Rain Shelter.

 Being a camp counselor was probably my favorite job ever.  I would give everything that I had six days a week - singing with motions, speaking Truth at the campfire, lifeguarding by the blob.  It was full-on joy, ministry, adventure, and emotion.  All for the glory of God.

But one specific night remains deep in my heart, swallowed by my soul like a sip of rose tea, sweet and warm, cozy and life-giving all at the same time.

It was a Thursday night, the night of one-on-ones.  When the kids could ask or share anything with their counselor , in private and alone, on a blanket outside the cabin.  Just the camper and counselor, a special time to unveil worries, voice home struggles, work out theology, and share in the Gospel.  And pray.

The moon always hung low, darkness soothed the day away, crickets chirped in the crisp woods behind, the crackle of the fire turning to ashes popcorned in the sky.  Campers cozied in the nightgowns and old T-shirts, snuggled in sleeping bags and strew across sixteen bunks of beds.  One at a time, we'd whisper names and call them out to the blanket outside, their personal emporium with wise counselor and a safe space.

This particular night, clouds shadowed the sky, and rain rippled near by.  

I sat cross-legged, nestled under the starry night sky, sharing stories and listening to teenage sagas, praying for wisdom and strength of soul.

The pitter patter of rain drew closure, as I drew near to listen.  I started to pray. For God's sacred covering, for His shelter.  For his protection.  This blanket, this time, this one-on-one was sacred space in the week of a camper.

 Rain turned from sprinkles to droplets, from quiet mist to gentle thunder.  We watched the night sky, I willed it to stop raining while simultaneously fidgeting for a back-up plan. The camper kept talking.

Rain drizzled and leaked from the sky, quiet thunder rumbled alongside. The glow of cabin lights were our only flicker in the sedated storm.

The camper kept chatting, conversation and cares of the heart spilled from her lips.

I listened in, her heart spread wide.

Then I looked around.

The blanket was dry.

I was dry.

Anne (my counselor-in training) was dry.

The camper was dry. 

Rain dotted every leaf around us, prickled every cabin roof, and sifted in the sand on the dirt.

But not in the circle of our blanket.

A heavenly umbrella, God's presence. drew a circle around us, protecting us from the rain.

Wet and rainy all around us, but dry on our blanket, only my camper and I.

I'll never forget this story, this night.  Because God did the impossible, for the remembrance to me of his Glory.  That he could, that he can, stop the rain from the cloud in the sky.  And, that he Did.  For me, just this camper and I.

When Strivings Cease.

 I have been home now, basically on bedrest, for 5 1/2 weeks.  And the Lord has been good to my soul.  I lay here without movement, none at all or I am excruciating pain from the herniated disc.  But my bedroom has become my solace, a quiet respite when usually I rush and worry and run.  

Yet he prepared me.  May I remember that he prepared me.  

This fall, Catherine Nations regarded our Growing Together group to read "When Strivings Cease" by Ruth Chou Simons.  Frankly the book wasn't great.  But it was used!  God prepared me for a time like this when truly in all ways, my striving has ceased.  

The premise of this book comes from Psalm 46:10.  

"Cease Striving and know that I am God."

or, as I learned as a child in the NIV84 "Be Still and Know that I Am God."

I think the literary emphasis is changed when I read the two verses, and the meaning of them impacts me so differently in these translations.  Perhaps because one I have memorized for years, have on mugs, and championed and different times.  But for me - the command to be still simply can cause anxiety these last few years of parenting, so it hasn't reverberated in the same ways.

However, "Cease Striving" hits me like a fork in the middle of head.  Light a knight losing a fencing battle.  Cease Striving!  When now that lets me drop it all, all my efforts, work, frantic fears and poof, let it fall at the floor.

Reading this book in the fall, I mostly skimmed what seemed obvious, truths I had already learned.  But I gifted it to my sister and thought even the quotes were scrolled pretty.

However, I had no idea what was coming.

What he prepared me for:

Cease Striving.

Here I lay, I do not move for carpool, groceries, volunteering, or meal prep.  I can't.  None.

My striving has ceased.

