The Impact of Unexpected Joy

I've chosen one word that I want to unpack this year: sustain.

It's not fancy or sexy, and there are parts of me that wish it was.

The very real side of a pre-mommy me wishes it was overcome or victory or promotion.

Because, I can feel something happening in my life; almost a barricade being built. Something is being weaved together in my heart out of knowing; out of being aware of what's to come; the blessing and the bracing.

Another baby will be here soon.

This is a beautiful and terrifying surprise. It's something I know so many of my friends are longing for or grieving loss over. I know and value the gift that is growing inside of me. But I also know there's a cutting away that takes place to make room for another compartment of care. It can cause breakdowns and breakthroughs, exhaustion and exhilaration. It's the type of work that is wonderful and wearing. Which pretty much sums up all good work.

I've had many years in the past where I've sat down and written out goals for my career, my life and my accomplishments–they were shiny capsules of meaning and progress. Most of the time as the year ran down those goals became shackles instead of being buoys. And ultimately, left me feeling underachieved and empty. This could have something to do with the nature of my goals. Most often, they only benefited me.

Sustain is a word the benefits me as well as my entire family and the circle of people that I'm lucky to share my life with. It is obviously not a goal, but more so a surrendering.

Since becoming a mom over five years ago, I've learned something about creating my own goals: if they don't benefit anyone other than myself they sprout quickly and die even faster. Honestly, the word "goal" actually tastes bad in my mouth. This is coming from someone who used to believe in them with all my heart.

I think it's important to have a plan, of course. But goals infer that we have control over the future-we might for a time. Goals imply that we are the only ones who write the script-we don't. Goals can also become gold-plated and take place of the small moments, the less glorifying ones that have something to teach us; something to say when we sit still long enough to hear it.

I've learned something about progress too: it doesn't move in a straight line. It moves in a circle; up and down, back and forth, high and lows. And what better word to learn from and to put to memory than sustain while the dial of my productive progress might take a few ticks back.

Webster defines the word: 1)To keep from falling; to bear; to uphold; to support; as, a foundation sustains the superstructure; comfort, or relieve; to vindicate.

The Bible says a lot about it, but here's a few:

Sustain me, my God, according to your promise, and I will live; do not let my hopes be dashed. Psalm 119:116 

Cast your cares on the LORD and he will sustain you; he will never let the righteous be shaken. Psalm 55:22 

For forty years you sustained them in the wilderness, and they lacked nothing. Nehemiah 9:21

God promises to do all this for me. For you. 

I've been wired by God to want to create and produce. These are tendencies in my soul that I can't deny, and I don't think I've been asked to. I have tried, believe me.

And it always leads me to wanting it even more. On the desperate days, I incessantly check my email for an opportunity that isn't coming. I can hear the voices in my head that tell me that my gifts are like a body quickly losing its ability to exercise. My mind screams that I am in the process of literary atrophy. And behind that, I see my Wizard-of-Oz-ishness trying to create a stage that isn't mine to star on.

On the at-peace days, I see a dimming of my big dreams. The one that used to suffocate me.

And I am thankful for that.

The burden of having to succeed in ways that are impressive to all people has been lifted. But I still grapple with the person I am becoming: a quieter, less sure version of who I used to  be. Someone who is hungry for learning, teachable and humble. I've gotten here by failing. A lot of failing and a lot of pausing. Waiting. Embarking and retreating.


But as I see each day stretch out in front of me, I know one thing for sure: I don't know anything for sure. Only one person knows what the future holds and I do trust him, even when I drag my dusty heels in getting to the place he's leading me.

Instead of fighting against these realities of how I've been sewn together, I've been trying to work with them; to let them breathe and be silent, to be stretched and to rest.

As I'm preparing to become a mom for the third time I know that I, my husband, and my two other kiddos are going to be changed. Changed for the better. I'm scared of the reality of chaos coming in, but I am at peace because I will be sustained. I will not fall. I will only be lifted up.

A few months ago I went to the grocery before I found out I was pregnant. Before I could even grab a cart, my son had run quickly into the store to gawk at the plastic-crap toy dispensers. As I maneuvered my daughter into the shopping cart, a woman came up to me I had never seen her before. She got very close to my face and said, "It may be hard now, but he is going to bring you so much joy." I stood there and stammered, "Oh I know." She hadn't seen my son, or maybe she had, but either way that was all she said and she walked away.

At first, it was creepy. But when I remembered it a few days later–staring down at the positive pregnancy test, it sent a quickening shiver through my body. I didn't know if we were having a boy or girl until 5 months after that.

It's a boy.

So today I'm holding onto the crazy and the strange; I'm taking an abstract leap of faith and believing that people can be sustained by a God who rules the universe. That there is a person who is at work inside of me creating not only a new person out of nothing but also creating a new person out of who I used to be.

I can't wait to meet Max Kristoffer. I can't wait for the impact of unexpected joy.

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

The Quarantined Christmas

Christmas is my favorite. Always has been. I look forward to it all year.

I have actually said to my husband on multiple occasions "I can't wait until Christmas" in the dead of summer while smothering sunscreen on my forehead surrounded by the smells of lakefront and BBQ.

Once the season finally does arrive I do all the regular sappy things, like getting a tree the day after Christmas and buying eggnog and wearing mittens even when it's 50 degrees and rainy.

