Circus Soliloquies.

I guess its time I start an encore of soliloquies regarding life in my circus...  Apparently, summer has begun, or something, because they're starting to crowd together by the week now, and the stories have to be told somewhere, live somewhere, so someday we can all laugh, and I can relate to some mom who feels she's gone crazy, and he kids have too.  For real, people...  Wow...

~ ~ ~
** Note, surgery was originally scheduled for Friday, April 7.  But we ended up going to the doctor on Wednesday (can I mention we had 11 people sharing 1 bathroom then!?!?) and again Thursday for another ear infection, thus canceled surgery at 7pm Thursday night after talking to the surgeon at home....


Friday, April 14

Poor buddy, all drugged up and loopy.  They charioted him away on the big stretcher bed, trying to sing songs; little man turned in to a limp rag doll in his teddy bear and aqua gown, rolled down the hallway into the great unknown.

An hour and a half later, I started pacing, wearing down that waiting room floor.  Stretching tense muscles and worked up nerves.  We were cool, calm, collected the first ninety minutes, but now this was getting long.  Nurse comes to the receiving, I jump excitedly.  Nope, not for us.  I drop down defeated in my chair.  Put the timer on for the two-hour mark, I tell myself I'm allowed to ask then.

Two hours comes, tick-tock.  Trying to be chill, I walk to sweet, cheery Lolly at the font desk, "Can I get an update on my son Judah?"  She calls back, nope, still not even in recovery, still in surgery.  I report to Mark.  He says, they'll tell us if somethings wrong.  "No they won't!"  I say, "They go into medical panic mode and only tell us if he's getting ambulance to Levine.  They're not going to come and tell us that his blood is flying out or his breathing stopped or something!"

I start crying. Now worked up.  A lot.

Nurse comes.  The kid's okay.  Screaming.  But made it through.  They hand him to me in a pile of blankets and cords; I don't know which is what but they tell me to sit.  I cradle my buddy, both upset, he's shaking and freaking out, unaware of where he is or what is going on.

I see blood.  Smears of it across the blanket.  The nurse comes to my frantic concern.  He ripped his IV out.  Blood.  Tears.  Screams.  Maybe his?  Maybe mine?

Poor Buddy, Poor Mama Heart.

We get him home, hugging him crushingly in the backseat.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Monday.

Three days later.  Yes, three days later.

Kalea is over to play, Emily is chatting.  Camilla is in the water, Judah walks by.  We're all standing directly together, huddled on the little back patio.

He bumps into the plastic pool.

Plastic, flimsy, 1990s version of floppy patio pool.

Exactly.

There he goes.

Three days after casting, he falls head-first into the pool, cast and all.

Nope, not waterproof.

Nope, not supposed to get wet.

Yep, drenched.

I rap him, quickly panicked, and pick him up out of the surge of water now overflowing outward.  He's screaming.  I tell Emily haphazardly, shaking my head, "Can you watch the girls!?"

I'm in no rush at all, just shaking my head.  Of course my kid would fall into the pool and get his cast soaked three days after its on.  Of course I'm the mom that has to call the surgery center and ask about infection, re-casting, or what to do.  Of course it was just in surgery three days ago.

Never crossed my mind till a couple weeks later that he could have taken in water, that the screaming was probably from water in his nose, that he could have hit his head.  Nope, no thought to the head-first fall in a pool, just wanted the kid out of the water to save the cast.

For real, kiddo.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tuesday, April 25


Rough afternoon.  She already screamed so much she had been in her room before Ellie came, then came out, tried to regroup, and had found her self failing the time-out attempt on the stair steps and was locked back in her room.  Judah was clamoring at the backdoor to go outside, and sweet Ellie was just playing whimsical with her mommy, wondering what all the fuss of the other two was about, and why Camilla wasn't around to play.

We try to reset.  Outside.  Always go for outside, the winner.  Yep, get your shoes on.  Out the door.

