Resounding Gong.

Pinterest tree.  Perfected decor.  Matching outfit.  Sparkling candle.  Toasted wine.  Braised Ham.  Fluffed potatoes.  Golden Turkey...

Obedient children.  Spotless house.  Romanced husband.  Warm dinner.  Folded laundry.  Curled hair.  Lipsticked lips.  Jeweled ears...

"....{____} but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal."  I Corinthians 13:1

I was talking with a friend last week, speaking through the holiday commotion of relationships, intersecting with meals to be made and schedules to be coordinated, when she landed on this verse, speaking, "I am a gong!" She had murmured all her efforts for relational energy, abundant generosity, billowing hospitality, and then still stepping back to feel falling short.

... but have not love! Paul writes this cutting wisdom.

"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angles, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.  If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.  If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing."

The Scripture is a still a searing, double edge sword, isn't it?!

If I am generous... If I am hospitable... If I quieted my tongue... If I served selflessly... If I quoted verses...  If I {_fill-in-the-blank_}...

... but have not love!...

I am nothing.  (vs.2)

Wow.  Ouch.  Pause.  Stop.  Breathe.

The Truth of Scripture serves as a bleeding filter to all our sinful work, motives, and energies.

... but have not love!...

So, then, Paul concerns himself with following up his calling-out with definition of what love is:

"Love is patient, love is kind.  It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.  It is not rude, it is not self-seeking., it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always preservers."

Ironically, this week in Bible Study, this is what we focused on.  This famous passage from I Corinthians 13.  So known, so recited.  So hard.  We took apart each piece of the definition and filtered it through the lens of our families and applied the sections of description through our interactions with our children, our spouses, our relatives, our people.

That magnifying lens causes a step back, revealing wide-eyes and piercing hearts.

... but have not love!...

Our efforts to complete tasks or perform duty can often be weighed on by the angst of envy, years of bitterness, fallible toil.  Record of wrongs tics as slander falls off lips.  What appears done in solitude and constraint is the actually product of a critical spirit or cynical heart.  Moreover, the labors done bear little resemblance to the fruit of the Spirit, as motives contradict the heart.

If I bought the groceries...  If I paid for private school...  If I traveled the distance... If I switched my holiday plans... If I played the game... If I made the craft...  If I washed the sheets... If I bought the toy...

If I decorated the tree... If I sent the Christmas card... If I sung the carole... If I hosted the party...

...but have not love!...

I am nothing.  I gain nothing.

I am a resounding gong, a clanging cymbal.

Just Show Up.

There are those that talk, and then there are those that do.

When my mom died, there were those that asked or talked about showing up, and then those that did. I remember both.  I remember the ones who asked and kept polite distance, still poised and seemly agape from afar, hurting more than healing in their empty effort to wait for an invitation with marked and thoughtful direction.  But I also remember the ones who just "did."  Chicken dishes cooked, blue drinks delivered, houses cleaned and floors scrubbed and laundry folded and rides received.  Emails written, voicemails made, and monthly cards stamped.

This past January my dear friend in Seattle went through a traumatic birth and delivery and section of time in NICU.  I remember wondering from afar how to "show up" for her -- book a plane ticket?  buy a gift card?  make a phone call?  I'd spend hours in the night wondering, praying, waiting, worrying.  A few months ago, another dear friend lost her baby in miscarriage and again I scurried through "solutions" as to how to "show up" for her -- drive down? send a text? order delivery meal? create space for a call?

I've been in lots of conversations about what it means to just "show up," especially this past year.  I've known people reading books about community, neighboring, and small groups with deep, delving disussions about what that looks like, while sitting in circles or in church meetings.

But what it really look like to just show up is to bring bran muffin mix on a cold frosty morning or chicken enchiladas baked hot and steaming ready.  Wendys burgers and fries and frosties delivered at the driveway or kid-books packaged in the mail.  Potting pansies on the doorstep with pumpkin muffins in a pan.  DVDs delivered with coloring books in a bag.

