Burn Out

I thought I could do this.

I should've known. I can't

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I can not forget who I ultimately answer to.

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

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

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

It's only been a week and a half.

Let me repeat.

It's has only been 8 working days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.

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

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

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

I am not strong. I am weak.

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

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

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

This is a warning letter to myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isaiah 61:3

The Bottom of the Sugar Bowl

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doubt.

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

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

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

WHO is my God?

WHAT has He done?

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

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

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

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

We're in this together,
M

Grace Goes on a Family Vacation (And Lives to Tell About It)

I just got back from vacation.

(Insert maniacal laugh here).

I have 2 bee stings, traveled over 700 miles with 2 children under the age of 3, and submitted myself to at least 4 hours of crying. I swear my trusty old SUV is still shaking in our garage after withstanding an emergency side-of-the-road potty break, five spilled drinks, and those DVD-player-just-died tantrums.

My eyes are sunken. My hair is windblown and frayed. (And its not in the beach-beauty kind of way, but in the 'I just stuck five fingers in a family vacation light socket' way.)

I know, I know. I shouldn't be complaining. This is a first-world problem. I just got back from vacation. 

But in all fairness, the prophet Paul who wrote Philippians 2:14 to remind us that we should do everything without grumbling or complaining didn't have children or a spouse. (OMG, did she just say that?) Yes. It's been that kind of day.


But if you've read the Huffington Post blog on "The Real Reason Parents are Always Tired", you may have a very clear picture of how I feel right now. If not, here's the truth.

Even though there is still Lake Chelan sand in the bottom of my diaper bag and a fuzzy layer of dust on my cowboy boots, (we spent our final vacation days at the family farm)-- I cannot say I feel rested. I cannot say I feel grateful. I cannot say I feel like a very good Christian.

Like there is such a thing. 

Instead, I feel zapped. Zonked. Empty. Cranky. And Desperately in need of wine.

And this makes me seem spoiled and just as bratty as any two-year-old. I wish I was one of those people who could take the highs and lows of raising little children with grace. Especially when those highs and lows take place in some of the most beautiful places in the country. But instead I feel graceless.

And I realize that that word grace runs through my fingers like water. I can't fully grasp it. And yet, I can't help but thirst for it.

Like a moth to a flame.

I know I need to burn my hard heart into soft wax, but I'm not there. I have read Give Them Grace, Grace-Based Parenting, Loving the Little Years, and am currently downing Glimpses of Grace.

So I know Jesus wants me to "get" this word, because he keeps leading me to it. But he can't make this horse drink. I know understanding and implementing grace means the difference between accepting my lot and flourishing amid a whole lot- but I'm not getting it.

I keep reading, but not digesting. I keep pouring it in, so why isn't it coming out? Or is it?

Above all irritation and inconvenience, I deeply love my family. Even in moments of fever pitch, I desperately love my husband. I love being able to have places to escape to when the beautiful weather in Washington State really shows itself off. And I hope I get to spend many years continuing to do so.

However, tonight I am fighting the urge to sleep on the couch. Or in a tree in the backyard. Or just walk and walk and walk until I get lost. Or found. Or at least feel something other than cheerios under my feet and anger sitting on the tip of my bitten tongue.

And it's these kinds of moments that I have to write. I need to anchor this unbridled temptation to tear myself away. I need to fend off the urge to separate and replace it with the glue of fellowship.

Fellowship. 

I know that's a Christian word. It's also one that can seem so very, well, mundane. Like a musty-smelling church hymnal that seems to sigh in boredom every time you crack its spine- fellowship is one of those words that have lost its weight with me. I don’t usually use it. Unless, I mean it.

And tonight, surprisingly, I do.

Isn't that a word reserved for church? Can it really apply to your family? Yes, fellowship is family. Whether you share blood or not.

And inconvenience is just one way the enemy likes to cut links in your family chain.That desire to remove yourself from the pot when the water gets too hot is a sneaky way of removing yourself from the soup of surrender.

Sometimes fellowship seems like a whisper in the middle of a thousand screams. I know it seems like a very thin veil when what you really want is a bullet proof vest.

But even when seeking fellowship with your family in the middle of discord may not seem like it's enough, it totally is.

Because you see, what I'm learning (when I can hear myself think for a few minutes)-- is that this family of mine; this crazy, some-days-I-want-to-run-into-the-deep-end-of-the-pool, family-- gives me life. And life abundantly.

I never wonder what I am doing with the days I have been given. I know. I am molding little hearts.

And in the process of softening theirs, I am forced to throw mine in the blender.

So while a family vacation with a 3-month old and a strong-willed toddler isn't something I would recommend for the faint of heart, I will say that grace is found in the fellowship somewhere if you look hard enough.

It's found when you finally tuck your babies into their own beds upon return. It's found when you rifle through days of mail and get wedding invitations and thank you cards. It's found when you inhale the smell of your own clean sheets. It's there when your daughter rolls over for the first time while you’re unpacking and your son whispers Jesus’ name for the first time during his night time prayers.  

It's found when you realize the people you all of a sudden miss the most are in the rooms next to you. And then it dawns on me: those same people you envisioned strangling with your seat-belt or at least throwing yourself out of a moving vehicle to escape from- are no longer your moving targets.

Grace has moved me to the bulls-eye.

So I am going to go crawl into the empty space next to my husband. Because in this place of absolute exhaustion- even when I still can't seem to sort out my tangled bundle of strung-out nerves, I have found one thing to be true: grace isn't gone. She's been here this whole time.