I try to come up with thoughtful and handmade gifts when possible, but I get the most satisfaction crossing people off of my "2014 Christmas Budget and Expenditures" spreadsheet. Nerd, yes. But above all that, I cherish the whole idea of our routine being thrown off and everyone understanding that it's expected because it is the holidays.

This year God decided to pull the smug out of my stocking and serve it up hot.  

Usually when I sit down to write, I try to make sure it is coming from a place of perspective. I give myself time to roll around the thoughts and struggles I have about a certain parenting precipice until they fall into some kind of fragmented proverb. I wait until I've learned a lesson or God has melted away my roughness to produce a gem. 

However, today I am too raw. Too tired. Too smelly to do all that. You see 48 hours ago I discovered that my kiddos have Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease. Lovingly referred to on the CDC website as HFMD, where the medical experts like to tauntingly remind me there is no medication or magic cure–instead, just good old fashioned quarantine time where you get plenty of one-on-one time with your scab ridden children. Their spotted complexion is then accompanied by high temps, blisters, overall grouchiness and restless sleep patterns.

One of my closest friends even told me that a co-worker had her face paralyzed for a month from it. 

Merry Christmas to me.

Oh and my husband has been out of town since the first spot was spotted and has yet to return. I feel like I am carrying this on my own. But I know I'm not. I see God's grace splattered all over the place. I see it in the text's from my sister and other moms who understand. I unearth it next to the dirty clothes and the bread crumb crusted carpet, or in the appreciative texts from my husband. I see God in it all. 

My kids have been, for the most part, joys to be around. Last night, I fell asleep thanking God for who they are and that I get to be here with them even in sickness. However, this morning I woke up crotchety and collapsed. A sweaty-headed blonde girl needed me multiple times last night and it has knocked me off my thankful prayer platform and into the realm of I-want-to-be-anywhere-but-here-even-if-that-is-just-the-magazine-aisle-in-Safeway-as-long-as-I'm-alone.

What I am beginning to realize is that what I am most sad about isn't that my kids are sick, it is that the picture of how Christmas was supposed to look has been torn up and thrown into the trash next to the newly emptied bottle of Lysol.  Once again God has reminded me that, The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps. (Prov. 16:9)

We may not be surrounded by toddler cousins and eccentric extended family this Christmas. And I may miss the annual fight over the rules at our now-famous Gift Exchange-that may actually be a win.

All of this points to the truth that I have little lepers on my hands. And we are outcasts, rightfully so. But the window of understanding is open just a crack and I can see a glimmering of reflection. Maybe, just maybe, their spots are nothing more than a reflection of my own. I'm just as sick as they are sometimes, when I allow that sticky sin to blister around my heart. 

But the meat of it all: this hanging in there, it is all a part of the job. This is where mommas work overtime and burn ourselves out. We show up when no one else does and we soothe, and feed, and sympathize, and pray, and feed, and tuck in, and flop into bed, and do it all over again.

This is where we really see how the scars of motherhood have come together in stitches of determination and we scoop up our lepers and love them and sit in the trenches with them. This is where we earn our stripes; the unseen badges that grace our biceps hardened from lifting and loving and learning.

My kids will get well. This is a gift that many families do not have this Christmas. And that breaks my heart way more than my expectations being waylaid. There will be more Christmases where we can leave these four walls and enter into society as whole, non-rashy folks. But not this year. And I am beginning to realize that it's ok. It's not my plan, but it is a new plan.

We will get to spend our first Christmas at our new address fully and wholly. We will get to have quality family time that isn't about rushing from here to there and making everyone happy but our poor over-tired, and over-gifted kiddos. Don't get me wrong, if I could do the trek and the stress and the over-gifting and the constant chocolate eating, I would. Hands down. Sign me up for the chaos.

But this year God wrapped me up a big old box of "rest even though you're restless." This contagious virus is actually a gift. A gross one at that, but a gift.

And so I will sit here staring at the fresh string of colored lights my son begged to plaster over our nice, clean white  grown-up ones. And I will be quick to bite off any sprouting angry parts so that I can be in complete awe of these moments. I know they are going to be gone way too soon. And I will eat licorice and watch Christmas cartoons and welcome that feeling that time is literally standing still.

I'm a wreck with greasy hair and I ate cold pizza for breakfast. The scene isn't pretty. It isn't clean or clear cut. It's adorable and mussed. It is harder and much easier than I thought. It is losing my temper and kissing hot ears. This is my Christmas and I thank God for digital thermometers and infant Tylenol.

And for you? Well I wish you a very Merry Christmas free of communicable diseases and wrapped up in the ridiculous grace that is loving our little lepers.

We are in this together,
M

Birds on Full Blast

Last week on an oddly warm fall day I took the kids down to our little pond (an over sized puddle) to throw pebbles in. We were struggling with boots and jackets and zippers and "do it myself's" before we heard it.

At first it sounded like an ornery hum, as if we were standing under the buzz of power lines. Slowly my senses awoke and I recognized the trills, lifts and melodic runs. An army of sparrows, robins and finches filled our entire yard with a symphony.

It was so loud that at first I was frightened. Clutching the little, sticky fingers of my four-year old and one-and-a-half year old, (I promise I do wash their hands ) I was imagining a brigade of angry birds pecking our heads until we ran back inside, but quickly the feeling transformed from fear into wonder.

