Slow to Speak.

"Be imitators of God..." 

Ephesians 5:1; Philippians 2

Often I peer at the world and people around me and wonder: Does the Holy Spirit in me show differently?"  If non-believers are aren't held to the laws of the Christ, do I as a full believer demonstrate his laws in my heart then in full difference?

The last few months have brought this to the forefront concerning the words and attitudes etched in conversations among believers.  As I listen, as I watch or participate in conversation, inwardly I cringe. Words are blunt, anger is snapped, remarks are quick, retorts come forceful, and small trials produce great negative reactions.

I come back to the continual call of the Epistles to be self-controled, to groom the fruits of the Spirit, to model Christ in love, and yet am left broken, discouraged, and dismantled by the words I hear instead.

Yesterday, amidst feeling the outcries of this negativity in my own spirit, I heard the radio host announce:

"My dear brothers and sisters, 

take note of this: 

Everyone should be quick to listen, 

slow to speak 

and slow to become angry."

James 1:19

It was God's poignant clarity to guide my heart and actions, gaining strength through the Holy Spirit.

James later speaks about the power of the tongue, the devastation it can wrought, and the contradiction of how we use it both to reveal glorious worship and angst, uncontrolled distress (James 3).

Children of God, if we claim to be One with God, our bluntness is only bold for the Gospel.  Our anger only righteous for His causes; our adversity only pleading for His grace.

May Christ give us the discernment and conviction to know when to close our lips and when to courage in speech.  May we humbly then accept his direction, imitating Him by the Spirit who filters our hearts.

Pinterest and Proverbs 31

Five women sit with Spanish food flared all around, our mouths chattering between spoonfuls regarding everything from toddler woes to recipes to teaching.  More topics were strewn about, platforms we all stand on or walk over, engaging our minds as women in current Church issues and family values and feminine callings.  Somewhere toward the end of dinner our conversation fell on Pinterest - ideas gained, inspiration given, and ideals growing.  This turned our discussion into the emotions Pinterest also triggered -- envy, comparison, and greed as well as self-doubt, discouragement, and dissatisfaction with our own reality. We sat back in our chairs, now moving onto coffee and pondering the Pinterest world and its implications for us as Christian women.

What people rush to do, often out of the difficulty of living in the tension, is draw lines around topics, issues, concerns, and choices.  It is easiest to live in a world painted black and white, labeled good or bad, stamped holy or evil.  I'd like to assign such headlines to Pinterest, but I don't think thats the issue.  In other words, I think it can be used for great good, like the buffalo chicken wreath recipe I'm cooking for my husband tonight.

Yet Biblically, I think we need to assess our interaction with Pinterest.  Many passages pop into mind regarding temptation, contentment, and simplicity, yet I perhaps the truest analysis was spoken at the table that night, giving the the strongest contrast I'd heard, catching me in a way only clear comparison and truth can.  As the writer of Hebrews 4:12 states:  "For the word of God is alive and active.  Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart."

And so His Word was brought forth at the dinner table: "Consider the difference between Pinterest and Proverbs 31..." The atmosphere gained momentum and our discussion grew vehemently, each woman delving into it with conviction, asserting their wrestling with the statement spoken, and feeling the implication of identifying that contrast.

The Proverbs 31 Woman.  The woman we all long to be, are sometimes overwhelmed by, and yet given model through.  The passage outlines qualities and mannerisms of this woman of nobility: she "works with eager hands" (v13), provides for her family (v15), uses money wisely (v16), and works hard and purposefully (v17).  "She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy" (20).  "She is clothed with strength and dignity...she does not eat the bread of idleness." (v25, 27).  In highest regard of all, she is a woman who is fully pursing the Lord, thus earning the respect of her husband, her family, and her village in these efforts.

With her time, she cares diligently for her family, and she serves the poor.  I picture her today washing sheets, putting chicken in the crockpot, and volunteering at a local school, nursing home, or shelter.  She may have a career, she may tend to her little ones, she may help her elderly parent.  With her time, she is purposeful, productive.

The money she has and the money she earns is used with wisdom.  She considers purchases and their intent; she saves and is generous.  She contemplates the value of a craft and is discerning on the funds that it may use.  She honors God and her family with her use of wealth and resources.

This is where I pause with the awareness that this forceful conviction has rumbled in me for nine months and hasn't made its way to the page because its impact has been profound and cut so straight to the heart of what I see women consuming that presenting such an issue demands wisdom.  Furthermore, it requires words and contemplation that allow and guides a conscientious process.

As with many addictions, Pinterest pulls in slowly and does not harm all partakers.  Some drink to it like leisurely glass of wine, tasting every few days or weeks and use an idea here or there.  Others are unaware of the state of their consumption, pinning away like one more trip to the bar, until their reality is tainted or left with more emptiness, desires, and wants.

The caution is for Pinterest to be a help in your pursuit of caring for your family and tending to your work, as Proverbs 31 states.  Yet compelling clicking can instead lead to consumption so great that dream worlds are built, fantasy collections are sought, and boards are bursting bigger and better than real life could possibly boast.  

This danger leads directly back to the call of the Proverbs 31 woman and our challenge to look inwardly, noting her time, her talents (money), her purposed life, and her pursing God.  Dear women, consider these callings.  Consider the comparisons, the contrasts. Consider your consumption and its interactions with his Kingdom.  

In your interaction with Pinterest, may his Truths guide your wrestling, his creativity your creations, and his conviction your clicking.  

Penning Prayers on Paper.

Prayers on Paper.  My first journal I nicknamed Penning the Soul because that's what the Lord was doing with me -- writing my heart within the lines of scripture and notes and prayers on paper.  He funneled my emotional spirit using one camp counselor, one little black notebook, and my desire to grow with Jesus.  This counselors prayer journal suggestion began to reaped growth in me, internally.

Prayer journals.  Writing, focused, a way to read and scribble through Scripture, to scrawl thoughts on paper, to keep the brain organized and flowing.  I remember telling a friend a week later on a camping trip about my new prayer journal, with full excitement at such a solution.  And now here I sit, nearly twenty years later, and look at the years of prayers contained in pen.

I thumb through them, noting how many scriptures were circled and underlined and remarked on in my pages.  Remembering the tenderness of my heart to the Lord through the years, and seeing my cries and struggles and rejoices lined out before me.  Without opening, the covers bring back memories, of days in the Philippines, my couch on Krefeld, Taylor breakfast mornings, angered confusion through '09, with boys and trips and dreams in-between.  There's a years notes from a challenge to read the whole Bible, and so many times I laid out life choices with fear and trembling and begging for direction from the Lord.  Oh, how He used pen and paper to grow me closer to him!

I've kept them all these years, thinking some day I may use them in writing.  Perhaps referring back to a time He grew me, or an answered prayer, or a way to mark his work in my life.  But today I pull them out from layers of storage, slightly coveting how tender I used to be, but knowing its not the only way God speaks to me.

I'm thankful for the years of growth he's given me.  I'm thankful for the prayers answered, and unanswered.  For a home to rest my soul, a husband who holds my heart, and ministry that continues to provide hope.  I'm thankful for that young Taylor camp counselor, and direction God continued to provide for me each step along the way.  And tonight as I look at the spread before me, I'm thankful for the way he wrote his Word in my heart through penning prayers on paper.

Spode.

 

Spode.  They are the festival of Christmas.  They are beautiful and fragile and timeless all at the same time.  They are the look of the table, decorated with careful thought.  They are the feeling of tradition, home, on December nights.  They are the treasure that unviels each holiday season, and hide tucked away like advent, awaiting the coming King again amidst the months between.

 

My family holds a tradition of Spode.  My mother gathered it, in pieces and boxes, packing it as her own when her parents were no more.  An heirloom she cherished, a piece of heritage that only Christmas could behold.  We used them each year, covering an evergreen tablecloth with red candles and holly leaves with berries spruced inbetween.  They charmed the Christmas' of years at Homerich, and left comfort in our lives with the roots they grew and the food they served.

 

The Spode wasn't shared after my mom's death, though many of us had heart strings attached.  My brother went and purchased his own set, complete with the evergreen rims and presents around the base.  I waited in coveted longing, the season boldly showing the absence of Spode.

 

As engagement for Mark and I unfolded, Spode began to arrive, wrapped with ribbons as bows.  We agreed to leave it off the registry, yet somehow the sentimentaly of the story was told.  Bread bowls, dinner plates, and tea pots unpacked, each tied with a note from one of Mark's aunts.  The Spode heritage began Smith, but now blurred with Stone, just like the heritage we now vowed to create.