And oh, how it is good for my soul.

The pressure, because I literally can't, relaxes in my chest, and I dwell in it.

Trish calls it a Forced Sabbatical.

And I agree.  And I call it good.  

A few weeks of permanent rest, when strivings cease.

It has been a cocoon for my soul.  And He prepared me.  So I rest.

Courage, Mama, Courage.

We have an often repeated line in our home: "Courage, Mama, Courage!"  

Because sometime, you just need someone to encourage you in the fight, to lift up your arms, to tell you to keep going, to believe you can do it.

Now in our home, this line is used for Costco runs, for making dinner, for getting out the vacuum.  The seemingly little nuisances that plague the moment and overwhelm the mind.  But in truth, the line is also a trademark I want to give my kids.

They think they are enabling me with strength, which they are, but I am also gifting them with words and character influence for life.  In chanting "Courage, Mama, Courage" the usher me to keep trying, to lift up my chin, to do the hard things.  Their little voices chant this line and I take a deep breath and get out of the car or sit straighter to sign up for a new endeavor to will myself to meet a new friend, once again.  But in this, they see my fumbling and they breathe life and strength into my mundane or mountainous.  They learn the ways of living, and the inner conversation to motivate 

I want them to hear "Courage, Camilla, Courage!" when a school assignment feels big, when waving at a friend across a parking lot feels uncomfortable, when applying for college.  I want them to hear "Courage, Judah, Courage!" when walking into Preschool feels insurmountable, when trying out for soccer feels insecure, when asking a girl on a date feels massive.

I want them to know its okay to need courage.  It's okay to feel insecure or weak or overwhelmed.  But then have language and examples on how to live in that and walk through it.  

** Never Finished, wrote August 5, 2020.

Grace Upon Grace: Goldfish for a Year.

_ _ _ _ _ 

Original post started in July 2018

My neighbor and I were standing at the counter, both shaking our heads, half complaining, half encouraging, about the craziness of this season of life and the pressures with it.  Its shocking to me how many pressures I feel, how quickly and often I feel the weight and intensity of comparison, and how much of my day is influenced by discouragement or despair.  Satan has grabbed every stronghold possible, and tugged me down and down, and pummeled me on the ground over and over again.

I try to stand up, laugh it off, and shake my head.  But then he comes at me from another angle and I'm struck and saddened and fallen.  Not on my knees, not in prayer as I should, but in despondency and defeat.

I was rattling over all this to a friend, about a million of frustration with my kids and my inability to make them happy, to get them fed and slept.  To pretty much do anything.  And there screamed Judah, wanting more goldfish, the only thing he'd eat for the last few hours.

That's when she quipped the grandest truth of the day:  "It's not like when you get to heaven, God's going to care if your kid ate goldfish for a year.  He's not going to ask you that."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So this slogan, from this passing conversation years ago, has become my filter, my mantra for years.  When things feel big, when decisions feel weighty, when I am out of grace, I remember this grace: Goldfish for a year.  God's grace is bigger than it all.  The filter relaxes my angst, releases my self-righteousness, and softens the comparison.  In the end, God isn't concerned about all these other things, nor will he judges us about all the other choices, or how we lived them.  He wants our hearts.  Solely set on him, loving him.  That's all that matters in the end, at the pearly gates.  Not if we ate: goldfish for a year.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

(Ranted below on November 2018)

*** No time to edit, rewrite, etc....  Just starting to put it out there...  ***
** Probably going to offend just in the reading... 
because we all live in the offense and defense...
But read and clarify, down to the importance - the end"

Motherhood has become one of the most divisive roles of my life.    It's shocking, hurtful, interesting, and surprising how incredibly much it slices and splices, yet yearns for grace and empathy.  

Motherhood is a constant sizing up of what one says, how one does it, and added (unsolicited) snips towards how it should be... better, best.  Even if tempered, with effort is to filter, it's still so incredibly apparent sensitive, how we raise kids or love our children or live in our homes, that I duck back in my shell, lock my door, cut out friends, and fear most conversations about children or motherhood or family.