The volume reverberated through the trees. I kept looking up and around just in time to see little flashes of yellow and red darting from bough to bough. A few of them were ground bound, fluttering their wings in the water; bathing and singing as if there weren't three wide-eyed bystanders invading quiet time. It reminded me in an infinitesimal way of what it must have felt like to be in the garden of Eden. Sharing life with the birds and animals without the fear of death or that enmity between us all. 

I felt as if we had stepped into a portal, where peace was potent. I think it could have been what is often referred to in Celtic Christianity as the "thin places"where just for a few brief moments we experience something otherworldly; heavenly. Where God smacks a sloppy wet kiss on us when we're least expecting it. We tingle and we light up, unsure of what we are experiencing is reality or fantasy.

And then it was gone. The birds hushed just as strongly as they came on. Either taking their party up the street to cooler trees or just dispersing into the world each one carrying their part in the greater song. I am just glad that I didn't miss it. That I wasn't scrubbing the kitchen counters or lamenting over the loss of something trivial.

I felt God. I heard him. I watched him fly on the wings of his creation. To some, I'm sure this would seem like just a crap ton of birds in one place at one time, but to me, it was God. His presence thick and real surrounded by an unimpressive chain link fence and arthritic old-growth trees.

Some people experience this crossover in the middle of unspeakable pain–the death of a child or in the loss of a dream. Others experience it in the mountain top aftermath of new life or beating cancer. For me, it was random–gift. Undeserved. Strange. Obtuse. Without rhyme or reason.

Sometimes you just need to download all of the good things that God is doing to fully appreciate his grace. I am in this season of quiet, where busyness has been replaced with large chunks of time spent at home with space to think, reflect and thank.

I don't deserve this life. I deserve death. I deserve that enmity: the inconveniences and spats and the fear of losing it all. I am ridiculously ill equipped to protect and appreciate what I've been given. But I choose to respond with generosity. I don't always do it well, but my heart wants to give away–to break myself every day to become the person God is trying to mold from the dried out clay.

Today, I am in awe that my God, my Jesus, treasures my fissures and faults instead of locking me out of a life full of joy. He has taken my cup and brimmed it with serious, wake-up-in-the-morning and dance joy. (John 15:11) Not happiness. Not ease. Not perfection. Just good old fashioned gratefulness.

We haven't achieved some major goal. Our little family isn't plodding along on some fast track to financial success or traveling the world making our mark–we are just living and loving and showing up and turning in and hugging and encouraging and inviting and letting go and saying the things we know some of our friends and family need to hear. We're open. Open to seeing God doing beauty among the rubble.

I have been in seasons of life where my sin was so stickily present that it's reckless resin felt inescapable; becoming an unreliable rudder.

But not right now. I don't fuss over my jean size as much. I don't bat eyelashes or ask for more spotlight like I used to. I squeeze and kiss my kids so much more often instead of shooing them away for a deadline or to deal with personalities in a job that I was worshiping. This is my reward: God giving me eyes to see things I was blind to before (Proverbs 20:12). I still have glaring blind spots–God knows that, as does everybody else who knows me. I'm human, I'm captivated by want; by indulgences.

Joy though, I'm discovering, is the counter to the craving. And it's so full. The exchange rate. Blood for blessing. Screw ups for scandalous love. And if I had to guess what joy sounds like I would have to imagine it's something like birds on full blast.

We're in this together,
M

The Invisible House

While I wait for our new house to close and have already said a tearful goodbye to our little home over on 19th, it seems like a lifetime has passed. Really it's only been three weeks.

I was hoping the next time I wrote it would be an exuberant entry filled with little details about our new house, the beauty of the process, the joy in my kids' laughter and how all the puzzle pieces fell into place at the exact right time.

I'd throw in some words like "so blessed" and "God is good." It would be smug and comfortable. I would be certain we'd made the right decision, because it just went too perfectly for it not to be.

Conversely, this transition has been rough on us as a family. I've been sleeping in bed with my four year old and my husband has had to sleep on the guest house couch because of his pet allergies. However, much like my children who like to point out their invisible "ouchies" to me so that I will kiss and fawn over them, I've been collecting cuts to lay before God.

It was quite the house hunt, with a heartbreak or two along the way and we ended up buying the very first home I saw. No sparkle dust or magic moments to be had, the house just felt like home to us and it didn't to anyone else. Eventually, they lowered the price to our price.

However, we are still waiting while living with my parents in the lurch called limbo.

But now we just have two days to go.

And I've been asking myself, does the start and stall of our move make us any less blessed or does it make God any less good? Not hardly.

It seems somewhere along the way I fell back into believing the ludicrous lie that perfect and God go together. Like if he was really at the helm then things would always be easy to handle. This isn't the gospel. The gospel is gory and ugly and blood spattered and splinter ridden. The idea of easy is meant to deceive. And it does, daily.

Alas–once again–God decided to use my little ideas of perfection and twist them into sanctification. He took my storyline that I lifted from a line of Hallmark cards I saw somewhere–scrapped it and handed me a wrinkled, worn version that looks distinctly similar to the shirt that I've had to recycle over the last three weeks.

In his poetic way, I can't help but notice that the seasons are changing. I'm still dressing in remnants from my summer wardrobe that just don't suit the new bite in the air that signals the return of Autumn. Neither does my heart. It has undergone a small reshaping in these last weeks. One that has opened my eyes to my idol of self-invovled introspection.

And as we enter into the final stages of Operation Who's House Is It Anyway? my heart is beginning to cool. I'm emerging from this season flared with frustration and inconvenience, but I don't want the cool to become hard clay, I want it to glow with gratitude. I want to be softened. I want this invisible house to reveal the visible flaws in my beliefs about Christ. And it has.