 

This year I thought of the Spode with fondess, then hesitated knowing the hectic holiday that instead was abreast.  No Spode would don the table, no plates would carry family dinner.  Yet I breathed assuredly, knowing the faithfulness that grew below my bossom.  Our children will know the story; our children will carry the heritage of Smith and Stone, sharing Spode dinners and traditions for years to come.  What tangible inheritence of the lives of familys, of generations bearing legacy.  What joy to know that Christmas blessings will, for Stone and Smith, still be served on Spode.

 

 



Baby Things I Don't Do.

This comes with a little bit of hilarity, a seriousness that's flippant but grounded, and perhaps a warning...

My beloved author Shauna Niequist writes a chapter in her book, Bittersweet,  "Things I Don't Do" and I think back on it often with such freedom.  Because the worlds ideas or expectations, the feminine or self ideas or expectations, the should do, would do, could do, don't do list sometimes seems endless, but her list was like, "ahhh... thank you!"

My friend Bekah Wallace wrote a post a few months ago I loved too, regarding these concerns as a mom, and I thought, "whew... thank you!" as she took the pressure off.  Somedays I feel like if I don't do cloth diapers or make my own baby food or feed fruits and vegetables at dinner.... If I do let my child watch TV or drink straight apple juice or cry until they sleep, then somehow I have let someone, or myself, down.

So perhaps this is just the beginning of the freedom, and the learning.  Noting now, first, the baby things I don't do, won't do.  To myself, and to prewarn, re-warn others so questions are averted and disappointment can be handled internally, without me.

So here's the start.  Baby things I don't do:

1. Seven Day Baby Pictures:  I'm not into awkward poses, naked gestures, and babies coming from buckets.  Sorry.

2.  Maternity Pictures:  Again, sorry to disappoint.  Those monthly Facebook post glare at me, and the professional photos find me squirming.  So I'll be hiding this belly with prudence and poise.

3. Weekly Sticker Pictures:  I know this is the big trend, but I think I'm going to choose to miss out.

4. Smocked Dresses:  Welcome to the South.  But my mama heart is still midwest and that means no smocked.  No way.  Never.  Why smock when there's Gymboree and Janie & Jack and adorable matching floral anything...

5.  Southern Boy Outfits:  Oh dear, rolling my eyes.  Hate them.  Give me a boy with John Deere and brown boots and mud on his hands any day.

6. Princess Themed Anything: Sorry, but happily ever after only happens in heaven.  And that's what I want my girl to learn.  Not about false truths that princes' here finish your life, and that body is perfect and you are the center of the world.  Can't do it.  Against my convictions.

7. Elf on the Shelf:  Seriously, what happened to Advent, awaiting Emmanuel?

My Carriage is Broken.

I'm reading a story in a book loaned from a friend, its poignant truth still laboring through my daily thoughts, convicting and convincing...

"A man was going to New York to take possession of a large estate, and his carriage should break down a mile before he got to the city, which obliged him to walk the rest of the way; what a fool we should think him if we saw him wringing his hands, and blubbering out all the remaining mile, 'My carriage is broken!  My carriage is broken!'"

~John Newton

As Quoted in The Roots of Endurance

John Piper, p 68

What do I choose to see?  The mansion of glory God has bestowed for me, promised bright heavenly at the end of this road?  Or the broken pieces of life I feel in the heaviness of the walk to get there?  Are my eyes lifted and hopeful, optimistic in things He has guaranteed?  Or downcast in distraction, measuring with complaint the rubble at my feet?  Do I see heaven awaiting?  Or cling to the dust of this world?  Oh to wonder for the hope of the unseen, rather mumble after the frayed pieces around me!

Lord Jesus, lift my eyes, cast off the dirtiness in my heart.  Let my hope and sights be forwarded to heaven, where one day we two will meet.

Safety Stolen in Never Neverland.

Most days these days I just want to get in my car and be home.  And by that I mean the home I once knew.  The Michigan home with my mom, with the family that felt like it did when I had my mom, with the love and safety I felt welcomed by at most every turn.

Most days these days I just want to have her to talk to, to speak every word I think and feel and just dump them at her feet.  To have her insight and knowledge, her similar values pouring love and foundation and steadiness to my unstable days.  I want her care for family and her understanding to give breath to mine as I fight upstream trying to figure this out.

Most days I just want to be a kid on her lap, a teen at her table, an adult at her counter and spill out everything I think and feel and have her take it in, safely, lovingly, her mom-way.  I want her confidante, the way I trusted her, the way I knew the words that came from her were safe.  I want her to be with me, walking these roads, and caring about these steps.

Most days these days I just want to slip into never-never land and wish it true.  Wish that safety wasn't stolen, and I that could find her love, her support, her guidance, her secrecy, her trust, her values and live steadily in them....

Revolving Door.

Many days I want my grandma's life.  She has lived within the same 8 mile radius all 83 years.  She has resided in homes from farms to city-dwellings to suburban ranches to homestead condos.  She raised her four children in that same sphere, with them still under her care and mutually caring today.  Each now lives within fifteen minutes of her home, and all her grandchildren (ten plus spouses) and great-grand children (marking twenty-four this year) reside within the same 20 mile circle.  Her photo bulletin board is collaged with family photos, each known by heart and name, all close and dear to her home and soul.

Grandma's house is always busy. Her children chatter over coffee, grandchildren drop off great-grandchildren for childcare, and others meander in and out with this and that and everything in between.  Over the years she has filled her home with countless Christmas gatherings, birthday parties, Easter dinners, game nights, and summer sleep overs -- all long anticipated and hopefully awaited.

Her friends are known in the family.  Five best friends from grandma's Kindergarten class still have lunch each month, with a high school friend added to her calendar weekly.  Friendships through the years hold true: from Calvin Christian School families to South Grandville Church.  For thirty years Grandma has dined in the same restruant each morning with the same group of 16 people, a Breakfast Club established and committed for life and all the daily happenings inbetween.  Friendships born, formed, raised, and lived all in Grandville, Michigan with every context understood and memory lived together.

Grandma's circle is small in geography, but spilling over with love.  It's layered with history, embraced with warmth, and stitched snug with those who care because of the years of dedication, memories, and challenges they've experienced together.  What a beautiful life.

God has called me to a different life.  A life of revolving doors.  I sat at my kitchen table last January gathering four friends for our first Cooking Club and realized within two years, they would disperse to Malaysia, Spain, and Virginia.   That about sums up my how I feel most days in Charlotte -- people either coming or going into my heart and life, but very few staying.  A transient place to be, and my heart feels the tired tension of it.  Finding it necessary to care deeply in friendships that are temporary,  form friendships with little history and flimsy future, and live with constant good-byes and while remaining hopeful for hellos.

I moved 30+ times in the years from 18-29.  My five best friends (bridesmaids) live in five different states.  My memories are shared and made with those on 5 continents.  My family is 800 miles away.    My wedding invite list consisted of people residing in 12 states.  My phone bill shows calls to Seattle, Greenville, Ann Arbor, Indianapolis, Byron Center, Denver, Raleigh, Milwaukee to Chicago.  My husband is only really known to my Charlotte people, and my family only really known to my Michigan people.

I know some of these are privileges, but most days, I just want everyone here: at my table, in my city.  I want to stop by the Busschers on a Friday night with games to play.  I want Amy at my table for chicken turnovers and Kate in my green room with coffee.  I want to take Jenny, Missy, and Laura to Zada Janes and picnic in the park with Kate, Clara, and Grace.  I want love in my space.

But God called has me here, with a life with a revolving door.  He gives and takes away. As Judy leaves, Kendra comes.  As Trish packs, Lauren decorates.   My grandma's life is beautiful and full and filled with longevity in space and place and people and purpose.  She is known and loved and enveloped and satisified in geography and relationship.   My life is a constant flow of new and unknown, retelling one-dimensional histories and creating distant futures, only connected or known as present.  The challenge to me is this: trusting God while releasing those I let go and welcoming those I  let in.

In Four Chapters.

My friend Trish and I talk often about how life is... lifey.  A statement to encompass our thoughts and emotions regarding the basics and norms and routines of what is life -- the laundry, the grocery store, the errands, the TV show, the alarm clock, the meal prep.  These "lifey" things need to be done, but somehow we get lost in the Disneyland thought that all appears fun or bliss or delightful, like birds singing out windows while we're happily twirling in skirts with candles glowing and merrily dusting the shelves.

We like things to look forward to.  We like big hurrahs.  We like plans on the calendar, weekends away, and dinner with friends.  We like planes to Europe and hiking in mountains and beaching with 25 friends, 3 times a year. We like Derby hats and Costa Rica surrongs and the pleasure of Starbucks in the afternoon with friends.  These are things that bring us great joy, that spark anticipation in the weeks leading, and cultivate conversations and friendships and memories and flourishing delight. They bring a fullness to our days, our years, our hearts.  Causationaly, when life felt lifey, we'd quickly plan a fun Saturday outing or weekend getaway or day trip to Charleston.  Anything to avoid the "lifey" slump -- to keep our lives fresh, our hearts awake.