The divisive lines fall in every conversation.  Quit frankly, on her side and mine.  Our stones in hand, though we pretend their down.  Defensive, offensive, quiet and outspoken.  We stand behind our battle lines, tuck back inside our home.  Queen of our castles, my mother-in-law would say.  Feeling threatened by others, and proving we know the best way.  For ours and yours and mines and hers.

The topics are intense, and vary along every single line.  

She breast-fed for three years, you bottled. She's serving organic while you're stuffing Oreo. She cuts peppers, you open a lunchable.  Every mother's margin in different, her children's demeanors are different.  Every mothers own home growing up was different, so her knowledge or training or accessibility to help or wisdom or food is different.

((As my mother in-law-says: fed.  Go for fed.  And as I say: keep them alive.  Sometimes that's all you can do: keep them alive.)). [Insert your judging here.]

Then there's books and school.  Homeschooling, public, private, or tutors...  Pretty spaces, new desks, or piles of papers and scattered pens.  Experiential learning or reading books, books, and more books...  ((To clarify: Jesus' mother had no books, read no books, could not read books!  And Jesus was God-man, so this was perfectly okay!))

That child likes the inside, this child lives outdoors.  That child dresses in Batman, this one lives in pink twirls.  That mom does crafts, play dough, and games in the home.  That mom does adventures and aquariums and zoos.  That child feels loved, and that one does too.

When we ALL get to heaven, Jesus will not ask us if we homeschooled or private schooled or Christian schooled or public schooled.  He won't ask if we breastfed or bottle fed, or lived schedules or spanked.  At heaven's gates it won't matter if its Whole Foods or sweet tea or candy or McDonalds.  He won't measure your heart on family programs or adventures or traditions or holidays.  He'll never ask about diapers styles, dance programs, or holes in the knees.

When we ALL get to heaven, what Jesus will do is see faces, hearts, eyes, and years.  His grace, his blood, covers all those choices, all those divisions, and blots them all away.   

He will ask instead if you love Him.  His Grace.  

Not if your kid ate goldfish for a year.

Grace Upon Grace.

Adorn the Dark.

Adorning the Dark

There once was a girl who used to create.

She’d write stories

And letters

And songs

And create.

Beauty

And Flow;

With Thoughts 

And Purpose.

Unearth her emotions,

Her captive thoughts.

Her strength

Released in form,

Of Words

Of Lines

Of Life.

She’d dance 

In the creating.

Her finished work

Glanced over

Reviewed and reprised;

Cheerleaded.

By Teachers,

By Mom.

She dreamed of

Creating:

Creating Good

And Truth.

Story,

Stirring Narrative.

Words

Worth their Truth.

Then that girl became woman.

Then another’s words 

caused hesitancy,

Fear,

Pause.

Stripped her of uniqueness:

Of value to say.

...Just another haphazard word

Tossed on a blog,

Or another book

Of boastful phrases

On the store 

Shelf...

Dusty.

Not worth their words.

Not worth her.

So she stopped:

Creating.

She stopped: 

Reflecting.

She hid,  

Swarmed over,

In fear of being “just another”

Now squandered

By others: 

Disbelief.

Without cheerleader,

One to 

Believe in 

The unique.

She shrunk

She’d stopped:

Creating.

Reflecting.

Stopped being:

Unique.

Needing one

To holding up the hands

In the fight:

To Create.

Then she sat with a friend

At brunch

At a table

Who asked

How she,

Now woman,

Became A Writer.

Remarked about her writing.

Sparkle in her eye,

Belief spoke forth,

Of the woman she once knew~

How she knew 

Words

Sentences

Story

Belief:

Writing.

And was good!

And they sat there 

Talked

Stirred:

Reminded

And the Spirit moved.

{The years too,

Dissuaded:

Squandered by children

Sacrificed at home,

Lost in the battle,

And loosing her gift.}

{The years,

They ate at her spirit,

They darkened her soul,

The cynisized her heart,

They corroded

Her gift.}

Then:

The battle to write

Began again.

Because of that friend

Because of the Spirit

And so she sits

Tentative

Not expectant

But willing.