He still gives good gifts to his greedy kids. Like the luxurious gift of a new Autumn. Her hot afternoons are birthed from crisp and chilly mornings and there's a quiet about late September that just doesn't occur any other time of the year. It's as if we're all just so tuckered from the summer that we sit. And talk. And live out more quiet versions of the remaining summer days.

It's true that I haven't been able to enjoy the blended days of impending Autumn like I would like–that's not the bigger issue. Sadly, I haven't been able to enjoy my husband or my children like I would like either. I have found I don't do well in transition and I don't do well out of my routine. I am like my four-year old.

And so, instead of thriving in the anticipation of our new house I've been a little loose around the corners spraying gravel in sputtered rage and wading in inconvenience with my lip in a defiant pout while watching birds circle overhead and envying their freedom.

It hasn't been that pretty. But it has caused some growth, I think. I pray it has. It has forced the envelope on a few important conversations. It has shed light on where I still need to grow and where I need to be even more scandalous with grace.

The books I've been reading during this transition has all said the same thing in one way or another: "Find the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet." That is where your "post" will be, as C.S. Lewis refers to our call. I'm still trying to figure out what my call may be in specifics, but in general, my deepest gladness is found in making a house a home and making my heart an open book for those who are also trying to write their stories with intentionality.

I've always wanted greatness for my giftings, and it has blinded me to this simple truth: I am not great, nor is what I can offer. Greatness develops from the days when the gears get jammed and I have to pull off the highway to admit that I can't get myself unstuck. I am not late to some big party where my passions were supposed to play out on the world's stage. I have not missed the big picture that God had for my life.

I am in wait. I will always be in wait. In wait for the lessons. In wait for the wonder. In wait for the purpose. He created me with short circuits in my patience center, but it is only because of this defect that I am able to run to him for peace. I am absolutely nothing on my own. I run to him for reassurance like a teenage girl with acne. I'm so thin around the skin. I need a heaven-to-earth hug from his Word every day. It is a good thing I worship and love a God who embraces the forgetful and the fearful.

I don't know what it will feel like when we finally are settled into our new place. I do hope there are pockets of oh-my-slow-down-I'm-going-to-get-sick happy and overwhelming thankfulness for the gift that is called a house. But I know it will still be life when we get into the groove of living there. Four little broken people with one incredible God is the only hope we have during the hiccups of life when our heart and our breath are out of step.

I am in process. So is our life. I thank Jesus. That's all I got.

We're in this together,
M

Panic at the Disco

Mt. Adams. Photo Courtesy of Life is a Mountain, John's Hiking Blogspot

I lost it.

You know, that thing that I never had.

This house selling-and-buying business has me breathing into bags in the evening and trying to calm my wild heart beat with sweet and sour indulgences. This does not seem like something a person who has peace should be doing.

Cue the crinkle of a Salt & Vinegar chip bag. Shameless.

The dream house. That's the thing I lost. The one that would make leaving behind the house we've made a home, easier. It would have happened on my perfect time line. No overlapping, no double moving, no more breathing into bags. And here's where I struggle with quantifying this whole process through the lens of my faith: do I believe that God is good?

My husband is at the base of the second tallest peak in Washington state as this very moment getting ready to summit 12,000 feet on top of a snow-covered "potentially active" volcano–which Wikipedia was so kind to point out. He isn't climbing for the heck of it, although I do think he would climb any mountain on any day over most things. He is climbing it with a team of 26 guys who have raised almost $70,000 to rescue girls out of forced prostitution in India. In a kilt no less.

And here I am. On the edge of reason, doubting that God will rescue me from the predicament that I created. Wrongly assuming that He, the creator and orchestrator of the greatest rescue in existence, is someone who will sit back and let us move into a home that will be worse for us.

If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the Father in heaven give good things to those who ask. 

He is a God of means. He isn't just a fluffy fellow in the sky. He holds us. He rocks us. He shh's us when we've gone on for far too long on something he has already taken care of.

My husband is a part of something meaningful. I think that's really what is at the heart of this ache I feel. I want this move to move me towards a deeper understanding of family, community and Christ. I want the next address to be a reflection of where we've been. I need to kill the idea that it needs to be flashy, impressive, something people will approve of. I need to kill that same thing in myself–that a house is separate from God. I am the house of God.

I need to banish the idea that God is too busy guiding the feet of the climbers on Mt. Adams to reach their incredibly noble and glorious goal, to meet me in the ash.

The ash: where I doubt God's goodness for the bajillionth time while He is literally lifting young girls out of a life of slavery on the backs of men I love and dearly respect.

There will be another house. That's what keeps being said. And in this moment of disbelief and distrust I am not entirely certain there will be. So far I've just seen homes that wither my heart, and cause me to doubt this whole crazy ridiculous Life Relocation Program thing I've begun.

These last few months for me have been a 'tearing down' era. A process of "letting it crumble", so that  something better can be built. I'm still sifting through the rubble. I'm still completely clueless as to where we are going. To some, that's called adventure. But for me, I need a script; A rough outline of what's coming next.

So I've decided to prayerfully create a list of what I want this next era of life to be like. What I want the stage to rise up for: a hammock where everyday life can sway, steady and sweet.

1. A refuge

A place that breathes us all to life, Oh taste and see that the Lord is good! Blessed is the man who takes refuge in him.