This past season, Mark and I have been drowning.  We've canceled commitments and wrote countless chunky checks.  We've cried for our babies and still killed the grass.  We've sacrificed sleep and scourged our schedules.  We then stepped off leading, trying to put us in a place to recieve.  We've bantered and wondered and discouraged and sunk amidst this beating and tornado that has us in its stream.  We've fought and tried and struggled and screamed.

In it, I found myself suffocating in a point of survival. With that, I didn't know what I needed.  Or how to ask.  I didn't know if I needed coffee or meals or kid-sit ... But what I did know I needed was somebody to care.

As this week unraveled, so continuously did I.  We had more doctor visits and ear infections, rashes and spots, with allergic reaction scares.  We had bills piling high and surgery scheduled and fevers spiking.  Vomit and RN calls and blisters and struggles nursing...  The slew of it kept us alone and at home, lending to loneliness and whining and boredom and cursing.

Then on Friday, a friend did the unexpected.  She just showed up.

She just showed up with Panera delivery.  Chicken Fongetga with noodle soup and crunchy soft bread and soft, chocolate chip cookie.  Her own concerns aside, baby in car, she just pulled into my drive and showed up for me.

As she left, another friend did a grocery bag drop off.  Chocolate, wine, soup, crackers.  Cute cans of ginger ale soda for sickly Camilla and applesauce packets too.  A hug through food.  Love in a bag.

Mark came home and walked in with the mail.  A card postmarked for my kids; get-well wishes with hugs and love.  And stickers.

As I went to bed that night, I couldn't help but name these things as Ebeneezers.  Ways that God just showed up and heard my lonely, exhausted, cursing-filled cries.

There are those that talk, and then there are those that do.

Be those that do.  And just show up.

The Hidden Years.

Wiggle into white chair book reading, pink pajamas and lion blonde hair.  Tiny gurgle giggles with wide mouth gummy smile, eyes lit to beaming joy, jolly cheeks dimpled in.  Cooled coffee, lukewarm from gulps between page turns and potty breaks and pacis back in.  Doll clothes strewn on floor, playmats and jumper and pink polka dot strollers mixed in.  Wooden people limbs askew, Sesame characters and plastic food flopped in conglomerate of play and past time, hours gone by and hours to come.

Jelly stuck to placemat, plate not put away; peanut butter on counter. Kleenex wrinkled and wet.   Last nights ice cream dish dried in sink.  Laundry piled, diapers stacked, shoes and hairbows dot the floor.

Bible book brought to lap; baby arching tired;  Mommy reach for microwaved coffee.  Morning has begun.

I read a blog soon after Camilla was born, its words a blessing to my soul, illustrating and capturing the phrase I needed to know, to hold, to hear:  The Hidden Years.   She wrote about these little years, these years of mommy at home.  These years of training and teaching, intention and being all-in.  Alert and available, heart owned and overseeing the home.

Hearing these words helps my heart rest, and refines my circles, my compass, my spheres.  It arches a boundary over my home, protecting my people like a canopy within.  It lets other commitments wander, other callings set to the wayside for this season, this little nestling of life.

I've had years of dreaming for this, these days with little people, with big milestones.  Dreaming of first steps and sand toys and sippy cups.  Of swing sets and Rosie dolls and stacks of board books.  Daddy dates and Disney and days adventuring in-between.

These years with daily text-pictures, lunchtime Oreos family-shared.  Silly sayings and cocked eyebrow faces.  Sprinklers run through and tubby I-spy games ensued.  Nap time snuggles and quiet-time screams.

When these Littles fill my lap, nothing else will.  They fill every space of my skin, overflowing with arms and legs and hair.  Like they fill my home, they billow into my schedule, my phone time, my space.  They bulldoze my me-time and rumple my friendships.  They squeeze what I have into their hearts and come back, asking for more.  More of me, more of their mommy.

