Hope in Jesus

It's Easter morning.

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.

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.

It's fresh and young.

And I watch my family. There's been struggle and strife and healing needs to come.

Life, these weeks, has been a trial.

It weighs on me, tugging, pulling, unwilling to set me free.

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.

 And a song of praise fill our home.

There's the clatter of dishes and the voices of the children. There's work to do to get us all out the door.

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.

To Jesus.

 And He is Risen. He is Risen, indeed.

 

 

 

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My heart, bound up tight, uncurls. I can almost feel it in my chest. It's yielding.

It opens to celebrates the promise.

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.

But we have a real Savior.

And He is Risen.

And there is hope.

You've overcome death, Jesus. You've defeated evil. You've risen and You've brought victory.

I'll live on the resurrected side of Your cross, Lord.

I'll live where Your light shines.

The morning sun now stretches in stripes over the living room floor. It spills over our table, too. It fills our space.

Darkness scatters.

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.

Doesn't matter.

It's almost time to go worship, and I can't get there soon enough.

I want to join the celebration for the Risen King.

Jesus, You are Lord of all.

Hospitality - What It Is, What It's Not

My friend Nancy’s coming to visit. She’s been my friend forever.  

But I don’t see her often.

 When she comes over, I want to honor her with a picked-up house.

“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.

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.

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.

If I’m honest, it’s not about honoring my friend. 
                                                                                                                         
If I’m honest, it’s about me.

 I want to show that I can do it all and that I can do it all well. But today I’ve fallen short.

 Wild-mess short.

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.

Then she pulls away and does the loveliest thing.

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.

“You boys have been busy,” she says. “It's wonderful. Show me what you’ve built.”

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.

And I stand in the wonder of it all.

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.

And I think about hospitality.

Isn’t this what true hospitality is? Sharing what we have. Who we are? Stretching out and letting someone in? Really in? 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.

And receive.

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. 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.

Hospitality.                                        

Poured straight out.

It's a blessing to all.

Lord, help me to offer from-the-heart hospitality...thank you for opportunities to open our home...

A Prayer for Mamas Like Me

I'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.

It's worn from muffin mornings.

Worn from hours before the sun comes up and before boys come down.

It's a little tired and a little frayed.

A little bit like me.

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."

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 need to pray for Mamas. Mamas who give. Mamas who love. Mamas who cherish and hold and give roots and give wings.

Mamas whose passions come in baby bundles and stretch a whole life through.

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.

So, dear friends, this prayer is for you. This prayer is for me. This prayer is for hearts that give and give again...


Dear Father,

Thank you for children. Thank you for family. Thank you for this first, beautiful way to give and receive love.

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.

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.

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.

Allow us to persevere, to encourage one another, to lean into Your strength, and to see the blessings that fall from Your hands.

And may You have the glory, for this love and these days...

Amen

Refreshment - Words of Kindness

I stand at the pharmacy counter, curl my toes, breathe deep, and explain again that my son is 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.

“The eye drops are three hundred dollars. I don’t see that they’re covered,” the clerk says.

And I snap.

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.

In this moment, I don’t care.

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.

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.

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.

Sweet refreshment.

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.

My reaction was sandpaper on the soul.

Far, far from refreshment.

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:

“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

Truth. Sweet truth.

 Every tough circumstance offers an opportunity to respond in a way that brings refreshment.

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.

When I leave, I know I’ve left behind a trace of Jesus. Today my attitude has bought refreshment to another’s soul.

And because God’s mercy cup simply overflows, her reaction brought refreshment to mine.

Rain Rescue - The Power of a Loving Thing

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

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

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

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

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

"Please?" he asks.

I pop the locks and he's out, down the steps, and  fumbling at the door for the right key.

And he's in.

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

A bit like my mood lately, I recognize. A long-time struggle has left me newly stripped. The raw, inside of me can be as dark as the day.

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

And then I see the umbrella.

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.

Gabe.

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

It tips and there is Gabe's smile.                             

I throw the door open.

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

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

I've been rescued from the rain.

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

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

Loving others well makes a difference. Simple kindness can shine rays of hope.

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

"Thanks," I say. "For rescuing me."

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

But he really has no idea.