2. A place big enough to gather comfortably. I will not pay more for something smaller or the same size as what we have. I am not interested in "tiny home" living. Not at this point in my life, anyway. I want to throw parties. Loud and big ones, with magic shows and wine and late talks into the night as the moon rises.

3. Close to our community and my family. I've lived in Los Angeles and Nashville. I know the longing of missing home. I don't want to make those people and places any harder to get to or to spend time with. I want to be closer to them and more available to them.

4. No old windows, doors or popcorn ceilings. (Sorry, I've been there and paid my dues.)

5. A writer's view.  This doesn't need to be mountains or ocean-though we've got both up here. It can be something like an old growth lilac tree outside my window, or a place where I can see a sliver of the sunrise from the kitchen table. It needs to be profound and simple. Something I can count on when the ideas run dry and when the heart questions everything, all over again. For with you is the fountain of life; in your light do we see light. 

6. Joy. I need to feel gratitude. It needs to feel miraculous. Like I stumbled upon a bramble-covered lock. A secret garden with a lost key and God handed it to me just in time. It needs to be gift. Not something I could give to myself, only something he could provide. I have to relinquish control. (Yuck.)

As my husband's boots crunch snow and his muscles ache from his pack; I imagine the August sun toasting the places around his eyes where the squint lines will become white. He just called me for a quick check in, "This is the last time I'll be able to talk to you until we come back from the summit. I love you."

And for some reason, now I know: God doesn't lead us to the treacherous places to make our life there. He leads us up and guides us back down. And when the climb is over-we are changed and have helped instigate change. We may be in the exact same place we began, but we are different.

And that's it. That's my home right now. A man on a mountain.

I wonder what the HOA's are?

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

Oh, Joy, the Crumbling Continuum

I've been wondering why I am enchanted with words. They wrap around my brain like an eagerly anticipated gift and I'm a gap-toothed child with frosting smudged across her face reaching up with open arms. They never leave, even though they do lie quiet in times of stress or run in the opposite direction when I am trying to squeeze them from a place too tight for flow.

I welcome this acrostic addiction with an appetite for more. I invite flowery, fickle and downright bad ideas to run amok through the elongated gates and trails of my mind. I find joy in the plunky metamorphosis of letters turning into silky ribbons of delicious thought emerging chapter titles, songs and bite-sized breaks of blue through the clouds.

And I am thankful. I am thankful that I have this love to share with my children. I am thankful that when the world feels unsafe and unkind I can escape into the mind of C.S. Lewis or Anne Lammott or Brennan Manning and Jen Hatmaker– those who have lived life with their ear to the door of God's heart hoping to hear a symbiotic morse code that will spell out the exact answer we seek. And they do.

I've found that while God does often speak in cryptic collections of stories and ideas–he doesn't leave us to fumble the puzzle back together on our own. When we are hurting, lost or desperately seeking His face he isn't so mysterious. (Matthew 7:7). He's actually quite plain. Blunt. Transparent.

I am between the spaces right now; where the sunset over a tranquil lake transports me to a hotel room in my soul that I've never checked into. And yet, it is as if that is the only place in the whole world that could possibly be home. I don't think of heaven often, but when I do it is sparked by random moments of beauty. When dew slips from petals into a pool of rainwater. In the squinty corners of my children's eyes when giggle fits ensue. Those are times where I can't contain the joy I feel and I instinctively put my hand over my heart. It's what C.S. Lewis called the "pang" of joy. And it is worth more than comfort. It is a preview of something we were created to live in continuously.

Comfort has been the god that often snatches the position of most importance when I don't tend to the wilds of my want. I have been taking inventory around my home of the "comforts" I was afforded when I had an income. There's several pair of shoes that are colorful and yet, they seem crass. As if they represent me flipping over a table in the temple or me handing over my birthright for a meager bowl of watery soup. OK, so that may seem a little strong. But it is excess. And excess isn't eternal. It's moth food.

I have a few more dresses than I used to. A few more beauty products. A few more clothes for my kids which have now been washed, shrunken and demoted to consignment quality. Innumerable Starbucks cups found their way into the trash along with their bought-status green straws. But most boldly and evidently, as I look around and take inventory of this blank space I find myself in, I notice a skin that has been shed. I notice that what I was once wearing has now been cast in the dirty clothes. It was a uniform of I-can-do-it-all-myself–as if a title of nothingness could trick my heart into believing that I was anything more than naked and ashamed.

I feel so free from that skin, which now I can properly identify as a suit of armor. I catch moments of dusty sun now. I revel in the sound of birds out my window. I itch to bring beauty in.

And that's where I feel reintroduced to the place of purpose that God carved into me with a chisel and a gouge. That place of tenderness and trepidation. The place where I am able to notice God. To give him credit. To cite the source.

And that's why the words have been assaulting me with the most welcomed show of gunfire. I've been cracked open wide. Without our fissures and faults, there would be no way for Him to encourage us to "let it crumble". There would be no crag for him to establish his greatness among our garbage. Be thankful for your bruises–the places that if pressed upon would burst us to bits.

