tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71659574060935771472024-03-13T07:33:35.826-05:00Family GraceShawnelle Eliasen's quiet reflections on faith, family, and finding God's graceShawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.comBlogger510125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-67272857082680331352017-06-12T19:30:00.000-05:002017-06-12T18:03:03.974-05:00Night Music <strong>May the glory of the LORD endure forever; may the LORD rejoice in his works. Psalm 104:31</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
By the time I hit the bed my thoughts are tough knots. Worry has tangled many concerns into a twist of charged-up strands.<br />
<br />
I usually don't get this way.<br />
<br />
But tonight I'm wound tight.<br />
<br />
"You okay?" Lonny asks.<br />
<br />
I curl against his side. "Sure," I say. But I'm not being honest, really.<br />
<br />
I don't know why I've given myself over to worry tonight. There are concerns I have for the boys. Different things. From the oldest to the youngest. Needs. Concerns. A hundred reasons to fret.<br />
<br />
I try to find the off-switch to my thoughts, but my mind seems to have taken on a wild life of its own.<br />
<br />
I flip over. Fluff my pillow. Think about charging from bed to find a good book.<br />
<br />
Then I hear it.<br />
<br />
The windows are open because the night air is cool. And it has started to rain.<br />
<br />
The rain is gentle. It's a soft rhythm ebbing into my room. It's a pattering. The kind of rain my dad calls a "soaking rain". I can hear it, kind and soft, falling on ivy outside my window. I think of it, refreshing the flowers and the spring green grass.<br />
<br />
Then comes the frog.<br />
<br />
He's croaking. The croak is deep and it's coming from somewhere behind the house. I can hear it through the bedroom window that opens to the pool.<br />
<br />
Everything else in the world seems quiet, except for this rhythm.<br />
<br />
Even my thoughts go quiet, and I understand that this is a music of praise.<br />
<br />
Nature is offering praise. <br />
<br />
I lie still for a few minutes and listen. My fists uncurl. I hear Lonny beside me. His even breath has joined the rhythm, too. <br />
<br />
And my own heart joins the praise.<br />
<br />
<em>Thank you God that You are faithful.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Thank you that You meet our needs</em>.<br />
<br />
<em>Even in this song I see Your kindness</em>.<br />
<br />
And there is peace.<br />
<br />
The rain continues to fall and the frog continues his song.<br />
<br />
In some strange way I feel safe. Hemmed in.<br />
<br />
And I understand, in that foggy-warm place before sleep, that this night music has become a lullaby, and in the Lord's sweet goodness, I am going to rest.<br />
<br />Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-69057712681800586792017-04-17T20:00:00.000-05:002017-04-21T09:56:46.846-05:00Hope in JesusIt's Easter morning.<br />
<br />
The small boys are up before the sun. They pull the bigger people out of bed. Then they hunt for eggs and search for baskets and root through the house. They're little- boy-wild.<br />
<br />
I watch them run. Morning is a sliver of light through the curtains. There are rumpled heads and cold, bare feet and warm, soft pjs because the day is a newborn.<br />
<br />
It's fresh and young.<br />
<br />
And I watch my family. There's been struggle and strife and healing needs to come. <br />
<br />
Life, these weeks, has been a trial.<br />
<br />
It weighs on me, tugging, pulling, unwilling to set me free.<br />
<br />
We scurry around the house. I lift eggs and bread from the oven. It will soon be time for church. But just when I'm moving through the motions, just when there's longing in my soul, a son pulls his guitar from beside the piano.<br />
<br />
And a song of praise fill our home.<br />
<br />
There's the clatter of dishes and the voices of the children. There's work to do to get us all out the door.<br />
<br />
But the music, the peace, the beauty washes over me. Somehow it fills the empty places. Somehow it shifts my focus and makes rough edges smooth. Somehow it directs my heart.<br />
<br />
To Jesus.<br />
<br />
<strong>And He is Risen. He is Risen, indeed.</strong><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6-CUddKJDDY/WPUZzGJryrI/AAAAAAAADAk/GPM3zQWIwJQLdF1niqo-8Ee7rZ-hwpUjACLcB/s1600/IMG_9128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6-CUddKJDDY/WPUZzGJryrI/AAAAAAAADAk/GPM3zQWIwJQLdF1niqo-8Ee7rZ-hwpUjACLcB/s320/IMG_9128.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5khl16D4XuY/WPUapaXcuTI/AAAAAAAADA4/gKkOBJzeugMSESdR01f_5cNdB7_AC3hPACEw/s1600/IMG_9205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5khl16D4XuY/WPUapaXcuTI/AAAAAAAADA4/gKkOBJzeugMSESdR01f_5cNdB7_AC3hPACEw/s320/IMG_9205.JPG" width="320" /></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qCvmKh3BISc/WPUaOvphl6I/AAAAAAAADA4/dB7YAHoGk0cNOyFPl0e_bWDsMHJ2k7h7gCEw/s1600/IMG_9134.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qCvmKh3BISc/WPUaOvphl6I/AAAAAAAADA4/dB7YAHoGk0cNOyFPl0e_bWDsMHJ2k7h7gCEw/s320/IMG_9134.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bNa78JBgwsI/WPUZz59TLrI/AAAAAAAADA4/8oQRk2oDpa80uj0f_odmRQ9nEOXX6JpLgCEw/s1600/IMG_9136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bNa78JBgwsI/WPUZz59TLrI/AAAAAAAADA4/8oQRk2oDpa80uj0f_odmRQ9nEOXX6JpLgCEw/s320/IMG_9136.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
\</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y6bSOy6VydM/WPUapDrBr_I/AAAAAAAADAw/FA3gTqleAvcmR2x3xbd7C2CjbYI-t5W-QCLcB/s1600/IMG_9212.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y6bSOy6VydM/WPUapDrBr_I/AAAAAAAADAw/FA3gTqleAvcmR2x3xbd7C2CjbYI-t5W-QCLcB/s320/IMG_9212.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
My heart, bound up tight, uncurls. I can almost feel it in my chest. It's yielding.<br />
<br />
It opens to celebrates the promise.<br />
<br />
Life is real. There are real struggles and real hurts and real disappointments. Real mistakes. Real regrets. Real aches in the souls of those we love and we can't always be the balm.<br />
<br />
But we have a real Savior.<br />
<br />
<strong>And He is Risen.</strong><br />
<br />
<strong>And there is hope.</strong><br />
<br />
<em>You've overcome death, Jesus. You've defeated evil. You've risen and You've brought victory.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>I'll live on the resurrected side of Your cross, Lord.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>I'll live where Your light shines.</em><br />
<br />
The morning sun now stretches in stripes over the living room floor. It spills over our table, too. It fills our space.<br />
<br />
Darkness scatters.<br />
<br />
The boys need button-down shirts and black, Sunday shoes. They need shampoos and socks. And the house is a crazed mess of bright, plastic eggs and blue Easter grass.<br />
<br />
Doesn't matter.<br />
<br />
It's almost time to go worship, and I can't get there soon enough.<br />
<br />
I want to join the celebration for the Risen King.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Jesus, You are Lord of all.</em></strong>Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-77047105661380275922017-03-20T11:18:00.000-05:002017-03-20T19:46:53.649-05:00Hospitality - What It Is, What It's Not<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My friend Nancy’s coming to visit. She’s been my friend forever.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But I don’t see her often.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> W</span>hen she comes
over, I want to honor her with a picked-up house.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Guys’ c’mon. Clean this stuff up,” I say. We’re running
like mad and the day’s stacked hard. Appointments. Commitment. Now just ten
minutes before we fly out to the dentist. And Nan will be here when we return.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Two little guys scramble. They go to their knees and pluck
small cars from the rug. They chase strays that have landed, tires up, under
the wing chairs. They try. But there are miles of Hot Wheels track, running in
loops and tangles under the dining room table. Twining into the walk-through
closet and back out. Pushing into the back hall. A T-Rex jump ramp, jaws
gaping, is clamped on the back of one dining chair, and an angled, three-lane
drag strip is the new focal point of the living room.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I breathe deep and shove orange track into a plastic tote,but it’s time to go. I whisk the children away from the mess. Defeat presses
hard as I walk out the door.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; tab-stops: right 6.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">If I’m honest, it’s not about
honoring my friend. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">If I’m honest, it’s about me.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to show that I
can do it all and that I can do it all well. But today I’ve fallen short.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wild-mess short.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">An hour later we return. We’re just in the house, just in
the middle of the muck, when Nan arrives. She comes in and the boys rush to her
arms. Or friend greets each one. Takes time to look into their eyes and rumple their
hair. I hug Nan and her arms wrap around me, too.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Then she pulls away and does the loveliest thing.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She looks at the track. The cars. The mess. The dinosaur
clinging to furniture with grey, jagged teeth. And she smiles. She walks into
the thick of it and she gets to her knees.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“You boys have been busy,” she says. “It's wonderful. Show me what you’ve
built.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And two boys cluster our friend. They take her by the hand
and pull her into their world. She follows. She listens to their voices and to
their hearts. She takes a car and sends it down the track.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And I stand in the wonder of it all.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Where I see my own
inabilities and shortcomings, Nan sees gifts and talents. Where I see a mess,
she sees a way to engage my boys. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And I think about hospitality. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Isn’t this what true hospitality is? Sharing what we have. Who we are?
