Ruth: Relinquishing for Pearls.

She left it all.  Her family, her livelihood, her known.  Her friends from years past, her familiar streets, her language and her ways.  She clung to this new God, this one very few in her land boasted of, but figured maybe He was worth a try.  She had so much to loose, and so little to loose.  She was already childless and now without a husband.  Lost and living in grief and despair.  She strapped on her sandals, threw her satchel over the shoulder, and heaved a sigh.  Just finding the gumption to get up in her mess of confusion and grab a hand.

Naomi, now bitter Mara, was the other hand extended.  She too was bent and low, muttering bits of anger and flustered over her long robe, tripping on it across the room.  Her hair was stringy and tears had dried down her wrinkled, dirty cheeks.  How much more to weep?  How much more to loose?  Her husband, her sons, her safety.  And who was she left with?  Just two daughters-in-law and a few shingles, hardly enough to make the trip home.  And what was home anyway?  Without her men, without her heartbeats of life, what was worth going forward for anyway?

The three walked, grudgingly but trustingly, hardly a glimmer of goodness keeping their splintered and calloused feet on the dusty tracks.  Tears had broke down their cheeks for so many hours and days, none could be left to find.  Water was scarce in this dry land and their days-old bread crumbled in their cloth sacks.  Few words were exchanged between them.  Only a few stories of their buried men, and an awkward good-bye to Orpah.

Dear Ruth, her heart was shattered.  Her ways so unknown, and now she lingered nearly alone except this woman lawed her mother-in-law, who was sputtering obscenities with each step.  What lay ahead?  Who were these people she was going to?  Would they care about her?  See her?  Accept her?  Would she find a friend, a confident?  Would there be work and wages and a place for her to labor?

The settling started hard.  They got to the few shacks on the end of town and a few relatives greeted Naomi, Mara, with hugs.  But she was unresponsive.  To some she hugged in return, to others she shook her head, finding little strength to share her struggles.  Others came up with glee to greet their long-gone friend, but even with that she shuttered, unable to find the joy they knew.  They told her God was faithful, a covenant God of promise, but she hardly had hope to care.

Ruth listened, and outsider, about this God, this one who she was hearing to trust to never leave, to always be with her.  She knew him so little, but was learning to listen, to hear, to lean in to these people who believed him for so much greater.  Yet, who was she?  An outsider, a widow, a childless woman.

She spent her days in the fields, threshing and picking and gleaning and beating wheat.  Hours upon hours she lived in the labor, sun beating down over her cloak, nights spent bent around the fire.  As days unraveled to months, she started to see Mara's anger fray, started to see her allow the others in, started to see her rekindle and make friends, join in the journey to the watering hole, and barely tilt her lips to smile, and on rare occasions, find the audacity to laugh.

Their story was a long one, one of such wondering, of such wandering, of such faith.  But a story that spent countless hours of simply trusting, simply living, simply beating down the wheat on this threshing floor.

The day came when the Master of the land was seen, rugged and handsome, gloriously confident and kind, like a prince.  Ruth's heart caught in her chest, startled then scared at her own reaction.  She wasn't supposed to let her grief end, she was supposed to live in sadness or this new-found safety of the land, she wasn't supposed to - gulp - hope.

But he was there.  Regal and rich, wealth of fields and lands and workers and barns.  Gorgeous in his cloak, a bearded mane falling down from his face.  Stunning.

She didn't dare tell Naomi, Mara, for it seemed to shame the love of their dead.  It seemed to demean the earlier days.  But then Naomi noticed.  She saw Ruth's face as she shared about him, noticed the tender giggle return to her cracked lips.

A plan was hatched, for the first time in years, two women laughed, in unison.  They plotted and shimmied and pranced with strange fear and hope and all the girly impishness they remember from when they were thirteen.

Ruth lay there, heart beating wildly, the smell of him near, thick and musty.  Her own self reeking of fragrances, recklessly wafting towards him the lure of her.  Taunting him awake, uncovering his feet in the cold, willing him to take recognition of her, to notice her, to want her.

The series of days followed.  He saw her all right, and he wanted her.  Boaz was strong and stable, regarded as righteous and near royalty at the city gate.  He worked through the people and the laws, adhering to relatives and requesting her to become his.  Relishing the role of Kinsman Redeemer.

With the wedding celebrated, the fanfare and festivities commenced and simply splotches of confetti and wine cups along the roadside and floors, they lay together.  Her story now winding with his.  Her love now rebirthed in him.  Her hope now part of his faith.

He walked out the door each morning, with a hug and a smile, his grin wide and his laughter jolly,  Enormous in patience and forbearing in goodness to her.  He left with extra kisses, wishing her peace and rest  and winking as he walked to manage the workers.

Her days quickly became full, exchanging new friendships due to what Boaz's role afforded her.  She chatted with other woman of means, spent hours at the well watching running children, and lingered long at the fields, caring over the women who were her first companions, picking up the edges and left-behind wheat.

In the evening, Ruth slivered a slice of fresh bread, grain from her husbands field, warm with softness and tenderness.  She held a piece out to Naomi, now giggling with laughter, cooing with her grandson Obed in her lap.   Ruth sighed, her life renewed.  She thought back to months ago, the trail of grief and loss and the long dusty road of dirty and sorrow, familiar good-byes and foreign hello.  And then she looked again at her mother-in-law, her husband blowing kisses from the door, and her son, cheeky and squealing on a blanket on the floor.  Oh, to now trust this God who was good.  Who knew in her sorrow, His hope.  Who knew in her loss, His love.  Who knew in her good-byes, His hello.

She bit into the goodness of risen bread, bent over her son, and puckered at her husband.  Her days on the dusty road remembered, her proven obedience to His goodness secure, and her heart steadfast in His love.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I was rumbling through this story of Ruth as I lay awake praying this morning.  Her story is one I have ruminated on so many times, seasons and months each year, and I keep stumbling on more goodness her story than I can unravel each time or believe.

But today, I was thinking mostly on the letting go.  The letting go of so much, before she even stepped on that dusty path that first chapter of the book.  I was thinking of the letting go compared to my own story, blogged in condensed form here, about my Ordering the Wood for this Land of Inheritance, but having no idea what that meant at the time the journey began...  And about the truths of God's promises and His leading, that He will always be with me, but sometimes that road isn't what I wanted or expect in the moment.

My own mother-in-law, Rachel Stone, and I engage in discussion often as Christians, as women, and as adherers to the Word and His promises.  Recently, she shared a line I will grapple with until I grasp it fully in heaven, the truth of true surrender, true faith, true trust and belief:

"We hold on to plastic pop beads when God wants to give us precious pearls." 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Dear Lord, give me the grace to accept both the dirty, barren road and the daily threshing floor.  And give me the thankfulness to laugh joyfully and see your goodness in the seasons of abundance.  May your mercy soften my heart to trust and see you and believe You for Your promises in both.  Amen.

Mosh Pit Of The Cross.

Picnic blanket spread.  A beautiful, spacious place.  Pretty paper plate with, of course, a pretty paper napkin.  Colorful food, fresh garden veggies and creamy cheeses, summer-tasting lemonade. Peonies and roses in a vase, tall and wide, peaches and pinks.  And the final addition: Me.  Part of the lovely, perfect, manicured space reserved for one, at this gorgeous arrangement at the foot of the cross.