Grace is the glue that’s holding this family together. And suddenly I realize that maybe I don’t have to get grace, she just shows up when the cracks begin to show.

So tired that I may be sleeping in my swimsuit tonight,
M

Lost in the Brambles: Loving Our Little Prodigals

 If you have had any experience with the church you may have been exposed to a little thing we Christians call, sharing your testimony.

Much like being a keynote speaker for some of the most unattractive aspects of your own life, this open expression usually includes a series of moments when people reveal how far they fell before they came to know God. Very rarely does it not include some sordid details- and I think this happens for a reason. God loves the broken. He loves to drink some of the best wine with the worst people.(Matthew 9:11-13)

And this makes me smile.

Let me tell you why. First, I am broken. Terribly broken. I had hairline fractures that turned into noticeable cracks that ultimately became canyons so wide they could only be filled with Christ. These very same places that used to pull me away from my faith now act as the tar that wholly heals up my holes and steadies my hobble. I still hobble. I will for the rest of my life.

So will my children.

I started to re-read Give Them Grace by Elyse Fitzpatrick over the 4th of July holiday weekend. I read it when my son was 1, but realized it was a little soon. Obviously, we couldn't have long winded conversations about God's grace and our sinful motivations at that time because he couldn't even identify his own foot. Nowadays, I can apply some of her teachings a little better, but still not fully.

However, her chapter, Jesus Loves All His Little Prodigals and Pharisees caught me in my tracks. She basically speaks of two children groups: those who outwardly sin (prodigals) and those who inwardly sin (pharisees). Regardless, its all sin. Fitzpatrick puts it this way, 'We're all law-breaking rule haters.'

My daughter is only 3 months so I can't tell you what kind of sinner she is going to be- but I have a hunch she isn't going to be the outward one. My son at her age had already set the stage for his energetic nature- he hit the scene with a party-like persona which became evidenced in sleepless nights that turned into months which turned into lost fragments of a year I can't remember.

My son leans more towards being a Prodigal. OK, let me rephrase that. My son runs towards the path of the Prodigal while roaring like a lion at the top of his lungs. These are the types of kids that don't care what other people think when they are disobeying openly. These are the kids that throw tantrums about you giving them a box of apple juice when they just asked for a box of apple juice. These are the kids that demand your attention. Every day. Every minute.Whether that be through tears or uncontrollable laughter, these kids are either full speed or asleep. There isn't any in-between.

And so it is with his sinful nature. He is obvious about it. Sometimes he will even tell me that he ate "tandies" (candy) after I told him not to. He is open about his struggles and I hope I can have enough foresight encourage that. Not to turn him into a Pharisee that has a rule for how many M&M's it is OK to eat before it slides into sin. (Now sliding into a sugar high, that's a different story.)

But before you are tempted to believe that this is just a bitch-fest about my oft-times difficult son (and yes I did just use the B word), I want you to see clearly that this is not my intention. My intention is to prove why my son is the perfect candidate for a wild, crazy love affair with Jesus Christ.

Jesus loves the prodigals. The only times that Jesus would lose his cool was with the Pharisees- those who were hellbent (literally) on being good enough for God. These are quite often the kids who are well-mannered, but manipulative. Conversely, our children who tend to be more like the prodigals are God's favorite dinner companions. And while their lives may be more messy, more dramatic, and a lot less polished- they are the exact people that Jesus came to save and chose to share his meals, ministry and life with.

And this is where I see that I have failed.

I don't understand the Prodigal, because I am a Pharisee.

My son makes me uncomfortable when he throws tantrums in public, because I throw my tantrums in the private of my own mind-- like all good little girls do.

I just want well-behaved children who obey what I command. I want an easy life twisted around the pulsating vein of comfort.

Let me be frank, we need to love our children better. I need to love my children better.

We need to give ourselves over to the overwhelming task at hand of managing and nurturing personalities unlike ours with a wildly, outlandish grace-drenched love because that is the way God loves us. If we try to manipulate the outside we will only become a facade of faith- and no one will see something in our lives that looks any different than theirs or anything more enticing than the one they are living without Jesus.

Here we get a picture of how Jesus views clean-cut religious types who have all the right answers. You know the good little kids that know their place and recite Bible verses in their sleep but hearts are far from the truth? Jesus' rant goes like this in Matthew 23.

 ²⁵ “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence."

Self-indulgence.

Our children can become such idols. And their behavior can become marionette strings that we decidedly flick and pull in the direction of our choosing. But thank God for the Prodigals- the ones who will learn the hard way. The ones who will shake up our ideas of control. Blessed are the mothers who have children who march to their own drummer and who openly sin without feeling the need to impress. Those children are the ones that God finds great joy in welcoming into the fold.

"What do you think? If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off?", Matthew 18:12.

Of course He will. And with a huge smile on his face- even when he finds them tangled in the brambles of their own creation.

So here's what I plan to do. Confess my sin of wanting to be a Pharisee to my children and to myself often. To learn from the Prodigal that outward sin isn't worse sin- its the kind that God truly loves to wash away in the bloody beauty of his cross.

I plan to confess my sin to my children in moments of flared tempers and gritted teeth. And above all, "as parents, our only hope for our children's salvation lies in the rich mercy of a compassionate God and the atoning work of our perfect representative, Jesus Christ".

By grace,
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