Over the past year, I have diligently reflected on this perspective and filtered thoughts between adventure and "lifey-ness."  I've watched people from afar, and listened to those close.  I've stared around Trader Joes as every mother, young and old, fill their grocery cart once again this week, as they did the last.  I see neighbors walk to the mailbox and unload carseats and lug in briefcases today, just as they will tomorrow.  I've sat with mommy friends who play on the floor today, just as they did in January and will still in July.  I've listened to women prepare Bible studies for this week, as they will the next four, and the past twenty four.  I've watched empty carts go into Target and gas tanks into BP this week, just like they did the last, and leave full but only for another week...

Many days, life is... lifey.   A lot of days I find myself peering at this thought and pausing at the motions and being confused and pouty with the notion.  I want sweeping romance!  I want Braveheart epics!  I want African adventure!  I want real-life novels and movies and one-hour snipits of Primetime that appear so... full and fun and frivolous!  I like exciting!  I like the hurrah and drama and the exploration and the creation!  New, afresh, alive, anticipation!  !Voila!

But then God draws me to himself, and to his Word, and redirects my vision, my heart, my focus, and my eyes.  He asks me to slow my dreaming, quiet my comparing, and simply... be faithful.  If there is one thing he has talked to me about this year, it is is:

 "When life is lifey, be faithful."

I spent all of fall in an inductive study of the book of Ruth.  What stared at me each week, was the humble boringness of most of her tasks, the completely unknown of what would become, yet her choice to be faithful in each role.

I like to think of her life like a great two-hour film, with its opening scene of grief, the drama of the dusty road, the role play of relationships coming to Bethlehem, the meeting in the grains and scandelous love scene to follow...  I like the drama, the intererst, the way her entire life is written beautifully in four chapters, and I'm swallowed up in the sea of love and bliss and babies and the sweeping of a grandeur story along the way...

So I ponder.  And I reminisce: if my life were in four chapters, it'd read pretty good.  Cockily, I could line up great tales of camp or teaching, adventures of travel, spotlights in high school, or things done with kids...  I could layer stories like poetry of marriage and friendships and the all that blossoms within.  Then add seasons of drama, crisis, and emotions...  Four Chapters, sure, I got that!  But that's not how life is lived.  Life doesn't gather events like pride on an abbacus or hop only on stepping stones...

So I sit with Ruth.  I re-read. I pause and let it sit, let it sink in.  Let it flesh out like hours and days, not verses and plucked episodes. Most of Chapter One presented long melancholy and probably sad monotony.  Marraige, living with in-laws, getting water from the well, baking bread, feed the men... and time goes on day by day, year by year, more water, more bread, more meals... Three compositions of dying and death, dirt roads and dust.  Feet heavy with sorrow, relationships bequeathed with confusion, and minutes melded with tears.

Then with great fan-fare -- no, actually with a dusty walk for days upon days upon days, comes Chapter Two.  In the months and seasons of harvest and gleaning and threshing, Ruth continues the tasks set before her.  She walks the edges of the field, picking up each kernel of dropped wheat, adding to her meager stack from today, just as she did yesterday, just as she will do tomorrow.  Months past and she beats the wheat on the threshing floor.  All morning she's been at it, and still now this afternoon, callouses still brooding from weeks before.  Day after day of these simple tasks...

Chapter Three brings all of love in one conversation, then waiting to find her fate -- one night rapturing a whole tale with drama on its own...

With Chapter Four comes a wedding and a baby, ignoring the nine months of pregnancy, which is actually about 40 weeks or 280 mornings of nausea or large belly or waiting...  Then mornings waking and hours feeding and dinners setting and baths cleaning... Then a quick conclusion, a summation and wrap-up of the entirety of her life all at once, as if with a bow or ribbon tied on top.  All of Ruth, in four  chapters.

In Ruth's Four Chapters, all the dramas and traumas are actually small stitches woven into one long life of living a lot of small moments, faithfully.  She didn't know she wold live in epic fore-tale of Christ's birth.  She didn't know she would be named amongst the line of Jesus.  She only knew she had to walk the dirty road, thresh the wheat another day, find a squatting hole once more, nurse the baby another dawn....  It wasn't the episodes that made her such a woman of hope, of dignity, of nobility (Proverbs 31).  But it was the faithful choices along the way.

So when life feels lifey, when there are no adventures to be had, no birds out your window.  When the laundry is full another day, and the dishwasher once again calls your name... Learn a lesson from Ruth:

When life is lifey, be faithful.

Audience of One [Two].

I stare at the strollers parked aside the hall:  the B.O.B., Britax, and Urbo lined with the others.  I watch the mom's, critiquing them from haircuts to necklaces, and if their wearing shorts, dresses, or jeans.  I peer at their children, evaluating unkempt hair or cute accessory, matching socks or bulging diaper.  I listen to the words tossed like ping-pong balls between -- from "yes ma'am" and "listen and obey" to "stop that!" and "get in here!"

In my daydreams, I'm groping imaginatively through shelves, peaking around the corner to see what the last mom had -- Melissa & Doug?  Target brand?  The Land of Nod?  Consignment sale? What is best?  What is in?

Then Pinterest blinks unyieldingly; Facebook flashes every child on the screen.  Then there's Baby Wise, Baby Boot Camp, and Bringing Up Bebe.  All the while, women in my circles speak their interest or give their insight...

And inwardly I'm full of checklists and to-dos and notes and brands and feeling the inner me interrogated...

And...

I'm not even pregnant, nor trying...

Yet here I am, collapsing under the self-incriminating and society-inducing pressure.  Babies babies babies.  Kids kids kids.  Brands, styles, colors, cribs....   Words spoken, implied, pressure induced....  Books borrowed, blogs read, and baby names reviewed...  Encroaching, en-reaching, enveloping me all so much I just want to either crawl away into a corner and hide for the next ten years, or pop like an exploding ballon just for fresh air so I can breath.

I find myself sitting and thinking and completely coming undone inside and wishing for God to just open the heavens for help in it all...

And he does.   He reminds me:  That I am made, created, loved, and adored always and for, an Audience of One.  It is he who made me, who created me.  And it is He who one day will make and create a child out of the love of me and Mark.  And it is He who will train and teach me to love that child, to dress that child, to create safe and sacred spaces in our home and life for that child.  It is He who I will, and already have, received approval from, to mother that child.

There are days when I get caught up in trying to be the mother I feel pressure from to be.  Either to be my mom, or Mark's mom, or the suburban Charlotte mom.  To look the part, act the part, have children who fit the part.  But that's not who God has called me to be.  He's called me to be surrendered, so that it is only He who I see.

As mothering takes its root someday in me, I am called to learn and live and walk and breath what God is reminding me...

That I live, I mother, for an Audience of One [Two: Mark].

Audience of One.

What sweater?  What color?  What table?  What desk? 

What earring, what lipstick, what shoe, what's said?

The freshman pressure of college had gotten to our heads...

Emily and I sat on the old, brown tweed sofa, trailered down from Gun Lake and nestled under our wooden loft in the dorm room.  Both of us were frazzled and frustrated -- with ourselves, with this feeling, with the pressure under which we were living.

The cute clothes, the clear skin, the conversations we were hoping to make.  All of it swarmed around us like bees in a hive and we were becoming just one more frantic part of it.  Something needed to change...

We stopped.  We talked.  We challenged.  We changed.  Sitting right there on that couch.  We made a vow to each other, and to God, to live with an Audience of One.  To live in a way that our lives matched the call of our hearts, knowing our heads were the connector of the two.

So on that couch the rule was made:  One outfit.  One outfit per day.  What you put on in the morning, what what you wore that day.  The whole day.  

We knew our heads had turned astray our hearts, and our closet routine had gone all a-rye for the sake gaining the interest of others.  We wanted the guy in chapel to notice our shirt, and the girls in English to notice our skirt, and the athletes at dinner to notice our shoes...  So we stood at the closet... thinking and changing...  minutes wasted: analyzing, staring, wondering... all over which cardigan to wear!  Then there was still the moments in the middle -- anxious all day if we fit in with our hair and makeup and clothes and disposition!

So the vow was set, and the discipline was made: an Audience of One, learned by one outfit a day.

And what relief and joy and wholeness God granted!

No longer was college life consumed with fitting in, but with feeling alive and free and finding who He meant us to be!

This story has found its way into so many conversations, now twelve years later.  I relay it in Small Group, in girl talk, in my own head...  For still today, it's one outfit a day.  What began as discipline became freedom and a foundation in Christ.

What appeared as a war of clothes,
Was a war over my heart.

But God won,
And on that couch he taught me,
To live for an Audience of One.

The Called Life.