The kids are wandering, playing.  Two tricycles out; one bike.  The toy lawnmower, a plastic rake.  The other neighbor comes over, and Taylor joins Ellie and Camilla in the what-not, while Judah continuously tots his little jeaned buns up the sidewalk, despite the numerous attempts to keep him contained on the driveway at home.

Kathryn, Brian, Melissa, and I all chatter about, watching our kids and catching up in between...

When we hear the click and clamor of the garage door start luring and churing itself toward close.

What!?  We all turn around, finding three little bodies standing near the stairs, stark and still, stuck in position, frozen in fear.

I throw my hands up, knowing, yep, of course this happening, of course at my house three littles get locked alone under the closed garage door.

I swing my foot under the door to prompt the sensor for stop.

Uhhhh.  Nothing.  It keeps cascading downward.

I grab the door itself, chugging heavily and purposefully to close.

It doesn't yield to my efforts or strength.

Screams start to steamroll now out of the garage.  What started as a solo, turned into a ensemble of squalling, freaked-out kids.

Screams might be a mild version to say what noises shrilled the air.

I think quickly and run through the front door of the house towards the back, garage door.

You would have thought someone was being murdered.  The exhaling shrieks that came from those three little bodies were enough to make horror movies blush.

I nailed the garage door button, opening it to safety.

Screeches continued.

Taylor screamed bloody-murder so intensely he was shaking, freaking out.  Judah was full-on freaked out with streams of tears pouring down his face.  And Camilla's fright came out in frantic running circles around the garage, squalls of noise releasing, and streaked face red from terror.

The garage door rose, light poured in.  The parents outside were laughing.

And so was I, shaking my head.  The circus continues, with stories to be told...

Paper Plates.

Last spring, as summer stared at us wide in the face, bright and alert, screaming energy and lurking for attention, so did my newborn son.  Only a few weeks old and he would stay awake twelve hours a the day, no sleep to ensure, and his toddler sister never stopped -- not her full-blown personality or her eyelids.

A friend was over and I started for the cupboard and laughed, half apologizing, half throwing my hands in my air at this blessed predicament and said:  "We're in a season of paper plates. Sorry, that's all I got around here.  No time to unload the dishes, no time to eat real dinners, so I'm dishing up whatever I've got and throwing it on paper plates and calling it good.  There, I fed my family, and now I throw the plate away.  I've got to minimize anything around here that I can."

She laughed, smirking and shrugging, "Us too!  I told my husband last night that I'm doing paper plates through the summer.  Just taking them out, eating on the porch, and throwing them away.  Besides, it has to be somewhat cost efficient right -- not running the dishwasher all the time?!"  We laughed loud and shook our heads.

Commradery in season.

Life didn't slow down, and neither did our serving of paper plates.  We bought them in stacks and shared them relentlessly.  Our door kept opening and people kept eating, so paper plates did the job.  The minimalist; necessary.  Burgers fresh on the grill or simple salad, store-bought cookies or English Muffin breakfasts, paper plates it was.  Serve them, dine them, trash them.  Breakfast: done.  Lunch: done.  Dinner: done.  Snacks: done. Hospitality: done.

I don't know when I stopped using them, but somewhere near the rounding of fall, I must have thought dishwasher-requiring porcelain plates were back in style in my house.  Perhaps with comfort food or hot dishes, real plates seemed necessary.  But for months now, I've taken those antiqued white pretties out for every. single. meal.

Today the same friend left my house and I looked back around at the catastrophe of my house.  Puzzles askew, grapes spilled over, half-drunk coffees and waters left about.  Tonka trucks and drums and duplos and tambourines all littered the floor.  The kitchen still dolupped with breakfast dishes piled high; the dishwasher needing unloading. Chaos abound.

I rolled my eyes and smirked.  Predicament.  What a mess.

Yet:  What fun.  What friendship.  What time in the trenches with our littles.  What crazy dinners with our family "around" our table.  What tea parties on the kitchen floor.  What food cut and sliced and slopped and forked.  What people loved and hugged and hosted and homed in this home...