It's true.  Sometimes, this is exactly how I envision it.  Singularly me, and all beautiful and articulate, a scene Pinterest-worthy and perfect, at the Cross.

But instead, it's a mosh pit at the cross. A mess of humanity, spread and squished, bloody and dirty, soiled and stained.  All clumped together, sweaty and stinky, clamoring for the foot of the cross.  His blood, dripping scarlet and wet, on the heads of the clawing.

The diversity at the foot of the cross is shocking.  Piled high with babies and elderly, brown and black, wealthy and impoverished.  The elite and the untouchables, the intellectuals and the learning disabled, the prominent and the poor in spirit.  Creations of all shapes, sizes, colors.  

All look around into the dark melty eyes of each other, seeing the sparkle in the blue or the sorrow in the brown, surprised by the fact that they are all here, all coming needy and worshipful, to the foot of the cross.

No space for picnic blankets.  No need for pretty or pious.  Just a whole lot of people, humans all equal and dictated by flesh and bone, spirit and soul, need and desperation.  For the longing hope and redemption, the dripping blood of the Savior, at the mosh pit of the cross.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

* Original phrase coined by Amber Porter at Every Little Step, Church At Charlotte, November 7, 2017.

The Four Friends.

“And when he returned to Capernaum after some days, it was reported that he was at home.  And may where gathered together, so that there was no more room, not even at the door.  And he was preaching the Word to them.  And they came, bringing to him a paralytic carried by four men.  And when they could not get near him because of the crowd, they removed the roof above him, and when they had made an opening, they let down the bed on which the paralytic lay…”  Mark 2:1-4

“On one of those days, as he was teaching, Pharisees and teachers of the law were sitting there, who had come from every village of Galilee and Judea and from Jerusalem.  And the power of the Lord was with him to heal.  And behold, some men were bringing on a bed a man who was paralyzed, and they were seeking to bring him in and lay him before Jesus, but finding no way to bring him in, because of the crowd, they went up on the roof and let him down with his bed through the tiles into the midst before Jesus…”  Luke 5:17-20

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I’m finding this story with fresh eyes.  With eyes that place people in the places, names on the faces.  And burning in my heart.  The kind of crushing, mama-bear ferociousness that drives me to think of the four men, the friends, and walk parallel with them.  As one of them.  Bringing my paralyzed friends to Jesus.

Their pushing, their prodding, their angry and ignited souls breaking open molded earth, baked bricks, layered clay to bring their friend to Jesus.  Their passionate pursuit of him, insane faith, crazy conviction literally leading them to look as fools, to chink away, to be embarrassed for the sake of this lame man, for the sake of Jesus.

Four gritty men.  And one feeble man.  But five fervent men.

The story, the unfolding, does require noting and knowing the Pharisees and ‘teachers of the law’.  Those who are trained and religious and stout and possibly pious, and yet learning.  Those who came to gather, to be near him, but did not understand nor apply the fullness of him in in their spaces, their places, their homes, or their hearts.  Who learnt and studied, yet questioned and thus miss the whole passion.  The whole Creator of the Creation before them.  Who could articulate, teach, and recite all of Scriptures, yet push aside the idea of flaming faith, passionate pursuit, and glorifying God in awe and worship.  Good people, intellectual people, well-read people.  

But not the people who astounded the God-Man.  Not the people who received the absolute absurdity of incredible healing.  

No, the people who caught Jesus’ eye and attention and therefore received his freedom and grace were the four friends, and their broken friend, the paralytic.

These are the ones of whom Scripture writes:

“And when Jesus saw their faith…”  Mark 2:5

He didn’t hear it.  He didn’t read it.  He didn’t learn it.  He didn’t program it.  He didn’t schedule it.  He SAW it.

He saw these four dusty men, lugging away with shoulders swinging, hammers banging,and sweat rolling down their faces.  All to chunk away at the tiles and red clay.  All to bring their friend to Jesus.

Four, likely vagabonds, doing all in their earnest, to carry their hearts and their friend, to plead for the presence of Jesus.

This is the way our hearts should bleed for Jesus.  Should claw for him.  Should carry our friends to him.

The paralytic lays there, broken and disheveled, cast off by all institutions, but embedded in the life of these friends.  For the time of his paralysis is unknown, yet may be assumed somewhat recent as these friendships were tied so significantly in a time when needy were outcast from the rest.  

So five men pushed and shoved, popped up and crawled down, rubbed raw hands against rope and wood, to get into the house, past the learned and the pious, to get to Jesus.

But the performers of the church, the knowledgable of the original way, the elite of the society, stood in the way.  Side-glancing and huddling closer.  Stifling the spaces and shushing the onlookers.  Leaning  in to learn.

Yet the friends faith would not be kindled down.  Their burning and longing not pushed aside.  Their perseverance not delayed.  

Tenacious in their actions, strengthened and not swayed. Chiseling and whacking and persisting. To climb the roof, to wear the red clay, to drag and heave their faith-filled friend.  

Shocked and angry, the Leaders of the Law gasped.  Judged.  Remarked.  Questioned. Frowned.

But these four, five, friends of fierce faith, knew the one they chased. With acute determination and severe will, they set a mission: to get to Jesus.  To see their Savior heal.

These are the friends I long to be.  The ones who let nothing stand in their way.  To bring their friend to Jesus.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Note, the end of the story, after the questioning, the unbelief, the anger…  That the healing brought this reaction:

“And immediately he rose up before them and picked up what he had been lying on and went home, glorifying God.  And amazement seized them all, and they glorified God and were filled with awe, saying, “We have seen extraordinary things today.” Luke 5:25-26

The ending Truth is something all can rejoice in.  That after the condemnation, the crazy, the chaos, when the salvation and the healing, and the awesome of miracle took place, NOT ONE could hold back from glorifying God.  NOT ONE could keep silent from exclaiming the awesomeness of God. God is in still in the work of redeeming, God is still in the work of bringing awe, God is still in the work of offering faith and believe to ALL who will believe and receive - poor, dirty, Pharisee, teacher, and lame alike.  Now that is the power of the gospel!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

As a post-blog note, something here needs to be said on behalf of a few of my “paralytic friends”.  Because I want to find a way to keep beating down the doors, the rooftop for them.  Two friends in particular.  Both of great faith, both of such belief.  But how to get them to Jesus, to have them open to his healing, or get the “religiosity” out of their way…  One, to bring healing of body as well as mind, then to weave it into soul.  The other to bring life back to worship, to block out the mind, but give strength to the freedom and joy of the soul.  Holy Spirit, God my Father, Almighty Savior, let me be the friend who keeps pushing against pious, or intellect twisted into belief, or lies burdened on faith, and bring my friends into the presence of Jesus.

The Truck.

Today is my Dad's 60th Birthday.  There are lots of things I'd like to say about him, and so many stories I recount and remember.  I like to think of him in hat-back hot-dogging on a bot, or telling "stories from 'Nam" while smacking the dinner table, or swinging me in dance to "Rodeo" around the Sunday kitchen table...  But the story that gets retold the most, but one he knows the least of, was his best parenting moment ever... and one I will never forget.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The day was coming to a close.  Hot summer night twinkled in with fireflies and crickets chirping.  The waves slowed down to a murmur of lapping peace against the shore.  Quiet and calm, hugs to mom in her nightgown, standing at the swinging white screen door.  Work tomorrow, dad was already at home, the end of another good lake day.

