In Which I Tell You That You Are Amazing On Mother's Day

{because you need to believe it}

I wasn't going to write anything for Mother's Day.

I look away, down, anywhere but straight ahead, scroll past, ignore the posts, try not to read stories that remind me too much of my failings as a mother and how I don't measure up. I try to stop the hemorrhaging, plug up the giant mother-sized hole bleeding out from so much pain and guilt. The past two years have been the hardest years yet for me as a mother.

Mother's Day could just be another day, and I would be fine with that, I tell myself.

It would be easier than facing the guilty feelings for all I haven't done right, for the ways I put myself down, tell myself I'm not enough.

Isn't that usually the way with mothers? And guilt and anger over what we deserve or don't deserve always lend to shame. It's a vicious cycle.

Honestly, I've had enough of feeling not good enough. I've had enough of the lies and the fears and the torment in my belly that keeps me awake at night, crying into my pillow when no one sees.

I've all but decided that constantly shoving in a diet of filthy rags in the sight of God mentality is not good for my happiness, or my spiritual growth.

I sort of think that for some of us, who struggle with pride, maybe it's good for us to remember that we cannot do things on our own but we need God.

But for others of us, who struggle with insecurity more than we do feeling great about ourselves and our talents,

maybe we just need to be told we. are. amazing.

Me.

You. Yes, you. Beautiful, tear-streaked face, hair in knots, pajama-wearing, you.

This is for all of us. For those of us who don't feel beautiful or appreciated or enough in anyone's eyes.

For the women and mothers that can feel a little neglected as they bend, break, wipe up vomit and then try to cuddle up to their man and feel sexy.

It's not easy, is it? I know.

Depression can bring you down to such an ugly place, and postpartum can do a mom in, and sometimes I wonder why the world has to be the way it is, why Eve had to take that fruit off of that tree, why I have to be so much like her.

I know what you're thinking right now--this is wrong. How can we say we aren't filthy rags in the sight of God, because the bible clearly states in scripture that we are.

Oh, yes, I know. Believe me, I know, because I grieved and I lamented, and I lived in a perpetual state of my "I'm not good enough" theology for years. Yes, that's how the story begins.

But it isn't how it ends.

That's the beauty of the blood-stained, wrecked, holy, scandalous gospel.

We were, we are and always will be filthy rags. In and of ourselves.

But listen to this and listen close. Grasp it, and once you do, never let go:

Christ came and changed all of that. Forever, for you and I. We are no longer prisoners to our filthy rags, we don't have to walk around in sack and ash-cloth, mourning our bane existence in the presence of a Holy, angry God. He poured out grace thick when the blood coursed warm out of his body and ran cold. 

He gave you freedom, like a slave set free and told he can leave his master's land. Forever. Free to make his own choices, free to live without worry and fear.

We're not a slave to the law, to our dirty sinful hearts, or even to our fears, but if we are a slave, we are a slave only to grace. We are married to freedom now.

We've been bought with a blood that is tied to no strings, our ransom has been paid, and we've been let go.

Do you see it? Grasp it? Know it deep in your marrow?

He loves you. He loves me. He loves the whole messed up lot of us.

And that is why I know, know, know that he doesn't want us mothers feeling guilty on this Mother's Day weekend. Do you hope for a card and think, maybe once again this year, it will be forgotten? That is just being human.

Do you get disappointed? Maybe slightly angry, even? GREAT! That means you're human! Jesus understands when we're angry, yes? All he asks, is that we don't sin in that anger. We give grace, we forgive, we try to understand, we try, once again, to live selflessly. And we patiently ask that next year, they might try to remember a card, or a letter. Something that would help you remember they love and appreciate you, because you need to hear it. Sometimes, admitting what we need from others is the hardest thing of all. Because then we open our hearts fully. And we shouldn't feel guilty for needing, because God made us this way!

He doesn't want us strapping the law to our backs, lamenting our sin, totin' a sign that says "I'm not good enough", waving a guilt banner in people's faces and pulling them into our religious nightmare because the ones who carry the law heavy need someone to help them bear it. And we all drag one another down.

The gospel, this one life He's given us to live, the whole of creation and reason for existence is about way more than just filthy rags, sinners in the hand of an angry God, and lamenting that there is no good in us, and only He is the reason at all that we can do anything good, mother half-well, be a serving lover to our husbands, or live with any decent purpose at all.