Stretching out and letting someone in? Really in? <strong>When opening my home and my heart, if I'm brave enough to take the focus off of myself, there’s
so much to give.</strong></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xl1C7TzNqBg/WNB2bydlBSI/AAAAAAAADAM/Yel4dTx0NYAa_8CkaXjAjSJy-Ve6kQvwgCEw/s1600/IMG_1804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xl1C7TzNqBg/WNB2bydlBSI/AAAAAAAADAM/Yel4dTx0NYAa_8CkaXjAjSJy-Ve6kQvwgCEw/s320/IMG_1804.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And receive.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Like Nan’s wisdom and grace. And little- boy goodness manifested in a
wild tangle of track. Or my friend and my sons bonding deep. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s a gentle flow of love. My family giving what we really are, vulnerable offering that reflects the trueness of life, and Nan
receiving with joy.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Hospitality. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Poured straight out.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It's a blessing to all.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><em>Lord, help me to offer from-the-heart hospitality...thank you for opportunities to open our home...</em></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<br /></div>
Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-44815627364808241852017-01-23T08:44:00.000-06:002017-01-26T10:25:46.361-06:00That Kind of Boy - A Prayer for Our Children<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-PbjQ-0iAVzM/TYbCwzrGNgI/AAAAAAAAAP0/Dk9R180yUUs/s1600/IMG_4036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-PbjQ-0iAVzM/TYbCwzrGNgI/AAAAAAAAAP0/Dk9R180yUUs/s320/IMG_4036.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
I handed Gabe a hundred number chart. He was learning about odd and even numbers.<br />
<br />
“Now take the marker,” I said. “And color the evens yellow.”<br />
<br />
Gabe colored the numbers two, four, and six. Then he colored seven and eight and nine.<br />
<br />
“Oops, Gabriel. You colored seven and nine. They’re odd numbers. Let’s count together by twos, even numbers.”<br />
<br />
But Gabe wouldn’t count. His face colored deep crimson. His shoulders curled and his head dropped forward. Then he started to cry.<br />
<br />
“Oh, Gabriel,” I said. “It’s no big deal. We’ll color over the yellow with blue. The odd numbers can be blue.”<br />
<br />
More sobs.<br />
<br />
I rubbed his little back. “Everyone makes mistakes, Gabe. Everyone.”<br />
<br />
Gabe lifted his head and looked me straight in the eye.<br />
<br />
“Well,” he said. “ I am not <em>that</em> kind of boy.”<br />
<br />
Gabriel’s reaction was typical. He doesn’t like to make mistakes. He gets embarrassed easily. It’s hard for him to be wrong, and when he is, he’s hard on himself. Too hard.<br />
<br />
In some ways, it’s tough for me to understand. Lonny and I have always encouraged our boys. We want them to learn and grow. To try new things. We know, expect, that there will be mistakes. And we're honest and open about our own. This is how we learn! Look at Peter. He made mistakes. Blurting words. Swiping the ear from a soldier. But Jesus taught through these mistakes – revealed Himself, His character, and His purpose through these blunders. <br />
<br />
So this will be my prayer for my little son. That he would always want to do what is right, but he’ll learn from the times when he’s not. That he’ll have a teachable spirit, and that that He would always know that God is close. That he won’t hold on to his mistakes, because the Lord won’t do that. And that he'll walk in grace and always, always remember how much God loves him.<br />
<br />
I know, that in time, Gabe will learn to see the value in his mistakes. That he’ll learn to rest in God’s good grace.<br />
<br />
I know he has it in him.<br />
<br />
To be <em>that</em> kind of boy.Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-79473741475764298522017-01-16T22:00:00.000-06:002017-02-10T11:47:40.369-06:00A Tale of Two Tables and Seeing the Best in My Spouse<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Hello Friends,</span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I wrote this a few years ago, but I'm grateful for the reminder today.</span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thank you for being here. I'm glad that you are.</span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Lovingly,</span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Shawnelle</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"></span><br />
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
I'm driving past a garage sale. There's a table, front and center, on the lawn. It's a dinette. Two chairs. Octagon. Glass top.<br />
<br />
I'm tugged back twenty-some years.<br />
<br />
It's exactly like the first table Lonny and I shared in our just-married home.<br />
<br />
I'd saved money and purchased the table at the mall. I bought cushions for the chairs and a basket of wooden fruit for the top. We pressed it into our apartment kitchen between the dryer and the defrost-it-yourself fridge.<br />
<br />
I'd like to say that we loved that table. But truth is, not so much. The trouble was the glass top. It showed every smudge. Every smear. Every fingerprint. Every crumb. Every undesirable, tainting thing was displayed. And no matter now many times I wiped it down, the darn thing never was clean.<br />
<br />
Sort of like the way Lonny and I treated one another all those years ago.<br />
<br />
We had smudges. Spots. Stains. But instead of giving a little grace, learning to live with a smudged person, focusing on the goodness rather than the shortcomings, we exposed each other's flaws. Brought attention to them. Displayed them. Just like that darn old table from Montgomery Ward.<br />
<br />
The result wasn't good.<br />
<br />
We didn't share many romantic dinners around that table.<br />
<br />
I drive along, still thinking. My mind moves forward, and now I consider the table that's in our dining room today. It's a family table. Mission style. Oak with a deep cherry stain. <br />
<br />
It has imperfections, too. There's an orange ring in the center where a a dried gourd jack-o-lantern met a toppled, too-full glass. Water stretched and pooled and stained the wood under Jack's pointy-tooth smile. There are Sharpie marker streaks from wild craft projects. A tantrum-throwing toddler jabbed the surface with the curved tines of his fork and pressed dotted frowns in the wood.<br />
<br />
The table's a mess.<br />
<br />
But the rich, deep color helps to absorb the flaws and we don't really see them at all.<br />
<br />
We choose to see the goodness.<br />
<br />
The table is a gathering place. We come together, hold hands, and thank the Lord. We laugh. We cry. We share and sing and argue and pout. We live life around that table, and though it's far from perfect, we choose to see the good.<br />
<br />
Like the way Lonny and I try to honor one another in our marriage.<br />
<br />
I still have my smudges. He still has his flaws. But somewhere in this life we share, we've developed the heart-desire to look past, to let go, to see the goodness, and celebrate the gifts. It took wise counsel, deliberate effort, and hearts that were willing to shift the focus off of one another's flaws and to see our own. It meant choosing to make Jesus the center. We're still learning and we don't always get it right. Some days are better that others. Some days it's just plain hard work. Some days we fall and fail. But in a lot of ways, this practice has been binding. Together we strive for love and grace.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">"This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you." John 15:12 ESV</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: small;"></span><br />
<strong><em>When my eyes are on my husband's shortcomings, there's separation. When I'm willing to examine my own shortcomings and see God's love, there's connection. It's the give-and-take of grace.</em></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
I finish my errands and point the van toward home. Soon I pull into the drive and take my place on the left. Lonny pulls up alongside and takes his place on the right.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YJlvi8JlLXU/UhFt7GuTLuI/AAAAAAAAByo/s_HlPPsbjAo/s1600/IMG_2783.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YJlvi8JlLXU/UhFt7GuTLuI/AAAAAAAAByo/s_HlPPsbjAo/s320/IMG_2783.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
It's almost dinnertime.<br />
<br />
I smile at the man in the Suburban and he waves and smiles back.<br />
<br />
Time to gather round the grace-table.<br />
<br />
Together we've arrived.<br />
<br />
<em>Thank you, Lord, for the ways in which you've grown my marriage...Amen.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-45346222837610385722017-01-09T16:20:00.000-06:002017-02-03T11:07:28.254-06:00Who I Am in Christ"Okay, Mom, see you later!" Zay says.<br />
<br />
There's a swift kiss, a smile, and he's headed for the door with our friends. Isaiah and his buddy are wearing matching Chewbacca Christmas-gift pajamas. It's January-cold and a pj play date is the perfect thing.<br />
<br />
They make Wookie sounds as they go. They wear faux-fur hoods. Their smiles are galaxy-wide and they are beautifully, completely comfortable being exactly who they are.<br />
<br />
Little boys.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C5kZ4Abms44/WHQ3c5hpOXI/AAAAAAAAC_w/37xS6bj0vawMO9UHmOAlc7N0msyRsApSACLcB/s1600/IMG_2051.JPG.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C5kZ4Abms44/WHQ3c5hpOXI/AAAAAAAAC_w/37xS6bj0vawMO9UHmOAlc7N0msyRsApSACLcB/s320/IMG_2051.JPG.jpeg" width="240" /></a><br />
In a world that pushes our children to grow too fast, this delights me.<br />
<br />
It also brings introspection. Am I as comfortable in being who I am? Do I embrace and walk with confidence in the reality of my identity in Christ?<br />
<br />
The questions hit my heart because a friend and I recently had coffee and conversation. The kind where mugs are filled over and over because we go soul-deep. We spoke of our similar spiritual struggle - being tethered to the old-self by cords of insecurity and fear. Maybe it's past circumstance. Maybe it's old scars that want to bleed fresh. Maybe it's habit. Whatever the reason, there is a call to take every fearful, thought-of-unworthiness to the obedience of Christ.<br />
<br />
And there's the opportunity to see myself the way that God sees me.<br />
<br />
<strong>Because I'm a follower of Jesus, I have a new identity. Because He's the lover of my soul, His righteousness has set me free.</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
It's mercy. It's the heartbeat of grace.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. 2 Corinthians 5:21 NIV</span><br />
<br />
Embracing this truth stirs gratitude. It brings the sweetest form of joy. The embrace is the chain-breaker that brings freedom from fear.<br />
<br />
<em>I can let go of shame.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>I can be defined by grace and not guilt.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>I can walk, with confidence, into the life and calling and circumstances that He brings.</em><br />
<br />
The Wookies leave, and as the door slams and quiet swells, I give this truth some thought... <br />
<br />
My friend and I - we'll encourage one another to claim our new identities. We'll pray for one another to live and breathe the gift of grace. We'll look at one another, straight on, and remind each other of exactly who we are.<br />
<br />
And with time and growth, we'll wear the confidence and strength of grace and as comfortably as our own skin. Like little boys who wear Star Wars pajamas, play all day, and live with easy-powerful acceptance in being just who they are supposed to be.<br />
<br />
They are little boys.<br />
<br />
And we are women who, because of Jesus, walk in righteousness and grace.Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-81905724994003610432017-01-04T09:10:00.000-06:002017-01-04T09:33:10.267-06:00Blessing of the Small Moments<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Let’s take the convertible for a ride,” Lonny says. “Top
down.” We’re elbow deep in dishes because the dishwasher is out-of-order and the fix
will have to wait for funds.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Really?” I ask. “It’s winter.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I know,” he says. “Let’s go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I look at the mess in the kitchen and then at the sun
streaming through the windows. It’s an unusual sixty-five degrees. I know I
should be tending to the house, laundry, and chores, but I can’t resist the
longing in Lonny’s eyes. I grab my jacket and we head for the garage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isaiah and Gabriel
are playing hockey on the drive. “Hey guys,” I say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We’re going for a ride. Top down. Want to
come?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Top down?” they ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I nod and they rush to rest their sticks against the garage.