To show up

To create

To reflect her Creator

To write.

Joy.

Jesus' last words to his disciples (Johns 15:11):

These things I have spoken to you, 

that my joy may be in you, 

and that your joy may be full.

What if Christians illuminated joy?  What Christians were the reflection of hope?  Of living with hope?  Of choosing joy?

If Christ was the epitome of hope and joy, and we are his image, then why is it so difficult to find people like this?  I'm surrounded by Christians, but one one hand I can name those who always choose to see hope and reach for, shine joy (Meagan, Sarah, Heidi, Amy...).

Rather, I hear a lot of "poor me", or "doom and gloom", or self-pity, or critical snaps, or feeling so bad for someone whose life just really isn't that bad.  And that makes me want to run, it feels like loads and burdens piled on me, and I can't shake those places, those people, those ever-present perspectives of "poor" them.  And worse, I think sometimes I start to see and live that way, both feeling bad for myself and reflecting that critical spirit, always chiding someone or cutting down something, looking for ways to pull it/them apart, rather than build it/them up...

What if instead of just feeling always bad for people or seeing the bad of our circumstances, we pointed others to see their joys?  their blessings?  What if instead of wallowing in their criticisms and short fuses, they made the choice to "rejoice in all things"!?

I can't even imagine if every Christian I met "spurred one another on toward love and good deeds."  I can't even imagine how much lighter my heart would feel if the Christians I knew looked for ways to show joy, be joy, and live joy.  If hope were the words I heard, the lives I intertwined with.

*Philippians 4:4

My writing here is a bit of a fast, angst release... but better said is found here by my friend Melissa Krueger --
https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/blogs/melissa-kruger/3-reasons-your-joy-matters-and-isnt-just-about-you/

An Overlooked Miracle.

I wish I could be perched, like Zaccheaus, overlooking but uninvolved in this scene, hanging on limbs high above, hid in the branches and leaves of trees, but peering through, watching in moonlight...

The bearded men whispered, mocking each other about their sleepiness, dreary of another night of prayer, and drowsy with wine and dinner.  They stayed hushed, some bent over their knees, some lying prostrate, others already dropping their head to sleeps temptation.

A stones throw away, on the other side of me, groaned their Rabbi.  He seemed angst, blood mingling with his sweat; his prayers fervent and full of tenacity; tense, like electricity, bolting his emotions heavenward.  I could only make out some of his bellows, for they came like groans from his body, reverberating in the dark garden.

I recognized him, fear and awe and curiosity all alert within me.  That Rabbi - the one whose teaching  was stories and Scripture, scrutinized by the Sanhedrin.  The One who gathered himself the boys from boats and spoke to women and welcomed children.  The One who confused my concept of King, but many claimed he was one.  He's the guy graveling in the garden, just a few bushes away.

I monkeyed myself to a lower branch; there was something coming, but I couldn't quite see.

Gruff voices, feet hitting the hard dirt quickly; it sounded like a mob forcing its way up the hillside.  An angry mob at that. following one guy, who seemed be leading like he knew where he was going, waiving them onward, forward, upward.  He looked nervous but certain, hesitant but jaw clutched with perseverance.  He paused, they paused.

I drew a quick breath -- the chief priests were in the mob!  I'd recognize their robes anywhere!  And the scribes and the elders!  They waived clubs, and kept a hand on their swords.  They were angry, yelling "Blaspherer!" and worse.  Clubs flailed, swords grasped tighter, the jostled against each other as they climbed.

I saw that praying man pause.  He was quiet, tense, but unafraid as the mob pushed up into him, knocking his feet of tilt, faltering but still standing.  His eyes seemed sad, the moonlight caught their heaviness in a way that took the breath from my lungs.

He looked at the leader, who kissed him, then withheld, with a tear unashamed trickling down his olive cheek.

The friends scrambled, I felt my tree shake as they pushed at the guards, no longer sleepy but awake, stealth and watchful.  They pushed the crowds, unafraid of the mighty religious men, shoving and pushing to get to the Rabbi.  All defenses were on.