It's important to me to have a home that is... a home.  Where kids can run wild, where their hearts are free.  Where the indoors of life is trampolines, firetrucks, tutus and kazoos.  Where bellies are fed, and meals are eaten united.  Where people are welcomed and hosting happens.

Yet this life abundant -- in noise and toys and people and parties -- sometimes needs a little breath, a little filter, a little simplifier...

So, once again, in this spring-time season, I'll still be serving... with paper plates.

Start With Oatmeal.

It all began with oatmeal.  It was seven am and the kids were both up and stooled in the kitchen, Judah propped high in the green stool and Camilla contained on the purple and pink one.  And I turned around with watered oatmeal in my hand to nuke it warm and soft.  The coffee was brewing, the sun still not revealed, but the kids and I were roused awake with morning under full force.

Then wack! went the porcelain bowl, edge colliding with the corner of the wall-mounted microwave, white dish clapping against the ground with the bursting volcano of oatmeal spraying out of it all directions.

I stood blinking a minute, stunned in my now wet, dripping robe, surveying the damage: loose oatmeal and water splattered at every angle of cupboard and counter, the pantry door, the refrigerator, dishwasher, the whole of the kitchen.  Up and down, like a tsunami of steel oats and sticky water speckled and sloshed.

I could tell from Camilla's face, how I reacted mattered.  Because -- oh no, it was mommy this time who made the mess.  I got down with the thick roll of Bounty paper towel and started to mop up the deepest pools, rolling the remarks about "don't cry over spilled milk" over and over in my head.

Yet two hungry kids needed to be fed.  So before finishing, I swooped them up and settled - buckled - them into their high chairs.  Seated now.  Contained.  I pulled eggs out of the already-open microwave and sprinkled them into pieces on Judah's tray, then rearranged new oatmeal before Camilla.

Gathering a red bucket of vinegar water, I squeezed the rag between my fingers, removed my robe, and started crawling around the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, smelling of vinegar and brown sugar oatmeal and ham and eggs. Bare knees rubbing on wood, my hands scrubbed the soppy mess sliding down every corner.

Then, a thud! Clunk.

I peered around the island corner, bracing myself for whatever fell or broke...

But worse:  There was Judah, holding the edge of the tablecloth;  somehow The Little Destroyer pulled the whole thing over his way, with the entire contents of the table with it.  All. Over. The Floor.

Eggs.  Ham. Oatmeal. Flowers. Cards. Cheese. Valentines.  Everything.  A mornings worth of debris sprinkled about.  Add it to the rug stains.

I stood up in my mix-matched pajamas, knotted ponytail floppy atop my head.

To laugh or cry?  Blink or look?  Cringe or sigh?

I decided to scrap the rest of breakfast altogether.  Unbuckled the kids, grabbed a few of the biggest chunks off the floor, and turned to grab my phone to share with family what could only make their morning slightly comical at this point.

In the couple seconds of getting started a talk-text phone chat, I hear: "Mom!  Judah's going upstairs!"

The kid is so fast.  And I am not an absent parent.  I round the corner and my 10 month old son is atop the stairs, super proud and determined.  Destined.  And I know exactly where.

He loves the toilet.  Like a dog.  He could play it it and lick from it all day if I'd let him.

[I don't.]

So I take a second to tuck my phone away and dart upstairs.

He's already grabbed the toilet seat with wet fingers.  Yuck.   Nothing good can be growing in there.

But this little guy has a grab on that toilet seat like he's going for gold.  I loop one arm around his waste and lug him to my hip while my second hand goes to get his gnarled, clinging fingers off the nasty seat.

Breaking him free, I swing him around, swirl him on my hip toward the door, while, simultaneously, Camilla steps in the bathroom, thus slamming heads, colliding and bonking each other lending to streaming tears and screams in unison.

Someone start the day over.

And it's only 8 AM.

Happy Valentines, 2017.

Aprons In Heaven {Revised}.

