Every place I look, I see memories.
We are moving tomorrow. Every thing we own, in boxes...or almost there. Furniture has already started to disappear, and the walls are growing bare. All that is left are these walls that have watched this family form, and grow, and become. These four walls have seen it all. And now, though this house is growing empty, when I look around - all I see are memories.
These four walls welcomed us when we were only 3: Steven, me and 6-month-old Kayligrace. I remember her baby face in the pictures the day we first got our keys. These walls watched her take her first steps and heard her speak her first words. They saw her first Christmas and her first birthday. They watched her steal our hearts, and they watched Steven and I discover who we are as mommy and daddy.
These four walls watched as new life bloomed within me again, and they watched Kayligrace become a big sister. This was the house to which we brought Micah, then Malakai, and then finally Jesse home. These walls have witnessed those first holy moments of love being birthed in the first cuddles, smiles and hand-holds of sibling introductions. They have watched the fascination of discovering fingers and toes and giggles.
These walls have stretched to nearly busting with the energy, zest for life, and rough-housing that has gone on here. They have watched countless pictures being drawn, creativity bursting, personalities breaking forth. They have held the markered drawings and sharpied words that didn't quite make it onto paper. They have borne the bangs and bumps and kicks and scuffs of childhood. They have heard the songs and stories and beauty of imagination running wild.
These four walls have also seen the messiness of family. They have heard the angry words, seen the fights. They have endured the temper tantrums and slamming doors. They have borne the hurt of the wounded child who had a rough day at school, and protected the frightened child in the midst of the storm. They have heard the "I'm sorry's" and witnessed forgiveness and grace.
These four walls have watched Steven rumble on the floor with both girl and boys. They have watched Tickle Tigers and nerf gun wars and games of hide-and-seek. They have heard millions of stories read and stories told and laughter around the dinner table. They have watched me bake with little buddies and help with homework and yes, read even more stories.
These four walls have watched us fall in love with our pets. First Fidget and Snickers, the guinea pigs who were supposed to be both girls, but then it turned out, weren't. Then it was our beloved Cody, who, in his early days, made quite the mess on these walls whenever we would leave the house. Buster Brown, Cody Bear, tug-on-his-ears, best-dog-ever, I've-got-a-waterfall-for-a-mouth, please-take-me-on-a-walk, Cody. We could never have asked for a better dog for our young family. And then these walls watched as Kayligrace opened a small, wrapped shoebox one Christmas morning to find her very own guinea pig inside. They witnessed the wonder of a girl and her guinea pig, and all the happy days thereafter with Noel and Gypsy.
These four walls have watched us care for one another in sickness, and clean up afterwards. They have soaked up blood from our falls and puddles of water from our play. They have watched us change diapers and potty train. They have watched the kiddos learn to brush their teeth and wash their hair. They have watched as first teeth were lost, and they alone know the secret of when the tooth fairy really comes.
These four walls have welcomed our friends. They have housed the shouts and giggles of other children, and they have kept the secrets of a bestie. They have watched us celebrate birthdays and babies. They have listened as we have gotten to know neighbors and laughed with old friends. They have witnessed the beauty of new love as we have sat for hours with couples doing pre-E, and they have celebrated the sanctity of marriage with us as we welcome these couples again as newlyweds.
These four walls have also seen every tear - whether caused by someone within, or someone without. They have seen the betrayal, the brokenness, the grief. They have been unafraid of the anger, the accusations, the questions. They have witnessed the ways we've hurt one another, and the ways marriage rubs the rough edges right off - right rough on the soul, though it may be. These walls have held us together, no matter how far apart we may have felt in the moment.
These four walls have also seen the mending. The clinging hugs, the keep-talking-till-we-find-the-other-side's, the glances and touches that let us know we're okay again. These walls have seen it every time, because these four walls don't let us walk away. Not ever.
These four walls have heard our prayers and witnessed the moments when God broke through. They have seen the moments when we were crying out on our knees, and when we were singing praise with our arms lifted high. They have listened as our children spoke their first words to God and read their first stories from His Word. They have heard the questions and stories...and oh-so-many tangents. They have watched us celebrate the birth of our Messiah on Christmas morning and the death and resurrection of our Savior at Easter. They have seen every costume we've worn and feast we have prepared. They have seen every Christmas light, every stocking, every tree. They have even witnessed Mousekavitz in action, every mischievous deed.
These four walls have been our safe place. Our soft spot to land. The place we can go where we know we will be seen, we will be heard, we will be known. These walls have seen the worst of us, because we know they are strong enough to take it. And they have also seen the best of us, because this is where we know we can try out our dreams and learn to fly.
These four walls have seen and heard and held so much of our lives...that they were looking a little battered and bruised. The life rubbed right off of us onto them. Paint chipping, showing the depth of what is underneath. Pipes busting, spilling life-water right out all around. Stains and holes and cracks and wobbles...these four walls giving away their life for ours.
Well, now it is our turn to give back. Scrub the scuffs (and drawings) off the walls. A fresh coat of paint in the bathroom. Peeling stickers off of...well, everything. Fix the pipes, re-shingle the roof, stain the cabinets. We've had a couple people ask us if we wish we'd done all this work years ago so that we could have enjoyed it ourselves. But I always say no. I have loved this house just the way she is. Just like a new mom bears the marks on her body of bringing forth new life, this house has borne the marks of bringing forth the new life of this family. And her stretches and scars have only made her more beautiful. And just as a new mom needs a little extra rest and recovery, this house needs a little extra care and TLC as it recovers from the life it held within.
So as we pack up the rest of our boxes, and paint over the last of the marks on the walls, I do it all with a heart of gratitude. I am thankful for these four walls that have sheltered and protected us as the storms of life have raged and battered. I am thankful for these four walls that have let in the rays of light and hope in the midst of our darkest moments. I am thankful for these four walls that have bound and tethered us in the moments when all we wanted to do was flee. I am thankful for these four walls that have withstood the bursting discovery of childhood. I am thankful for these four walls that have watched and witnessed as we have chosen to love again, and fallen in love anew, every single day.
Lord, thank you for these four walls - for this house - that You have given us for the past 10.5 years. Thank you for the babies I have been able to bring home here, and all the life we've had with them - and with each other. Thank you for the ways we grown and the things You've taught us here. Thank you for the neighbors we've had and memories we've made. Swimming at the pool, catching lightning bugs. Block parties, birthday parties, taking walks, riding bikes. Bonfires and swings and building forts in the hedge. Throwing sticks and throwing balls and throwing anything we can find. Climbing and kicking and chalk. So much chalk. Lord, we could never have known what a blessing this house, this street, this neighborhood, this home would be. As we leave here tomorrow, please be preparing our next place for us so that we can learn and grow and live and love in a way that brings You glory. And please let this home be as much of a blessing to the next family it holds as it has been to us. May You be as present and active in their lives as You have been in ours, and may they come to know You more and more, living life in these four walls.
