The place I love best...

That old, rickety swing there? That quiet place under the trees, where the branches bow to touch the ground?

That place is dear.

The wooden seat is worn and the ropes are slightly frayed. The thick, old branch from which it hangs has started to creak over the years. And yet, it is the place I love best.

It has been the place that I've returned to time and time again over the past nine years and oh, the stories it could tell. It has seen joy and tears. Heard songs and rantings. It has been the place of daydreams and of whispered longings. Of romantic glances and courting blushes. Of baby giggles and squeals. It has been a sanctuary and a hiding place.

Some of my favorite moments have been on this swing.

I wrote several songs there. Had serious talks with those I love while clinging tightly to the ropes. Laughed while swinging high to hit branches with our feet during our courtship. Twirled ecstatically around and around after saying yes to marrying the man of my dreams. I even cradled my little one while gently swinging during her first Kentucky summer.

It is the most peaceful, hushed, and loveliest of places and by far my most favorite bit of earth.

I talk to God on that swing and He has made Himself known there.

Not long ago, I took the last turn on the old swing before the cold sets in and I whispered to that old friend to please make it through just one more harsh winter.

And as I sat there, gently rocking back and forth, that old swing taught me a bit of life.

Each time I sit to swing, I have to chose which way I'm going to sit.

See, one way faces the south with the sweeping view of the glorious rolling hills of the pastures. During spring and summer the hills and valleys are lush and green and sweet calves dots the countryside. During the fall, the leaves change and fall, and the view is bathed in autumnal light. The landscape is truly inspiring. Except, for those pesky branches from the low hanging sycamore tree that always smack you in head when swinging at any height. It's not the easiest way to sit but the view is otherworldly.

Then the other way faces north. It is a completely uninspired view of the road and neighboring homes. But the way is wide and clear and you can swing as high as your legs will pump you, without getting a faceful of branches.  It's the easy, ugly, fun way to swing.

And I began to realize that the choice of which way to sit resembles the choices in my own life.

It's all a matter of perspective, really.

The way with the most beauty and reward isn't the easiest, smoothest way. There might be more obstacles (or a face full of branches) along that path. The way that brings the soul closer to the Father might just be the hardest and most difficult journey. When our feet slip along the rocky paths and we feel beaten down by the hardships, that is when our faith is strengthened and our hearts resolve to cling fast to Him. The harder way brings the lasting reward.

And likewise, the easier way, the wide and clear path, doesn't bring the greatest joy or highest reward. When we chose the easy way out, we aren't tested and tried, and our faith lacks depth. If our lives were simple, fun, and easy there would be no need for faith, for trust. There might be immediate satisfaction but no everlasting reward.

Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, 

and many enter through it. 

But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only few find it.

Matthew 7:13-14

The past few months have been difficult and wearing, but I have been reminded by that dear, old swing, that the view is worth it. Sure we could be taking an easier, fun-filled path, one that requires less sacrifices and tears, but temporal joys cannot compare to the eternal rewards.

We may come out bruised and battered, but we will continue swinging with our eyes fixed upon the Glorious.

Two roads diverged in a wood and I - I took the one less traveled by, 

and that has made all the difference.

-Robert Frost

The Adventure Begins...

 

 

Well, yes. I have been avoiding this little piece of virtual earth for awhile now-- a month...two, maybe?

And really, it's all because of this little word, trust. I haven't much of it.

And I've struggled with it. Wrestled back and forth with this simple concept of "trust in the Lord with all of your heart."

Because, I'll be honest, I haven't struggled with it much before. And it's not for lack of trials in life either...but simply, because I am so far out of my depth and comfort zone that I just can't even deal.
Yes, I've experienced deep, wounding hurt--the death of my father, loneliness that makes the soul ache, the betrayal of a dearest friend....but even in those times, I have been able to see the hand of God weaving His threads of grace into the life tapestry. I've seen His peace on the dying face of my father and felt the assurance that I will see him again the World to come. I've felt the never failing love of my family and friends when I've been lonely or betrayed. I've seen His hand opening doors wide and clearing the path on which I'm to trod.

But. This, though maybe not as wounding as past trials, has stretched my soul hard. Because of the call to blind trust.

I am a planner. I like order. I like certainty.

I have the soul of an adventurer and a heart yearning with wonderlust--but I prefer the adventures of books and the wonder of daydreams.

I'll be real, I'd love to see the views from the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro, but would likely never make the trek to the top. I'd love to see what lies beneath the waves of the deepest ocean, but would rather watch it on a documentary.
I am the person who stops to ponder and breathe in the beauty of the Smokies on a drive through the hills of Appalachia, but would be held back from wandering those hills alone by a crippling fear of snakes.

I don't do spontaneity. I just might take said hike, provided I had a few days to plan, acquire the right shoes, make sure I had my trusty snake wrangler (aka husband), and ready myself for adventure. I need to be mentally, emotionally, and attire-ly ready for everything.
I'm a homebody. I'm a small town girl. I like routine and like that the biggest news in my cozy, Kentucky town is that the water tower is being repainted in an American Flag mural.

