.

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It was last night and the water bubbled over dirty dishes. My husband stacked his oreos up on the counter, crunching through them one by one. The water bubbled and the cucumber soap smell filled the kitchen and I let my heart things flow out. We almost never come at a problem the same way so I tried to make my words the kind that he hears well. He listened and I fumbled my way through, how I’m like my children on a latent snow day: waiting and waiting and waiting for the promised thing and realizing that it’s a not yet. It’s still a not yet.

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I took two weeks off from this space. I didn’t mean to, but the flu stole a week and then I just couldn’t make words form. It’s mostly because I need to do some heart work about my expectations. I don’t know how but I want to drag all of my stuffs and things under the umbrella of grace. Surely there is a place where productivity is covered in grace. I’m not sure what that means for this space. I’ve learned to be unafraid of putting precious things on the altar. The truth is that this is a precious thing to me and I have a story I want to tell. It’s a story God is making my very heartbeat. It’s my story but you are there; I see you all around the edges. But. There are other corners of my life and I’m trying to decipher what all of that looks like in tandem.

This isn’t an announcement, just so you know. I have some fears about this space: that I think too much, that I write too many thinky things, that I don’t write enough happy and how to posts, that I’m too small. One thing I’d like to say about 2014 is that I stopped using fear at the foundation, that instead I hoped and planned and dreamed and tried out of God’s great love for me. I’m going to be working on that.

forever and always.

GodWithUs

On a Sunday morning we are all dragging our limping hearts and bodies through the motions. Up and dressed. Hair just so. Fancy shoes instead of everyday shoes.

Except this morning has been full of battles. The clothes aren’t right. Hair is too knotty. All of the sudden there is a standoff over shoes. It appears that some of us woke up ready to fight.

After we pour in the van I sigh to my husband, “How can you be for someone when their will is so often set against yours?” I feel tired after weeks of the same old battles. I know who I want to be as a mother but it feels impossible on this winter Sunday.

When we’re finally settled and ready to receive the Word broken open for us, I see that it’s Immanuel: God With Us this morning. I remember how months ago I asked a friend to pray for me in the face of disappointment: Pray for my unbelief? That I will believe God is for me, for us right here?

She sent back love and prayers and a sermon filled with the truth. God With Us. I listened to it over and over again, amazed at how it settled over my heart.

And on this Sunday, I think about this God With Us. About how He isn’t just for or against us. About how those are battle lines. About how He is with us and that is a love line. How for is the promise and with is the fulfillment. I’m reminded of the unbelief that prickles around the outside corners of my heart. Help my unbelief, Lord.

I imagine God With Me as I hear another no. I imagine God with me as I fail again. I imagine God with me as my heart swells over toothless grins and chirrupy bird-like voices. I imagine Christ choosing us over and over again as He wraps up in our skin; forever and always, He promises.

How tender that is to think of Him with me forever and always. This is who I long to be as a mother. More than just for. With. Relationship is in the with: drawing near when obedience is hard, drawing near when hearts hurt, drawing near when wills go to battle again. I won’t change my for. But I pray for God to show me the tender of with. I pray that He will show me in my own heart and that it will break open and out.

Merry Christmas, friends. He is with you forever and always.

hoping, waiting and working.

adventbegins

It’s Sunday evening and I’m slumped into the couch with my hair mussed into a pony tail. We’re stuffed with Thanksgiving food and a few days just us and we’re all itchy around the edges from days off and free schedules and too much sugar.

I give voice to the small current bubbling underneath. “I don’t feel important.” It’s mostly to do with the fact that much of my work is the turning of a wheel, undone minutes after I’ve neatly checked the box on my list of accomplishments. I return to similar things over and over again and I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere.

This is the nature of work this side of heaven, a reminder that our hearts aren’t meant to wrap up in this home totally. We are headed somewhere and while rest is real here, it’s tangible and glorious there. Right there bowed low before our God and King, we’ll know no more striving or tears or helplessness.