Saturday, June 20, 2020
Friday, April 10, 2020
"Father, Into Your Hands"
The 40 days preceding the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ - the season known as Lent - has always been a big deal to me. I grew up in a church that didn't necessarily dictate what I should (or shouldn't) do during Lent, but it was encouraged to find a way to participate in the fasting and repentance that marks this season in the liturgical calendar.
Over the years this has looked very different from one year to the next. There are years where I have fasted (eating certain foods, drinking certain drinks, watching TV, speaking critical words), and there are years where I didn't "subtract," but instead I "added" - extra abiding time or an extra spiritual practice as a way of drawing closer to Christ during this season. It has never been about an extra rule to follow, rather an opportunity to strategically limit myself for the purpose of spiritual intimacy with my Lord.
And then there are other years in which I didn't necessarily do anything official for Lent. I didn't fast; I didn't "add." But yet there was still the awareness that this is a special season. Especially Holy Week, the week leading up to Easter Sunday. Even more so for me personally, especially Maundy Thursday and Good Friday.
It has always been so meaningful to me to read through - on Thursday - the stories in Scripture of how Jesus spent his last "Thursday" evening: celebrating Passover with his closest friends, pouring out the anguish in his heart to his Father in the garden, surrendering his will to the will of his Father and accepting that this was the only way.
And then on Friday, reading the story of how he surrendered his body to be bruised and broken, and his blood to be spilled, as he became the sacrifice required for the forgiveness for our sins. At noon remembering how the sky grew dark and the sun did not shine as he continued to gasp for breath on that cross, and then around 3 pm pausing to remember how he cried out and breathed his last. I am amazed at how many of these Fridays the weather seems to be overcast or rainy, as if Creation itself is remembering along with me.
This year the last words of Jesus, as he hung on that cross, have been reverberating in my head and heart. I discovered Andrew Peterson's beautiful song, "Last Words (Tenebrae)" found on YouTube here or Spotify here, and Jesus' words have been echoing through my spirit as I listen to it on repeat.
Those last words recorded from Jesus before he breathed his last - "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit" - have especially stood out to me today. If you watch the progression of his words from first to last, we notice that at first Jesus is still ministering to others. Even as he first feels the nails piercing his hands and feet, he is praying for those striking their hammers: "Forgive them." As he first feels the weight of his body hanging by these nails, he is offering hope to the criminal hanging next to him: "You will be with me." As the blood from his crown of thorns still drips in his eyes, he is caring for his mother and his friend: "Behold, your son."
But then, it seems as though maybe his attention shifts. As his lungs burn for air, he grows desperate for relief and turns to the One who has always, for all eternity, been there for him. Every time. Yet God Himself has, for the first time ever, utterly forsaken Jesus. As the sins of all humanity are placed on Jesus' trembling shoulders, God turns away and abandons Jesus - in his time of greatest need and deepest pain. Utterly forsaken.
As an expression of this loss, Jesus - the source of Living Water - says that he thirsts. And we know that he doesn't thirst merely for a drink, but for his own Father, just like the psalmist: "As a deer pants for flowing streams, so pants my soul for you, O God" (Ps 42.1). Jesus longs for his God as desperately as his dying body longs for life-giving water.
Yet, still nothing. No relief. No rescue. Jesus remains on the cross, abandoned and forsaken, breathing shallow breaths. Each more difficult than the one before. And although he is more alone than he has ever been, he knows that he has obeyed. He has fulfilled the command of the God who has abandoned him. God's utter silence is proof: "It is finished."
And yet.
In his moment of complete abandonment, in the midst of being utterly forsaken, even with God's deafening silence ringing in his ears...Jesus' final words astonish: "Father, into your hands I commend my spirit."
Father.
Jesus still calls Him Father. Even when God cannot claim him, Jesus claims his Father. Even when God turns His face from Jesus, Jesus cannot help but cast his final gaze upon his Father. Even when God abandons Jesus and forsakes him, Jesus cannot - will not - forsake or abandon his Father. With his last words, Jesus claims his Father and declares that even in abandonment, he will trust his Father - and entrust his eternal spirit unto his Father.
Glory, we know how the story ends! God is merciful...and Jesus defeated sin and death. Hope wins, and the power of Jesus' resurrection is now available to us who belong to him. Hallelujah!
And while I rejoice in Jesus' victory, and will belt my praise as loud as I can come Easter Sunday morning...and I rejoice, too, that his victory is available to me in everything, I would be remiss to not also learn from the choice that Jesus made in his final moments on the cross.
In the midst of abandonment, Jesus chose to trust. In the midst of silence, Jesus threw himself at God's feet and said, I still belong to You. I will always belong to You.
No matter the trial I find myself in. No matter how far God feels or how silent He seems. No matter when He seems to have forsaken and abandoned me. Let me learn from Jesus the way of sweet surrender, the way of trusting and entrusting, as I say too...
Over the years this has looked very different from one year to the next. There are years where I have fasted (eating certain foods, drinking certain drinks, watching TV, speaking critical words), and there are years where I didn't "subtract," but instead I "added" - extra abiding time or an extra spiritual practice as a way of drawing closer to Christ during this season. It has never been about an extra rule to follow, rather an opportunity to strategically limit myself for the purpose of spiritual intimacy with my Lord.
And then there are other years in which I didn't necessarily do anything official for Lent. I didn't fast; I didn't "add." But yet there was still the awareness that this is a special season. Especially Holy Week, the week leading up to Easter Sunday. Even more so for me personally, especially Maundy Thursday and Good Friday.
It has always been so meaningful to me to read through - on Thursday - the stories in Scripture of how Jesus spent his last "Thursday" evening: celebrating Passover with his closest friends, pouring out the anguish in his heart to his Father in the garden, surrendering his will to the will of his Father and accepting that this was the only way.
And then on Friday, reading the story of how he surrendered his body to be bruised and broken, and his blood to be spilled, as he became the sacrifice required for the forgiveness for our sins. At noon remembering how the sky grew dark and the sun did not shine as he continued to gasp for breath on that cross, and then around 3 pm pausing to remember how he cried out and breathed his last. I am amazed at how many of these Fridays the weather seems to be overcast or rainy, as if Creation itself is remembering along with me.
This year the last words of Jesus, as he hung on that cross, have been reverberating in my head and heart. I discovered Andrew Peterson's beautiful song, "Last Words (Tenebrae)" found on YouTube here or Spotify here, and Jesus' words have been echoing through my spirit as I listen to it on repeat.
- "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Luke 23.34
- "Today, you will be with me in paradise." Luke 23.43
- "Behold, your son...Behold, your mother." John 19.26, 27
- "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" Matthew 27.46, Mark 15.34
- "I thirst." John 19.28
- "It is finished." John 19.30
- "Father, into your hands I commend my spirit." Luke 23.46
Those last words recorded from Jesus before he breathed his last - "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit" - have especially stood out to me today. If you watch the progression of his words from first to last, we notice that at first Jesus is still ministering to others. Even as he first feels the nails piercing his hands and feet, he is praying for those striking their hammers: "Forgive them." As he first feels the weight of his body hanging by these nails, he is offering hope to the criminal hanging next to him: "You will be with me." As the blood from his crown of thorns still drips in his eyes, he is caring for his mother and his friend: "Behold, your son."