So that's me. I don't do uncertainty and am more than happy to spend my adventure in front of the fire, with coffee and a good book.

But, God stretches us, doesn't He? He pulls and gently prods and asks us to trust in His plan, not ours.
And even though this plan of His hasn't turned out at all like the one I had in mind...the past few months and the looming year ahead has been a harder pill to swallow than usual.

See, I had it all planned. I would grow up and probably marry a farmer--not because I particularly liked farmers but it seemed like that's what he'd be. We'd renovate our little farm house, fill it with children, and sit in rocking chairs on the front porch and talk each night.

But then I went to college and met a dark, handsome,brilliant and brooding pre-med student, and knew (even though I swore never to marry a doctor) that, Golly Moses! God's plan was so much better!
So, my plans adjusted. We'd marry, wait until after med school to start our family, and live happily ever after.

And God laughed. After an engagement, break-up, second engagement, rainy wedding day, four moves, and year and a half after getting married,  we were surprisingly blessed with our little girl.

So I'm no stranger to plan changes and have learned to grin and bear it because "Expectations ruin relationships."

But, this one. Oh, this one has been hard.

Because when I said, "I do" to that medical student with the calling from God, I didn't realize how much that calling would cost. And now that the calling is being fulfilled, I've struggled with being bitter at the One who gave that call.
That calling didn't just require lots of studying to pass those medical board exams, but required MONTHS of being alone while he spent every waking moment studying to excel at those exams.
That calling was not just to become a doctor but to be a neurosurgeon, one of the most competitive and demanding, and least family friendly specialties.

Wanna hear a not-so-funny, all too real joke?
"How do you hide a dollar from a neurosurgeon? Tape it to his kid's forehead."

So, this is life. The days, literally, days, spent without seeing the husband. Months spent in different states while he's on his away rotations. The endless hours of solo-parenting. The completely empty bank account that funded his travel expenses to interview at different residency programs across the country, in hopes that he'll be one of the 400 applicants that will actually get one of the 193 spots open this year. The crying during baby's first birthday as we walked the aisles of the toy store to only "look and hug" toys that we couldn't afford to buy since the bank account was overdrawn.
The uncertainty of not having much of a choice in where he will match. Of knowing that it's a gamble and we really will end up wherever the residency logarithm matches us, be it near or far. That wherever we end up will be unfamiliar and quite possibly be thousands of miles from family, and I will mostly be doing life alone for the next seven years since residents are called that because they  reside and spend pretty much every waking moment at the hospital.

So I've spent the last few months burying deep the mourning for the life I planned and the resentment of the sacrifices required of this one, because my sweet, tired husband doesn't need another stress added upon his weary shoulders.

And I've railed at God--- albeit unconsciously, by pulling further and further away from resting in Him. I've resented His perfect plan because frankly, it's hard. And I don't like it. And why would He give a calling to my husband that requires such familial sacrifice?
Is it fair, God, that he's missed almost every big milestone in our daughter's first year?

And so, as you can see, I'm learning. Learning that He never said His way would be easy. Never guaranteed that I would like this path or that it would match my dreams.

I'm also learning to try to let go of my plans, to release the tightly clenched fist of dreams that I want so desperately and see the blessings of letting the Father have control. Trying to look at the past and see His faithfulness in exceeding the dreams I once had and trusting that He will do the same for my future. Trying to release the thousands of fears that plague my heart about the great unknown and keeping the trust verse on repeat in my mind.

When I am afraid, I will trust in You. In God whose word I praise--in God I trust and am not afraid Psalm 56:3-4

And it's hard. I'm not completely there yet...but I'm taking it day by day and reminding my quietly adventurous heart that it's time to prove it's mettle and live life boldly and courageously, because I have been promised that the best is yet to come. And so, the adventure begins...
 

There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.

C.S. Lewis

 

When God has a British accent...

I watched a documentary about a man who serves as butler of a grand castle in England. 

Everyday for twenty years, he has set out the breakfast china for the Earl and his family, carefully measuring out the distance between every dish, glass, and utensil.

The camera panned in for a close up of him carefully polishing a spoon before setting it on the fine linen covered table and then reaching to straighten the center floral arrangement.

His voice was calm and refined as he said, "It's very important to maintain standards because once they disappear, they will never come back"

Sometimes God speaks in a still, small voice and other times I hear Him speak through His Word, but today, God used an English butler to convict me.

What the ear hears and the eyes see are seldom forgotten. And in today's society, we are bombarded with the noise and clatter of the world.

A world where innocence and standards are vilified as stuffy, unnecessary, and confining.

Where those who chose to keep their minds guarded and hearts pure are regarded as old fashioned and delusional.

It seems that even within the church, we no longer measure our standards by the word of God, but have bent and bowed to the world's example, so far so that I fear we might break altogether.

And by repeating the world's mantras, we Christians have made excuses for the low standards within our own lives. 