I know many who are called to be missionaries.  Some who are hoping to be.  Some who are.  Some who have their mind's set on Asia or Africa, some who have their hearts knocking the neighbor next door...  But today I dwell on the fact that ALL Christians are called to be missionaries.  Here, now.  Not then, not when....

A dear friend of mine, Mike Knight, is an incredible example of this called life.  The first time I met him, he was clear he was heading to Namibia (Africa) and that seminary was his training ground to bring Truth through the lies of heresy.  He's been to Namibia most years, to the same place, same spot since 2002, administering the work of the gospel.  I love this longevity, and clear presence and relationship of his call.  What what I appreciate most, though is during this "meantime" struggle to have his heart there and still be under training here -- is that he has a job at the Boys and Girls Club, providing himself a meager income, but also bringing the hope of Jesus day after day to youth in Charlotte, North Carolina.  In Charlotte, or Namibia, Mike is living a Called Life.

My friend Blair does both.  She has a passion for Muslims, and a call to Malaysia, but currently resides in an apartment in North Carolina.  She and her husband served in Malaysia already, now are in seminary, and then will return.  In this "meantime," I love to watch now they allow the Lord to lead and nurture their hearts for missions and others here --  she speaks with her neighbors, he brings Malaysian pastors to North Carolina, she runs to Walmart for needed friends, and he serves on the missions and mercy boards at church.  Both work to live financially responsibly and grow Jesus-knowing hearts in their two young girls.  Both living surrendered to the Called Life, in places and times, at present, today.

My friend Sheree does the same.  Calling women in the church for coffee or tea, meeting for meals or going for walks.  It seems every woman in the church knows her, but she's a little petite woman with a heart that bursts into your life, and somehow, she is the one who doesn't forget you!  She's called by Jesus to places like Ethiopia, but each day touches another woman's heart with Jesus in Charlotte.  She lives a Called Life through cards and phone calls and texts and tea.

I think of other women and men who I know like this -- Heidi, Bekah & Ryan, JD & Sandy...  Those whose "calling" they live today.  They open their homes, they let God wittle their hearts.  They spend their days and hours with intention, with direction, with conviction.  These are those with the Called Life I see.

And I wonder, what of we?  Do we live as missionaries here, or just for the someday when we "get there"?  Does our work and finances show our sense of responsibility to provide for ourselves, as well as for the ministry of others?  Does our time show our connection to those around us, giving faithfully to their hearts as well as ours, and searching ways to love "the least of these"?   Are we waiting and focused on "someday" rather than living as called by God today?

"Therefore, go and make disciplines of all nations..."

Tasting the Senses.

There are some things that the senses just can't capture enough to fully absorb in.  Like eating a jambon and fromage crepe at the base of the Eiffel Tower on a bench over looking the Seine basking in the intensity of Paris with the one that you love. Then mooring down the river with the cooling mid-spring air, after listening to the celestial sounds of choirs singing Ave Marie with clarity, echoing through the Notre Dame.  Or evoking violin and cello, oboe, flute, and base while all bursting through the scene, casting glory over the gardens, an orchestra playing through Versailles, growing with green.

Then catching the first, second, and third glimpse of the Alps from the back of a steamliner with the colors of spring assaulting in the foreground, the sound of water and motors mixing in the air, and hot tea steaming in your hand.  Stark beauty taking breath away, Lake Geneva in background and bright poppys bursting in the fore, swimming beneath the Swiss Alps, fullness abounding more.  A thousand years of castle, encroached by only cameras and crowds, still it proclaims dignity against the Alps of majesty.

To gathering the goodness and intensity of so many sights, sounds, smells, colors, people, and joy as you guide your little "half-pint" car through winding roads of the Lubernon in France... this is the excruciating burst of the fullness of frolicking France.  Munching on slices of baguettes with cheesed meat amidst the side of flowing rivers and years-greened waterwheels, with antiques and motorcycles and window boxes filled with pinks and purples and yellows all the while sitting stationary in Isle de Surge, now this is abundance.  Or stick-shifting up screaming roads to Gorge, at that clenching first sight of the city amidst the mountainside, proclaiming for years its history and strength, then finding sweetly soft shops of feminine nestled within the walls like caverns.  Then the senses collide with gnarled and smooth red clay, like canyons formed in earthy valleys to contrast the length and rows of green after green, Roussallain shocks the valley of to-be lavender with its terra cotta display.

From the quaint and quiet of the Provence to the bursting streets of Cannes, life swarming like bees of riches and wealth, the drips of honey marked in sails and yachts and little white-peaked tents filling the harbor -- the film festival alive and moving, rushing with black-clad men wearing Ray-bans, peons snapping red-carpet photos, and flags from every nation finding wind to slap against the sky.  The hustle is a constant load of pushing and pulling, traffic yanking at streets and waves swiftly drawing at sand as the Sea grasps it own attention to strike against furry.  Matched with boats bobbling in the harbor is Monte Carlo, bolted together to prepare for the Grand Prix, Rolls Royce parked at the marina,  pit crew prepped for speed. Then Lamborghini and Ferrari and Alfa Romeo and Bentley march up the landscape, valeted at the Casino and money displayed for all to see.

Nice is pebbled beaches, rocky with ankle-cracking wanderers skipping rocks and kissing, and ducking from the anxiousness of trains and tall structures and traffic lights like a delta to the Sea.  It's small lights at the dusk of day in Old Town, the protection of the harbor and taste of red wine blurred with salmon and crustini, the basil and pasta with bacon and cheese. Nice wakes morning with sunlight gliding through curtains to white blankets and soft linens and a warm cup of tea, nestled in quiet with love and  breakfast, served eggs and granola and jams and coffee.  Pool-side conversations, mandarine and oranges and lemons growing, delight springing forward, captive by viewing the Mediterranean Sea.

Then ocean finds blue, fierce with tension, fullness to capture angst against rocks; there old fishing boats loiter and all senses crash at the whole of the Sea.  The oranges find yellow and arches find floral and five little towns spring like joy, splashing along the Sea.  The buildings boast hope in color, bright paint shouting like children at play.  Then terraced cobbled pathways link the entrys, displaying oils and lemons and hydrangeas and tourist, the city crowds during the day.  Rockied pathways rope the Cinque Terras, mountains sharp to ocean, colors and vines intertwine contrast with latte and gelatto and pizza and calzone, all enraptured by the great abundance of the day. Then night calms with beach-watching and waves crashing, house wine toasted to gnocci and shrimp to the end of a perfect day.

Venice finds quaint meeting water, romance with orchestras yielding its display.  Frothing with people and cappichino, it's alleys alive during day.  Masks form and glitter marking, flowered window boxes mark the way, Murano glass and Prada windows, a jubilee for all to see.  Long boats troll through Venice, ongoers enchanted by, eating sliced pizza and gelato, bridges and canals pictures taken by. Thin boats slice the sidewalks and grand churchs grow from the Sea, the Hilton Stuckly glimmers with prawns on plates to eat.

Europe tastes the senses -- from France to Swiss to Italy.  Brilliant poppys to bacon pesto to morning near the Sea.  Beyond the music singing, from mountains to the cities, is love filling thee.

Europe: Funny Things.

I would be remiss if I only captured the art of Europe, and not the funny things on this twelve day Europe adventure on the marraige train...  Like the fact we ate a meal of randomness like potato salad at a truck stop got stuck in our little car on the sixth story of a parking garage, only 5 minutes from where we picked the little half-pint car up, unable to get out or get the ticket to let us free!  Lol!  Or the time we saw this crazy old guy peeing in the middle of the busiest park in Cannes because half-way through his business, the door slide wide up, and there he stood, with nothing between him, and us, and the whole public!  Or the old couple half-naked on the beach, him dressed like he could go to our church, but then standing in a collar and sweater with a foot tucked ready to put on his jeans and only whittie-tighties and tall man-legs with too many inches between!  Then add our nasty picnic on the train, meant to be in Luxumeberg park but throwing on our train trays and everything rotting the worst smell ever -- so embarrassing is Muenster cheese!  Then there's the fact we at a place called Milwaukee  seriously -- a burger and fries for Mark and ground chicken lump for me, not exactly what we'd plan for lake-side Geneva, but it was the only place open before seven, so in went we!  And the time we hid like stowaways one leg of the train, simultaneously sending a wink and a prayer and holding our air for Levanto air -- not to mention the fine from the train before!  We laugh about stupid Foxity bus tour, where I fell asleep from so many boring circles and stuck on an open bus just wishing I could pee.  And how heavy our frick'n packs are and the fact that we wake up with a waddle from sore legs and backs and ankles toes. Dang it.  Or the B&B with separate side bed remotes to lift our legs or backs or both, propped up in hilarity.  And that we are sure we are the only backpackers who have hiked through Venice and stayed at the Hilton Stuckly, not to mention I was wearing a dress and ballet shoes with my 30 pound pack and two hands full...   Its pretty hilarious, and ridiculously fun and funny traveling with your life partner, gathering silly and stupid memories, like mementos along our marriage train.  :-)

A Spare Key.