But then, it seems as though maybe his attention shifts. As his lungs burn for air, he grows desperate for relief and turns to the One who has always, for all eternity, been there for him. Every time. Yet God Himself has, for the first time ever, utterly forsaken Jesus. As the sins of all humanity are placed on Jesus' trembling shoulders, God turns away and abandons Jesus - in his time of greatest need and deepest pain. Utterly forsaken.
As an expression of this loss, Jesus - the source of Living Water - says that he thirsts. And we know that he doesn't thirst merely for a drink, but for his own Father, just like the psalmist: "As a deer pants for flowing streams, so pants my soul for you, O God" (Ps 42.1). Jesus longs for his God as desperately as his dying body longs for life-giving water.
Yet, still nothing. No relief. No rescue. Jesus remains on the cross, abandoned and forsaken, breathing shallow breaths. Each more difficult than the one before. And although he is more alone than he has ever been, he knows that he has obeyed. He has fulfilled the command of the God who has abandoned him. God's utter silence is proof: "It is finished."
And yet.
In his moment of complete abandonment, in the midst of being utterly forsaken, even with God's deafening silence ringing in his ears...Jesus' final words astonish: "Father, into your hands I commend my spirit."
Father.
Jesus still calls Him Father. Even when God cannot claim him, Jesus claims his Father. Even when God turns His face from Jesus, Jesus cannot help but cast his final gaze upon his Father. Even when God abandons Jesus and forsakes him, Jesus cannot - will not - forsake or abandon his Father. With his last words, Jesus claims his Father and declares that even in abandonment, he will trust his Father - and entrust his eternal spirit unto his Father.
Even when God is silent and unresponsive and absent, Jesus trusts and Jesus entrusts.He trusts that his Father is good and His plans are good and He is still worthy of complete, logic-defying trust. And Jesus' trust is so all-encompassing that he is able to entrust his very dying spirit unto his Father - even in the midst of being forsaken and abandoned. Even knowing that every sin was now fully assigned to him. His life was payment, and there were no guarantees what would happen next. One might argue that Jesus probably knew the plan all along, but in the midst of being truly forsaken and utterly abandoned - there is no guarantee. There is only silence and darkness and gut-wrenching pain. Yet Jesus chose to trust God, claim Him as Father, and place his eternal hope in the goodness and sovereignty of the God he loved and longed for with his final breath.
Glory, we know how the story ends! God is merciful...and Jesus defeated sin and death. Hope wins, and the power of Jesus' resurrection is now available to us who belong to him. Hallelujah!
And while I rejoice in Jesus' victory, and will belt my praise as loud as I can come Easter Sunday morning...and I rejoice, too, that his victory is available to me in everything, I would be remiss to not also learn from the choice that Jesus made in his final moments on the cross.
In the midst of abandonment, Jesus chose to trust. In the midst of silence, Jesus threw himself at God's feet and said, I still belong to You. I will always belong to You.
No matter the trial I find myself in. No matter how far God feels or how silent He seems. No matter when He seems to have forsaken and abandoned me. Let me learn from Jesus the way of sweet surrender, the way of trusting and entrusting, as I say too...
Lord, I still give myself to You. Every day, every decision, every breath, belongs to You. No matter what, I will always belong to You.
Thursday, March 19, 2020
Sticky Families
I was walking out the door one morning to go get some work done. The kids were home from school that day - I can’t remember why - but it took a solid seven minutes just to get from one end of the house to other (which you could typically do in about 12 steps) and make it out the door due to all the hugs and kisses and one-more-hugs that I had to get from all the kids before I could leave. You’d have thought I was leaving for a month.
And then of course I finally make it to the car with all my stuff, only to realize that I had forgotten my phone - it’s always my phone. So back in I go. And, of course, we have to start all over with the hugging. No wonder I can never make it anywhere on time.
As I was leaving for the second time, Steven joked to me:
I love that when Steven comes home from work everybody jumps up from what they’re doing and yells, “Daddy!!!!” and runs to the door to greet him. Or if they’re all outside they rush to the driver’s door and crowd him so much that he can barely even get out. I love the days when I come home and Jesse flies across the cul-de-sac with his arms stretched out wide for me to sweep him up in a hug, and then he wraps himself into me and just holds so tight.
I love going for walks as a family and looking ahead to see Kayligrace and her brothers walking together, just talking. Sometimes their arms are slung around each other’s shoulders, and every now and then we’ll catch them holding hands. I love looking out in the yard, or into the neighbor’s yard, and seeing them all up in the same tree, or graffiti-ing the pavement with their intertwined drawings and designs.
We are a sticky family.
Now I know this all may change. My oldest is on the cusp of turning 11, and we don’t have a single child in middle school yet. But for today, this version of sticky is beautiful.
Not every day, mind you. Some days they are sticky in the ways that only brothers and sisters can drive one another crazy. Some days they are sticky in the way that makes me feel like I’m suffocating under the million-and-one needs with which only I can help them. Some days their stickiness is clingy or rebellious or irritating or I-can’t-take-another-minute-without-screaming. But even in all that, I find the ugly-beautiful.
Because sometimes it takes someone else’s stickiness to pull (ahem, should we say rip?) off the glossy sheen that is hiding the grime and crud underneath. Our stickiness can be messy, but only so much as it reveals the ugly hiding beneath. And even then, it’s the stickiness of our love that chooses to draw close again despite the mess.
Rather than making this the longest blog post in history in order to work through each of these daily decisions, I think I may make this a series of blog posts, describing some of the daily sticky decisions we have made to get us where we are today. In case you want to pick and choose what you dig into more fully, these are going to be my topics:
In the meantime…
And then of course I finally make it to the car with all my stuff, only to realize that I had forgotten my phone - it’s always my phone. So back in I go. And, of course, we have to start all over with the hugging. No wonder I can never make it anywhere on time.
As I was leaving for the second time, Steven joked to me:
“We have a sticky family.”That phrase, sticky family, has stuck with me and bounced around in my thoughts for weeks now - this perfect description of our family. And I love it. I love the fact that sometimes leaving takes 10 minutes, and that doesn’t even count me trying to get my mess together. Sometimes Steven walking out the door involves tears and “I’ll miss you Daddy!”s being shouted across the cul-de-sac. I love how when Steven takes the kids to school in the morning, Jesse and I stand on the porch and wave and yell “Bye!!!” at the top of our lungs until the van is a block and a half away and finally out of sight.