I threw my backpack and purse into the side of his new, white, heavy-duty Ford truck.  Tough and strong, it towered over me, surging with strength and energy in its size.  I felt proud, cool, as my sixteen year old self started the deep, throaty, hardy roar of the engine.

Pulling the side lever, I lurched it into gear, propped up high on the new leather seat.  Darkness surrounded me, just dim lights inside the row of cottages on the other side of the street.  Stillness, calm, nightfall at the lake.

Scrape!  

The long, drawn out scratching sound slid down the side of the truck.  Like shaving off metal, it razored through the side panel, ripping and denting the doorframe along the way.   Loud and dynamic, a scream breaking through silence.  Terror.  Destroying.

I scrambled to lurch the beast out of reverse.  What had I done?!

My mom came back outside, startled and wondering, walking out the same cottage-white doorframe as moments before.  "Are you okay?"  She slippered out towards me in robe and nightgown.

It was too dark to see the damage.  Just the haunting of sound to remember something had gone a-rye.  I stood there, terrified and perplexed.  "I don't know what happen!  I must have put it in reverse and not known there was a anything there!"

But there was something there. The culprit: a titanic telephone pole, straight and stiff, a silhouette of strength and stubbornness etched in the sky.

My soul sank, embarrassed and horrified, shocked and dismayed.  His brand new glossy truck completely clawed and dented down the whole side panel, tire to tire.  White paint turned gray metal. Pride turned pain.

Dreading the conversation and confession that was to come, I sunk into the drivers seat again and roared the engine, misery on my mind as I drove the truck home to Homerich.

I walked in the garage door. Swallowing hard, I found my humbled courage to walk into his office door.  It was the front room of the house, gray architect walls and maroon thick curtains, large black leather chair, two windows facing acres of manicured lawn.  He was working quietly, sitting at the large wood desk, plans and blueprints and 10-Key clicking away.

"Dad?"  I shyly squeezed the word out, standing at the end of his desk.

He had his black ink in hand, Wever Concrete logo on papers.

"Um, Dad..."  I gulped again, finding words to say.  "I wrecked your truck."

He looked up, relaxed and calm. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, but Dad, I wrecked your truck." I repeated, making sure he heard me.

"Okay. But are you okay?"  He looked up at me again, at ease and nonchalant about the whole confession.

"Yes, but I scrapped the whole thing down the side.  I hit a telephone pole.  It's pretty bad." I waited for him to respond with something more dramatic.  "I parked it in the barn."

"But your okay?" He lifted his brows and shrugged my way.

"Yes."

"Okay.  Thanks for telling me.  I'll go check it out in a bit."

And that was it.

It was nearly 10:30 at night, darkness filled the sky and I was in the midst of one of the overt mistakes of my life.  I felt horrible!  Yet watching and hearing my dads response changed and magnified his character in my mind that night.

I crept up the stairs and got dressed for bed, listening keenly for his footsteps, or his reaction, or his worry.  Nothing.  He was unfazed.  Just kept working away in the office as if nothing had happened at all.  Just caring about me, and making sure I was okay.

I laid awake in the twilight, my peach bedroom turned black with night, my attention fully awake, waiting still for his response.

A full half hour passed before I heard the sound of the backdoor open, him making way to the brick barn to survey my damage.  The darkness of my room felt sharply still, pensive to his observation.

He came back in a few minutes later.  I waited for him to approach my door and deliver his thoughts or what I owed or some sort of reaction.

Nothing.  I never heard another thing about it.  He simply walked up the stairs and crawled into his bed and the next day started like all the rest.  That was it.

That was it: clear love for me and care with concern for my heart and well-being and safety.

The treasures of this world will pass away, the things we own or care for will someday ruin or be wrecked along a telephone pole.  But this relationship that night changed forever, as I saw a character and love for me in my dad that I could never rationalize, but have been enamored and awed by ever since.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Happy 60th Birthday to the man who keeps driving trucks and Cadillacs and Corvettes and quads all in perspective.  Love you Dad.

♡ Christina Jill

Jericho: Day Six.

Six times.  Once per day.  Circle the city.  In silence.

Simple instructions.  Clear Commands.

But to a people of wandering, one has to wonder, and compare, what their voices murmured, their hearts questioned, and their confidence felt.

These are The People.  The Israelites.  The chosen nation of God.  Holy and devoted to him.  The same people who witnessed the plagues, dripped blood over doors, and crossed the Red Sea.  The same people who saw the Egyptian army drowned, ate quail and manna from heaven, and drank water from a rock.  The same people who saw Moses go up onto Mt. Sinai, were guided by the cloud and fire, and walked the Jordan on dry sand.

Their also the same people who wished to go back into slavery from exile, who grumbled for better provisions, who danced before the golden calf.

These are the children of that nation, the second generation of the Red Sea, the firstborn hearers of the oral stories, the tales of the true and old.

Their leaders have courage, strength and soul-worthy. Of the twelve, these two names forever known.  Joshua and Caleb, they directed them.  A people freshly crossed into Promised Land.

The land was theirs, the city too.  Already given, handed, conquered.  Before they strapped their sandals to walk.

"See, I have given Jericho into your hand, with its king and mighty men of color.  You shall march around the city..." [said the Lord] (Joshua 6:2)  {Notice the past tense: given - already sealed and done! And present tense: shall march - the promise was granted before the obedience!}

And here is where I stop to pause.  The story is common, told and retold.  But the message to me new, afresh.

Six times.  Six times they had to just show up.  To see Day Seven.  To view the promise.  To gain the reward.

But then I know them, I read their Torah stories, and know them in my heart.  Its hot.  Its dry.  They're hungry, they're tired.  The'yre living in tents, they're dirty, they're probably hungry.  Their children are crying, they're sick of wandering, and now this silly stunt.

I hear their grumbles, I see their rolling eye.  I feel my shoulder shrug,  I bicker in my soul.

So much of me is like them.  I know it in my soul.  Like them, I don't want to get up.  I don't want to get more dusty, more dirty.  I don't want to show up on Day Four... Five... Six.

They hear the sounds of taunting, angry people of Jericho, yelling from walls.  They listen to the striking of iron, the clanging of armor, the men inside preparing for battle. They hear the frantic hustle of women, gathering gusto for war.  They cringe at screams from children, huddled careful underneath cloaks.  They know these are the giants, mirrored Goliath-men daunting the bravest men.  Israelites feeble and frightened, questioning if fool to be marching around Jericho again.  Day Six.

They have seen miracle after marvel after milestone.  And yet...  They're the same people who wallow their weakness, who want to sit under the shade tree, who have yet to fully trust God to do Day Seven what he said he would do.

And I wonder if I would show up with my sandals on that Day Six.  Strapped and ready, trusting God in walking, in waiting, and in silence.

But only from couraging and committing to Day Six, does one get to partake in the glory of Day Seven.

Standing, marching, dirty with calloused feet.  The people start the dusty trod.  Then Joshua exclaims, "Shout!  For the Lord has given you the city!" (Joshua 6:16).