Torches lit the blackness, fires licking the dark like tongues of evil in the night.  They flickered amongst the pulsating crowd, catching edges of clubs and batting the stillness of air.

I sucked in a breath -- the armored guards reached out a grabbed the Rabbi!  Seized him, without mercy, hands suckled around his wrists, twisting and yanking.

"NO!"

It was Simon Peter, his voice squealing into the air.

He grabbed his sword, the metal flash reflected by the fires, and hurled it out before him, one gesture but an effort full of heart, body, and soul.  His full gumption swung in the air.

And it sliced him.  The high priest's servant!  Blood gushed out the side of his head, his right ear fallen to the ground.

Everybody below gasped.  Some of the disciples ducked, fearful and freaked. The elders and scribes screamed obscenities and shouted for more soldiers, who clanked with armor as they pushed forward.

But Jesus, the man who's name they all said, shook his head at Peter, bent slowly and picked up the ear, dusting it off the ground.  He used his wrist to wipe his own tear and then sighed in the watchful, sudden silence.

All were quiet, for a split second, and I bent farther over to see.

He licked his thumb and touched it to the detached ear, bloody in his hand.

Then He breathed, hovering wind over the ear in his hand, like a graceful whisper, a breath of life.

The air held still, for just a moment, a star twinkled, and the Rabbi placed the ear on the injured right side.  The Rabbi breathed once more toward it, then used the same thumbs to smear away the drips of blood on the man's chin and neck.

The man called Jesus withdrew his hand. The ear, the very same ear, was back on the wounded's head, no longer wounded!  No longer bleeding.  Seamlessly mended back to flesh.

I sunk lower into the leaves to see. Surely my eyes failed me.  No!  It was true, the very same ear that was just sliced and wicked off, then touched by the Rabbi, was back on the man's head!  How could it be?!

I shook with belief.  Startled with awe.  As if beholding God for the first time, with my very own eyes, with my very own soul.  Surely this man must be the Christ!  Surely this Rabbi Jesus was the Son of God!

I nearly fell from the tree in my realized state, overtaken by the miracle and the majesty, by the whole seen of this Lord before me!  I wanted to meet him, to greet him, to see him.  To know him!

I looked back at the servant again, he was lacing his fingers around his ear, eyes widely staring at the Rabbi.  His mouth hung open, shock and amazement overtaken his composure.  Sure enough, no blood on his hands.  He seemed to concentrate, lean this way then that, testing the hearing, as if squinting to use his ear, face registering with wonder.

The crowd went back to manic, rumbling and shoving and demanding arrest.  The soldiers twisted the Rabbi's arms, skewing his limbs behind him though silent he stayed.  The high priests and scribes and elders viciously spit accusations and with hatred yanked him down the hill.

The disciples, the men who knew him, all fled.

And there I blinked, perched in that tree, trying to make sense of the moments and miracle beneath me.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I read this story last week with fresh eyes, awakened insight, and was caught by that one line -- "And he touched his ear and healed him."  An overlooked miracle.  Hardly mentioned, only one gospel writer even mentions the healing.

But as I read, it stopped me.  Boom.  Done.  Healed.  And in the midst of arresting for claims of being the Christ.  Having the power and possession of a God, the God.  Before their very eyes, Jesus heals.

How did this not lead to pandemonium?! To crazy awe?!  Belief?!  To the scales falling off their eyes? At least reconsidering the arrest in the affronted process?

Did not one of the High Priest flinch at this crazy occurrence?  Did not one Pharaissee pause and think it could all be true?  Did not one of the soldiers question their goal of arrest?  Did not one bondservant stand in awe, recognizing surely he was the Christ?!

The Bible doesn't even seem to pause here, to give note or attention to this moment, this cruxes of God being man, being hated but healing.

