Monday, May 8, 2017

When a Whisper is Enough

The echo of empty. The hollow space. The hurt of being human.

Some mornings just feel like that.

John Piper puts it this way, "I feel like I have to get saved every morning. I wake up and the devil is sitting on my face."

I absolutely love that quote.

Because I often feel this way.

In my shame or self-criticism, I assume others don't ever feel this sort of weight when walking with Jesus. I tell myself that others wake up ready to be a Christian. They bound out of bed like juiced-up Jesus jocks ready to love, serve and walk with Him well. Some mornings, I pull myself from beneath the sheets and simply lie at his feet. Not a whole lot of bounding going on.

So if John Piper, the same guy who pastors and thoeologizes and writes books on the very topic of closeness with God, feels this same weight of a battle worn spirit–I can admit to it too. And I just know that Jesus must be in there somewhere; waking with us, helping us to peel the evil intentions right off our skin; holding our cheeks in his hands, kissing our sunken eyes.

One more day with me. I can hear him whisper. One more day. 

I've come to realize that the empty mornings: the ones that echo and reverberate and sting and recycle the same desperate prayers do not translate into spiritual abandonment.

In my experience, those times don't reveal that God is mad or distant or withdrawn. The Message version of the Bible says it this way in Psalm 34, If your heart is broken, you'll find God right there; if you're kicked in the gut, he'll help you catch your breath.

So I let those words sink into my imagination. I envision what this personal, intimate, interlocked-finger kind of God is doing when I'm feeling this way.

And what comes to mind is the process of teaching a child to ride a bike.

On the days I am feeling like I have to ride the road all alone, it is more likely that He is guiding the back of the seat with His hands. That He is simply in the process of letting me figure out how His spirit is intended to guide me, to whisper into my ears what it is I need to know next. Not the next turn I need to take, but the next truth about his nature that would be lifesaving for me to understand. 

I have been living in 1 Kings 19 right now. It stuck out to me a few months ago when I was driving beneath the ridges of the Cascades and it came up again a few days ago in a Dallas Willard book I'm into. So I'm paying attention.

The passage is incredible. So here it is, verses 2-18:

And the word of the Lord came to him: “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

10 He replied, “I have been very zealous for the Lord God Almighty. The Israelites have rejected your covenant, torn down your altars, and put your prophets to death with the sword. I am the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me too.”

11 The Lord said, “Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.”

Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. 12 After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. 13 When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave.

Then a voice said to him, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

14 He replied, “I have been very zealous for the Lord God Almighty. The Israelites have rejected your covenant, torn down your altars, and put your prophets to death with the sword. I am the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me too.”

15 The Lord said to him, “Go back the way you came, and go to the Desert of Damascus. When you get there, anoint Hazael king over Aram. 16 Also, anoint Jehu son of Nimshi king over Israel, and anoint Elisha son of Shaphat from Abel Meholah to succeed you as prophet. 17 Jehu will put to death any who escape the sword of Hazael, and Elisha will put to death any who escape the sword of Jehu. 18 Yet I reserve seven thousand in Israel—all whose knees have not bowed down to Baal and whose mouths have not kissed him.”

Two things stick out to me. 

One. Elijah talks with God. Like I would talk to you. This isn't a metaphor, this is a picture of those thin places, where the veil of heaven is lifted and mere man gets a peek into what God is up to. It really happened. And Elijah was one of those guys who didn't see the difference between earth and the kingdom of Heaven. To him, they were one in the same.

For context, in this part of the story we find that Elijah is in the wilderness trying to stay alive because he is being hunted. Then he goes up to Mount Horeb, which is also Mount Sinai, to hash out this problem. And it's a big one.

The first thing God asks is why he has come to chat. “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

Oh, God. Really?  

This is where I would sarcastically jump down God's throat. "WHY AM I HERE?!" Are you kidding?!" Which is probably why I was not asked to be in the Bible or to hike up Mount Horeb. Respectfully and faithfully, Elijah simply states the problem: they are seeking his life because he has been doing God's will.

And this is how God responds. Now this part is just beautiful:

The Lord said, “Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by." Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. 12 After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper.

God is almighty. Powerful. To be feared. And to be worshiped. But that isn't all He is. He is also a whisper. A gentle whisper. 

A whisper is only used when there is something very intimate or private that someone wants to share. It could be important or it could just be silly. It is like when my daughter leans over and warms my ear with her breathy confession, "Mom, I love you so much." 

Whispering is a form of childlike communication wrapped up in whimsy and familiarity. You don't whisper into the ear of someone you don't know. That's the fastest way to get yourself a restraining order. 

We see that God chooses to reveal himself to Elijah in a whisper, simply because He knows Elijah and Elijah knows God. If you notice in the verse that follows it says, When Elijah heard it (the whisper), he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave. Waiting. It says that Elijah doesn't go to meet with God until he hears the whisper. Because Elijah knows the voice of God. 

He knows that our God is one who whispers. He is a God that uses one of the most intimate ways that one can speak to another. Because he is just that into us.

But it is a whisper all the same. Why?

Did Elijah need a whisper? No, he needed an army. Did he need a sweet affectionate reminder of God's gentle voice? No, he needed an escape route. But what God does instead is remind Elijah that when everything is falling apart-when mountains break in two, when earthquakes rattle, when fire consumes, that He is a gentle whisper among the chaos.

God is reminding Elijah who He is. He is reminding him that God is bigger than the beast. God is God. I am who I am. And this changes the landscape. It gives context to the terror and the trouble. It doesn't make it go away, it just colors it differently. 

The second thing that strikes me about this passage is what Elijah does after this whole whisper business goes down God. He repeats himself.

When God then asks him again, "What are you doing here Elijah?" 

14 He replied, “I have been very zealous for the Lord God Almighty. The Israelites have rejected your covenant, torn down your altars, and put your prophets to death with the sword. I am the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me too.”

The problem hasn't changed. Even as he is in an intimate conversation with the almighty Creator, the problem still remains. But he repeats himself because he is confident that if he keeps asking God will answer. And it is only now, in the shadow of the repeated problem and the presence of a heard whisper, God can give him the plan; the practical solution to the big issue.

Why didn't God do this the first time? 

It would have been a much more effective way of dealing with this conversation. But our God isn't interested in efficiency. He doesn't want to wrap up the conversation just so he can go back to the important business of being God. He heard Elijah the first time. He just wanted to give Elijah more than a fix, he wanted to re-frame his faith.

Here is what I am getting at. 

When there is a problem or when it feels like something is off, but you can't name it or the devil is sitting on your face, when your heart feels carved out, when we are stumbling and bumbling and swearing with sticky fingers and loose tongues; we can go to God. We should. Of course. 

But something happens between the first and second time that Elijah told God his problem. 

The first time Elijah went to God needing an answer, but instead he got a reminder. 

The second time he went to God with a problem, his heart already had the most important solution: God's voice. 

Now. Now he was ready to hear the solution. The game plan.

Our hearts matter more than our problem. Our willingness to hear God's whisper and say, OK, that's all I need to get through. One. More. Day.  In this place we are prepped for progress. It is here that we can actually carry out the plan. We can ride the wobbly bike with confidence that He is isn't gone, He is simply quieter than our problems and we need to turn down the volume.

Sometimes, when I am in seasons of sluggishness I need to be extra diligent to listen for the whisper. To silence the negative tapes in my head that are on repeat. I need to close my eyes when the cliff face is shattering and instead, cover myself with his Word. Only in obedience to the hunger my soul has for more of Jesus will I get the solution. Only then am I prepared to walk in the way that He may ask of me. 

When the problem is the same. The prayer is the same. The routine is the same. The pain is the same. The death is the same. The loss is the same. The bruise is the same. The darkness is the same. The longing is the same. The bills are the same. The addiction is the same. The sin is the same. The sadness is the same. Only then.

He can whisper. And we can hear.

We're in this together,
M

 

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

When Your Heart is Broken

There is a little boy in the ICU right now. 

He had open heart surgery yesterday. He was four days old.

This beautiful little boy was born with a broken heart.

He is my nephew.

And even though I have not met him (his condition doesn't allow for many visitors) I love him with a fierceness I am surprised by. I surge with pride in his strength one minute and am in a puddle of tears the next. I keep my phone by me for the littlest update and am emotionally wrapped up in the unfolding of his life.

This little child: I have never held him. I have never heard him laugh. I have never looked him in the eyes.

And yet, I am a wreck over him.