Boys will be boys. It's just the current fashion. Everyone goes through a "wild" time. Young people will experiment. The Bible doesn't say I can't. It doesn't affect my walk with the Lord. But I love him/her.

I have been guilty of it, too.

And I wonder if God doesn't ache when He sees His children compromising so much of their integrity and lowering the bar and their expectations.

And I see it in my own life. I've been one who has made excuses and claimed that what I watch, read, and hear won't really affect me. That saying this, laughing at that, going there, having a relationship with them doesn't change anything, really.

But it does. And like that wise, old butler, I am realizing that once my bar of standards has lowered, it is very hard to raise them again.

I can still hear her voice in my head whenever I step out my front door, just as I audibly did every time I'd leave the house when I was growing up.

 "Remember who you are. Remember Whose you are."

My mother knew that sometimes a young kid needed reminding-- reminding that my life was a living testimony for the world, yes, but more importantly, my heart was His home, my body His temple. And when I would allow myself to compromise my standards, it was harder to keep my soul in a place of peace and to keep my heart fertile ground for spiritual growth. 

Keeping our standards high is not how the world will know that we are Christ followers--no, they will know us by our love. Too often we confuse that--thinking that by living the right way, dressing the right way, doing the right thing is how we show that we are Christians. 

I have realized that these standards, morals, boundaries--they are not for the world's benefit but our own.

Out of our love for the Father, we desire to come before Him with clean hands and a pure heart. We desire to draw near to the purest place where He is, and that is much easier to do when our hearts are not swayed by anything that could draw us away from Him.

Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.

Romans 12:2

It appears that God, sometimes, has a British accent.

The Covenant...

I am no longer my own, but thine.

Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt.

Put me to doing, put me to suffering.

Let me be employed by thee or laid aside by thee.

Exalted for thee or brought low for thee.

Let me be full, let me be empty.

Let me have all things, let me have nothing.

I freely and heartily yield all things to thy pleasure and disposal.

And now, O glorious and blessed God,

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,

Thou art mine, and I am thine.

So be it.

And the covenant which I have made on earth,

Let it be ratified in heaven.

Amen

--Wesleyan Covenant Prayer

For the past three years, this is has been my anthem...my daily prayer of remembrance. The reminder of who I am and what I've committed to. 

John Wesley's prayer resonates with my spirit and his words are a deep well of confirmation of what faith really is.

I have found it is easy to pray these words when life is good. When there is security in the future, money in the bank, and joy in the heart. 

It is easy to say "Thy will be done" when His will benefits me.

It is easy to say "put me to suffering, bring me low, and make me empty" when joy overflows and blessings are abundant.

But I know, even in those good times, that the covenant isn't one I can take lightly.

For it is much harder to pray "let me have nothing" when I truly have nothing and it feels as though there is nothing left for Him to take. 

When my heart aches and the dreams are crushed and loneliness consumes and that covenant's ties bind hard and feel more like a noose than a lifeline.

When the heart cries, "Why, Lord?" and the soul yearns for relief from one attack after another.

When there is no strength left and my faith feels weak from being poured out again and again, and I fear that my brittle spirit will break.

Because it usually gets worse before it gets better, and the fighting is on all fronts and I am battle weary.

When the finances are depleted and the rent needs paid. When the loved one's diagnosis steals the greatest joys in life. When the spiritual attacks are strong. When you have to keep it all together or no one will. When loneliness steals the joy and the bitterness festers.

That is when the covenant is hardest.

And it is in those times when I have realized that the covenant isn't for this world.

It is a covenant that binds across the bridge of eternity.

'And the covenant which I have made on earth, Let it be ratified in heaven.'

One day, all will be brought to light. All of the trials and questionings will be revealed and I will see clearly the reasons behind them.

For now we see through a looking glass, darkly;
but then face to face; now I know in part;

but then I shall know fully even as also I was fully known.

1 Corinthians 13:12

What is done here on earth, the disappointments and trials, are simply the shadows of glory.

Though we now live in the shadowlands, we will one day walk in the unveiled reality of eternity and we will understand that the pain and suffering were just the longings that couldn't be satisfied by this world.

And there, dwelling in His glory, that covenant will be confirmed and it will mean more...for we walked blindly in the valley, committed and trusting that He would bring us through it.

Sweet hour of prayer...

It was one of those days.

I had just tuned in to live stream the IF:Prayer gathering, excited to pray with women all across the globe...and my computer died.

 

Had just gotten the charger plugged in and the live feed up again, when my sweet babe decided it would be a good time to "sing" at the top of her lungs while racing around the living room with my cell phone.

I got her settled quietly with a book and examined my phone only to realize that she had gooed it so thoroughly that the speaker now makes a crackling noise--compliments of those two top teeth coming in.

Again, I focused on quieting my heart to pray. We were praying through Jesus's High Priestly Prayer in John 17, when I saw her reaching for my mug of now cold coffee.

I wasn't fast enough.

My white slip covered chair next to the side table is stained.

I'm not happy.

I pull the mischievous baby away and grab paper towels to mop up the mess.