"I can’t fold my arms 
and simultaneously reach out 
for my Savior."  

~ Katie Davis 

When I met Mark, I had a house key in the hands of Melissa, another one given to Trish, a third to a friend from church, and a fourth sitting in the drawer for whoever else may need one.  My friend Lindsay had moved in for the month of August, and I had laid the table for ten, using every chair I could find and piling them around my table with white plates and candles and dinner ready to be spread.

Within weeks of dating, a fifth key was in Mark's hand and my table served for another seating of ten, and between those weeks were multiple conversations with friends on couches and chairs with tea or cookies or ice cream or anything that could be served, by means of food or love.

I remember Mark asking about why people had keys to my house, and me feeling gospel-convicted about homes and money and life and love and space and probably parading my reply in more emotion and words than he ever anticipated.

Because that is how I feel.

I feel we are given home to offer a space.  To let friends stay in bedrooms filled with clutter or furniture, air mattresses or beds, and offer them warm breakfast in the morning.  Or leave the door unlocked so the traveling friend can swing by on their way home and grab reprieve.  Or invite someone from church into intimate life, by way of the couch and a cup of tea.  There is joy in this opening, in the inviting people in.

My favorite memories in this house are where I (or now we) have welcomed in guests or strangers and simply offered what we had -- our home.  It finds Kara at my table with goat cheese ravioli and vodka sauce and our hearts sprawled like the napkins on our lap.  It finds Kendra and Daniel playing Ticket to Ride for the ninth time, fondue still dipping with chocolate drizzling.  It has Katherine and Matthew here while I was away in Michigan, a space for their marriage to share.  It finds Trish and Blair and Judy at Soup night, and countless conversations over tea to follow.  It finds James playing Fishbowl and Diane pregnant in the chair, or Blye forking eggs with Megan over biscuits.  It finds Kate and Clara in the bedroom, Amy eating Krusteaz at the table, or Laura drinking Pino in a chair.  It finds Abby baking cookies, Gordon with chocolate cake, or a neighbor's dog settled for TV.  From Bloom Brunches to pizza nights to Breakfast Club to sharing the morning sink, this home has shared its space with Love.

When we offer what we have, what God has given us, the blessing of our time and space and kitchens and home, we offer what the Lord has bestowed upon us.  When we let people on our air mattresses or in our empty beds or on our wooden chairs or fluffed within our couches, we give them what God has said was good.  It's the place, the space, the peace we offer, which starts in our hearts, and can be shared in our home.