Watching my brother and his wife wage this war against fear and physicality and progress and setbacks; I do not pretend I am a partner in their pain. I know nothing of their sleeplessness; of their all-consuming cries for help and unfolding horror. But as a bystander, I can say the overflow of utter frailty and unfairness consume my thoughts.

But there is hope.

Because for our family, "better" is more than a possible option. Better is coming. Better is on her way. Praise God. That is a gift that a lot of the parents who've been in the same rooms can't claim.

My nephew will go home whole. It may take time. But he will.

Close friends of mine have walked bleaker roads. Roads where the prognosis wasn't positive; where the hardest nights weren't the ones simply spent waiting for it to get better. The hardest nights were spent holding empty baby blankets and driving away alone. 

None of it sits well with me. Babies born sick. Children with cancer. Babies not born at all. It just isn't fair. 

None of it.

There are a few things that I remember my mom saying to us as kids growing up. Whenever we were fighting or whining over something not being fair, she would look us straight in the eyes and clip, "Well, life's not fair."

It stopped us in our tracks. I never liked her response, but even as a kid I knew I couldn't argue.

But if I stop there, fairness has the final say.

I can't just shrug and throw my hands up in the air and bite my nails in anxious anticipation of what will happen next. I want to be instrumental in what happens next.

And I believe I can.

Prayer is a partnership. It is a spirit led exchange between the God of the universe and our little, small, freckled, wrinkled, tired selves. God invites us to petition for the unfairness of it all. He encourages us to step up and be ambassadors for change. 

I don't claim to know how this works. But I have been doing some serious praying these last few days. And so have people in our small world.

I have not prayed the whimsical wafer prayers that you sweetly unpack and share. I've been getting gritty. Angry. I've been unloading the gutsy prayers. The ones where you call God out; where you beg Him to show up; to be the God he says He is; and you demand it with authority, because He tells you to.

He invites us to call upon Him in Romans 10:13. Whoever calls upon the name of the Lord will be saved.

And again in Psalm 50:15. Call on me in the day of trouble, I will deliver you. 

And then again, John 14:13-14. And I will do whatever you ask in My name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If you ask Me anything in My name, I will do it.

And there are many more.

But I want to land in Psalm 91. Because it is here that we find refuge language. Fortress language. Protector language. The type of language we need to clothe ourselves in when the walls have fallen down.

For he will deliver you from the snare of the fowler
    and from the deadly pestilence.
He will cover you with his pinions,
    and under his wings you will find refuge;
    his faithfulness is a shield and buckler.
You will not fear the terror of the night,
    nor the arrow that flies by day,
Nor the pestilence that stalks in darkness,
    nor the destruction that wastes at noonday.

Because he holds fast to me in love, I will deliver him;
    I will protect him, because he knows my name.
When he calls to me, I will answer him;
    I will be with him in trouble;
    I will rescue him and honor him.
With long life I will satisfy him
    and show him my salvation.

The terror of the night. 

The arrow that flies by day. 

The pestilence that stalks in darkness.  

What David, the author, is describing here are absolutes. Terrors of the night are inevitable's. Flying arrows are simply collateral damages that come from living in a fallen world. The pestilence that stalks in darkness includes the sickening reality that some beautifully perfect babies are born with imperfect hearts.

But what I see here in Psalm 91 is a love letter. A scared, yet worshipful man detailing all the beautiful ways that a not-distant God has shown up for him, and how He will continue to do so.

I see a confident petition for protection. I see someone slamming a snare shut while walking away unscathed. I see someone small and weak covered by muscle-bound wings that span as wide as heaven itself. I see the author hunched down in a dark corner, while shadows scratch at his back and there's a snake at his door.

I read something that can only matter to those "who know His name." Something that is life to those who believe He is protector, not a punisher. That He is a rescuer, not a grim reaper. Who believe he can satisfy us even in the middle of IVs and tubes and oxygen levels and swollen scars and blood tests and unanswered questions.

And those who do know his name slowly, but surely, graduate from unfair to inescapable. But even then, He meets us.

When he calls to me, I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble;
I will rescue him and honor him.
With long life I will satisfy him
and show him my salvation.

He answers us.

He's with us.

He rescues us.

He satisfies us. 

And here's the daring question, the one that breaking hearts must ask in the face of ugly realities: could this suffering be an inroads to beauty inescapable?

If we could bypass the pain, if we could skip it, what would we be missing? Or more accurately, who would we be missing?

The Bible talks a lot about bringing beauty from pain. The ancient language is rich with imagery like bringing flowers from thorns and sewing together gorgeous headdresses from ashes and turning sorrow into joy and mourning into song.

Is this just metaphor? Is this just some kind of heaven thing? Some kind of transformation that we won't get to experience until we stand at those pearly gates and empty our pockets and hand over any liquids over 3.4 ounces?

I say no.

Emphatically no.

This is for us. For today. For right now. For the hurting. For the broken. For the busted. For the blacked out. For the broken up. For the back of the bus-ers. For the bottom feeders. For the brand new. For the bingers. For the beautiful people. For the beggars. For us all.  

These verses about calling on His name don't include healing. They don't include a hall pass for pain. They don't guarantee a seamless life that doesn't throw your stomach into the blender. But He does promise us Himself. He does promise us that we can trust Him. That ugly isn't the end. That He is doing something beautiful.

So we must take him at His word. 

We must surrender and see Him stitching together something incredibly unexpected; a beauty that can only be revealed when it is filled with ache.

We must allow our eyes to see that a weak and tired soul is the only vehicle right now that can transport us into strength that is stronger than statistics.

Our God is a God of life, never death. A God of hope, never hate. And our God is a God who hears our gutsy prayers over broken little baby boys.

So please join me in praying gritty, petition filled prayers. Ambassador prayers. Prayers for change and progress and healing and wholeness.  

Because all of us just need to get through one more night, and then the next, and the next before better comes.

And believe that better is coming. Because He already has. His name is Jesus.

We're in this together,
M


Wednesday, April 5, 2017

To the Mom Who is in the Trenches

To step into the mental corner of my brain right now, you might see me strapping on a bullet proof vest and trying to asses the war zone that is my life.

The target: my kid's craziness. Their ages waterfall from 6 to 4 to 11 months. They are wild and wonderful all within an hour. Ok, within milliseconds.

And on the mornings after the wild days win, I wake up on a mission. I am battle weary and yet overly obsessive in recommitting to my consistency in training. Because in my mind, if I get this parenting thing right more often, my kids will be better. Life will be easier if I can just get them to fall in line.

And yet, I know. Deep down, I know. When the sinner is training the sinner, there's only one result: sin.

I am not a mathematician by any stretch. And even I know, that my doubled efforts won't result in a different outcome.

This verse popped into my mind when I went looking for help. But at first glance it didn't seem too encouraging. "Train a child in the way he should go. Even when he is old, he will not depart from it."

I've always read this verse in Proverbs with a militant undertone. Train a child. It seems straightforward. Training requires rules. Discipline. A strictness. A regimen. A battle plan. A firmness in execution. This type of tactic training will end in ultimate victory. Right?

Hmm. I'm not so sure.

In Hebrew, the word train is chanak. Which means dedicated.

Dedicated to what? To the way.

What is this way? In Hebrew, it is derek, which means distance. Or journey or course.

The verse in it's original context means to be dedicated to the distance.

"Be dedicated to your child's distance/journey, and when he is old he will not depart from it."

This verse is a long game verse. It actually has nothing to do with the bullet proof vest and the day ahead, and everything to do with the life course our kids will take, and the journey we have been asked to take with them as their parents. It isn't saying that if we train our kids right, they will never depart from our training. It's up to them ultimately to put on the tool belt, but if we show them how, it is far more likely that they will.

It is saying that if we are dedicated to going the distance with our kids, in grace and truth, despite the holes in our shoes and burdens on our backs, then they will have all the tools they need to be able to stay the course too.

They won't skirt the hard road. They saw mom walk it. 

They won't jump the median. They saw mom fight to stay within the borders. 

They won't crash. They saw mom slam on her brakes when she was barrelling towards the ditch.

We are called to be line leaders. Not drill sergeants.

Proverbs as a whole is a book written to help instill governing morals. It was intended to give guidance to some of the very first believers in the God of the Bible. These people had no clue. They were pre-cross. No Gospel. Not only that, but they didn't have parenting books either. My sweet Lord, they didn't even have that Facebook lady who "drops some serious truth bombs."

