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

The Lollipop Guild

It all started with a lollipop.

As it usually does in my house these days.

My son (the Lord of the Lollipops) is a wonderfully charismatic and uphill-my-way-or-the-highway warrior poet and my lovely daughter who follows him (and his tendencies) like a love-sick puppy arrive here at least once or twice a day; stuck within the gory grind of the candy conundrum.

Candy has become a major trigger in my household. And lately, I believe that a lollipop is nothing more than a gooey, fake-colored Satan stick that causes irrational purple-faced meltdowns that I am expected to manage as a good mom who shouldn't allow her children to have such a deep addiction for Red 40. I should protect them like a mother lion. Rawr.

But here's the deal: I like candy too. Sometimes I want something sweet. And no, I shouldn't let my son have candy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner–which is often the request. But there are times to treat my kids. I like to treat my kids. Oh and just so you can sleep at night we do have a strict no-candy before 10 a.m. rule in this house. I know, I'm such a stickler.

But as I think on this, I don't think my answer to candy should always be "no". 

For instance, my absolute favorite time to give my "spirited" son candy is when he is least expecting it. I love to sit him down in a serious manner and ask him, "Would you like a lollipop?" This happens in the same tone as I would when suggesting he pick up his toys or when I ask him if he wants to take a bath.

His eyes get wide. He glances over his shoulder as if looking for a hidden camera. His grin spreads from ear to ear. And he half-giggles in disbelief before answering with a resounding, "Yes, momma. I would."

Jesus wants to lavish us with good gifts. He wants to surprise us when we least expect it. Even when he promises us good gifts we don't fully believe it. We try to manage the timeline. We ask before it's due. We rob him of the opportunity to bless us by succumbing to our obsession and addiction with controlling our own lives.

So here is what I am hoping for 2015: a lot of unexpected lollipops from God. God loves doing the unexpected. He likes tumbling walls down with nothing more than the blast of trumpets. He likes to involve the most unexpected characters in his greater plan. (Joshua 6)

My goal this year is one thing: to run after God with sweat dripping down my temples. I want to dive into his word and swim with understanding strokes. I want to test his truths. I want to wait for his gifts. And I want to prove him a righteous, good and loving God.

I have spent too many years learning the language of fluent warble. I have allowed my soul to speak or sing in uneven quivering tones. I have spent too much time taking unsteady and uncertain steps with a bruised and scared heart just waiting for God to snatch the lollipop from my sticky stubborn fingers and to scold me with a disapproving tone. 

That is not our God.

If you run in the direction of him you will find amazing gifts. And so I fully plan to spend this year testing this theory. I am no longer going to spend time wondering what I lack as a mom and a wife that leads to my constant state of life uncertainty. Because upon further examination in these last few months I've unearthed a shocking discovery. I'm lacking everything. Absolute everything.

And on the days where I trick myself into thinking that's not the case, I find myself stepping out onto a plank dipped in fake confidence and I fall headlong into a spiral of action and reaction.

It is out on this wobbly space and in the blankness below, that I make decisions that I shouldn't. I flare my temper when it should let it fizzle. And I embrace my abilities instead of fully surrendering my disabilities. When I do this I reduce God's margins for miracle making to nothing more than a sliver on the pie chart; he becomes a measly afterthought on how I shape the rest of my life.

And, yet by grace, he still uses the tiny spaces that I give him in my heart for change. To benefit others. To love my husband and my kids well. To serve the women in my life.

2014 was a hard year for me. Not anywhere near tragic. Just rough; a series of shedding skins, until I was raw and ready for God to show up. It was also a glorious year of reinvention and redemption. I finally got the job I thought I always wanted only to lose it in a heartbreaking yet, necessary way. I juggled raising two kiddos under four, who are amazing, and yet so very different.

I've spent many days in the tension between my daughter wanting to snuggle me and my son wanting my undivided attention. This usually results in me carrying around a pig-tailed little miss while a determined son vies for my eye line. I end these type of days empty. And yet so full. And yes, tired.

So the goal list for this year is in the trash right next to the crumpled up lollipop wrappers. I am not going to tighten the legal lines between God and myself. I am not going to develop a budget plan or execute a new laundry schedule. These are all great things, but they aren't the best things. I'm reading The Best Yes by Lysa TerKuerst right now and it's so powerful.