They are the marks by which we feel for our way and open into a bright meadow that is decorated with  quiet and clarity. It is only in times like these that I am able to wipe the steamy film from the mirror to see myself through the streaks of condensation. (1 Corinthians 13:12) For now we only see as a reflection in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

You are already fully known by your Creator. These humans we share our lives with; they can only know us in part as we can only know ourselves and others. That's the journey. Realizing that this isn't about getting to know ourselves or hoping that someday someone will "get us". This life, this discovery–I believe–is about allowing ourselves to accept that will only be ever truly known, cherished, accepted and trademarked as beautiful by the hands of God. The ones that knit us together in love. (Col. 2:2)

We're in this together,
M

Hopelessly Unhinged

This has been an interesting week.

I quit my job. But it doesn't stop there.

An eighty-year-old woman in the aisle of Fred Meyer told my 14-month daughter to "shut up" as she was repeatedly squealing because of the balloons overhead. An acquaintance accused me of trying to reap the spoils of her divorce by asking about buying a painting in her home. And I had someone tell me that they were hurt that I did not acknowledge them while they wore a t-shirt heralding my old band days. While these things are not the end of the world I am fighting the temptation to pull into my turtle shell and be done with it for awhile. A reformed introvert who still struggles with internalism, these little cuts are beginning to gape. I can feel the blood draining from my face.

I am far too sensitive. I take things too much to heart. I know this about myself. But Jesus knows that even more.

I will be the first to say I don't do life well all the time. Honestly, I think I only have peek-a-boo moments of goodness where something bursts forth from a place beyond my own humanity and I am able to harness it long enough to help someone. Or support someone. Or forgive someone. Then it's gone and I'm back to being obsessed with myself.

The only comfort I can find is that Jesus knows me. He knows this wasted heart, and that I desperately want to please. And unfortunately that desire to please gets me into trouble. I set myself up for failure.

Jesus knows I don't say the right things all the time. He knows that I walk wide-eyed into misunderstandings. He knows I sin. I covet. I gossip. I envy. I assume. The world can be cruel. And sometimes I wonder if I'm not wired to handle it all. The comments. The assumptions. The accusations.

It can simply be, overwhelming. I have always been easily broken. I have a thin skin and I've tried to make it thicker. But for those of us who God made this way; sensitive, big-hearted and trusting–it's okay to admit we can't do this on our own.

And in this hard season, where I feel isolated and clunky in my attempts to re-find my footing–I am tripping over my good intentions. But more so now than ever I am so thankful for my church and my closest friends. I am so thankful for other broken people who put their foot in their mouths and those that are familiar with the gift of grace and are much more willing to give it freely to those who don't deserve it.

I know I don't deserve grace. I know I say stupid things. I trust people blindly. I don't always think through the things I do. But I keep being reminded of God working all things together for the good of those who love Him (Romans 8:28). He knows we are unhinged and spastic. He knows we can't hold a train of thought and that we can't see ourselves crashing until we are among the blazes sometimes.

And that's the peace I have right now. Because I know I love Jesus like crazy. I know He's seen me at my worst and He still longs to know me. That is why I believe what I believe. Because I am imperfect and impolite and imposing and marred and stitched up and He still welcomes me with arms open wide. He still invites me to His throne to hear his gentle voice and to forgive me for the bazillionth time with no strings attached. Seriously, none.

And for a screw-up like myself that is more than good news, it's what this tired and beat-up heart needs.

Sometimes people think that religion is unforgiving. But for me, it's the opposite. My religion–Christianity– is nothing but forgiveness. Pure and potent, like the most intoxicating drink you'll ever taste. It's a reality that never goes away once you acknowledge you need it. As long as you keep His truth in front of you, what's behind you becomes glassy and highly apertured. Fading into the fog of forget-about-the-past.

I feel such joy knowing that I have a clean slate and a life washed white every single morning (Psalm 30:5). I will continue to hold fast to my firm belief in a Man who came as God to fulfill ancient prophecies and give us the gift we could never earn–a direct line to His goodness. He left us with the blueprint on how to live life in community with Him and those who love Him.

I am worn down. I am vulnerable. I am broken. I am sad. I am feeling attacked.

But by God, I am forgiven. And loved. And held. And kissed. And unconditionally accepted. No matter what I do wrong tomorrow or what I forget to do right the next day, Jesus has it covered. Dear friend, if you've ever been misunderstood, wrongly attacked, rightfully attacked or left to feel like you don't matter. You do.

You matter so much that you don't have to do anything right to be righted. Rest in that.

We're in this together,
M

Spinning Plates While Doing a Pirouette

I need to be honest.

I have nothing to bring to the plate. Or maybe I should say plates. What plates? Oh, those fifteen porcelain ones that I am spinning while doing a pirouette in this thing they call “young motherhood”.

And let me tell you why that is cheeks-covered-in-tears incredible. Because in the rare moments where I embrace my inadequacies in light of Jesus' all-perfect adequacies, I am closer to who I am supposed to be than in any other moment.

When I show up to Jesus empty-handed and desperate I hear Him whisper, "Finally. You came to me without meaningless trinkets and trophies. You came to me with the only gift you have to give: your ragged and wasted heart."

I moved to L.A. when I was seventeen to pursue an acting career. The biggest problem with that was that I resolved to not be in movies that were violent or sexual, and I didn't want to swear, glorify the drug lifestyle, do nude scenes, be involved in partying or even smoke a cigarette. Needless to say, I quickly realized those roles didn't exist–and Kirk Cameron is the only person that would've cast me.

A role about someone doing the right thing all the time? It doesn’t exist.

That’s one of the greatest gifts in my new role as mother and wife is that I don't get it right all the time. Every moment I'm allowed the freedom be my kids' mom is a gift. Every moment. The tantrum moments. The first step moments. The kisses goodnight moments.The barely-breathing moments. The lose-my-temper moments. The I'm-sorry moments.

