Dinner at seven is marriage in the Stone household. It's Mark leaving working early evening and arriving home at seven in the summer season. It's Christina gathering her grocery list and heading to the store and compiling meals from old family recipes or pinterest or her own creations.
Dinner at seven is marriage in the Stone household. It's two ways of life blending. It's Wever casseroles and Stone meat and three finding a rhythm usually of neither -- pastas and enchiladas and crockpot roasts. It's salads and late night ice cream for the usual dessert. It's water with lemon, it's two at the table. It's special napkins with white plates spread. It's taking two lives and committing them to one.
Dinner at seven is commiting to the dinner table and to the coming together routine. To being present with each other, to setting aside the day, to being purposeful about that time. Dinner at seven is Mark laying aside the freedom of work hours, to come home at a spoken time. Dinner at seven is Christina snacking at four to wait for his hug at seven.
Dinner at seven is commitment, compromise, unity, protected.
Dinner at seven is marriage.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Monday, August 13, 2012
And You'll Grow, Grow, Grow.
When I was a kid, we would sing this song in Sunday School and grow like little sprouts from the ground. Our arms would stretch wide and our fingers would stretch like limbs off branches, as large as we could go. Then the verses would switch and we would end bundled and balled, wilted and scrunched into plops mashed into the floor.
These lyrics fumbled through my mind riding in a white tour van across the Costa Rican highway, I heard the words in my heart in a fresh way. A convicting way. I sang them with Mark, bumbling across bridges and through rainforest, and near alligators, and wheeled them through my mind for miles since.
Praying, reading, growing.
Neglecting, forgetting, shrinking.
I am [almost] always a woman who is praying, reading, growing. I live in these words, I harvest in this garden.
But I know my recent days have been full of neglect, full of forget. And I know it more in my heart than in my head. My head knows it, a poignant fact. My heart knows it, a worried soul.
Shrink, Shrink, Shrink.
I now know shrink. I now know neglect, forget.
The old children's ditty has spoken to my heart. The lyrics set to simple tune, strumming strings in my soul. I wish I could go back and tell the writer the words sting me at thirty. I wish I could go back and tell my 28 year old self to keep trucking, keep reading, keep growing. But life swallowed me up this year, like Jonah in the whale, and now I find myself spit-out and sand-sitting, and wondering how I turned into neglect and forget.
Yet the woman on the sand, the flower in the soil, knows the way to grow again: Read, and Pray.
I sing the little children's sonet in my head and grab the Gospel words from my memory, my Biblegateway, and my NIV, and I begin to read.
I lay in my bed under covers and mull over the days conversations, and I begin to pray.
And I begin to grow.
~~~
*If you haven't heard this little children's ditty, you can see/listen here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfScu505a2o
** I praise the Lord, too, though for these days where I haven't read and prayed, because it has allowed me to grow in purposed faith, without [at least, with less] worry and pushed me to simply move forward with greatly abundant trust.
Read your Bible, pray every day, pray every day, pray every day
Read your Bible, pray every day and you’ll grow, grow, grow
And you’ll grow, grow, grow and you’ll grow, grow, grow
Read your Bible, pray every day, and you’ll grow, grow, grow
Neglect your Bible, forget to pray, forget to pray, forget to pray
Neglect your Bible, forget to pray and you’ll shrink, shrink, shrink
And you’ll shrink, shrink, shrink and you’ll shrink, shrink, shrink
Neglect your Bible, forget to pray and you’ll shrink, shrink, shrink
These lyrics fumbled through my mind riding in a white tour van across the Costa Rican highway, I heard the words in my heart in a fresh way. A convicting way. I sang them with Mark, bumbling across bridges and through rainforest, and near alligators, and wheeled them through my mind for miles since.
Praying, reading, growing.
Neglecting, forgetting, shrinking.
I am [almost] always a woman who is praying, reading, growing. I live in these words, I harvest in this garden.
But I know my recent days have been full of neglect, full of forget. And I know it more in my heart than in my head. My head knows it, a poignant fact. My heart knows it, a worried soul.
Shrink, Shrink, Shrink.
I now know shrink. I now know neglect, forget.