No, let's not box up a Holy God, a limitless God to such finite ideas. Let's stop believing the lie that we can only be nothing in ourselves and maybe half-worth something for the kingdom of heaven if we grit our teeth, bear the law hard, and submit to a God who rules over us.

He is the mighty Creator, and it doesn't serve Him well or do His wonders justice for us to wear heavy cloaks of humility that weigh us down, but it boasts His power and waves a banner of glory when we are happy in who He made us. 

I give you permission right now to stop believing the lie, to shirk off the heavy cloak of shame, to wash off the foul stench of fear and guilt and begin rejoicing in who God has made you.

Because God? He rejoices over you. He spins happy and He watches you take in sacred breaths in early morning light, and He smiles down on you, Beloved Daughter, as you hug your daughter or son, as you cry and as you yell, and as you bravely say sorry and rise again each morning even though the days are hard and wear you thin.

God gets it--He knows you. He knows how hard you struggle and He catches each tear, and your intercessor, Christ, He prays for you to the Father as He sees you fall to your knees in exasperation once again, no words on your lips, groans the only thing escaping.

He loves you, daughter, infinitely and wondrously.

He sees your struggle, your pain.

He sees the beauty in your heart, the desires that are deeply hidden and entombed there.

He sees the potential of what He made you to be, and He sees who you are now, right where you are, just how you are--weak, fragile, each breath you breathe a sacred one,

And He says it. is. good. 

                                                        *an edited re-post from archives


{This post shared with The Weekend Brew}


This is what I'm asking for on Mother's Day weekend--as a family, we will give to this project! I'm a little excited!! You can go here (ß- click on the highlighted word) to give just a $5 donation to the Esther Initiative, a project that Ann is apart of to bring hope to girls and women all over the world. It is a project to empower women, something I think you’d be proud to be apart of, as am I. Isn’t this a perfect gift—right here at Mother’s Day weekend, when we’re celebrating women, and birth, and life itself? Will you give with me? I’m asking my husband to make this my gift. Let’s stand together. Let’s make our voice heard. Let’s let our sisters across the sea and right here at home hear our roar—we care and we will not stop, until this stops. We give you our yes, Father. Use me, Jesus, to sit beside someone in chains. 

You can learn more at that link above, about the project-- and you can go here, to my post from yesterday, to learn how YOU can help in small ways that matter, and also share some ideas you may have! 

Dream With Audaciousness, Daughter {An Abstraction on Hands}

Driving on the interstate in the dark, we're speeding toward the huge bookstore chain in our little clunker of a van, better known as my husband's work van. I would prefer a small, local bookstore, but they're the only ones open late at night for a spontaneous, must-have-this-book-tomorrow trip. I've got a hankerin' for some coffee shop goodies; this little expedition needs to be worth it.

She is small in the passenger seat next to me, her face hidden in the shadows as we bumble along, the old van making strange noises I just ignore.

We pull into the parking space, and I throw on some lip gloss. She explains, with a little laugh, when I look at her, I'm sorry, but I look horrible, as she quickly dabs on mascara.

I wonder where she heard that? I watch her with a smile, thinking how quickly she's grown, and did I do everything right, and should she really be wearing mascara at this age, and oh my god, she's so beautiful. 

We walk into the store, and they don't even have the book we drove the twenty minutes for, and sometimes I feel like an idiot of a mother who gets everything wrong, and sometimes I have my shining moments of glory, because tonight I get to be her hero.

Earlier back at the house, I'd called her, and she'd slowly come toward me, letting out a deep sigh and an umph, and I gently corrected her because I could tell she was in a bad mood. But the gentle correction pulled out the real problem. Her lips crumpled, and with tears in her eyes, she told me she had just realized we had forgotten to get the literature book she had to have for school the next day.

Tears running down her face, I told her I would take her to get what she needed. I heaved myself up off the couch, shuffled into the kitchen in my slippers to let husband know, and after sliding back into the same clothes and pulling on the riding boots I'd just taken off after returning home from town moments before, we were off. Just us women becoming.

In the bookstore, the smell of coffee is strong, and the warmth of the books all around, feeling like friends, they envelop me. We don't get to walk out with the book, but all is not lost, because we sit down at a tiny round table by the window to dip grasshopper mint biscotti into a chocolate caramel de-caff latte, and then pick up a Harry Potter movie to watch together on the way out, and we climb into the van with talk of ordering that book on Amazon.