Even when I've got broken nails and split ends, my son calls me a princess. My daughter lights up the minute I walk into the room and melts into a puddle of tears when I leave- now that's what I call a fan.

When I still try to do the casting in my own life story, I remind myself whose the star is by reading Ephesians. Paul writes, "Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children. And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God."

Be imitators of God, as beloved children.

My three-year old son looks like my husband. They have mannerisms that are spookily identical. My son imitates my husband because they are father and son. They are cut from the same cloth.

We can only be imitators of God if we address the issue of ownership. Of belonging. Of vanity. Children are like their fathers they share the same blood. And our belonging was bought when love poured from split veins so we could spend days knee-deep in cheerios exercising sore biceps to lift littles with runny noses.

And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.

Jesus flipped the script. Sacrifice took the spotlight.

So the next time I drop a porcelain plate when I let my life spin a little too fast, I will be reminded that we are beloved because were broken.

We're in this together,

M

To see the video of me reading this blog to my Reach Church family, go here: https://vimeo.com/95484025

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

Prone to Wander

I have finally figured out what tattoo I want to get.

OK, wait. Let me rephrase that: I have finally figured out what tattoo I would get if I suddenly became way cooler than I actually am. You know, that day where I cut my hair into a chin-length bob, rock dark-rimmed glasses with Converse shoes and follow at least one indie band that isn't on the radio. 

But regardless of it's actuality, figuring out my choice for a lifetime relationship with a potential tattoo still feels like an important personal life decision.

If I were to sit down in a tattoo chair today I would ask for three words to be permanently etched on my right wrist: Prone to Wander.

My right wrist is usually the one that I can see when I am holding my beautiful, nearly-eight month old daughter when trying to check my work email or jot down a story idea instead of wrapping both arms around her and waiting until nap time.

My right wrist is usually the one that is free, when I'm digging in the snack bin to find some chips or grabbing a can of Coke from the fridge out of sheer laziness.

My right wrist is usually the one that is flipping through channels when I am sitting in the quiet of my home on any given night after the kids are asleep (the glorious hour I wait for all day long), instead of  driving to a friend's house to connect with someone who needs to talk- no matter the hour.

'Prone to Wander' comes from a hymn that I grew up singing at The Glory Barn, (a palsy, dying congregation where everyone wore flower jumpers and forbade music with a beat): Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing. But particularly, verse four pops into my head at random times throughout my week:

4. O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.

Daily, I am prone to wander. Daily, I need to offer my heart to God. Daily, I substitute His truth for what I want life to be. I want it to be easy. I want it to look good on the outside. I want it to look like I know what I'm doing. I want it to look like I'm the one who has it all figured out. I want to look successful. Smart. Self-suffcient. Without flaw.

And life isn't any of those things. And I am not either.

Jesus' truth is what I need to immerse myself in on a regular basis because it is gritty, and substantial- it fills in the holes where the constant wash of my fickle heart has eroded the foundation of my faith. His death on a cross is unplalabale. It is rejected in most accepted circles of society. It is untidy. It is unexpected. It is love like we've never seen before or since. When we are dying. When we are dead. When we are cussing. When we are sinning. When we are hating. When we are idolizing. He is love. He is the right wrist choosing to do the right thing, when we are the ones ignoring His love story and slamming the book shut for a sugar high, for a forbidden glance, for a hit of addiction, for our own glory.

I podcast sermons all the time. I listen to Christian music all the time. I read the Bible even when I don't feel like it, but never as much as I should.

I don't do these things because I am a Super-Christian. I do these things because I am a failing Christian. I have seen the ugliness my heart is capable of and so I need to protect myself by injecting my life with His truth. I need Jesus on overdrive. On repeat. Everyday.

I don't listen to Christian radio because I like it- (Apologies, Christian radio fans, but the over production and sappy lyrics sometimes cause me to roll my eyes), it's because I forget God's goodness. I am in desperate need of being reminded of Him. I am prone to wander. I am prone to leave the God I love.

This isn't to say that I never make the right choices, but let's just say that I've had my fair share of moments where I do what I want instead of what I should.

So how come 2 Corinthians 5:17 doesn't ring true in my own life all the time? "Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!"

Am I not a new creation if I fall back into my old ways? If I forget His goodness? If I'm prone to wander. Fortunately, for forgetful followers like myself who take for granted their salvation, one of God's most shining examples of a life in response to the Gospel was the prophet Paul. And even he isn't exempt from this constant relapse. In Romans 7 he says,

18 For I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. 19 For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing. 20 Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it. 

Today, my pastor Brian McCormack at Reach Church in Kirkland preached on this very thing; our forgetfulness about His goodness. He made it very clear that repetition is the key to keeping what we believe in our hearts consistent with how we live our lives.

We won't get it right enough to be righteous. Sorry, moralists. We won't become Christians by osmosis. Sorry, Sunday-morning saints. We won't become more like Jesus by letting our lives remain unchaged. Sorry, fence-sitters.

We become believers by falling back into the fold when Jesus comes to find us.  Repenting and returning. Remembering and responding. 

We have not yet arrived, but we are on our way to finishing strong when we believe that He took the shame for our shamefulness.

Even when I stray, He stays. And as long as we keep our eyes open to who we really are, we will never be at risk of being truly lost; even those who are prone to wander.

