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.
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