On the way home, spiraling there in this chaotic sort of way, weary to get into bed, it must have been Nelson Mendela's book she'd asked about in the store that got her thinking. She says to me hey Mama, what about that letter I got about the summer trip to Europe, the one where we go and get experience and help people--am I still doing that? 

Because I think I'd like to be a missionary. And I think it'd be good for me to get the experience. It's good life-experience, you know?

The world seems to just stop spinning, and the old wheels of the van's still turning at lightening speeds, but my heart stands still and my breath catches.

I reach over, slide my hand into hers, hold on tight, and tell her Wow, those are some amazing thoughts you're having. I breathe shallow, wait a few beats, then-- and I totally respect that, so very much, Lorna. I wish I could see her face, shrouded by the blackness of night. I can feel her smile.

She goes on in her hurried talk as if she's blurting it out before she loses her nerve. I want to marry a man with money, so that we can build a business, and go to Africa. 

A rich man, huh? I look at her out of the corner of my eye, a sly grin playing on the edge of my mouth, and she glances at me, the smile jumping over and dancing on her profile in the dark. I wish for light, but it's almost better this way, whispering secrets of our hearts to one another in the velvety-black of sky and stars whizzing by. I think it makes her braver.

I will build a hospital, she says, and give each family all the medicine and help they need to be healthy. I want to travel from town to town on the whole continent of Africa, building houses, hospitals, schools, and wells for the people so they'll have clean water. 

I grin from ear to ear and in spite of life's hardships that make me forget how to laugh, and remembering too often my failings as a mother, not sure if I'm getting it right, my heart fills with such hope at her words.

Those words make me know that just maybe I haven't messed up as badly as I think.


There is nothing better on this earth than a child. Purity. Innocence. Beauty. Wildness. Courage and bravery. Audaciousness. Unconditional love. Curiosity and appreciation for the world around them.

In that moment, holding her hand in the grey van, as it squeals its way toward home, I feel God's glory. Yes, He is right here with  me, in the form of a child. I see Him in her face, in her brave words, in her giving heart, in her fierce care for others to have clean water, strangers to her, living on the other side of the world.

She makes me see how we're all holding hands, how God looks down and sees us all at once, and seas and distance and race and time and prestige and position and money and power and good deeds mean nothing to Him. He sees all of us, his children. He could scoop us all up with his mighty hand. We are much closer to one another than we think, much more connected than we believe.

We slide out of our seats once we've pulled up in the driveway, and I start up the steps, only noticing the footsteps right in front of me. But my daughter, she's looking all around her, and says Woah, Mama, the stars! I can see all of them, so beautiful!  

I look up, really seeing for the first time. This is what she does for me. Glory. They burst, and glow at me, saying something. We're all connected across the miles. I can see the big dipper! she points it out.

And those in Africa tonight, so can they. So can they, dear child. Dream with audaciousness, and with all courage God's given, daughter.

His Kingdom has come, here on earth.

What this link-up is about: We "write out spirit" by practicing writing about the invisible using concrete words. In case you are going "what in the world is a concrete word?!"--this just means (using the prompt to inspire) write out what's around us--concrete words make the senses come alive, gives place. In every story, there is always an above and beneath, a beside, something tucked away, aromas in the air, something calling in the trees or from the street, notes in our pocket, rocks in our shoes, sand between our toes. Go here to see Amber Haine's take on this. It was very helpful to me--I think it will be beneficial for you, too.

A few simple guidelines:       1. Be sure you link up the URL to your Concrete Words
                                             post and not just your blog home page URL.
                                         2. Put a link to this post on your blog so that others
                                             can find their way back here.
                                         3. Try to visit one or two others and encourage their efforts
                                         4. Please write along with us, using concrete words--
                                             and the prompt--Please no entries with how-to's, advertising,
                                             or sponsored posts
                                         5. We connect on twitter with the hashtag #concretewords--
                                               please share so others can join!

Today's prompt is Hands. GO!


**{This link up will run until Sunday, the 2nd, 11:59 pm, giving you plenty of time to write and link-up before the next concrete words is posted. I will read your stories and highlight one of them from this link-up on social media. On Monday, Feb. 3rd, the prompt will be *Dirt*.}

In Which I Tell You That You Are Amazing On Mother's Day {because you need to believe it}

I wasn't going to write anything for Mother's Day.