My Bible now has coffee stains on top of the red Kool-Aid stains from that kid tripping with his drink during my youth lesson last year.

I exasperatingly wipe the well-worn and pen-filled pages and turn around.

The baby has shredded the roll of paper towels.

Again, I am on my knees in front of my computer, trying to come before the Throne of Grace, all the while fending little fingers off the keys of my computer.

The speaker is talking about prayer and gratitude. Thanking God for His holiness amidst the trials of our lives.

Ellie cries and I pull her onto my lap, which allows her better access to the keys--she's clever that one.

After multiple closes and reopenings of the webpage by flailing baby hands, I'm ready to give up.

This "sweet hour of prayer" is not so sweet. In fact, it's downright frustrating.

Those days when I could spend hours at a time talking to the Father, fully present and pouring out my heart, are few and far between anymore. It's discouraging.

And in my frustration and exasperation, I am startled by the truth.

I look at my sweet baby.

See her arms reaching to be held. Her eyes begging to be seen. Her voice crying to be heard. Her little heart longing to be noticed by me--begging for Mama's attention.

I see myself in her.

I am her.

I so desire to be noticed and heard by my Father, that I flail and yell, crying for His ear and attention, that I completely miss what He wants to say.

I fill my time in prayer with my own agenda, my own words, that I ignore His implore to be still.

Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him.

Psalm 37:7

The mystic, sweet communion is not one-sided. It isn't just a time for me to lay my burdens and cares upon Him but it's also a time for me to hush and lay my heart open wide to receive His words and rest in Him.

I love the moments when my little one is quiet and simply resting in my arms. When I can hold her and shower love upon her with no frenzy or flailing about, no restlessness or crying. When the hurried heart and busy hands are still.

It is in those moments when she listens. When she can easily hear what I am saying--no distractions or interruptions.

But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child is my soul within me.

Psalm 131:2

My prayer now, today, is that my mouth will be shut, my pride will be crushed, my heart will be open, and I will be still, that I might hear the Father. That my communion with Him will be just that--communion. Not just a one-sided conversation, but an intercourse of my giving praise, repentance, and  requests; and receiving His truth, healing, and strength.

 

In repentance and rest is your healing. In quietness and trust is your strength.

Isaiah 30:15

When dreams change...

I had that dream once.

Thought I would change the world.

Thought I'd grow up and do something big--something great.

I get it, mama. I do.

I get how hard it is to find your big purpose when the dishes are piled in the sink, and soccer practice conflicts with the church event, and dinner is PB&J again because you forgot to thaw the meat in time, and there just isn't time for much world changing.

I've been there, friend.

I've been one who has punched the clock, 9 to 5 and sometimes 6 or 7, because there's always work to be done, and the bills need to be paid, and you take what you can get in these economic times. I've woken up to the alarm and dreaded the day of working to live and not living to work, but put in the time anyway because we don't all get to change the world with a big dream.

I've felt that feeling of drowning in nothingness. Of feeling like I'm never going to make the difference because I'm shackled to the daily grind--the never ending "day in and day out".

And I've known the deep yearning to do something. Something of value, of huge change, of dreams coming true. I've felt it. Daily.

I've felt the disappointment at seeing others changing lives, following their hearts, and living their dreams and wondered what in the world am I really doing?

I love being a wife and mama. Love seeing my husband's and baby's beautiful faces each day. They make my world go round.

But, I have heard that voice whisper often, "What difference are you really making? Lots of people are wives and mothers and workers. Nothing you do will change the world."

And it stings. Because what tangible change have I made?

What will I leave behind when my days are past? What dreams will I have actually fulfilled?

I struggle with the earthly hope of being someone special--someone who makes a difference--all the while knowing that God has called me to this place called here. This place called now.

I have been called to be present. To be the reflection of Christ to this world I'm in. To my husband, to my child, my friends and family. This is living the dream.

And that, I am learning, is enough.

I am enough.

Me, with the crazy, messy hair, the t-shirt covered in spit-up and spaghetti sauce, and jeans with the knees worn from playing and praying on the floor.

Me, with the atrocious grammar, the simple degree, and the pitiful bank account.

Me--Mama, Wife, and Worker.

I may never change the course of history. May never be known for a great accomplishment. May never make a big difference. May never have my name recognized beyond my family and friends.

But I want to be able to stand before my God and say I did my best to show His love, grace, and mercy in my little corner of life--in the daily grind.

So, my dreams of being a world-changer have changed.

Today, I will fulfill the most glorious dream of being a child of the Living God and find the beauty in the calling to be present where He has placed me.

And maybe, just maybe, in setting my dreams beyond this world and living for the next, I may find that I have changed the course of history...that I will have made a difference in the realm beyond. Be it only in showing His light and love to those I come in contact with or that in pressing closer to the Father, others might be encouraged to do the same.

Therefore if you have been raised up with Christ, keep seeking the things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your mind on the things above, not on the things that are on earth. For you have died and your life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is our life, is revealed, then you also will be revealed with Him in glory.