Soon we’re buckled in, riding along the Mississippi, warm wind on our faces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Having fun?” Lonny asks. “The boys are.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I look behind me and my small sons’ arms are waving in the air.
Their mouths open wide and they’re singing. Loud. Together. Even with the
wind in my ears, it’s a lovely sound. I look at my husband and his grin comes
from his heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Thank you, Jesus.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In this moment, I’m filled. Filled with joy. Filled with
peace. Filled with hope because the Lord is near. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What-if</i> worry is banished. Fear for the future flees. There’s no
room. In this moment there’s the here and now and I’m thankful to the Lord for
the beauty of this blessing and for the instruction He gave me to live
this way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">W<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">hen I’m willing to live in the moment, to live day by day, life can be
so sweet.</b><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We ride for much of the afternoon and end up in a small town up the river. We
stop when the sun dips low and the air grows cool. Main street sings of vintage charm in this sweet village, and soon we're out, admiring festive window displays. We walk slowly, unrushed, but I stop still when a
sign in a shop window catches my attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VNJrrjoYeEo/VomNpIvZqRI/AAAAAAAACwk/_MDh-3_2_5k/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B%252811%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VNJrrjoYeEo/VomNpIvZqRI/AAAAAAAACwk/_MDh-3_2_5k/s320/FullSizeRender%2B%252811%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but my the number of moments that take our breath away.</strong></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’m blessed by the truth of it. I’ve lived this today.
Standing here, several boys by my side and Lonny holding tight to my hand, my
heart's desire is affirmed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">This year, I will live
moment by moment. Day by day.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I want to live and breathe and appreciate what the Lord brings.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I will not let worry
steal or fear destroy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I move closer to the
glass and suddenly I see my own reflection. My men gather around. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I see us there,
standing on the sidewalk, as we do in life. We're side-by-side together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Oh, the big blessings of small moments...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Lord, let me be wise
enough to see.</span></i><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></em><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-large;"><em>Give your entire attention to what God is doing right now, and don't get worked up about what may or may not happen tomorrow. God will help you deal with whatever hard things come up when the time comes. Matthew 6:34 (MSG)</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><em></em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "calibri";">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></em><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">WRITING NEWS:</span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I'm humbled and thankful to have contributed to <em>Daily Guideposts 2016</em>, and I'm excited to share that my son Logan contributed too - his devotion debut! It's a beautiful book. The theme for the 2016 devotional is "Abide in Me". What a precious thing, to read of the real-life, heart-deep, meaningful moments of others and to let them help me abide daily in God's love.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NpZ0dxJ0ejc/VomMUkZ-3RI/AAAAAAAACwY/Ppa49sKh0sw/s1600/IMG_8640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NpZ0dxJ0ejc/VomMUkZ-3RI/AAAAAAAACwY/Ppa49sKh0sw/s320/IMG_8640.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-15988862211329175372017-01-03T22:00:00.000-06:002017-01-10T10:06:05.482-06:00Zuzu's House, Trust, and Keepin' Out the ColdA friend, over Christmas break, said something that made me smile.<br />
<br />
"I think you live in Zuzu's house."<br />
<br />
Zuzu. George Bailey's Zuzu. From one of our favorite movies, <em>It's A Wonderful Life </em>(it's a wonder we don't all have pneumonia). I sat in our living room and laughed. Then I reached for another throw.<br />
<br />
I think my friend is right. Our house is like Zuzu's house. It's rambling. Old. Drafty. We can feel the winter wind whoosh and whisper over the floorboards.<br />
<br />
And today seems especially cold.<br />
<br />
The air is damp. Temperatures are low, and I think it's time to reach for the big defense: electric blankets. So I pull the stepladder from the basement and haul it to my bedroom closet because the blankets are stored high. I'm excited to retrieve six bundles and wrap them around six beds. I'll be glad to know that at night, when it's even colder because it's dark, my family will be warm.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>If only it could be this easy to press out all kinds of cold</em>,</strong> I think as I stretch on my toes and wriggle my fingers toward the soft bundles.<br />
<br />
It's not something that's desirable to admit, but if I'm completely honest, I often a struggle with worry. I worry for my children. I worry for their futures and circumstances. I worry for my own future when they are not here. And then there's the dark place of fear. I slip there easily, even though it's nowhere I'd like to be. I don't want to exist in these cold places. But circumstances, unwelcome and unchosen, seem to create an opening and I let the cold seep right in.<br />
<br />
<strong>But what if challenging circumstances bring opportunity to find peace and comfort in the Lord?</strong><br />
<br />
It's something that I think about as I toss blankets until there's a sea of softness on the ground. I turn the thought over and over while carry armloads of blankets up the steep, curved steps. I ponder while I and unmake and remake a half-dozen beds.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">When I am afraid, I put my trust in you. </span><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">Psalm 56:3 NIV</span><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-61tNxtCzALk/WGrMum2Nm0I/AAAAAAAAC_g/k0eEjXlp0Cw24FYxdYK_19kMNJ0yUAvGgCLcB/s1600/IMG_7569.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-61tNxtCzALk/WGrMum2Nm0I/AAAAAAAAC_g/k0eEjXlp0Cw24FYxdYK_19kMNJ0yUAvGgCLcB/s320/IMG_7569.JPG" width="240" /></a><br />
Trust.<br />
<br />
This has to be the way.<br />
<br />
During the times in my life when I've chosen to trust more and fear less, the sharp sting of fear diminished. It lost power.<br />
<br />
<strong>When my response to worry becomes an opportunity to trust, the cold is kept away.</strong><br />
<br />
And this becomes my prayer.<br />
<br />
<em>Lord, it's a new year. A time for refreshment and new beginnings. Help me to remember how turn from worry and to trust in You.</em><br />
<br />
When evening comes and dark winter wraps around us, I find peace in knowing that my family is cocooned. As they sleep, they're wrapped in warmth. But even as I sit and listen to the strong howl of the wind, there's something else, too. A different kind of peace that's filling. Settling. Comforting. A peace that passes understanding and becomes salve to my soul.<br />
<br />
I agree with my friend. This old house is like Zuzu's.<br />
<br />
But I'm learning to trust.<br />
<br />
And trust keeps out the cold.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong></strong><br />
<br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-54073344443100613852016-11-22T08:00:00.000-06:002016-11-22T07:39:48.648-06:00Some Enchanted Evening (Not) And One Blessing After Another<em><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-large;">This one is from a few years ago...but this sweet memory reminds to today that there is blessing all around...</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-large;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-large;">Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours...</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-large;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-large;">Lovingly,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-large;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-large;">Shawnelle</span></em><br />
<br />
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
"Better get going," I say. "Time's tickin'."<br />
<br />
Lonny looks at me and smiles. He's taking the boys to spend the night with grandparents. Then he and I are having a date.<br />
<br />
"Love you, Mama," Zay says. He hugs me hard and pushes through the porch door with two backpacks and Mine-O-Mine, his special blanket.<br />
<br />
Grant will drive over after work, but Gabe and Samuel go with Lonny now. There are hugs and<em> I'll miss</em> <em>yous.</em> There are kisses thrown over shoulders. There are waves. There are <em>see-you-in-the-mornings</em> and <em>don't-forget-to-prays</em> and an<em> Oops! I forgot my toothbrush</em>.<br />