I look away, down, anywhere but straight ahead, scroll past, ignore the posts, try not to read stories that remind me too much of my failings as a mother and how I don't measure up. I try to stop the hemorrhaging, plug up the giant mother-sized hole bleeding out from so much pain and guilt. This has been the hardest year yet for me as a mother.

Mother's Day could just be another day, and I would be fine with that, I tell myself.

It would be easier than facing the guilty feelings for all I haven't done right, for the ways I put myself down, tell myself I'm not enough.

Isn't that usually the way with mothers?

Honestly, I've had enough of feeling not good enough. I've had enough of the lies and the fears and the torment in my belly that keeps me awake at night, crying into my pillow when no one sees.

I've all but decided that constantly shoving in a diet of filthy rags in the sight of God mentality is not good for my happiness, or my spiritual growth.

I sort of think that for some of us, who struggle with pride, maybe it's good for us to remember that we cannot do things on our own but we need God.

But for a lot of us, who struggle with insecurity more than we do feeling great about ourselves and our talents,

maybe we just need to be told we. are. amazing.

Me.

You. Yes, you. Beautiful, tear-streaked face, hair in knots, pajama-wearing, you.

This is for all of us. For those of us who don't feel beautiful or appreciated or enough in anyone's eyes.

For the women and mothers that can feel a little neglected as they bend, break, wipe up vomit and then try to cuddle up to their man and feel sexy.

It's not easy, is it? I know.

Depression can bring you down to such an ugly place, and postpartum can do a mom in, and sometimes I wonder why the world has to be the way it is, why Eve had to take that fruit off of that tree, why I have to be so much like her.

I know what you're thinking right now--this is wrong. How can we say we aren't filthy rags in the sight of God, because the bible clearly states in scripture that we are.

Oh, yes, I know. Believe me, I know, because I grieved and I lamented, and I lived in a perpetual state of my "I'm not good enough" theology for years. Yes, that's how the story begins.

But it isn't how it ends.

That's the beauty of the blood-stained, wrecked, holy, scandalous gospel.

We were, we are and always will be filthy rags. In and of ourselves.

But listen to this and listen close. Grasp it, and once you do, never let go:

Christ came and changed all of that. Forever, for you and I. We are no longer prisoners to our filthy rags, we don't have to walk around in sack and ash-cloth, mourning our bane existence in the presence of a Holy, angry God. He poured out grace thick when the blood coursed warm out of his body and ran cold. 

He gave you freedom, like a slave set free and told he can leave his master's land. Forever. Free to make his own choices, free to live without worry and fear.

We're not a slave to the law, to our dirty sinful hearts, or even to our fears, but if we are a slave, we are a slave only to grace. We are married to freedom now.

We've been bought with a blood that is tied to no strings, our ransom has been paid, and we've been let go.

Do you see it? Grasp it? Know it deep in your marrow?

He loves you. He loves me. He loves the whole messed up lot of us.

And that is why I know, know, know that he doesn't want us mothers feeling guilty today.

He doesn't want us strapping the law to our backs, lamenting our sin, totin' a sign that says "I'm not good enough", waving a guilt banner in people's faces and pulling them into our religious nightmare because the ones who carry the law heavy need someone to help them bear it. And we all drag one another down.

The gospel, this one life He's given us to live, the whole of creation and reason for existence is about way more than just filthy rags, sinners in the hand of an angry God, and lamenting that there is no good in us, and only He is the reason at all that we can do anything good, mother half-well, be a serving lover to our husbands, or live with any decent purpose at all.

No, let's not box up a Holy God, a limitless God to such finite ideas. Let's stop believing the lie that we can only be nothing in ourselves and maybe half-worth something for the kingdom of heaven if we grit our teeth, bear the law hard, and submit to a God who rules over us.

He is the mighty Creator, and it doesn't serve Him well or do His wonders justice for us to wear heavy cloaks of humility that weigh us down, but it boasts His power and waves a banner of glory when we are happy in who He made us. 

I give you permission right now to stop believing the lie, to shirk off the heavy cloak of shame, to wash off the foul stench of fear and guilt and begin rejoicing in who God has made you.

Because God? He rejoices over you. He spins happy and He watches you take in sacred breaths in early morning light, and He smiles down on you, Beloved Daughter, as you hug your daughter or son, as you cry and as you yell, and as you bravely say sorry and rise again each morning even though the days are hard and wear you thin.