These are hard years, these hidden years.  They are years of lonely time, without ever being alone.  Years of kitchens never cleaned and toilets circled rings.  Toddler tantrums and babies awake in the night.  Years of so many questions, googled through confusion.  So much need and so humbling to receive it.

The Hidden Years, tucked quietly (or not so) within my home.  Years only Mark and I know, only we see.  Oh he and I, and the kids, share.

Years I don't want to miss.  People I don't want to miss.  I want to be present, engulfed in them.  Raptured by their sense of roller-coaster, remembering the cuddles and the crazy become norm.  These are my people, these are our years, our Hidden Years.

~ ~ ~ ~

I've had my adventures -- oh! planes to Scotland and dancing in Spain!  Teaching with wild fire and passion and purpose.  Surely, in my weakness or my remembering, my old-self protrudes, and all I used to be bubbles forth, but doesn't remain... As much as sometimes I miss, I yearn, I crave, I long for the quiet of coffee and bakery cafes, adult conversation and the controlled life I once ordered...  I wouldn't trade them for these years, these hidden years...

Killed the Fish.

Note to Readers: A little bit different than my usual style of writing, 

but too many "funny" stories, most in the course of one week, 

bundled together for comic relief!

   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Can you watch our fish this weekend?"  my neighbor text.

"I'll kill them!"

"No you won't.  They'll be fine."

"Fish die!"

"They're super easy.  They won't die."

She dropped them off on a Thursday afternoon, my friend Lindsay witnessed my frank reluctance to take them, and repeated, "Seriously, Katherine, I'll kill them.  I'm not good at this.  I'm just trying to keep my people alive.  Fish die!"

Yet Katherine, in her chill swag replied again and again, "No really, there's nothing to it.  They're   easy.  They won't die."  She goes on to relay how it's actually quiet interesting and she uses is as a science lesson with her two year old and they've had the fish for months.

By Saturday, the container was cloudy.  I texted her, worried and hesitant.  Again, she reminds me I can't hurt them and theres nothing to it.

Right, nothing to it.  One pinch of food, three times a day.  One pre-made jug of water dowsed over the top in the evening. Simple as that.  Idiot-proof.

Lie.

Monday Morning breakfast concludes and I peer into the murky water.  One, two three, four...  Where's five?!

Sunk.

Floating static on the grayed glass aquarium beads.

"I KILLED YOUR FISH!"

I text, frantic, shaking, sending photos of the stilled glofish, watching his last gulp for air.  The other swirl at the top of the tank in slow movement, as if gasping for air.

She's shocked,  "What?"  Then turns into stringing texts to find out what could have possibly gone wrong.  Eventually, realizing its dead and the others are dying, she calls another neighbor to come rescue them.  I am in complete freak-out mode and hand off the plastic jar of floppy fish with fidgety, crazed movements and billowing remorse.

I can't shake the shame and humiliation of it for hours, the waves of distress entwined with guilt continue all day.

I'm just trying to keep my people alive here, ya`all.

But I killed the fish.


*July 4, 2016
~~~


Businessmen and wives gather about, a beautiful back-porch setting complete with cowboy caviar and plucking bottle tops.  Each guy comes relaxed, rested with his friends, Bible-Study companions.  The wives linger about, all joined by these mutual men, making talk and telling stories, drinking chilled Blue Moon or sparkling Pellegrinio, make-up fresh and jewelry on.

I laugh, engage in tales, then pause and look down.

Chunky, big, brown men's flip flops.

On my feet.

The ones I don't wear out.  Not even to the grocery store.

You can't hide size 11 feet.

There I stood in a cheery, orange dress and gold shiny earrings, rubbing shoulders with the Charlotte class, in rubber Reefs.

So much for ditching the mom-do of the day.

A little lipstick can distract from dark circles, and one can conceal the nursing bra or plus-size Hanes, but one can't cover up those clunky, covered feet.


* July 7, 2016
~~~~~~~~


Hysteria screamed through the air.  Anger layered with adrenaline filled her veins.  Yanking, pulling, frantic at the door.