<br />
At last they're loaded and I walk outside and stand by the fence as the van moves down our drive. It's vehicle full of precious. I wrap my hands around wrought iron and whisper a prayer for their safety. For their grandparents. <br />
<br />
I love these boys like wild.<br />
<br />
But I'm excited to see them go.<br />
<br />
I trudge through gold leaves (they'll just have to wait) and head back into the house. Lonny will be back in an hour.<br />
<br />
There's just enough time to get ready.<br />
<br />
Just enough time to fall flat with the flu.<br />
<br />
It hits hard and fast and anything romantic is gone before Lonny returns. But when he gets home, he loves me with that caregiver kind of love. He rubs my back. He holds me close. He loves me well when I'm well past lovely.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6s5vzZewclM/UJwRw0bg1_I/AAAAAAAABPk/OQYVDj9XaXE/s1600/IMG_1023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6s5vzZewclM/UJwRw0bg1_I/AAAAAAAABPk/OQYVDj9XaXE/s320/IMG_1023.JPG" width="213" /></a><br />
And the next afternoon he returns for the boys.<br />
<br />
They come in a burst of excitement and life and I'm still camped on the couch. They've heard that I've been sick and they come full force.<br />
<br />
Grant bends low and wraps his arms around me. Zay rushes in with a cupcake saved from lunch. Samuel asks if I'd like some music. He finds his guitar and the room is filled with song. Gabe comes last. He's snipped the final pink rose from the bush by the walk. It's floating in a drinking glass. He walks slowly. Eyes on the glass. Eyes on me.<br />
<br />
I settle into my blankets. The aches aren't so bad because the room has grown so <em><strong>full</strong></em>.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6_9nysshWqk/UJwQ2MQc5hI/AAAAAAAABPc/dm7Aj3glHlQ/s1600/IMG_1038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6_9nysshWqk/UJwQ2MQc5hI/AAAAAAAABPc/dm7Aj3glHlQ/s320/IMG_1038.JPG" width="320" /></a>Lonny walks in. He's got an armload. There are backpacks and blankets and pillows and more.<br />
<br />
The boys are home. Things hadn't gone as planned.<br />
<br />
But there's an enchanted evening after all.<br />
<em></em><br />
<br />
<strong>From the fullness of His grace we all receive one blessing after another. John 1:16</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-44780754553319828862016-11-07T21:00:00.000-06:002016-11-15T12:37:26.131-06:00A Prayer for Mamas Like MeI'm running morning-mad again, eyes shifting from the road to the green digits on the dash. My teenage son is almost late for his job. He sits beside me, quiet, and I look down to see that I'm still wearing my oven mitt. My hand is wrapped around the wheel, wrapped in a worn, ragged mitt. Frosty the snowman. One merry eye plucked off clean.<br />
<br />
It's worn from muffin mornings.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cbUs-Zzt034/T_rLOMplGcI/AAAAAAAAA28/op6lbaP7jFI/s1600/DSCN2544.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cbUs-Zzt034/T_rLOMplGcI/AAAAAAAAA28/op6lbaP7jFI/s320/DSCN2544.JPG" width="240" /></a>Worn from hours before the sun comes up and before boys come down. </div>
<br />
It's a little tired and a little frayed.<br />
<br />
A little bit like me.<br />
<br />
I turn the corner and my thoughts shift, too. In that moment, I remember Gabriel's prayer from the night before. He'd closed his eyes and bent his knees. And as his brother knelt too, pure and sweet in flannel pants, he'd said, "Thank you, God, for mamas like mine."<br />
<br />
It comes to my heart, this prayer from my son, as I pull to the curb for my nearly-grown boy. Grant gets out and turns to wave. He smiles a wide smile, and I'm washed over with love. This tired - it's precious. It's serving soul-deep. It comes with blessing and honor and giving and glory. Suddenly I want to pray for mamas. I <em>need</em> to pray for Mamas. Mamas who give. Mamas who love. Mamas who cherish and hold and give roots and give wings.<br />
<br />
Mamas whose passions come in baby bundles and stretch a whole life through.<br />
<br />
I think of my own dear mama, my Mamo, and Grandma too... rocking and teaching and loving a dozen babes. Ages of mamas, serving in silence, giving what we have, growing the hearts that came to life right under our own.<br />
<br />
So, dear friends, this prayer is for you. This prayer is for me. This prayer is for hearts that give and give again...<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Dear Father,</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Thank you for children. Thank you for family. Thank you for this first, beautiful way to give and receive love.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Thank you for mamas. Mamas who hold. Mamas who grow. Those who give without hesitation from an endless sea of love. Thank you for mamas who teach. Mamas who listen. Mamas who hold hands and hearts and hopes and dreams.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Help us to be patient. Fill us to the brim. Flood us with Your Spirit so Your love can flow straight through. Give us deep wisdom. Keen discernment. Hearts that are hungry for Your life-giving Word.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Build us strong...heart, soul, body, and mind. Give us the portions we need, pressed down, measured out, to spill into the hearts You've given us to love.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Allow us to persevere, to encourage one another, to lean into Your strength, and to see the blessings that fall from Your hands.</em><br />
<br />
<em>And may You have the glory, for this love and these days...</em><br />
<br />
<em>Amen</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-60302219912409073762016-10-31T07:47:00.001-05:002016-10-31T22:02:48.594-05:00Filled With the Spirit - Part of a Team<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s Sunday afternoon. The maples outside the kitchen
window are yellow-gold and sunshine hits the counter top in wide, gold bars.
Isaiah and I are baking cookies. The weekend has been full, and this together
time is a gentle reprieve. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“How much brown sugar, Mom?” he asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“One cup,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He roots and rattles through the baking
drawer while I fish egg shells from the batter in Mamo’s mixing bowl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Got it,” he says. He spoons brown sugar from the canister
and pats it solid with ever-growing hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gE17v3NZNo8/WBc31sWx4uI/AAAAAAAAC-w/0TptuL4ooOE8FsGUPEdsKPoq7AYbrVb8wCLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B%252822%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gE17v3NZNo8/WBc31sWx4uI/AAAAAAAAC-w/0TptuL4ooOE8FsGUPEdsKPoq7AYbrVb8wCLcB/s320/FullSizeRender%2B%252822%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“White sugar?” asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We work side-by-side. All my boys have enjoyed being
in the kitchen with me, but today I’m tender inside. Isaiah is the
youngest son. These opportunities are treasure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We measure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And sift.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And scoop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And bake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Later we sit at the dining room table. He sweet scent of
oatmeal-chocolate-chip has drawn a couple more boys. Sam has joined us. Grant,
too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Isaiah takes a bite of cookie and grins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Well,” I ask. "What do you think?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Isaiah swallows and sips from his Scooby-Doo mug. When he
looks up, he wears a milk mustache.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I think," he says. "That we make a great team."</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I nod and place a cookie on my own plate. I agree. He and I do make a great team. And while I’m still soul-smiling, I remember something I’d read earlier in the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">When we are born again, the Holy Spirit begins to work His new creation in us, and there will come a time when there is not a bit of the old order left, the old solemnity goes, the old attitude to things goes, and "all things are of God." - Oswald Chambers, <em>My Utmost for His Highest</em></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Rm72S_O7c4/WBc3-ps5wDI/AAAAAAAAC-0/tjbkF6atQt03usfFBoSIQ_ESGoLrFzH-QCLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B%252821%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Rm72S_O7c4/WBc3-ps5wDI/AAAAAAAAC-0/tjbkF6atQt03usfFBoSIQ_ESGoLrFzH-QCLcB/s320/FullSizeRender%2B%252821%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "calibri";">As a believer in Christ, as one soul-saved by His gift of
grace, I’m filled with the Holy Spirit. I’m tender to the center to think of
it. God’s holiness in me! That He would take residence in my human heart!