I love that when Steven comes home from work everybody jumps up from what they’re doing and yells, “Daddy!!!!” and runs to the door to greet him. Or if they’re all outside they rush to the driver’s door and crowd him so much that he can barely even get out. I love the days when I come home and Jesse flies across the cul-de-sac with his arms stretched out wide for me to sweep him up in a hug, and then he wraps himself into me and just holds so tight.
I love going for walks as a family and looking ahead to see Kayligrace and her brothers walking together, just talking. Sometimes their arms are slung around each other’s shoulders, and every now and then we’ll catch them holding hands. I love looking out in the yard, or into the neighbor’s yard, and seeing them all up in the same tree, or graffiti-ing the pavement with their intertwined drawings and designs.
We are a sticky family.
Now I know this all may change. My oldest is on the cusp of turning 11, and we don’t have a single child in middle school yet. But for today, this version of sticky is beautiful.
Not every day, mind you. Some days they are sticky in the ways that only brothers and sisters can drive one another crazy. Some days they are sticky in the way that makes me feel like I’m suffocating under the million-and-one needs with which only I can help them. Some days their stickiness is clingy or rebellious or irritating or I-can’t-take-another-minute-without-screaming. But even in all that, I find the ugly-beautiful.
Because sometimes it takes someone else’s stickiness to pull (ahem, should we say rip?) off the glossy sheen that is hiding the grime and crud underneath. Our stickiness can be messy, but only so much as it reveals the ugly hiding beneath. And even then, it’s the stickiness of our love that chooses to draw close again despite the mess.
Sticky can be messy. But sometimes the messy is the most delicious of all.Now as I’ve been thinking about this idea of being a sticky family, I realized that not all families are this way. Sure, personality probably plays a part, but there are six of us in this family, and I promise we all have different personalities. No, I think more than personality, it is the daily decisions that have made us sticky.
Rather than making this the longest blog post in history in order to work through each of these daily decisions, I think I may make this a series of blog posts, describing some of the daily sticky decisions we have made to get us where we are today. In case you want to pick and choose what you dig into more fully, these are going to be my topics:
- Sticky marriage
- Sticky rest
- Sticky priorities
- Sticky discipline
In the meantime…
Lord, I pray that you would teach us to be sticky families, and sticky friends. Just as You in the Trinity are sticky, and You in your love for us are sticky, let us be sticky - both with one another and with You. Help us be brave when the stickiness of those we love reveals the ugly in us, and instead of hiding or fighting, let us step into these opportunities for grace and for growth. And help us to be patient and gentle when our stickiness reveals the ugly in another, and to show them the same measure of grace You have lavished upon us: immeasurable grace. Teach us to find the beautiful delicious in the messiness of being sticky. Amen.
Saturday, November 23, 2019
"Daddy, I Made Pancakes!"
This whole conversation started the other night in the bathroom. Steven and I were getting ready for bed, and that is where I do my best talking. I don't know what it is about that space and that time of night, but I could stand there talking for hours. Over the course of the 10 years we've lived in this house, that little room has probably born witness to some of the most transforming conversations of our marriage. And, bless his heart, Steven has learned to love the late-night bathroom conversations almost as much as I do.
On this particular night, I had recently come home from sharing a quick "testimony" at an evening worship night, and I was JAZZED. I had prayed and listened and finally gotten my timid heart to say yes to the opportunity, and then I had walked on that stage with the confidence of the Lord and spoken with boldness and passion. As I later recounted to Steven (because he'd had to stay home with a sick kiddo), I had used my preaching voice. That's the voice that comes out when God wants to use my voice for His glory, and I let him. He anoints it and breathes life into it and it is amazing.
I had been so nervous. Yes, I'm a pastor, and yes, I'm a missionary, and yes, I'm supposed to preach and teach and speak to groups as if these things are everyday occurrences. But getting up in front of people and speaking forth words out of my head and my heart have never been something that I get excited about. Or look forward to. Or think I'm really all that qualified to do. Especially if there's a stage involved. I always feel that there's someone else who can do a better job, or has something better to say. Always. I always feel like I'm unqualified and not good enough and we better set the bar pretty low for her.
So when I feel like I do an even remotely good job, I get pretty surprised. When people come up to me afterwards and tell me that they really needed to hear what I said, I feel the urge to look behind me to see who they're talking to. When I'm standing on that stage, and that preaching voice comes out of me, I wonder who it is that's talking. But, gradually, I'm beginning to learn that that girl is me, and that that voice is mine. It is God-given, but He has given it to me. Wonders never cease.
So, back to the bathroom. Like I said, I was feeling jazzed. What a fun word to describe such a fun feeling, right? I was remembering and reliving and retelling and relishing. Because it had been so good. I had done it and people had been touched and truth was proclaimed and God was glorified. And the buzz was real. But while doing all that jazzed enjoying, I had this niggling thought in the back of my mind: Am I supposed to be this excited over something I did? Is it okay to feel proud of myself? Do I even have anything worth being proud of anyway?
So how could my getting up on that stage and allowing God to breathe life into the words He had given me to share be cause for me being proud of myself, in any capacity? What do I have to even be proud of? It was only from God and through God that any of it was even possible.
So, as is custom for late-night bathroom talk, I outsourced the question: "Steven, is it okay to be proud of myself? Is it okay to feel this excited about something I did?" And, in typical Steven fashion, he answered with a resounding yes. According to him, the more excited we feel about ourselves, the better, and walking around patting ourselves on the backs should be an everyday, multiple times a day, exercise. At least, for him it is. While Steven is truly one of the most humble men I know, his confidence has never ceased to amaze me.
One of my favorite parts of marriage is that Steven teaches me new things every day. There are quite a few things that we see differently, and a couple things we outright disagree on. But I know my husband, and if he has a different perspective on something, it is either because he has thought and prayed and read and studied, or it is because he is a different person with different life experiences and a different personality with a different lens on the world. So I love to dig in and figure out what he knows and what he has learned and why he sees the situation in a different light. I always learn so much when I take the time to ask questions and listen, and I think maybe he has learned a lot from doing this with me too.
So, this night, I dug in. I decided to listen to why he believed it was ok to be proud of ourselves. I have always felt that being proud of myself in any capacity was dangerous, sinful even. I mean, self-pride is never spoken of well in Scripture, and it never seems to lead to anything good, so how could it be ok to be proud of myself?
We talked for a while, back and forth, listening and learning - not just about pride and behavior, but about each other too. There were many good thoughts and perspectives, and I know my husband better today than I did the morning before this chat, but nothing seemed to shake the hold I had on the idea that I have absolutely nothing worth being proud of, and no right to take any pride in my stepping onto that stage.
But then he made a connection that I couldn't wiggle around to look at any differently than how he had displayed it. He talked about our littlest kiddo....
Our 3-year-old, Jesse, LOVES to come hang out in the kitchen while we are cooking. When Steven is cooking eggs or pancakes, Jesse is there. When I'm baking banana bread or cookies, Jesse is there. When Steven is mixing and forming hamburger patties, Jesse is there. When I'm putting together a soup or a salad, Jesse is there.
