Night Music

May the glory of the LORD endure forever; may the LORD rejoice in his works. Psalm 104:31


By the time I hit the bed my thoughts are tough knots. Worry has tangled many concerns into a twist of charged-up strands.

I usually don't get this way.

But tonight I'm wound tight.

"You okay?" Lonny asks.

I curl against his side. "Sure," I say. But I'm not being honest, really.

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.

I try to find the off-switch to my thoughts, but my mind seems to have taken on a wild life of its own.

I flip over. Fluff my pillow. Think about charging from bed to find a good book.

Then I hear it.

The windows are open because the night air is cool. And it has started to rain.

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.

Then comes the frog.

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.

Everything else in the world seems quiet, except for this rhythm.

Even my thoughts go quiet, and I understand that this is a music of praise.

Nature is offering praise.

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.

And my own heart joins the praise.

Thank you God that You are faithful.

Thank you that You meet our needs.

Even in this song I see Your kindness.

And there is peace.

The rain continues to fall and the frog continues his song.

In some strange way I feel safe. Hemmed in.

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.

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.

Who I Am in Christ

"Okay, Mom, see you later!" Zay says.

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.

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.

Little boys.


In a world that pushes our children to grow too fast, this delights me.

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?

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.

And there's the opportunity to see myself the way that God sees me.

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.

It's mercy. It's the heartbeat of grace.

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

Embracing this truth stirs gratitude. It brings the sweetest form of joy. The embrace is the chain-breaker that brings freedom from fear.

I can let go of shame.

I can be defined by grace and not guilt.

I can walk, with confidence, into the life and calling and circumstances that He brings.

The Wookies leave, and as the door slams and quiet swells, I give this truth some thought...

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.

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.

They are little boys.

And we are women who, because of Jesus, walk in righteousness and grace.

Wide-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.

I pull my chair to Isaiah's side of the work table. He opens his math book and smiles.

"So Mom," he says. He crosses his arms.  "What do you want to fill my head with today?"

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.

I forget my Monday woes.

"Well, sir, how about math facts?" I ask.

Soon I'm flipping flash cards, and Isaiah is calling out numbers. We plunge into our workday and the workday is good.

But my son's question lingers.

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.

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...

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...

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...

Surely such questions, from a heart that's tender, teachable, and wide-open to God's glory would be pleasing to the Lord.

Make me to know your ways, O LORD; teach me your paths. Psalm 25:4 ESV

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. 

Papers are pushed into folders, and I slide our books back to shelves.

School time is over. It's time to move on to different things.

But as I go...

I hold Isaiah's question.

And it becomes a prayer.



.

The Voice of Comparison and Hearing His Song

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.

She’s hurting because she’s comparing herself to others.

She’s hurting because she’s hearing lies.

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.

I see a beautiful woman made more lovely by her heart for the Lord.

I see a sweet soul longing to shine bright in the light of His love.

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.

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.

It’s the voice of comparison.

And I can see that she’s tuned in because I fight the voice, too.

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.

It goes on and on. Important things. Petty things. Vain things. Spiritual things.

Her house is cleaner. She’s more successful. She looks better in jeans. I wish her talent could be mine.

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.

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

And I begin to think.

Does the Lord ask me to pull my worth from the weight of a stack of sisters?

No.

He asks me to trust Him. To obey Him. To praise Him. To give thanks. To love Him and to love others.

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?

No.

Not at all.

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.

Close enough to sing.

The teakettle whistles. My friend shares, and I listen. When her heart quiets, I’ll share too. But I have a new prayer.

It’s for my friend.

 It’s for me.

I’ll pray that the voice of comparison would fall silent.

‘Cause we’re lost in the song of His love.

 

Childlike Gratitude - A Prayer for When He's Grown

I'm driving home. The van is quiet.  The evening is thick with humid haze.

"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.


"What's that?" I ask.

"The prayer. The prayer I'll pray when I'm grown."

"Do you want to share?" I ask.

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."

He's quiet for a moment.

"And thank you for Jesus."

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.

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.

 I don't say a word out loud.

But in my spirit, as God's child, I think about my son's prayer. 

And soundly say Amen.

Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name. Psalm 100:4

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.

 

 

Nourishment of Time

"Will you play darts with me, Mom?" Gabe asks. "When we get home?"

We're taking a family walk along the river. The sun is sinking low. The streets are quiet. All is still.
But this simple question makes me a little anxious inside.

"I'd love to, Gabe," I say.

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.

We finish our walk and I shimmy a game of darts between the unwashed dinner dishes and the bedtime routine.

It doesn't take me long to be happy that I did.

"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.

"I'm not very good," I say. "But I like this. And love I our time together."

Gabe smiles and plucks my darts from the outer ring of the dartboard (and one from the wall).