The opening quote captured this image, reminding me of Proverbs, "She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy"  (Proverbs 31:10).  For with opening our arms to our Savior, we open our arms to his people.  So I am rejoicing in the reminding -- to pour an extra cup for tea, and always keep a spare key.

~~~
Quote taken from  http://kissesfromkatie.blogspot.com/   on April 23, 2013

To Grow Fruit.

My second grade play was a skew of seven year old children, all bumped together trying to sing and recite and stay upright on the bleachers in the old gymnasium, full of parents and grandparents watching on cold metal chairs.  I remember very little of it, but I remember I had one line, and it was the closing line, the important line.  So I memorized and memorized and memorized my line to make sure I had it right, and that I could deliver it slowly, correctly, proudly.  So I could speak with great pomp and circumstance and let my quiet little heart say what it had been rehearsing for weeks:

"The fruits of the Spirit are: 

love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, 

faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control."  

Galatians 5:22-23

Over the years, this Scripture has stuck with me and never had I needed to memorize it again.  My little Byron Center Christian School play had trained me in the Word, etched it on my mind, and embedded it in my heart.  And all these years later it continues to come to the forefront of my mind.

Over the past few weeks I've had this Scripture, this calling, this emotion, this Truth lingering within me.   It's been mulling....

And as you read, I pray it mulls over and in you.  I pray its words work like Hebrews 4:2 speaks:  "the word of God is alive and active.  Sharper than any double-edged sword.  It penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart."

I've known women who seem to elude Galatians 5:22-23 through every word and motion.  Who emulate patience and goodness.  Who know and live self-control.

Today, scan your heart with these words.  Plant them deeply in the soil of your soul that the Spirit may do good work amidst your branches.  That He may reveal and prune, in order to grow fruit from the seeds of his Scripture.

 

Women Friends

I liked this...  Its  a video from Sarah Mae and Sally Clarkson...

Desperate Chapter 2

Makes me think of my mom's quote:  "You'll love your husband, but you'll need your girlfriends."

March In My Heart.

It is March in my heart right now.  Like March in the soil, March in the sky, March in the season.  I feel the brightness awaken of the tips of summer -- noons of nice weather, daffodils brought to raise, and trees blossomed with white rounds.  I feel the cold luster of winter -- the dreary clouds, the deaded bushes, and the early dark of night.  I feel the sway of days, undetermined by any sense of normal, flowing up to warmth and beauty as quickly as the dash down to chilled and dragging.

It is March in my heart right now.  No sense of norm, little equilibrium to keep balance.  Each day is new and present, but changing always, from sloshy to sunny.  Promises lay among the ground, like hydrangeas darkened black yet showing growth of green, like deaded tree springs finding blooms in bundles, like tulip leafs stretching through.  They are yet to be full alive, fully awakened, but are yet discerned, noticed, promising.

With each day, I am taught to abide in my heart right now, to trust his promises and remain faithful.  Whether the morning brings birds singing, the March sign that May will come, or misty rain, the foretelling of April showers, renewal is here and promises are present.  The rain feels like saddness or loneliness or barren spaces of time, at times.  But I know its making a fresh the soil in my heart and in my life, preparing it as fertile for new growth to come.

It's March in my heart right now.  A mixture of staying quiet against the harsh of winters season, or preparing for joy in bulbs reaching for growth, or feeling sunshine color my skin like dreams in brushstrokes begun painted.  It's March in my heart right now.

... And Carry On.

A phrase has become popular on T-shirts, bumper stickers, posters, and general lingo:

I think a Biblical context, a human context, a life context needs to be discussed on this phrase.  It is interesting, as my friend and I discussed, at the world's opinion of this phrase.  It has been elevated, highlighted, posted, and pursued. Keeping calm seems the ultra goal.

But, did God create us to keep calm?

Did God, Jesus, aspire to keep calm?

We were discussing life and dating and us and our personalities.  Her insight was so interesting that I had to marvel and rethink it, and then compare the worldly view with what we know to be True.  She talked about guys and the way they talk about girls they are interested in or dating, and the ultimate phrase, the way they seem to be proud of the girl, the style they want from her is, "Yeah, she's really chill... She's easy to be with... She's laid back..."

But, if God wanted us all to be only a subset of emotions, only peaceful or "whatever" all the time, would he have then created our diversity in emotion, our inflection in responses, our capacity to feel and react so differently?  This does not mean to give full rights to our emotions, or be ruled by them, or say that all are good.  I do think there is importance and call to guide ourselves by the fruits of the spirit, including self-control.  However, I think heed needs to be given to the "all-sufficient calm" we are told to strive for.

Most posters, T-shirts, and signs with this phrase include a crown at the top.  The princess mark.  The alter-ego we are told we should wish to wear since we are children, little girls.  So then, does the phrase insinuated that to earn royalty and esteem and princess-ship, than we are to always be laid back, give little thought, and have a sense of "whatever" about life?

I beg to differ.

I see, I know, a God who takes everything personally.  Who wages war against his people when injustice was wrought.  Who lead kings and armies with strength and stamina.  Who quiets his people with his love but also rejoices over them with singing.  He is a God with strength like a mighty fortress, with wrath that burned against entire cities (Sodom and Gomorra), who's love is as fiercely jealous as it is beautifully devoted.  Jesus threw tables over in conviction, devoted intention to disciples, and stood up to Sadducees.  He divides the sheep from the goats daily, and has promised his love as much as a day of judgement. My God spoke in whispers as well as whales, pursued the barren as intensely as the prostitute.

This is my God.

He is not calm.  He is everything on the spectrum.  He is invigorating, he is life-giving.  He is joyful, he is just.  He is angry, he is saddened.  He is pursuing, he is purposeful.  He is silent, he is roaring.

To "keep calm and carry on" contradicts who my Savior is, and in some instances, who I am called to be.  To "keep calm and carry on" is to ignore the orphan, to by-pass the widow.  To "keep calm and carry on" is to shrug through life without dancing or crying or screaming or laughing.  To "keep calm and carry on" is to have a life without conviction, to have a day without a vision, to have a heart without calling.

God doesn't ask us all to be even-keeled, or all to be dramatic.  But he does ask us to live a life worthy of His calling.  In this, he leads us with conviction of his Truth, the chaos of community, and the mission of his gospel that to carry on.

Cooking Club.

It started as "Soup Sisters"  then turned "Casserole Night" and tonight was "Spanish Food."  In my mind, now its become this little club that weaves all good things together -- conversation, Christ, and cooking.  It's four of us women, all pursuing Jesus and life.  Around the table, that is beautiful.

I met Blair at a park Judy invited me to, and she happened to know Trish from a small group at church. I met Trish on a couch and we swapped life and hearts and eventually spaces in each other's weddings. Trish met Judy at a dinner table on a women's retreat.  Judy met Blair, with talks of missions and their daughters.  I taught with Judy, heard her prayers with my roommate, nannied with her, and lived in the same building. And all three of the ladies husbands go to the same seminary.  Each of the four had intertwined stories but separate relationships, and I figured, hoped, prayed as a four we would blend. So in January, we sat down to supper.

This first meeting was Soup.  Judy's "nanny mom" Sara had a soup exchange with friends and Judy relayed the idea.  I pondered the concept and built upon it.  Each of us made a pot:  Trish with her famous chicken noodle, Judy with an Indian soup, Blair with sweet potato chili, and me with white chicken chili.  Our pots were mammoth, but so were our hearts.  So we came with left over containers, and left with those full as well as our hearts.  We sipped soup and shared conversation and talked about life and missions and children and parenting and godliness and schools.  Mark walked in at 9:33 and we were still bantering away, tasting fresh bread and talking like school girls.

February brought Trish's.  Casserole night spread through her kitchen.  Blair's chicken dumplings, Judy's enchiladas, my Smokie Link Casserole, and Trish's chicken 'n rice.  We sat at her cozy round table and smelled candles and forked salad and told stories.  Blair posed the question:  how you knew you wanted to marry your husband, and the chatter began!  Each said ours would be short, but once we shared the length grew, as did our excitement and renewed love for our men.  The stories made us laugh, prod questions, and poke for more.  When Andrew walked in amidst our giggles, silence was quick and we laughed with smirk!  At lunch the next day sat Andrew with leftovers, and Micah with his.  I sent Mark with his in a lunch packed, and ate mine too, and Trish called the next day to laugh over the whole joy of lefties!

Tonight was Spanish night, in honor of Judy.  Her table was set with perfectly made placements by her hand, and lemon spiked the water.  We filled our plates, and talked of Spain.  I savored her raisien-carrot-cinnamon-pear-chicken dish, and was proud of my Viva Madrid Spanish Chicken served on Blair's Spanish rice.  Judy's guest Natalyia platted eggs with tuna filling and eggplant smattered with garlic mayo and tomato.  Judy's gazpacho chilled in my side bowl, and Trish's churros dipped in chocolate finished it off.  We ate with thoughts and dreams and callings in mind, sharing in the plans of Judy and Natalyia's mission in Spain, and our connected stories of being there.  I questioned all the ladies about their "what I don't do" list and read from Shauna Niequist about the "home team".  We talked about friendships and life and seasons and love.  And I didn't want to leave.

I'm sitting here now wishing so much from these friends, for these friends.  These cooking club, conversation, Christ-followers who share in my life once a month at dinner night, and still often too throughout the week.  I know very soon, all three ladies will spread and fly, and I will find myself here wishing for them.  But right now I am thankful to bloom where we're planted, and grow roots with them and dig deep and make life real and full and tasty, whether spicy, salty, or sweet.  They meet with me once a month, and in that, we create space at the table, which honors the table of the King.

Busy Season.

It's busy season.  For Mark.  Brutal hours.  Laboring efforts.  Long days.  No weekends.

My husband is amazing.  On all levels.  I don't know how he does it.  I don't know how is brain still works at the hours he's working, how his body doesn't fall over at the amount of sleep he's getting, or how his texts and lips aren't full of complaining after the rigor he's demanded.  And, somehow, in the midst of all of that, he makes such effort to still communicate, still care, still listen, still encourage, me.  The man is wonderful.  I absolutely love him and can't brag enough over him.

But, this little post is about the "others" in my life.  Those who have filled in the spots of Mark's absense and taken me on like a Spiritual Sister, coming and walking side by side, with, and through busy season with me.  Its incredible.  Seriously, incredible.  I think when I look back on busy season, I'll remember long hours and lots of worrying to care over my husband, but I hope I remember each person who has found a spot for me under their wing, in their car, or at their table.

I'll think of Judy who lets me drop by whether she's home or nannying, and fills spots of listening and caring and talking through jobs and dreams and missions and mommy-life and Jesus.  I'll think of her openness and acceptance and love and ability and availability to share time with me.

I'll think of Amy who brings Dunkers on a tray with tea to the porch of windows, the couches beneath us but our hearts filled within us.  I'll think of Gordon on the Upwards basketball court and third grade boys running around and Amy and I yelling and the little cheerleader pom-poming.  I'll think of lobster rolls at the market and her Milwaukee people and dinners at the table and talking at the bar while she baked.  I'll think of the Mexican train game at night and Gordon laughing and all of us chatting.  And good breakfasts and dinners and soups and life.

I'll think of Melissa who meets me at movies and lets me "supervise" while she's crafty.  I'll think of piano benches and spread candles and nights at the Lawsons and hugs and times to just sit and be.

I'll think of Kara who sends texts and shares wine and prayers as if they are one in the same.  Who makes space in her life to bring me and food to the table, and relax and linger for moments and simply share in that ability to be.

I'll think of Trish who throws on tennis shoes for S.O.S. walks at the park, or calls on the drives to work, or offers to sit on a Friday Eve.  I'll think of her book arriving in the mail, and her body and soul besides me at Sunday morning Study.  I'll think of Sleepy Poet and bookends and silver mirrors and searching through gorges of antiques.  I'll think of her friendship and remember her "I love you!" sent so often in smiles through texts.

I'll think of WLT and these church women who have shepherded and prayed and guided me through hard spots and choices and courage.  I'll think of their offers to sit on their couches, play with their children, join their study, or plan a day of things in Charlotte to see.  I'll think of them caring and writing and asking and coming beside me.

I'll think of Sheree and how she sits on my couch while we share tea.  I'll think of her texts and how she remembers and how her friendship so strengthens me.  I'll think of her pursuing and emailing and caring, and being such a light and spark to me.  I'll think of how God knew I needed her, and how she has gripped his love and call and grace, and how she is one with such a gift to just "be."

I'll think of phone calls from Kate and Kate, and offers to simply fill time from Kelsey.  I'll think of the "covered" card with the umbrella of love from Heidi and know prayers have been lifted and sheltered.  I'll think of working out at the ROC and women who have come to know my name and care about me.

I'll think of Mark's mom. For prayers and moments of sanity.  For listening through tears about nannying, and offering time and insight whenever I needed it.  I'll think of her encouragement and wisdom, and things like Matt's windshield wipers making me laugh.  I'll think about her always picking up phone calls for endless time or quick opportunity.   I'll think of shopping for broaches in Greensboro, and really understanding that yes, there is the Thrill of the Hunt.  I'll think of Sleepy Poet and packing for Florida, and never questioning how good God could be to me in giving me her.  And then I'll think of Mark and I'll smile and brag and love him even more.

And so when I sit and think and look at Busy Season.  I'll feel the void of my husband, and the earnest I feel to walk with him and encourage him.  I'll think of wanting to strengthen him and offer him reprive.  I'll think of sharing texts and pictures and verses and mornings.  And I'll think about how much I love this wonderful man.

But I'll also think of, must think of, need to think of, the women in my life who have taken time to care and shelter over me.  And in this, they are Jesus to me.

900 Square Feet.

900 Square Feet.

I can't help but feel this story over and over again.

Because it feels refreshing, it feels valuable, it feels encouraging, it feels like real life, and real memories, and real truth.

There are days all I see is big houses and expensive cars and boutique clothes and think I've got to run and chase after the dream.  I think that's the accomplishment, that's the mission, that's the goal.  And if only we could get there, we'd have room for everything we need.

But the Lord put rest in my heart with a conversation with a friend.  She's in her fifties, children grown, with a well-established home in an elite neighborhood of Charlotte.  She and her husband have "arrived," have "made it."  And our conversation flowed to their early years, intertwined with Mark and I's ambitions and worries and work.

But the Lord smiled upon us with her story.  900 Square Feet.  It was the size of their first house, lived in for ten years, raising their children there, until they were 7 and 4.  A boy and a girl, sharing a bedroom.  A little tiny space, crowded but full with their memories.  Her husband worked and worked, struggling to feel like he was getting ahead.  And it wasn't until he was 35 that he did, and they moved. But for ten years they had 900 square feet of children and love and toys sprawled and blankets dragged and tears shed and meals made.

I think of them now, with a few other women I've talked to lately, who have lived in small spaces, with children sharing bedrooms, and yet have full lives.  And I think of years that children shared spaces, and toys had no rooms but boxes and kitchens were cornered and tight. Yet the food was cooked with care, beds tidied with comfort, books read on the couches.  And I think of our home, a beautiful space that we rest in, and am thankful.  Because memories are made in the house, no matter the size or splendor.  Their made at the Lawsons table, Heidi's canning counter, Trish's kitchen.  Places where love is served.

So no matter if the home is 900, 1400, or 4000 square feet, it is who we are with and how we live that life that honors, blesses, and serves those in it.

Because He's Not Done.

He's not done!

Isn't that the great beauty and joy of being a Christian?  That Christ has regarded us, planned for us, hoped for us, intereceed for us, and loved us!

He's not done!

What exclamation this Truth shouts!  What holy uproar it should bring?  Knowing this world is not it, this siutation is not it, this current plague is not it.

He's not done!

What action this means!  He's still at work!  He's not left us, He's not halted preparing for us. He's not forgotten our name.  He's not stopped shaping our purpose.

He's not done!

He reigns cheer over life.  He brings justice to the lacking.  He oversees kingdoms and rulers.  He listens to cries of the righteous.

He's not done!

Because He's not done, we have this hope:  that the Lord is at work for us and in us, each hour, each day, each situation, each circumstance, each relationship.  The Lord is at work, an action, a verb, a forward motion.

Oh, how we should rejoice!

Because He's Not Done!

"He who began a good work in you 

will carry it on to completion 

until the day of Christ Jesus." 

(Philippians 1:6)

Same Job Twice.

The first time I quit, she made me.  That counselor with the tough backbone and strong sense of self, with loose black dangling clothes and way too-short hair.  That one who enabled me to find my courage again, who prodded and pushed, who made me find my own muscles strapped to skeleton.

She forced my words.  Found my courage.  She made me practice.  She listened and rewrote the words over and over again until I had no emotion in them and left the job like a business transation. Rehearsing my good-bye so it was curt, prepared, final, and freeing.

She held me to it.  Made me leave and go straight from her office.  Called me an hour later to close the accountability.

I was scared, but her force gave me courage.  I was intimidated, but she made me stand up against it.

I forgot this when I took the same job again.   I took it last spring, and started this summer, seeing what good could possibly be. I should have remembered how I felt last time, I should have remembered why I left.  I should have remembered feeling inferior and little and uncomfortable.  But I instead I remembered a cute three year old with fun mornings out and cuddling at nap time and quiet afternoons.

And today, I will quit the same job, twice.

This time, it took a village.  It took the first January Wednesday at the Lawsons, their voices all stark and strong around the table.  JD's words and Melissa's protection and Sandy's stern but loving voice of warning.  It took the women of WLT to do be my enCOURAGEment, listening for hours and giving me the strength I needed to hear.  It took Marys level gaze, Anna and Lindsays empathy, Chris' hope, Patricia's care, and their chorus' of gusto and clarity at the Saturday lunch table.  It took Mark's mom listening for hours, and Mark's freedom given to me.  It took emails from Kate and prayers from Kara.  It took a village to be the voices to give me the courage to walk away and be free.

So today, I'll hand over my letter, walk briskly to my car, and drive away.  Fearful of the storm that won't have time to brew.

Today, I'll quit the same job I once took blindly, I second took hoping, and twice will quit in need of repair.  And when I do, I will hear Kelsey's voice and her words of prayer.  Her Truth spoken, that no its not me.  I'll hear WLT, Kate, and Kelly. I'll hear Mark's mom say, "Beloved" and know God speaks its true.  I'll hear Mark's words of support and knowing he always is there beside me.  I'll hear the voices of God's people, and his Word as True.

Today I'll quit the same job twice.

And I will pray, let me hear the voices that will tell me I can still be who He created me to be.