The old children's ditty has spoken to my heart. The lyrics set to simple tune, strumming strings in my soul. I wish I could go back and tell the writer the words sting me at thirty. I wish I could go back and tell my 28 year old self to keep trucking, keep reading, keep growing. But life swallowed me up this year, like Jonah in the whale, and now I find myself spit-out and sand-sitting, and wondering how I turned into neglect and forget.
Yet the woman on the sand, the flower in the soil, knows the way to grow again: Read, and Pray.
I sing the little children's sonet in my head and grab the Gospel words from my memory, my Biblegateway, and my NIV, and I begin to read.
I lay in my bed under covers and mull over the days conversations, and I begin to pray.
And I begin to grow.
~~~
*If you haven't heard this little children's ditty, you can see/listen here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfScu505a2o
** I praise the Lord, too, though for these days where I haven't read and prayed, because it has allowed me to grow in purposed faith, without [at least, with less] worry and pushed me to simply move forward with greatly abundant trust.
My Heart, A Welcome Home.
I meandered around the courtyard yesterday, church goers and attenders and newcomers strolling to and fro. I watched, read faces, analyzed walks, then created an approach. Some woman stood singlely by a post, waiting for another. Others bee-lined to the cafe or sanctuary, sunglasses covering their nose. Others clasped childs hands, or strolled confidently.
My eyes were captured by the bee-liners. The women covered with their own lashes, or hugging their purses tightly. There was a noticable fear in them, approaching the worship grounds. Scared for how to fit, who to see, how to behave, where to go. I know them, because I know that look in me.
I talked to the wanderers, or the ones standing at the info booth, looking for links, for lifelines, for a place to connect, a niche, a home.
And I sat in the pew, minutes later, and thought about Jesus. And thought about strangers. And thought about visitors. And thought about me; us.
Who are we to strangers? Who are we to visitors? In our hearts, in our home, in our church?
Women walking into church, feeling unaware, feeling vulnerable, feeling insecure. Who greets and welcomes the strangers, like angels unaware? (Hebrews 13:2)
Robert Boyd Munger titled his book My Heart, Christ's Home. I sat in the pew and thought: Is my heart, a welcome home?
Is my heart a welcome home to strangers? Is my heart a welcome home to those it meets, those it greets? Do they feel a sense of rest there? Do they find it shelter, find it home?
Do they read that on my face? In my greeting, in my smile?
Do I walk around and visit strangers, with a heart that is a welcome home?
~~
Note: Think of this too, as an encouragement. I never realized how much my church was a church of visitors, and greeting this day reminded me how much I need to be heart that is a welcome home to those who approach the throne of worship. What a difference it may make to have a hug, a word, a handshake, as they come to the church, to my heart, to Christ's home.
My eyes were captured by the bee-liners. The women covered with their own lashes, or hugging their purses tightly. There was a noticable fear in them, approaching the worship grounds. Scared for how to fit, who to see, how to behave, where to go. I know them, because I know that look in me.
I talked to the wanderers, or the ones standing at the info booth, looking for links, for lifelines, for a place to connect, a niche, a home.
And I sat in the pew, minutes later, and thought about Jesus. And thought about strangers. And thought about visitors. And thought about me; us.
Who are we to strangers? Who are we to visitors? In our hearts, in our home, in our church?
Women walking into church, feeling unaware, feeling vulnerable, feeling insecure. Who greets and welcomes the strangers, like angels unaware? (Hebrews 13:2)
Robert Boyd Munger titled his book My Heart, Christ's Home. I sat in the pew and thought: Is my heart, a welcome home?
Is my heart a welcome home to strangers? Is my heart a welcome home to those it meets, those it greets? Do they feel a sense of rest there? Do they find it shelter, find it home?
Do they read that on my face? In my greeting, in my smile?
Do I walk around and visit strangers, with a heart that is a welcome home?
~~
Note: Think of this too, as an encouragement. I never realized how much my church was a church of visitors, and greeting this day reminded me how much I need to be heart that is a welcome home to those who approach the throne of worship. What a difference it may make to have a hug, a word, a handshake, as they come to the church, to my heart, to Christ's home.
Grace These Days.