So imagine when they first heard this. We have to do what? Commit some of our precious time to these kids? Our property? Children were less than second class citizens. They were considered collateral. A man's total net worth would include how many children he could breed from his loins.

Lovely. 

So the fact that Solomon, who was king, even mentioned that these parents needed to come along their children and to be a dedicated guide was new. So no, there is no war zone when you peel back the Hebrew, there is no battle line, there is no subordinate and superior–instead it looks a lot more like a running track and we are the ones setting the pace with little monkeys on our back.

That's why pacing with Jesus is so important.

There is no urgency in the matters of this day to get it right, because in God's grace, this isn't a drill. It is the dedicated way of love.

You get do-overs when you go the distance.

I've heard Pete Carroll, the head coach of the Seahawks, repeatedly say that games are not won in the first quarter. Nor the second. Nor the third. If you are a mom to young kids, you are in the first quarter. Pace yourself. The road is long.

But no matter the age of your kiddos or what quarter you are in, this loop of love constantly folds back into itself. We wake to find another round of distance training that will increase our own strength and endurance, and ultimately our children's.

Too often, in young motherhood, I keep waiting for halftime, or when it is my turn to be tagged out. I daydream about sitting on the bench and catching my breath. But spending my active duty days on the bench isn't what is wise. That isn't what the Bible teaches.

So for those who are truly in the trenches, I know that we are looking for concrete answers. Real solutions. How do I make this switch practically? How do I get on board with this type of distance mentality?

Go read Hebrews 12. All of it. And then hang on some of the verses that pull at you. It is a powerful section. But a few highlights.

Hebrews was written for doubters. It was written for those who were either considering reverting back to Judaism and denying that Christ was the Messiah after all, or they were just trying to do both traditional legalism and wrap it up with a non-essential Jesus bow. Either way, they needed a gentle reminder of why they believed what they believed.

And so do we. 

Hebrews 12:1,"Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross."

We've got a cloud of witnesses my friends, with sticky fingers and never ending needs. 

To run the race with endurance is to "lay aside every sin that clings so closely" and to "look to Jesus". Sin. It clings. It clutches. It digs its nails into our flesh. It wont let go. So we need a little help.

We need to ask God to point out the places that we're caught. Places where we are weak and bordering on injury. We need to ask for reproach. It is to ask for the very thing that we think our children need. Which they do. But again, we're the line leaders.

Even though Proverbs is talking about being dedicated to our children's journey, Hebrews injects Jesus into the mix explaining that dedication really begins with going the distance with God ourselves.

In verse 12 it says "Therefore, strengthen the hands that are weak and the knees that are feeble, and make straight paths for your feet, so that the limb which is lame may not be put out of joint, but rather healed. " (NAS)

We have lame limbs.

Nice. 

We are not whole.

Truth.

We need him to straighten the path we keep trying to make crooked.   

In proper dedication and training for our kiddos, we have to admit that we are running the course with a lame limb. Maybe a whole bunch of them. We are perhaps doubled over with a side ache. Maybe we are lying face down in the trenches with a busted rib.

I read once, that the best athletes "play hurt". Isn't that the truth? The best moms play hurt too. But if we are Believers, we don't run it alone. We don't hurt alone. We don't hobble alone.

Play hurt. Don't pretend your not. The battle is already won.   
 
We're in this together,
M

Friday, March 31, 2017

To the Mom Who Is Anxious

Motherhood is tangled.

It twists. And turns. And takes issue. And lets go of that issue. And then puts a foot down. And then lets that foot remain filthy while washing another's. It is a life-giving exercise in humility by way of life-taking sacrifice.

And it's hard. 

Moms are walking contradictions. Christ-loving and cussaholics. Anger-filled and Spirit filled. Monsters and meek. Slamming things down and smiling at our precious gifts.

How can this be? Are we less than we should be? Are we not rising to our full potential? Are we not who God has called us to be? Are we, gasp, failing?

This verse in Matthew: "Be perfect, therefore as I am perfect," used to cause me great anxiety.

I spent years trying to impress the God of the universe with my hack-job at morality. I assumed that these words were a literal benchmark. The cliff face of legalism was needing to be scaled. Works were workable. This verse would echo my insecurity, "You are not doing enough. You are not enough. Do more. Be more."

This especially turned anxiety-vicious when I ignored God for awhile so that I could get on with my real life. 

Eventually, lodged in-between the perpetual tension of good and bad, I'd burn out and land at the bottom of that cliff with bloody fingernails and broken bones. 

One day my son came up to me with tears in his eyes and said, "Mom, I am so tired of not being perfect. I wish I was perfect like Jesus."

Knife in the heart.

I know that very same weariness.

But we aren't competitors with Jesus. We are co-heirs.

That's why I couldn't pendulum between morality and my messiness anymore. That's why I finally gave into Jesus.And let me be clear, I didn't go easily.

Jesus is God's answer to our cycles of soul destruction. Jesus is a purified entry point that can reshape our souls. Jesus smashes our false identifiers and reconstructs an entirely new reflection from the image of himself.

In Matthew 5:48 the calling towards being perfect isn't used in the same context as in English. It is used as a verb, a progressive action. In the Greek, téleios, translates into "fully grown." A process of maturing. Of going from broken to completion. He who began a good work in you will complete it. 

This type of perfect tells us that God is with us through it all until the end. This type of perfect applauds growth in small, slow root-bound ways.

If you dig a bit deeper, one concordance explains téleios, as "going through the necessary stages to reach the end-goal."

The necessary stages.

Motherhood is one of those necessary stages: it is the richest soil I've ever been buried under. 

That's why God calls children a blessing. It isn't beauty from the beginning, but damn, is it ever ripe for an eventual Eden.

The root word of téleios is tel, as in telescope. The idea being that our lives mimic something that is slowly being pulled out of itself to grow to a place that can magnify something far greater. We are beginning to scratch the surface of eternity here. But to get there we have to pass through the dimness; to withstand the grit of the grind. 

When we are depressed and beat up. Mad and alone. Hungry and tired. Burning with lust and emotionally wrung out. God is still committed to knitting us together by way of those exposed nerves that seem to wrap themselves around our souls. He wants to take those and practically reveal himself to you; to show you what He is up to when you are hurting.

But we have to go back to the dirt. To the place where God is cultivating something unseen from our tangled mess.

He is a roots-based God. He knows where to plant things that will flourish. He is a God that will not leave you to dry up. To waste away. To fail. That is not His plan for you. That is not His plan for me.
 
Their leaves will not wither and their fruit will not fail...because their water flows from the sanctuary, and their fruit will be for food and their leaves for healing." (Ezekiel 47:12)

Like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither. (Psalm 1:3)

And the LORD will continually guide you, And satisfy your desire in scorched places, And give strength to your bones; And you will be like a watered garden, And like a spring of water whose waters do not fail. (Isaiah 58:11)

Do you feel directionless? The Lord will continually guide you.

Do you feel dead on the inside? He will satisfy your desire in the scorched places. 

Do you feel bone-tired? He will give strength to your bones.

Do you feel like a failure? You will be like a watered garden whose waters DO NOT FAIL.

If anxiety is threatening to strangle you, take a sip of these refreshing truths. Read them over and over. Soberly consider where your roots are planted; where your worth is parked. Allow God to plant you next to the streams your standing alongside, but not drinking from. Trust that he knows the way.

If you believe in Jesus, then those life-draining days when you feel like you are being drilled into the ground by the constant fighting, crying, feeding, whining, tantrums, waking, discipline, yelling. Which I feel everyday, even in this minute.

You can also believe that you are being pushed down into the darkness to take root.

Those roots will grow, twist, push, prod, reach, barge, and break through in the dark.

In secret.

Where no one sees.

Where no one knows. Except for the One who says He knows the hairs on your head.

He knows the pain that is threatening to choke out His plan for you. He knows that failure. That flaw. That depression. That abuse. That disillusionment. That feeling of being trapped. That addiction. That emptiness. That drain. That anger. That unhappiness. That longing. That lie.

And even so He says, "Do not be afraid; you are worth more." (Luke 12:7) Will you still feel anxious? Yes. Afraid? Yes. Maybe for the rest of your life. But that doesn't change his plan for you. In Luke 12, the phrase you are worth more is diapheró, which literally means to "carry through".

God is committed to carry you through.

Through this. Through today. Through tomorrow.

Let Him.

We're in this together,
M

Saturday, March 18, 2017

To the Mom Who Feels Stuck in Her Faith

I love gas station sunglasses.

