The Missing

This has been the season of the missing in my house.

My favorite fall jacket vanished into thin air the moment the temperature dipped. I've drove myself insane looking over the same rows of clothes  trying to find it. But I can do without it.

Even though it was a Vera Wang jacket that I found at Goodwill for $12. Vera. Wang. And even though it was my best thrift find of all time. I. Can. Do. Without. It. Sigh...

And then just two days ago, a brand new book that I was eating up after a long span of buying books that tasted like sawdust to my soul, Learning How to Walk in the Dark by Barbara Brown Taylor simply took flight from the place I put it on the coffee table. I've looked on every book shelf and in my and daughter's "library" which is a collection of randomly stacked books that she steals from my nightstand. Nowhere to be found. Just gone.

But around the same time as those two trivial things, we lost a treasure of a different kind: my son's beloved and raggedy teddy bear. Teddy has been his constant companion since he was an infant. Five years of comfort, crying, playing and being "best friends" has now disappeared into some abyss where childhood goes to retire. There's this ache in my heart over this bundle of "fluff and stuff"; it feels familiar and there's a glimmer of my own story in there somewhere.

When my son tugs on my arm and tells me how much he misses him, I just break inside. Even though I know it is just a teddy bear. I find myself dreaming of finding Teddy for him. I've looked in every place possible; I called Starbucks (where the lady acted like I was a crazy person), Home Depot and asked my parents to inspect their cars. And yet, I just have this sad feeling that he's sitting in the rain somewhere. Alone.

Teddy meant something to my son. My son gave him purpose. My son gave him a place he was needed. He gave him a name (even if it was unoriginal) and he gave him love. 

The weight of losing something we value beyond price flips our perspective upside down; it bleeds into compartments where logic can't go. We retrace steps. We whisper desperate prayers. All the while trying to explain away why we care so much about something that was made in a factory somewhere. In reality, it was just a toy. I know, I know.

Teddy was literally falling apart and had had his arms and head sewn back on. Twice. He had been devalued by the simple act of doing life with my energetic son. And yet, it was his pilled fur and saggy head that gave him worth; that made him alive to us; that gave Teddy a star spot in my son's childhood storyline.

That's what love does. Love takes ordinary, non-interesting things and breathes life into them. Gives them scars and snuggles. Our experiences become their experiences. Our memories wrap around these small pieces of our personal history and our stories become folded in between.

My son has had five wonderful birthdays, and I am thankful for every single one. However, this year when he turned five it was a harder one to throw. He wasn't a little kid anymore. Toddler-dom was gone. I had prayed for this moment. I had longed desperately for easier days, when I wasn't bogged down by his energy and his temperament, where grunts would become sentences and temper tantrums, logical conversations.

And I don't miss my son being little, I just see how much I have changed. How we all have transformed. I see how much my husband and I have changed. In some ways for the better, the deeper and richer stuff, and yet in some spots for the more ragged. We bear the scars, figuratively and physically, of bearing and raising children.

The bags under out eyes are heavier, the tension of being torn in several different directions has left us with stitched limbs and love muscles too. And yet, our love is more valuable, there has been more of an investment, there is more to protect and a harder road ahead of us; one where we have to daily decide not to check out citing the worn out and disappointed places.

And I'm reminded of the rip-my-heart-out scene in Inside Out. The one where my son and I sat sobbing together. It is when the main character's imaginary friend Bing-Bong was left behind in a sea of other "childlike" things. I feel like I was watching every child's rite of passage. I could feel the innocence burning away into the hard realities and all I wanted to do is fashion a life-sized shield to protect my son from what was coming.

But I can't. Not only is it impossible, but I  don't see God doing that either. He doesn't stick us inside a bubble so we don't feel loss, anger, oppression or depression. He doesn't construct the road so that we can detour seasons of the missing.  Because here's the secret that God has wrapped up in the taking of things or in the losing of them: it is always replaced with something better.  

I've learned that God isn't an empty god. He doesn't do exchanges with tokens of nothingness. He is a full God. Full of so many valuable things that have the marks of hard loving all over them. He is full of grace. Full of compassion. Full of mercy. (Psalm 145:8) He is full of forgiveness. (Psalm 103:8) He is full of great love. (Eph. 2:4) He gives increase. (1 Cor. 3:6)

For some reason, we oftentimes think that God wants to take away; to subtract from our lives. We distrust the benefits of obedience. We distrust his vision for us. Holiness and peace seem like wooden nickels in a metal bucket, while the American version of Christianity–accumulation, perfection, constant improvement–sparkles like a room of golden coins; one that resembles what Scrooge McDuck swam in in DuckTales.

And this is the place where some of us are okay with losing the ragged, worn out version of our lives and our loves because it means we can quickly replace it with a brand new something. To take the losses and replace them with bigger and better holds a danger: nothing will ever be good enough.

The marks of hard love, pilled fur, stitched limbs and hearts, ragged bones, and weary prayers should never be seen as valueless. In the reverse economy where God says the poor are rich, these are the choice jewels of life.

Teddy is gone and that's terribly sad. Eventually, I will get my son a replacement, because every kid needs a teddy bear. But even so, I am looking forward to the day when his new bear is ragged, worn out, tired and broken in. Love looks used, worn in and out, adored and abused.

 Just look at the cross.

We're in this together,
M

Breaking the Silence

My last blog spoke of the importance of silence and the season I was in last Spring. I just went and re-read it and crazily enough it echoed almost everything I am still feeling to this day. Except, one thing.

For me, embracing quiet seasons can not be hinged on remaining quiet. If I do that, I resist change. Writing changes me. I process. I admit. I explore. I confess. In ways I don't in everyday life. In ways I can't. I was made to be a writer. I can't really do much with a blank page if I leave it blank. I have to keep writing the story even when it seems like the plot is thinning.

I think I thought if I was just silent, I would come to a point of clarity. I thought I would find a secret spiritual superhighway and afterwards I could come back to my writing ready to impart something of worth. But I am not like a paleontologist who has been dredging the Egyptian desert poised to unpack rare and one-of-a-kind truths about the nature of God: I just know what I have always known.

I am so glad I am not God.

One of my New Year goals was to make this year a wisdom warpath for me.

My quest looked a lot different. Epiphanies didn't abound. I have the same struggles. I have the same hesitancy's, tendencies and inclinations. 

I set out to seek him out. I dove into the Old Testament, Psalms, James and Revelation. And I have found wisdom, but not in the way I envisioned. I thought it would come easier, like skipping in a field laden with golden nuggets ready to drop into a deep velvet sack. I thought if I just "knocked" that my world would then be rained down with enlightenment from heaven, but it feels more like I've been chipping away at the same rock and discovered I am sitting on a pile of man made rubble.

I've been trying to fit God into my story, instead of giving God my story.

You guys, there are so many days where I don't get it. I look around this world and I can't see past my own ideas. Some days I have drastically missed the memo. I have looked for God in super structured Bible studies, small groups, one on one vulnerable conversations, serving meals to the sick and giving my time away generously to those who ask. Not bad things, but I don't need to look for him anywhere. He is already here. He is already doing his work. I can choose to be an active part of that or not.

There are periods of time where I've just opted out. When motherhood wears me to a nub. When my dreams feel as if they belonged to someone else and I see them like little hollowed out plums, shruken and soft.

I still feel the same way: I want Jesus. I want the man who said he wanted me. And yet I dance around his presence on the daily like I shadow I refuse to give skin to.

I want to unearth the character of God. Not a big picture character diagram where I dissect words in the Greek or Latin and study intricate subtexts. Sound theology is necessary, but life is often lived between the places of longing and apathy. I want to be an addict for the word, to cling in my storms to the small, minutiae Jesus where in every breath I feel him and I listen to him.