And even more than being there with us, Jesse LOVES to help. Anything we will let him do, he loves. Dumping in the teaspoons and half-cups, mixing together the dry ingredients, stirring the pot, adding the chocolate chips. And he's so proud when the food is ready, too.
"Daddy, I made pancakes!"
Daddy, I made pancakes. The words ring in my heart even now. Did Jesse create or purchase the ingredients? No. Did he come up with the recipe? Determine the proportions or the flavors that would go best together? No. Did he set the griddle temperature or decide how long to wait before flipping them over? No. But when he brings the plate with the golden, steaming, delicious pancakes to the table and says, "Daddy, I made pancakes!" we smile and exclaim and glow because we are so proud of him.
And he is proud of him too. And we celebrate that, we encourage it. We delight when he delights in himself. Did he earn it? Does he deserve it? No. He couldn't have done it by himself, not yet. And we definitely have a bigger mess to clean up now because he helped. But, at the same time, yes. He did earn it, through joining in with us and listening, responding, following our guidelines, sticking with it until the end. He does deserve it, because he said yes, and because he is ours, and because we say he does.
Daddy, I made pancakes.
Daddy, I made pancakes. I said yes. I prayed and listened and made cutting room floor decisions. I walked on that stage and took that microphone and looked into the lights and opened my mouth. I used my voice, Your voice, the voice You breathed life into and anointed and gave to me.
And You were proud. Proud of my yes and proud of my trembling hand and proud of the words that you gave and I chose and you anointed and I spoke. You were glowing with delight and calling me your own and brimming with pride. And somewhere in there, the line between You and me got blurry and I was proud of myself. And you were proud of that too.
On this particular night, I had recently come home from sharing a quick "testimony" at an evening worship night, and I was JAZZED. I had prayed and listened and finally gotten my timid heart to say yes to the opportunity, and then I had walked on that stage with the confidence of the Lord and spoken with boldness and passion. As I later recounted to Steven (because he'd had to stay home with a sick kiddo), I had used my preaching voice. That's the voice that comes out when God wants to use my voice for His glory, and I let him. He anoints it and breathes life into it and it is amazing.
I had been so nervous. Yes, I'm a pastor, and yes, I'm a missionary, and yes, I'm supposed to preach and teach and speak to groups as if these things are everyday occurrences. But getting up in front of people and speaking forth words out of my head and my heart have never been something that I get excited about. Or look forward to. Or think I'm really all that qualified to do. Especially if there's a stage involved. I always feel that there's someone else who can do a better job, or has something better to say. Always. I always feel like I'm unqualified and not good enough and we better set the bar pretty low for her.
So when I feel like I do an even remotely good job, I get pretty surprised. When people come up to me afterwards and tell me that they really needed to hear what I said, I feel the urge to look behind me to see who they're talking to. When I'm standing on that stage, and that preaching voice comes out of me, I wonder who it is that's talking. But, gradually, I'm beginning to learn that that girl is me, and that that voice is mine. It is God-given, but He has given it to me. Wonders never cease.
So, back to the bathroom. Like I said, I was feeling jazzed. What a fun word to describe such a fun feeling, right? I was remembering and reliving and retelling and relishing. Because it had been so good. I had done it and people had been touched and truth was proclaimed and God was glorified. And the buzz was real. But while doing all that jazzed enjoying, I had this niggling thought in the back of my mind: Am I supposed to be this excited over something I did? Is it okay to feel proud of myself? Do I even have anything worth being proud of anyway?
"All of us have become like one who is unclean,Even my righteous acts are like filthy rags compared to the righteousness of Christ. I bring my meager, pitiful offering of obedience, and Jesus - not me - is the one who multiplies it and transforms it into something beautiful that can feed multitudes. The gifts I have weren't even mine to begin with - they were given to me, and even when I try to use them I am like a small child learning to ride a bike. When I finally figure out how to stay upright, the wheels keep wobbling and I can't get very far before I topple and fall off again.
and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags..."
Isaiah 64.6
So how could my getting up on that stage and allowing God to breathe life into the words He had given me to share be cause for me being proud of myself, in any capacity? What do I have to even be proud of? It was only from God and through God that any of it was even possible.
So, as is custom for late-night bathroom talk, I outsourced the question: "Steven, is it okay to be proud of myself? Is it okay to feel this excited about something I did?" And, in typical Steven fashion, he answered with a resounding yes. According to him, the more excited we feel about ourselves, the better, and walking around patting ourselves on the backs should be an everyday, multiple times a day, exercise. At least, for him it is. While Steven is truly one of the most humble men I know, his confidence has never ceased to amaze me.
One of my favorite parts of marriage is that Steven teaches me new things every day. There are quite a few things that we see differently, and a couple things we outright disagree on. But I know my husband, and if he has a different perspective on something, it is either because he has thought and prayed and read and studied, or it is because he is a different person with different life experiences and a different personality with a different lens on the world. So I love to dig in and figure out what he knows and what he has learned and why he sees the situation in a different light. I always learn so much when I take the time to ask questions and listen, and I think maybe he has learned a lot from doing this with me too.
So, this night, I dug in. I decided to listen to why he believed it was ok to be proud of ourselves. I have always felt that being proud of myself in any capacity was dangerous, sinful even. I mean, self-pride is never spoken of well in Scripture, and it never seems to lead to anything good, so how could it be ok to be proud of myself?
We talked for a while, back and forth, listening and learning - not just about pride and behavior, but about each other too. There were many good thoughts and perspectives, and I know my husband better today than I did the morning before this chat, but nothing seemed to shake the hold I had on the idea that I have absolutely nothing worth being proud of, and no right to take any pride in my stepping onto that stage.
But then he made a connection that I couldn't wiggle around to look at any differently than how he had displayed it. He talked about our littlest kiddo....
Our 3-year-old, Jesse, LOVES to come hang out in the kitchen while we are cooking. When Steven is cooking eggs or pancakes, Jesse is there. When I'm baking banana bread or cookies, Jesse is there. When Steven is mixing and forming hamburger patties, Jesse is there. When I'm putting together a soup or a salad, Jesse is there.
And even more than being there with us, Jesse LOVES to help. Anything we will let him do, he loves. Dumping in the teaspoons and half-cups, mixing together the dry ingredients, stirring the pot, adding the chocolate chips. And he's so proud when the food is ready, too.
"Daddy, I made pancakes!"
Daddy, I made pancakes. The words ring in my heart even now. Did Jesse create or purchase the ingredients? No. Did he come up with the recipe? Determine the proportions or the flavors that would go best together? No. Did he set the griddle temperature or decide how long to wait before flipping them over? No. But when he brings the plate with the golden, steaming, delicious pancakes to the table and says, "Daddy, I made pancakes!" we smile and exclaim and glow because we are so proud of him.