God gets it--He knows you. He knows how hard you struggle and He catches each tear, and your intercessor, Christ, He prays for you to the Father as He sees you fall to your knees in exasperation once again, no words on your lips, groans the only thing escaping.

He loves you, daughter, infinitely and wondrously.

He sees your struggle, your pain.

He sees the beauty in your heart, the desires that are deeply hidden and entombed there.

He sees the potential of what He made you to be, and He sees who you are now, right where you are, just how you are--weak, fragile, each breath you breathe a sacred one,

And He says it. is. good. 

{This post shared with The Weekend Brew}

Lean Into the Light, Pictures From A Nutcracker Birthday {and Gratitude}

My little Lilly,

this light that came into our life as a complete surprise, you bring joy in the dark places of me and how could I have known? Because if you'd never come, I'd have gone on with life as usual, towing the three kids, never knowing there was supposed to be a fourth one, the one to plow up the bad soil of me and make my innards sing, light bursting through the fragments of my heart.

We celebrated the third year of your fresh, young life and yes, I wanted it to be an affair to remember--I admit I did--a beautiful celebration of the day you were born.

I regret that well, I may or may not have been a little too involved in the baking and preparation. But I'm a creative being, and I want to celebrate you and God and goodness and His holiness and this creation and all the wonderful brightness there is in your smile and your laughter and the sun and the warmth I feel when we're together.

How long do I really have, how many times will the hands go 'round the face of time before it ceases its race and I find myself bored, you having flown off?

When will time just run out?

I have a secret to whisper to you, baby girl--I. am. afraid.

Afraid you'll grow and I'll miss it. I'm afraid it'll happen while I'm folding clothes, while I'm running, gardening, or pursuing any number of things that make me happy.

And God forbid I should miss you while I tap away at my computer, or talk to people through screens.

But the truth is, all of that will happen. You'll grow while I put shirts in the drawers, while I talk to my aging grandmother on the phone, and yes, even while I write.

And the real nugget here, dear girl? You need me to do all of those things--even the things that make me sing-on-the-mountaintop-happy.

You need me to be an example to you of how life is lived.

Mothering is such a delicate balance of living a life of example before you of what a woman should be and throwing example out of the window for an impromptu game of tickles and giggles underneath bed sheets in mornings softest rays of light.

And darling, how I love running around in the grass chasing you, the sun shining down upon us.

How I love when time slows down as I watch the light dance in your pale wheat locks. As time slows, all I can see is light around you, on you, in you, it's in every part of you and it is you. The light.

And only you could do that for me, girl.

How I love lying in our hammock in the summer barefooted, you piled in with your sisters while I read to you in low tones 'til it's late afternoon and our eyelids droop and threaten to close.

And in the winter you are the only shaft of light in the dungeon of dark, rainy cold that creeps into this old home through holes and cracks. The way you bounce around the house, your halo blonde waving as you run in your tutu, you remind me that good still exists in life.

I admit I am afraid, child.

I know I will miss you once you are gone. I fear walking around in circles, trying to figuring out what's missing and knowing all too well what is wrong, my hands with nothing to do, my heart bursting to give and all I can hear is the silence and the clock echoing on the wall.

I know the day will come.

And for now, sweet, sweet Lilly, I want to pull you close and whisper in your ear, how that really, we don't have to fear.

I want to tell you this secret, sweet child. Listen close. Love conquers fear. The wild, forgiving seventy-times-seven, going the extra mile, makes no sense kind of love.

The love that turns the other cheek, the love that washes over with grace and counts no wrongs and leaves wide open spaces to be ourselves, and believes the best always no matter what, even when mistakes are made, and doesn't want what God hasn't given and doesn't worry about tomorrow--that love drives out all fear.

And so, little one, I have told you the best secret of all. I have told you the only truth you ever really need to know.

And now you know the whole story. So lean in close to me, and let's be fearless together.

Let's lean into our Father. Lean into the light, child, always into the Light.

Starting up counting gratitude here once again:....#1037-1048
For writing again...
For finding my voice...
For chimes singing a wind song for me...
For being quiet enough to hear...
Hearing my little Lilly say so many words...
How they fill up the silence with glory...
How she  teaches me to listen...
For Husband encouraging me to come outside in the sunshine
Walking around the deadened, rain-soaked yard, looking at all things that were once alive that are now dormant and cracked
Really seeing the state of things for what they are
Hoping for spring
Hope itself

                              Pictures from Lilly's Nutcracker themed third birthday party:

Linking with Ann in the gratitude community.....