This is what I have learned about obedience: it breeds patches of quiet. It isn't followed by fanfare. It doesn't get applause. It gets slow and steady movement towards the heart of Jesus. It's ditch digging work, where we just keep going. I wish it would feel more magical. I wish I could say that I discovered that I am in fact a unique and favored snowflake that God is crazy about no matter how much I don't obey or don't give him any real skin in my game.

He calls us to be obedient servants. To stop numbing out. To stop judging. To stop the sideways glances. To stop pretending.

You know why?

The joy. The joy that is found. And this joy isn't the disingenuous brand that most church institutions propagate. It isn't silly, happy faces and jubilant handshakes. Joy is looking truthfully at the broken pieces of who you are and crying thankful tears into the stiches sewn by blood rusted nails.

I'm thankful. I'm thankful I believe in something as crazy as Jesus Christ. I can't imagine the mess I would be in if all I had at the end of the day was this pile of man made rubble. Keep digging.

We're in this together,
M

Dirty, Crooked Truths About Me

  I am a screw up. 

Sometimes it just needs to be said.

For me, it just feels good to admit the obvious. Go ahead and say it out loud if you want: I am a screw up.

Well of course, unless you aren't. And in that case, you should stop reading now. But for my fellow drop-the-ball, wait, what-ball? Hold-the -phone, I-am-playing-ball?! friends: Guess what? It's okay.

I met with a couple of my friends last week over wine and Chia seed muffins (go Seattle!) and we were talking about this basic idea: of being a saved screw up. And one of my friends, nodded in understanding, "I know. It's like the more you learn about God the more you realize how much you suck."

Okay, okay. So I can already tell that this isn't coming off like a great read. But the idea I am finding freedom in is this: we can make mistakes and move upward. And I have found that the faster we do that moving upward the better; when we run towards God instead of away from him, the likelihood of retreating into that the same muddy hole that we used to think was home, diminishes. Little by little we become further and further away from the same dirt that used to define us.

Speaking of dirt, I have been obsessed lately with gardening. I honestly just want to see dirt under my fingernails and edge and pull weeds and create order in the chaos that is my yard. I think I am going through something. Mainly I'm learning to define my stubbornness for what it is: stubbornness. And I find this is even more true when I garden.

I recently found out that I have Scoliosis. I can't say for sure–because I am not a doctor–but I think that means that I am 80 years old inside. This truth means one thing: I should NOT BE gardening. I am not qualified to garden. It is actually making things worse for me. For my back. For my insurance. For my sleep habits. But more than ever, I want to lift large rocks, rip out moss, unload thousands of pounds of mulch and literally mimic the reality that I feel going on in my heart in my silly little yard. Mainly because someone told me I shouldn't. Alas, the stubbornness.

I desperately want to uproot and replant; which seems to mirror the desire to uproot the screwed up pieces of me that keep trying to re-grow. I keep praying and reading and dying to myself in hopes for some kind of Jesus characteristic to bud in the place of what is always trying to overtake.

Pride for humility.
Anger for understanding.
Selfishness for generosity.
Vanity for contrition.
Apathy for compassion.
Laziness for wisdom.

I want to load all of my screwed up bits into my rusty wheelbarrow and set it on fire alongside the dead rose bush garden I stumbled across today. Brittle thorns and all. 

When I garden I can smell the rain. I can smell things changing. Everyday when I venture out into the dirt there is something new that has grown or died. It is visual proof that something is taking place. An exchange. And because of that, I am falling in love with this whole plant, grow and tend business.

You see, I haven't wanted to write lately. First, because I am not entirely sure I have anything of worth to say. And secondly, because out of all the people in the world, I am the least likely to be a gardener let alone someone who dare attempt a life following in the footsteps of Someone who never sinned.

But these truths don't make me any less a gardener in training or a Christian in training. I may be crooked from my back to my heart, but I am called to the mission of uprooting and replanting and so that's what I plan to do–even if it means I never fully straighten up.

We're in this together,
M

Oh, What a Wonderful Weight

Most mornings I wake up with it on my chest. A weight of will that is most commonly one of two things: guilt or gratitude.

On the guilty days, I find myself obsessing over the cracks in the back patio and the endless parade of water and syrup spots on the counter tops. I calculate my days to have the least amount of inconvenience and the utmost in comfort. I shy away from anything that will exhaust me. And I embrace anything that will allow me to breathe, slowly and calmly.

These speedbumps in my brain do not fit well with raising toddlers. They also don't fit well with being a Christian really. But by scandalous grace, I'm allowing God to work on those parts of me day by day. Sadly, there are days where I spent more time sweeping the floor than reading their favorite books with them; cleaning more dishes than I play dinosaurs. And my heart breaks over that.

It doesn't break because I feel like I should be spending more intentional time with them–we spend a lot of time together–it breaks because I am still a slave to the idea that I should be doing more to have purpose. In this place I am taking the gift of motherhood for granted; a gift that some ache for and cry over at night.

On the days of gratitude, I remember that this life is not about doing and that I can rest in just-being. For the first time in my life, I wake up facing the day and only the day. I don't plan out my weeks and months based on job deadlines or vacations I am dying to take. I literally can only take it one day at a time because my life is so blank.

It is blankly beautiful; I am just praying for boldness and bravery to fill it up with beautiful creative, God inspired things that tighten the laces on this family unit I've been a partner in creating. But more than that, I want to use this space to run to God. 

I am not one of those moms who always has something unique and fun for her kids to do. I don't plan trips to their favorite places or play dates everyday in succession. For some, that gives them peace of mind and is necessary for their well-being, but, for me, not always "doing" is an exercise in patience and being in this place fully and wholly. It is a discipline for me to be still. To have space. To get bored. And to be led to inventiveness alongside my kids.

And somewhere in there I am in wait for the beauty of the weight to be revealed. The gloriously weighty call of motherhood.

I have a dear friend who lost her second child at 38 weeks. She was able to hold her daughter for 12 hours before she had to let her go. We were talking about her sweet daughter this last weekend, and she described to me how one of the hardest things to process was holding the baby blanket empty; there was no weight against her chest like there should have been. And how strangely enough, the most comforting thing was feeling the one pound weight of her ashes on her lap. The small box was evidence of her daughter's existence, there was a weight to offset the immense amount of nothingness that she was left with.

And this woman, what a warrior. The way she talks about Christ it's like her first language. A portal has been opened between heaven and earth for her, and she lives between them inviting her daughter's memory and Christ's constant presence to be the bridge that connects her to a life of meaning.

And here I am: fiddling with filler when this type of unspeakable and unbearable pain is a reality.

How can I remain too scared or hard headed to reach up for the deep stuff? To let Christ permeate my being; to let the spirit speak continuously–not in spurts when I have presence of mind enough to take myself out of the equation.

I do want to know him like those who speak his language fluently do; to let him fill in those insidious cracks in my character that mirror the cracks in my patio.

The hardest thing for me as a mother hasn't been the sleepless nights or the diapers or the potty training or the tiredness, or the tantrums, or the monotony; the hardest thing has been tricking myself into thinking that there is something beyond these four walls and these two souls that I am supposed to be doing.

Being happy and present: that is one of the biggest challenges facing a Type A, do-it-yourself, creative junkie like myself. I know the answer lies in knowing Christ more and focusing less on me. But I am horrible at surrendering the need to do over to my God. To get out of my own way. To shut up. To sit down. To enjoy. To stop the spinning wheels.

Today my son, daughter and I were still enough to sit in front of the windows long enough to spy three Stellar's jays, four chickadees, and one robin. And while we were trying to name them, the oddest thing happened. A hot-pink headed hummingbird flew right in front of us and hovered for just long enough for it to feel like magic. He didn't zip by in a blur, he hovered right in front of us, face-to-our-faces and simply shimmered before he flitted off to smell the yellow flowers in our bed.