Cleansing me. Transforming me. Empowering me. Giving me new life. And because of His Presence, I can share His love in gentle boldness. I can do the work He's prepared in advance for me to do. I can work through tough circumstances and see hope in dark
places. I can push worry to the wayside and choose to walk a path of peace,
leaning hard into Him and trading insecurities for trust. I can grow, stretch, change.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My focus can shift from the temporal to the eternal, and I
can learn to walk in resurrection joy.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Oh, the sweet glory in a life transformed!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The boys talk and dishes clank and clatter and soon the
plate of cookies is a thing of the past. Isaiah has a servant’s soul, and he
helps me gather plates and clean crumbs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And when we run water from the tap and roll up our sleeves,
I’m washed over with love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">There's deep and everlasting beauty in being part of the Lord's team.</span></div>
Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-23444896277269653472016-10-10T21:00:00.000-05:002016-10-28T13:27:12.382-05:00Eyes Open to God's GloryI'm reading a devotion aloud, and I'm frustrated.<br />
<br />
The boys are not listening.<br />
<br />
We're on the back patio. The sun is warm. October colors the trees. It's the perfect place to study. Why can't they pay attention?<br />
<br />
I read another paragraph. They fidget. Shift in their chairs. One boy whispers. I throw a question.<br />
<br />
"Who can tell me what I just read?" I ask.<br />
<br />
No one answers. Their faces are blank as fresh paper.<br />
<br />
I clear my throat and read a few more lines. From the corner of my eye I can see they are now leaning in their chairs, eyes focused on something I cannot see.<br />
<br />
"I think, guys, that this is worth your time," I say.<br />
<br />
"Do you see his face?" Gabe asks. "It's a pentagon. And his eyes are crazy green. He's looking right at me."<br />
<br />
I wonder what he's talking about. I lean toward Gabe. I notice the distraction. It's a bug. He's close to two inches long, bright green, and is perched on the arm of Gabe's patio chair.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SteUh1GpzVE/UlGrJ8XQM3I/AAAAAAAAB6Y/j0OhQlgtE6k/s1600/IMG_2971.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SteUh1GpzVE/UlGrJ8XQM3I/AAAAAAAAB6Y/j0OhQlgtE6k/s320/IMG_2971.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Cool," I say. "Maybe<em> he'd</em> like to listen."<br />
<br />
I read on.<br />
<br />
"He's walking," Zay whispers. "He has a map on his wings."<br />
<br />
I stop reading. I watch as the boys' necks crane. The bug moves and the boys' eyes are pulled like magnets.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X_6SOcj9br0/UlIN1CqsvrI/AAAAAAAAB6o/ePVy6kfwrBI/s1600/IMG_2976.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X_6SOcj9br0/UlIN1CqsvrI/AAAAAAAAB6o/ePVy6kfwrBI/s320/IMG_2976.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
"His wings are like leaves," Sam says. "God made them that way. Look at the veins. If he'd fly to the bush behind us, we'd never find him."<br />
<br />
The guys are right. This guy's wings are a road map of creation. And his color is spectacular. The exact shade of the still-green bushes that fringe our patio.<br />
<br />
"I want get my magnifying glass," Zay speaks in hushed tone. "I want to see his up-close face."<br />
<br />
I watch my boys' faces. They're captivated. Captivated by this creation of the Living Lord.<br />
<br />
The boys whisper. The bug moves. Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, the boys crowd around him. This visitor's details, this small wonder in a two-inch space, sings of God's glory.<br />
<br />
I set my book down.<br />
<br />
"Go get your magnifying glass, Zay," I say.<br />
<br />
Sometimes even when my motive is good, I need to slow down. Drop my own agenda.<br />
<br />
Open my eyes.<br />
<br />
And <strong>see what the Lord has brought</strong> to the table.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ouo62Cs4YSI/UlKrqu7kpXI/AAAAAAAAB64/nlawmnt0tWo/s1600/IMG_2984.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ouo62Cs4YSI/UlKrqu7kpXI/AAAAAAAAB64/nlawmnt0tWo/s320/IMG_2984.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<strong><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;"><em>How many are your works, O LORD! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures. Psalm 104:24</em></span></strong><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>God, thank you for revealing yourself to us in exciting ways. Give me the eyes to see. Amen.</em>Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-91818750561183219032016-09-26T21:52:00.000-05:002016-10-07T11:49:42.670-05:00Wide-Open Heart and a Prayer It's Monday. Sunlight floods our schoolroom. The curtains flutter with fresh air. But it's Monday. The past weekend feels miles behind and the one ahead is a whisper.<br />
<br />
I pull my chair to Isaiah's side of the work table. He opens his math book and smiles.<br />
<br />
"So Mom," he says. He crosses his arms. "What do you want to fill my head with today?"<br />
<br />
Now I'm smiling too. In that moment, it's not so much what he said but the way he said it. Glasses perched on his nose. Cheeks sucked in. Eyebrows high and voice low. Isaiah is the youngest of five boys, and he's most often the one who reminds me to laugh.<br />
<br />
I forget my Monday woes.<br />
<br />
"Well, sir, how about math facts?" I ask.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DQ6aF5799Kg/V9dPAg_qTUI/AAAAAAAAC98/6j0nCM1SxTUWpEw4dX5CF_c9MC_jRGr_QCLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DQ6aF5799Kg/V9dPAg_qTUI/AAAAAAAAC98/6j0nCM1SxTUWpEw4dX5CF_c9MC_jRGr_QCLcB/s320/FullSizeRender%2B%25284%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
Soon I'm flipping flash cards, and Isaiah is calling out numbers. We plunge into our workday and the workday is good. <br />
<br />
But my son's question lingers.<br />
<br />
I think about it when we press on to grammar. It's on my mind when we use an atlas to find the Adriatic Sea. The question seems to me, as the day moves along, a powerful question to take to the Lord.<br />
<br />
<em>Lord, what would You like to fill my head with today? Bring Your Word to my mind and help me apply truth to emotion and circumstance...</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Lord, what would You like to fill my heart with today? Flood my soul with the peace and hope that only flow from Your love. No room for worry. No place for fear...</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Lord, what would You like to fill my spirit with today? May Your Holy Spirit be powerful in me. Refine me. Mold me. Let those who share my path be blessed by the sweet fruit of grace...</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Surely such questions, from a heart that's tender, teachable, and wide-open to God's glory would be pleasing to the Lord.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;"><em>Make me to know your ways, O LORD; teach me your paths. Psalm 25:4 ESV</em></span><br />
<em></em><br />
Isaiah, Gabriel and I study until the sun makes afternoon shadows and the sounds from the window are less like morning and more like end-of-day. When we're finished, my boys bolt off to play. <br />
<br />
Papers are pushed into folders, and I slide our books back to shelves.<br />
<br />
School time is over. It's time to move on to different things.<br />
<br />
But as I go...<br />
<br />
I hold Isaiah's question. <br />
<br />
And it becomes a prayer.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;"><em></em></span><br />
<br />
.<br />
<em></em><br />Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-20680332598032583312016-09-12T21:00:00.000-05:002016-09-30T14:02:24.329-05:00Parenting - A Building Plan <span style="font-family: "calibri";">Gabriel is at the dining room table. He looks downward.
He’s working a tiny screwdriver with his hands. The worn oak in front of him
holds a scatter of paper instruction, shiny nuts and bolts, pieces and parts of
something that, in time, will be wonderful.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Gabe is our builder. His mind is patterned after his dad’s.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TNluPkZknnQ/UpJqw0LD56I/AAAAAAAACBQ/WEVEqDgf79E/s1600/IMG_3562.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TNluPkZknnQ/UpJqw0LD56I/AAAAAAAACBQ/WEVEqDgf79E/s320/IMG_3562.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“What are you working on?” I ask.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“A crane,” he says. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“How is it coming?” </span></div>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YVfQsGe4UIk/UpJqLuCOWiI/AAAAAAAACBI/xV5PEGvbbz4/s1600/IMG_3563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YVfQsGe4UIk/UpJqLuCOWiI/AAAAAAAACBI/xV5PEGvbbz4/s1600/IMG_3563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Gabe's face tilts upward. Dimples, from my dad,
punctuate his smile. “Well,” he says. “It’s going to take a while.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I expect so. But Gabe will get 'er done. He’s not afraid to
put in the time. He knows that good things come slow. He knows that sometimes
he’ll connect the wrong pieces and he’ll have to back up and try his best to
make things right. He knows that sometimes he’ll want to give up.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But he also knows, that if he presses forward, the nuts and
bolts and bars and pieces and parts will eventually take shape. The structure
will be solid. The product, the result of the effort, will stand firm.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Watching Gabe, seeing his perseverance and
push-forward way, encourages my own heart.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">His
building seems like parenting to me.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It's been a tough week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> We're working through a struggle, years long, that has suddenly churned hard. The younger boys have worn thin on one another and my rant was fuel to the fire. We've been running fast and slipping behind. Parenting. It's the sweetest blessing, but it can be</span> darn hard work. There are days that I'd like to throw my hands up. Stomp off for a bit. Take a long, far break when discouragement is the color of the day. But I can't do those things. Because, like Gabe, I need to push through the pieces in
hope of a wonderful thing.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’m building men.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So, when life seems a scattered mess and the week has made me weary, I’ll continue to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">build standards</b> that I believe are pleasing
to the Lord, to <strong>develop my sons' moral compasses</strong>, even if it’s counter culture.
I’ll <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">build my prayer life</b> with time
set aside, daily, to speak with and listen to God. And I’ll ask the Lord
to help me <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">build a storehouse of</b> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">wisdom</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>- straight from His Word to the tender places of my heart. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Because building requires a plan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>And when my parenting plan is centered on the Lord, I can trust that He's at the center.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I stand for just a moment and watch my young son. He chooses
a small piece. Rolls it between his fingers. Squints and looks real close. Then
he fits it into place, twists the screwdriver, and adds it to his crane.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The structure is
growing. One tiny piece at a time.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The outcome is still far.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But there’s hope along the way.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-large;"><em>So let us not get tired of doing what good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don't give up. Galatians 6:9 NLT</em></span></div>
Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-33996158312345653022016-08-29T22:00:00.000-05:002016-09-15T09:45:36.320-05:00The Voice of Comparison and Hearing His Song<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’m sitting with a friend, at my table, and she shares from a deep place. The tea kettle is slow to warm, but words come fast.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She’s hurting because she’s comparing herself to others.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She’s hurting because she’s hearing lies.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We sit at the table and I listen. But I don’t see what she
sees. I don’t see the shortcomings. The not- enoughs. The second-rates and
falling-shorts and maybe-someday-I’ll get-it-rights.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I see a beautiful woman made more lovely by her heart for
the Lord.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I see a sweet soul longing to shine bright in the light of
His love.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I see His grace, His love, in the way she touches her
children. The way she loves her husband. The way she's reached into my life. They way she reaches for others, too.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But she’s listening to the voice. The voice that nags. The
voice that lies. The voice that slips over our souls like dark, sticky tar if
we let it ebb in.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s the voice of comparison.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And I can see that she’s tuned in because I fight the voice,
too.</span></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">She’s younger. She’s
more fit. She’s a better writer. I’ll bet her kids
never throw fits that make her stark ravin’mad. If they do, I’ll bet she handles
it better than I do.</span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It goes on and on. Important things. Petty things. Vain things. Spiritual things.</span></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Her house is cleaner.
She’s more successful. She looks better in jeans. I wish her talent could be
mine.<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So I sit at my table and listen. I listen to my friend’s
heart. But as I do, I begin to hear something else, too. It’s the truth of His Word.
It’s the tune of His promise. It comes loud and clear until it’s strong as the
beat of my heart.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-large;"><strong><em>The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing. Zephaniah 3:17 NIV</em></strong></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And I begin to think.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Does the Lord ask me to pull my worth from the weight of a stack of sisters?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">No. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He asks me to trust Him. To obey Him. To praise Him. To give thanks. To love Him and to love others.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Does the Lord compare me to any another woman? Does he tell
me I should be more? Does he expect me to possess all the best qualities of
everyone I know? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">No.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Not at all.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He comes close. He takes delight in me. He gives me gifts and
talents and a life that is uniquely mine. He singles me out . Lifts me up.
