Living Crazy And Being Still

The thing about life, and the way that we live it, is that it's wild-and-crazy full.

It's been one of those weeks. Breathless living again.

And I'll just guess that you can relate.

I grab those quiet moments in the morning. Those moments when it's just the Lord and me and the house is still.

 Life is still.

I am still.

I can linger in His Word and breathe deep and feel quiet inside.

Then the morning wakes.

And the sweet wonderful is all around.

But life will run full force. Wild and fast all day.

So how do I be still, Lord? How do I be still and know that you are God?

 How can I be still with the stillness can't come?

 

Maybe it's in taking a moment to pause, to step out of the breathlessness. Maybe life can spin around me, but I can see His glory in the work of His hands.

 

 

 

                                                   
                                                           Or in the wonder of a child.

                        Or in the grace of a heart expression that comes at just the right time.

                             Maybe it's seeing Him in the sweet goodness of brotherly love.

Or in the endless, everyday moments that are folded, like treasure, into the daily rush.

I know that all good gifts come from Him, and if I can just stop to see, these gifts are all around.

And it's not so hard, after all, to be still and and to know.

To be still and to know that He is God.

Have a beautiful Monday.

Lesson in the Egg

The boys are doing a science experiment. They have Ball jars half-full of white vinegar. Floating in each jar of vinegar is an egg.

After a day or so the shell begins to soften. The egg is wrapped in bubbles, and the boys think this is the coolest thing.

After another day, when the boys plunge their fingers into the jars to retrieve the egg, they find that the shell is filmy.

And it doesn't take too much longer before the shell is broken down and there is just the egg. It's spongy. Solid. Springy. They can press and shape it (but only over the sink). The hard, crusty shell is gone and only the pliable remains.

So I look at this egg, and as weird as it sounds, I see my own heart.

Sometimes there's a hard covering.

Sometimes I need, I want, for this shell to be broken down. I want my heart to be soft, open, and ready for God's tender, refining work.

It's not there all the time, this shell. But when it comes, it covers hard. Like when I'm hurt and I throw words like a prizefighter throws punches. Or when I'm angry and sulk behind self-erected walls.

My boys have quite a time with these eggs. It's been fun for them to see.

But if I look a little deeper there's a lesson.

A lesson and a prayer.

God, break down the hard spots on my heart. You know where they are. Make my heart pliable and soft and open to You. 

Amen.

Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Psalm 51:10

"I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh." Ezekiel 36:26

Rain Rescue - The Power of a Loving Thing

The boys and I are driving home after an afternoon of errands. As we cross the bridge that spans the Mississippi, I notice the clouds. They're broody and dark and the sky that's visible in between is a deep blue gash.

By the time we're home, they've knit together to a ominous mass and then there is a wild torrent of rain.

We pull in the drive and sit. The back door is down the steps and across the patio.

"I'm going to run in," Gabe says. I turn around and see he's watching the digital clock. It's three. Time for the boys' half-hour of coveted PBS. It's a powerful thing.

"Just wait," I say. "It will slow. If you make a run for it, you'll still be soaked."

"Please," he asks.

I pop the locks and he's out the door. Down the steps. Then he's fumbling at the door to find the right key.

And he's in.

And the rain hits the windshield in hard, angry pelts.

A bit like my mood these days, I recognize. Things with our struggling son have left me a little stripped. The raw, inside me can be as dark as the day.

I sit for a moment and listen to the chatter from the back seat. I watch the rain flow like a river down the side of the drive.

And then I see the umbrella.

It's a Fighting Illini umbrella. And it's huge. Wide slices of blue and orange are moving across the patio. I see small legs and feet underneath.

Gabe.

The umbrella bobs up the stairs, it stops for a moment as the gate, and then it pauses outside my van door.

It tips and there is Gabe's smile.                             

I throw the door open.

"I came to rescue you, Mom," he says.

There he is, this small sprig of a boy, holding this canopy of nylon. He's holding it out to me, wanting to walk me in.

I've been rescued from the rain.