What grace looks like these days is women in sweatpants, women running late, women with unmade beds. What grace looks like these days is women canceling for a party, women late to pray, women who don't work out. What grace looks like these days is women grabbing to-go dinner, women having husbands iron, women who let weeds grow.
Grace in these days looks different. Grace in these days is these women.
I came back from my honeymoon and knew I would tackle this issue, and know I will forever, but still need and covet the way that grace looks in these days.
I want to be the perfect wife. I want perfectly laundered clothes, flowers that blossom full each season, meals from scratch each night at the table. I want lipstick that seals and stays, coffee that is consistent each day, and little "love yous" posted everywhere.
I want Etsy, Real Simple, and Giada De Laurentiis to stare in awe of me.
And I want it all with a calm, confident, and "fresh beach day" look on my face and curls that bounce along with my pleasant lipsticked smile.
Here is where and why, God has intercepted and given me little glimpses into grace these days.
His grace to my perfectified idol, is his people. His women. Who laugh when they haven't made the bed, who miss meetings because they have missed their morning coffee, who show up to events with sweatpants. And yet are the most godly women I know. And they care for their home and their families with deep love and commitment.
His grace is his words through my Mother-in-Love, retold over me four times in the last week: that being a wife is being. That it's the smile in the "welcome home", the calm love evening night, the sleepy kiss in the morning good-bye. Its Bekah's words about rest and doing one single thing each day, and being the well to come home to. Its the WLT ladies and their laughter and words that remind me that "godly" doesn't mean my painted perception.
Grace these days is women. Women who love well, who love whole, who let grace be the guide and love the statute. Grace these days is their story, God's story, given to me through them, so I can learn, and teach, and accept it myself: Grace.
Grace in these days looks different. Grace in these days is these women.
I came back from my honeymoon and knew I would tackle this issue, and know I will forever, but still need and covet the way that grace looks in these days.
I want to be the perfect wife. I want perfectly laundered clothes, flowers that blossom full each season, meals from scratch each night at the table. I want lipstick that seals and stays, coffee that is consistent each day, and little "love yous" posted everywhere.
I want Etsy, Real Simple, and Giada De Laurentiis to stare in awe of me.
And I want it all with a calm, confident, and "fresh beach day" look on my face and curls that bounce along with my pleasant lipsticked smile.
Here is where and why, God has intercepted and given me little glimpses into grace these days.
His grace to my perfectified idol, is his people. His women. Who laugh when they haven't made the bed, who miss meetings because they have missed their morning coffee, who show up to events with sweatpants. And yet are the most godly women I know. And they care for their home and their families with deep love and commitment.
His grace is his words through my Mother-in-Love, retold over me four times in the last week: that being a wife is being. That it's the smile in the "welcome home", the calm love evening night, the sleepy kiss in the morning good-bye. Its Bekah's words about rest and doing one single thing each day, and being the well to come home to. Its the WLT ladies and their laughter and words that remind me that "godly" doesn't mean my painted perception.
Grace these days is women. Women who love well, who love whole, who let grace be the guide and love the statute. Grace these days is their story, God's story, given to me through them, so I can learn, and teach, and accept it myself: Grace.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
I Am Sarah.
Genesis 18 tells the story of Sarah and her faded heart. I say faded, because years had gone by and hope had waned. I sense her as strong in her youth, risky and daring if you read her efforts in Egypt, but as life rubbed against her flesh and will, she simply learned to live without.
She had longed for a child, longed so much she gave her husband over to her servant to birth offspring. She wanted a heritage of her own. Yet jealousy ate at her to despise Hagar and cast blame on her husband.
But the Lord wasn't finished with her story. The Lord had a call yet for Sarah. A plan yet for her heritage.
Yet Sarah had lost trust, had surrendered hope, had let faith recluse.
With three men [angels] the Lord reminded her of the promise he had made years before to Abram, the promise of generations under his care. A nation as his flock. She listened from inside the tent and felt the years tug at the wrinkles of her skin, turning belief into sarcasm.
I sat on a wall, tall and thick with rocks and mortor upholding the hedges growing thick. The Barbados sunrise screamed with brillance: reds and oranges and yellows blistering over the sea. The five o'clock sun beckoned and awakened me, I stretched with the morning light to be quiet with the Lord.