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

Longing for Lovely (And Finding It)

He is good to everyone, and his compassion is intertwined with everything he does. Psalm 145:9 TLB

I pull a sock from a wild tangle and then root through the basket for its match. It's Sunday night and our early Monday morning piano lesson sounds sweeter if the boys have something on their feet.

I'm embarrassed to admit it, as I search and sort, but I'm soul-sad.

I've just watched the final episode of Downton Abbey.

I loved Downton for a hundred reasons. The brilliant storyline that twisted and turned. Characters so real that their plights settled on my own soul. But if I pare it all back, past Lady Mary and Tom and sweet Mr. Bates, I will miss the beauty. The clothes. The hairstyles. The bedrooms with furnishings and fireplaces and that library rich with books and extravagant things. Even the formality of period English life, etiquette and manners and tradition, brought a crisp-lovely elegance to the ordinary.

I long for lovely.

I wonder if a woman's heart is carved this way. I don't know. But sometimes lovely is hard to find when dishwashers and toilets overflow. When the children fight. When the need to vacuum is steady as breath. When real life means the real threat of wearing second day socks.

I match two red Nikes and wonder.

"What are you doing, Mama?" Isaiah asks. He wanders into our school room, steps over heaps of laundry, and sits beside me on the sofa.

"Socks," I say.

"Oh."

Isaiah presses close and we fit, like God knew we would. He leans forward, toward the basket, and begins to sort socks. He matches one pair. Then two. And when he notices that I'm still, he looks up and smiles.

And I understand that I don't have to long for lovely.

God brings lovely to the ordinary. He places an abundance of lovely straight in the center of my day.

It's rarely loud or attention-grabbing.

It's not the shining extravagant that shines of extravagant grace.

It's in the every day. The moments so small that hold His vast love.

Lovely surrounds us because the Lord is present and He promised to never leave. Because He is Creator and creation bears His love. Because He is good enough and kind enough to provide glimpses of glory that override circumstance and bring sustaining grace.

I sit beside my son, together in this task, and know that I don't have to long for lovely.

Lovely is in the Lord.

He's been here all along.

Mama Sets the Tone

I sat across the table from my friend Amy. She had the worn, tired look of I- have-little-kids-and-Daddy’s-out-of-town. Her husband was a DNR officer and had gotten a new job. While he worked through six months of school and training in another state, Amy stayed behind to keep the kids anchored. They’d move, as a family, when the training was complete.

“Are you holding up okay?” I asked. I noticed the large calendar on the wall behind her. Not many squares held the dark, heavy X of days-gone-by.

“I’m exhausted,” she said. “The kids aren’t sleeping well and their behaviors are off.”

“That must be hard.”

“It is,” she said. “But I’m the mom and I set the tone. The kids see me first thing in the morning and last thing at night. I try to keep things peaceful. Positive. They look to me for that.”

Our conversation was several years ago, but I haven’t forgotten Amy’s words. They're powerful . They ring true, whether Daddy’s home or not. We’ve all heard the saying, “If Mama aint happy, no one’s happy.” But Amy, in God’s strength, put this one in reverse. Applied a positive spin. In their lives and in their home.

As Mamas and keepers of hearts and homes, we do carry this responsibility. Some days I like it. Some days I don’t. It doesn’t really matter. The responsibility is mine, just the same. It’s sort of like when one of my little guys takes a fall. He stops, examines the damage, and looks to me to see if he should cry. If I say “Shake it off, Buddy”, he’s usually fine. If I fret and fuss and make a major deal over a minor spill, there’s bawling to beat the band.

Mama lays it down.

Of course there are days, those days, when we need rest and grace and the Lord offers both in sweet abundance (that's another post). But in general, this honorable responsibility holds true: If I want my home to be a place of encouragement, growth, and joyful service, a rich place where God’s sweet love flows fresh and free, in His strength I need be walking the walk. Talking the talk.

Setting the tone for others in my home.

Father, only in your grace and strength can I set the tone for a healthy, strong, God-honoring home. Empower me. Fill me. Let your Spirit flow!

Connecting Heart Deep

“Want to take a walk?” I ask. The winter weather is mild. Lonny and a couple of the older boys are away and Zay and I have the afternoon alone.