Colossians 3:1-4

So, yes, my dreams have changed.

And being wife, mama, worker, and worshipper? Those are the stuff dreams--real dreams, present dreams--are made of because He has given them to me.

Because what I do here, though it be simple and mundane, can make all the difference in the world beyond.

A deep and quiet love...

There's an old man going to bed alone tonight for the first time in fifty years.  A man who has loved with a deep love.

He had met her while stationed overseas. They fell in love, the soldier and his beautiful, Asian flower. He married her and brought her home with him, and it was there that they lived their happily ever after. Kids, a house, and love.

She was independent, he said. Never asked for help.

He spoke of how they had had so many beautiful years--so many memories woven into a life's tapestry.

They argued over who would go first, when they picked out their grave plots, not long ago. Picked out a bit of earth-- side by side, just as they had always been.

He was supposed to go first, he had said, through the tears.

He spoke of his love to anyone who would listen, his voice thick with emotion.

He wept when making the calls to his children--wept at the gaping hole he felt.

Tears fall when I hear his story.

It wasn't particuarly different from many, I suppose.

Nothing grand or extravagant. Just a simple story of a love--quiet and deep-- between two souls.

But I was moved. Moved beyond any knight-in-shining-armor love story I've heard.

Because this love--the soldier and his lady's?--it wasn't stuff of fireworks and sunbursts, but a steady love that built its home brick by brick, year by year, weathering storms and sunshine until the very end.

And I pray, as I hold my husband's hand and listen to the old man's story, that our love will mirror his. That our children--when the years pass, and hair turns grey and the skin weathers-- will look at us and they will know of that love.

True love.

Not the stuff of fairy tales and songs, but the deep, quiet love that breathes life into each other's soul.

The gentle love that gives and gives and doesn't seek in return.

The love that is so rich and deeply rooted in Christ, that fleeting thrills of passion look like frail leaves blowing in the wind.

The kind of love that sits quietly, side by side, hands clasped tightly, through the good and the bad.

A love that doesn't need to be shouted from the rooftops, glorified and praised--but the kind that will kneel together in prayer and humility.

The love that grows with each passing year and thrives on the hopes and dreams of the other and weeps together in the failures and trials.

The love, that even in the midst of the argument, whose hands still find the other's and holds tight.

The kind that laughs together and finds joy in the other. That sees the good, the bad, the ugly-- and presses deeper into the hug.

The love that is strong when the other is weak. That carries the other that last long mile. That prays the other through the storm.

That is the love I want our children to see and remember.

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude.

 It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful;

 it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth.

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. 

Love never ends.

1 Corinthians 13:4-8

So I pray tonight for the old man and his broken heart.

That he might rest in the peace of the Father and be comforted by the deep, quiet love that moved our hearts to tears.

How to see without eyes...

They tell me of the young Kogi boys, high in the mountains of Colombia, that live until nine years of age, in almost complete darkness. Chosen at birth as future priests, they are raised by their mothers and older priests in a dark cave to attune to their god before they enter the outside world.

The young priests are taught to see without eyes. To see the spiritual without the physical and then when they are of age, they are released to see the world with their physical eyes.

And I wonder--as I watch those children running down the Sunday school hall, listen to those teens share of their youth trip, or look into my baby's eyes-- how are we, the Christ-followers, teaching our children to see the spiritual?

We with our faith written on our shirts and jewelry. We, with our pockets full of scripture and way of salvation. We with our hallelujah hands, our loud amens, and our promised prayers.

We with our study lessons written neat, with PowerPoint worship slides ready, with our praise songs on the radio.

We with the verses quoted, the Disciples and Books of the Bible memorized, the Sunday school attendance stars neatly in a row.

We are teaching our children how to live their faith in this world...but so easily we forget to teach them of the spiritual world.

The reality is, that we don't teach much of what we can't understand.

We teach our young to pray. To thank God for the food He provides, for the needs in our lives and in the lives of others. We teach them to make it a habit--and well we should.

We have taught them prayers but what have we taught them of Intercession? We speak of the power of prayer but do we live it? Do we truly believe that pounding the doors of Heaven again and again could truly make a difference?

And though we teach our young to memorize the Full Armor of God do we actually teach them to utilize it during a spiritual attack? Can they even recognize a spiritual attack to begin with or will they just see everyday struggles and trials?

We speak of the battle we are in against the Enemy and his darkness, but do we really, truly believe it wages even now, or do we tend to use that metaphorically? Like the boogeyman, is our enemy more of a character in the book, than the one who seeks to ensnare and trap us daily?

My heart has long been burdened by this.  Now that I am a mother, it weighs heavier each day.

How do I, a child of dust, teach my own child to see beyond this realm and into the spiritual? How do I teach her--show her-- that this life we live is a reflection of the other, a mere taste of things to come? How do I teach her to see without eyes?

How to I instill in her a desire to seek out what she cannot see or, frankly, understand?