Bedtime at Harrisonwoods.

She hadn't napped all day, actually she hadn't napped since 21 months, so 40-minutes into this drama she was well-wound up, exceeded well-past tired, and continued to fling her frustration at the door.

She'd already tried the platonic, the "I'm hungry"  "I'm thirsty"  "I need to go potty"  or the classic that always wins "I need to poop!"  [One can sleep with a peed diaper, one can go to bed hungry, but yell that poop word and that's the real way to get mom or dad running!]  But when the string of attention lines ran out, her lure to cross the door threshold turned up a notch.

She yanked on one end, I held the handle on the other.

Mark stood behind me, watching and learning the scene.

Then all of a sudden -- jiggle, jiggle, jiggle, -- piercing screech turned wail!

Sure enough, she electrocuted herself.

Pulled on the nightlight right next to the door and must have grabbed the metal spokes when it didn't release at first tug.

Not every kid learns to stay in bed with shock therapy.

*June 2016
~~~~~~


Chaos ravaged the house.  Toys splattered the floor, from toy food to doll house parts to baby clothes and stickers, each room displayed havoc.  Days-old cheese shreds, fruit loops and chip particles still smattered the dinner rug, left unattended once again.  Even the sippy-cup container had been dumped and discarded on the pantry floor.

I was on the floor, pumping.  Oh yes, the gloriousness of that escapade.  On the carpet in my room.  Because Judah wouldn't nurse.  No, he would yank and wail instead, so here I was hooked up to the cow machine.

Meanwhile, he should have been sleeping in his crib, like other babies do.  But instead he was crying, yelling for mom and attention within that fenced in cage.

Then a loud clunk clunk clunk followed by wham! wack! thud! and curling cries came from the stairs.  I rush half-naked to look and there she lays in a heap at the bottom, sprawled out limbs beside the Dora car she had tried to drag up the stairs.

And this was just one five-minute segment of the day.

Tension consumed me; discipline my battleground; anxiety wrapped my chest.  The afternoon drug on and I was like taunt spandex, stretched past my limit and now in tears.  Frustrated, defeated, embarrassed at my parenting, lack of patience, quick temper, and fighting every breath with my children. It was almost 4 o'clock so I chucked the kids in the car and headed to the Y.

In a huff, I checked them into childcare, a nervous wreck about leaving them there for the first time, worried and wrought in mind and emotions, but nonetheless I swatted the stickers on their back, and turned around.

Black dress and flip flops.

I wore a black dress and flip flops to work out at the Y.

What was I thinking?!

Oh wait, I wasn't.  All I was thinking is we were not going to all make it through the afternoon alive, or at least without stormy, heavy regret.  And I had enough of that already.

So in my stupor to get out of it all, I had worn a black dress and flip flops to the Y.

Classic.

At least that explains my numb toes on the walking track.

* June 12
~~~~~~~

I was standing juggling Judah, telling the above stories to friends, them laughing about the craziness of actually killing the fish and how it was so funny that I even warned her.  I'd wiped up the last feedings reflux from my shirt and shorts and let the stink settle in the fabric.  Finally, friend time.

Then I looked down.  I know that face, that stance.  A mother can recognize it from across any room.  The I'm-peeing-my-pants-right-now face.  Only the pants included the dripping to the round puddle on the wood floor, expanding as I spoke.

I sucked in my breath and walked her to the bathroom, leaving Emily to disinfect the floor.  Dress left on, bow still intact, she walked out cleaned-up and comando to finish the playdate.

Picking back up on my stories, somewhere between the aquarium fiasco and the YMCA scene, hands flailing in dramatics, I heard Megan say,  "Is that...?"  she pauses mid-statement and my eyes follow hers, answering the rhetoric, "Oh no!"

Poop.