I feel satisfied. Fulfilled. Glad that I took the time to nourish this relationship that is precious to me.

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.

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.

Relationships need the nourishment of time.

They need set-apart, focused attention.

When we pull away from the pressure,   precious things unfold.

And I want to follow Jesus' example.

Gabe squints an eye, curls his fingers around the dart, and lines it even with his ear.

Then he stretches his arm and lets the dart fly.

I watch it swish through the air and smack on the board.

Twenty points.

Double.

Not bad.

I think about this time set-apart time to grow my relationship with my little boy.  I've definitely scored here.

But tomorrow morning's set-aside time with my Father?

That will be a bull's-eye for sure.
----------------------------------------

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

One of those days Jesus went out to a mountainside to pray, and spent the night praying to God.
Luke 6:12

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

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

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

Hatching the Day - Expectant Living

 Isaiah finds me in the schoolroom checking Gabriel's math fact sheet. He stands beside me. Close.

When I look up he's smiling - so big it shines through his green eyes.

"Will you hatch this for me?" he asks.

I'm confused. Then he pushes his hands forward. He's holding a clementine, orange and round, in the nest of his small hands.

"Sure," I say. "But Zay, fruit doesn't hatch. It's peeled."

"Okay," he says. "That's fine. But I can't wait for what's inside."

I start to peel his fruit. The skin is tight and thin and comes off in ragged strips. And while I'm peeling, I think about his words. I can't wait for what's inside.

That's how I want to open each day. Expectant. Full of hope. Ready to embrace, savor, the goodness of what is to come.

I want to expect that God will bring good things. I want to see His grace in the small moments. I want to breathe in and out, knowing He's beside me, a Father of compassion and grace, loving me, guiding me, speaking to the quiet places of my heart. No matter what the circumstances are. Even in tough times. When life leaves me weary, His Presence will bring good things.

You have let me experience the joys of life and the exquisite pleasures of your own eternal presence. Psalm 16:11 TLB

Zay waits patiently until the smooth barrier is removed from his fruit. I hand it back to him and he breaks a crescent away and pops it into his mouth.

I can see that it was worth the wait.

Zay and me.

Waiting for the wonder in sweet, hatched things.


Thank you, Lord, for being with me. Thank you, in advance, for what You'll do today...Amen.

I Love You Because...

I saw the idea on Facebook. The idea of writing love notes, one for each day of the month, to the one ones we love.
 

It’s February.

Almost Valentine’s Day.

The day that warms winter with expressions of love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I sit at the pool, camped on a top bleacher, while my sons swim. There are paper hearts splayed across my lap. I'd cut them from construction paper and stuffed them into a Ziploc bag. Some hearts are big. Some are small. All are irregular because I'm not good with details and I'm not patient enough to trace.

 

They’re all blank. Waiting for words.

Five sons and a husband.

I love you because…

 

 

Emotion comes fast. I see my little one and the way he makes us lighter, green eyes shining, joy bubbling from his soul. I love you because bring laughter. I think of another son teaching his brothers about the strength in gentleness. I love you because you reach those around you. Another boy comes to mind -  how he thinks and builds and creates. I love you because you help with the work of your hands. Another son’s warm, easy hugs are frequent and firm, even now when his arms are lanky-long. I love you because you’re not afraid of affection. I think of a son and how he strives to overcome. I love you because you push when life pulls and you know to persevere. And my husband. He lives silent servanthood. I love you because you give.

I smile while I scribble.

Affirming others, building and encouraging and speaking love, is salve for one’s soul.

And as paper hearts rest on my lap and the air is thick and the rhythm of the pool is loud, my mind shifts from thoughts of my family to thoughts of the Lord. My Spirit swells. I love Him because He loved me first. Because He gave me life. Because He saved me and promised heaven and brought blessing on earth. But today, the one that is strongest on my spirit, the one that's my pulse and my breath and my reason for peace...

 I love you, Lord, because You'll never leave.

The Lord is present in every circumstance. He is present in the blessing and the goodness. He's present in the trouble and trauma. He's with me when tears flow from joy and gratitude or grief. He's ever-present with an abundance of mercy and compassion that He's offered as a grace-gift...to me. 

And the promise of His Presence brings peace.

I sit for a bit, the power of His love changing me again, renewing me, bringing refreshment and thanksgiving and tenderness. But it isn’t long before a son emerges from the pool. He climbs the stairs, leaving footprints, water dripping, white-blond hair in short, wet spikes. He reaches the top, slings his backpack over his shoulder, and treks town the stairs toward the locker room.

But midway down he stops.
 

Turns around.
 

Climbs back up.

“I love you, Mom,” he says.

And he smiles. 