A wise friend of mine once told me, "When you say yes to one thing you invariable say no to another." And while that seems obvious, I've intentionally left spaces in my life lately to allow myself to be available when God calls me to stop and act. To invite that person over for dinner. To allow a quiet night to call me to him. To stop by a certain person's house with coffee or a card. To have a glass of wine with a great friend. To enjoy my husband and not watch the clock like a sleep deprived troll.

This year I have one aim: to hook my soul up to a scripture IV. I want wisdom. I want to grow. I want to put down thick roots into that spring of living water. I want to see the power of the Holy Spirit play out in real time. I want to believe more. I want layers upon the layers I already have.

I am going to continue to run in the direction of where God is. Not just on Sundays. Not just when I screw up. Not just when I feel grateful. Not just when I do the right thing. But in the middle of a curse word. In the middle of one glass of wine too many. In the middle of the rain, the sleepless nights, the I-don't-know-what-to-do moments, the selfish moments, the botched bleached laundry moments. And most important: the unexpected, beautiful lollipop moments.

I want this to be the year I get real with Christ. If I run towards figuring out who he is, then I won't have to wonder who in the world I am supposed to be.

We're in this together,
M

The X Factor

Moving through layers of shadow and cedar, the morning mist floated and twisted into ribbons of thick steam. The fog folded itself over an infinitesimal amount of times before disappearing into the unfolding day. I sat in awe on our back patio. A "wow" escaped my lips.

My daughter was pulling all of the toys out of the outside bin and running around with one shoe on. My son was sword fighting an imaginary bad guy–all required sound effects included. I was in a striped tunic, workout pants and flowered rain boots. Not the best outfit choice of all time. Not the most serene surroundings. Not the quietest moment. Not the perfect time. But I looked up. I took the time to see God moving in nature and it got me. It got me on the inside.

When I sit down to write, I never know what is going to come out. Whenever I am in the middle of a struggle it helps me see clearer. Whenever I am in the middle of monumental achievements–like joy and contentment–it helps me catalog. And sometimes it just feels like flying. Like doing the one thing I was made to do, clumsily, with free falls and typos and tense shifting and plain old errors. And I embrace that.

I can finally say that I don't do things perfectly and somehow the people on my home team, as Shauna Niequist would call those people who give you the space to stagger, still understand. It is amazing how far grace goes.

Lately, I have found this grace between crumpled sheets and in shreds of moonlight on the carpet. When I am tired and sick, I still pray for a longing to love. For the baby ears, let's just refer to this as the X Factor. I am getting all itchy just thinking about writing about this, but God is teaching me something in this department and so that's where the fog led me.

I don't know a lot about this. But I do know that after you are married for awhile, you can forget about how important the X factor is to the fundamental way your marriage should function. I know that it is something that needs care, attention and connects us to our spouses like bolts and hinges.

When you are waiting to get married you think it will always occur to you; that you will make yourself available in lace and longevity no matter the season. But after the ring goes on or comes off, or the kids show up and the shaving of your legs drops on the list of priorities, we can get to a place of forget or fatigue or flat out apathy. There are a hundred reasons to hang it up. The timing doesn't feel right. The outfit is wrong. The surroundings aren't serene. There's stuff in the way. Like socks.

You know the angry socks, the ones you can feel resentment towards.  

These socks right here–ugh. More like shackles. If only I could have a moment to myself then maybe I could fold these with happy hands. If this was easier than I could see the beauty in the threadbare heels, but right now? I only see tired feet and tired eyes, and my edges are frayed and fickle and dipped in Go-gurt. Oh and look, the garbage is full and the clothes are lumpy on the floor and my kids are screaming.

And just like that anger has moved in and shut you off again at the spout.

And we drip like faucets inwardly and outwardly and we want change that we don't want to have to make ourselves. (Proverbs 27:15) This isn't an ALWAYS state. But in certain seasons of life: transitions, being sick or stuck, or being sick and stuck in a transition–we may default. To anger and unhappiness. And justification. Or at least I do.

And it is here. In the place of self pity that we need to get to it. We need to connect. We need to stop making lists and keeping score and instead peel off the prescriptions and truly see the beauty of the ordinary.

The angry socks? They are actually the very same ones your husband wears while he paces at work and provides and stresses and succeeds and belly flops and comes home to you. They are the same ones that you wear at your job, sacrificing and juggling and trying to do it all as well as you possibly can.

Our feet are the vehicles for our lives. No more are these socks just a chore, they could be a catalyst. You know, for that change that is aching to take place.

And the screaming kids, maybe they are squealing or clamoring for your attention because they are still young enough to think you are a superhero and can solve all their problems. Get on your knees and try your best. That's all they want.