Two great big logs laying right by my feet, my daughters feet, on the carpet.

Horrified, I grab papertowel in shock and pick up the remains, ushering her back to the bathroom.  I'm wordless, wondering what to do, how long to stay, or how to just pack up my children and ego and go.  We come back out, bracing myself with a smile to hide the sting.

The visiting mom remarks, "Wow, that was really well-formed..."

What else does one say in the moment of mortification?


*June 14
~~~~


Seriously, in this stage of life, it's all I can do to keep my people alive.

But I did kill the fish.

Kissing In The Kitchen.

One of the greatest blessings in my life was how much my parents loved each other, and how I knew, saw, witnessed and rested in this love.  For 32 years of marriage they found joy in each other, and acted like dating teenagers still around the time that she died.  There's a picture somewhere, taken by a professional photographer, the year she died, of both of them sitting on the gazebo holding hands and laughing, then another kissing.

They kissed a lot, and every where.  They kissed in the morning; they kissed at night.  They kissed after work and before church.  They'd kiss on vacation, kiss in the boat, kiss in the kitchen.

Kissing in the kitchen, and everywhere in-between, embossed their days with each other, for each other and others to see.  A stamp of love declaring they were one, one in joy and union and life and heart.  It wasn't blatant or sloppy or awkward or blunt, but simply life and love, like holding hands on errands or couch cuddling to sitcoms or touring on weekends away.  This physical pattern of love was marked and made and molded in life and memory.

As a child, I never blinked about it, or thought it unique, their love unashamed and unaware.  As a teenager, I remember hearing my aunt exclaim this was a gift they were giving us, this present to love each other enough, to love in the presence of others.

As an adult, I now know the difference, the gift, the love they gave.

They gave it to each other.  They gave their laughter and friendship, their free time and fun time.  Their belt-loop finger-linger's and hand-to-knee in church.  They gave songs and swift feet for dancing, dinners in the tropics, and date nights in GR. They gave their compliments and praises, their boasting and bragging, confident in each other, and what the other had done.

And they gave it to us.  Their steadfast love and safety, to each other, to create our home.  This secure sense of happy union, solid in their foundations, pronounced with positivity, affection, love, and the always-constant -- kisses in the kitchen.

Under A Bushel.

There is a man who lives in my neighborhood who never waves.

That seems of minuet concern.

But where it seems catching, is that he is a man who never waves whose profession declares him a Christ-follower.

There's the children song, "This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine... Hide it under a bushel, NO!  I'm going to let it shine...."

So what I can't get past is that...  this man who never waves recites scripture, unpacks parables, KNOWS JESUS and yet never waves.

This man knows the joy of Jesus.  The hope of Jesus.  The love of Jesus.

And yet, he refuses to wave.

I have to wonder if he knows his reflection of Jesus....

"This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine..."  We sing this chorus over and over again, and I think the simplicity of it is what is hard sometimes for philosophers and theologians and thinkers to practice.

To shine can simply be to smile.

Surely, it can be so many other things, on so many levels.  It can be fresh bread baked or dogs walked or flowers planted or sermons preached.

But it simplest form, the light of Jesus can simply be acknowledging people as human, as worth the seconds of the day.

"Hide it under a bushel, NO!"

It's a choice to hide it under a bushel.  To choose the frown, to speak the gossip, to slander the co-worker, to not wave.

This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine.

And I'm going to wave.

Mommy's Dots.

I'll edit/fix/rewrite this later, but wanted to get the thought/gist of it out before I forgot it...

_________


She touches them with picking fingers, curious.  "Mommy's dots?"  The moles along my neckline intrigue her, dark and bumpy and gnarled and spotty, dotting my collar bone and chest.

What started once as a question, turned into practical belief.

Once she'd asked, "Mommy dirty?"  while tracing the chunky moles on my skin, her nose wrinkled and eyes furrowed with concern.