Then he’s gone again.

Love.

 His Presence is everything.

I love you, Lord, because…



But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring your remembrance all that I have said to you. John 14:26 ESV

FAITH WHEN THINGS GET MESSY

It’s Saturday and we’re dusting and vacuuming and picking up like mad. A few of the boys are having friends over and it stuns me to the center that as hard as we try, our home never gets past that “lived in” look.

Life can be messy. Messy will happen as long as we live and breathe.

A boy carries his dirty clothes hamper down the old, curved stairs. He and I stand together, feeding jeans and sweatshirts into our over-worked washer, and I think of my long-ago dreams of having a perfectly tidy home. One void of dirt and spills and stains and mess. Now I know that won’t happen.

A family lives here.

When we were fewer in number and my oldest sons were small, I believed that I would be able to keep our emotional and spiritual lives free of mess too. I believed that if I said yes to all the right things and barricaded the door against the wrong, we’d be safe inside. I had the best intention and the things we practiced were solid and good.

But the thing is, people aren’t perfect.

Life happens and can take turns that are out of our control.

The plan, the perfect plan, can turn messy.

The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock.  Matthew 7:25 NIV

I’m learning, as I stretch and grow in my faith, that following the Lord doesn’t mean that I can keep life- storms at bay. It doesn’t mean that I can protect my family from every wind, rain, or struggle. What is does mean, sweet amazing grace, is that the Lord is with us when the storms come.

The Lord is perfectly present when life doesn’t go as planned.

When I think about the times that I’ve been overwhelmed by grace, when His goodness has seeped into my soul and brought peace that penetrates peril, when I’ve needed Him as much as I’ve needed air and He’s been just as present, I understand that the most intimate times of experiencing His Presence may have been during the trials.

He’s by my side in the middle of a mess.

He is faithful.

The washer chugs and the dishes are in the rack, and when a small blond son finds me, his green eyes are wide with hope.

“Are we done, Mom? Will you look at my bedroom?”

I climb the stairs and check his room. The beds are made. The floor is clutter-free. There’s a line-up of teddy bears on the chest by the window.

Looks fine to me.

An hour later our home is rich with the sound of boys. There’s laughter. The thud of feet pounding up the stairs. Bigger boys are in the family room and a couple of small ones rush through the living room with the dog at their heels.

The house isn’t perfect.

By some standards it may be a mess.

But it’s okay.

 

The Lord is here.

 

Winning the Battle of What-If Worry

We’re sitting close, four of us on two loveseats, but we still lean in to listen. This is our prayer group and what we share here comes straight off the soul. We’re transparent. We’re open. We praise together and ache together and it’s the prayers of these ladies that sustains me when the struggle is hard.

We all wrestle with a tough circumstance. We all fight an unseen foe.

I share about what’s happening in my world and then my friend shares of what’s happening in hers. As she speaks of difficult things, I’m compelled, drawn, to her countenance. My friend’s words come in a soft, even flow. Her shoulders are relaxed. Her hands aren’t curled to knots and there’s something beautiful on her face that pulls the attention of my heart.

It’s peace.

“How do you do it?” I ask later. “How have you gotten to this place – this place that appears quiet and  calm?”

My friend thinks for a moment and then shares spirit-deep. “It’s the Lord,” she says.  “I’m learning to surrender. It takes time, and I’m not always there. But it’s gotten better.”

Later that night, the winter wind howls over the dark and my what-if worry rages strong too. I get caught here often. Worrying for the future of one I love. Conjuring what could happen and getting lost in the murk of fear. But as I lie in bed, the Lord reminds me of the conversation with my friend.

Surrender.

The LORD shall  fight for you , and ye shall hold your peace. Exodus 14:14 KJV

The wind keeps blowing, it’s harsh and shrill, but these Words that have come to my Spirit become a salve. I close my eyes and think of the Lord’s power. His glory. His compassion and faithfulness and even His love for me. And though He is more than I can imagine, I feel my muscles relax. My heartbeat slows. I let each what-if worry run through my mind but this time I hold it against the Lord’s strength.

And it becomes powerfully clear to me that the only way to win the battle of worry is to lay my own weapons down.

To disengage.

To recognize that the One who is all powerful is powerful in battle for me.

He’s fighting the war in my mind and he’s fighting for my loved one too.

Oh, the peace that I can hold when I’m willing to let go.

I pray into the night, for some time, but the prayer has changed. It doesn't flow from a place of panic or from the ragged place of a heart consumed with fear. There is, instead, gratitude. I thank the Lord for His Presence in the battle and for the things that He will do – for the things that He has done.

And as I fall asleep, I think of my friend and the peace on her beautiful face.

The way to win the battle of worry is in the strength to let it go.

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.