The screaming starts.  The people utterly belch out every part of their depth, yelling and trumpets and wailing in obedience, aimed at the thick city wall.  Then...

Crack...

To hear the first crackle, the first splitting rock, the first fissure in the stone!

I want to be there when Jericho falls.  I want to watch the first quake, see the first crash, and feel the first sandstone tumble, before the rupture and ruin take place.

But I only get to be part of Day Seven, if I show up for Days One, Two Three, Four, Five, and Six.  I only get to grasp the greatness of glory, if I do the hard walk of waiting in the preparation days.

I want to be there on Day Seven.  I want to see the greatness of God displayed!  I want watch the rubble so the name of God is praised.  Dear Lord, let me trust in your granted promises, with strength, courage and endurance to show up on Day Six.

Tunnel Not Tomb.

Beth Moore called it her "Season of Defeat."  This season when struggle seems more common than smiling, and striving never ceases to sabbath.  So much of my courage is swallowed up or suffocating, and living is squandered by surviving.  

For me, this Season of Defeat is overrun and overruled by medical appointments and disruptions.  Somedays, I honestly just can't make one more medical phone call or specialist visit or physical therapy appointment or ear check haul.  I have lists of medical analysis and prescriptions to try or surgery details.  Its like an ongoing cavern, deeper and deeper into a mountain of dark, questions or visits just guiding downward to more phone calls and more physicians.  The ceaseless medical need for Judah and me has whacked and confused and used so much time and energy that the whirlwind and debris is dehabilitating.  And has turned me crazy and angry, and defeated.

This season is saying No.  No. No. No.  No to almost everything, to say yes to something, but the No's bring so much hardship too.  No to Community Group, which in essence sometimes feels like No to belonging or friends or prayer buddies.  No to Women's teaching/study, which means No to using my gifts and callings and refreshment.  No to coffee with friends, no to complete sentences of conversation, no deeper friendship.  No to more preschool, no to the YMCA, no to fitting in.  No to space for breathing, listening, thinking.  There are "yes's", of course, like to home at night and being available for these little people, but it is mostly a time of lots of hard No.

So much is dusted by defeat.  Dinners are haphazard.  A desire for a schedule far from the dream.  And toys and dirty dishes overwhelm me.

I woke this morning with the day already overwhelming me with defeat.  Maria Goff calls it the opening of the Stock Market, when the kids start swarming and squealing for their needs of the day.  And its just how I feel. I know all my "thank-you's" and "blessings" and list after list of good things,  but somehow often all the chaos clouds my perspective and I feel instead, all of life frustrating and endless, with constant yanking on my time or energy or words or limbs.  

It makes me frazzled and frantic and soul depleted and dead, this Season of Defeat.  But as I rumpled out of bed in the darkness towards the little people, God spoke to me in the darkness about the difference between a tunnel and a tomb.

A tunnel is dark for a season, damp and yucky and miry.   So much pushing and stumbling and sadness and saying "No" can make it feel even longer or more lonely and more confined...

But a tomb is all those things, but with defeat stamped forever.  All the despair, all the doubt, all the dark.  Done.  

Yet a tunnel has hope and grace and mercy pouring somewhere on the other end.  Even if I cannot see it.  Even if the days loom so long and lonely and frustrating and exhausting ahead.  A tunnel has an end.  Has light.  Has life.

Dear Jesus, you speak to me through this hope, through offering life and light, and through holding my hand and calling me still, because this season of defeat is a tunnel, not a tomb.

Ordering the Wood.

For Church at Charlotte's Women's Ministry Devotional

Under the theme "Walk This Way"

“By faith Abraham, 

when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, 

obeyed and went, 

even though he did not know where he was going.” 

Hebrews 11:8

“I feel like Noah,” I swallowed, pushing the unsigned contract forward, “And this is ordering the wood.”  I exhaled across from my Principal, at the cherished Christian school where I had  fantastic, coveted teaching job. 

None of it made sense, except that “feeling”, that promise of God that I could only speak in words that my mother understood:  “I know that I know that I know.”  Knowing that it was God’s call on me to go.  So I “ordered the wood”, resigning my secure job in the middle of the country’s economic fall-out, as well as leaving my family, blinded to unspeakable tragedies to come.

But God is faithful.

After the surrender of my life in Michigan, my friend spoke Hebrews 11:8 over me, her full conviction that God had an inheritance waiting for me in North Carolina.  She had no idea what or how God would unravel his plan for me, but she embedded this Truth of Scripture into my faith and my future.

I arrived in North Carolina without knowing the house, the roommates, the income, the friendships, the church that I would eventually secure and hold onto.  All I knew, is that I was holding on to God, with my ark to the anchor of his promises.

Nine years later, I root in this land of inheritances, with visual, walking Ebeneezers of His promises about me: an incredible husband, two passionate children, a safe home, and relationships that encourage my calling in the Kingdom.  God is faithful

To this land of inheritance, I followed his promises, unknowing exactly what that beheld but trusting him by ordering the wood.

___

Dear Lord, may my heart be attuned to your spirit, secured in your promises and obedient to your call.  Let your faithfulness be my truth and my stronghold when the storms or skies don’t make sense. I know, I trust, you are faithful and an anchor for my soul.  Amen.

___

Additional Scripture

“The Lord is faithful, and he will strengthen you and protect you…” II Thessalonians 3:3

“Be strong and courageous.  Do not be afraid.  Do not be discouraged.  For the Lord your God will be with you whoever you go.”  Joshua 1:9

“Build houses and settle down.  Plant gardens and eat what they produce.”  Jeremiah 29:5

On Weeping Forward [Renewed].

I found this from my old, original blog...  And it struck me with new intention, as well as reflective imaging.

Intention, because during this hard season of home with consuming little ones, I am reminded and inspired by Sandy Lawson's words that prophesied: "Christina, God is tilling up the soil of you heart right now" [old blog, October 12, 2009].  And he was!

Oh, was I weeping forward!  God churned and yanked and uprooted, and then planted and watered and spurned Mark, Camilla, and Judah, and church and friendship and home from that harsh, blackened, cracking climate where I just kept couraging and strengthening and fighting for life and joy.

And now, just last week, I think of this blog as a reflection of my dear friend Sandy, who lost JD two years ago, and is weeping forward.  With college OT/NT classes each semester, 3 life groups, countless young women she mentors, two sons and daughter-in-laws, church commitments, and coffee dates, her life is a complete investment in the soil around her.  Surely, she is weeping in grief of JD as well has incredible, horrific, health upheaval herself (6 times cancer and auto-immune disease), yet she bravely forges her energy to weep forward, for the sake of Jesus Christ and the kingdom.  Oh, what beautiful love He induces with her seeds, what Oaks have grown from her watering!  Countless people like David Johnson & David Russell  (link to his sermon Christian Hospitality) and many others without title or fame, like me have been ministered too, homed, loved, served, hugged, and whispered prayers over before, during, and after their own season as well as her own, of Weeping Forward.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

SATURDAY, JANUARY 15, 2011

Weeping Forward.

I read this phrase in my Ruth study this week, and shared it with a friend who is going through a really painful season. It stirs thoughts, as one tries to grasp what that means, and what it looks like.

Weeping forward.