~~~~~~~~~

My life verse:
"He who began a good work in you, Christina, will carry it on to completion, until the day of Christ Jesus."  Philippians 1:6

Remind Me.

I know this is not the first time I have blogged about this.  I hope to say its the last, though that may be faulty belief.  But its about Who I Am.  Because God Made Me Who I Am.

I have been rolling in this struggle for a couple of months now.  And He is trying to speak to me through the cloudiness in my brain and my inner feelings of responsibility and personal expectation.

A few years back, during struggle where I wasn't where God meant me to be, I created a sign for myself, as a stark reminder of who I was.  It was during a time where I couldn't see the good of who He made me, and just saw all the other voices or feelings of failure.  The sign was indignant to those lies.

Recently, I've been feeling much of the same.  As if I can't get my "weekend" self, my true self, to eclipse my nanny self.  I can strive and strive and strive to hear the voice of God there, but I keep feeling like a 14 year old hired to babysit, and feel small and minor and shrunken.  No matter how much I press into it and try to read verses over it, the minute the mom walks in I am creeping inside.  I am then frustrated with myself and pile on the same of it, thinking "If my confidence is in Christ, then why I am shaken?"  But the cycle is one I can't seem to get out of.  Like a dark space clouds over me and I can't pull myself free of it to breathe.

Bible Study this week was over one of my favorite verses, one I had my 8th graders memorize:  "But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God..."  (I Peter 2:9)  And I sat there talking to the girls, affirming each of these with such great dignity and strength and foundation.

Yet, for some reason, when I am nannying, I can't seem to find this.  I just curl inside like one of those bugs that does it for protection, to hide.

Earlier this week, Star said, "This isn't like you.  This is toxic, you are lively and joyful and your whole demeanor seems to sag when you speak about it..."  I'm on a Women's Leadership Retreat with church this weekend, and these women keep encouraging and affirming me, and are trying to offer me the courage where I need it. And to be bold in who Christ made me, taking a stand for that in my life.

And it leaves me this question, these thoughts...

How do you have the courage to be who you are?  Especially when you love who you actually are?

I like this song by Jason Gray:
Remind Me

God, remind me who I am, and how to be that woman.

Dreaming Or Dying.

One of my dad's sayings, which has become my heartbeat and stake is, "When you stop dreaming, you start dying."

Why?

Because I'm a dreamer.  I live in the world of "what could be" and usually churn in what is.  I love to think of ideas, to ponder thoughts, to plan vacations, to propose decor, to dream illusions of the greatest friendships, the most fulfilling careers, the perfect dinner parties in life.

Why?

Because, otherwise, I die. I die inside.  I crinkle, crumble, crash.  I fold into a million pieces and drop down.  I become flat.  I become lifeless.  I become a raisin.

But when I dream, I sparkle.  I feel life.  I feel hope.  I feel that there is better yet to come.  That I will taste the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living (Psalm 27:13).  When I dream life, I blog like my fingers haven't left the keys for months, I talk like there is great expectation, and I pursue life like there is a reason to wake.

I can dream about flying to Kenya, decorating nurseries, traveling to Kate and her girls, packing for Milwaukee.  I can dream about making a great meal, backpacking Provence, interviewing for a job.  (Is it terrible - I love interviews?  I always feel good, confident, and ready to take on the world in them!  I texted Mark today:  "I think I'm an entrepreneur:  I love the challenge of getting jobs and writing cover letters, and starting the job.  Just not keeping it."  Oh dear, must be the dreamer in me, creating a whole.)

Dreams keep me living.  Dreams keep me striving.

Daily life gets me old.  Gets me frowned face.  Gets me narrow and hallow and sad and lonely.

But dreaming about good things to come keeps me moving, keeps me going.  Keeps me looking for more.

I know there is a strong spot for contentment, and sermons to come.  But today, I'm thankful for my dad, and his permission to dream.

So instead of dying, I dream.

Confession.

Okay, I admit it.  I miss teaching.

I didn't for months.  But now I do.

I miss kids, I miss laughter, I miss the fact that it makes me sing.  I miss coming home with stories at night.

I miss having something other than me to think about, something to learn about.  I miss having staff to talk to, conversations with students, football games to attend.

I miss having purpose that is timed, a schedule that is structured, and a livelihood that brings also me alive.

Pretty much, I really miss it.  I feel such hope when I think of bright colored classrooms and bells that ring on time and students who give me something to smile or laugh or shake my head about during the day.

I don't miss meetings.  I don't miss keeping up the online gradebook.  I don't miss pressure for students to perform.  I don't miss students who sleep.  I don't miss "black pant" drills, five day work weeks, or my crazy AP.

But I miss teaching.  There I admit.  I miss that part of me.

On Sarah, Wait, and Trust.

Sarah is both the bane of my existence and nagging hopeful encouragement.  She's this character that is a mirror reflection of everything in my heart, from the turmoil of wait to the greed of control to the thoughts of manipulation to the provoked sarcasm.  She carries the weight of womanhood, the holy desire of children, the faulty human perception, and the anxiousness to question.