Laura...

and Emily...

Silence--When You Fear What's Not Normal {Day 11}

We go to speech therapy, and she won't look at the lady making exaggerated O's with her lips.

She won't even look at me, my baby girl who is almost three and doesn't say "Mama".

I watch my hopes fall apart right in front of me as she refuses to acknowledge anyone in the room, pretends she can't hear, frowns, focuses on the farm animals, whooshes them up in the air, silently, back down without a word, a sound.

Everything crumbles and I feel so empty. I hear not the sound the room is filled with--children coaxing, playing with their sister, the therapist talking and engaging Lilly, little farm gates opening and shutting, cows bumping up ladders--I hear the sheer volume of voicelessness. It feels the room and crushes me under the weight of it.

I really thought she would walk in, be pleased to meet her therapist, like normal children who engage their world do, and we would begin learning words.

This mama-heart aches as I watch my baby silently refuse the world all around her. I'm just a spectator in her
speechless world.

Somewhere along the way-- between sitting on the foam mat, playing with horses and cows, and displaying sounds like candy in a jar we hope she'll stick her hand in, and picking her up and carrying her out, soundlessly kicking my belly and thighs with her feet-- it stuns like a tazer, that something is wrong. Horribly, can't grasp air, mouth moving but no sound coming out nightmare wrong.

In my nightmare, I am mute, and in this real world, she is the one with the restraints on her mouth like a corset too tight, cutting off oxygen. And I can't figure out what I did wrong, but I know it's something I did very, very wrong along the way.

My heart thuds in my chest like a heavy gong and begins to move into my throat, to reverberate loudly, the beating of a drum in the dark, in the deep, that dread coming for me. It moves up, closer, tighter and squeezes, slowly cinching, until tiny bones bend and snap.

That dread, thudding, as I say it to myself: Is she autistic? Dear God. Has she just decided out of pure stubborness to be mute? Has something traumatic caused her to not articulate, to back far away into a corner, the musical notes of her voice disappearing? 

Because the ma-ma's and waving, her calling bye-bye--it's all disappeared, blown away somewhere on  the wind of all things in life that are lost, un-cared for, suppressed, inhibited, carelessly pushed down.

And what have I done to cause this? 

Was it the hours and hours spent isolating myself, shutting myself away from my family when I was sick? 

Was it all the times I let her go to bed without a story? Should I have read to her more? Loved her more? Held her, rocked her, talked to her more, looked straight in her eyes every. single. day, said I love you? 

Have I let her get lost in a sea of siblings, feeling she doesn't have a place, a voice?

As she lies in my arms, I hold her, and I pray.

I weep as I pray, and it comes out in broken whispers. Tears stream and I come to Him completely broken and in need.

Oh Jesus, let my baby talk.
Let her begin to talk.
Father, wrap us up in your love.
Restore what has been lost.
Restore what has been stolen.
Take this illness that has plagued her and I, and with those stripes you took for her and for me,
I pray healing over us.
Touch my little Lilly, Father, with your healing hands, those scarred hands.
Loose her mouth, Lord, set her free.

It's broken hallelujahs around here, and as I wrap my arms around her in the dark, in this dreaded deep, I feel God wrap 'round us and hold us right where we are.



Forgive me for being sappy, friends, but two beautiful songs I'd like to share with you, would you like to listen and worship for a minute, in this quiet, in this deep, in this dread, in this place of broken hallelujah, worship anyway with me?......
And humbly asking for prayer, to be guarded with angels and His blood here on the doorpost, as the prowling lion seeks to devour. I feel His teeth sinking in as illness tries to suck me back down, as my Lilly struggles to talk, as she vomits off and on for the past few months and we can't figure out why, as Husband and I walk through the hard places and ask God for healing in relationship....













This I found through Ms. Holly: Gorgeous, friends....

 








Linking up with The Nester, and all the other 31-Dayers....This ought to be one wild, brave ride...

Do you struggle with fear of what doesn't feel normal, when your life is turned upside down, friend? Please tell me your story? Have you seen God redeem these doubts, these concerns? Have you found grace? Your comments so encourage me. I draw strength from your kind words and knowing you were here. My faith walk is seasoned with the right ingredients when you hang around...