Action. Movement. Hurt. Hardship. Pain. Journey. Hope.

And then today, in my study, another phrase collaborated with it: sowing tears. It comes from Psalm 126, where the psalmist writes: "Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy" (v5). And again, it insinuates the same: in pain and loss and hardship and sorrow, in acknowledging all that is hurt and lost and mourned, there is still action. There is sowing.

The sowing is planting; it is moving forward. Knowing the harvest is still a season away. In this hard sport, not only do we weep, but we weep forward. Not only do we weep forward, but we sow seeds for the hope and life that is yet to come.

So, in this thought, today, if you are in a season of weeping, what are you also sowing? And, are you sowing and weeping forward? What kind of harvest do you expect to reap from that of which you sow? Seeds of goodness, love, joy, faithfulness, obedience? Or the folly of the contrary?

Or, if you are in a season of harvest, what bounty can you name and label and see, to gather now as a sign of His faithfulness during the toil of sowing? In the blessings, the abundance, does your joy acknowledge the goodness of the Lord? Are you sifting seeds from your harvest to plant when the time for sowing comes?

Dancing With Daddy [Repost}.

I was reading through my old blogs this morning and fell in love with a few during the time when Camilla was born.  This post below was a favorite, and one I still hope we esteem and aim for.

*This is the bummer of blogs instead of books, the good, old, well-said truths can get hidden and lost forever, instead of remembered, underlined, held, and cherished in print.

Dancing with Daddy.  Published Saturday, June 7, 2014

Dancing With Daddy.

We left as two, a couple, a pair.  Husband and wife in covenanted unity, a marraige.  We came home as three.  Baby released from womb into our hands, our hearts, our home.  That first night, after we tucked her snugly in her bassinet, we moved to our own music, knitted hands in the quiet, warmth pressed between us.  Beside the baby who made us three, I swayed, Dancing with Daddy.

My parents believed the greatest gift you could give your children was a happy marraige.  The older I became, the more I heard this phrase from their lips, and the more I believed it. 

Being married now, I think of all the ways my parents created a healthy framework as a role model of marraige for me.  I think of the tasks they danced through, the way they ran our home like smooth butter.  Dad brought in finances and cared for the outside, and mom tended to the inside, and souls of her home.  Their roles seemed clear and seemless, and left little room for squabble. So the life of our family ebbed and flowed, with peace and freedom and laughter at the table.  

I think through those days with smiles and ease, and have found them often at the forefront of how I perceive parenting and marraige and everything in-between.  I think their love and mostly their joy and each of the ways this was modeled to me.

My parents loved and enjoyed each other.  Oh did they enjoy each other!  I remember coming home from Sunday church, Dad cranking on the kitchen stereo, swinging mom around in crazy circles, all of us children laughing.  I hear their hoots and hollars on the boat in pure freedom and release on a Saturday, bursting through Lake Michigan waves.  I think of them as empty-nesters giggling about how much fun they had tasting free samples at Costco and weekending in Traverse City.  I picture them holding hands across the car and in the church pew, and riding jeeps Jamaica and Ferraris in Hawaii.  I hear my mom at the piano, dad singing "I am a Promise" and the roar of a Vet, convertible in the breeze. My mouth tweaks to her eye roll, his compliment of cookies -- two a time, four times a day.  From Wednesday movies to Saturday morning breakfasts, from newlywed to empty-nest they flourished everywhere in-between.

Home was a safe place, a happy place.  It was a place where anger was not heard, where sharp voices were void.  It was a place where encouragement was present, support was plentiful.  It was obvious to all: in this marraige, Love lived there.  Their marraige was like a dance.  A slow dance, like the wedding first, where others watch with wonder and awe and hope for the same.  A model of steps, a series of movements, a swirl of love and life all through the rhythm of their home. They divided tasks and flowed in and out without correction or chiding, without second thought or worry, each trusting the other with abounding purity and confidence.  They set a foundation, created a haven, a waltz of motion that provided rest for me.

Over the years I've listened to friends and family share about their parents' marriages.  I've heard their heart cries, bemoaned their hurts, softened to their words.  I've watched them ache for something better, wish for models, remember the wrongs.  I've heard them recount the falling-outs, or seen them live the lies.  I've heard wives belittle their husbands, husbands cower to their wives, and both ripple the effect to everyone around.  I've witnessed expectations turn to curt words, hugs turned aside, and marriages staccato like roommate arrangements.  These unions feel like legal arrangements, without security and softness, safety and shalom, for the parents, the heirs.  Some notice their strain, others simply live without bother.  But the affect on the children - their homes, their hearts, and their own bonds, is woven through the daily, unyielding.

I've seen this in my own home.  In my dearest friends' home.  We unveil our stories and noticed or ignore the interactions we repeat. We play the unsaid roles we saw them generate, and the hope or harm that that creates.  I've heard woes over vacations, fear over dating, and judgement over gender display. I've smiled to praise in public, hands holded, and hotels booked.  I've watched couples encourage dreams, support hobbies, and embrace relatives.  And I've heard children learn to live the joy, or seek shelter from shame.  Some hide the past, afraid of the sins or choices, or being found as the same.  Others long to encourage their heritage, foundation faithfully set, and mimic the marraige their parent's made.

Gliding there, next to my daughter, was fresh reminder of this gift.  This marraige vow.  This initial created covenant under God.  It is under this umbrella of marraige that a family begins, blooms and blossoms.  It is in this embrace of husband and wife that children see the world as safe, inviting, enjoyable.  It is in this union that they learn their model, perceive emotions, and imitate roles.  This on my heart, our limbs in embrace, my heart felt such peace at what I prayed we'd display.

May our children grow up seeing me hold Mark's hand.  May they know I still enjoy the safety of his embrace.  May they see me uplift him with my words and support him with my works.  May they see us laugh together, adventure together, and enjoy each other.  May they see us wink across the table, road trip for weekends,  embrace after work days, and dream toward vacations.  May they know we sparkle about dates, kiss in the kitchen, and whistle 'handsome' and 'beautiful' -- even when we are fifty, sixty, seventy...  

May our children know their mommy still grins and flutters because of their daddy.  May they know their daddy still names her Love, every day.  May they know they are loved, and see love, when their mommy is found, always, Dancing with Daddy.

Refreshers.

"Refreshers are rare finds in this narcissistic world."  ~ Beth Moore, Entrusted

Onesiphorus, Paul writes, was a refresher.  He would seek for Paul, earnestly scour cities and countryside looking for his friend, possibly finding him in a jail cell, entangled in chains, and yet he kept loving, kept accepting, kept giving, kept refreshing, his friend.  He didn't judge the stench of the body worn by weeks in a dungeon, or shake his head at the latest of Paul's rants for the gospel, or give up after days asking person after person along the streets of Rome to no avail.  No, he refreshed!

He could have complained about the journey.  He could have shown his dirty, bloody feet and sweaty robe.  He could have tossed critical remarks about the others he bumped into.   Or mention the annoying, unhelpful passer-byres he asked.  He could have talked about his tiredness, his lack of good sleep, or his bodily ailments.  He could have found a million ho-hum one-liners and paragraphs about the frustration of his life, or effort finding Paul, or the negativity infiltrating the church the culture...  But no, he refreshed!