I love them for two reasons: they are cheap and they never let me down.

I have very low expectations of gas station sunglasses. When they break (which they inevitably do right before I need them) I just shrug, cradle their snapped pieces in my palm and whisper, "You did the best you could with your obvious flaws. Rest in peace."

You see, I tend to lose things. And my kids tend to break things. The combination of those two realities in my life leave no room for high expectations of anything.

Expectations tell us a lot about where we put our trust and what we appoint value to. And these very same expectations reveal what we truly believe about God when things fall apart. 

In the Bible, a fellow named Job had a lot of things fall apart for him.

Disease took his body. Death took his family. Devastation took his wealth. Destructive theology stole his friendships. But he never questioned God. He never shook his fist at the sky and denied God's plan. At the base of his soul, he seriously wanted to get right with God. He wanted to know what he had done wrong, so he could fix it.

"If I have sinned, what have I done to you, O watcher of men? Why have you made me your target?" (Job 7:20) When Job suffers he sounds a lot like Someone else I know. His words mirror the same type of questioning language that Jesus shrieked from the cross, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?"

Job's longing is honorable. He wants God to reveal his sin. But sadly, there is no sin to be revealed. He is doing all the right things. He is confused, but coherent.

Let that settle in there. Let it work its way into any cracks there may be in your belief system. Let it reveal those expectations of what you think you deserve when doing all the right things. Or conversely, expectations of what you don't deserve because you can't do anything right.

Job was a sinner, because we all are. But in this particular season, Job's hardships were not because of sin. There was no direct cause and effect. This makes legalism-bound hearts really uneasy. This is why Job's friends were convinced he was doing something wrong.

One commentary on Job's life that I read said this, "Job suffers because he is among the best, not because he is the worst." 

Job isn't a story about sin. It is a story about trust.

God is relentless in sanctification. He longs for us to become better versions of ourselves. But in God's economy, our better selves aren't free from sin, they are free from self. Sometimes in our own stories we are doing all that we need to be doing. And it's still hard.

In seasons of suffering, sadness, depression or boredom God invites us to ask the hard questions. Job did. Jesus did. We should.

Asking questions isn't a sin. It infers that you don't have all the answers. That's humility. Asking questions with expectations of a specific answer. It infers you are God. That's pride.

When we come to God with more than lament, we are coming to Him with an addendum to his sovereign plan. We come to him with a marked up map explaining the need for a specific detour. And he just can't bless that.

He waits instead.

Waiting for the day we throw away the map and the helmet, and the knee pads and the elbow pads and the whole uniform that purports safety. (Apparently my journey with God looks a lot like an overcautious rollerblader.)

This last year, I've been craving a much deeper intimacy with Jesus. Maybe having my third child has something to do with that. And as result of meeting with him more often, I have had a season where he is speaking clearly in certain areas of my life. I'm not bragging, I'm warning you. Because in turn, my "map" has been torn in half only to be cut into a million pieces before being thrown into the fire and then sparked into oblivion.

Because the more you meet with God, the more your expectations implode. 

You begin to rely less on your own voice and start to hear His. Perhaps for the first time. And its terrifying. All of a sudden you don't see the road in front of you anymore. You are simply standing in His shadow, following His lead. Slowly the road changes; bends; twists; turns; narrows; and steepens.

And yet, you feel more alive than ever before. Because you are living like you were meant to: God-dependent.

Elihu, in the story of Job, is an unsung hero. He is one of those God-dependent guys.

Elihu finally calls Job's suffering what it is: grace in the hands of a God who has a plan. And in this small portion of what is the longest response to Job's plight in the entire book, we find Elihu revealing an epiphanous truth about God. He wraps up God's might and power inside the purpose of struggle.

"Whether for correction or for his land or for love, He causes it to happen." (Job 37:13) The New American Standard version says it this way:

"Whether for correction, or for His world, or for lovingkindness, He causes it to happen."

You guys. God has three reasons He does things that force us to wade deeper in our faith:

-For correction
-For creation
-For love

Let's touch on each.

If you feel stuck in your faith, consider the need for correction:

God corrects. He doesn't do this in the way we see humans abuse power. He does it to guide, to nudge, to correct, to save, to pull, to point. Not to beat. Or berate. Or shame. Or to wound. The Hebrew word for correction here is shebet, which means scepter, rod, staff. We can not take away the corrector nature of God, he knows better than we do. He is our parent. He wants the best for us. He wants to take our yokes and snap them in half. This is His mission: to usher us into freedom.

If you suspect you're stuck because you need to be corrected. Ask the hard questions. Fast from things that you've become enslaved to. Check your sin out. Be an investigator of your own life and motives. Only good can come from proper correction.

If you feel stuck in your faith, consider the betterment of His creation:

Maybe God wants to create something new in you and around you, lean into that. God loves to plant honeysuckle in the cracks of city sidewalks. He loves to make beauty in unexpected places. He is always looking to further his creation. And he does that by the hands of his kids.

God may be physically calling you to leave, to move, to go, to plant deeper roots, to dig through the rocks. He may be doing this through struggle and testing. That is in His character. He uses disappointment and job loss and health deterioration and death to move us into new cities; new positions; new jobs. New heart postures. And He uses it to push us through the mundane and monotony to create matter.

It's His world to do with as He wishes, He is just generous enough to invite us into cultivating his creation. Ask him if the reason you feel stuck is because he is asking you to respond to the unwelcome change in your life with trust. Blind, shadow-following trust.

If you feel stuck in your faith, consider His love:

This one.

My friends. My sisters. My family.

This is where we must always land in seasons of stuck-ness and struggle. It is all for love. Easy answer right? It's actually the hardest answer to reconcile with reality. And yet, trusting his love for us is the only way to stare Struggle in the face and silence her lies.

An intimate God like ours refuses to let pain and sadness have the last word: instead He allows it so He can restore you to wholeness. His love for you can not be measured. And this is the same God that "has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand." (Isaiah 40:12)

If we have high expectations of struggle, demanding to know what it is producing in us and why it is taking from us, we will remain stuck. If we assume that hard stuff is either punishment or just plain mean, we will remain stuck. If we prefer to look good on the outside to uphold our image instead of aligning our hearts with the One whose image we bear, we will remain stuck. 

The truth is when it comes to struggle, we are poorly equipped. We complain and fuss. We fold under pressure. We are made to break. We are a lot like those gas station sunglasses.

But we are welcome pieces in the palm of our Savior. In the capable hands of a God who loves us immeasurably, our obliterated expectations can be used for good. You can trust him.

Hand over the broken bits and say, "I did the best I could with my obvious flaws. Now can I rest in peace?"

And you can.

We're in this together,
M

Friday, March 10, 2017

To the Mom Who's Sad

I keep waiting to write this blog until my own sadness has been lifted. I keep waiting to sit down so I can write, "Whew. Ok, I'm on the bright side of things, here's what I learned." But I can't fake it. I can't write that blog.

So instead of writing that one, which I would feel much better about, I will write this one.

It is still watery over here. It's still lapping at the nape of my neck; it is still rushing over my body every now and then in teeth-chattering waves. I am still a sinner. I am still off-center. I am still sometimes, simply sad. 

Let me clarify, I am not a sad person.

I have joy. I have clarity. I have strength-filled moments: moments where I see God's work in my heart on full display. I laugh with my kids. I joke with my husband. I send silly messages to my friends. But when I whisper to my husband how I'm truly feeling on the sad days, he is often surprised. I am not hiding the sad, I am just not surrendering to it. I am including it in the canon of my emotional context,  but not letting it define me.

I learned this from someone. Jesus.

Deep feelers, deep thinkers; they get assaulted by sad. Even Jesus did. And that's where I feel relief seep in. That's where I turn to the scripture and peel back the layers of the Hebrew to find something I never noticed before, something that doesn't encourage the sad, but that does explain it. And in turn, glorifies God.

Yes, your sadness can glorify God. Wait for it. Here we go.

I drove by an old house today. I saw two young guys cutting down a massive tree. They had messy hair. Unshaven faces. They were hard workers. Sawdust covered their shoulders. Their faded flannels were pelted by the cold rain. They carried large wood rounds to the truck and back. Cars were zooming by; no one cared to pay attention to the take down. There was no glamour in the work. There was simply a task; a blade; a haul; and a repeat.

This is what Jesus did until he began his service. He did menial tasks. He was not esteemed.

"He had no form or majesty that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him. He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief'." Isaiah 53:2-3.