But what about right now? Advent has begun. We wait. We hope. We look for His beyond magical ways in glittery twinkle lights. We rush to start it earlier and earlier so that we can hold tighter and tighter to the sparkly flutter by moments of December.

I must be like the Israelites, I think–caught up in that same old cycle. Worship. Idolatry. Worship. Idolatry. Because isn’t that what I’m doing? If I look to my work and the completion of it for value then I elevate it. I lift it up above the very One whose words are the bedrock truth about who I am.

I AM wrapped himself up in our soft skin and He walked the world. He Is With Us lived, loved, and conquered so that we do not have to be defined by our working anymore. Who we are is this: God loves us. He loves us. He loves us. He loves us.

And I surrender to this truth. I lay my work at his feet and my pride-bent heart, too–looking to be important. I ask Him to birth His truth over and over again in my heart, just like that hay scented evening. I ask Him to teach me to wait because hoping is waiting on His work and His love to define me instead of rushing ahead to add all of my trappings and accomplishments. The work comes, yes, but not without love. It is empty without love.

I enter this advent like an Israelite, tired of my own endless cycle. I pray to wait like Mary, overshadowed by His work. I ask to wonder like the shepherds, my eyes on His loveliness and not myself.

I’m linking up with Emily for Tuesdays Unwrapped. Go. Read. It’s one of my favorite communities.

buried in Christ.

5c5605e055e111e3b73d12cdff6fa9c1_8

I started this morning with a bit of Spurgeon.

DO WHATEVER YOUR HAND FINDS TO DO. SO DO NOT WAIT UNTIL YOUR EXPERIENCE HAS RIPENED INTO MATURITY BEFORE YOU ATTEMPT TO SERVE GOD.

But in a jumble of wild and bold hearts, steely wills, stubborn words and the rush of a morning, our day went off course by 7:01 am.

The clothing wasn’t right.

The breakfast wasn’t right.

The medicine didn’t taste good.

As I am wont to do, I matched will against will. I stood my ground. I fought. I left room for my steely heart. So that when it was time to bustle out the door with jackets and lunchboxes and bookbags and the promise of a late sleep in the morning, I grabbed my wild and bold heart by the shoulders and looked into wide eyes. I let the screen door slap closed and held on tight with love.

“I want you to remember just one thing today. I love you so much. So much.”

And this is the prayer for my discipline. That it will sound more like I love you so much and less like You’ve missed the mark again. When my steely will takes over it’s hard to hear, this promise that I love you so much and I want good for you.

I lost my temper.

And I didn’t feel much like doing whatever my hand finds to do. And so I let the gloomy day wrap around me and I sank deep into the couch. I scrolled through the daily news and facebook statuses and blog page updates and pins, trying to bury my shame, fear, frustration, disappointment and failure in avoiding.

But I had found precious few moments for the truth this morning and it doesn’t return void and a tugging began in my heart that this avoiding isn’t the way to freedom. And freedom is to begin again. I wouldn’t begin again this way. The way of avoiding is only covering over with dry dirt, the kind that time and circumstance and agains will blow away. There is only one way.

So. I started over. I wrapped up and stuffed my hands in mittens. I strapped the leash on the dog. We set out for a brisk walk. I looked at the muddy red brick house with the charcoal trim and the hobbit door. And I loved how it’s yellow-leaved tree looked against it.

Step by step I buried my fear, shame, guilt, frustration, sin and failure in Christ.

I lost my temper. I’m sorry. I did not speak life. I’m sorry. I gave vent to my anger. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ll never get it right. Help me. I’m afraid I’m ill-equipped. Strengthen me. Make our memories short on guilt and long on grace.

Buried in Christ. Raised to walk in newness of life. Over and over again.

I started over and it didn’t come in wiling away time, turning a blind eye to what nibbled at my heart. It came in looking at Christ and how He covers all things. This is my heart for you today. If your day went off the rails before 7 am? If you lost your temper? If you forced your way? If you missed the mark? This is the promise of Christ. Start over again in Him.