The X Factor is just an outpouring of ourselves into the large, vast cistern that is thankfulness for our people and thankfulness for life, and thankfulness that we have this mess to make and unmake. This last year has held so much loss for so many that I know. And if there is anything good that comes from ugly, downright, no-good bad junk, it is that they now see the world differently. The anger rises slower. The resentment morphs into reflection. And the hard stuff seems like blessing.

Not sure where you are with your love today, or the love you hope to find one day, but pour into it. Make yourself available. Turn on the spout, let your heart flow again.

For those that have and hold, let's enjoy it. Every chance it occurs to you and even when it doesn't. Amp up the outward showings: the hugs. the kisses, the kind words, which leads to the hushing of the sharp words. The prayer together. The jokes. Tell them and laugh loudly. Even if you are the worst at jokes. I would know. He will still laugh. Hold hands. Touch bare toes.

Do the work. And then reward yourself by letting yourself enjoy the fog that has lifted. It is truly magnificent when you take the time to look up, to let it in. To let yourself shift shape into a force. One that joy can not stay away from.

These last two weeks have been some of the most joyful in my recent memory, and it has nothing to do with an address change. Well maybe a little. I have more space to feel and live and breathe and think. But more so my heart has moved- ever so slightly. Like the fog that twists and turns; I'm trying to let it change me. The love that I'm the luckiest to live.

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

The Pool of Envy

Kids squeal. Water splashes. The smell of coconut oil and chlorine drift on the breeze. To a child, we have reached paradise. A swimming pool in the summer.

Plastic toys spill out of beach bags and float around like time bombs in the water. Parents drift alongside their offspring wading fast and slow in hopes to head off a meltdown by distracting them from a new toy that has been momentarily abandoned; seemingly available for the snatching.

Conversations rise and fall as kids come and go for naps, lunches and bathroom breaks. "But he has a green squirt gun dad! I have a red one. I want a GREEN ONE!" And we try and explain: they are the exact same squirt gun. Just a different color. But logic falls with a dull thud. Our soft voices and gentle, but urgent, pleading become echoes in the canyon of that's-way-cooler-than-what-I-have. They can not hear us. They will not hear us. They are entranced by the unattainable.

And here I am bobbing like a cork next to my daughter and watching my own son literally run back and forth from content to discontent as new balls, water guns and float toys enter the scene. His little three-year-old brain spins; trying to process emotions and longings that he can't name–anger and awe and envy. Grown up issues that he is absolutely defenseless against.

And I realize that we are not born with the innate understanding on how to be happy. We have no clue what it is that will satisfy us and what will leave us empty and itching to get our hands on what someone else has. We are born full of want.

On this particular sunny day in paradise, it started and ended with rocket ships. My son's new friend Carson had brought in two "rocket ships"–actually airplanes. One was red and one was yellow. I saw the storm swirling overhead. Thunder clapped. Lightning struck down. Envy unleashed. "Mom! He has rocket ships. I want a rocket ship!"

Carson was not about to share the rocket ships. My son begins explaining that he needs to share. Carson disagrees. The combination of too much sun not enough breakfast and the teetering insanity of toddler reasoning culminated into chaos. The tears begin. The scene is made. It is time to go. NOW.

As I am trying to navigate an escape route with hand signals to my husband across the pool we begin hastily gathering our wits. Our son continues to melt down. This triggers rapid spelling, "He just needs a N-A-P," I yell. My husband grabs our daughter and begins gathering our stuff, shooting back, "I know, and F-O-O-D." I nod incessantly, "Yes, and he needs to go P-O-T-T-Y." And it continues that way for a minute or two as I try to coerce my son into leaving the rocket ship battlefield.

He sees us moving toward the exit and panic ensues. "No mom!" I don't want to go!" Tears begin forging into waterfalls. His chin quivers. "I'm happy mom! I'm happy!" Wails and arm slapping enter the negotiations. "Mom, see I'm happy!" Tears running in thick streams. He truly thinks I will believe that he is happy by telling me that, even though his blotchy and exasperated face tells the real story.

My face flushes red. Half-embarrassed by the scene we're making over Carson's inability to share (as if my son has never withheld a toy from someone for the sheer joy of it) and half-embarrassed by my own reflection that I am beginning to see in my son's broken little heart. His brokenness over the stuff. The sense of loss. The fear of missing out.

And I suddenly feel bad for him. He can't identify envy. He doesn't understand why it is twisting his heart in knots. He doesn't understand that this behavior is going to cost him what he already had. A fun afternoon in the pool.

