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.

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.

 

 

 

\

 

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.

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.

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.

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

Eyes Open to God's Glory

I'm reading a devotion aloud, and I'm frustrated.

The boys are not listening.

We're on the back patio. The sun is warm. October colors the trees. It's the perfect place to study. Why can't they pay attention?

I read another paragraph. They fidget. Shift in their chairs. One boy whispers. I throw a question.

"Who can tell me what I just read?" I ask.

No one answers. Their faces are blank as fresh paper.

I clear my throat and read a few more lines. From the corner of my eye I can see they are now leaning in their chairs, eyes focused on something I cannot see.

"I think, guys, that this is worth your time," I say.

"Do you see his face?" Gabe asks. "It's a pentagon. And his eyes are crazy green. He's looking right at me."

I wonder what he's talking about. I lean toward Gabe. I notice the distraction. It's a bug. He's close to two inches long, bright green, and is perched on the arm of Gabe's patio chair.

"Cool," I say. "Maybe he'd like to listen."

I read on.

"He's walking," Zay whispers. "He has a map on his wings."

I stop reading. I watch as the boys' necks crane. The bug moves and the boys' eyes are pulled like magnets.

"His wings are like leaves," Sam says. "God made them that way. Look at the veins. If he'd fly to the bush behind us, we'd never find him."

The guys are right. This guy's wings are a road map of creation. And his color is spectacular. The exact shade of the still-green bushes that fringe our patio.

"I want get my magnifying glass," Zay speaks in hushed tone. "I want to see his up-close face."

I watch my boys' faces. They're captivated. Captivated by this creation of the Living Lord.

The boys whisper. The bug moves. Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, the boys crowd around him. This visitor's details, this small wonder in a two-inch space, sings of God's glory.

I set my book down.

"Go get your magnifying glass, Zay," I say.

Sometimes even when my motive is good, I need to slow down. Drop my own agenda.

Open my eyes.

And see what the Lord has brought to the table.

How many are your works, O LORD! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures. Psalm 104:24


God, thank you for revealing yourself to us in exciting ways. Give me the eyes to see. Amen.

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.

 

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

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

Building A Strong Home

My boys are most happy when going wild with cardboard boxes. Our dining room has held rockets, ships, trains, skyscrapers.

Yesterday we visited my parents. Mom has taken to stashing boxes in her closet. When the boys come to visit, she extracts a few. But when visiting yesterday, we ran short on time. So we pushed the half-constructed works into my van and they came home.

Today the schoolroom was a crazy mess of tape, box flaps, scissors, and twine.

"I'm building a stuffed animal home," Zay says. His box is a multi-level structure. On each floor he's carved a door.

"Let me help you," Gabe says.

They whisper for a few minutes. Then they hunker hard over the same box. They snip. They tape. Their bodies press close as they shimmy cardboard pieces into the box.

And I notice their ability to see the weak spots. The areas that won't hold the weight. The places that will come crashing down.

"If Greyhound Blue stays on this floor, you'll need some more tape here," Gabe says. He points to a bare spot in the back where the cardboard floor meets the wall without reinforcement.  Zay is on it. He stretches duct tape and reaches for the scissors.

"I need to make this door stronger," Zay says. "Panther Guy's too wide. He'll tear the door loose."

Strap. Snip.

They keep working and the house gets stronger.

It makes me think of our house. Our home. Our physical house has its weak spots. More than we'd like - it's a century and a half old. However it's our spiritual house that holds my thoughts. There are obvious weaknesses - the bristly stuff that happens because we live close and tight. But I know there are other places too. Weak spots that aren't as obvious. Places where sin makes the walls weak or maybe our roof  isn't shored up quite enough with living out God's Word.

Lord, let us see the weak spots. Let them be known so we can be wise. So we can work hard. So we can reinforce. So we can take them to You in prayer.

So we can experience Your strength and grace.

Gabe and Zay finish the house, bolt upstairs, and return with a basket of stuffed friends. One-eyed Tigger goes into the box. Rabbit-with-no-fur-on-his -ears is next. Vanilla Cat. Jewel Bear. Old Friend.

The animals seem to like their new digs. Gabe and Zay sit back on their heels and beam from ear to ear.

The floors are firm.

The structure holds.

And I celebrate, too. For the goodness God's given and the  goodness He'll give.

Lord, help us to build homes that honor You. Amen..

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.

When Children Grow

He’s so small, standing on the swim block.