Jesus has been speaking to me in bird lately. A language that I don't fully understand, but it just feels like gift and maybe the beginnings of a dialogue that perhaps will soon flow without stopping. I heard my son whisper as we sat on the ground watching the birds peck and nibble on the seed in a nearby feeder, "Thank you God and Jesus for these birds. I love you so much."

And just like that my heart splattered into a million gooey pieces for two reasons.

1) My son does not whisper. He has two volumes. Loud and louder.
2) That's exactly what I was thinking.

For a brief second my son's heart was laid bare and beautiful. I saw Jesus speak to him the way he speaks to me and he spoke back. It was small window into the wonder that God may be knocking on his little heart already.

After that, we actually had a particularly hard day. But in the wise words of Paul Rudd in the highly spiritual film, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, he explains that the secret to surfing is to "Do less". And in parenting no amount of low or high tides, crashing waves or calm waters can change what I know: the less I do the more I see Christ at work.

We're in this together,
M

The Quadrigeminal Crawl

My son turns four tomorrow.

In the words of one of my best friends, "that's not possible!"–and while it would seem that life has just flown by, I know in my heart of hearts that it has been a slow crawl. He and I are hardheaded and yet so very sensitive. We feel so much that it's too much sometimes, and we overflow into areas only suitable for dirty rainwater.

We are quick to forgive and hate the distance between the steps it takes to get there.

My son breaks and mends me. He kisses and cuts me. He and I dance a gospel dance everyday. Since the day he was born I knew things would be different, but that word doesn't even cover the miles we have traveled. We've gone to South America and back (his favorite destination) in terms of understanding one another. And I am still learning to speak toddler. A language that I am thankful is a dead language for most well-rounded adults.

My son and I, we hug tightly. We cry loudly. We laugh until tears form at the corners of our eyes. We are the type that are given a lot, and we don't exactly know how to stay inside the lines. He and I, we're buddies. As he would say. 

I remember the first week I held him in my arms. I had a photographer come over and document the entire blissful experience. In every picture my eyebrows seem furrowed and my hands unrecognizable beneath the flap of a swaddling blanket. For some women, motherhood happened upon them and their entire purpose was realized. It's almost as if they had been wearing a clown suit their entire lives and then were handed the most perfect uniform suited to their measurements. Not so for me. Some days I still swim in the deep end of this job. But others, I ride high on the wave of wonder. I see their smiles and their strides. One minute it's absolute miracle and the next, it's a broken wave on the shore.

But I get to be a witness to it all.

Four years ago tomorrow my son baptized me in the fire fall that still burns away the edges of my selfishness. The very first time I heard him say he loved me I cried in the hallway. He moves me to emotions I didn't know possible. He ignites my life.

We live in a new house, you know. One that is absolutely a dream. It's not huge. It's homey. It's not for everyone, but it fits us like a glove. We have yard to explore and a small pond to throw leaves into. We have room, but we are still close.

This is the home I knew I would live in someday. I didn't know what it would look like or where it would be, but I knew it would be full. Full of fire and feeling. Full of warmth and whimsy. This place is where I will watch my babies become adults. And while right now it doesn't seem like life is moving at the breakneck speed I know it will someday when there are moving boxes in his bedroom and a college degree in his sights, I am so ridiculously undeserving to have a front row seat to the beginning of his becoming. And I will savor these molasses moments that make my life so simple this day.

Happy birthday my dear warrior explorer. I can not wait to see how you use your gifts to teach the world about feelings that run well below the surface. I wait in anticipation to see you discover new ideas that could very well change the way we feel about classification, collections, naming, species, travel, invention, introspection, and love. You are going to change your world. I know this because you have irrefutabely changed mine.

For the rest of us, love them with fearless abandon–whoever God has entrusted to you. And thank God. For the cold nights that hang too heavy, for the warm nights that fuel memories for ages to come and for the sheer force that the human spirit holds. Above all, get on your knees every now and then and cry out in absolute awe of the divine coupling that Jesus used to pair you with your people.

Now if only I could conceive of a way to keep my son away from all sugar on the day of his birth. Fat chance.

We're in this together,
M

An Extra Raft

Extra. 

Such a glorious word. A gospel word, even. It suggests that we have more than we need. That the work has been done. That we can rest in the overflow. I have come to learn a thing or two about this word in the last few months. 

I had an audition for a national commercial last week. It was the first one I had gone to in over a year. I got a callback from that audition. I waited for four days, which felt like forever, all the while hoping and praying that I would get it. A fragile ego I nursed, hoping for a win.  

I got the call yesterday that I didn't get the part. But I wasn't left empty handed, I was asked to be a union job extra. In the acting world, an extra is basically a body. Someone who shows up without a name and without a  single line and just does what they are told. It was the smallest role I have ever accepted. 

And yet, I took it with thankfulness and joy. Because I am learning the true meaning of what it means to be and have, extra. 

After recently walking away from a job that consumed every ounce of extra time I had on my hands, I was squeezing essentials like bathroom breaks and even meals into the margins of my day. I was scurrying around like a squirrel with cheeks full of nuts who had a bounding black lab chasing my tail.

Days faded into one another with nothing but deadlines, criticisms, diapers, naps, mess making, mess cleaning, writing until my eyes burned, waking with my eyes still burning, coffee that never stayed in my cup long enough, and frayed nerves that snapped at the littlest detour in my daily, rigid schedule. All the while I prayed for God to make clear to me if I wasn't doing what I should. I can't help but laugh. The Spirit within was telling me what I didn't want to hear.

But now? It has stopped. The spin cycle has subsided.

I jumped off the merry go round mid-twirl, stood up on wobbly legs marked by scraped knees, and I carried my bruised heart and broken will, home.

There are still the diapers, the laundry, the endless snack fetching, mess making and mess cleaning. But I've been breathing. I've been feeling space in ways I wasn't able to before. I've been exposed to extra. And it feels so freeing. Except for when it feels frightening. (Of course.)

I am a planner. This is the first time in my life where I have stepped out onto nothing. Well, maybe not the first time. My wedding day I walked down the aisle into a white page of unwritten script. When I held my firstborn in my arms I couldn't see past the moment. I didn't have an inkling of what was to come. And it cradled me just as much as I cradled him.

Sometimes not knowing is the most beautiful part of painful endings that roll into new beginnings. It's that sliver of time that suspends itself between what we thought we knew and what we are completely clueless about. And no matter how much we try to see beyond–no level of guessing or strategy exists. We are forced to walk in the dark holding the hand of God. We have to feel with our hands along the walls and take timid steps that snap sticks and rustle fallen leaves.

In these dim moments we are tempted to live in fear of an opportunity-less life–like nothing good will ever come our way again.

But when we begin this blind journey, our eyes begin seeing things that were hidden before. Things about our dreams, our passions–who God created us to be. For so long my biggest fear in life was being ordinary, someone that just lived life quietly, simply. As I've matured in my baby-like faith, I have come to realize that God tells us to "aspire to live quietly" in 1 Thessalonians because he realizes the gift to be found in the extra.

Not extra stuff. Extra whitespace.

And it is in this most recent "whitespace" (which I have learned so much about from Bonnie Gray and her delightful book), I have discovered something amazing: My life road, like so many of ours, is a river.

I left home at 17 to pursue an acting career. That ran upstream into pursuing a music career. Which twisted into pursuing a book deal and a writing career. Then it ran over the smooth rocks and dropped off a jagged edge into a freelance photojournalism career. But through it all, these streams have all confirmed that I am made for all matters of creating, performing and artistic expression and I've even found that I can make a mean jam sandwich and slay dragons. Who knew?

The highs and lows of each pursuit pale in comparison to how God used each to patch together a life raft that I have needed time and time again. One that is fashioned from planks of trust built upon the rotten-turned-repourposed soft spots of my sin. One that is tied down and reinforced with strong ropes of forgiveness and embrace. One that is propelled by the wind of his will, and I'm just along for the ride.