And he is proud of him too. And we celebrate that, we encourage it. We delight when he delights in himself. Did he earn it? Does he deserve it? No. He couldn't have done it by himself, not yet. And we definitely have a bigger mess to clean up now because he helped. But, at the same time, yes. He did earn it, through joining in with us and listening, responding, following our guidelines, sticking with it until the end. He does deserve it, because he said yes, and because he is ours, and because we say he does.
Daddy, I made pancakes.
Daddy, I made pancakes. I said yes. I prayed and listened and made cutting room floor decisions. I walked on that stage and took that microphone and looked into the lights and opened my mouth. I used my voice, Your voice, the voice You breathed life into and anointed and gave to me.
And You were proud. Proud of my yes and proud of my trembling hand and proud of the words that you gave and I chose and you anointed and I spoke. You were glowing with delight and calling me your own and brimming with pride. And somewhere in there, the line between You and me got blurry and I was proud of myself. And you were proud of that too.
Wednesday, August 14, 2019
Allure Me
Shards of broken and bleeding
Everywhere I turn
The chaos in my heart
The churning in my thoughts
Constant betrayal
Is there nowhere safe?
Is there no one safe?
Who to trust, where to turn
I stumble
Even the sacred is defiled
The ear-splitting screams of rending
The rending of the heart in two
My screams
My screams
Desperate
Gasping for the quiet vastness
The stillness of the wilderness
Take me to the wilderness
Lead me to the wilderness
Allure me
Allure me
My hand in Yours
The quiet bleeding of heartbreak
Unstaunchable flow
Cracked open and silently spilling forth
Life flowing out
Emptied in the wilderness
The still of nothingness
Dreams unraveled
The quiet of brokenness
Busted wide open
Exposed in the wilderness
The quiet of abandonment
Straining for a whisper, a breath
Silence
Burning for a drop, a taste
Dust
The withering thirst,
The gnawing hunger of the wilderness
Parched
And at your mercy
Desperate surrender
Allure me
Allure me
Quiet stillness, all around
The quiet of being
Broken, yet set free
Empty, with space to be filled
New-life stirring in the wilderness
Breath
Breathe
The quiet wonder of being seen
In the most exposed places
The perfect beauty of being known
In the most broken-empty pieces
Found
In the wilderness
Discovering
Breathing in
The richness of presence
The vastness of grace
Undeserved
Unearned
Undeniable
Uncontainable
Unbreakable
Unquenchable
The quiet stitches of healing
Made strong by grace and truth
Feet planted and rising again
On sea-legs made strong by the storm
The way before me lit
By the light filtering through the cracks
Pure and resplendent
In the beauty of the wilderness
~~~~~
“Oh, that I had wings like a dove;
then I would fly away and rest!
I would fly far away
to the quiet of the wilderness.”
Psalm 55.6-7
Tuesday, August 6, 2019
Numbered Christmases and Greasy Pigs
There is a web to be woven here. Not one of deceit, but one of beauty and cherishing and healing and wholeness. But right now I just have the individual strands, and I'm trying to discern which thread to pick up first, and to anticipate how they will all join together.
Family can be so hard. Being in a family is hard. Coming from a family is hard. Finding your place in a family is hard. Brene Brown, in her book Rising Strong, says:
It is so easy to blame every thing I don't like about the human I am today on the flaws and failures of the family I grew up in. As if none of it could possibly be my own fault. And coupled with the pain from the wounds inflicted by family, which somehow plunge the deepest yet are the slowest to heal, I now have a cocktail of blame and bitterness and resentment towards those who first gave, and shaped, my life. At best, this cocktail is 'simply' explosive in its retaliatory wounding; at worst, it is lethal to the relationship.
Jesus, forgive me.
It took a Christmas song to wake me up. Sleeping At Last wrote a beautiful Christmas song called "Snow." There's no way I'd be able to describe it with any measure of justice, so you should just go listen yourself. It is absolutely beautiful, and it is beautifully sad. As I listened to this song, I found myself grieving a loss so deep and soul-shifting that I couldn't keep the tears from streaming down my face. And I haven't even experienced this loss yet! There was no single lyric that jumped out and caught my attention; rather, it was several phrases in the song, and the feel of the song, and the author's shared thoughts on why he wrote the song (podcast here) that touched my heart so definitively.
And woke me up to the realization that I have a finite number of innocent Christmases left.
One day, Christmas will bring with it a heartbreak so great that I may not even want to celebrate at all. How many have known a grief so unbearable that they felt like just canceling Christmas altogether? Whether it is the death of a parent or sibling or spouse, or family brokenness that rends the heart in two, or the loss of a child even through something as beautiful as marriage? Right now, everyone I love still has a place around the table, and a stocking hanging from their hook, and gathers with us around the tree. I haven't lost a single one, and I don't have to share them either.
But one day my innocent Christmas will be destroyed by death or loss. No matter how viciously I fight the thought, our perfect Christmases are numbered. And one day they will be tainted with the stench of death and loss. Maybe they will usher in with them a new kind of beauty, but the stench no doubt will continue to fill our senses too.
Why did no one tell me this sooner?
How many Christmases have I wasted? How many do I have left?
And how many other perfect moments do I continue to waste on bitterness and blame and resentment?
I know, 'perfect' may not seem like the right word to use. Because rarely are any of our Christmases perfect - much less our everyday moments. But I wonder if one day I will remember them as perfect simply because we were all present. Because our world hadn't shifted off its axis yet. Because I'd take hearing them say just about anything if it meant I got to hear their voice just one more time.
So, today, and with the moments I have left, what if somehow I could learn to show up and be present myself? Wrestle my own greasy pig in the darkness of my own shame and failure and vulnerability and fear, and then show up, bringing the light of awareness and understanding with me, the light of grace. Keep wrestling my way through the bad in my history and choose to embrace the innumerable moments of good. And treasure the fragile moments I have each every day with each and every one I love. Before these numbered Christmases run out.
Lord, as I wrestle my own greasy pig, and try to capture the threads of my own who I am and where I come from, may the web I weave become a masterpiece of gratitude and grace. And may I show up for every moment of the mess.
Family can be so hard. Being in a family is hard. Coming from a family is hard. Finding your place in a family is hard. Brene Brown, in her book Rising Strong, says:
"I can't think of a better way to describe what it feels like to try and get your head and heart around who you are and where you come from than wrestling a greased pig in the dark. Our identities are always changing and growing, they're not meant to be pinned down. Our histories are never all good or all bad, and running from the past is the surest way to be defined by it. That's when it owns us. The key is bringing light to the darkness - developing awareness and understanding."Wrestling a greased pig in the dark. She's right isn't she? That's what it feels like. How do we truly come to know ourselves? How do we learn to separate our individual self from our family of origin and figure out where they end and we begin? Is it even possible to truly exist as an individual in isolation from our families? When so much of who I am and how I react and the ways in which I view the world and how I choose to exist in it - it all stems out of the person I was growing into as I was simultaneously growing out of this collective identity of family. Wrestling a greased pig in the dark, for sure.