I hold the umbrella and it covers us both. We move fast and Gabe delivers me to the porch. I step inside and I watch him run back to the van for his brothers.

The struggle, the sadness, hasn't gone away. But the edges have been soothed with a sweet salve. The sweet salve of a loving thing.

Before long the boys are all in and the house is full. There's a thunder of boyness moving toward the family room upstairs. But as Gabe rushes past I reach out and snag him. I pull him close. I whisper in his small, warm ear.

"Thanks," I say. "For rescuing me."

"You're welcome," he says. And he smiles.

But he really has no idea at all.


Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds...  Hebrews 10:23-24

Happy Mother's Day

Happy Mother’s Day to those who know how vast and deep and wide a mother’s love can be.

And Happy Mother’s Day to my own Mama, who still teaches me about this kind of love.

Always,

Shawnelle

                                            Sea of Mother Love
                                                                           by
                                                            Shawnelle Eliasen

The summer sun toasted my shoulders as I pushed my little boy on the swing. My friend, Angie, and I were at the play park. She stood behind the swings, too, and pushed her own little blond son. Both of our bellies were round with babies. I was due to deliver my second child any day, and her delivery was just a few weeks behind.

“Do you ever wonder,” I asked. “If you’ll be able to love another child like you love the one you already have?” It was a bold question, one that I hoped seemed more lighthearted than it was, due to the sunshine and the laughter of the little boys and the creek of the old, metal swings. But the truth was, I’d been pondering the question for months. I wondered if I could summon enough love. And I felt guilty for wondering.



Angie’s arms dropped to her sides and she let the swing coast on momentum. Her green eyes welled with tears. “Yes,” she said. “I do wonder.”

“Oh,” I said. It was a tender moment of mom-confession. I let my son’s swing coast, too. Angie and I took a seat on the grass. “It’s just that I love Logan so much. It’s like when he was born, my heart transformed to this sea of emotion, more deep and wide than I could ever imagine. I’m scared of not having that again.”



“I understand,” Angie said. “I worry about that, too.”

We were silent for a moment. Then our little boys leaped from their swings. Logan rushed toward me and wrapped his summer-brown arms around my neck. “Will you push us on the merry-go-round?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

I stood slowly, one hand on my belly. The tiny bundle rolled under my touch. I loved this child already. But would it be the same? I wondered as Logan clasped my hand in his and pulled me across the green grass.

Later that night, after we’d tucked Logan in bed, my husband and I sat on our porch swing. There was a twinge of cool in the mid-June night, and Lonny’s arm slipped around my shoulders.

“It won’t be long, now,” Lonny said. “Are you ready to be a new mommy again?”

“Ready,” I said. I swallowed hard. “Hey, do you remember when Logan was born?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said.

“What I mean is, do you remember when you first held him in your arms? When I first held Logan, I thought my heart would break. He was so still and peaceful. So gentle. Do you remember his thick, black hair? Remember his long, tapered fingers? When he first opened his eyes, it felt like nothing else in the world. There was some new connection that ran from that baby to the center of my soul.”

“Love,” Lonny said, simply. “It was a new kind of love.”

I snuggled into Lonny’s arms and wrapped my own arms around my middle. I hoped that there was enough of that new kind of love to stretch over our growing family.

By mid-morning of the next day, it was obvious that our world was about to change. We prepared to leave for the hospital when labor pains were consistent. Before I settled into the van, I caught Logan by the hand pulled him close to me. I knelt down, the best I could, and I whispered into his ear.

“I love you, Logan. It’s time to go to the hospital. We’re going to meet our new baby,” I said.

He looked up at me with wide eyes. “I love you, too, Mama.”

I pulled him to my chest and felt his little heart beat against mine.

Later in the afternoon, our second child was born. I immediately heard the wail of a babe. The cry was fierce. It was filled with passion.

I caught the first glimpse of my second son as Dr. Donnelly held him for me to see. The babe’s tiny arms were curled to his chest. His fists were clenched. His little face was bunched and scarlet as his mouth opened and closed to swallow his first gulps of breath.