He walked in to unabashedly hug his friend.  Both men thick with grime and hair and filth, they embraced like war-torn brothers, possibly crying in relief or laughing at the site of each other.  Then he ministered to the heart of Paul, not ashamed of any part of him.  

I imagine him laughing at stories of escape, or sharing tales of children.  I imagine him spreading the Good News of the gospel, and saying it with such joy and elation, that it would really feel like Good News!  I imagine him speaking in the Spirit, enlightened by holy refreshing, to move life and vigor into Pauls'.

Oh, how good it is to be in the fellowship of a refresher!  Oh how life-giving it is to walk into their home or feel their embrace!  Oh how true the Good News feels when they share it from their life and lips.

Dear Jesus, give your kingdom a new host of refreshers, and refresh the hearts of your saints.

~Context from II Timonthy 1:16-18

"Your love has given me great joy and encouragement, 

because you brother, have refreshed the hearts of saints."  

Philemon 1:7  (NIV84)

Side Reading: The Ministry of Refreshment  (Found this little sermon as I was looking up the scripture verse)

One Gate.

I have lots of ways everybody could do something better, could live someway better, could be somebody better.  Essentially, my finger waves and my mind spins and whirls with lists and tidbits and thoughts and measuring lines for their best life.  With this regard, the upmost importance is the sifting of their personality, economics, and home-life according to my manicured standards and perspective theology.

Ouch.

The other day, I was thinking about exactly all of this -- the completely divisive thoughts and appalling self-righteaous evaluation I created for measuring people and friends against my own opinion of a good person, or a godly person...

And God cut through and reminded me:

There's One Gate.

One gate into heaven.

And he doesn't ask what you served for breakfast or how your marriage looked or what choice of schooling you picked.  He doesn't ask how you spent your tithe or what your career was or how your kids behaved.

He asks if you know and love Jesus.

The One Way.  The only choice that matters.

Everything else can be debated, majors and minors.

But the same gate is for the criminal on the cross, the pre-schooled toddler, the laboring husband, the slow elderly driver.  He doesn't ask a series of questions, or go through a check list of behavior, or yank out the righteous-life list.

He says, "Do you love me?"

And if the answer is yes, he opens the gate.

The One.  Only.  Single.  Narrow, Open Gate.

One Gate.

Done.

Redeemed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

What a great relief!  And what a great equalizer!  Isn't that concept so freeing from our comparing and criticizing and competing?  Our dividing and graying and blackening and whitening?  One gate:  Jesus.  One Way In: Him.  For all, to whom the answer is, "Yes, Lord, it is you!"  One Gate.

Now Welcome Home, Dear One.

Circus Soliloquies Again...

This is starting to be less funny as the waring reveals exhaustion more than humor...

There was last-weeks doctor-vomit-poop incident I shared on Instagram...

And now today...

We were once again off to the doctor, the ENT this time, walking into the double coordidors.  Judah was not be held or hasseled, he was squirms and shrinks and independence.  So I set him down to show Camilla the button she could push for the elevator.  As she pushed it, the doors immediately slid open, to a wait-to-volt Judah, who instantly walked in and pushed the first button possible --

Of course, the Emergency Call button.

For real?!?!?

So I dart to grab him from the buttons while Camilla still has her hand pressing the "elevator up button" since its been a millisecond since starting this episode, but as I scamper to find what button turns off the emergency and wrangle Judah at the same time, the door starts to shut.

I start yelling at Camilla to come in, but she is startled and scared, so the door keeps shutting.  My foot swings to stop the sensors, but the creeping continues.  I yank Judah over my shoulder and puncture once again the "door open" button, as she's yelling for help and getting panicked behind the sealed silver.

They clinch open, and I swing her in.

Whew.

Then the elevator starts speaking to us, in alarming terms, signaling request for response to emergencies, since Judah hit the button.  Oh good grief, I'm talking to an elevator while tugging two little people and trying to avoid the firetrucks and ambulances showing up at the ENT.  Wouldn't that be a scene!?

I'm not sure if it went off first, or if we just got off the elevator and abandoned ship, but somehow we made it to the second floor without sirens, though the stares of those overhearing our escipade should have been filmed as the door opened and they could see us standing there, a wreck, and talking to the elevator doors...

Can I just add in the joy here of the doctors office "switching systems" and having to re-up every address, phone number, insurance, family medical history, etc. while I'm holding these two squirmy little people?  Oh thank you, technology, for this ease of morning.  Grrr...

We go back to the waiting room and the doctor is kind and straight forward:  surgery.  Again.  Round 3 for this little guy in 6 months, round 2 for his ears.  Now tubes plus adenoids.

Scheduled it for next week.

He leave us suckers for the littles, and we walk out the door to grab Camilla a haircut and get the necessities from Target.

Don't know why this didn't go better than I hoped, but the concept of licking a lollipop in Target seemed like a kid-restraining genius.  However, after the end of the 10 minute shopping excursion with panic and sweating, I was literally pushing the red cart with Camilla covered in shampoos and deodorants with Judah clamoring on my shoulders, lollipop stuck to every bit of his shirt, hands, me, and the cart handle.  Purple goop everywhere.  Sweet lady checking us out went and wet a million paper towels to at least clean him off enough to get home.

We ran to the Post Office (seriously, could that line be any longer and slower!?) and I called Mark's mom to schedule babysitting for Camilla for Judah's surgery.  At the end of my sanity and whits, she offered, pleaded, to take the kids...

About 15 minutes later, I dropped my "Special Deliveries" off at her door.  Praise Jesus.

Angry and spent, I drove the couple minutes home, grabbed my Target bags, and walked through the door for some much needed refreshment alone time...

When I looked up as I slipped my shoes off, bags still in hand, I noticed a 2 foot hole sawed out of the ceiling...

Oh that's right.  Shoot.  I'd forgot.

Leak in the house.  Coming from the roof.  Into the dining room, about 6 foot long, over the table.  Hector was coming to look at it while I was gone this morning.

Might as well just sign the check now.

Weeding and Planting. [Weeds & Seeds.]

I'm in a season of weeding and planting.  Weeding out what's growing around me, in me, and amongst me.  Pulling and yanking at these entangling roots, some even looking like dandelions, and then sowing deep what will harvest fruit eventually, prayerfully, down the road.  Both are hard work.  Toiling work, grueling work.  Which take so much of my heart, my soul depletes and Christ's rain has to sprinkle fresh to keep strength through the plucking and pruning and rooting.

The Bible has so much to say about weeds and seeds and soil and plants.  Jesus himself uses The Vine as an analogy, and multiple parables illustrate lessons through gardening allegories.  So much of life is cultivated through the concept of seasons and growth, life and death, harvest and famine.

Lately I've been dwelling on two ideals 1) what is weeded out, allows for deeper planting in, and 2) what is planted in, will harvest out.

I'll start with the first.  I've got a lot of weeds.  Some I've noticed for years and just let be, others have more recently poked up around me.  Some are harmful, thorny and pricking, others are camouflaged, or simply there.  Some offered beauty like wildflowers for a season, but now have crept past their purpose.  Some are choking out the good grass, and some can't be alleviated by me.  Those I can't cut back on my own, I pray the Lord prunes and try to figure out boundaries and let go.  Those I recognize, I have to do the work to pull out, yanking and straining, being stretched and clawed through.