How do I show her by example when daily, I myself struggle with focusing my eyes beyond the temporal? When I barely can keep up with the clamor and the to-do list a mile long in this world?

But I am learning, that all she can see right now is my putting action to words.

By not only telling her when to pray but showing her how to intercede on behalf of others and being the first to bend the knee and the last to rise.

By not only teaching her memorize scripture but to apply it to every situation and see His grace flow.

To not see each day as a box on the calendar, a check mark to complete, but a day to fulfill His calling.

To stand firm against an attack, not by writing it off as "life, disappointment, or happenstance" but as a battle to be won with prayer and faith.

By instilling in her that no relationship is more important than the one with her Father.

That no success or accomplishment can match the joy of Heaven.

That no education can compare with her spiritual knowledge.

That these daily doings and deeds are simply a means of seeing His hand in our lives.

By reminding her daily that though we live in a dark world, we the Christ-followers, can see clearly because we are of the Spiritual realm.

You, however, are not in the realm of the flesh but are in the realm of the Spirit, if indeed the Spirit of God lives in you. And if anyone does not have the Spirit of Christ, they do not belong to Christ.

Romans 8:9

Those boys high in mountains of Colombia? They might know better than we do.

They might know that when living in darkness, physical eyes are of little value.

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see,

This is what the ancients were commended for.

Hebrews11:1-2

A Letter to My Friend...

I thought of you today, friend. I think of you often.

I wonder at where you are and how life has treated you.

And I regret, my friend. I regret those words I didn't say.

When people ask, "what is your biggest regret in life?" your face pops in my mind and I ache.

And I remember.

I remember how we lived in that small, farming town in the middle of nowhere.

I remember how I was young--we both were. Just young girls in the middle of our high school years.

And I remember how we weren't alike and we didn't talk much. How we passed in the halls at church and we sat in the same Sunday school. But we were different--too different--I thought.

And we were polite and we said hello, and even called each other a 'church friend'--but I stayed within my circle and you in yours.

I remember hearing your story from others--the struggles you were enduring and the fear and anger you were feeling, and the choices you were making.

And I felt that tugging--the one that told me to stand with you and share in your pain. The one from the Holy Spirit that asked me to encourage you and show you His love.

But I didn't. Instead, in my weakness, I turned away, citing our differences and staying in the comfort and safety of my own world.

They say opportunity seldom knocks twice, but when it comes to the ways of the Father, it often does.

I remember feeling that tugging again during that youth conference.

Remember all of us girls, sitting in that hotel room, up long past bedtime, talking of our hopes and dreams? I remember talking of what God was teaching me and I remember you quietly listening.

And then you bared your heart and said you wished you could be good and how you wanted to know God like I did.

And that tug on my heart grew stronger, but I again gave into my weakness, and said you could and quoted a verse but quickly turned to talk to another friend. Scared to invest. Scared to get involved with someone so different than I.

That tugging never went away but I got better at pushing it down. Reasoning that you wouldn't listen to me, that you weren't the kind of influence I wanted to be around, that you might be too far gone.

I ache to think of my selfishness.

And God was patient with me. Giving me opportunity time and time again to go deeper with you. To lift you up. To show you His heart.

And I came close. Do you remember when you came to my house those few hours after church while your parents were gone? I had almost worked up the courage to go beyond the superficial chatter and bare His love for you and share how He had laid you upon my heart.

But I didn't.

I could have. The Lord was working in me. Was opening my eyes to the spiritual realm. Was showing me the Glorious. I was stronger in Him than I had ever been before.

But I still hesitated. Still couldn't quite open myself up enough to let Him use me as He was asking.

And then--maybe because of my stubbornness-- God closed that door. I never saw you again.

I heard, years ago, that you had suffered great loss, were living a hard life, had moved away and no one knew where you had gone.

I pray for you often, my friend. I pray that God is using someone better than I to reach out to you. Someone who is faithfully listening to His tugging and is showing you His never-ending, unfailing, unstoppable love.

And I pray that I am stronger now. I pray that I will unwaveringly heed His voice and reach out, no matter what, to those He is asking me to.

I'm sorry, my friend. I'm sorry for the words I did not say.

I pray that I may see you again, this side of Heaven. And if not, by His grace, may I see you there.

When you've been treading water...

The clean laundry is still in the basket. Still sitting in the hall. Still unfolded. Has been for a week now.

Dinner was bacon and a cookie because, really, who wants to cook for one? And a grocery run is long overdue.

The refrigerator has needed a good scrub down for a month now and there are some olives in the back that expired a year ago.

The list of to-do's never gets shorter and it's overwhelming. This daily life is wearing.

And it's hard.

Hard to watch that husband of mine, kiss our sleeping baby girl goodbye, and leave long before the sun rises.

It's hard to watch him stumble back home 48 hours later, not having eaten or slept in that same amount of time, all the while performing lifesaving operations on the brain, spinal cord, and nervous systems of countless patients who need him.

Hard to watch him fall asleep on the floor while playing with our daughter, knowing that she has only seen him for 15 minutes in the past three days. Hard to know that he'll wake up long before he's rested and do it all again tomorrow.