Written for the Church At Charlotte 2017 Women's Ministry Devotional, Themed: Be Present

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

Aprons In Heaven.

“After leaving them, he went up on a mountainside to pray.”  Mark 6:42

She would always wipe her hands on her apron, dusting off the day’s debris, and reach out with a two-arm hug.  Whatever had filled her hands before instantly ceased of importance the minute we walked in the door.  The iron would come unplugged.  The spatula would rest aside the bowl.  The phone would click back into its holder.  Whatever the task at hand, it wasn’t important.  We were.  She was always present for us; intentional and loving.  

When I think of being present, I think of my mom and her apron-living.  She was never without those colorful garments, yet though the work could have kept her constantly darting or endlessly preoccupied, she never wavered in the practice of being fully present with people.  I think of this present-ness with now with my own family, my friends, my neighbors, the women in the check out line and at the restaurant. I long to be someone who puts aside my agenda, and loves well because of it.  For being present, undistracted or unhurried, is to love.

When I think of being with Jesus, I’m embarrassed to think of my Bible on my lap, my phone full of texts I’m writing and reading, my to-do list open to scroll, and my availability to other people unhindered. Yet, when I think of Jesus being present with the Father, I think of the Scripture: “Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed”  (Luke 5:16).  Surely, he was in union with the Father all day, but even the Son of God needed to withdraw, undistracted, and be fully present with God.  He walked away from the crowds, from his friends, from his tasks, to be undivided with the Lord.  He was fully present in his trinitarian communion and love.  

He is our example, and this my call, to practice love by being fully present in His presence and others. And this is eternal my hope: that there are aprons in heaven, where myself, Jesus, loved ones, and my mom will all wipe away every tear and task to dwell in the very present love of the Father. 

Save Our Sons And Daughters.

We meandered through the tents and noises, Roman soldiers scattered about, beggar boys running, fish spread in the market.  Women told stories of Daniel and sold leather with candles or oils or cheese to taste.  The camel stood matted and chewing, the goats rubbing against the fence.  Jewish boys twisted the cradle while the inn keeper nodded no room.  "Did you hear, a baby has been born?!" the people said, one after another, as if in a whisper, as if in awe.  Almost with mesmerized wonder, questioning where or how but beckoning to see.  So we followed their nudges, their coaxing, their marvel, enticed and allured at what it could be.

The doors opened to farm-like, with oxen and donkey braying next to sheep.  But it was the glory of voices that awakened, almost trilling and willing us to see.  "Noel!  Noel!"  They rang, haunting and joyful, filling the sky with soprano and alto.  Amazement and wonder, they proclaimed:  a baby!

And there, cradled by mother, wrapped in white linen cloths, was he.  Literally, tiny human-boy baby, held; hardly weeks old, snuggled but all-watching, savored, bundled, He.

We watched the wiseman tarry their gifts, their eyes a glow to see him.  We watched the children set their coins; sacred wasn't missed by these.  The songs of the angels carried with honor, esteem they shouted in their "Hallelujah" and "Glory!" For unto us, they said, was both this baby, this tiny human: He.

~ ~ ~

I sat on my kitchen floor, later that evening, spooning soft orange squash into my son's mouth, Christmas carols enchanting my lips, singing softly, then loudly as the music played.  The modern classic tumbled off my lips, like the food from Judah's, "Mary, did you know, that your baby boy would give sight to a blind man? Mary did you know, that your baby boy would calm a storm with his hand..."  And I couldn't help but reminisce and roll back through the morning tour of Walk Through Bethlehem, with new, stark, powerful, almost piercing intensity, as the words caught my chest and belted now loudly, through me.

"Mary did you know that your baby boy would one day walk on water?

Mary did you know that your baby boy would save our sons and daughters?

Did you know that your baby boy has come to make you new?

This child that you've delivered, will soon deliver you?!"

And then I stopped.  I put the spoon down.  I almost flinched in recognition, in new understanding.

This baby boy would save my son and daughter!!