It twists and turns, dips and dries out, floods and forges. It is exhilarating like a waterfall and quiet like a glassy lagoon. If we surrender to the river mentality of life we may come to a new understanding of our own gifting in the light of where God is leading.

Tethering ourselves to the "foundation of God" isn't enough if all we plan to do is to leave it in the foreground while we fly, accomplish and check off to-do's. Jesus isn't interested in safe distance from our real needs and desires. Jesus wants to wipe the tears when we think we are crying alone. He wants to clink glasses full of rich, ruby-red wine when something needs to be celebrated. He wants to kiss your eyelids while you dream. He is that personal. He is that in love with you.

Only calling on him when our balloon deflates or we hit the bottom, cheats us out of the small, quiet rivers we ignore with sights set on the ocean.

For so long I looked at my career, motherhood and my "calling" as a bridge I was building to get from somewhere I didn't want to be to somewhere better. And that isn't the way God designed our life to be.

Instead, if we let ourselves flow freely through the hands of his will we will embark on an adventure fashioned from his strengths to offset our weaknesses so we can accomplished those God-sized goals he's placed inside of us.

Take time to drink in the beauty of every day ordinariness. The symphony of sparrows in the early morning; the tight hug of your child when he whispers, "I love you so much mommy." These are the ordinary moments that are potently poetic. Don't miss them–like I have so many times–to blaze a trail across a ravine that God never intended for us to have to cross.

Jump into the cool river. The water is nice.

We're in this together,
M

Empty

I couldn't sleep last night. And that alarmed me.

You see, I love sleep. I can fall asleep anywhere–it's been a party trick of mine since childhood. I remember my first sleepover when I was ten. I fell asleep in the middle of eight obnoxious young girls and woke to find my face smothered with shaving cream as a societal revolt. Let's just say I stopped associating with those hooligans shortly thereafter.

To me sleep has always been sacred. As it should be to any mom whose fought the battle of sleep training and lived to sleep another night.

In recent months, I have found Mr. Sandman calling me most urgently in the middle of cleaning unidentifiable goo off of the high chair for the fifteenth time in a day while my daughter is trying to climb my leg and my son is cramming chips into the couch. Or when the K-cups run out. Or when the morning coffee wears off. Or when...OK. It's not a matter of "when", it's a state of being these days.

So last night when my lifelong ability to hit REM in under ten minutes eluded me, I was furious. I deserve to sleep. I am exhausted. Why can't I shut my mind off? But I knew what the problem was. Anxiety and worry had thrown a brick on my peace-of-mind pedal and I allowed the idol of 'being in control' to overpower God's control. Peeling myself from what I tell my husband is "my favorite part of our house"–my side of the bed– I walked upstairs at nearly midnight and made tea.

Sitting on the couch in eerie silence, I admitted the truth of the last 24-hours. I had sucked at both my jobs. First, a feature I had spent hours creating was sent to the cutting floor without a second glance. My ego was doing calisthenics inside my heart trying to flex and crow it's preeminence; devising ways to prove my indispensableness. In turn, I was short with my kids and didn't show Jesus well to my husband; deciding to be preoccupied with my own self indulgence. I let worldly "failure" define my eternal worth. That was a swing and a miss.

There was only one thing to do as I stared at the clock edging itself closer and closer to imminent zombie-hood come morning. Throw a hail-mary to God and let him reset my heart.

He flipped the breaker on my soul with Philippians 2:3-7.

Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant.

Made himself nothing. Taking the form of a servant.

I know Jesus did this folks. I believe this to be true. I strive to follow His example. Some days are better than others. And what's most amazing, is that on the days where I fall flat on my face–his Spirit within me won't rest until I'm in cahoots with my Creator again. That's love. That's grace. That's what a good parent does. 

He made me aware that I had been strategically fashioning a golden calf out of God-given talents. I had made my own capabilities, mine–instead of His. And when the structure of who He created me became inverted by insecurity and fear, I was jolted. Thrown into a sub-reality where I felt valueless. 

Friends, we are of such value. If we look to the world and our resumes to fill us we will remain discounted; undervalued and restless. If we look to our children and husbands to prove to the world we matter–we'll become tyrants when they don't represent us the way we want them to. 

God came to earth in an average body to a poor family and did nothing that awarded him a big salary and recognition in the upper echelons of society. He came to die. He came to suffer. He came to be hurt. He came to be doubted. He came to be rejected. He came to love like this world has never seen before or since.

He has done what I can never do. 

And then I slept a deep sleep with no color and no sound. Peace knows know greater accomplishment than the emptying of one's self. 

We're in this together,
M

The Gift Gestapo

My son just turned three.

This is the first year that he understood what a birthday really was. So much so, that in the days leading up to his own party I would hear him sporadically busting out in the happy birthday song just for the pure joy of it.

He had no idea what was in store. And I loved that. I was able to plan a very Type-A Mother Lion safari party. I wanted to show him how much his spirit and passion for life (and animals) had inspired me over the last year, as well as drove me crazy. That passion had caused me to curse the ground I walked on from time to time (especiallly when I happened to step on another plastic rhino in the softest parts of my feet.)

But he is the only kid I know who cares that there is a difference between a White-Faced Saki monkey and a Mandrill. He also knows that a Bufflehead and a Spotted Towhee are two different species of Pacific Northwest birds. These oddities are something to celebrate.

From Cheetos masqueraded as tiger tails to a snake sub sandwich with a red-pepper tongue, I even hired a family friend who happened to be a local reptile man. Once the party started, it was clear that my son was having the time of his life. Every picture from that day he has a different candy or junk food in hand- a ridiculous smile across his face. And for one day I didn't chastise about candy. For one day, I didn't feel guilt for letting him indulge. I just let him be a kid.

That's what birthday parties are about: unadulterated fun. The party wasn't about how cool of a kid's party I could throw, it was about celebrating my son's loves.

Loving and encouraging our children's gifting is a natural tendency in parenthood. However, I came face to face with my misunderstanding of the Gospel when it came time to sift through my son's gifts.

I wanted to manage. To limit. To categorize.

He had a large turnout, which in turn, meant A LOT of gifts. I didn't even think about that before I noticed a ridiculous accumulation of brightly colored packages overtaking the middle of the room. It looked like Steve Irwin's wedding gift table. I found myself in a state of panic. He can't handle this many toys. He will be in complete overwhelm. It's too much.

After we got home I put a large portion of the toys away. I decided he couldn't handle all that goodness. Too much for one day; let's spread it out.

The next day I went to church. And my pastor Brian launched into this message, "God gives us grace upon grace. Insert the word "gift" whenever you see the word grace. His gifts pile up and up. Who Jesus is is completely overwhelming."

Gut punch.

And I humbly realized that I am so limited in my view of the gift of Jesus. Just like my son's toys that were hand-selected by family and friends to bless him on his birthday, I want to let the reality of Jesus' life in place of mine- that ridiculously undeserved gift into my life, little by little. I want to put some of it away for later- I just can't handle all of His goodness in one sitting. I've struggled with grasping what He's done and accepting who He is. It just seems like too much- I don't deserve it. And I'm a Christian.

Brian continued as if he could hear my thoughts, "Be in awe of the Giver, not the gifts."

And I matured in that one moment.

God made clear to me that the point of giving and receiving good gifts is not to gain more, but to give credit back to the One who gives. My son's gifts that I had stockpiled in the linen closet and in the play room to bring out on another day (when he wasn't crashing from a sugar high), were not just things that he had been given, they were physical representations of the love and generosity from people that God had placed in our lives. Stuff suddenly became sanctification.