Pulls me near. He’s given me His Word and He’s filled me with His Spirit. And
he comes close enough to whisper. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Close enough to sing.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The teakettle whistles. My friend shares, and I listen. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">When her heart
quiets, I’ll share too. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">But I have a new prayer.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s for my friend.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s for me.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’ll pray that the voice of comparison would fall silent.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">‘Cause we’re lost in the song of His love.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Kz8SUF8ErNc/V9ljzUkPinI/AAAAAAAAC-Q/agei3XYCKAEfL7mIt5aulcqxEzodJOajACLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Kz8SUF8ErNc/V9ljzUkPinI/AAAAAAAAC-Q/agei3XYCKAEfL7mIt5aulcqxEzodJOajACLcB/s320/FullSizeRender%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-55468933895063021882016-08-22T21:00:00.000-05:002016-08-23T08:35:27.727-05:00When Being A Mother Means Becoming A Child (Launching Kids)<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’m in the coffee line at Sunday school when a lovely young
mother shares her heart. Her first child will be attending preschool soon,
and her emotions run deep. I get it. Beside me stands my twenty-four
year old son, home this summer for an internship, but off for his second year
of law school in two days. This week another son will attend public high school
after a childhood of homeschooling, and there will be only two left at home. My
children are growing and changing and it’s good. Very good. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But letting go is hard.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It's common to motherhood, and if we allow it,
this stretching is a spiritual experience. We let go in varying degrees – from preschool
to adulthood - but it’s still an unclenching of the fist. It’s uncurling our
fingers and stretching open palms to the Lord.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Releasing our
children, as they grow, means opening our hands. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As the young mother and I chat, I think of stretching times
and remember when Lonny and I left our firstborn at college. He stood on the sidewalk in front of his dorm, and I watched him in the mirror as we drove away. He grew smaller
and the ache went bigger. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feared that
when Lonny and I returned to our hotel room, the seams of my soul would split. And they did. But then Lonny’s arms slipped around me, and the
unexpected happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We danced.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It wasn’t romantic. There was no music. It was just the two
of us, holding one another, hurting hearts pressed close.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">The Lord was with us.</span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Open hands are hands that are ready to receive.</span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’m learning, as I grow in my relationship with God, that I
can <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i> find comfort in the
promise of His Presence. He doesn’t change. Growth doesn't separate us. In fact, as I grow,
He comes closer. There's not a life stage or experience I'll walk through alone. He's faithful to provide - for my child and for me. Sometimes the grace is
within expectation, but sometimes it’s too tender and beautiful for my imagination.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Like an unexpected dance.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And I can trust in God's love, care, and provision, because really...</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">letting go of children
means becoming a child.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xJof55mnlxs/V7uPyANxIAI/AAAAAAAAC9Y/1YYrqpxzpDccDMlhVubIl-1K_Dsa4nNhQCLcB/s1600/Logan_Senior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xJof55mnlxs/V7uPyANxIAI/AAAAAAAAC9Y/1YYrqpxzpDccDMlhVubIl-1K_Dsa4nNhQCLcB/s320/Logan_Senior.jpg" width="319" /></a><span style="font-family: "calibri";">At the sweet center of child rearing is the gut-drive to
provide for my boys. It began before I fed their bellies from my body and stretches through a lifetime of days. It’s soul-giving. It’s offering all I have
for the benefit of another. My boys can count on it - even in my flawed human
state. <strong><em>And the Lord offers the same to me</em></strong> – only His love is perfect and His
grace is limitless. I can rest in His arms and find comfort in His care. I can let the truth of His Word cradle me and allow me to hear His heart.</span><br />
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And i</span>t beats a rhythm of
love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The young mother and I chat while the line inches along and
soon I fill my cup. My son and I press through the crowd and find a table. He
pulls my chair back, and his smile stirs my heart.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Next week he’ll be gone, and my life will change in a lot of ways.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But it’s okay.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Because of my Father,
I can live open-handed with my child.</span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></b><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-large;"><em>The eyes of all look to you, and you give them your food in due season. You open your hand, you satisfy the desire of every living thing. </em></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-large;"><em>Psalm 145:15-16</em></span></div>
Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-85469492349034986262016-08-08T22:00:00.000-05:002016-08-21T16:01:37.419-05:00Childlike Gratitude - A Prayer for When He's GrownI'm driving home. The van is quiet. The evening is thick with humid haze.<br />
<br />
"I have it figured out, Mom." Zay's voice comes from he backseat, still small and sweet and ringing with the beauty of little-boy.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-27m9Twut3so/Uh85fSdCEGI/AAAAAAAABzI/SqoFlD9IalQ/s1600/IMG_2796_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-27m9Twut3so/Uh85fSdCEGI/AAAAAAAABzI/SqoFlD9IalQ/s320/IMG_2796_1.JPG" width="213" /></a><br />
"What's that?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"The prayer. The prayer I'll pray when I'm grown."<br />
<br />
"Do you want to share?" I ask.<br />
<br />
I peer in the rearview mirror. Zay's head dips down. His fingers lace on his lap. "Dear Lord, thank you for this day. Thank you for our home. Thank you that when I was little, I had a good mom and dad and all that stuff."<br />
<br />
He's quiet for a moment.<br />
<br />
"And thank you for Jesus."<br />
<br />
I need to be watching the road but this form of precious pulls me hard. I make a turn and notice that Zay's eyes are open now. He's watching Iowa cornfields blow by.<br />
<br />
As I drive, I think about my own life and how my prayers of thanksgiving can often be scant or nonexistent. I think about Isaiah's wide-eyed-child awareness for what I take for granted. I think about how busyness can be a thief - ebbing away the beautiful until there's only stripped-down stress.<br />
<br />
I don't say a word out loud.<br />
<br />
But in my spirit, as God's child, I think about my son's prayer. <br />
<br />
And soundly say <em>Amen.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<strong>Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name. Psalm 100:4</strong>Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-4887168794024219142016-08-01T21:23:00.002-05:002016-08-21T16:01:37.401-05:00The Goodness in Growth (Getting Mighty in the Lord)<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We’re at our first outdoor swim meet. The water gleams still
and smooth as the swimmers stand behind the blocks. The sun is high.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s quiet calm.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And when Gabriel takes the block, he’s confident. When he dives
and breaks the water, his form is slim and sleek.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As my son moves down the lane, I remember his first meet.
He’d been watching Sam for months and was excited to have his turn. But when he
dove from the block, his arms and legs splayed frog-like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hit the water with a red-belly smack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JZhf3H4txEY/V5_Fh9Wh2BI/AAAAAAAAC9E/9cyF7FTa2O0BalpWRnw-Qo_s75yWA5gEwCLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B%252818%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JZhf3H4txEY/V5_Fh9Wh2BI/AAAAAAAAC9E/9cyF7FTa2O0BalpWRnw-Qo_s75yWA5gEwCLcB/s320/FullSizeRender%2B%252818%2529.jpg" width="179" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He’s grown so much.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He’s worked so hard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Lap after lap. Day after day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Watching Gabe inspires me. It causes me to consider the growth in my relationship with Lord. It challenges me to <em>not</em> stay in the same spiritual place. I want to
grow in knowledge, strength, and sensitivity to the Spirit. I want to stretch
in obedience and in trust. I want to grow to the point of peace, the kind that
passes understanding, because there’s rest in the Lord’s Presence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #660000;"><em>So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue
to live in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you
were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness. Colossians 2:6-7 NIV<o:p></o:p></em></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This passage is underlined in my Bible. It’s scored
over in neon-pink. It speaks to my soul. Paul offers encouragement to anchor and grow. Learning to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">live in Him</i> takes us to new depths of
grace. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my faith grows stronger,
gratitude grows, too. Learning to live and breathe in the peace of His Presence and
brings joy to each day and light to any darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But spiritual growth doesn’t just happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Like anything else, spirit-growth takes dedication. Time.
Focused attention and deliberate choice. It’s a willingness to open the Word
and sit at the Lord’s feet. It’s choosing to know Him, to talk with Him, to
rest in His Presence and seek His face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">A thriving, growing
relationship with the Lord takes dedication and time, but the reward is the
sweetest under heaven.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Gabriel pulls himself
from the pool. He walks toward his coach, and I see his time on the scoreboard. He’s
a young swimmer in his division, but he skimmed a few seconds
off his record. Gabe’s coach offers instruction, and my boy smiles as he makes his
way to us, leaving wet prints on warm cement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And prayer, bright as the day, beats through my
heart…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Lord, may we always
grow…<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-44372458839459265422016-07-11T21:11:00.000-05:002016-08-21T16:01:37.398-05:00Refreshment - Words of Kindness<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I stand at the pharmacy counter, curl my toes, breathe deep,
and explain <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">again</i> that my son <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> on our insurance policy. There’s a mix-up
with numbers and this happens every time. There’s a line behind me and a son
beside me with eyes streaked purple-red.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“The eye drops are three hundred dollars. I don’t see that
they’re covered,” the clerk says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And I snap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’m frazzled and
frayed and my tone goes sharp. I know it is not the clerk’s fault, but I’ve
found the end of my rope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In this moment, I don’t care.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s been a long morning. Waiting on the phone. At the
doctor’s office. Now here. I could’ve predicted this problem, too. In the end,
I decide it’s best to go home while the pharmacy contacts the insurance company.
