To the Mom Who's Sad

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

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

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

Let me clarify, I am not a sad person.

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

I learned this from someone. Jesus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is an unhappy business. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're in this together,
M

If You Feel Like a Horrible Friend

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

I'm walking alongside a manmade pond sunk inside large boulders. I am running my fingers along petals of the brightly colored roses, drinking in their scandalous scent and carelessly popping tightly wound sugar snaps. I am singing a hymn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she stops.

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

Faith. Mustard seed in size. It was enough.

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

"Take away the stone."

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

"Lazarus, come out."

And he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're in this together,
M

To the Mom Who Doesn't Have Time to Herself

Your time is not your own.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're in this together,
M

To the Mom Who's Drowning

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

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

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

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

It was uncharted territory. 

And this my friends, is motherhood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Misery loves company I guess. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're in this together, 

M

Dust Pan Diaries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We’re in this together,
M

Third Time's a Charm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're in this together,
M

Gum Wrapper God

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not anymore.