And Brian explained that sanctification isn't entirely on my shoulders. I am not responsible for refining myself. Jesus deposits His spirit in us and then everyday from that moment on we undergo a day-by-day process that He walks through with us.

Tears filled my eyes in church. I hung my head and shook it in amazement of God's goodness and in his insane talent for perfect timing. I had missed an opportunity to lavish overwhelming love on my son even when I thought he had reached his own "gift limit". (In my defense, CPS needn't be called, he did open roughly, I don't know, 15 gifts.)

But regardless of my reasons then, it's clear now that my son and I are going to have a second birthday party in our living room. We are going to throw wrapping paper everywhere and open present after present. But this time I am going to make a big deal out of the people who gave him these blessings out of their generosity- not the things themselves. I want him to make the connection that these gifts aren't just things to distract us from boredom- they are living, breathing reminders of love. God's love through other people.

We don't always get it right as mothers. But if we leave our hearts wide open, God can use our mistakes.

Here's what I learned from what my pastor presented and my son's presents interchangeably: we aren't good enough–but he gives us His life, an overwhelming, ridiculous, way-too-much-too-handle (no matter what age you are) gift anyway.

Celebrate it.

We're in this together,
M

From Strength to Strength

I am coming to terms with the fact that I am an extremist. And not in the way where I have a bomb-shelter in my basement, but more so in the speaking sense.

I over state. A lot. I come from a long line of exaggerators. So, why not blame it on the gene pool?

If my daughter has a cough, I worry that it may be pneumonia and say, "I feel like she has been sick forever. When will this end?"

If my son loses his cool in public, I assume he must be suffering from severe starvation since he had only eaten a raisin that day. "I wonder if he needs a feeding tube?"

Blech. I'm so embarrassing to myself.

If I am overwhelmed, I think I will always feel overwhelmed.

Words like always and forever creep into my daily dialogue without much intentional thought. I'm just trying to prove a point, right? I think,  I do feel like I am always cleaning ketchup off the table. I do feel like I may never go to the bathroom alone. I do wonder if my legs will forever be partially unshaved since I rush out of the shower to comfort a child after his nap.

And I know that when I finally have fully-shaven legs, I will miss running out of the shower to comfort a child after his nap.

This morning I read an amazing verse in Psalms. I have had a love affair with these passages since I was young, but somehow I feel like I have never read this before:

⁵ 
Blessed are those whose strength is in you,  in whose heart are the highways to Zion. As they go through the Valley of Baca, they make it a place of springs; the early rain also covers it with pools.

They go from strength to strength; each one appears before God in Zion.


The NIV of the Bible, explains the highway to Zion as a "pilgrimage". I would think that this means our lives' pilgrimage. The steps we take everyday towards missionally loving our family, friends, enemies, and strangers.  The steps we take towards solidifying the truth about who God is in our everyday lives. Becoming more like Jesus, and yet understanding that perfection was never a part of his plan.

As a young mom with two kids, I can say that my heart's highway has been speeding past at 100mph lately. New jobs, new school classes, new baby, and that some old sleep. I wake up feeling weak. And I am not very coy about sharing those feelings.

But absolutes are so very different than feelings. And God in his wisdom gave us a Spirit that can take us from strength to strength. He can lead us through a valley flooded with replenishment. A rain-soaked Savior in the middle of an insanely thirsty life.

My tendency to complain about my circumstances to the max, shows a very big tear in my faith. It shows me where I don't believe He is strong enough. It reveals that I believe my weakness is all I have in moments that try me. I let my emotions run away with my words.

Instead, I should focus on letting His words run away with my heart.

He takes us from strength to strength.

 I want my heart to hold the highways to Zion inside of it, and in order to train my heart to feel differently about my everyday circumstances I need to use my words to speak truth instead of lies.

But its not always the bad circumstances I am trying to manage, it's the good ones too.

Honestly, sometimes I am afraid to speak of the joy I feel in my life for fear that I am not "trying" hard enough for my faith. Wow, that is such an elementary Christian 'no-no' right? And yet, I still struggle with the idea of Christian hedonism (in the words of John Piper). I still wax and wane about my personal belief that God wants us to live life to the fullest- in JOY.

And not just churchy joy because of a successful altar call or a speaking in tongues translation- I am talking about life-giving joy. Joy because of great sex with my godly husband. Joy in wine tasting (not slurping) among gorgeous vineyards. Joy in eating amazing food and in seeing amazing the places He created. Joy in funny conversations and snuggles in cashmere blankets.

We aren't talking about a bland, I'll skip-the-butter-on-my-bread type-of-false-joy. We are talking about a real Jesus-drenched joy lavishly given us on the cross. Its the very joy that everyone wants, but can't find. It's that nagging dissatisfaction that is poured into buying functional gods with extended warranties that go out of style or lose their sparkle after we've lost interest.

You see, I need to relish in the beautiful days. I need to be quick to speak about the joy, and the gifts as often as I am about the struggle. I need to speak unabashedly about those moments when my heart twists in joyful pain over the laugh of my baby girl, the holding of my husband's hand, or the cuddle of my precious son. I need to remind myself that He is leading me from strength to strength.

He wants us to experience the joy of living fully in Him- which means that our weaknesses are made strong. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

He has the biggest tears in our faith covered. They are covered with a blood-soaked fragment of cloth that will always and forever be all we need to live in the land of plenty and resplendent joy.

We're in this together,
M

The Bottom of the Sugar Bowl

A couple of days ago I woke up in desperate need of my morning coffee. (Okay, okay-- I am in desperate need of morning coffee every morning...and afternoon...and sometimes at 5pm).

But what made this morning different was that I quickly discovered I was at the bottom of the sugar bowl. Peering down into the crystal-flecked container that still held the sparkle of sugar lost, I felt like Winnie the Pooh in one of his fumbled attempts as snagging the lost drop of honey.

There is nothing more deflating that staring at my steaming cup of a.m. Joe knowing that in its naked form I just don't care for the taste. 

Yes, I was born and raised in the Starbucks capital of the nation. Yes, I love coffee. Yes, I love the smell. But alas, "you're not hard core unless you live hard core" and I am so not hard core. (Thanks, Jack Black). But unlike the comedian I just can't drink my coffee that way.


And in realizing that, I was suddenly hit with an unattractive understanding that I have a hard time removing all the extras in my life and in my faith that seem to make it go down easier. I am constantly trying to sweeten the pot. I am habitually trying to manipulate the facts in order to make it easier to digest.


I was lucky enough to listen to Jeff Vanderstelt of Soma church speak last weekend. He stripped down some very fundamental truths about Christian living that felt very much like a straight shot of espresso. No filter. No sugar. No pretty wrapping. Just black.

One Christian word that has always needed some sweetening for me is repentance.

I don't get it. Or, I guess I should say I didn't understand it, until it was explained to me by Jeff.

I mean how can you repent of something that you know you will do again even when you truly put your best efforts into never, ever even thinking about doing it again?

And then I heard this, "Repentance isn't a change in behavior- it's not turning away and not feeling that way anymore. Repentance is a change in belief about God."

He went on to further explain that we will continually forget about God and his good nature everyday. We will  always question whether He knows what he is doing or not. But instead of focusing on the behavior we need to address the unbelief. We need to confess that we don't believe God is who He says He is. We need to own the fact that we believe we can do it better.

We need to confess that we try to dilute the taste of truth. We don't like it straight. We want to doctor it up to meet our needs to fit into our lifestyle. I do this, everyday.

And so we need to tell Him that everyday. We need to confess. We need to cut out the fluff. We need to stop trying to function on caffeine and willpower. We need to cut out the craving for the sugar high. We need to focus on the root problem of unbelief. We need to say out loud that we doubt His loving nature towards us.