It is so easy to blame every thing I don't like about the human I am today on the flaws and failures of the family I grew up in. As if none of it could possibly be my own fault. And coupled with the pain from the wounds inflicted by family, which somehow plunge the deepest yet are the slowest to heal, I now have a cocktail of blame and bitterness and resentment towards those who first gave, and shaped, my life. At best, this cocktail is 'simply' explosive in its retaliatory wounding; at worst, it is lethal to the relationship.
Jesus, forgive me.
It took a Christmas song to wake me up. Sleeping At Last wrote a beautiful Christmas song called "Snow." There's no way I'd be able to describe it with any measure of justice, so you should just go listen yourself. It is absolutely beautiful, and it is beautifully sad. As I listened to this song, I found myself grieving a loss so deep and soul-shifting that I couldn't keep the tears from streaming down my face. And I haven't even experienced this loss yet! There was no single lyric that jumped out and caught my attention; rather, it was several phrases in the song, and the feel of the song, and the author's shared thoughts on why he wrote the song (podcast here) that touched my heart so definitively.
And woke me up to the realization that I have a finite number of innocent Christmases left.
One day, Christmas will bring with it a heartbreak so great that I may not even want to celebrate at all. How many have known a grief so unbearable that they felt like just canceling Christmas altogether? Whether it is the death of a parent or sibling or spouse, or family brokenness that rends the heart in two, or the loss of a child even through something as beautiful as marriage? Right now, everyone I love still has a place around the table, and a stocking hanging from their hook, and gathers with us around the tree. I haven't lost a single one, and I don't have to share them either.
But one day my innocent Christmas will be destroyed by death or loss. No matter how viciously I fight the thought, our perfect Christmases are numbered. And one day they will be tainted with the stench of death and loss. Maybe they will usher in with them a new kind of beauty, but the stench no doubt will continue to fill our senses too.
Why did no one tell me this sooner?
How many Christmases have I wasted? How many do I have left?
And how many other perfect moments do I continue to waste on bitterness and blame and resentment?
I know, 'perfect' may not seem like the right word to use. Because rarely are any of our Christmases perfect - much less our everyday moments. But I wonder if one day I will remember them as perfect simply because we were all present. Because our world hadn't shifted off its axis yet. Because I'd take hearing them say just about anything if it meant I got to hear their voice just one more time.
So, today, and with the moments I have left, what if somehow I could learn to show up and be present myself? Wrestle my own greasy pig in the darkness of my own shame and failure and vulnerability and fear, and then show up, bringing the light of awareness and understanding with me, the light of grace. Keep wrestling my way through the bad in my history and choose to embrace the innumerable moments of good. And treasure the fragile moments I have each every day with each and every one I love. Before these numbered Christmases run out.
Lord, as I wrestle my own greasy pig, and try to capture the threads of my own who I am and where I come from, may the web I weave become a masterpiece of gratitude and grace. And may I show up for every moment of the mess.
Friday, July 5, 2019
Abundance and Enough
I can't remember who said this, which podcast I heard it on, or even if this is actually what they said...so maybe I'll just claim it as my own. Haha, if I actually got it right and it's yours and you somehow end up reading this, please let me know because I'd be happy to give you credit.
No really. I live every day trying to hit all these things.
And I live every day feeling like a spinning top, the speed of my spinning carrying me in wandering circles of too much and not enough, until, overwhelmed and empty, my spinning runs out and I fall. Spent, yet with so little to show for it.
And maybe that's not fair. My kids are incredible. Clearly, by the utter grace of God, something has worked. Something is getting through. And though my efforts fall far short of the perfection that I'm aiming for, the effort is paying off.
But when I heard these words: "I can't be a perfect parent, but I can do my own work," I wondered if maybe I was approaching my parenting from the wrong side. Maybe instead of finding all the right ways to DO parenting, it would be more effective (and probably more efficient) to find the right way to BE a parent.
Sure, I've heard it before. "[Fill in the blank] is caught, not taught." Responsibility is caught, not taught. A relationship with Jesus is caught, not taught. Character is caught, not taught. I get it. But I think when I considered this motto, I always thought it meant that I had to get my mess together so that my kids could catch all that right stuff from me. But I still set my standard for perfecting my living so that my kids could see and therefore catch it all.
But what if, instead of perfecting my living, I simply have to work on my heart? Okay, I said *simply* work on my heart. HA, there's nothing simple about heart-work, but maybe it will feel like less senseless spinning.
Could this work? Instead of trying to perfect my chores routine and fit this routine into my current daily rhythms of work and family and play and rest so that I can model it for my children and then subsequently work a daily chores routine into their rhythms too so that they can one day leave home contributing members of society who know how to clean their own toilets and do their own laundry...what if instead of ALL of that I could *simply* work on decluttering my heart and detaching from materialism and simplifying my lifestyle choices and disciplining myself to spend 30 minutes a day cleaning and decluttering instead of binge-watching or overeating?
Really??? This is the choice?! That doesn't seem like it could work...AT ALL!
[hysterical laughing]
There's no chance I have enough energy - or time or attention - or, did I say, ENERGY to do that kind of work as often as I'd need to in order to make a difference in my home, much less in my children's lives. I don't have nearly enough...
. . .
Sneak peak into my writing style. Most of the time when I sit down to write I have an idea or two, but I don't really know where they'll take me or even sometimes, how they'll connect. That was the case today. Two ideas, with a sense inside that they were connected, but that I'd have to explore a bit to discover the connection. So I start writing, and the process of getting my thoughts and feelings on paper brings clarity and order and illuminates connections. This is my process of discovering truth.
Sometimes the discovery of truth is like a sun rising - gentle and slow and steadily growing brighter and brighter until it, at last, peeks over the horizon and radiates warmth and light.
Other times my discoveries are more like barreling smack into a glass wall that you didn't even realize was there. One minute you're walking along, minding your own business, and the next minute you're picking yourself up off the floor.
Today is the latter.
So pardon me while I finish brushing the dust off.
I walk around with this mentality that I don't have nearly enough. Sometimes (when I'm being honest, so don't tell) I admit that I walk around believing that I am not nearly enough. I live this one life I've got believing the lie that I have a scarcity problem. That if only I had more time - an abundance of time - or more energy, or more mental space...if only I had abundance, then I could find that place of not just doing, but of being enough.
If I had abundance, I could do my work, and give my kids the enough that they deserve.
But Brene says that the opposite of scarcity is not abundance - it is simply enough. And her words have the sting of truth to them, don't they?
I will *never* have abundance. I don't have the capacity for it. I'm a leaky vessel and all the good just keeps seeping out.
But I do have enough.
Because God has met my need in abundance, I can have enough. Because God has met my need in abundance, I can be enough. Enough for my children. Enough for my husband. Enough for my friends. Enough for my mom and my sister and my dad. Enough for my students and co-workers and teammates. Enough for my chores and systems and mess. Enough to do my heart-work.