And more than all of that, my sad little son is letting the idea of losing something he never had become more important than trusting that mom and dad knows what he needs most. Rest. And sustenance. A cool, calm dry place out of the hot sun.

We successfully completed Operation Escape the Pool of Envy after a couple of failed attempts. But I made it out alive and with enough composure that I am able to detail the encounter with some clarity in this blog.

As I was finally tucking my son into his bed. I felt it.

Whether we are three or thirty-three, the hunt for happiness will never end well when we don't trust that our Father knows what is best for us.

Rest for the restless.
Rest for the brokenhearted.
Rest for the unloved.
Rest for the overworked.
Rest for the unemployed.
Rest for the disliked.
Rest for the ordinary.
Rest for the overlooked.

Rest. Not relaxation. Not something that we dream of during toil filled weeks. Not a vacation. Not a break from reality.

Soul rest. The kind that we will find when we close our eyes to the distractions and temptations of want and we open our eyes to what we have right in front of us. Empty space. Open hands. Ready to accept the good news of grace. It is more than enough.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Rest in that.

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

The Hi-Jacked Heart

My husband and I are coming up on our seven year anniversary. During that time, we've been parents to 2 children for 3 years, 5 months and 19 days. Over the course of those days I've loosened up, reigned in emotions, matured, lost it, got it back again and mellowed by default.

I've been pregnant for a total of 560 days. I have been in labor for 34 hours. I have lost countless hours of sleep. I have been moved to tears of joy more times than I can count. I have lost my temper, lavished love, given a million kisses, comforted feverish children, sat on the cold bathroom floor through potty training and flu season, and danced in the kitchen barefoot with my arms wrapped around my husband and my babies–sometimes at the same time. 

For those how have been married a long time, seven years probably seems like a drop in the bucket of monogamy. But for those newlyweds that are still trying to figure out a weekly menu that will utilize the pancake grill, waffle maker, indoor grill, outdoor grill, and panini maker they received (Here's a hint: you won't use any of them nearly as much as you will the Crockpot, trust me.)–we've put in the time now to qualify as married folks, through and through. We've been hitched just as long as Brad Pitt was in Tibet. So basically, forever. 

My pastor Brian at Reach in Kirkland is speaking on a series called, The Greatest Lie Ever Told. And the whole idea is that the biggest lie we believe is that life is a story all about us. I  know. That's a rough one. Because unless I make a conscious effort to disbelieve that, that's what I think.

When I look over the last seven years I have memories of my life. My wedding. My husband. My kids. My broken and mended heart. My loss. My gain. My success.

But if I were to squeeze in the footnotes of my prior number breakdown–I'd have to bring your attention to the source. Right before I walked down the aisle my dad prayed one of the sweetest prayers of my life. When I found out I was first pregnant, I prayed, "Lord, what now?". When I was in labor, you better believe a few prayers were blasted out on high frequency. When I've been in tears during the terrible twos–exhausted from trying to manage emotions– God gave me eyes to see that I was just like the unruly child in front of me. I've spoken harsh words that I had to ask forgiveness for–another time I relied on Jesus to annihilate my pride. Every big moment of "my life" has really been nothing but an introduction paragraph to the true story being told. The life that I grip with greedy hands in a contunual effort to hi-jack a heart that doesn't belong to me.

It belongs to my Jesus.

So the story. The big idea. The celebrations we toast, the birthdays we celebrate, the deaths we mourn- all of it has nothing to do with us and everything to do with the one who is for us. Lucky for us, our Master Rescuer is the author. Even so, I can admit I keep trying to steal the pen and scratch my name into the byline.

Jesus knows that about us. And so, on purpose, he picked a ragtag team of disciples to follow him, and they–like us–always seem a step behind where God was trying to lead them. This week Pastor Brian preached on Mark 10:35-45. In it, James and John are asking to be seated at the right hand of God in heaven. They are looking for a reward for their faith, tangibly. They want to see results. They want to see the numbers crunched and the end result to be a splendid success. They want a pat on the back. And even though they are asking about heaven, which would seem a disclosure of faith in where their future will be, they are still focused on their own glory. Their own security. Their own story.

And Jesus says, "But whoever would be great among you must be your servant,"

Pastor Brian asked something that resonated with me on this topic, "How often is our greatest desire not our greatest need?"