In this passage of Isaiah, we read a foreshadowing of Jesus' life and death on the cross, but we also get a rare peek into Jesus' temperament. Jesus had a personality. Do you ever think about that? And here it says, that one of the things that marked his unique individuality was that he was "a man of sorrows".

Wait. He wasn't the life of the party? He wasn't the guy who was always good for a laugh? He wasn't Jesus the singing jumping bean?

Hmmm. Man of sorrows. What is there to learn here? That doesn't seem right.

When I cross-referenced the Hebrew word for sorrow, I found that it is makob, which translates into pain. This includes both emotional and physical pain. Jesus didn't just have a painful path to the cross. He lived a life in which he felt pain. His sorrow was in no way bigger than his joy or purpose–it just reverberated back and forth between the two. Like a wire. Like tension. Like us.

Little children loved coming to Jesus, and we know as parents that little kids don't like wet blankets. So we can be sure that Jesus was the most passionate and compassionate human in history. (John 15:11, Luke 10:21) But He had days of sadness too. 

However, with Jesus I'm beginning to see that it isn't his sadness that matters, it is why he was sad.

You have permission to feel sad. But you can not claim that sadness for yourself. Here's what I mean. 

In my own life, I've found that sadness can become a form of entertainment. It can become a velvet-cased jewelry box that adds preciousness to my plight. Life is so hard. I'm sad. If we follow Christ, we have to warn ourselves when this type of spotlight sadness threatens to overshadow our days. We don't want to be sad for sad's sake. We want to be women of purpose in it. We need to attach it to Reason, so it doesn't return to us void. (Isaiah 55:11)


So I went looking for another place for this type of pain. I found the Hebrew word makob again in Ecclesiastes 1:18, "For with great wisdom comes great frustration; whoever increases his knowledge merely increases his heartache." The word heartache here is the same as the word used for "sorrows" in Isaiah.

Jesus was a man of heartache. Of sorrows. Because he knew.

He knew what he would have to do. He knew he would be mutilated beyond recognition to give life to the lost. And he knew that the lost would continue to look for life in the wrong places. Even after he did the dying. 

But here is where shame has no place in our sadness. In Ecclesiastes 1:13 we read, "It is an unhappy business that God has given to the children of man to be busy with."

The men who were working in the rain. The burdensome task. To keep them occupied. To keep them asking, "Is this all there is?"

It is an unhappy business

The constant crying. Feeding. Lifting. Bathing. Headaches. Stomach aches. Tiredness. The messiness. The clean up. The clutter. The burdensome tasks. The constant day in and day out work can grind us down. It can cut us up into heavy pieces that we lug back and forth.

Btu what it we lugged our pieces to the Bible? To the feet of Jesus? What if we loaded and unloaded our burdensome tasks into puddles of pain on our bedroom floors. In worship. In wondering. In asking. What if we confessed and recounted and cut down and rebuilt that sadness into something like sanctification?

That begins to look a lot like glory-giving grief. God's glory. 

If your sadness leads you to the deeper understanding of purpose–one that goes beyond scrubbing plates and gathering crumbs or getting promotions or winning competitions–then it is fruitful sadness. If your sadness echoes an ancient truth that this isn't what was made to fulfill you, then your sadness begins to make sense. If we begin to realize in deep somberness that all of our daily burdensome tasks only occupy our hands but don't fill our hearts, we are beginning to get it.

We are beginning to understand how God could be perfect and be a man of sorrows at the same time.

Jesus' pain was a byproduct of knowing that there was and is a parallel purpose here on earth that a lot of us miss. You see, sadness is a song. One that plays below the surface of some of our deep-feeling souls, beating out like a drum. One that sometimes scares us. But its a song that invites us to ask why. And in the search, be diligent in always saying, "your will be done." 

Life. It is hard. It is the greatest mirage in the history of mankind. It promises things it can't deliver. 

Don't allow sadness to swallow you. Instead, shake hands with it and then introduce it to a God who knows exactly what to do with it: wrap it in skin. And name it Jesus.

We're in this together,
M


Wednesday, March 1, 2017

To the Mom Who Feels Like a Horrible Friend

I'm eight years old and walking in the most beautiful garden I've ever been in. It's not our garden. It's our neighbor's garden. I honestly have more memories of our neighbor's white farmhouse with the wraparound porch than I do of my own childhood home.

I'm walking alongside the pond that the dad had built for the mom. Made of large boulders and lined with black plastic–I see the most romantic gift in the whole wide world. The gift of a garden and a fountain? May have as well been the gift of Eden.

I am running my fingers along petals of the brightly colored roses, drinking in their scandalous scent and carelessly popping tightly wound sugar snaps. I am singing a hymn.

What a friend we have in Jesus,
All our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry,
everything to God in prayer. 

This song still takes me back to that garden. To that small, chubby little girl body. To the dreams that were so alive. To the smells and sights and sounds of peace. There was peace in that garden. And Jesus was my friend. I never doubted it at that age.

But as I grew up and got braces and hips and attention, I waffled in this understanding and unlatched Jesus's hand from mine and inserted a scepter into his palm and pushed his eyebrows down into a furrowed look of disapproval.

I tore off his crown of thorns and replaced it with a sparkly crown of prestige–which forced me to cower in its reflection while I lied and cheated my way through adolescence.

But now, Jesus the friend is back. Only through the seeking of his hand again–of running my anxious worry-worn fingers along the dark hallway and waiting until I feel his wrist. His pulse. And his fingers catch mine.

Through the process of reintroducing myself to Him and of finding that old garden friend, I have learned something beautiful about friendship. Not about friends. Or about hanging out. Or about checking in. But about friendship. Sisterhood. Kinship. Family.

As women, I feel like friendship is something we fear. It's something we desperately want, but run from. We fear that we will be seen. That our flaws and cracks and masks will fall, that we will have to apologize and let people in. That someone may see that we are hot messes, and we can't possibly let our guard down that low.

I mean, what will they think of us? What will we think of ourselves?

Understanding the friend nature of God, seems strange. Maybe not even important in the shadow of headliners like almighty and sovereign. But it is essential if we are going to be doing life together, if we are going to be sisters and brothers in Christ, if we are going to learn anything about trust–we must embrace the fact that friendship isn't flawless.

Even Jesus showed up late to one of his closest friend's funeral. "Late" is generous. He simply didn't show up. And Lazarus died without him.

That's one of those friendship non-negotiables right? I'm dying. Get here. 

But no.

Instead, in the Gospel of John, we see the most beautiful picture of what it looks like to gracefully follow in the footsteps of essential friendship. To not always do what is expected of us, to the glory of God.

In John 11 we see the only time that Jesus is recorded crying. And not just crying, but weeping. What is often overlooked in this part of the story is a Gospel blueprint for friendship. I've often jumped too quickly to the truth that this is evidence that Jesus was emotional and fully human and felt as deeply as we do. That is beautiful. But there is more to be discovered here.

In verse 35, those two words, "Jesus wept"–also the shortest verse in he Bible–usher in the subtle intricacies of true friendship. Of loss. Of death. Of grief. Those don't seem like words that we associate with friendship, and yet these are the indicators you're walking the road of a gospel-centered relationship, not a self-focused one.

When the news reached Jesus that his friend Lazarus had gotten very sick, the Bible says, "he stayed two days longer in the place he was."

Can you imagine? If your close friend was dying and you could save their life would you choose to wait? Why would Jesus do that? What does this story reveal?

When Jesus arrives, Lazarus had been in the tomb for four days.

Lazarus's sister, Mary doesn't even leave the house to greet Jesus, swallowed up by her grief. But the other sister? The type-A sister Martha? Bless-her-heart, she rushes out to confront Jesus. To call him out; to give him a piece of her mind, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."

And then she stops.

Martha looks into his eyes. She sees that this isn't a delayed visit. This isn't an accidental oversight. That there is purpose here. But what could it be? She realizes that her Jesus is still Jesus. Her anger quickly evaporates and she continues, "But even now, I know that whatever you ask from God, God will give you."

Faith. Mustard seed in size. It was enough.

"And Jesus said, where have you laid him?"

"Take away the stone."

"Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?"

"Lazarus, come out."

And he did.

This is a miracle that proved Jesus had authority over the ultimate demise. Death. He had to perform this miracle to foreshadow his own victory over death on a cross. To fulfill the prophesy in Isaiah 25:8, that says, "He will swallow up death forever; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces." 