Within seconds the squalling, tiny boy was wrapped in soft, blue flannel and was placed in my arms. I pulled the blanket back to drink all the details of my son. His hair was strawberry blonde. His features were round. Even his hands were different from Logan’s. I slipped my finger into his curled fist, and he squeezed tight.

Then I pulled his blanket back and held him to my heart. His tiny chest quit heaving and the fierce cry subsided into a few long, hard gasps.

My son.

I held him tight. He’d just come from my body, but it seemed that when I held him close, he pulled back into a part of me. And he had. That tiny little boy, in all his newborn fury, settled deep into my heart.

It didn’t take long to realize that this newly created person was completely different from my firstborn son. His labor was different. His birth was different. He looked nothing like his brother, and within the first moments of his life, I knew that his personality was all his own, too.

And I had never seen anything more lovely. His zest. His zeal. Apparent at his very first breath.

We named our second little boy Grant. And with Grant’s grand arrival, the question in my heart disappeared. Could I love another child as much as I loved my first?

Absolutely. Immediately. My soul was filled with peace.

The hours rolled by that day, I was anxious to share my son. Angie was the first friend to visit and to meet our newborn babe. As she sat beside my bed with her hand on her round tummy, I longed to tell her what I’d discovered. I didn’t. I knew the truth was not something that another mother could share.

A mother’s heart is a sea of love, and it is deep and wide enough for all.

But that truth, like a sweet, second son, needed to be born.

(As printed in Chicken Soup for the Soul: New Moms)

 

 

 

 

Small Graces and Tender Teaching

 Samuel and I are learning about pollination.

So imagine our surprise, when on one of spring's first warm days, the Lord brings this bee to our table.

The boys and I are having lunch outside, and the visitor comes. There's a flat of flowers at the table's center, and the bee hovers close.

"Look, Mom," Sam says. He points.

Chatter stops, sandwiches rest on paper plates, and we watch.

This bee has our full attention. Three been-in-school-all-morning boy bodies are suddenly still. 

The bee buzzes. Moves about the petals. He plunges deep and stays. When he pulls away, when he's slowly circling these flowers again, his tiny legs are covered with bright yellow pollen.

Zay laughs. "Hey guys," he says. "This bee has yellow fuzzy boots."

And I'm amazed.

I'm amazed at this bee in boots, but I'm more I'm amazed at this perfect timing. First spring day. First bee we've seen. Right on the heels of a lesson from a book.

I'm moved by this tender teaching. By this sweet, small grace.

I see You here, God. I see Your activity. I see Your goodness at this table today.

I watch my boys. The lesson is not lost on them. Their eyes are bright and their smiles are slow and they know that they're seeing something wonderful.

Teach me like this, Lord. Let me see You. Teach me how to live. Teach me Your ways. Be as personal, as intimate, as You are with us now.

The bee stays with us for a bit. Then, as swiftly as he came, he's gone. The boys finish their lunches and then they're off, too.

But something inside me is different. This lunchtime lesson stays.

He's compassionate to teach us through the small stuff.

He'll guide us through the big things, too.

I gather nibbled sandwich crusts. The boys have forgotten to pick up their plates.

It' okay.

Small graces and tender teaching.

What a wonderful, wonderful way.


Show me your ways, LORD, teach me your paths. Psalm 25:4

When God Uses His People

When I first met Mark, I walked like I was one hundred years old. My head was down. My feet shuffled in too-small steps. My back curved like an uppercase S. Mark was a physical therapist. And I did not want to spend time with him.

I'd been to see my neurosurgeon the day before.

"I'll just have surgery again," I said as I was propped against the exam table (I hurt too much to sit). An image of my back, discs bulging and protruding, was on the wall.

"I'd like you to try physical therapy," the doctor said.

"I don't have time for that," I said.

"Make time," he said.

