March In My Heart.

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

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

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

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

... And Carry On.

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

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

But, did God create us to keep calm?

Did God, Jesus, aspire to keep calm?

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

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

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

I beg to differ.

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

This is my God.

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

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

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

Cooking Club.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Busy Season.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

900 Square Feet.

900 Square Feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because He's Not Done.

He's not done!

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

He's not done!

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

He's not done!

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

He's not done!

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

He's not done!

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

Oh, how we should rejoice!

Because He's Not Done!

"He who began a good work in you 

will carry it on to completion 

until the day of Christ Jesus." 

(Philippians 1:6)

Same Job Twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today I'll quit the same job twice.

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

~~~~~~~~~

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

Remind Me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I like this song by Jason Gray:
Remind Me

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

Dreaming Or Dying.

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

Why?

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

Why?

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

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

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

Dreams keep me living.  Dreams keep me striving.

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

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

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

So instead of dying, I dream.

Confession.

Okay, I admit it.  I miss teaching.

I didn't for months.  But now I do.

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

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

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

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

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

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