I couldn't help but pause, stop.  And see, peer over, look in and listen to, this moment of hatred and healing amidst a powerful, overlooked miracle.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"And one of them struck the servant of the high priest and cut off his right ear.  But Jesus said, 'No more of this!' And he touched his ear and healed him."  Luke 22:50-51

"a crowd with swords and clubs, from the chief priests and the scribes and the elders" [Mark 14:43]

"And behold, one of those who were with Jesus stretched out his hand and drew his sword and struck the servant of the high priest."  Matthew 26:51

"But one of those who stood by drew his sword and struck the servant of the high priest and cut off his ear" Mark 14:47

"Then Simon Peter, having a sword, drew it and struck the high priests servant and cut off his right ear." John 18:10

As Was His Custom.

"And he came out and went, as was his custom, to the Mount of Olives, 

and the disciples followed him." [Luke 22:39]

As was his custom.  Twas the night of the betrayal, the Son of Man would be arrested, scourged, and slain, yet in the knowing, he was faithful to prayer.  It's interesting that the writer of the passage, Luke, takes the time to note that walking to prayer was Jesus' ritual.  His normal.  That Jesus had developed a routine of connecting to God, a habit of prayer.

It speaks to us today.  That in the midst of all, in the knowing that death was literally before him, Jesus withdrew to pray.  And for the disciples, watching this moment was normal.  They knew their God, their friend, their role model, had the nightly habit of being with God.

Which is also interesting in the context that the arrest was coming, though the disciples did not now.  So to them, staying awake to keep from temptation, may have been a struggle on more than one occasion.  Their humanity made prayer and alertness more difficult, them to aloofness.  And into this temptation they would falter.

But the God-Man, Jesus, had a prayer routine.  Had a ritual.  Had a set-aside time and place.  Had a plan for prayer.  His humanity needed it, his God-self communed it.  His footsteps made, firm and faithful, for the disciples to follow.

No Mother's Hand To Hold. On Mary.

"no mother's hand to hold..."

Sitting in my chair, the cusp of advent upon me.  Sitting empty.  Full all around, full cup of tea, full chair of blankets, full house of heat, full boxes of gifts. Yet empty soul: coming, kneeling before God, approaching the Christmas season, but really, actually, living advent.  Living the waiting. Urging for hope.

In my musing, my waiting, my empty, I paused and listened, guitar chords melancholy, but voice pitched through clear and storytelling, stringing notes and words.  The messy of birth, the cold of desert sky, the crying of the night, the tears upon her face.

Then this line sung out:

"no mother's hand to hold..."

I sat back.  Stopped.  Sunk the words in.  Let them seep in like love and mercy and known during this season of living empty and sad, with no mother's hand to hold.  And all that is absent because of that -no mother's hand to hold.

And something in the line hugged my heart and slid love over me with Mary.  A different knowing, a different recognition, a different awe, lying cold in that cave, because of Christ.

I paused on that moment, that miracle.  But that painful space in history when a worn, weary, wandering woman trembled giving birth, alone.  And I felt it, with her.

Then God sat me there, for minutes, for hours, praying and pausing on that moment of Mary, but that moment of Him, too.  He wanted me to stop, to pause, to see.  To see more than Mary, more than the moment, more of Him.

God held her, with no mother's hand to hold.

God had a plan, with a city not her own.

God had her hope, with a future so unknown.

She lay in her weeping, in her agony, in her giving of birth.  But God had a plan, a hope.  God would use this woman, with no mother's hand to hold.

So perhaps for me, too, God holds a plan, a hope.  And perhaps too he will enfold me, with no mother's hand to hold.


@ Behold The Lamb, "Labor of Love" ~ Andrew Peterson and Jill Phillips

Courage to Encourage.

"Let him among you who is without sin, cast the first stone." John 8:7

What would it look like to put down our stones?  To put them down in our hearts?  What would it look like to breach the motherhood gaps, and not just silence the spoken, but engage and humble and hug?

"Put on them, as God's chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, bearing with one another..."  Colossians 3:12

What if we took steps, active willingness of the heart, to humble ourselves and our opinions, and instead extend encouragement, love, grace, and hope to the other?  To help paint a picture of hope for her children, for their future.  To to listen and then let be.  To give words of life, to lift up, to gather courage to encourage.  To trust grace, to offer mercy, to seek joy for the other.  In whatever that may be.  To seek Jesus, wholeness, and life, for her, her family, and her God of love.