I’m on the bleachers, hands clenched to fists, heart hammering maybe faster than my son’s.

We’re in Chicago for a swim meet. A month ago, at a local meet, Gabriel swam the fifty meter breaststroke and made a Regional time. Since then, he's practiced his stroke and his turns and his dive from the block.

Today is the day.

And as the whistle sounds, as he springs from the platform and glides into the water, as he moves long and straight below and then breaks the surface for a breath, I marvel at this boy's growth.

When he first started swimming, he couldn’t make it the length of the pool.

The first time he dove from the block, he flew like a frog – arms and legs splayed in the air.

The growth of our children...

When I look back, the memories are sweet. I remember a toddler who slow-stepped across  hardwood, grinning toothless and reaching for my hand. I remember running alongside bikes when my sons first rode on two wheels. There was holding a babe when his neck was strong enough to lift his head, and he no longer curled into my chest. And sitting by an emergent reader as he sounded letters into words. And pressing the car keys into the hand of an eager young man.

There was pride and joy with every achievement. Soul-deep pleasure with every measure of growth.

 

 

 

Sometimes I wonder if God, my Father, feels the same.

Does He feel pride and joy when I reach for his Word and hold it as life-changing truth? When He calls me to rest and in His Presence and I do? When I hear the heartbeat of His love and I choose faith over fear? When I feel His grace and strength and I don’t try to fight on my own?  When I understand the protection and comfort of the shelter of His wings?

Spiritual growth.

Milestones.

Stretching and growing into beautiful things.

But they delight in doing everything God wants them to, and day and night are always meditating on his laws and thinking about ways to follow him more closely. They are like trees along a riverbank bearing luscious fruit each season without fail. Their leaves shall never wither, and all they do shall prosper. Psalm 1:2-3 TLB

Oh Lord, give me a holy hunger to know You...

 
Gabriel pulses through the water. Up and down. Up and down. The clock stops and he climbs from the pool and finds his coaches. There’s a hug and a fist bump for this little guy who is still wearing goggles and a cap. He’s done well.

Lonny squeezes my hand and warm tears come fast.

I’m  happy for my son.

A parent rejoices in a child's growth.

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.

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.

Learning to Seek Sweet Rest - Part I

I'm a little scrambled inside.

I stand near the fridge and look at calendar squares for the upcoming week, and it's hard to find rest.

It's hard to imagine rest.

The squares all hold good things. Very good things. Some of the days hold things I'm very much looking forward to. Other squares hold blessing, like lessons and visits to the doctor and activities for the boys we're fortunate to have. But sometimes the goodness stacks up and I feel a bit unglued. There are unwritten things, too. Like going to the gym every day with Grant. The bike rides I want to take with Samuel. The summer school schedule I laid down like law and haven't given a good flirt.

And that's when I see him.

I walk away from the calendar, from the pressure and commitment and the guilt of grumbling about a good-n-plenty life, and I walk into my bedroom.  And on my bed I find my small, sleeping son.

The house is charged with life. There's energy and activity and sound. I hear some of the boys in the pool outside. Another is upstairs playing music way too loud. The kitchen door opens and slams shut.

And he slumbers still.

I sit on the bed for a moment. I admire this sought-out peace. Zay's face is smooth. No lines of worry. No creased forehead. No furrowed brow. His breath is soft and slow. It's a lullaby, a song I want to know. He's wrapped in Mine-O-Mine - his faithful blanket friend. And he pulls me in. I can't resist.
I curl around him. I want this peace to be mine.

Zay shifts and I slide my arm around him. He's curved into me. I close my eyes and fall into his rhythm.

And I understand what's happened. This boy has found rest. It didn't come to seek him. The fast-spinning way of life didn't stop. But he rests in spite of it. He rests in the midst of it. He's found a way to find sweet rest.

I want to find sweet rest, too. Not the curl-up-and-sleep kind of rest. I want to find the kind of rest that brings peace when commitment and needs and busy piles high. The kind of peace that stills my heart and steadies my soul when life breaks loose and runs wild.The kind of rest that makes me slow enough to see His presence, still enough to hear Him, quiet enough to know Him when the days just move too fast.

Zay rolls over. His head tips and rests under my chin. Now his brown arm rests over me. I need to get up and chip away at the day.

But I'll take just a moment.

In a wild season of life, I'm learning to seek and receive rest.

Lord, help me to find rest, the kind of  sweet rest that You offer....Amen.

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:28