Here the disciples were: face to face with God. They knew who He was. They knew He could be trusted. And they still couldn't hand over the script. They still wanted to make it about them. And Jesus doesn't throw the book at them. He doesn't storm off and pout in the desert about how lousy his friends are at listening to what he has to say. He tries again. He points them forward. He says, serve. Serve and you will be great.

How often is our greatest desire not our greatest need?

For me, all the time. I could write an entire list of things that I desire. And most of them would seem practical. A laundry sorter. A boot tray. A gardener. An unlimited budget for kids clothes, school fundraisers, fashionable (but reasonable) clothes, doctors appointments, dentist appointments, gas, groceries, gifts, etc. But what is my greatest need?

Jesus.

Yep, it sounds like a Sunday School pad answer. Its sounds too simple. It sounds childish. It doesn't sound like something a really intelligent person would say.

And the best news is that until you know the Guy, it won't make sense. But when you do, you'll lay down that battered, busted heart that you're intent to dig your nails into while blood lines drip across white knuckles- and you'll get a new one. A new heart.

And that's the end of the story; right where you let Him begin.

We're in this together,
M

Stop the Static

Sometimes I treat my growing faith like a one-dimensional diary.

While I make it a point to get the Good Stuff in (reading, reflecting and journaling), I still suffer from the constant static of self focus. I often find myself listening to a looped monologue inside my head more than I meditate on Christ's words. For the most part, the monologue runs along the same formulaic rails every day.

Open on a one-way street where I'm talking to myself about myself and wondering how other people feel about me and how that affects how I feel about them. And now pan out to the horizon where I stand below the constant drip of discontent and wonder if I am more or less myself as I am becoming more and more of who I really am. Then fade to a shadowy place where I'm longing to disband the stereotypes of whoever it was that everyone thought I should be by restructuring who I hope to become.

Wow. How revealing. How exhausting. How ugly. How futile.

I know I can't change a single thing about myself by trying. I can't change a single bad trait by making good habits. Pleasing man is a waste of time- not everyone will like me, believe me, learn from me, or care to come to know me.

I believe I am inherently a screw up. But I am irrevocably secured by an amazingly good God.

In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace that he lavished on us. With all wisdom and understanding, he[d]made known to us the mystery of his will according to his good pleasure, which he purposed in Christ, to be put into effect when the times reach their fulfillment—to bring unity to all things in heaven and on earth under Christ. Ephesians 1: 7-10


THANK GOD. Literally. I am so thankful to God, that I, me, the little kahuna- am not where the road ends. I am so glad that my tendency to get lost in self-talk and trying harder isn't necessary. It is so freeing to understand that my identity when riveted upon my own ability doesn't define who I am. My worth is determined by God's grace. His plan. It is determined by His ultimate love story written in the bloody scrawl of a ridiculously perfect man who hung his head in shame so I didn't have to.

So if I know all of this to be true, how come I am still so hung up on how life is supposed to look? How come I still care about the world's opinion? About how I measure up?

Well, how come we all do? Why do we let our ideals- these impossible standards of living that are sold to us at all hours of the day dictate our life decisions? Why do we think that happiness is the zenith of existence?

Happiness is a vapor. It is a 'chasing after the wind' (Ecc. 1:17). We were not made to be happy. We were made to be humbled, held, and reliant on a Hero.

But it is hard as a human to not act like a human. Our world is made to cater to our deepest insecurities. It will tell you that if you can change your marriage, if you can restructure your job, if you can lose those last pounds, if you can finally find the right guy, if you just follow your heart- then life will be perfect.

It won't.

I can say now that I am getting better at breaking up the incessant barrage of "but-what-about-me's"? I do this by intentionally taking time to read the Word and let Christ inject some truth into my mush of me-ism. His way of life, his servanthood, his giving away, his shunning of the spotlight, his compassion for the compassionless- it causes me to spin some plates; fall out of my hoggish headspace. His beauty causes me to lurch out of my internal blender just long enough to slow the blades. To stop the bleeding. To apply a grace-soaked turnacet to this hemorrhaging heart.

I will take a chance and bet that your inner monologue isn't much different than mine. We all have our own internal paparazzi. And sometimes the pictures we are taking aren't too pretty.

But the good news is that these images, these thoughts, this cycle of self worship isn't all there is. There is so  much more. I have found that in those moments when I give up trying to fashion the life I imagined for myself- I am then able to be rebuilt from the inside out. That I am able to be thankful for what I have. And I have SO much. A beautiful family, a loving husband, a job I love, and a life I couldn't have written the script for.