I feel her story grow in me, her sin nature reflect me, and her parallels my Truth to cling to.  Her story has come to me repeatedly in the last few weeks, in contexts from Bible Study to conversation to books in my hand.  And the Lord is telling me to wait.  But I feel Sarah, restless with urges to ease the desire, to create the whole, the formulate a plan.

She wanted for more.  She waiting and tried to trust his plan, years of anxious nights and endless days, waiting a family of her own.  Hours at the afternoon well, seeing the women with what she didn't have.   She had His promise, but that wasn't enough.  She wanted more.  She wanted a child, a family of her own, and her heart was tired of enduring, of pushing to trust, of believing He had her hand.

So in her fear, in her doubt, in her clenched teeth of worry, she crafted and created a plan.  Helping God along.

A child was born to Hagar, her maidservant offered to Abram.  And Sarah casts lot on them all.  Anger with Abram, bitterness to Hagar, and still emptiness of her own.  She feared the waiting, distrusted His plan, and manipulated the time to work on her own.  But instead it cut lines through each relationship, marring the life of Hagar and Ishmael forever, and leaving Sarah still alone.

How often don't I compel to do the same on my own?  To distrust God's promise, to line up my own solution to his plan, to foretell the story as I see it told.  I don't like to wait.  I gnarl in the pain of agony of it, even when I have been give his promise in full grace and graciousness.  Its as if time is bigger than  His promise, my human desires greater than his good, and my anxiousness larger than his loyalty.

God had asked her to wait.  To wait and trust.  His words ring back to me "Wait on the Lord, be strong and take heart, and wait on the Lord"  (Psalm 27:14).  And his fulfillment years later to Sara deepen his character of Trust: "Now the Lord was gracious to Sarah as he had said, and the Lord did for Sarah what he had promised.  Sarah became pregnant and bore a son to Abraham in his old age, at the very time God had promised him"  (Genesis 21:1-2).

At the very time.  How hard is it to trust god for at the very time?  In Ruth, it is written often it just so happened (paraphrase) as the Lord's plan unfolded as he guided (Ruth).  For Hannah, her angst arose i prayers but the Lord was faithful to the cries he heard, "So in the course of time..." (I Samuel 1:20).  Each woman had to wait, to trust, to be faithful to today in order to honor his plan.

Sara gripped power and control and devastated her own.  Ruth and Hannah proceeded down the road of hurt and despair, but God gave ear to their desperation.  The Lord was faithful to each.  His concern for them out did their inner wrestling.  His love for them blanketed their longing.  And his faithfulness triumphed their fear.

As we walk throughout our roads, may we be women who are willing to wait, to trust, to release the wrestle of our fear.  To believe his Words that he will guide us, that he has our good, that his love is greater than our thoughts, our worries, our plan.  May we find comfort in his covenants, steadfast peace in his control, and faith to surrender to the God who is always present, always omnipotent, always guiding, always the Lord.

Fill My Cup.

We sat with our mutual mugs -- hers a blue Starbucks mug with North Carolina imprints, girdy in size but beautiful in composition, and mine a hand-painted happy chirp mug, scribed and textured by her artistry.  Our coffee was fresh, hers brewed in an elegant French press, and mine blended in the counter Keurig.

I was freshly sweating, still in workout polyester with-slick backed hair and she was newly woken, Nuggets sweatshirt and cutie shorts still under covers.

And she filled my cup.

I laughed with joy, seeing her face, trying to reach through the Skype screen and hug her in gloriousness.  We talked like school girls, breaking through each other's sentences, with happiness and understanding and use of words that only we can understand.  She referred to a friend as Jo, referencing the name as "like Jo from Little Women," which only girls like us get.  And guided a tour of her apartment, with framed cards and glass bottles and wooden signs and antiqued furniture, was like walking through my home.  Both of us caring about details, about color, about shape, about flow.

And my heart settled.  Her conversation filled my cup.

I love this friendship, this coffee filling, heart filling, life-giving sisterhood between Kate and I.  We palpitate for hours about Kenya, the red dirt sands and long-legged giraffes and Agape boys we've both gotten to love.  Our voices will carry about school and teaching and nannying, motherhood and men and money, between breaths of good books we're reading, Bible passages we're studying, and vacations we're amid dreaming.  Its an endless weave of conversation, flowing in and out like rabbit trails, both of us hoping along at grand paces but always connecting, gliding, needing.

Our words fill my cup.  Our mutual passions fill my cup.  Our shared emotion fills my cup.

Its beautiful to sit, to Skype, across from a friend who is so comfortable that pajamas or sweats or tears or laughter will do.  All I had to do was bring myself, and my coffee cup.

And she filled my cup.

~~~
Thanks, Kate Riedberger, for your special time and heart.  God blesses me through having you in my life.

Personal Pharaohs.

I'm in Egypt right now.  Wandering in my own life, in my own spinning soul, under the powers of Pharaohs, yet trying to be a trusting Israelite after the One True God.  I've been doing the Kelly Minter study "No Other Gods" for the past few weeks, and am reflecting on the teaching of week one: Personal Pharaohs.

What's interesting, is that my take away from this portion is probably so different, so distinct, so... me... from most others.  Because I see two sides of the coin:  One as the Pharaohs who seem to internally or externally oppress and enslave, and the other is the purposeful notion to Guard Ones Heart.

Pharaoh's push the heart down.  Suck out the marrow, drive for harder work, squish out the life.  Pharaohs can be relationships, jobs, situations, wrong emotions, critical attitudes, or life circumstances.  Some Pharaohs are placed in our lives to sharpen us, others are there to squander us.  Some are there out of our control or ability to be released from, while others we choose to stay under or are afraid to exodus from.

My Pharaohs look like many shapes and sizes...  Confining me with fear or leaving me intimidated or binding me to be less than I am.  Yet the hardest thing for me about Egypt right now, is knowing which Pharaoh's I can leave and be released from, and when the exile is allowed.  Though I know the Lord does not want to leave us bound, enslaved, or in chains, he has allowed his people to be in such, until the proper time.

While reading Kelly Minter's expository though, I couldn't help but stop and sit for a long time on the phrase, the Proverb:  "Guard your heart, for it is the well spring of life."  Because some Pharaoh's are created by ourselves, some are imposed on us, and some are just there.  But how we react to them, and how long we face them is sometimes our choice.

I think about this in two ways:  One, that ruling Pharaohs like fear or worry or doubt or distrust or unforgiving, are all internal.  We ourselves are able, with God's power, to get out from under them -- by purposefully guarding our heart against them!  We can build up our armor (Ephesians 6) with prayer, scripture, fellowship, and knowledge to make our walls stronger against these personal, internal Pharaohs  (More to come on this in another post).  Kelly speaks also about our imagination, and how that needs boundaries too, guarding our hearts and minds!

Secondly, I think in practical terms about guarding my heart.  I remember the words of Bekah when I was at my job at Wilson Middle School, the August after my mom died.  I described to her in depth what I was feeling, and she said "I don't want that for you."  But I kept the job anyway -- because people told me I needed a job, needed the money, and the health insurance, so to stick it out and suck it up and I'd be fine.  Then my friend Kate Vasey visited me that fall and said she didn't want this job for my heart and life, and wrote my resignation to help guard my heart, when I could not on my own.  This past week, I got a text from my friend Kara and she said, "I want better than that for you" and an email fro my friend Kate Riedberger, who also wanted better for my heart...  These all are reminders to me that (I have the best friends) guarding your heart is something you do, and you friends do for you.  Sometimes they can see things you can't, and can see outside the practical side to the personal side.   The see how Christ can cultivate and nurture you, and will stand like Nehemiah's prayer and power wall against Pharaoh's for you.  To guard our heart is sometimes to do the impractical in order to leave it softened, open, and malleable to God's will.

I'm finding Personal Pharaohs in all my corners, lurking like Satan to devour my heart and in situations to crumble me from the outside in.  Physical pharaohs, mental pharaohs.  But all I want is to be free of pharaohs, to live in the escape of Exodus, know these things:

1.  "Where the spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom!"  This means inward, outward.  Boldness, hope.
2.  John 10:10 promises us that he has come to give us life, and life to the full.   Living under personal pharaohs attempts to rob us of this promise.
3.  He has come to bring freedom to the captives, and break the chains of the prisoner (Isaiah 61).  This is both metaphorical and literal.  In this blog context, the fact that Jesus also repeated these words doubles the impact of their hope and presence, for he desires us to be released, and free in him.

I don't know what Personal Pharaohs are taunting you, or how to always combat or answer to mine, but these are the thoughts of my wrestling, and in sharing them, somehow, my release....