I recently applied for a job as an associate editor at a local magazine. After reading the specs for the position, I desperately wanted it. The most part-time of all part-time positions, the job also offered the ability to work from home and stay with my two littles under 3. It would allow me to dive into feature writing and work with some of the best freelance writers and photographers in my area as well as get connected to the heartbeat of my community. It felt tailor made for me.

And do you know what I did when I applied for it? I didn't think God wanted me to get it. 

Do you know how I reacted when I interviewed for the position and was waiting to hear back? I doubted that God wanted to give me the desires of my heart. 

Do you know what I said moments before the call came in that I had indeed got the job? "I just keep getting doors slammed in my face. I guess God just wants me here. I have a sinking feeling I didn't get it. I should have heard by now." On and on and on.

Doubt.

Master doubter. Royal doubtess. UNBELIEF about my good God.

And no, not every desire of our heart is right for us. There were many doors that I knocked on before this that swung shut immediately. Many. There have been several moments of "almost" for me-- all of which ended in an abrupt no with no explanation. But I have to believe all of that is for my good. Every no is saving you for the right yes.

So ask yourself the next time you're doubting his goodness.

WHO is my God?

WHAT has He done?

And what does that say about WHO I AM? (Thanks Jeff! Once again.)

It all boils down to identity. If our identity stems from that all-gracious, all-powerful, all-beautiful throne of God, we can't help but be thrust into the sweet life of His plan for us.

If we are looking for substitutes, trying to create something all on our own, or don't believe he truly cares about our every day lives- we make Him a liar.

And so just that one morning I drank my coffee black. I didn't truly enjoy it- but it reminded me that sometimes the truths that are the hardest to swallow are the ones that are best for us.

We're in this together,
M

Temptation's Tattoo

I am exhausted.

Not tired, because tired is just the junior varsity version of exhaustion. My bone-weariness has gotten to that point where my eyes burn whether or not I have one, two or three cups of coffee.

As of right now, I am on my second cup and it is two in the afternoon. Don't judge- I'm tempted to grab the energy drink that's been in the back of the fridge for month if this cup doesn't cut it.

But who isn't tired in this country right? We work ourselves to death, vacation less than another other nation, and yet are still on the hamster wheel.

To exemplify this, I should be lying down on the couch since both of my kids are napping, but I have this frenetic energy that has to be put to good use (Hmm... this could have something to do with the caffeine). Regardless, in this moment of quiet I realize that I have some maturing to do. This is especially evident, when all I really want to do is ball up my fists, climb back into my pajamas, and whine about the constant inconveniences I face as a mom.

Instead, I am going to force myself to contemplate what temptation truly is. Because lately I have been tempted to check out. I want to throw my hands in the air and say, OK- I've given about all I can. This girl is tapped out.

But that's just the tired talking. That's not my heart. 

I texted a friend the other day and apologized for being out of it. "I'm so sleep deprived today, sorry." And she wisely responded, "I think we will be forever!!!"

Welcome to motherhood.

And even though I am one of those people that doesn't do well without sleep-- as a kid I put myself to bed and was always sneaking off at sleepovers to crawl into my sleeping bag, it doesn't give me reason to be weak.

Blessed with two healthy kids, an amazing husband who laughs, fights, and clings to me when I need it most, and a God who lived on this earth in the most humble of ways so that I could live-- (even when I am the furthest from humble myself) is enough to keep me going. His grace is sufficient.

I read in Matthew today about the temptation of Jesus. (Matthew 4: 1-11).


What I found most interesting about the section of scripture in Mathew is the way that Satan tempted Jesus. Jesus was ravenous from his 40-day fast and Satan came to him and tempted him to make stones into bread. And the Son of God answered, "Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God." 

Stones into bread, huh? One of the most crafty of evil beings came up with nothing more than bread to tempt the Son of God. Maybe he thought if an apple worked with Eve he should go for two.

Why wasn't Satan's front line attempt at getting Jesus to sin a bit more glitzy? He didn't lead Jesus to a banquet table loaded with Pinterest worthy foods, award-winning wines and rich desserts-- he didn't dress up the sin in Jesus' moment of weakness. Why?

First of all, aside from the fact that Jesus would have seen right through his attempts to make him stumble- (he is God after all), maybe Satan didn't go to all that trouble- because he knew Jesus was in a weakened state. Maybe Satan knew he didn't have to.

Jesus was starving. He was empty. He was exhausted.

And sometimes in our moments of deepest exhaustion- even the least tantalizing temptations, like stone-flavored bread is something we can easily imagine into Julia Child's Boeuf Bourguignon. If you like that sort of thing.

When we are tired, even the most obvious of sins become enticing. The sins that we would have snuffed our noses at before somehow become glittering monuments that can solve all our problems.

I wrote a song a few years ago and in it is one of my favorite lyrics.

You light my cigarette,
Because I know better than you do. 
I've got scars all across this heart. 
I call temptation's tattoo.

OK, so no. I don't smoke cigarettes- but this is a country song so there you go.


But the reality of this lyric for me is that some days I can feel the stitches on my heart beginning to pull apart. Its in those moments that I realize some of the scars I've developed over the years are not fully healed- and at any given moment I can give way to old sin. I am getting better now at recognizing the stones that Satan is tempting me to turn into bread and that is where the separation between failing and being lured to fail, divide.

For instance, when I feel haggard and fluffy from two pregnancies- I know I shouldn't read magazines that advertise the best beach bodies in Hollywood. When one of our cars breaks down again and I wonder if I will ever be one of those luxury car moms, I shouldn't start 'googling' safest luxury cars to leave up on my computer 'on accident'. When there are medical bills to pay, I shouldn't hound my husband for a pair of new shoes or a fancy haircut at a downtown salon. These are all stones. Stones that can easily drown me.

Being tempted isn't a sin apparently. That's what God says anyway:

^{Hebrews 4:15}  "Jesus understands every weakness of ours, because he was tempted in every way that we are. But he did not sin!" 

Jesus may not have been tempted to buy a pair of Gucci sandals-- but he understood the base of it all. The desire for more than we have. The temptation to believe that something outside can fix what's broken within. He knew that the temptation led nowhere. The bread was just stones in disguise.

Notice that Satan didn't turn the stones into bread himself and wave the wafting fresh-out-of-the-oven goodness under Jesus' nose. He simply gave him the idea to change something that is into something that could be.

Today, and everyday, when I am feeling exhausted-- I pray that God gives me (and you) the wherewithal to leave the stones in the dirt where they belong and to reach for the Bread of Life. 

In love,
M

Leveling the Playing Field

Whenever my husband and I try to save a few dollars by buying a piece of furniture from IKEA or skip on paying the assembly fee for a new grill-- we have a deal. I am the one in charge of following the directions and he is in charge of doing the labor.

It's not that he can't follow the directions, it is just that he seems to believe he should intrinsically know how to fashion a contraption for grilling meat from the recesses of his manly soul. He subconsiouly feels like he shouldn't need a manual. And so I step in, and read it for him- for some reason that seems like a happy medium.

I have learned that following directions is of great importance in life- it allows you to assemble things that will last instead of assembling things that are bound to fall apart when you most want to use them.

I have been a part of Reach's Summer Bible Reading Plan for the last few days- and while I want to make excuses for not doing it with two littles- it's amazing how God carves out these little slots of quiet time where I hear Him whisper that I need to get my exhausted butt in the Word.

This morning I read Psalms 5&6, Matthew 3, and Romans 2- and some of the verses that stuck out to me seemed worth sharing. God took each piece of scripture from these seemingly disconnected books of the Bible and taught me something profound.

First, I learned in Psalms that it is OK to ask God to lead you and make his way known to you.

Psalm 5:8 - Lead me, O Lord, in your righteousness...make your way straight before me. 

Just like my husband's tendency to ignore the manual, I too have somehow let myself believe that I should just intrinsically know how to do this Christian thing. And so I feel like I shouldn't ask God to lead me or make his way known to me. But here, even David- who was a man after God's own heart- asked God to make things clearer to him. To S-P-E-L-L it out. 