"No, those are Mommy's dots.  That's how God made mommy."

I said the words, with assurance, feeling slightly sensitive about the brown spots but wanting to give my daughter words for making sense of them.  Just moles, but how to explain a mole to a 18 month year old?  So to clear away questions but give simplified response, I remarked, "That's how God made mommy."

Apparently that was enough.

Childlike faith.

Simple, clear, undoubted.

A few days later, she scratched Mark's cheeks, "Uh-oh, Daddy!"  She was clearly concerned about what was growing on his face.  I smiled at the stubble, "That's how God made daddy."

She looked at the lines on her wrist, "Wash it, Mommy."  She picked at the veins, blue and straight, the connectors of her arms and hands.  "Dirty.  Color."

"Oh Camilla!  That's how God made you!"  I smiled!

She looked up at me, as if that was enough to explain the purple coloring of blood under the skin.  "Mommy's dots.  God made mommy.  Daddy ____.  God made daddy.  Camilla [she pointed to her wrist veins] God made Camilla."

Her little voice perked with each statement, like dancing across connections.  Bright blue eyes reflecting understanding as well as simple assurance that all was well.

I beamed!  Inwardly screaming with joy that she got it!  She so simply grasped God and his creating!  Without question, just in an "of course", practical, way that put it all together.

Then, about a week later, she said again, as turned common, "Mommy's dots?" as she plucked at the moles on my neck.

"Yes, Camilla, those are Mommy's dots.  That's how God made Mommy."

"Noah!"

I couldn't hold the scream inward this time, "Yes!  Noah!  Yes, Noah, Camilla!  Good job!  That's the God who made Mommy's dots!"  I took her on a little jig around the room and twirled, so joyful of this little mystery, unlocking the truths where she finds them.  Her obessesion with Noah (mostly from the Bible DVD) and his sons, Shem, Ham, and Jepath, somehow sunk in to knowing it all was about God, really, and she linked that this was the same God who made mommy's dots.  Oh was I enthralled and joyfilled!

A few months later, we were sitting in our Home Club small group and a few of the newer moms with littler ones, under the age of one, were exposing the feeling of overwhelm to teaching their children about God, Jesus, and the Bible.  The pressure to read every kids Bible, recite scripture, pray intentional prayers, join the right circles, etc. left a weight that so heavy but their Jesus-loving mommy heart's so purposefully beared. Among them, I remember (and know) that feeling, but shared this little story about Camillla and "Mommy's dots" as a beautiful grace of how God goes before us and his Holy Spirit intercedes and does the work with and for us.

As God-fearing mothers, our hearts yearn so deeply for our children to lust after Christ that the thought of it can be paralyzing.  But just as little Camilla's connections of Mommy's dots and Camilla's veins and Daddy's stubble and Noah and God show, the Lord is at work with us for the hearts of our children, and he will lead and guide them to him with us.

She Should Be Here.

I was driving to my weekly doctors appointment, turning onto Alexander, when this song poured through my radio - You Should Be Here by Cole Swindell.

What started out three minutes earlier as a normal, routine drive, sent me into a tidal wave of emotion, bawling through stop lights and flooding tears down Providence.

She should be here.

She should be here, and know my husband.  She should be here and see him laugh, see him provide, see him care for me.  She should be here and know his heart, know his deep character, know his incredible love for me.  She should be here and know his name is Mark Christopher and he has dark hair and stunning blue eyes and likes Brooks Brothers and blue shirts and practical gifts and family time and making me happy.  She should be here and watch him grow, watch him learn parenthood, watch him weed the grass, carry in the mail, greet her at the door.  She should be here, and rub her hands on her apron and hug him and love him.  She should be here and know him, because he's my husband.

She should be here.