“Sure,” he says. My fifth child. My easy-to-please.

We pull on boots. Mine are for snow but his are cowboy boots. As we walk down the drive, they clickety-clack. 

 

And we walk.

We walk down the road that runs from our house to the country. We walk until we see open space and fields and farms.

And while we walk, the sun is on our backs.

And while we walk, my son’s heart opens.

At first, we talk about the weather and the want of snow. We chat about the runner sled that waits in the garage and the hill that's a weak green. Conversation skims the surface. But as we move along, things change. Isaiah begins to share from the soul. He speaks little-boy life and childhood dreams. He speaks of things hidden deep.

I ask questions. I respond to the beat of his heart. By now we’re away from the crazy. We’ve taken reprieve from the wild. Though we’re only a quarter- of-a-mile down the road, we’re far enough from fast living that I can hear my son. I can hear his heart.

 

These moments, this undivided, unshared sliver of time is gold to me. It’s worth more than anything  I could hold with my hands.

And I wonder, is this how it is with the Lord?

Trust in Him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for us. Psalm 62:8 ESV

Pour out your heart.

Oh, the grace in this. The sweet amazing grace. That the Lord would want me to share from the heart.

Heart-pouring, soul-sharing, takes effort and time.

I think about this, as we walk along. As my son has grown quiet. As his soul has been shared and there’s peace.

This time of reaching past the superficial into the things that matter, into the things that make a person, into the precious-intimate things, was the result of an effort.  A separation. An intentional, purposeful act.

Lord, give me the wisdom, the desire, to walk alone with You.

As I’ve delighted in the soul-sharing of my son, I understand how the Lord must delight in the times that I share with Him. In the times that my spirit opens wide. In the times when there is no distraction, no barrier, and I’m like a child, wanting to be known.

While we walk along, our shadows fall and Isaiah reaches for my hand. We move down the hill, toward our home. The winter sun begins to slip but the two of us are settled and still.

There is value in quiet moments.

Quiet moments shared with the One we love.

 

FAITH - LOVING THE LORD AND LOVING OTHERS (LIVING ON TARGET)

The bitter has broken. We’ve had below-zero temps but today it’s 40 degrees and the sun shines bright. I leave Samuel in charge during lunch break from school and I go for a run. When I return, the younger boys are waiting, slingshots in hand.

“We’re ready,” a son says. “We have the ammo from Mr. Roger. Can we have a few more minutes of lunch break?”

I look into their green eyes – these two youngest sons. They’re full of hope. Yesterday, a friend from church gave them a bag of white marbles. “Be careful,” he said. “Don’t shoot at one another. Set your target in an open space and be wise.”

I think about our afternoon home school subjects. It’s a weighty load. Then I look at the sunshine that stretches over the living room rug in wide, gold bars and I have to give in.

“Careful,” I say.

The boys are off.

And as I watch these sons, standing together and slinging marbles at a pizza box they’ve fashioned to a bulls-eye, I wonder….

Am I living on target? How close am I to hitting the mark?

I think of Jesus and his reply when asked which command in God’s law is most important.

Jesus said, “’Love the Lord your God will all your passion and prayer and intelligence.’ This is the most important, the first on any list. But there is a second to set alongside it: ‘Love others as well as you love yourself.’ These two commands are pegs; everything in God’s Law and the Prophets hangs from them.” Matthew 22:34-36 MSG

I watch from the window as my boys shoot and bolt into the marshy yard to retrieve their marbles. I watch until my breath fogs the glass.

Lord, let me live on target.

When I think about it, when I pare it all back and look at time and talents and what I’ve done with what the Lord gives, I worry that I fall short. Busyness robs my intention and sets me off track.

Lord, let me be wise and obedient. Let me love you first and others next.

I stand there a few minutes longer, watching my boys play under the unusually warm January sun. When one boy hits the target, the bulls-eye center, there’s a celebration.  A loud, heartfelt cheer.

I smile and clap and tap on the glass. I give a thumbs-up and the boys do a thumbs-up back. Their joy is bright as the day.

Hitting the target is precious.

Lord, empower me. With Your Spirit and direction, I can live well for You.