But it also reveals that Lazarus's death served a purpose, even if it cost Jesus something personally. It cost him good standing in Mary and Martha's eyes. It caused him grief. It caused him to exercise intense self restraint in the midst of unfathomable sadness: the impending loss of a loved one.

Jesus wanted to be with his friends while they grieved and he wanted to be there while Lazarus passed, but instead he waited. In obedience, so that the Glory of God could be revealed. So that the miracle could happen. So that the impossible was possible.

Jesus was dedicated to God's will, even to the point of losing a friend. Literally. To the point of losing respect. To hurting people who had high expectations of his ability to perform. This is what we must understand about being friends to one another: sometimes we have to make God more important than friendship.

And when I say sometimes, I mean all the times.

God's glory is more important than me looking like a savior in someone else's eyes. We can not save someone's life. We cannot raise things from the dead. We can only point them to the Great Comfort. To take their hand and pry their fingers apart from fear and interlock them with timeless words; to press them into the presence of an Ancient Spirit that heals wounds we fumble even to splint.

To remind them, "The Lord comforts Zion, he comforts all her waste places and makes her wilderness like Eden, her desert like the garden of the Lord; joy and gladness will be found in her, thanksgiving and the voice of song." 

__________________________________________________________________________

I'm eight years old and walking in the most beautiful garden I've ever been in.

I am running my fingers along petals of the brightly colored roses. I am singing a hymn.

What a friend we have in Jesus,
All our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privelege to carry,
everything to God in prayer. 

Friendship is flawed. Jesus is not. Friendship starts and ends there.

We're in this together,
M


Wednesday, February 15, 2017

To the Mom Who Doesn't Have Time to Herself

Your time is not your own.

I know that's true, because mine isn't either.

On any given day, my time is stretched as thin as cheap leggings. And Lord knows I have a couple of those, which have now found their rightful place in the lingerie drawer. You're welcome, husband.

But you know what I've found when it comes to spending time with God in this spread-thin-season? He is faithful. He can do mighty things with our small moments. He can do transformative things with our tiny time. He doesn't need much, he just needs your best.

We've prostituted the word best, to look like perfection. Like abundance. Like candles and arias. Like cathedrals and quiet time. That's a lie. That's not the way of the God of the Bible.

In this season, my best looks like reading a Psalm or two while grabbing my coffee out of the microwave or flipping open the Bible while the kids are magically entertained by an old balloon that's been floating at half mast in my living room for weeks.

In these small moments, God meets me. He'll meet you too. He probably already has.

It it isn't pretty. It doesn't look impressive. It looks kind of sloppy. Like the rest of life.

But I have learned to stop apologizing and instead recognize the small square of space that I am given each day. I have identified the temptation to fill that sliver of space with something that will leave me suffering want. Because I have finally noticed, on good days, that the numbing agent of choosing want over sacrifice desensitizes our souls to the call of Christ.

Giving God our sliver of smallness reminds me of what we see the poor widow doing in Luke. For they all contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on. (Luke 21:1-4)

Out of her poverty she put in all she had to live on. 

If you are a mom, you live in an impoverished season of time. Right now all God wants is what you have. He isn't asking you to give him something you don't possess. He is a God of astonishing intimacy. And mercy.

But the widow, she put in all she had to live on.

All she had. He wants that. He deserves that.

Even if it looks like scrolling through your Bible app while hiding in the bathroom. Begging him to connect the dots of what you just fire-hosed to refresh your sleep deprived soul.

We have to stop scrambling to produce margins of time that look a certain way before we meet with Jesus. We may not get it. Chances are, we won't.

He knows. He knows your challenges. The struggles. He knows that you are physically pulled at and climbed on and yelled for. He knows you're interrupted a thousand times a minute and that your heart is afflicted and storm tossed and sad and tired. He knows you don't have fun a whole lot. He sees the sacrifice, the love you give, the cuss words you say under your breath. You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from afar. You search out my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. (Psalm 139:2)

He loves you. He longs for you. The pulse of your wrist infatuates him. He longs to run his fingers along your face, with a deep heartsick love. Your blood was bought with his, and yet we spill it out for other gods.

The gods that tire us out. The gods that cut us open and drain us until we get lightheaded and come to our senses–begging his forgiveness.

It's no picnic, raising our kids and losing ourselves. This transformation is a battle field. You need to know He is on your side. Fighting for you. Has a plan for you. He wants to show you what He has done. Who He is and why that makes all the difference.

Practically, this may look like ceasing the spin and grabbing hold of the small moments by the throat. Stopping. And choosing. And stopping and choosing again. Those five minutes here and there compounded over a week add up to a deeper understanding of the Man who says he is the lover of our souls. And of the God who says He knows the hairs on our heads. And that He cares about our small life.

The same small life that I spend standing at the kitchen sink more than anywhere else right now.

These are the kitchen sink days, my friend. So why try to make them the cathedral ones?

We're in this together,
M

Thursday, February 9, 2017

To the Mom Who's Drowning

I have never been a strong swimmer. Mainly, because I never practice.

My mother-in-law is a triathlete. She asked me to train with her one summer. I was too proud to admit I didn't want to swim or was too out of shape to even attempt what she could. So what did I do? I said, "Yes, I would love to train to do a sprint triathlon with you!"

I should have known early on in my relationship with her son that this family was VERY different than mine. These folks were fast-twitch fibertastics who were visibly excited about Christmas Eve runs together. You know, like for fun. There was no rest and repeat cycle in this family. There still isn't. 

As I started to train for the triathlon,  I discovered that the biking wasn't awesome, the running I could handle–but the swimming. Nope. I just kind of half floated and doggy paddled my way to a side ache.  So I never ended up racing with her. I just kind of pretended to train. Knowing full well, that I wouldn't be able to do it. That I just wasn't prepared for the swim. 

It was uncharted territory. 

And this my friends, is motherhood.

I had my third child 9 months ago. If anyone knows about what it feels to be drowning, it is I. And anyone who has entered into the deep waters of parenthood. We start on the dry sand, warm with dreams for our pregnant bellies. Then we get our toes wet through baptism by fire in labor and delivery. Then we wade deeper and deeper year after year into the waves that are unpredictably stormy and calm within seconds of each other. 

And then one day we realize we are on the brink of going under. 

It doesn't matter if you have one child, two or seven, or if those kids are babies or toddlers or teenagers. If there is one thing I have started to realize is that wherever you are at in the parenting spectrum it is the hardest place–simply because you have never been there before. You have no practice. 

When I feel the waves crashing over my head it is usually in moments like these: I'm crying in the parking lot of a carpet store, or into my purse so no one hears me. Or I can't get the kids to stop fighting. Or when my heart breaks because my in-the-middle daughter wants to give away the baby, because she feels invisible. Or when my husband is carrying so much on his shoulders and I still don't have sex with him because I'm just too tired. Or when my oldest son is struggling in Kindergarten and his teacher suggests occupational therapy. 

These real talk moments. These are the times when our chins slightly dip below the surface of the water until our faces are splattered with salt and tears and we don't know which is which. The waves simply do not let up; slapping us in the face; atagonizing us. We begin to panic.

These are also the times when Jesus is my absolutely lifeline. Oftentimes, if I'm truly sucking in salt water I turn to Ecclesiastes. 

Misery loves company I guess. 

And yet, Ecclesiastes is refreshingly honest. It is one of those books that you can tell was written at the end of things. After a few lessons have been learned and tested to be true. There is slight cynicism to the words, but with a wise monocle over Solomon's right eye. 

Solomon was one of the most prominent sages in the history of Jewish culture. He wrote this book at the end of his life as a summation of sorts of what his biggest learning lessons were. And man, there's so many lessons to clutch to our chests for the mama whose underwater. 

Ecclesiastes 3:14 "I perceived that whatever God does endures forever, nothing can be added to it, nor anything taken from it. God has done it."

To the mom who's drowning: God has done it. Whatever the worry. Whatever the fear. Whatever the struggle. Whatever the secret. Whatever the bloody mess. He HAS done it. He has won the battle for your heart. For your kids' hearts. He is a wonderfully wasteful God who would spill his guts all over again to invite you into his forever. Rest. He has done it. Subtext: you can't do it. So stop trying. 

Ecclesiastes 5:4 "Be not rash with your mouth, nor let your heart be hasty to utter a word before God, for God is in heaven and you are on earth. Therefore let your words be few."