This is one post in a series of 31 days of Fear. You can find the entire 31 Day collective here.  I have chosen to do this one on FEAR, because it seems to be something I keep wrestling with over and over, something that keeps me in chains, pins me down, won't let me free. I hope you will come with me on this journey--to get a taste of glorious redemption as I soul-search and look for Jesus smack-dab in the middle of my fears. And Jesus sits with sinners. I won't have to look very far.

Couldn't we all use some freedom from those fear-chains that bind? I pray God gives me the strength and the courage to complete 31 days--y'all, it's going to be hard on this 'ol gal to write every.single.day. Pray for me?   

Some other 31 Day collectives I'm loving: Shelly @ Redemptions Beauty, Amber Haines , and Lisa-Jo

And also linking up with Ann, Emily, Duane, Jennifer 

Fear {Guest Post by Elizabeth Marshall} {Day 10}

I don’t even want for fear to have its own title, headline, place in bold, upfront in this series.

I want nothing to do with fear, for I have given enough space and time and energy to it already.

Writing about it is even painful.

But isn’t that giving in. Letting fear sap energy. Tremble knees. Shake confidence. Rattle senses. Muss up the mind.

Isn’t fear numbing and paralyzing when it gets any room in a life.

It is greedy and boorish. Demanding and a bully. It saps Joy, drains the good, pulls the plug and lets hope rush down the drain like dirty bath water filled with bubbles of maybe.

Just maybe writing of fear, restores Hope. Writing of fear and meeting it head on pushes it back, meets it head on, faces it down.

Fear has erased days and bound me up. It has named seasons. It has defined seasons of  unknowing, of infertility and waiting years to add children to a family, by birth and adoption.

It has crippled in seasons of waiting for a husband to return, after a season of separation, marked the days dark and long. Tried to wrangle all life out of the days of healing, to rename me the one whose husband left.
Fear says failure and brokenness rather than Hope and Security.

Fear takes the good plans of God for redemption and restoration and leaves you frozen in unknowing, hopeless, hope dwindling and the self demanding an answer now, the self commanding and controlling outcomes.

Fear robs the days left with a child at home, when the self chooses to demand to know the future, and it demands to know it will be labeled good by the world’s standards, good by the description of the self-focused soul.

Fear teams up with frozen and frightened and steals the hours and days of a life with a power that is unbroken, but for Jesus.

When healing and His redemptive love restore a Hopeful, Trusting Heart, the fire of fear is doused and diminished. And the pile of ashes is blown anew with a Spirit of new-life and radiant restorative re-birth.

The days of waiting on children’s birth, marriages restored and even financial struggles to end are marked by a wholeness from leaning hard into Him and softening the stone-cold places that fear and trembling have made tough as a frozen tundra. Made life-less.

Anxiety and worry have fueled enough days, with OCD re-routing a life ,bound it up in chains, set the heart on a new gear worthy of a NASCAR winner. Chased me round and round,  like a pack of rapid dogs. Spun me round, dizzy, like a child on a playground whirly gig until nausea and fatigue take the weary spirit to the ground.

Fear fuels the tongue and raises the volume and chooses the words. Takes control when control feels lost. Shouts orders demands her way. Raises the blood pressure, raises the stakes, reddens the face, and raises the roof.

Who wins when fear is in charge and shouts at the top of her fearful lungs and blow her battle weary bugle – CHARGE. Who falls in line, follows? Who feels called in love to go her way. There are no winners when fear leads  the weary into the unknown places.

And slips into the night, commands the dreams and rattles the sleepy, gets you up to pace the floors at night, creaking lonely in the midnight hour, draining the life from a tomorrow. Re-naming the days to come as weary and hopeless.

Fear gets the title here. Fear gets a word in this 31 Day Series of Words, but only because Fear gives Hope an opportunity to do her best work, to come in and breathe a breath of new living and redemptions glory.

The reigns are dropped, the bridled grip on frozen frightened doubt and worry loosed, and Hope and Trust ride off on wings of eagles, bound for a life lived with glimpses of the glory of heaven.

Friends, I am so thrilled to introduce you to my friend, Elizabeth. She is married to the Patient One and together they have three perfect children, though they are not. Teenagers are great. They should know. And adult children are too. They should know. There are four furry people with four legs in their zoo slash home. Three of them follow her around all day, so she is never alone. She likes art and music and most days loves to write and play with words. She and the Patient One like to cook and play with food together. She doesn't know if it's a habit to break but middle child has asked her to leave the furniture alone. She loves all things Southern and old. Her life has been grace-filled. They have survived and been strengthened by more than one bump in their marriage and in their family life. Blessings abound in their life at the coast and she remains in awe of our God and all of his goodness.