It's hard dealing with the teething baby who has decided that she now only needs one nap during the day. Hard to feel rested at all when she's up crying each night from the reflux that hurts her little belly.

Hard to look at the stack of bills that need to be paid-- harder to look at the dwindling bank account balance with which to pay them.

Hard to handle the loved one's illness, the spiritual attack on the family member, the friend's broken relationship.

Hard to keep all the commitments, the appointments, the deadlines.

Hard to balance the spiritual, the physical, the relational. The everyday.

It's. Just. Hard.

And each day can feel like such a struggle to stay afloat, to keep the head above water.

The weight of the stress of this world can bear down, until you feel like it would be so much easier to sink to the bottom and let the waters consume. And those waves keep pounding and pounding, wearing you down, and sapping your strength until you can tread no more.

But I am learning that place of helplessness where the soul cries, "I can't do it anymore," is a place of peace.

When utter exhaustion takes hold and my own strength has failed, that is when I find peace.

I have fought the waves and tread hard against the waters, never realizing that the waves are rising to praise, not to destroy.

The seas have lifted up, LORD,

the seas have lifted up their voice;

the seas have lifted up their pounding waves.

Mightier than the thunder of the great waters,

mightier than the breakers of the sea--

the LORD on high is mighty.

Psalm 93:3-4

When I hush my hurried heart, I can clearly see that the daily stress, the life stuff, is all worship. And the waves I fought so hard against are not meant to wear me down, but to press me further into Him.

It is in those times, where my flesh cries to tread--to keep myself afloat in my own strength--that I must relax into the ebb and flow of the waters.

I must rest in the knowledge that my Father, Whose Voice controls the waters, is lifted up in me finding the glorious in the daily trials and praise in the stress.

 

I have learned to kiss the wave that slams me into the Rock of Ages.

-Charles Spurgeon

The Road to Where We Are Now...

She comes from a long line of sinners and saints, that daughter of ours, the one with dimples like her father.

Comes from a long line of teachers, preachers, farmers, soldiers. With roots from all over the globe--Germany, Philippines, England, and more.

Men and women of great character and honor, and some less honorable.

She carries in her veins the bloodline of thinkers, revolutionaries, and pioneers and of those who struggled, labored, and lost.

Her great grandfathers many times over, fought for revolution, for country's independence and for equality for all men.

Her grandmothers of the past labored faithfully alongside their husbands, shoulder to the plough and hands tender towards their children.

Her parent's parents telling others of God's goodness and love.

Her own father bringing healing to the sick and life to the dying.

She comes from good stock...and from bad.

From liars, from the faithless, from cheats and the addicted. From men and women who harbored hate, lust, and selfishness toward their fellow man.

From those who would put self before others and anger before love. From those who would turn on their sons and daughters and walk a selfish road.

And I see her childlike innocence, and I pray--how I pray!--that she will not follow in the tragedies of her ancestors, but will follow in the path of the faithful.

Though I would rather hide the mistakes of the past and bury them under the success of the good--I will tell her the stories of her forefathers and I will pass down the truth of the generations. I will tell her the stories of triumph and of failures.

 I will be honest and she will know where she comes from and who she comes from. And she will see that the past--both good and bad--brings us to where we are now.

And I pray that one day, she will pass down to my grandchildren the regrets and the joys of my life that they might learn from it and see His grace in it all. Then they might know that they can trust what they know of God because they will have seen His goodness to one as frail as I.

 But you must remain faithful to the things you have been taught.

You know they are true, for you know you can trust those who taught you.

You have been taught the holy Scriptures from childhood, and they have given you the wisdom to receive the salvation that comes by trusting in Christ Jesus.

2 Timothy 3:14-15

 

She comes from a long line of sinners and saints--as we all do.

 

And she will know the stories of her people so that she will remember the faithfulness of her Father.



Starstuff

He asked me to come stargaze with him.

That husband of mine, with the glimmer in his eye, tugged on my hand and begged me to watch the skies.

It would only last one more night, he said. Only one more chance for a clear view of heaven releasing the stars to fall where they may.

Stargazing sounds romantic enough in books, but I will admit to being a stick-in-the-mud when it comes to anything that might wake the baby after I've fought tooth-and-nail to get her to sleep.

Begrudgingly, I wrapped my babe in a blanket and slipped my feet into sandals to watch the stars with my space obsessed husband.

With the blanket in the grass behind our apartment building, my head on his strong shoulder, and sleeping child on my chest, we waited for our eyes to adjust to the dark.



The irony that the eye must adjust to the dark to better see the light.


Many of those stars, he told me, are dead and gone, but because it takes so long for light to reach our eyes from space, we can still see their light from the past.

Perseid Meteor Shower

One star shoots across the sky, then disappears as quickly as it appeared.

The baby wakes up. 

He continues to point out constellations and speaks of the galaxies, black holes, and other wonders of the universe--and we are amazed.