It means another trip into town, but we leave the store – my scarlet-eyed son
and me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It takes about a quarter of a mile for the conviction to
come. I’d been rude. Short-tempered. Sharp. I try to justify my attitude, but
it doesn’t settle on my soul. And later in the afternoon, it all makes perfect
sense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My youngest sons and I sit on the back patio. The afternoon
sun scorches and my boys have popsicles we’ve made from raspberry lemonade. The
popsicles melt fast – quick rivers down their forearms and watercolor drops
that hit the red bricks under our feet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lKkwWjXBLoo/V4ROg66VKPI/AAAAAAAAC80/tI__2ADt3XUQggoqvlbljo32YDmZiH1bwCLcB/s1600/IMG_5257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lKkwWjXBLoo/V4ROg66VKPI/AAAAAAAAC80/tI__2ADt3XUQggoqvlbljo32YDmZiH1bwCLcB/s320/IMG_5257.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Sweet refreshment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And as we sit together, the pharmacy scene comes to heart.
As we sit, it moves through my mind. Even though my boy still looks like the
tough end of a fight, I know I’ve been wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My reaction was sandpaper on the soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Far, far from refreshment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">A printed piece by Chuck Swindoll hangs by a magnet on our
fridge, and I think of it now. The pink copy paper has faded to pastel. The edges
are torn. A preschooler added art work – an army of stick-figure men. But the
words are still powerful. The last two lines of “Attitude” flow with my pulse:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“The only thing we can do is play the one string we have,
and that is our attitude…I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and
90% how I react to it.” – Chuck Swindoll<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Truth. Sweet truth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Every tough circumstance offers an opportunity to respond in a way that
brings refreshment.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When I go to pick up my son’s meds, I look for the clerk.
It’s late and she’s left for the day. But another trip into town brings another
opportunity, and one afternoon I see her standing behind the counter. I know
what I need to do. The apology brings tears, for her and for me. But she
unlatches the gate, moves to the other side of the counter, and wraps her arms
around me. We stay for a moment, holding on tight. We’re suddenly stranger-sisters
brought together in a moment of real-life, heart-and-soul grace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When I leave, I know I’ve left behind a trace of Jesus.
Today my attitude has bought refreshment to another’s soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And because God’s mercy cup simply overflows, her reaction
brought refreshment to mine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-85622620856200771632016-07-05T07:52:00.000-05:002016-08-21T16:02:06.688-05:00Livin' VerbsI have a friend who is facing a tough time. She's known the circumstance could occur. The possibility of struggle has been hanging in the shadows. But now there's no more shadow-lurking. She'll need to press through.<br />
<br />
And the enemy whispers lies.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wfuLAILHY_s/UgJNcgIWu1I/AAAAAAAAByI/s45OkAPL_do/s1600/images%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wfuLAILHY_s/UgJNcgIWu1I/AAAAAAAAByI/s45OkAPL_do/s1600/images%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
She and I stand in church, talking fast, voices low, opening the tender places of our hearts.<br />
<br />
"I'm scared," she says, and then she shares the fear - the whispers that come from the one who wants to steal, kill and destroy.<br />
<br />
"I'm praying verbs for you," I say. "When the Lord tells us how to deal with the enemy, He gives us verbs. Submit to Him. Then stand. Resist. And flee. When we submit, stand, and resist, the next verb belongs to the enemy. He has to flee."<br />
<br />
My friend smiles. She know what I'm saying. Maybe she hasn't thought of it this way, but she's been praying verbs for me, too.<br />
<br />
I think it's something we all can relate to. We have struggles. God doesn't tell us that we won't. And often in the struggle, we have an enemy.<br />
<br />
He speaks lies and I've heard the whispers.<br />
<br />
<em>Things aren't going to get better. A good mother wouldn't have your kind of issues with her kids. You work so hard and look - your kids are surly, your house is a mess, sometimes there's more smack talk under your roof than you can shake a stick at. May as well throw up your hands and let it all be.</em><br />
<br />
Lies.<br />
<br />
And the best thing I can do is to pull out the verbs.<br />
<br />
Submit. Stand. Resist.<br />
<br />
And because <strong>I stand on the resurrection side of the cross</strong>, the enemy has to flee.<br />
<br />
My friend and I are separated for a moment by a wave of children and mothers. We start a few new strands of conversations. Give a few hugs. Speak fragmented sentences. And when the wave recedes, we find one another again.<br />
<br />
"I'm praying for you," I say.<br />
<br />
She looks at me, and I know her next words will be true.<br />
<br />
"I'm praying for you, too. Verbs."<br />
<br />
And we're both going to be okay.<br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Come near to God and He will come near to you. James 4:7</span><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith, because you know your brothers throughout the world are undergoing the same kind of sufferings. I Peter 5:8</span><br />
<em><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;"></span></em><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<br />Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-78247433796792548652016-06-27T22:00:00.000-05:002016-08-21T16:01:37.415-05:00A Tough Day and The Secret to Rising AboveIt's one of those days.<br />
<br />
The boys are surly. I'm not sure why, but the unraveling began shortly after sunrise and my high noon we're shot.<br />
<br />
There is grumbling.<br />
<br />
Poking.<br />
<br />
Picking.<br />
<br />
And as usual, when the boys are frayed like this, I climb right aboard.<br />
<br />
I snip.<br />
<br />
I snarl.<br />
<br />
And in this house today there's no goodness to be found.<br />
<br />
So how do I rise above? How do teach to hearts and minister to souls and direct wayward wills when my own mood moves dark and deep?<br />
<br />
I'm standing at the sink when I understand. It falls on my spirit like a strong ray of sun.<br />
<br />
<strong>The rising above comes from bending low</strong>.<br />
<br />
I've tried today in my own strength. I've disciplined. I've threatened. I've cajoled. Then I lost my temper and spewed steam.<br />
<br />
And we only fell to a darker place.<br />
<br />
So I go to my knees, and I ask for filling that is strong and sweet.<br />
<br />
Right there by the kitchen sink.<br />
<br />
<em>Lord, I can't do this alone. Forgive me for trying. Give me wisdom. Grant me strength. Fill me with Your Spirit, cover me with patience and your rich, sustaining grace.</em><br />
<br />
I go back to the dishes and we go about our day. The boys are still surly, but something in me has changed.<br />
<br />
I'm anchored.<br />
<br />
I'm empowered.<br />
<br />
And the difficulties of the day aren't so daunting after all.<br />
<br />
It's not the best day, but I <em>can</em> manage this mess.<br />
<br />
Rising above means bending low.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">Look to the LORD and his strength; seek his face always. I Chronicles 16:11</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-33632304315754681862016-06-20T21:55:00.001-05:002016-08-21T16:01:37.392-05:00Finding Peace in My Unchanging God <span style="font-family: "calibri";">When we pull into the drive, it’s almost dark. Isaiah and I
root around for our belongings, but before we open the car doors my son stops
still.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Mom! Look! Lightning bugs. The first ones! By the bushes! See?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I turn the key and there’s silence. Isaiah presses his hands
against glass and we wait. We wait for a few seconds, maybe more, and then we
see them. Golden twinkles. Sweet blips of light that break through gray.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We leave the car and I sit on the steps while my son chases
fireflies. He darts around our old maple and bolts to the lilac bushes along
the fence. I know that if he catches one in his gentle hand, he’ll release it.
And it doesn’t take long before one rests on his outstretched palm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Look, Mom. It’s beautiful.” Up close the light glows green.
Isaiah smiles and the firefly takes off. For a moment it’s one with the night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gAze0w3GoD0/V21F7cJETYI/AAAAAAAAC8c/tZFPJMVSAC49TNwtYSQLXFsWjpl4qFSYwCLcB/s1600/IMG_9293%2B%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gAze0w3GoD0/V21F7cJETYI/AAAAAAAAC8c/tZFPJMVSAC49TNwtYSQLXFsWjpl4qFSYwCLcB/s320/IMG_9293%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And in that instant, I’m taken back to childhood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Suddenly I could be in the center of the 70’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the way the air settles on my skin
and the way the quiet has a sound of its own. The night sky is seamless and it covers all that I know. We would’ve been in the backyard of
my childhood home, my three sisters and me, and my best friend Tracy. Our hair
would be long and straight down our backs and our legs would be lean and brown.