And as morning drew, so did the Lord. His words so pristine, made audible to my heart. I would have a husband. His call and plan were clear. My heart left to no doubt that it was He growing in me faith, due to his assurance.
Years wore down my conviction, and belief turned to doubt. And I, like Sarah, hid in behind a tent. Not knowing, not trusting, not believing. Letting go of the words I knew to be so clear and True. My trust turned to embittered laughter, my hope turned to defeat.
Along the way I would remember, and see that bright sunrise and feel my heart testify: I know that I know that I know... then life would remind me still, it wasn't so. Anne recalled his promise over me one summer (she knew, but rarely anyone else) but I shook with doubt and let tears stream hot down my angry cheeks. And I, and like Sarah, let laughter aim towards heaven, and my heart harden to the hope of the dream.
Hebrews 10:23 says: "for he who promised is faithful." Sarah and I both had heard, had known, had clung to his promise. Then doubted that He was faithful. Time aged our belief, our strength, our hope until it dried up like a raisin in the sun. We let it wither and die. But God speaks boldly back to Abraham, and Sarah, and me, and questions: "Is anything too hard for the Lord?" (Genesis 18:14) and lets us choose our response, despite his knowing the rhetoric answer.
Sarah lay one day with child in her arms: Isaac, the Lord's called and sacred lineage.
I fell in love with a man: Mark, my beloved, the Lord's assurance of his plan.
Sarah looked down at Israel, and felt the breath and conviction of promised hope.
I placed a ring on Mark, and know it as testimony of covenant fulfilled.
~~~
Thanks to Megan Holst Besemer who rose with me for those Barbados mornings, and Anne Visker Harbough who reminded me of his promise in my tears.
She had longed for a child, longed so much she gave her husband over to her servant to birth offspring. She wanted a heritage of her own. Yet jealousy ate at her to despise Hagar and cast blame on her husband.
But the Lord wasn't finished with her story. The Lord had a call yet for Sarah. A plan yet for her heritage.
Yet Sarah had lost trust, had surrendered hope, had let faith recluse.
With three men [angels] the Lord reminded her of the promise he had made years before to Abram, the promise of generations under his care. A nation as his flock. She listened from inside the tent and felt the years tug at the wrinkles of her skin, turning belief into sarcasm.
I sat on a wall, tall and thick with rocks and mortor upholding the hedges growing thick. The Barbados sunrise screamed with brillance: reds and oranges and yellows blistering over the sea. The five o'clock sun beckoned and awakened me, I stretched with the morning light to be quiet with the Lord.
And as morning drew, so did the Lord. His words so pristine, made audible to my heart. I would have a husband. His call and plan were clear. My heart left to no doubt that it was He growing in me faith, due to his assurance.
Years wore down my conviction, and belief turned to doubt. And I, like Sarah, hid in behind a tent. Not knowing, not trusting, not believing. Letting go of the words I knew to be so clear and True. My trust turned to embittered laughter, my hope turned to defeat.
Along the way I would remember, and see that bright sunrise and feel my heart testify: I know that I know that I know... then life would remind me still, it wasn't so. Anne recalled his promise over me one summer (she knew, but rarely anyone else) but I shook with doubt and let tears stream hot down my angry cheeks. And I, and like Sarah, let laughter aim towards heaven, and my heart harden to the hope of the dream.
Hebrews 10:23 says: "for he who promised is faithful." Sarah and I both had heard, had known, had clung to his promise. Then doubted that He was faithful. Time aged our belief, our strength, our hope until it dried up like a raisin in the sun. We let it wither and die. But God speaks boldly back to Abraham, and Sarah, and me, and questions: "Is anything too hard for the Lord?" (Genesis 18:14) and lets us choose our response, despite his knowing the rhetoric answer.
Sarah lay one day with child in her arms: Isaac, the Lord's called and sacred lineage.
I fell in love with a man: Mark, my beloved, the Lord's assurance of his plan.
Sarah looked down at Israel, and felt the breath and conviction of promised hope.
I placed a ring on Mark, and know it as testimony of covenant fulfilled.
~~~
Thanks to Megan Holst Besemer who rose with me for those Barbados mornings, and Anne Visker Harbough who reminded me of his promise in my tears.
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