She should be here, and know my daughter.  She should be here and know her name, Camilla Rose Stone, and that she is full of life and vibrance and crazy and compassion;  that her hair is curly blonde and changes with the weather and her eyes match her Grandma's blues and she plays piano too.  She should be here and know her deep-gut laughter, her silly kiss faces, and love for all things.  She should be here and hear "Grandma" and "Hug" and "Go Home Mommy" and "Cheese" and know every little word and way its said, and tuck them in her heart like sparkling diamonds, mini beauitful treasures.  She should be here and sit with books piled on her lap, with Camilla and Baby Molly and all the others, then push them on swings and take her hand in a stroll.  She should be here and know the "purple room" and cuddle with soft hands and clothe with pink shoes.  She should be here and know my daughter, because she my daughter.

She should be here.

She should be here, and meet my son.  She should know his name, and that his room is soft cloud blue.  She should be here and dream in it, standing with me over newborn diapers and blue hued onsies and stacking pacis and tiny little shoes.  She should be here and say aloud his verse and pray for his courage and know I need it too.  She should be here and give words and hope and peace into this new boy-mommy, this waiting room.  She should be here, booking flights and arranging dates and packing suitcases to stay, with me, at my house, with my babies, with my family, because it's birth and life and my son and and her grandson and it matters.  I matter.  He matters.  She should be here, with me, waiting for my son, because he's my son.

She should be here.

She should be here, and know my house, my people.  She should walk into my kitchen and grab a Tervis and drink from a thick, wide straw.  She should be here and jump in my Explorer and get lunch out, because its Wednesday.   She should be here, and talk with me about roses and rugs and cleaning and decor.  She should be here and know Trish and Kelly and Emily and Amy and Sheree.  She should be here and know Crisp and Terrace and SouthPark and eat Uptown with Mark.   She should be here and see my life, know my family, and get it... be proud, be wowed, be so incredibly involved.  She should be here in my Charlotte life, because she's my mom, and it's my life.

She should be here.

She should be here, because she's my mom.  Because she's the only one I want to talk to about preschools and schedules and babies and pregnancy and hope and waiting and husbands and friends and life and community and books and church and teaching and tea.  She should be here because she'd get all of it, because she's my mom, and I'm me.  And I could talk and not filter, I could express and not guard, I could complain and be sifted, I could release and be hugged.  I could be loved.  She should be here so I could have "home" and places to land and soft spots to fall, and backbone for courage and stories for reference and her strength leaned on through it all.  She should be here, knowing the depth of me and listening to it all -- the rambles, the questions, the wrestlings, the confusion, of motherhood and churches and babies and toddlers and home...  She should be here, because she's my mother after all.

She should be here.

My Basket of Bread.

We were discussing the context of Nehemiah -- the desecration of Jerusalem, the ruins in piles, the remanent generations removed, the man God burdened with the rebuilding.  I prodded further, digging into application, and the difference of zeal verses common leadership.  We remarked on the power of passion in leadership, listing those burning with a cause, an ideal, a person, a mission.  Names from Abraham Lincoln to Mother Teresa to Martin Luther, all embodying an intensity for their calling, catalyist for change in lives and human history.

Coming closer to home, I paused, remarking on the "normal", the everyday, the people who impact, touch, imprint our own lives, simply in their day to day.  The friends, the teachers, the mentors, the neighbors; the significance none too small.  The touch of what may be "normal" but to one, but the heart, the hug, the voice, the difference in the day, or eternity.

Then she said softly, "I always think of the mother, the one who packed the bread and the fish in the basket for the boy."

Something in me stopped, inwardly clung to that line in her words.  Yes!  The seemly minuet act of the love and service of the mother, who one morning, packed two fish and five loaves of bread for her son, folded it in cloth in his basket, and sent him on his way, which would take him to Jesus, to the miracle.  That woman, that moment, that service, that love.

I sometimes wrestle these days, with my place, my calling, my gifts and where they are placed and purposed in the hours of the day.  For years I dreamed this vision, this life for which I now fully at home.  Yet for years I taught, I traveled, I friended, I wrote, I read, I lived in a way that displayed, exhausted, and clarified so many of my other gifts.  Sometimes in the quiet of the hours at home, I wonder who I was, who I am, and if the two can ever meet again.