We're in this together,

M

Burn Out

I thought I could do this.

I should've known. I can't

Right now, in all honesty I need a shot of humility. I need a gallon of grace. And I need a good kick in the pants.

I keep hearing a voice in the back of my head asking, "Who cut in on you? You were running a good race."

That kind of persuasion does not come from the one who calls you. (Galatians 5:7-8)

I'm feeling overwhelmed. Overstimulated. Distracted. And yet, I feel needed. Necessary. I am back in the "job" saddle and I have to say it feels GREAT.

If I blatantly honest, I wonder if I am feeling the pull of improper persuasion like Paul talks about in Galatians.

Because for the last 3 years I have been a mom. A FULL TIME mom with some side-work thrown in there when I felt like I should exercise the typing muscles I used to have. 

And now, I am still a stay at home mom, but I actually have a boss on the other end of those emails. I actually have been reintroduced to the hierarchy of results-matter work. I answer to someone now.

But I can not forget who I ultimately answer to.

It's the kind of persuasion that lures me away from my kids to check my inbox for the umpteenth time in an hour or respond to an "important" email that isn't nearly as pressing as my ego makes it out to be.

It is my inner persuader. It is my sin. It is my desire to gain the whole world and lose my soul. It's the oldest trick in the book.

It's that kind of persuasion that lights up my brain when I imagine all of the cool things I am going to do now that I have a label. Now that I am not just 'mom'. Now that I have, what I call my dream job.

It's only been a week and a half.

Let me repeat.

It's has only been 8 working days.

And in that short amount of time, I feel like my heart has been run away with by a trillion stallions. And I realize that I have been in a desert and I have been spiritually thriving. I have been existing on morsels of manna from God to get through every humbling struggle I face as a mom with two little kids. And because of that, I have been experiencing the painful process of growth.

And now? I am in danger of having found a new savior. I am tempted to melt down my newfound gold to fashion calves in the wilderness. I am in danger of redirecting my worship.

Because it's addicting. This accomplishment thing. It's like "Ahhh, that's what purpose feels like. I remember now."

But it's not purpose that I'm feeling swallowed by- not in the way God intended me to be purposed anyhow.

30If I partake with thankfulness, why am I slandered concerning that for which I give thanks? 31Whether, then, you eat or drink or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God.

It's the hollow shell of a title that will ultimately give me glory that I'm allowing to fill the cracks in my soul. Those cracks that God gave me so I would turn to Him are now being ignored by distraction. By persuasion. By my own desire to do a good job.

And yes, I should be a good worker. I am a witness no matter if I am changing diapers or changing an editorial layout. So yes, I need to be efficient. Honest. Uphold my end of the bargain.

But my new normal means that I am over the moon and heartbroken all within moments of each other.

I make forward progress at "work" with my eyes glued to the screen, but missed my son teetering on the edge of the couch before he tumbled off. I landed a really cool product for placement, but didn't get to sit on the floor making my daughter smile without watching the clock.

This is a new balance that I need to work on. I am like a wave tossed to and fro. I need to CTFD. (Calm The F* Down) I don't endorse use of the F word, but when someone's right, they're right.)

But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind.

I believe this new development in my work/life balance is a part of God's plan. So I need to keep Him in the middle of it. Be sensitive to where he leads. Seize the moments I need to and let the others ones go. This is a new ball thrown in the air.

In case you didn't know, my husband can juggle. Not in the metaphorical sense, but in the 'I-may-wear-shoes-with-bells-on-the-toes-and-go-to-rennaisiance-fairs' way. He can literally juggle. When I asked him how he learned to do it in the first place, he said that he had to keep his back against the wall, because his natural tendency was to follow the balls lead and that's when you make mistakes and drop them.

If you anchor yourself against something that doesn't move; something that doesn't change- you can then focus on all of the things you have to keep in motion.

Ok, swish. That's the truth I've been needing to hear. When learning to juggle I need to find the wall. The unchanging God I know and love.

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.

Gosh, I know I am so dramatic. I know that once I settle down into this space I won't be so crazy out of it. I know I won't forget to eat, I won't forget to brush my teeth, I won't try to breastfeed while drafting an email to the publicity department at Nordstrom's. I will settle down.

But I don't want to miss this chance to learn something about myself.

I am only one great opportunity away from thinking I don't need God. We all are.

I am not strong. I am weak.

I am not qualified, I am a vessel He chooses to use.

I am not great, He is just so amazingly good.

He is trying to give me the desires of my heart- and I need to be mature enough to not bastardize that gift.

This is a warning letter to myself.

Knock it off. Go love on your kids. Get in the word. Get off your high horse. Kiss your husband. Stop drinking Diet Coke to keep your eyes open.

Relax. Have a glass of wine. Kiss that sexy man who is wearing your daughter in the Baby Bjorn on the lips. Give long hugs. And laugh. A lot.

Above all, once this transition from stay-at-home-mom to working-stay-at-home mom is complete, I want to make sure I had my priorities straight from the get go.

God comes first. Your family second. And yourself, that needs to always be dead last. Serve like crazy.

Just don't bow down to ego and the dollar because they make you feel important.

I am burnt out- thank God. Because it brings me back to Him.

And so I will smolder in thankfulness. He turns ashes to beauty. Or so I'm told.

"...to bestow on them a crown of beauty
    instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
    instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
    instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
    a planting of the Lord
    for the display of his splendor."

Isaiah 61:3