I remember that quote from the Cosmos documentary. The beautiful, romantic sentiment, that we are made of starstuff. And it may ring true if you believe that we came from a cosmic explosion.

But we, we cannot fathom how anyone could see the vastness of the universe, the intricacies of the laws of nature, the beauty of the stars and not see the fingerprint of the Creator.

We ponder, under the stars, how the Infinite, in all of His glory, loves us, the finite.

When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of Him, the son of man that you care for him?

Psalm 8:3-4

I am reminded that we are not made of stardust, but of earth dust. Man-- made of the earth and formed by the very hand of God.

Man, so loved by the Father, that He would bow low to hear the whispered cry, catch the falling tear, and hold the broken hearts of mortals.

And so we stargaze. And I feel small. And I feel loved--for how could I not?-- when the Maker of the skies, the One who rides across heaven with thunder in His hand, writes His love for us in the very existence of the stars.

The Maker who finds joy in creating beauty for our enjoyment, who takes pleasure in our discovery and knowledge of His wonders, and who's love for us, His crowning glory, is so vast that he would descend into our nature.

And one day soon-- with my husband and babe-- I will stargaze again and sing to the heavens:
What glory is this!

When Your Boundries Fall in Pleasant Places...

They say parents of strong willed children usually pray that those same children will grow up to have strong willed children of their own. A pay-back of sorts. A see-what-you-put-us-through opportunity. 

If this is true, God answered my parent's prayers abundantly when our sweet Ellie-girl was born.

I look at her and see the same blue-gray eyes that stare back at me in the mirror each morning; see the same dark brown hair that is forever mistaken as black; the same dramatic flare that I've always been accused of having; the klutzy, uncoordinated movements that I have never seemed to outgrow.



But what terrifies me, as a parent, is seeing the same stubborn, strong-willed attitude. That determination to push the boundaries. The I-can-do-it-myself look in the eye.

Because, Dear Girl, you can't. You simply cannot do it yourself. I have learned...am still learning that--daily.

Yes, I saw you peek back to see if I was watching you reach for the book after I've told you "no" for the thousandth time today. 

Yes, I know you want to grab the kitty's tail even though you have the scratch on your hand to remind you that it's not a good idea.

Yes, I hear you crying at the gate that blocks your entrance to the kitchen and all of its mysterious cupboards.

But I also know something, Little One, that your beautiful, nine-month-old imagination cannot understand yet. Something that life is teaching me.

Those tears that fall? Those cries that well up in your lungs, the uplifted arms to be held when your plan--that determined plan to do it on your own--fails? 

It won't be the last time. It will happen again... and again. 

And that stubborn streak--the one we share?-- will get you into trouble time after time. You will fall. And you will fail. And, oh how my mother's heart aches to think of it, but you will be bruised and it will hurt and you will cry countless tears.

Though it will happen over and over, it may take you awhile to learn. You will hear "no" more times than you can count. You will be scratched and bruised over and over. And if it is not this gate you cry at, it will be another one down the road. 

And then one day, you will realize that those boundary lines and gates aren't all that bad. That there was a reason they exist. And giving up your strong-will for obedience isn't as bad as you thought. 

And so, Child, I will continue to say "no", and put up gates, and set those boundaries, until we both learn that those boundaries fall in pleasant places for us. 

And we will be reminded that we serve a loving Father who hems us in behind and before. A Father who loves us enough to allow us to be bruised and disappointed in our own stubbornness, so that He can brush our tears from our cheeks, cradle us lovingly in His arms and show us the beautiful and perfect plan He has for us.

My Avodah

Avodah.

Avodah is the transliteration of the Hebrew words worship and work. Is there a connection? Is worship work? Can work be worship?

In some verses of Scripture, avodah means work, as in to work in the field or to do common labor:

• Exodus 34:21-- "Moses renewing the covenant with God says, "Six days you shall work (avodah)"
• Psalm 104:23--"Then man goes out to his work (avodah), to his labor until evening."

In other verses, Avodah means worship, as in to worship God:

• Joshua 24:15--"but as for me and my house, we will serve (avodah) the Lord."
• Exodus 8:1-- "This is what the LORD says: Let my people go, so that they may worship (avodah) me."

"What a powerful image to think that the word for working in the fields is the same that was used for worshipping the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

The Israelites understood that work could be a way to honor God and neighbor, to serve God and neighbor, and yes, to worship God and serve neighbor. Avodah."

--The Avodah Institute

Taken together, Avodah suggests that our work can be a form or worship where we honor our God and serve our neighbors.

God has given me a passion to write. In my former job as a Worship and Youth Director,  I had plenty of opportunities to put pen to paper and pour my heart out -- it became a sacred time for me.

In the last year since my sweet baby was born, my job title has switched to Mommy, and I haven't had an outlet for these stirrings within me, and frankly, I've missed it.

That is what I hope this blog to be. An sweet offering unto the Lord. A place where my work and worship can be interchangeable.

A place to find the Glorious in the Mundane.

Welcome to my avodah.