When we had walked through Bethlehem earlier, the journey kept me wide-eyed and interested, peering and peeking, but when the babe in a manger was revealed, all I could partake in with wonder, was that he was real.  Real.  Like not a doll, not a plastic manger piece, not a pretend carving or bumpy-empty blanket, but real-life flesh and bones, little pursed lips and blinking eyes.  So the god-birth aside, I could only gape at the actual human-form baby.

Yet now the words trickled through my spine like sparklers igniting.  Knowledge anew, faith enhanced, life-giving bright lightning.

Save our sons and daughters!

This baby boy, this manger wrapped child, was born to save my son and daughter!  This baby boy was He!  The game changer.  The one.  The man.  Born in human flesh but the power to conquer it.  Tiny ears, crinkled fingers, rounded toes, yet pounding through hell and all adversity.

And it hit me fresh.  This babe a manger, this reason for Christmas, this new celebration, was everything.

Save my sons and daughter!

Out of this language, this line, this child, everything in heaven and earth would be uniting.  No longer would my children be stuck in sin, in doubt, in despair, in death, but would breath the hope and life and joy of eternity!  My children!  My children!  Saved from death, to life in eternity!

And then my eyes started simmering with tears -- save my sons and daughters -- from death to life, to eternity...  Means to meeting Jan Wever, their grandmother, waiting for them with expectant arms and hot brimming tea, in heaven, for eternity.

Oh joy and gladness erupted from me!  The singing turned to coarse screaming with every bit of gumption and loudness and rejoicing I could exalt, and Judah could bare!

Save our sons and daughters!

This babe born in a manger, this Christmas-child, this innocent life, would conquer it all.  And now, no longer, nothing could separate us from love of God, which is in the Christ, Jesus, the son of God [Romans 8].  And nothing would separate my son and daughter from the meeting of my mother with her grandson and granddaughter!  Not heaven or earth, life or death, situations or geography, near or far, alive or dead.  She would meet them!  They would hug her! They would hold her!   They could talk with her! They could play with her!  Because this baby in a manger came to:

Save my son and daughter!

The chorus burst into bridge:

"The blind will see!

The deaf will hear!

The dead will live again!

The lame will leap!

The dumb will speak:

The praises of the Lamb!"

The music blared, my son stared.  My arms raised out in exclamation and praise and worship.

This is why we worship this babe in the manger.  This is why we pause and stare.  This is why he shakes the kingdoms.  This is why I celebrate Christmas this year.

For this babe in a manger, this ten-toed wonder, will save my son and daughter.

- - - - - - - -

Paired reading: Isaiah 9: 2-3; 6-7

Christmas Card to Heaven.

** The writing and pattern and sounds don't really flow/make sense... 

but i'm still 'sending' this, unedited, unre-read, 

because its what I'd want to say, today... **

If I could send a Christmas card to heaven, I'd write her and this is what I'd say:

The children are flourishing!  Mom, you'd love to see!  You wouldn't imagine Camilla's giggles and squeals and wide-open eyes and smiles and face -- curious and learning, asking "why?" and questioning me.  Wanting to know about cement trucks and health care and teaching and Presidents and me.  Asking the opposites, "happy or sad?" and "healthy or sick?" and full conversations to follow.  Paragraphs, believe me.  The car is never quiet, the house is never still, she's as rambunctious as ever, but now mostly in her brain.  She sits quiet at story time and listens intently, she eyes friends and neighbors and still loves to hold my hand.  She asks questions about God and faith and belief and heaven.  Where is He?  Where is that? and I just pray for to believe.  We call them "sprouts" to see.  She's a transforming metamorphosis, from crazy to curious, loving dolls and dollhouse and some independent play.  She's a daddy's girl and Nan's favorite, reliving Michigan memories and the CYMA (ymca).  Her best friend is Kalea, and together they giggle while play.  She loves church and Bible Study and Jesus and Moses. And surely, mom, she would love you, too!