I was in pain. The see-red kind. Make time? I had three small kids at home. Bath time meant sprawling on the bathroom floor while two toddlers splashed. Then I pulled my upper half to the rim of the tub to fish their slippery bodies out. Lunchtime meant pbj's - assembled  while I curled on the kitchen rug. Samuel, then five, had tottered on a step stool to reach the peanut butter from the cupboard.

When I'd had surgery a few years before, the relief was immediate. And I'd healed fast.

"I'll give therapy a short try," I said. "But I meant it when I said I don't have time. I need to get well. I need you to fix my back."

So I went to see Mark. He did an evaluation. I was low functioning. And I'd need to go to therapy every day for the first week. There was homework, too. Each night I'd lie prostrate on the floor while Lonny lifted my hips to align with my shoulders. And I'd stay there for a long, long time.

"I need to be well," I grumbled. "I don't want to do this. If I'd had surgery, I'd be on the mend."

Days rolled into weeks, and I saw Mark regularly. He turned out to be a nice guy. A Christian. He never said so, but I believe he prayed for me while he helped me with my back.

Turns out he was an excellent physical therapist, too.

After a month or so, I sat at the dinner table with my family.

A few weeks after that, I resumed care of my kids.

And a short while later? I was full functioning again.

I hadn't wanted Mark to help me. But in God's good, sweet grace, he did. My back recovered - without surgery.

So I've been reminded of Mark recently. I've been thinking about the amazing things that happen when God uses his people.

I'm thinking of my teenage boy and the struggles that he's had. And I'm thinking of the good people that the Lord has placed in his life. My son may not want to be helped right now. But the Lord has him surrounded by people who care. He gives us a free will choice, but God is our pursuer. He's the softener of hearts. He's the lover of our souls. He's the one who makes miracles in the beating hearts of men.

He's the one who longs after that one lost sheep.

So I'll be patient and I'll continue to pray for my boy. And I'll pray for those sweet souls God has put in my boy's life, too.

Overall, I'm encouraged.

I know, from my experience with Mark, of the healing that can happen when the Lord uses his own.


If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls down and has no one to help him up. Ecclesiastes 4:10

When There are Webs in the Windows and You Say "Come On In!"

Last week, the Women's Ministry team at church planned a progressive dinner. I agreed to hostess.

Ninety precious women,  many of whom had never been to my home, were coming for dessert.

The ministry team covered the details, right down to cream for the coffee. All I had to do was clean the house, then kick back and welcome these lovely women.

But wanted to roll out red-carpet hospitality. I wanted to wash the windows.

I come from a long line of Dutch people. But I'm missing that shiny-home gene. And my windows call me out (Sometimes my dad teases and reminds me that there's a river outside my front window. Now wouldn't that be a nifty thing to see?).

So I spent the day cleaning, and an hour before the ladies arrived, I hit the windows. I particularly wanted to clean the tall one in the living room. The glass is over a century old and a spider had taken up residence. A thick sheet of web stretched between two panes.

I tried with all my might to get to that darned web. I tried to pry one pane off. I tried to shimmy Zay's wooden sword, swathed in a cleaning cloth, between the two sheets of glass. I jabbed with a yardstick and tried to gather the web like cotton candy on a cardboard tube.

No luck.

I was out of time and the spiders won.

"What do I do?" I whispered, hands on hips, standing on the porch.

True hospitality comes from the heart. When you open your home, you can open your life.

The words fell in a soft place. The words made me warm. The words shifted my focus and suddenly that web in the window held no power over me.

Ninety women, in groups of twenty-some, came into my home.

There was conversation. And laughter. There was tenderness and sharing and sisterly love. The sweet bond of women stretched over generations and moved deep within these walls.

And you know what? No one cared about the web in the window.

Not even me.

Sweet fellowship is too powerful to get caught in something like that.

So I learned a little bit last week. A gem of knowledge I'll do my best to keep.

True hospitality truly comes from the heart.

And if we just allow it, the blessing is rich and deep.

Father, thank you for teaching me about hospitality. Help me to remember to welcome others into my life and my heart, caring more about relationships and less about my house. Amen.