I still have the dreams. The ones where I’m 16 again and I’ve just walked into my high school’s cafeteria. And then the anxiety sets in. I have nowhere to sit. No group to belong to.

For most of my childhood I flitted along the outside edges of social groups never really finding a place to rest for a little while. Along the way I found a friendship or two but the awkwardness followed me. In truth, it was more about my fears than anything. I was afraid I’d be too eager or too annoying or too fumbly. I’d be found out, too–the fact that I was too different. I never belonged.

All lies. I didn’t understand this truth: I’ve taken the place of daughter in God’s heart. Paul declares it, that Jesus carried my name on His heart all the way to the cross. That God looks down at me and knows I am His. I belong. He’s shown me is most personal name and I can call it out to Him at any time.

I do belong. Still, as a grown woman I have to go back to this truth and let it seep down to bone level. I still wonder where I’ll sit. I still hope I’m not found out. I still fear how fumbly I can be.

But I have only to call out Abba and I’m reminded of the place that is just for me in His heart.

I’m participating in a blog tour today for Overcome the Lie. Overcome the Lie exists to equip and empower a generation of women to overcome the lie because Jesus overcame the grave. You can read more right here.

When I was 17 and graduation was a hop, skip, jump away and college was a reality and I was ready to leave my awkward high school skin behind, my parents were battling the fear that I might not ever leave. Because while I couldn’t wait to walk away I had no idea where to walk to. On May 1st, 1994 I did what my Daddy told me to. I picked the first place that came to mind as the steam rolled out of a hot morning shower.

Columbia, SC.

I didn’t know that 19 years later, excepting one year after college, I would still be living in this city of cement and pecan trees and red sandy hills. I had grown up with mountains around every corner. I found sticky breezes, flat horizons and low country azaleas. I gave up things. Green tinged evenings that smelled of musty wood and tea olives. Crisp autumns that brought patchwork tree lines. The relief of a soft breeze on a summer evening.

But I gained things. New skin. The relief of a good friend during a hard season. The beautiful aggression of a page of William Faulker. A caramel eyed boy who would understand how much I needed to laugh. Two sons: one with freckles for days and another with an affection for cowboy boots so strong he actually wore them to the pool today. A daughter. A daughter. The weight of that has broken me and mended me. Community.

My city. Yes, it’s hot. Yes, a breeze is a bold hope. Yes, the summer air wraps its vice grip around you until it lulls you into a trance. Yes, it’s still feels small. But it’s also this. It’s gardenia and jasmine surprise. It’s pink sunsets almost every night from May to October. It’s the thunderous roll of a summer born storm. It’s autumn air so mild and sweet. It’s neighborhood church bells on the hour. It’s taking twilight strolls in your jammies.

And this is my love letter to it.

I wonder. Where do you live? And what has it brought you?

I’m linking up with The Influence Network today.

Did you know that I hate to talk about this subject? I H.A.T.E. it There are lots of reasons but mostly it’s because I’m afraid of what you think of me. Maybe you think it’s about time. Maybe you think I’ll always fail. Maybe you think I’m not working hard enough.

Yesterday morning was a hard heart morning. I was walking under the cloud of why-doesn’t-this-go-faster-for-me even though I’ve lost a teensy bit more weight. Still, I felt defeated. On Saturday I had wanted to quit. Just throw in the towel. Quit having to think so hard about what I eat and why I eat it. And so there I was trying to get ready for church feeling defeated and seeing everything I’m self-conscious about bigger than big. My sweet husband was trying to help me fumble my way out. It was hot and even though I knew it would flatten my hair, I laid down underneath the fan just to feel it brush air across my face.

The Holy Spirit comes in that sweet breeze sometimes and I remembered–He reminded me–that this? Right here? This is not freedom. And that is why I have to keep going. I do not want to settle for the false, lesser freedom that quitting offers. I want a greater freedom: from feeling defeat and worrying about my appearance and not being able to put down that cake. I want all of that. So I will keep going.

I can’t leave my heart behind. I’ve got to deal with that junk, too. And it’s a long journey with years of lies to unearth. I want to keep pace with it.

__________________

Somehow? Even though I hate talking about this whole thing? It ends up that I’m offering a class through the Influence Network tonight  at 9pm EST. I’ve been digging through God’s Word looking for wisdom about how to navigate this crazy world of heart and body and I’m anxious to share what I’ve found. I hope you’ll be there!

And even though I always get the most embarrassing screen captures (Seriously. Why? I’ve even googled it. Am I just destined to awkward captures?), I made a tiny, little preview video.

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Naturally, on Friday we barely left the house. We watched this video about ten times in a row (click through if you’re using a reader). I cried and gut laughed. I let the kids do basically  whatever they wanted until we were all a little stir crazy. And then we headed to Target to buy one fun treat each for the summer months.

I bought two fresh $11 alarm clocks to go in their rooms so that I could enforce the no-coming-downstairs-before-7-AM rule. Yesterday? The boys set their alarm for 7. I think we have some more talking to do about this whole sleeping in thing.