Judah is fascinating, learning something new each day.  Proud of standing and clapping and waving and saying "mama."  This month has been amazing, moving from 8-9, watching his eyes light with knowing and his body create the energy to follow suit.  His ears are so much better, the tubes have seemed to work.  He's still smiling and gummy, but now has one tooth.  His favorite thing is music, he hears the word to dance and now is our "Mr. Piano Man."  He makes sounds of anything, drums the toys and tamborine; his second favorite is the Sesame Street and clearing that little house clean.  He climbs up on Camilla's kitchen, emptying every box and bucket, then smiles that one-tooth smile knowing the mess is seen.  He doesn't care to read, but will open and close everything -- from the coffee pot to books to trash can.  He's loving unwrapping the toilet paper and time with Grandpa makes him gleam.  His eating is still frustrating; butternuts squash the staple, some smoke sausage and turkey and rice in-between.  He rarely likes to sleep, and naps are overrated, for why sleep through the night when there is mom or dad to be seen?!

Mark is dad and husband and blue-shirt wear-er.  The HOA President and small-group leader.  He wears so many hats you'd be amazed and proud and wondering and see him waring...  He's watering the grass and writing emails, grilling steaks and pushing Camilla on the swings.  He tries so hard at everything, and about that you would beam.  He's still handsome and stunning and polished, though those gray sweatpants are cozy too.  He's got a new job -- at Sealed Air -- and is working again with purpose.  He's got his passion back, and loves the people there too.  It's good to see him thriving, exhausting as that may be.  He still takes me out on dates, and we're even planning a weekend away!

We've had lots of adventures, that's what our family does.  From airplane museums to zoos, apple-picking to hot-air-balloons!  We've driven to pick pumpkins, taken the train to see the bears, swam many Saturdays at the YMCA and driven to Michigan too!  For Christmas we "visited" Bethlehem, but spent summer at Smith Mountain Lake.  Nan and Grandpa built a pool, so that will be on next-years to-do.  We've stayed busy and connected with Community Group, what chaos and commitment to add that in too!  But we want friends and Jesus followers pushing us onward and upward too.

And me, mom, I'm always swirling.  Full or wondering or wishing or wanting.  Exhausted with these endless hours, and yet still somehow thriving.  I know I'll look back and see pictures of Judah's grins or remember Camilla's giggles.  I'll find my rosy-glasses and forget how hard it really is.  But mostly mom, this Christmas season, right now I'm just missing you.

I'm missing you, with your hugs and caring, your Christmas cooking and carol-singing.  I'm missing your applause and clapping, somehow words to say you see me caring.  I'm missing Smith surprises, bustling with games on Christmas day, or holidays filled with gyms of people, joy and echoes bouncing along the way.  I'm missing you with your Christmas sweaters, your lipstick, your quiet time for tea.

I'm missing you for all the years you loved us all together, as one, as a complete and real family.

I'm missing you mom.  So I'm sending a Christmas card to heaven.

Love and hugs always, Mom.

Love,

Me

Teach Her To See.

I'm sure this is niave.  
The two-year-old mother, 
with hope-filled dreams.

But, Lord help me please, 
to teach her to see.

The garbage man waving 
in the blue-truck seat.  
The teacher bending 
to talk on one knee.  
The waitress refilling 
the coffee cup twice.  
The Bible Study teacher 
smiling so nice.  
The mail lady chatting 
with envelopes in hand, 
the blower-carrying 
lawn-mowing man.  
The story-time reader 
at the library each week, 
the dad who helped 
put shoes on her feet. 

I want her to see 
the background, the effort, 
the work, the toil 
or daily routine.  
That others put forth 
beyond just what is "seen".

So often she sits, 
with yells from her seat,  
for whatever she thinks 
she urgently needs.  
I stop, I pause, 
I bite my teeth, 
to show her, to stop her, 
to teach her to see.  
To ask her, to lend her, 
the eyes that open, 
to look who is ready, 
and then stop and see: 
her mommy still standing, 
still cutting or scooping, 
still pouring in kitchen 
to serve all the needs.   
I ask her to look, 
to wait, to listen, 
and then take those moments t
o teach her to see.