Ouch. This one stings at first. And then it becomes absolutely freedom. If we know our place, we no longer struggle with insecurity. God is in heaven, we are on earth. He is in control, we are in chaos. Be still before him. Quiet your heart and be wise with the words you toss up before the King. He deserves respect. He deserves thoughtfulness. He invented language. He knows every nuance of word and silence, and that unbelievable truth should only increase your ability to choose select words like Anne Lamott suggests: Wow. Help. Thanks. 

Ecclesiastes 5:7 "For when dreams increase and words grow many, there is vanity; but God is the one you must hear."

So this isn't what you thought it would be. You aren't the kind of mom you dreamed you would be. Your kid isn't the type of child you thought you would have. The edges don't line up sometimes: the puzzle hangs in a scattered mess with wide gaps and ill-fitting pieces. Let those dreams die a dead, dead death. Let those expectations get rolled up in the next diaper you change. If you feel pained because the dreams you had have hidden themselves in the immense challenge at hand, say the hard words: It's vanity. My vanity.

If you find yourself talking, talking, talking but not seeking, seeking, seeking; flip the script for a week or two. Listen instead. Open the Bible. God is the one you must hear, because my friend, we already know what we are going to tell ourselves. And it's one of the reasons why you feel like you have weights tied to your ankles in the open sea. 

Ecclesiastes 7:21-22 "Do not take to heart all the things that people say, lest you hear your servant cursing you. Your heart knows that many times you have yourself cursed others."

I have heard my children say they hate me. Not often, but I will never forget the first time I heard it. Like my insides were on fire. Do not take these curses to heart. We are all bound to the curse of man. This includes inflicting hurt on those who've inflicted hurt on us because they were hurt. The heartbreaking cycle should not take residence inside the mama's heart. We need to be diligent in staying heart whole. Figure out a process for emptying those words from your mind. Mine looks like open palmed prayer and a bubble bath. (Ok, just open palmed prayer. Bubble baths? Ha ha. That's hilarious.) 

Do not take hurtful words from your kids' mouths, from other mom's mouths, from your husband's mouth to the inner sacred chamber of your heart. Lock that place up tight. Fill it up with the love that Christ has for you. Look for places in His story where he talks about your value. And remember that kids are a rebel force obsessed with fruit snacks and the word 'no'. Their words can not be trusted as truth. 

Ecclesiastes 8:15 "And I commend joy, for man has no good thing under the sun but to eat and drink and be joyful, for this will go with him in his toil through the days of his life that God has given him under the sun."

Commend joy in your life. Give gladness a pat on the back. Linger on the moments that fill you up so full that you experience a different type of drowning; a life giving end-of-selfness. And chill out. I have learned to chill out as a mom. I am someone who is just sliiiiightly uptight in general. The wisest man in history (ok, second wisest. Jesus wins.) calls our bluff: stop thinking you are so important and all of this matters so much. Instead. Eat. Drink. Be joyful.  Sometimes moms want to suffer in silence. We want to cling to our pain and call it purpose. Nada. The second wisest man in history's prescription: Eat. Drink. Be joyful.

For this will go with him in his toil through the days of his life that God has given him. 

There will be toil. There will be tears. There will be days of drowning. 

But friend, there is joy. It just requires a little practice. 

We're in this together, 
M

Sunday, February 5, 2017

Dust Pan Diaries

Yesterday, I thought about starting a blog or an Instagram feed dedicated to the fascinating piles of dirt I gather everyday in my kitchen. So I did.

Monday's morning dirt, 8:15 a.m.
-512 pieces of dried egg from my 9-month-old's high chair (did he even eat anything?)
-23 blonde hairs from my daughter’s forced hair brushing session.
-A billion bread crumbs from the unending toast I make. (It never fails that once I start putting the jam and peanut butter away, some yells out in panic: “What are you d-d-d-oing? I need toast too!”Out it all comes again.)

Monday's afternoon dirt, 1:45 p.m.
-Four army men lay splayed in defeat.
-A few death-trap Legos (how come the tiny ones are the only ones that fall to the floor?)
-Three unidentifiable food objects (you know, my code for UFO's)
-A handful of dried rice.
-A clump of my hair.
-A single pink rhinestone.

Monday's afternoon dirt (Part 2), 1:47 p.m. (Two minutes later...)
-An accidental drop of an entire pound bag of M&M's by the hands of one sneaky son.
-Oh, and there's one random Barbie shoe.

Part 2's pile of "dirt" incurred weeping and gnashing of teeth. RIP thin candy shelled friends.

As great of an idea that this was, it did cause me to stop.

To give God a small moment to whisper over my shoulder. To let the deep places in. Anytime, I begin to get annoyed by a matter of routine that I have to do over and over, I must ask myself: what is there for me to learn? Am I allowing myself to be taught?

I am not too proud to accept that my kitchen's dirt just might have the ability to reveal truth that some of the books on my nightstand can't even teach me.

Because, it is here. Right here. In this mundane moment that Jesus longs to meet with me. Meet with you. No scented candles. No worship music. In the middle of the mess. You just have to look past the pile. And so, I let the silence speak.

What am I really doing here? Why am I sweeping so much? Why do I feel this intense push to gather the grossness, to pursue order and cleanliness? Why does it bother me so much when life gets messy, dirty?

I let the idea roll around, while I shove the broom back into the coats/storage/toiletries/random-purse/kids-hiding-spot/supply closet. Pushing hard against the door, I tell myself for the one-thousandth time that I need to get a wall organizer for my cleaning tools already.

And as I step away from the door, I happen upon it. The reason that my dustpan is preaching to me today.

Just like the closet door conceals the reality of my messiness (or my mom-ness with three kids six and under at home), so does the sweeping. The constant need for control in the chaos. And guys, my life is chaos. I don't like my mess. I don't like to see what dirt my family has accrued over the day. I shiver to think about what the pile would look like if I didn't sweep the instant something sticks to the bottom of my foot. Which may be every 3.5 seconds.

 I spend a lot of my time gripping the broom handle. Sometimes with gritted teeth, sometimes in a trance that makes my life easier to handle. Sweep. Sweep. Sweep. Progress. Progress. Progress.
I want to sanitize my life. I want no traces of grime, gunk.

And this is just another outlet for me to exercise control. It is a necessity that I clean my floors as often as I do, lest my baby die from eating the death-trap Lego's and the clump of hair. But, the difference now is that no pile of dirt will ever be just a pile of dirt again.

Instead, sweeping can become worship. And the task that used to drive me to performing and pretending can actually become a messy vehicle that reminds me of my need; a portal into prayer.

My dirt can now dress itself in thankfulness; it can become a quick Polaroid of play and mistakes and patience. This dust can produce life, if I let God breathe into it–just like he did at the very beginning.

One day my dust piles with be smaller. Maybe they will just be dust. A faint reminder of the days when dried rice, rhinestones and Army men used to push it underfoot. My heart hurts when I think about that. When I truly think about it. So when I sweep now, I will do my best to thank God for the random Lego, raisin and candy wrapper.

It's evidence that I am still at work with my babies and that God is still at work with me.

We’re in this together,
M

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Third Time's a Charm

It may be 3 a.m. but I just can't take my eyes off of you.

You bury your face into my body. I hear the soft snore swathed in baby's breath return to your restless frame. I could get up now and put you back into your crib. I could do this pretty easily, and sneak back into my warm side of the bed–which I really want to do. And yet, I linger. I pause. I run my fingers over the crest of your ears. I bend down in an awkward crane and kiss the top of your head. I memorize the rise and fall of your chest, the way your eyelashes sit snugly against the softest parts of your face.

I do this because it is almost over. I feel the weary in my heels from the countless hours I've spent standing at the edge of a crib. Swaying and stepping, lifting and setting down; doing the dance only an exhausted young mother knows. This time, the third time, I know the steps. I've found my rhythm, I know where to pause for the joy and to quickly release the disappointment. I am not an expert, I am just trained. I have earned my stripes, one blurry eyed day at at time.

But now, just like the clouds that are snaking in between the tall evergreen trees in my yard, the morning is burning off and the fog is lifting. I can see the way: the way out of infant hood.

And isn't it just like life to get to the part where you finally appreciate what you have only to watch it run through your fingers?

I am not sad that the baby years are coming to a close; that my 8-month old has partially weaned himself from nursing or is standing in place, or is sleeping just a little bit better and needing me just a little bit less. I am not sad that I spent a lot of my emotional currency belaboring the labor of love that really is the roughest stuff. It has also been the most transforming stuff. I've spent over two-thousand days on this rollercoaster, so I know without a doubt that it is and was hard–and I am not saying that is wasn't or that it won't be again.