Mostly, I’ve been spending time trying to figure out how to be more prepared for long, hot days. I don’t talk about parenting too much here because I want to be protective and also I feel like a failure most of the time. I do not feel like I’ve got this thing figured out. I’m beginning to think that feeling clueless is actually a symptom of growth. Maybe?

So. We have days stretched out in front of us and I don’t want to spend them being a referee. The problem is that I’m not gifted at planning. I’m also not gifted at following a schedule. We decided to set a few goals along with sticking to a few non-negotiables like reading every day, writing some, helping around our home and working on math facts (womp womp). I’ve been looking, too, for little day trips that we can take for some adventure. And the goals? The goals include really cute things like jumping off the diving board, writing a 20 page story and watching the Lord of the Rings movies (wishful thinking).

I’m hopeful. It’s just that I see what a gift it is to have the opportunity to spend these days with my children and I want to live like that. I’m willing to try and fail at forethought if it changes the way I respond. I want my words and time with them to be a gift and while I fully believe that no failure or desperate prayer or tearful apology is wasted in God’s economy, I would also like to enjoy my children. I’m hoping to fall somewhere in the middle: flexible but also purposed.

School is still going strong here. Everyone-including my preschooler-gets out on Thursday. It’s been a whirlwind of going, going, going and if I’m being honest I haven’t been doing much intentional planning.

Bathing suit shopping. Are words needed?

Tomorrow my girlie is operating her own cookie business for a little 2nd grade economic fair. Her cookies are great. Smiley face.

We worked together to bake them all. Forgive the blurry shot. I just liked it.

And then I started a chili that needed to simmer for 1 1/2 hours. At 6 pm. Dinner fail.

margin from ellen parker on Vimeo.

And then I made another video even though I keep saying I won’t do another one. If you’d like more information about Thursday’s class on Margin this little video might fit the bill. (Click through if you’re viewing this in a reader.)

In wooden pews on Sunday morning. Stooped over God’s Word at wind-whipped daybreak. Over the kitchen sink as my heart runs ahead. The pricking. Plowing. Tilling. This year has been full of heart preparation, the rocky soil broken and made ready for a planting.

But God let my heart lie fallow. A season of rest for the soil. Nothing planted. Just waiting. My heart has exploded with joy for others as I’ve watched God nurture and grow planted dreams in their lives. And still a bit of sadness tinged the corners as I wondered what my part was. I’ve questioned my significance and I’ve questioned His plan and I’ve wondered aloud about hope.

But when the fallow ground of your heart is ready,  the Lord quietly ambles across rows in the thick of night. He tenderly plants while you’re unaware. And you stay unaware until the first tiny sprout pushes up through the ground.

You look at that sprout. You’re amazed. It isn’t what you had been preparing for. But in His goodness and sweetness, God has chosen a plant that only you could know you wanted deep down. Only He knows how you whisper in your heart and cling to the heady scent of gardenia blooms and honeysuckle vine and tea olive carried on soft breezes. He knows what’s been hidden underneath for years and years. A sweet reminder that He holds your heart.

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Recently, I shared that what I thought would be a year of writing became a year of waiting. Something sweet has come out of that waiting: sharing my notes on life with others live and in person with my spoken words. I’m so thankful that the Influence Network keeps letting me come back and share all of my scribblings. I’m teaching again this month on rest and margin. Rest is God’s hope for you; Jesus’ call to you. It IS God’s design for the ebb and flow of life. Margin is the tool to get there. If you feel the call to rest, wonder how to build margin into your life or need to know that the burden of doing, doing, doing is not God’s heart for you, I hope you’ll join me next Thursday night at 9pm (EST). Find more here.

]]> http://thesweetwaterblog.com/2013/05/24/let-your-heart-lie-fallow/feed/ 1 elliemayparker heartground http://thesweetwaterblog.com/2013/05/22/just-for-your-information/ http://thesweetwaterblog.com/2013/05/22/just-for-your-information/#comments Wed, 22 May 2013 14:05:50 +0000 elliemayparker http://thesweetwaterblog.com/?p=827 Continue reading →]]>

I don’t really do sponsored posts but I wanted to pop in today and let y’all know that my dear friend, Jessi, is offering a 40% off sale in her shop through today (that means that today is the LAST day).

Truly, Jessi’s prints are some of my favorites so I thought I’d show you a few that we love and look at everyday.

I’ve given these as gifts, just becauses and everything in between. And Jessi has so many lovely new prints. I don’t know. I just really believe in what she’s doing and I wanted y’all to be able to scoop up these beauties at a great price.

I hope your Wednesday is full of hope. I hope you feel new mercies wrapped tight and snug. And I hope you cling to promises that are true.

Last month my neighbor and I stood over this little knock out rose. We hemmed and hawed. It was scrawny. I don’t know what I’m doing. She does. And so we decided it should move where it would get more sun and generally be happier.