Is the right way to do parenting the systems-and-modeling method, or the do-your-work method? Heck, I have no idea. Honestly, it's probably both. I cannot rely solely on the systems method - and I definitely won't model the right stuff - if I'm not willing to do my own work. But I don't think just doing my heart-work is going to get my kids very far in the practicals of learning responsibility for their own space and their own bodies, either. But what I do know (now, thanks to that glass wall) is that in all things, I have enough...and I am enough.
Because Christ meets me in my failing systems with His abundant mercy. And Christ covers my flawed modeling with His abundant grace. And Christ shows up to my valiant efforts at doing my own heart-work with His abundant transformational and healing power. Because of His abundance, I can live in the place of always enough.
Lord, help me to always lean into your abundance and live in this place of always enough. Correct me when I try to stand in my own strength and catch me when I crumble under the weight. Teach me to rest in your abundant grace and wait on your transformational power. Give me wisdom to know when to teach systems, when to rely on modeling, and when to "simply" do my own work. And when my efforts and ideas fail, I trust you to faithfully and diligently teach my children all they need to know to live their own lives of abundance and enough.
"I can't be a perfect parent, but I can do my own work."I want SO MUCH to be a perfect parent. I want to be intentional with every moment, and perfectly handle every conflict, and make the most of every opportunity, and plan the perfect balance of fun, training and relationship, and find the perfect structures for discipline and responsibility, and model perfectly life with Christ, and live out the perfect marriage, and perfectly order my priorities...and all the other versions of perfect that you can think of.
No really. I live every day trying to hit all these things.
And I live every day feeling like a spinning top, the speed of my spinning carrying me in wandering circles of too much and not enough, until, overwhelmed and empty, my spinning runs out and I fall. Spent, yet with so little to show for it.
And maybe that's not fair. My kids are incredible. Clearly, by the utter grace of God, something has worked. Something is getting through. And though my efforts fall far short of the perfection that I'm aiming for, the effort is paying off.
But when I heard these words: "I can't be a perfect parent, but I can do my own work," I wondered if maybe I was approaching my parenting from the wrong side. Maybe instead of finding all the right ways to DO parenting, it would be more effective (and probably more efficient) to find the right way to BE a parent.
Sure, I've heard it before. "[Fill in the blank] is caught, not taught." Responsibility is caught, not taught. A relationship with Jesus is caught, not taught. Character is caught, not taught. I get it. But I think when I considered this motto, I always thought it meant that I had to get my mess together so that my kids could catch all that right stuff from me. But I still set my standard for perfecting my living so that my kids could see and therefore catch it all.
But what if, instead of perfecting my living, I simply have to work on my heart? Okay, I said *simply* work on my heart. HA, there's nothing simple about heart-work, but maybe it will feel like less senseless spinning.
Could this work? Instead of trying to perfect my chores routine and fit this routine into my current daily rhythms of work and family and play and rest so that I can model it for my children and then subsequently work a daily chores routine into their rhythms too so that they can one day leave home contributing members of society who know how to clean their own toilets and do their own laundry...what if instead of ALL of that I could *simply* work on decluttering my heart and detaching from materialism and simplifying my lifestyle choices and disciplining myself to spend 30 minutes a day cleaning and decluttering instead of binge-watching or overeating?
Really??? This is the choice?! That doesn't seem like it could work...AT ALL!
[hysterical laughing]
There's no chance I have enough energy - or time or attention - or, did I say, ENERGY to do that kind of work as often as I'd need to in order to make a difference in my home, much less in my children's lives. I don't have nearly enough...
. . .
Sneak peak into my writing style. Most of the time when I sit down to write I have an idea or two, but I don't really know where they'll take me or even sometimes, how they'll connect. That was the case today. Two ideas, with a sense inside that they were connected, but that I'd have to explore a bit to discover the connection. So I start writing, and the process of getting my thoughts and feelings on paper brings clarity and order and illuminates connections. This is my process of discovering truth.
Sometimes the discovery of truth is like a sun rising - gentle and slow and steadily growing brighter and brighter until it, at last, peeks over the horizon and radiates warmth and light.
Other times my discoveries are more like barreling smack into a glass wall that you didn't even realize was there. One minute you're walking along, minding your own business, and the next minute you're picking yourself up off the floor.
Today is the latter.
So pardon me while I finish brushing the dust off.
"The opposite of scarcity is not abundance; the opposite of scarcity is simply enough." ~ Brene Brown, Rising StrongLet me remind you what I was saying...before I hit my glass wall: I don't have nearly enough.
I walk around with this mentality that I don't have nearly enough. Sometimes (when I'm being honest, so don't tell) I admit that I walk around believing that I am not nearly enough. I live this one life I've got believing the lie that I have a scarcity problem. That if only I had more time - an abundance of time - or more energy, or more mental space...if only I had abundance, then I could find that place of not just doing, but of being enough.
If I had abundance, I could do my work, and give my kids the enough that they deserve.
But Brene says that the opposite of scarcity is not abundance - it is simply enough. And her words have the sting of truth to them, don't they?
"And God is able to bless you abundantly, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work." 2 Corinthians 9.8Oh snap. Abundantly...all things...all times...all that you need...abound...in every good work. All your needs...according to the riches of his glory.
"And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus." Philippians 4.19
I will *never* have abundance. I don't have the capacity for it. I'm a leaky vessel and all the good just keeps seeping out.
But I do have enough.
Because God has met my need in abundance, I can have enough. Because God has met my need in abundance, I can be enough. Enough for my children. Enough for my husband. Enough for my friends. Enough for my mom and my sister and my dad. Enough for my students and co-workers and teammates. Enough for my chores and systems and mess. Enough to do my heart-work.
Is the right way to do parenting the systems-and-modeling method, or the do-your-work method? Heck, I have no idea. Honestly, it's probably both. I cannot rely solely on the systems method - and I definitely won't model the right stuff - if I'm not willing to do my own work. But I don't think just doing my heart-work is going to get my kids very far in the practicals of learning responsibility for their own space and their own bodies, either. But what I do know (now, thanks to that glass wall) is that in all things, I have enough...and I am enough.
Because Christ meets me in my failing systems with His abundant mercy. And Christ covers my flawed modeling with His abundant grace. And Christ shows up to my valiant efforts at doing my own heart-work with His abundant transformational and healing power. Because of His abundance, I can live in the place of always enough.
Lord, help me to always lean into your abundance and live in this place of always enough. Correct me when I try to stand in my own strength and catch me when I crumble under the weight. Teach me to rest in your abundant grace and wait on your transformational power. Give me wisdom to know when to teach systems, when to rely on modeling, and when to "simply" do my own work. And when my efforts and ideas fail, I trust you to faithfully and diligently teach my children all they need to know to live their own lives of abundance and enough.
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