I've only got so much soil, so much space limited by time and energy.  If weeds are crowding my life and heart, there simply isn't room for what could instead produce fruit and harvest righteousness.

So then I've got to step back, gather my spades and shovels, dust off my hands on my jeans, and reexamine the seeds.

"For whatever one sows, that will he also reap."  Galatians 6:7

What am I sowing?  Which, is possibly more recognized by: what is producing plants?

I recognize resentment, entangling and ensnaring as I partake in conversations; I feel it coil inside me, looping around joy and delight like jungle vines.  I sense envy flourish as I view some picturesque families on social media, or flip through grocery store racked magazines.  I feel it deteroet my self-image as comparison encircles me and chokes me.  I've either got to build my hedges so those seeds aren't planted, plant something in it space otherwise, or work to prune the trees around me so we all grow closer to the light.

I notice a critical spirit sprout from seeds tossed by other people, their words and own perspectives and conjectures swirling around me.  Things I don't want to listen to, don't want to be a part of, or a sense I don't want to see the world or people through.  Fencing these seeds from falling and footing in soil takes most of my energy these days.

What other seeds are planting, threatening, allowed to take root in the soil?  Nothing is happenstance, or simply pleasure or entertainment, either its growing healthy fruit or rotting the tree.  It either produces joy or criticism, uplifts or tears down, encourages or depresses, dilutes or nourishes.

Seeds are strewn all around.  Some in packages, others just floating in the wind.  The media, news, photography, conversations, books, music, and relationships all crowd for a spot in our minds and hearts and days.

I recognize the seeds I'm planting by the texture of my heart.  Some friendships bring such richness to my soul that my mouth overflows afterwards with thankfulness, with wisdom, with goodness.  Others lend me afterwards to speak more critically of my surroundings, of my people, of the institutions in my life.  My soul feels mucky and dirty, like thick mire after filthy television, or blown way-ward by song lyrics too sexual for personal display.  I could go on and on about seeds of news or TV or politics or facebook, or tea parties or dancing or inspiring biographies too.

Some seeds will never return void.

Isaiah writes, "It is the same with my Word.  I sent it out and it always produces fruit.  It will accomplish all I want it to, and it will prosper everywhere I send it"  (55:11).  The seeds of the gospel, the Kingdom, of planting scripture and hymns and spiritual hope is a promised investment, a towering oak tree or blossoming pear.

Jesus himself notes the difference between cracked, rocky, hardened soil, and thick, rich, soil which opens the heart to understanding, listening, and seeing him (Matthew 13).  Purposefully abiding with him and growing from his water, his light, his shade  (John 15). Then he preaches further that those who are his disciples "will recognized by their fruits"  (Matthew 7).

Not only will the marks of good soil be seen in service and attitude and daily living, but they will be heard from the lips. In Matthews, Jesus asserts: "What comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart"  and then Luke proclaims the truth again:  "For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of."   What an obvious marker of the condition of the soil!  Such a factual measuring line, to look at our language, our conversation, and immediately be able to assess what we are storing up, what seeds are growing, what plants are germinating.  Even if the mouth wills it self to speak otherwise, it cannot for the heart will eventually leak what is in the soil  (Matthew 13).

I want seeds that sprout life.  That bring beautify and newness and nourish those around me.  For today, for years from now, for generations, for eternity.  Which means, I've got to examine my weeds and seeds, and what is pollinating what I plant.

I'm constantly cutting back and then hemming in.  Pruning down, then hedging around.  Digging up, then toiling through. Germinating in, then watering on.

The promised hope is that the Gardener does not leave us our own to do this.  He embeds and lives in us through the power of his Holy Spirit, pruning and planting and producing what is then noted and shown as the fruits of the spirit:  love, joy peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control  (Galatians 5:22).  The outward signs of the inward soil.

Purposefully planting in scripture and solid truth cultivates the Holy Spirit within me to reap these fruits!  Intentionally gathering other believers who "spur one another on towards love and good deeds" also rains the grounds of life towards a bountiful and blessed harvest (Hebrews 10:24).

In this season of weeding and planting, uprooting and growing, whittling and aerating, may God give me the grace to release the weeds and seeds that yield little fruit, and cultivate instead a depth and richness to produce life for generations to come.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

"Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for whatever one sows , that will he also reap.  For the one who sows to his own flesh will from the flesh reap corruption, but the one who sows to the Spirit will from the Spirit real eternal life.  And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up."  Galatians 6:7-9

"The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life, and the one who captures souls saves lives."  Proverbs 11:30

"You will recognize them by their fruits..."  Matthew 7:16 & 20

"What comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart..."  Matthew 15:18

"A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart.  For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of."  Luke 6:45

Parable of the Sower // Matthew 13
Parable of the Weeds // Matthew 13

Called To.

We all dressed up, frocks and frills, purses on hand, earrings in ear.  Invited to a tea party at another missionaries house, my roommates and I.  There were three of us - Michelle, Tiffany, and I, along with a few other single missionary teachers.  We were excited and fancy, dressed for what seemed like a little slice of femininity in the hustle and bustle of teaching and life in dirty Manila.

She welcomed us in with giggles and joy, like Fancy Nancy coming to life in a 60 year old body.  I'd never met her before, but was immediately embraced into her home like a grandchild at grandmas.

The front sitting room was strewn with randomness, my eyes trying to take in this masquerade.  Hot pink feather boas, purple and green ones too.  Mardi gras necklaces, of colors and circles, dancing across numerous hooks.  Wide-rimmed hats, floppy and regal, but cloche and boina ones too.  Pictures, colors, accessories flung and laid on every hat-rack and table, long white gloves and clip-on earrings arranged.  Oh what a marvel of art and eclectic decor garnished every aspect of this room!

She could almost shimmy with excitement, I could see it; one could feel it.  This missionary wife, come to life.  Our eyes were watching, child-like, taking in her joy on display.

"Oh, I'm so glad your here!"  She stood before us, now opening her life, explaining and gifting her story.

"You see, I don't feel called to the Philippines, I don't feel called to be a missionary.  I wouldn't choose to be here.  But, my husband was called to be a missionary, and he was called to the Philippines, and I was called to love my husband."

Our single-women minds paused on that but she moved on: "So, I had to figure out what to do here, and who I was and how that would work here.  Otherwise its long days and lonely hours.  So, I figured I loved books and children, so once a week I have a little story time for the neighborhood kids..."

I could see the kids tinkering down the bumpy, hard-dirt streets, frolicking among the wild dogs and hoots of "banana-qua", enthusiastically jostling as a group down to gather at her legs and this graying white lady bringing to life picture books, with every voice-inflection and pomp and circumstance possible.  The highlight of all of their days.

Then she continued, though I don't remember all the exact details, she rambled on as such: "I was the only sister amongst my brothers, and my mom had no sisters, and we had no daughters, and all my life I was the only female for so many things.  As I grew older, I missed enjoying all the girly things like dresses and heels and tea parties and frills.  When I moved here and had to figure out how to be me amongst all the dirt here.  So I decided to start having tea parties..."

I sat on the maroon, floral couch mesmerized, taking her story in.  Becoming part of literally hundreds of women who have passed through her house, touched and blessed with boas and darjeeling, literally feeling the cup of my soul fill to the brim.  To overflow.

