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...

That Kind of Boy - A Prayer for Our Children

I handed Gabe a hundred number chart. He was learning about odd and even numbers.

“Now take the marker,” I said. “And color the evens yellow.”

Gabe colored the numbers two, four, and six. Then he colored seven and eight and nine.

“Oops, Gabriel. You colored seven and nine. They’re odd numbers. Let’s count together by twos, even numbers.”

But Gabe wouldn’t count. His face colored deep crimson. His shoulders curled and his head dropped forward. Then he started to cry.

“Oh, Gabriel,” I said. “It’s no big deal. We’ll color over the yellow with blue. The odd numbers can be blue.”

More sobs.

I rubbed his little back. “Everyone makes mistakes, Gabe. Everyone.”

Gabe lifted his head and looked me straight in the eye.

“Well,” he said. “ I am not that kind of boy.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

I know he has it in him.

To be that kind of boy.

Zuzu's House, Trust, and Keepin' Out the Cold

A friend, over Christmas break, said something that made me smile.

"I think you live in Zuzu's house."

Zuzu. George Bailey's Zuzu. From one of our favorite movies, It's A Wonderful Life (it's a wonder we don't all have pneumonia). I sat in our living room and laughed. Then I reached for another throw.

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.

And today seems especially cold.

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.

If only it could be this easy to press out all kinds of cold, I think as I stretch on my toes and wriggle my fingers toward the soft bundles.

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.

But what if  challenging circumstances bring opportunity to find peace and comfort in the Lord?

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.

When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.
Psalm 56:3 NIV


Trust.

This has to be the way.

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.

When my response to worry becomes an opportunity to trust, the cold is kept away.

And this becomes my prayer.

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.

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.

I agree with my friend. This old house is like Zuzu's.

But I'm learning to trust.

And trust keeps out the cold.

Parenting - A Building Plan

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.

Gabe is our builder. His mind is patterned after his dad’s.

“What are you working on?” I ask.

“A crane,” he says.

“How is it coming?”

 

Gabe's face tilts upward. Dimples, from my dad, punctuate his smile. “Well,” he says. “It’s going to take a while.”

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.

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.

Watching Gabe, seeing his perseverance and push-forward way, encourages my own heart.

 His building seems like parenting to me.

It's been a tough week.  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 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.

I’m building men.

So, when life seems a scattered mess and the week has made me weary, I’ll continue to build standards that I believe are pleasing to the Lord, to develop my sons' moral compasses, even if it’s counter culture. I’ll build my prayer life with time set aside, daily, to speak with and listen to God. And I’ll ask the Lord to help me build a storehouse of wisdom  - straight from His Word to the tender places of my heart.

Because building requires a plan.

And when my parenting plan is centered on the Lord, I can trust that He's at the center.

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.

The structure is growing. One tiny piece at a time.

The outcome is still far.

But there’s hope along the way.

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

Livin' Verbs

I 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.

And the enemy whispers lies.

She and I stand in church, talking fast, voices low, opening the tender places of our hearts.

"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.

"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."

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.

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.

He speaks lies and I've heard the whispers.

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.

Lies.

And the best thing I can do is to pull out the verbs.

Submit. Stand. Resist.

And because I stand on the resurrection side of the cross, the enemy has to flee.

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.

"I'm praying for you," I say.

She looks at me, and I know her next words will be true.

"I'm praying for you, too. Verbs."

And we're both going to be okay.


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

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

A Tough Day and The Secret to Rising Above

It's one of those days.

The boys are surly. I'm not sure why, but the unraveling began shortly after sunrise and my high noon we're shot.

There is grumbling.

Poking.

Picking.

And as usual, when the boys are frayed like this, I climb right aboard.

I snip.

I snarl.

And in this house today there's no goodness to be found.

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?

I'm standing at the sink when I understand. It falls on my spirit like a strong ray of sun.

The rising above comes from bending low.

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.

And we only fell to a darker place.

So I go to my knees, and I ask for filling that is strong and sweet.

Right there by the kitchen sink.

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.

I go back to the dishes and we go about our day. The boys are still surly, but something in me has changed.

 I'm anchored.

 I'm empowered.

And the difficulties of the day aren't so daunting after all.

It's not the best day, but I can manage this mess.

Rising above means bending low.


Look to the LORD and his strength; seek his face always. I Chronicles 16:11

Finding Peace in My Unchanging God

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.

“Mom! Look! Lightning bugs. The first ones! By the bushes! See?”

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.

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.

“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.

And in that instant, I’m taken back to childhood.

Suddenly I could be in the center of the 70’s.  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.  My mom would be with us, her inner-child strong. We’d laugh and fall lost in the wonder of this simple, precious thing.

Time moves too fast.

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.

When time passes swiftly and changes come strong, I’m grateful for the grace of an unchanging God.

Time moves. People grow. Change happens with each breath.

But the Lord is steadfast.

The counsel of the Lord stands forever, the plans of his heart to all generations. Psalm 33:11 ESV

His timeless compassion, strength, and grace are my resting place. His character is unchanging and He is home to my restless heart.  In His Presence is where I find peace.

“Hey, Mom? Catch fireflies with me?” my son asks.

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. But I’m not going to fret.  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.

I’ll take the changes to my unchanging God.

 

 

When Answer to Prayer Comes Slowly

Hello Friend,

This week I had the blessing of guest posting at The Better Mom. I'm grateful for this beautiful site as it brings spiritual encouragement to so many women.

Here's the link to my post:



http://www.thebettermom.com/2016/5/14/when-answer-to-prayer-comes-slowly



I'm praying you'll experience God's love in rich and powerful ways today, and I'm so glad you're here.

.

Lovingly,

Shawnelle

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!