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.

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!

My Birthday and A Parent's Love

It’s my birthday and my parents call first thing. Just like every year. Mom sings. And something about it makes me cry.

“It was one of the happiest days of our lives,” she says. “The day we welcomed you.”

She tells about the day I was born and somewhere in the story, her chest must feel tight, too. “Talk to Daddy,” she says. And the phone is shuffled around.

A moment later, Dad is on the line. “Hello Darlin," he says. "Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks, Dad," I say. I know what’s coming next.

“American astronauts were heading for the moon. They stepped out of that spaceship on the day we brought you home.” I smile. “We didn’t see it until days later, though.” He paused. “We were busy. Watching you.”

This gentleness is wrecking me today. Maybe I’m extra sentimental. But today emotion comes fast.

We chat for a few minutes. Then we get off the phone. But the conversation stays with me. There’s just something about a parent’s love.

I understand this, now that I’m a many-years parent, too. There’s nothing like that bond. That crazy sort of love that pours from our hearts into someone else’s. Sometimes it’s a gentle flow. Sometimes it’s torrential. But there’s a passion. A loving someone more than you love yourself. There’s that part of you that knows you would give anything you have, anything you are, for the one you hold dear.

And I begin to understand, just the very tiny tip, of how God loves me that way, too. He loves me with that passionate- parent sort of love.

He was there, in the beginning. Knitting. Molding. Making. He’s here today, too. In the shaping. Refining. Teaching.

And He loved me enough to give the best that He had.

It’s a song of grace. It’s a story of love. It’s the generous, I-can’t-understand-it truth that the Father gave His Son so that I could be a daughter, too.

And this moves me.

 He knew the helpless-newborn need of this forty-something heart.

So today I’m rocked in the comfort of a parent’s love.The parents He gave me (the ones who celebrated me enough to miss the man on the moon). And my Father in heaven, too (the one who made the moon but celebrates me still).

This love is a strong comfort, even when years surround us.

There’s just something about it.

There’something about a parent’s love.