Then in Matthew 3:10 things get a bit hairier. John the Baptist is telling the "fake" religious leaders of the day who have come to be baptized that 'Even now the axe is laid to the root of the trees. Every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.' John is hitting this common heart issue- my tendency to check the right 'box' even though my heart may be far from the repentance that a life of baptism requires.

Sometimes it is hard to see the bad fruit in our lives- and in my case, even harder to see and continue bearing the good fruit if it becomes duty instead of priveledge. We just assume that if there isn't a ton of ugly sin piling up on the floor that we are doing just fine. It is perfectly OK to ask God to reveal to us where the good fruit is in our lives, so that we will be encouraged to continue to do those things that glorifies God and brings him joy. 

And then Romans 2:1 bluntly lays it out there: You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things. 

God sees us through the lens of our hearts. He sees the inside- and that should completely free us if we truly love him even though we are desperately flawed. But instead- I know in my life- I haven't focused on my own problems, but have instead created my own spiritual hierarchy in order to make myself feel like I'm not that bad. The truth? I am that bad. I am even worse than those who judge outwardly.

Leave it to a sinner to take the level playing field that God has created in his wisdom and turn it into mountain riddled with moguls, cliffs, and valleys. My human nature wants to believe the following:

1) I don't need a manual about how to plant my life's tree.
2) I don't need to pay attention to the "fruit" my life is producing.
3) I am totally allowed to judge my neighbor's garden in the shadow of my own branches.

Theses verses tell me the truth:

1) I do need to ask God to lead me- and He will!
2) I do need to ask him to reveal to me what the good and bad fruit is in my life.
3) I need to keep my own cotton-picking-mitts on my side of the fence and not pick my neighbor's fruit apart.

In love,
M

Car Seat Chaos: The Emotional Roller Coaster of Being Homebound

I am not too proud to admit that I may have just finished crying.

I am also not too proud to admit that it may have been over a car seat.

And, lastly I am no where near too proud to admit that it had everything to do with the way I am feeling in this season of my life as a mother of two kids under 3.

It all began with expectations. You see, today was the day.

This was going to be the first time I was able to meet up with some awesome girls from my church who have been going to a group playdate since my second child was born 7 weeks ago. This was also going to be the only day in Seattle all week that was predicted to be sunny.

All signs pointed to, yes I am doing this! I finally felt confident enough to take both kids as well as rested enough not to fall asleep at the wheel.

I had just fed, changed and packed up my daughter, which was followed by cleaning watermelon stickiness from the crevice of my son's fingers, elbows, and hair follicles-- before taking him to the potty, washing his hands, putting on his shoes, packing his snacks, negotiating which snacks he could have in the car, turning the alarm on and then ushering him toward the car.

Going anywhere with multiple children is a process. It is something you prepare for the moment you wake up. Thoughts like: I better brush my teeth and wash my face at 5 am. That way between 1st child's morning nap and second child's first meal, I will only have to get dressed and run a brush through my hair.

My life wasn't always this way, but now in this immediate season, I don't have time to think about me. I don't have time to be vain anymore and I don't have time to be selfish anymore (although God knows I still try). And I rarely have time to connect with other women. But like I said, today was the day. I was going to enter back into civilization from the dark ages. (i.e.- newborn stage) I was going to get out, just for me.

That was until the awful truth unfolded in slow motion.

I rounded the bend of my walkway, reached for the car door-- and it just took one glance to recognize that an unpredictable seismic shift was going to turn my day into something else entirely.

 My son's car seat wasn't there.
 

Wait! I have a back up car seat! Yes! I will just go get it. Oh, no. Never mind- my dad took it and didn't bring it back. No, this can't be. Hmm...Can I strap him to the ceiling? Nah. Well, what about the front seat? Does he look old enough to be a 10 year old? He is tall for his age. Maybe if I put a couple of hats on him...

Um, no. Nope. Not enough hats in the world to make this happen. I'm going nowhere.

Tears began stinging my eyes and I realized this had nothing to do with the missing car seat.

Those tears then began to well and roll over the rims.

And I knew that not only did this have nothing to do with the car seat, but my emotions didn't even have anything to do with the frustration that I was feeling towards my husband- whom I wanted to blame for this problem. Whom I wanted to lash out at-- whom I immediately texted with a scathing message dripping in a disrespectful tone. (Let's just say that a lot of exclamation points were involved.)

It had to do with this reality: I'm not seeing anyone. I am stuck at home again. I feel trapped. I feel alone. I feel like I've felt many days before.

This is what I realized. All of this is about isolation. This is about this season of life for moms who stay at home, work, or are somewhere in-between. This is about the need for community.

OK, so maybe you are childless and beginning to feel like I am some kind of a loser. Really? The highlight of your week is hoping to meet up with some Christian church ladies at some boring kids park?

I know what it looks like from the outside: desperation.

But let me tell you what it feels like on the inside: desperation.

Because the truth about motherhood is that it can be lonely. The other truth is that it can also be the most fulfilling job on the planet. But that fulfillment comes at the end of yourself- when the cup is so empty that a single drop of blessing and perspective can become a tidal wave of gratefulness. It comes when you are invited to watch your kids play with other kids and you feel like you've been asked to walk the red carpet. It shifts your perspective from 'everything isn't enough'- to 'I don't need everything to feel like its enough'.

There will be many other play-dates. I will be a part of many of them. Not all is lost.

But today I got a glimpse of this truth: I really want to be in community with women who know Jesus and I really want to be in community with women who don't. I really want to be invested in the lives of others. Because wherever we meet, that 'X' in the middle-- whether it's some random sandbox or some cool wine bar, relationships happen. And those relationships spur us on to become better. To feel connected. To feel what God feels when we pray to him. To speak and listen. To ask and answer. To know and be known.

And while I still wish that car seat would have been in its place- I also have learned something today. I don't want to go at it alone.

And you shouldn't feel like you have to either.

By grace,
Megan

PS- I also don't think its a coincidence that this was one of the parts of Scripture from this morning's Bible Summer Reading Plan: Romans 1:11-12 For I long to see you, that I may impart to you some spiritual gift to strengthen you-- that is, that we may be mutually encouraged by each other's faith, both yours and mine. And just in case you were worried, the car seat is now back in its place and my husband has been restored to rock star status.

Just Breathe: Why Life is Best Experienced Through the Lens of Family

My daughter has been in our house for almost 3 weeks now.

My son has been in our house (and driving me to the brink of physical exhaustion) for 134 weeks.

I just keep telling myself to breathe, because like the Darius Rucker song wisely reveals, "It won't be like this for long". I realize that God planned for kids to grow up. He is a graceful God and wouldn't leave us knee deep in power struggles and sleepless nights forever.

For now, my newly formed gruesome twosome-- which we affectionately call "the kids" (making me feel very much like an adult) is somewhat manageable.

For instance, when J is up and R is asleep, me and my son try to play together or watch his favorite movie and cuddle like the old days. When R is up and J is asleep, we just look at the skylight (her favorite) or walk around the house talking girl talk.

Now if R is up and J is up-- well there's the rub. That's when I am tested to my mental and physical limits. Those are the moments when I have one baby hanging in the crook of my newly muscular left arm (score!) and another child pulling at my leg with jam in his hair and a raisin up his nose. 

But what my life looks like today will very soon  become something different entirely. R will be awake more than she is asleep and during those moments J will just continue to become more and more of his own independent self. When those two things begin to happen interchangeably, I will desperately need a proverbial swimmie to save me from drowning.

And so as the planner that I am, I have begun to fashion a life preserver out of a new-found perspective I've discovered.