She swung her hands around the room, "So, help yourself to whatever little trimmings you'd like, there's all different accessories to choose from, or just come as you are, and bring yourselves over to our tea table."

I glanced again over the elbow-length gloves and shiny gold broaches, but decided to stay in the comforts of normal wear.  Gathering adornments with friendship, we proceeded to follow her over to the adjoining enclave, once again nearly breathless with the beauty within.

Stacked white towers of tea cakes, cut in all shapes with rare-found-here cucumbers and fillings, petit fours dancing across floral china plates, lemon wedges mixed among sugar cubes, silver polished atop the white-lace tablecloth.  Oh, my mom would love this!  Heaven meeting earth in the most beautiful, extraordinary, tangible way!

Not one detail was overlooked, not one short-cut taken, not one pleasure withheld.

This woman had taken such pride in presenting us with her best, the best, that merriment jeweled the table.

It was a festivity in itself.  She pulled a little square book from under her plate and proceeded to pass it around, "This book is full of questions to enhance our conversations this morning.   I've had so many women here, from all over the globe, of all ages, and some know each other but most do not.  So I pass around this little book for each woman to choose a question, then we'll all use to know each other better later."

I remember then the charm of her thoughtfulness, the ease of placed-conversation putting my heart to rest.  Through the tea, the simple questions followed, but our answered unearthed glee or emotion or stories or wonder as the fruition of well-planned conversation unearthed a depth in us all, sharing in the years of toiling and blooming.  Years later, I still remember Michelle asking "What was the view from your bedroom window as a child?"  And how that small question unearthed so much of our home, our family, our quiet, our spaces, our plantings.

We sat for a couple of hours, feminine luxury and the comforts of home treasured within us like a rare gem. Quietly and loudly we swapped stories and experiences, questions and probings, giggles and tears. Sometimes homesick; sometimes heartsick.  Moreso released in the most beautiful, gratifying way: loved.

I remember little tastes of her pleasure, placed sweetly to serve.  I remember the tinkering of floral china cups, sugar and cream.  Dots of conversation, speckles of laughter.  But what I remember her doing most, was her flourishing, thriving, ministering, in what she was called to.

That statement has never left me: "My husband was called [here], and I was called to love my husband."  It strikes me with strength and vigor, with stillness and acceptance.  It is this truth which still speaks to me, years later.

She had sifted her purpose, accepted her place, both geographical and situational, and bloomed where planted.  Her methodology encourages and spurs me to grab gumption or boundaries or purpose, to find ways to weed out and plant in, making space and intention, for what I was called to do.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I love that my mom, in hearing this story upon my return, loved this so much she found out who the woman was through calling Faith Academy long-distance, asking around about the "tea lady" and wrote her a thank-you card, for loving her daughter so far away, in a way that she needed, and I needed too.  My mom loves tea; my mom loves me.  :)

Sing Your Crabbies Out.

"Judah," she directed strong and certain, "get your crabbies out!  Now, sing as loud as you can:  Jesus Loves me" she started the rhyme for him, screaming the words from her corner of the room.

We were at the doctor, once again, in that tiny little waiting room that feels like a jail cell, slowly destroying everything from the lab paper to the book pile, to magazine shards on the floor, then Little Man wacked his head against the swinging computer keyboard table, and screams exhaled.

I'd already tried twice to page the nurse to see if the doctor was on his way, including getting a handful of crackers from her to hold them over.  Then we troused ourselves down to the bathroom for a three-year-old potty with all of us in tow, still waiting and waiting.

Cabbies were amongst us all.  Crabby is what brought us here in the first place.  Too many crabbies.  Too long of crabbies.  Too much of crabbies.  Makes everybody crabby.

So Judah is crying, mommy is crazy, clutching teeth and straining for self-control, and Camilla is sitting in the corner plastic chair, directing the choir:

"Jesus Loves me.." she screams at the top of her windpipe, "Louder Judah!  Get your crabbies out, sing louder Judah!  Now, This I Know...!!"

Her purposeful pomp and circustamces echoed through our little room, shattering his crabbies.  This little three year old ball of crazy, was trying to help her little brother in the best way she knew how: using her own taught-methods of calming the crazy to help him.  It was embedded in her.  Bless her heart.

With Camilla, everything needs to be out of the box.  Every thought needs to be anazlyed, every idea scruptinzed, and every discipline measure re-worked to tweak her brain in such a way that its stimulated for positive, and corrals her intellect and energy elsewhere.

We've tried it all.  We've tried a zillion spankings and red buns.  We've tried time-outs, sitting in a chair (ha!), and taking away toys. We've tried tossing her in a pack-n-play, letting her scream behind the locked door, and sending her outside.  We've tried whatever anyone has suggested and then some.

Fail.

So here we are, swirling more categories in discipline methodologies, creating our own devices and speaking inwardly to whatever angst is insider her, to know, label, and gather it out of her.  Strength.

So a few weeks ago, I was ruminating on who I know of her, studying her like a microscope to a microorganism, dissecting every little piece of the parts of her, three years of twenty four hours a day study....  And thought of the best idea I knew how.  Two, actually.  One: to run her crabbies out of her by her running around my house, holding hands, jostling until the crabbies turned into giggles with our antics, or Two: Singing at the top of her lungs.  Taking all that is inside and getting it out.

Why do I know that method?  Because, she's me.

We have a sign in our house that says "This kitchen is made for dancing."  And it is.  It's the place where Judah goes to point upward with his finger, motioning relentlessly for the iphone4 to blare "Fight Song" or "Baby Boy" or "Church Bells Ringing" or "Peace On Earth" from its speakers, blasting the corridors as loud as it will go, with our legs all twirling and whirling, and my lungs growing hoarse from screaming out the words inside of me, energy released until we all end up expelled on the floor, limps strewn.

So I thought and thought and thought, and took this little two-year old who named her own crabbies at 30 months and said in screaming tears and fear: "How do I get my crabbies out!?  I want my crabbies out!! How do I get my crabbies out!?" I needed to help those scared, beckoning eyes and fearful soul...

Thus, now she stands in her purple room and screams, singing Sunday School Songs from the top of her lungs, with tears and crabbies streaming from every opening.  And I yell, "Louder!  Louder!" to get her to use all her energy and gusto to sing-scream her crabbies out, tormenting the angst additionally with jumping up and down...

And it works.

Almost always.

Because it turns silly, and gets her energy out, and turns the focus on the crazy of scream-singing.

So now, back to the doctor story.

This day in the doctor's office, this little three year old blossomed, as she had planted in her the knowledge and coping skill to teach and train her brother in what to her was "normal," seemingly rational response to crabbies:: to sing praise music to Jesus.  Scream it from the top of your lungs, from the depths of your insides, until all that was within you was released, and you were once gain at peace with yourself, and others, and in that, with Him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Mark and I have a label for noting growth/hope the kids.  We call them "Sprouts."  [I'll blog this whole backstory later].  But on this day at the doctor, my little three year old made what he called a "Shrub" -- sprouts growing into something bigger and greater; taking roots and making larger, visible wholes.  Signs that what I do at home, that what the gospel is, that what we teach our kids, matter.