My mom's group leader always says, "You can have it all; you just can't have it all at the same time." And she reminds us of the significance of seasons in life, and the pause and purpose in this season of Home.

Hearing the gentle words about the mother folding the bread in the basket for the boy, for Jesus, for the masses, for God's miracle, was just a little heaven-sent reminder of my place today.  Teaching Women's Bible Study, soft friendships, and nurturing life and learning and love in my home is this season.  And it is still important; it is still a place of leadership, of gifting, of passion and zeal.   Of miracles.

[She Will Be] Great In His Kingdom.

I walked into Home Club that Friday morning, shoulders slumped, tears filling my eyes and tensed exhaustion leaking from my soul.  I looked from Sharon to Emily to Lee Anne and spouted in weary frustration, "I'm done being a mom today. I'm just done!"

Lee Anne looked me straight in the eye, from her crouched position, with great confidence and gusto, her words knifing the lies with intesity and strength:

"You are a good mom,

And she will be great in His Kingdom!"

Her words stopped me in strict halt, the force like a blunt blow, sharp; with such clear, discerning, distinct assurance, shocking the energy in my tirade.

Speaking the Truth of God slaps Satan.  His word is referenced as "alive and active, sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing the soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart"  (Hebrews 4: 12)

When Lee Anne spoke those words, it was as if she was using the armor of God to attack Satan's lies in my motherhood, my view of my daughter, my role in the Kingdom.  She carried and handed me the "belt of truth and sword of the spirit" (Ephesians 6) and armed me with gospel-vision, concrete hope, and God's eyes for my daughter.

So often I see my daughter as "so much."  Which entails: so much -- so much energy, so much force, so much consuming, so much passion, so much crazy, just SO MUCH!  Sometimes this "so much" is beautiful, joyous and full of radiant, bright-eyed curiosity and naked, toddling, running butt cheeks scampering away with jolly giggles.  But, I confess, "so much" also translates justifying my frustration with her constant inertia, squeezing need, relentless spirit, grueling focus, and ravaging personhood.

But when Lee Ann called the gospel-eyes, Christ-life, kingdom-focus words over her, the vision of who my daughter is in Christ, cleared away the hazed, suffocating fog of the world, of Satan, of comparison away, and let me see her for the radiance of the image of God he created her to be:  Great in his Kingdom!

The scales fell from my eyes with those words, and I saw her for who she was, and what her role will be in His Kingdom.   Only with this renewed vision, resurrected hope, and restored gospel perspective, can I see the greater whole, the eternal glory that God creates with each hour, with each training choice, with each moment of mothering I cling to Christ for with my Camilla.

Her passion may billow into fearless leadership, strong-willed confidence, and unwavering faith.  Her sense of adventure, curiosity, and ravenous energy may just propel her to be a woman who is defiant against injustice, firm in the Truth, and and strengthening the weary.

Strong, focused, determined little children can grow up to be mighty, forceful, bold leaders for the sake of Christ, justice, and humanity. People like William Wilberforce, Billy Graham, Biblical Deborah, David Livingstone, Hudson Taylor, Jim Elliot, and the Apostle Paul were all zealous creatures, strong-willed and firm in their faith as well as forceful in their actions, but the "zeal of His house consumed" them (Psalm 69:9 John 2:17) and they did great things for the Kingdom.

These are the prayers I have for my daughter.  That God uses her sparked passion, her lust for learning, her diligence in task, her sharp focus, her abounding personality to strenghthen His kingdom.

May the words of Proverbs 31 be true of her: "She is clothed with strength and dignity, she has no fear of the future."  May the Lord redeem me, and use her, to be great in his Kingdom.  Amen.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

** Truth noted: a quiet and gentle spirit can also be great in His Kingdom, but that is not the focus of what the Lord was redeeming for me and teaching me here.