I want her to see, 
the world big or broken.  
The child who cries, 
the laborer who laughs, 
the tasks done around her, 
the people, the hands.  
To see them all working, 
or all having needs, 
and find her place serving 
or getting dirt on her knees.

In this world of so many, 
my heart tries to teach her, 
so many people, 
beyond just her needs.  
Now Lord please enable, 
this mother-heart trying, 
to equip her and show her, 
to teach her to see.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

*written originally as prose, with cadence*

I'm sure this is niave.  The two-year-old mother, with hope-filled dreams.

But, Lord help me please, to teach her to see.

The garbage man waving in the blue-truck seat.  The teacher bending to talk on one knee.  The waitress refilling the coffee cup twice.  The Bible Study teacher smiling so nice.  The mail lady chatting with envelopes in hand, the blower-carrying lawn-mowing man.  The story-time reader at the library each week, the dad who helped put shoes on her feet. 

I want her to see the background, the effort, the work, the toil or daily routine.  That others put forth beyond just what is "seen".

So often she sits, with yells from her seat,  for whatever she thinks she urgently needs.  I stop, I pause, I bite my teeth, to show her, to stop her, to teach her to see.  To ask her, to lend her, the eyes that open, to look who is ready, and then stop and see: her mommy still standing, still cutting or scooping, still pouring in kitchen to serve all the needs.   I ask her to look, to wait, to listen, and then take those moments to teach her to see.

I want her to see, the world big or broken.  The child who cries, the laborer who laughs, the tasks done around her, the people, the hands.  To see them all working, or all having needs, and find her place serving or getting dirt on her knees.

In this world of so many, my heart tries to teach her, so many people, beyond just her needs.  Now Lord please enable, this mother-heart trying, to equip her and show her, to teach her to see.

Broccoli in Teeth.

"Now go and sin no more."

We call it love.

We call it grace.

We call it mercy.

We call it many things, but we do not call it what it is -- sin -- because we are afraid to actually call it out.

We shrug it off.

We brush it away.

We laugh it aside.

But we do not call it out.

Our brother or sister in Christ, standing there in their sin, and still we leave them be.

Because we are afraid of relationship.  Afraid of retribution.  Afraid of ruffling feathers.

Are we not also afraid of leaving someone in their sin?

Both sins of omission or sins of commission.

The Bible very clearly shares the story of Jesus speaking to the adulterous woman, loving her in her sin, but then freeing her of her sin by admonishing it and then instructing her to walk away from it.

"Now go and sin no more" speaks Jesus in John 8:11.

As Christ-followers, we are called to come along side others to make them more like Christ, to challenge them to be imitators of him, holy and dearly loved.

And yet we so often let this act of pruning, this iron sharpening, this willful growing, instead become slothful disobedience to his command to lend others become more like Christ.

We let them sit with their selfishness, their blatant choices, their blaring decisions.  We let them ease away from hard-work, service, and sacrifice.  We let them speak slander, mock purity, and store up storehouses of sinking treasures.

Becoming like Christ can often come through pain and discourse, scratching and squeezing.  It is uncomfortable to be molded, or whittled, like clay pots or broken trees.

Yet we let our loved ones lie.  Leaving them in their sin, their selfishness.  We call it many things, but we do not call it out, or call it sin.

We allow instead, fellowship as a false facade.  Relationships teetering to keep harmony in tact.  Passivity disguised as kindness.  Fear displayed as meekness.  Enabling masked as caring. Trepidation hiding truth.

All the while, leaving our fellow Christ-follower living in their sin, like having broccoli in their teeth.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Read more:
Speak the Truth [in Love].
Truth in Relationships.
Slow to Speak.
* Note: good discussion regarding the difference between "hurt" and "harm" in the Boundaries book by Henry Cloud and John Townsend
** Broccoli in teeth analogy taken from Amber Porter, speaking at Every Little Step; Church at Charlotte, November 2016.

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.