He knew what I needed to be drawn into his embrace. He knew that the interior walls of my mind would squeeze him out, unless I was surrounded by people who show me His beauty or cause me to crawl to him in desperation, day after day. He meant it to feel this way.

And, friends- the storyline He has for you is so much better than what you're trying to create on your own. I went to a woman's conference earlier this year and I heard something that resonates with me to this day, "If you ever feel like all you do is serve others in your life- cleaning up after them, shelving your priorities for them, and putting yourself last- then thank God. Thank Him that for one day, for a few moments-- you got it right."

We're in this together,
M

I Am A Besieged City

I'm not much for war movies.

My husband is a veteran so I support and am completely in awe of the sacrifice that soldiers undergo to protect this country. Buuuuut let's just say, I am not the type to seek out gut-wrenching war stories with a bag of popcorn.

My husband however can't help himself if a war biopic or Band of Brothers episode happens to be playing in the same room. I've noticed if there is more than one bombing in the first thirty minutes or the title revolves around a Black Hawk going down or some private named Ryan being saved-- our evening will be temporarily highjacked. 

Me? I would rather watch Pride and Prejudice (the Kiera Knightly version) for the bazillionth time. “What are men to rocks and mountains?” Exactly.   

So you can imagine my surprise when reading Psalms in the Reach Church Summer Reading Plan that battle terminology sprung from the page like a sniper hitting me dead between the eyes.

In Psalm 31: 21-22  I found this love bomb.

²¹ Blessed be the Lord,
    for he has wondrously shown his steadfast love to me
    when I was in a besieged city.
²² I had said in my alarm,^[a]
    “I am cut off from your sight.”
But you heard the voice of my pleas for mercy
    when I cried to you for help.

The word besieged caught my eye. As most words do that can't be shrunk into text slang these days. I knew it had something to do with being taken over, but I decided to look it up to dig a little deeper. And here's what I found:

First, besieged is a transitive verb. This means that the word itself is characterized by or involving transition. It means:

1. To surround, so as to give up.

2. To crowd around; hem in.

3. To harass or importune, as with requests.

4. To cause to feel distressed or worried. 

Hmm, does this sound like motherhood or what? You and I have both found ourselves in a besieged city a time or two. 

Do you feel surrounded to the point of giving up? (Sometimes the mass of toys on the floor, in the yard, behind my bed, and in the toilet pushes me to the point of wanting to throw an entire bag of flour on the kitchen floor- just because I WANT to make a mess too. I am so mature.)

Do you ever feel crowded? (Our 9 week old daughter is still sleeping our room, ahem, sometimes our bed...so things are a little crowded these days.)

Do you feel harassed by requests? (Mommy, apple juice. Mommy, where is daddy? Mommy, I want honey bees. Mommy, hold me. Mommy, I want to eat my Popsicle with a fork. )

Do you feel distressed or worried? (Dear Lord, I want to protect this child was such fierceness as to protect him from everything. I worry about his health. I worry about his temper. I worry about his development. I worry about his eating habits. I worry, worry, worry...)

A besieged city.

Even then beloved, you are heard. 

Cry out, you will be heard. Pray over your children day and night, you will be heard. Share your most overwhelming joys, you will be heard. Release your darkest fears, you are heard. 

PRAY LIKE CRAZY.

Motherhood is war. And that can be alarming. Wasn't this supposed to be an easy job? Wasn't this supposed to be all cuddles and coos? 

Conversely, being a godly parent means we have signed up for a life of service. Much like soldiers who give their lives for this country, we are called to give our lives as servants to Christ. He is intoxicated with the heart of a servant. Nothing is more beautiful to him.

So why doesn't it feel good? Why are there days when whiskey and the idea of a long vacation in the Bahamas dangle dangerously in our peripheral? Among broken crayons, chalk dust, dirty laundry, and teetering sanity-you are loved steadfastly. He will show you how much he loves you if you just ask him to.

The lie about mothering young children is that being in a besieged city is the destination. It's not. Its the transition to a life with children whom you've truly invested blood, sweat and tears into. It's a million little brushstrokes that will eventually paint the peaceful portrait of how Jesus loves us and through us.

There is a real enemy that wants to steal your joy as a mother. There is a real enemy that wants to tell you that the work you are doing doesn't mean anything- or that someone else could do it better. 

You are the most important city in your child's life- and believe it or not, being a besieged one is what the Planner intended.

 We're in this together,

M

Temptation's Tattoo

I am exhausted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome to motherhood.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In love,
M

Leveling the Playing Field

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Theses verses tell me the truth:

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

In love,
M