It just will be a different type of try. A different type of get-by that isn't hinged on survival.

And this graduating as a mom is all a part of the pass through. A part of the oldest joke in the book; you know the one about the chicken crossing the road just to get to the other side. You see, if I paused right here–with my third-born's gummy smiles and his adorable giggle I would miss it. I would miss the crossing over; the passage way that we all take to get to the other side of our selves. To get to the place we are being led, the forward progress that is only relevant to the human race and no other type of species.

My children are the closest and most concentrated way I can be a character witness to God at work. To see his newest creations gather scars and skeletons and golden fruit and bejeweled crowns. It isn't the easy way; there is no easy way.

It is the way of a mom. The unavoidable heartsickness that tears out our singular desires and replaces them with desires for another. These aches run so deep even the darkest oceans can't rise to it. This is the love of God. He carved this cavern into our hearts; breaking apart the drylands with a violent river. And this ocean that tosses us in a thousand directions is also the only body of salt water that can quench the deep that calls from within us to the deep above us.

It stings more than it is sad. That's the better way to describe it.

It stings your eyes; like the onset of a good cry.

It stings your heart like a bee sting; swelling into something that burns and bruises and then, subsides.

It stings like a quick brush of a thicket's stinging nettles. But it can be soothed.

As a kid, someone once told me if you held your breath and ran through singing nettles, you couldn't be stung. I can't say for sure as an adult if this is true or not, but I swear as a little girl I did this over and over and it worked. I never got stung: when I remembered to hold my breath.

So there is an antidote to this motherhood sting: holding your breath. Taking the moments in. Stamping them on the inside of your brain, with a fiery branding iron. Searing the sad and the happy and the sting and the subsiding into the recesses of your being. Not to dwell, but to deliver yourself a package that you can always open.

And there will be days coming, where I will want to sit down with this phantom package and tear open the paper and carefully inspect every baby shoe I kept, every picture that captured the mundane, every blanket that used to cover their tiny bodies. The day that my son's heart gets broken for the first time. The day my daughter forgets who she is and tells a really big lie. The day my youngest doesn't feel like he belongs.

On those days, when my heart is no longer the only one that is stung, these branded memories will be a salve. A cold, cooling space for all of us to remember the beauty of small beginnings.

We're in this together,
M

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Gum Wrapper God

It's the hardest thing I've ever done: living like a Christian.

Not living like a morally good person. Not living like I have it all together. Not living like I am perfect and you are not. Not living like I have anything to teach anyone. But to live like a Christian- in the Christ sense: the homeless sense. The humble sense. The kind sense. The loving sense. The self denial sense.

This is the hardest thing because it doesn't come natural, this re-convincing of my heart everyday that I am not good. That I have not arrived. That there is someone I owe my life too. And it usually leads me to silence. Because I just don't have anything to add to the matter.

But the silence screams at me to type it out. And so here I am. 

I have chosen to believe in Jesus. Yes, with all its controversial beliefs, it's insane death-to-life claims. The seemingly complicated history seared by the skepticism of contradiction pointing to the Great Rescue of Humankind. (These contradictions are the building blocks of a faith that does not follow a story arc that we can predict; a science we can't pin down. It is a faith that is tightly woven to bone marrow and imagination, not hymnal flipping and hemlines.)

I believe He is real. I have felt Him. I have talked with Him. I have read his words and felt my heart come to life in ways it can't on its own. Told you, it is very strange.

I have stood at the sink too many times to count with tears cresting over and a baby trying to crawl up my leg. I have poured a glass of wine only to watch it sit on the counter, waiting until I was less desperate to drink it–just to check my heart. Just to make sure that I am trusting God for my peace in the middle of chaos.

And sometimes I don't. Some days peace is far from me, and I shove the Spirit down below the static of anger and self worship and turn up the color of mad. And on those days I take a long hard sip, because I deserve it.

But I don't deserve it. And then I'm back to the beginning. The cycle again of re-convincing. Of re-committing. Of being joyful in the re-calibration, of being small, but not ashamed.

Like C.S. Lewis once said, Jesus coming to earth was like a human becoming a slug. Willingly. We are the slugs. He is the Creator of all things. We should know our lane, and yet we're always trying to jump the median. And often the median-jumping takes us a lifetime, while that gross strip of gleaming goo trails behind us and we call it gold. Because we can't do what the Savior can. Being slugs and all.

So why would I want to debase myself to be a slug, when the world tells me I am a queen?

This: I have seen myself in the magic mirror. With the make up off and the try-harder worn away–I've seen that I'm the monster. I'm the one to blame. (Oh goodness, calm down. Yes, I am a child of the King, but I am talking about humility of heart and of what author Dave Harvey calls "healthy self suspicion".)

I would rather live in light of someone else's perfection instead of trying to manufacture my own. Because the latter doesn't work; like a broken down truck, it kicks and turns and putters me into a ditch. 

The truth of the matter (of why we all matter) is that I am being transformed. Right now. Right here–with my dirty floors and an all too often dirty mouth.

It may sound a little spooky, like sci-fi shit: that I am becoming something else altogether. But I might quite possibly be sprouting bony plates beneath my shoulder blades. One day these adolescent bumps may resemble something like wings, crosshatched with veins and tawny and battle scars and muscle.

These wings of heavenly approval were bought with blood soaked splinters. And those very same splinters are splicing apart my heart of stone slowly; "death by a thousand paper cuts"–allowing blood to drain out of places where there was no life.

Maybe life is more like science fiction than a statistic sheet. Maybe there is mystery beneath every mole hill and thousands of stories that surround one little rain cloud. In fact, I am beginning to think that's more of the reality.

Everyone is being transformed that claims to be trying to unpack who this Jesus character really is; those who are growing; growing into less, not into more.

The tension in my heart; the pulling in two different directions: peace and panic–that's evidence of the Holy Spirit working. That's evidence He may be at work in you. To recognize the rub. The forward motion marked by friction. He is pulling me up the mountain, even though I am desperately trying to scoop up boulders to throw in the back seat, to weigh down the ascent.

When I am at the end of myself, Jesus is at his best. He is at His post just waiting for me to stare out the window into my backyard and simply say, "I can't do this without you." Which I do daily. Some days, hourly. Partnering our lives with Jesus is the whole point if you're a Christian. Denying what we think we should be able to do, ought to do, in our own strength.

A few years ago I remember sitting cross legged on the floor with one of my dearest mom friends. I lowered my voice and felt the blood rush into my cheeks as I was about to confess something dark. Well, something that directly contradicted what my faith and heart believed.

"I'm not sure I believe in the power of the Holy Spirit in my life."

My friend didn't flinch. I thought for sure she would throw a book at me. I felt like I had confessed that I had been lying my whole life about calling myself a Christian. Theologically, the Holy Spirit is the inner working presence of Christ in the heart that is supposedly transforming Christians into a more perfect version of ourselves if we are consciously being in prayer and submitting our will to God's.

It was too far fetched to apply. Wasn't it? Like I was still struggling too much. Like I wasn't changing fast enough. Like I was a slug.

When Jesus walked the earth he said we would be better off when he left because of the introduction of this spirit:"But very truly I tell you, it is for your good that I am going away. Unless I go away, the Advocate will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you." In the English Standard Version it says, Helper. "The Helper will not come to you."

I like that. That's the Jesus I've seen. The Helper whose holding a worn-out map of meaning, where he's marked out the short cuts, even though they require scaling terrifying cliff faces.

And this gift, this Helper version of Jesus himself, I was confessing that I didn't feel it at work in my heart. And I was an all-in Christian. Supposedly. The type who–yes–had failed miserably at being a good human being, a trillion times over, but I thought that I was tracking; or at least on my way to tracking what all this belief business was about. 

So how could I say that I didn't believe and that I still believe?

That's the transformation stuff I was talking about. The bony plates and tawny stuff.

On that day, I wanted disobedience more that a clear line of communication with Jesus via the Spirit within me. And that's the quickest way to snuff out the whisper of the Helper is just to continually say no with my life. "I love you Lord, but I don't want you to be visible to others who don't know you. I don't want to be that weirdo." 

So I hid Him in the closet right next to my jackets; where the Jesus I claim to love searched my pockets for evidences of his sacrifice in my life and instead came out with handfuls of old receipts and gum wrappers. 

Not anymore.