We’d chase fireflies, too, bare feet swift on the early-summer grass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mom would be with us, her inner-child
strong. We’d laugh and fall lost in the wonder of this simple, precious thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Time moves too fast. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s striking to me, the way years flow and the pages of life
turn. Sometimes I handle it with gratitude and grace, but most often it hits me
like cold pelting rain. On the days that I struggle with children growing up,
the changes that come with growing older, and fear of one day living without
ones I love, on the days that life does truly feel like a mist, I’m learning to
be thankful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">When time passes swiftly and changes come strong, I’m grateful for the
grace of an unchanging God.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Time moves. People grow. Change happens with each breath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">But the Lord is
steadfast.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-large;">The counsel of the Lord stands forever, the plans of his heart to all generations. Psalm 33:11 ESV</span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">His timeless compassion, strength, and grace are my resting
place. His character is unchanging and He is home to my restless heart. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In His Presence is where I find peace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Hey, Mom? Catch fireflies with me?” my son asks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">His hand is on my shoulder, and joy shines in his smile. For
just a moment I think of his grown brothers, long-ago invitations, and the same
hazel-green eyes. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">But I’m not going to fret. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m going to run and play and live in this moment with my child. And when the night moves along, if I begin to worry over
the things I’ll need to release and the new things that will come, I’ll be okay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’ll take the changes to my unchanging God.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #660000;"><em></em></span></span></span> </div>
Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-59642780676863226702016-06-07T15:00:00.000-05:002016-08-21T16:01:37.404-05:00Nourishment of Time"Will you play darts with me, Mom?" Gabe asks. "When we get home?"<br />
<br />
We're taking a family walk along the river. The sun is sinking low. The streets are quiet. All is still.<br />
But this simple question makes me a little anxious inside.<br />
<br />
"I'd love to, Gabe," I say.<br />
<br />
And I would. But there's a scroll of "to do's" running through my mind. I feel pressed tight. I don't like to feel this way. I feel guilty. But chores and needs and a houseful of busy cages my heart.<br />
<br />
We finish our walk and I shimmy a game of darts between the unwashed dinner dishes and the bedtime routine.<br />
<br />
It doesn't take me long to be happy that I did.<br />
<br />
"You're good at darts, Mom!" Gabe says. His bangs are falling to the side and I can see that his eyes are gleaming joy. We're in the room behind the garage. Just Gabe, June heat, and me.<br />
<br />
"I'm not very good," I say. "But I like this. And love I our time together."<br />
<br />
Gabe smiles and plucks my darts from the outer ring of the dartboard (and one from the wall). <br />
<br />
I feel satisfied. Fulfilled. Glad that I took the time to nourish this relationship that is precious to me.<br />
<br />
It makes me think of my relationship with God. I love Him. I need Him. My relationship with Him is the most important in my life. But I fear that so often in the "busy", time with Him gets pushed aside. Or even pushed away.<br />
<br />
Jesus took time away to spend time with the Father. He went to quiet places to pray. He separated out. Went alone. Like before he called his disciples. And when he heard about John. In the garden of Gethsemane, too. Jesus spent his limited hours to connect with Father God.<br />
<br />
<strong>Relationships need the nourishment of time.</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
They need set-apart, focused attention.<br />
<br />
<strong>When we pull away from the pressure, precious things unfold.</strong><br />
<br />
And I want to follow Jesus' example.<br />
<br />
Gabe squints an eye, curls his fingers around the dart, and lines it even with his ear.<br />
<br />
Then he stretches his arm and lets the dart fly.<br />
<br />
I watch it swish through the air and smack on the board.<br />
<br />
Twenty points.<br />
<br />
Double.<br />
<br />
Not bad.<br />
<br />
I think about this time set-apart time to grow my relationship with my little boy. I've definitely scored here.<br />
<br />
But tomorrow morning's set-aside time with my Father?<br />
<br />
That will be a bull's-eye for sure.<br />
----------------------------------------<br />
<br />
<strong>Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed. Mark 1:35</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>One of those days Jesus went out to a mountainside to pray, and spent the night praying to God. </strong><br />
<strong>Luke 6:12</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>Then Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to them, "Sit here while I go over there and pray." Matthew 26:36</strong><br />
<br />
<br />Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-74156106513906360932016-06-07T12:30:00.000-05:002016-08-21T16:01:37.409-05:00Rain 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 in between is a deep blue gash.<br />
<br />
By the time we're home, they've knit to a ominous mass and then there is a wild torrent of rain.<br />
<br />
We pull in the drive and sit. The back door is down the steps and across the patio.<br />
<br />
"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 PBS. It's a powerful thing.<br />
<br />
"Just wait," I say. "It will slow. If you make a run for it, you'll still be soaked."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f_syjuXLtTE/UZDbs0b1fdI/AAAAAAAABn8/OZ_8_MAs7n4/s1600/Here_comes_rain_again%5B1%5D+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f_syjuXLtTE/UZDbs0b1fdI/AAAAAAAABn8/OZ_8_MAs7n4/s320/Here_comes_rain_again%5B1%5D+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
"Please?" he asks.<br />
<br />
I pop the locks and he's out, down the steps, and fumbling at the door for the right key.<br />
<br />
And he's in.<br />
<br />
And the rain hits the windshield in hard, angry pelts.<br />
<br />
<em>A bit like my mood lately</em>, I recognize. A long-time struggle has left me newly stripped. The raw, inside of me can be as dark as the day.<br />
<br />
I sit for a moment and listen to the chatter from the back seat. I watch the rain flow like a river down the the drive.<br />
<br />
And then I see the umbrella.<br />
<br />
It's a Fighting Illini umbrella, and it's huge. Wide slices of blue and orange move across the patio. I see small legs and feet underneath.<br />
<br />
Gabe.<br />
<br />
The umbrella bobs up the stairs, stops for a moment as the gate, and pauses outside my van door.<br />
<br />
It tips and there is Gabe's smile. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7Z6pBzCcZLc/UZDb-E_ZtlI/AAAAAAAABoE/Pu_lu--S1JI/s1600/rain_puddles-12332%5B1%5D.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7Z6pBzCcZLc/UZDb-E_ZtlI/AAAAAAAABoE/Pu_lu--S1JI/s320/rain_puddles-12332%5B1%5D.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I throw the door open.<br />
<br />
"I came to rescue you, Mom," he says.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I've been rescued from the rain.<br />
<br />
I hold the umbrella and it covers us both. We move fast and Gabe delivers me to the porch. I step inside and he runs back for his brothers.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<strong>Loving others well makes a difference. Simple kindness can shine rays of hope.</strong><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Thanks," I say. "For rescuing me."<br />
<br />
"You're welcome," he says. And he smiles.<br />
<br />
But he really has no idea.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>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</strong>Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7165957406093577147.post-67679837852006584492016-05-24T09:58:00.002-05:002016-08-21T16:01:37.406-05:00Living Breathless (Busy vs Beauty)I'm on the porch, on the old rocker, and the sounds from the dining room delight my soul. My two youngest sons and two friends are around the table, eating pizza and talking all things little boy.<br />
<br />
And they laugh.<br />
<br />
It's the kind of laughter that comes from down deep. It's easy and free. It rolls and flows. They try to talk around it. They gulp for air. But in the end, they give in and laugh until their sides hurt.<br />
<br />
And as they laugh, my own soul becomes lighter.<br />
<br />
In this moment, I'm grateful for the simplicity that's stilled my world. I'm thankful for children and for joy that comes from loving life and those around you. I'm thankful for boys who are brave enough to be just who they are - little boys. There's something lovely in this, and they don't even know that once childhood is gone, it can never come again.<br />
<br />
The week had been full.<br />
<br />
Busy.<br />
<br />
Lonny was out-of-town, and even with my oldest son home from graduate school, dividing and conquering meant running wild. Two boys to the pool. One to baseball. Meetings and youth group and Bible club. Practice and games. Back and forth. Yoyo living. Moving too fast to see extravagant grace shining in ordinary places.<br />
<br />
Like the goodness in the laughter of little boys.<br />
<br />
If someone asked me to describe how we've been living day-to-day, I'd think of commitment. Activities and obligations that keep the calendar tight.<br />
<br />
We live<em> breathlessly.</em><br />
<br />
But today, sitting here soul-still, I think of <em>living breathless</em> in a different way.<br />
<br />
<strong>What if living breathless is living slowly enough to let God take my breath away?</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rRFGFxCI5g0/V0NvU0WWs-I/AAAAAAAAC7Q/jn0JMw1LbHoFGIuS-Gfjs9RBP3Ct9c02ACLcB/s1600/BookPhoto%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rRFGFxCI5g0/V0NvU0WWs-I/AAAAAAAAC7Q/jn0JMw1LbHoFGIuS-Gfjs9RBP3Ct9c02ACLcB/s320/BookPhoto%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-U7dSES710ZU/V0RNIExxKaI/AAAAAAAAC8A/MO3FhnTdrIsOuq8Oyyb8Y81CgszJo0ovgCLcB/s1600/IMG_9213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-U7dSES710ZU/V0RNIExxKaI/AAAAAAAAC8A/MO3FhnTdrIsOuq8Oyyb8Y81CgszJo0ovgCLcB/s320/IMG_9213.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iRHlESynq_Y/V0Nw5jg7aJI/AAAAAAAAC7g/nPJnp1yPwlcOvrNZbx3Z56RN0yLNybRfQCLcB/s1600/Aug2010_064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iRHlESynq_Y/V0Nw5jg7aJI/AAAAAAAAC7g/nPJnp1yPwlcOvrNZbx3Z56RN0yLNybRfQCLcB/s320/Aug2010_064.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0gmSevjntMw/V0N5h7mXxaI/AAAAAAAAC7w/LvYbFDAFYmIyLvfMETmFBDJGrxJ9OdyCgCLcB/s1600/IMG_0315.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0gmSevjntMw/V0N5h7mXxaI/AAAAAAAAC7w/LvYbFDAFYmIyLvfMETmFBDJGrxJ9OdyCgCLcB/s320/IMG_0315.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
When my boys were smaller, when they wanted my attention, my full-on focus, they'd place their small, warm hands on my cheeks. They'd lock their eyes on mine. "Mama," they'd say. "Listen."<br />
<br />
The Lord doesn't physically cup my chin and direct my gaze, but He directs my heart. There's sometimes a whisper to wonderful and if I'm too busy, too distracted, too intent on intention, I may just miss out.<br />
<br />
<em>Lord, let me see your goodness and grace today. Let me live breathless - in awe of Your Presence.</em><br />
<br />
The boys are finished at the table. Chairs scrape hardwood and dishes clatter-clank. In a crazy blur of boyhood, they thunder past and bolt out the door. They're free to run and free to be.<br />
<br />
I sit here.<br />
<br />
Captivated.<br />
<br />
I want to live breathless - seeing God's grace in beautiful, ordinary things.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; his love endures forever. Psalm 118:1 NIV</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Shawnelle Eliasenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640827764109123647noreply@blogger.com2