Regardless of how difficult it gets (or how difficult it already has been when both are clamoring for my attention) I am still choosing joy as the main ingredient in my daily bread mix.

I fully realize that joy is a decision. It's a choice we make. It isn't something that happens naturally. Especially in young parenthood.

So how do I get there? How do I get to a place of joy when my eyes are brimming with frustration over my son's tantrums or my daughter's demanding sleep schedule?

I imagine not having either child in my life now that they are here.

A thousand stones in my gut. Emptiness in my soul. Stripped to the bone. Raw. 

When I envision a life without my children a thick web of oddity and uncouthness swarms. It doesn't make sense anymore- that isn't who I was supposed to be. I may have given birth to my children, but God is the one who gave me life through them. 


And this leads me to something that has been very heavy on my heart.

Someone who is on the peripheral of my life finds herself facing the decision of potentially ending her unborn child's life. A young college girl with hopes of becoming a lawyer- this inconvenience would terribly derail her plans. And while I don't consider myself a particularly political person, I desperately want that child to be born.

Ashamedly, I don't think I have ever personalized this issue. It hasn't affected me so I have just let it lie in the big wide open of hot button topics that make me sweat under the collar.

However, my pride and passiveness aside-- I have realized that this hurts my heart because this is truly about a child. And in turn I feel like this is about my son. This is about my daughter. This is about your children. This is about the parents who decided to have you.  

There is room enough for us all. Not every single one of us got here in a pretty way. Not everyone's parents had a nursery immaculately decorated, names picked out, and a college fund already operating. Some of us had very sordid beginnings. I know Jesus did. People believed He was born to the town joke- a "virgin" mother who obviously had some dude on the side that Joseph was completely turning a blind eye to. The Savior was born into scandal and I think He turned out okay.

However, I am not one to tell someone when its time to be a parent. Some of us aren't ready or never will be. And even though someone may have conceived a child I don't think that means it's time to get married and make your scarlet A less red. But I do believe that God can work out all things according to His good plan. (Romans 8:28).

In truth, I am not expecting this girl to keep the child for herself. Raising kids has been the hardest and most ugly, inconvenient, revealing, heartbreaking, and jubilicious experience of my life.

But I want that child to be adopted by a family who is desperate to have them. I want that child to take its first breath, scream it's first scream, and pulsate with hope, fear, and blood like every person before them. I desperately hope that this child gets the chance to feel what the simple emotion of being alive is like.

And more importantly, I want the parent of that child (whoever they may end up being- could be my husband and I for all I know) to feel what I feel when I hold my already-born children. 

I want that parent to feel like they have rescued a child from nothingness. I want them to realize that they have not only given the child a home, but an identity. I want them to realize that we are all tattered pieces of worthless cloth that comes together in a gorgeous patchwork of imperfection and protection called family. I want the view from the parent's heart to be lavish like a beautiful landscape of jagged hills and sweeping valleys; I want them to experience mountain top moments and shadowy places, respectively.

Some families come together by violent earthquakes and others by soft rainfall. The how is irrelevant.

 I feel like I am in a place today that I would have never arrived at on my own had it not been for my children. I think I would be having the exact same struggle that this girl is having if it were me back when I was her age. I'm not above the reality that I could have been in her shoes.

And while I don't have the ability to talk to this girl in person, I have been praying real prayers (not fluffy ones that seem to float up to the ceiling and break apart due to lack of intention). I have been allowing my heart to feel deeply for this child and in turn fuel prayers of passion.

And in doing so, I have been able to love my children deeply even when I am deeply disturbed by the job description I have (poop wiper, spit up attender, tantrum finisher, fussy baby whisperer, and crying kid comforter).


So if you are having a particularly rough day (which I have all the time lately), hug and kiss your kids. Particularly the defiant ones. Because we are active participants in the important job of cultivating their life- we are their family.We are the ones who first introduce them to love- and love doesn't only happen when good little boys and girls act the way they are supposed to. It happens most effectively when our children make mistakes. Or when we do.

So whether you are a parent mediating meltdowns or are the child feeling forgotten in this huge place called life, I think we can all agree that everyone deserves to breathe.

And so I will pray for breath. Not only for this child, but for all of the would-be adoptive parents and their already designed children who are simply waiting to be found.

Humbly,
M

PS- I read this article today on what adoption should mean for Christians and it was too good not to footnote: Jason Johnson Blog: Abortion, Adoption & The Church

Lilacs and Raspberry Leaf Tea: A Recipe for Love & Labor

Hosea 6:8 - His going forth is as certain as the dawn, and He will come to us like the spring rain watering the earth. 

It's a still moment.

And if you have littles in your house you understand how majestic a quiet moment like this is. I am lifted by the freshly composed song of a neighboring bird announcing a new season. I marvel over the tufts of purple plumping up on my aged Lilac tree. Something good is coming. But something good is already here.

My toddler is still fast asleep and I am sipping Raspberry Leaf Tea to jump-start the little girl in my belly.  Now that I am 40 weeks and 5 days pregnant (who's counting, eh?), all signs are a go. But this morning I don't feel anxious about her arrival, I just feel at peace about my current state. 

But don't worry, I'm not naive about mothering a newborn. So ask me in a few weeks if that anxiousness is still hibernating. I'm no fool (most days)- so I know this feeling is a gift from God so I'm drinking it in.

I have only moments left being a mother of one. But I have a lifetime ahead of me of being a mother of more than that. This in-between space of time feels magical in a sense- like those odd moments where you catch yourself in the middle of a happy memory and try your best to enjoy it before it passes.

It's the summation of what that awareness is. Somehow it always lies just beyond the shiny nothingness that we get constantly get distracted by and it leads us to the gift of contentment.

This is such a loaded word in motherhood. We want to be content and yet we think that is only possible if it is inextricably linked to countless sacrifices and swallowing our swell of desires. However, I think theologian John Piper may be on to something when he preaches that Christian Hedonism is the combination of our most pressing desires being wed to the joy of the Lord. Could we really want to please God and His will for us be in perfect harmony with what we were created to appreciate? Would God be that thoughtful?

Forget the shallow tin of simply wanting more time to ourselves, better bodies, better cars, higher callings and non-existent overbites. What if we found our joy only in Him?

Believe me, I know it is so obtuse. So abstract. So out there. So very Christian.

But what if contentment wasn't found in filling up, but instead reassigning the mold entirely?

I was reading Philippians this morning, where Paul is writing to the church at Phillipi from the oppressive walls of an early Imperial Era prison.

In stark contrast, he seems to have this contentment thing nailed even when there aren't birds chirping and blossoms budding.

"Actually, I don’t have a sense of needing anything personally. I’ve learned by now to be quite content whatever my circumstances. I’m just as happy with little as with much, with much as with little. I’ve found the recipe for being happy whether full or hungry, hands full or hands empty. Whatever I have, wherever I am, I can make it through anything in the One who makes me who I am." - Phil. 4:11-13 (The Message)


A big part of my selfish bossypants nature wants to say-- well pin a rose on your nose, Paul. 

And in reality, he could have probably pinned an entire rose garden on his nose and deserved it. I know nothing of religious persecution. I know nothing of giving up my dreams and my goals for the case of Christ. If Paul is a prophet, then I am a spiritual pauper and I know it. 

And somewhere in there I think is the power to find contentment. I have nothing in and of myself and yet I have been given such amazing gifts. I trust God's design for my life.

And while some days it feels like I am living out my reality from the walls of a self made prison (OK, so maybe that's overreacting), but God gives me moments like these. Moments where flowers and nature seem to sing the harmony parts to the melody of life's meaning- this spring rain watering my soul and yours if we happen upon a sliver of quiet small enough to appreciate it.

Cut to: Toddler crying out for "mama"

And there the moment goes. But it was enough for me.

Here is to the next round of craziness, because I think my water just broke.

In love (and possibly labor),
M