It has filled out and produced more blooms than ever. It’s still a bitty thing but this little plant is growing stronger by the day. All it took was a brighter spot and some good compost.

I wish the process were a bit easier with my heart and body. It’s the same but my own roots seem to hold on a bit stronger than my pinky little rose plant. Last week was a hard week for me, one fraught with comparison and defeatist feelings. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by the thought that the only way to get where I want to go is to make my whole life about weight loss. And that is not a possibility.

Tom and I had a few hours alone together on Saturday afternoon and we rumbled around in my maze together, talking through the pangs of comparison and the reality of where I am. I have a deep down knowing that if the heart change doesn’t come first–or at least keep up–it won’t matter where I end up. I won’t have actually gotten anywhere. These heart things are not symptoms, the kind that are easily smoothed with some balm and some good medicine. This basic disbelief is actually the cause.

I don’t believe Christ’s grace covers what I look like. I don’t believe His resurrection power is at work in me. I believe I can do every other thing but this one thing through Him. I don’t believe the very words I wrapped around my little shorty girl last night, that this thing with legs housing my heart IS fearfully and wonderfully made.

I’m not sure how inspiring this is. Or how encouraging. But. It’s true.

Here’s something else true. I enjoyed a fried green tomato BLT this weekend. And it was worth every delicious bite. Every single one.

In other corners of my heart, I am beginning to see that sometimes the mystery of Christ in me is to just do the very little that I can and wait for Him to be bigger in me. Eventually, faithfully–and even when I can’t do a thing, He unfolds beautiful workings in my heart and life. This is grace: this waiting in my imperfect offerings and even a fried green tomato BLT can’t derail me when I trust that He is doing His good and perfect bidding in my heart.

So. Here’s the nitty gritty of where I am. I’ve lost 12 pounds. I’m trying to celebrate that without rushing ahead toward how much farther I want to go.

Here’s my very little part for the next two weeks:

1. Survive the end of the school year without falling face first (mouth open) into a big bowl of brownie batter.
2. Do what I can. Walk the dog for at least 30 minutes every day. And sometimes? Run if I can unsaddle it from weight! loss!.
3. Go to bed earlier.
4. Get in front of my emotions by making more margin in my life.

That’s 542 words about me. You’ll share now?

I hope your day was full of sweet, heavy honeysuckle and jasmine, a symphony of birdsong and the full bellows of a train in the city.

I hope you see yourself today as others see you: your eyes are bright and strong and your legs are longer than you think.

I hope you know that you aren’t the only one who feels a lot bit clueless. I hope you rest your wondering in the feathered arms of your Mighty God.

I hope that celebration finds you in unconventional ways, that you know the joy of unfolding service and not the endless striving for recognition.

I hope you take the time to write secret notes to the ones you love. Make them silly and let the whisper of anticipation spread a goofy grin across your face.

In January I declared (to myself) that this would be the year that I would write. Something. A book proposal. An ebook. A book. Some sort of work that would be hard but good for me.

And, then? There haven’t been a whole lot of words. I became disinterested in what I’d been working on. My life felt overwhelming. I even struggled to write just for me. Can you still be a writer when you don’t know what to write about, what you should write about? I wanted to quit. I wanted to walk away from the whole thing. I mean, is it ok to keep writing the same things over and over again? About holding onto the sweet wisps of childhood still left at my house? About hard seasons and half faiths? About confusion? I felt like I’ve lost myself a bit.

___________________________

I grew up in a beautiful, liturgical church. We celebrated communion every Sunday. There was no children’s church. I sat in the folding chairs of the temporary sanctuary with my white patent shoes dangling inches above the ground. I wore matching cotton fold-over socks with lace trim. On Easter Sunday, my joy was made complete by simple gloves and straw hats with ribbon trim.

I still dream about going back to my home church, with it’s white and high ceilings and worn, wood beams.

In those folding chairs with the kneelers in front, I squirmed through the never ending preparation for Communion. Communion meant you got to shuffle down your aisle, walk around the sanctuary, smile shyly at your friends with their still sitting legs swinging away. Kneeling there, waiting for the wine and the wafer to be prepared and surrendered? I never felt so impatient for what was next like I did kneeling there.

And then it was time to press my round childhood knees into the velvet at the altar and push my bony elbows into the spit-shined wood railing. I would raise my hands, one placed on top of the other, and receive that wafer with the Cross pressed in the middle. I waited for the Common Cup. I took a bitter sip. The reverend spoke over me, wiped the cup with a clean, white, linen cloth. It was always folded perfectly.

I walked back to my seat, imaginary arms linked with all the hearts in that room. I stole quick glances and toothy grins with silly boys and preening girls. The whole sanctuary was filled with the drum of shoes shuffling, chairs squeaking, kneelers smacking up, the swoosh of Sunday best dresses. We moved together. We sang. We bowed low under the banner of the Lord and His beauty.