You can find more of Elizabeth's soul-wrenching writing here--I really think she's a modern-day poet, and more than that, I am honored to call her friend. She is really a treasure. Please check out her lovely blog.


Still counting for joy, for Hope and Trust...1,000 and beyond...{1,007-1,019}...
For more words, for a calling-down-the-power-of-heaven prayer before CC, for godly parents in my classroom, for success in my weakness--only by His grace, for parents telling me they're using the gratitude journals we made--pure heaven and I'm grinning, for her leaning into me heavy in sleep, her always reaching up, needing me, for gentle, quiet moments in the rocker and the dark, for crying as I read "You Are My I Love You to her, for getting to bed late and staying awake with her vomiting in my bed off and on, how she raises up a mason jar for water when we wake, eyes questioning, for Husband who calls, asks if I need him to leave work and come home, for a loving man who reminds me not to take too much on, who relieves me of my burden, tells me it's his burden to provide...what a man.





Linking up with The Nester, and all the other 31-Dayers....This ought to be one wild, brave ride...

Do you struggle with fear, friend? Please tell me your story? Have you seen God redeem these doubts, these concerns? Have you found grace? Your comments so encourage me. I draw strength from your kind words and knowing you were here. My faith walk is seasoned with the right ingredients when you hang around...


This is one post in a series of 31 days of Fear. You can find the entire 31 Day collective here.  I have chosen to do this one on FEAR, because it seems to be something I keep wrestling with over and over, something that keeps me in chains, pins me down, won't let me free. I hope you will come with me on this journey--to get a taste of glorious redemption as I soul-search and look for Jesus smack-dab in the middle of my fears. And Jesus sits with sinners. I won't have to look very far.

Couldn't we all use some freedom from those fear-chains that bind? I pray God gives me the strength and the courage to complete 31 days--y'all, it's going to be hard on this 'ol gal to write every.single.day. Pray for me?   

Some other 31 Day collectives I'm loving: Shelly @ Redemptions Beauty, Amber Haines , and Lisa-Jo

And also linking up with Ann, Shanda, Laura, Michelle, and Jen. 

Fear of Failure And A Hard Day {Day 9}

Isn't it hard to admit when we have failed, according to our own standards, or according to the standards that we think others put on us?

At 9:26, after a long, grueling day of which I will spare you the details, I sit here and stare blankly at my computer. And I got nothin'.

Husband walks around the house, wanting time with  me {Hallelujah, something I should be thankful for!}. Instead of being irritated in my utter mind-numbing exhaustion, something tells me I should go cuddle up next to him and purr--be the soft wife he wants and needs.

So I'm letting go of my perceived failure, and fears of all the what-if's and shoulds and should nots, and I'm reaching out for what is eternal--love. And I'm embracing the rest and the grace that is reigning down on me tonight and it's been a long time coming.

I'm supposed to be writing for 31 straight days on fear. And I won't give up.

But there are just times that you don't call it giving up--you call it surrender, with arms stretched up to heaven and out, filled with all this love, these chubby hands patting me calling Mama, these man-arms that wrap 'round me on our living room couch.

Orphans At The Gate--{What To Do When You Are Wandering and Failing}

I'm good at ignoring reality, bad at serving others' needs, even my own. It's my naturally introverted personality. I really need to engage quietly with my world--bathe in sunlight, pause at a meandering brook, revel in children's laughter, bathtime's bubbles and bedtime's wandering stories.

But sometimes, when I'm overwhelmed, I go too deep inside, so deep it's unhealthy. I forget to eat. Hours pass while thinking and writing, and we haven't done homeschooling and I marathon-race to catch up to time, my old nemesis.

I go so deep, I don't do what's best for me and my family. I don't run because I just can't bring myself to walk. out. that. door.

 I don't go to church because the lights are too bright and people's handshakes make my fragile soul quake. The sheer thought of the sea of faces makes my stomach lurch. Slamming doors, blaring toy horns, and the sibling screams and fighting make insides churn.

And I grow weary of growing things--flowers always so dry in this heat, children that won't relent, thirsty for me--and I'm thirsty myself. They always need me, pull at every corner of me. I've given way more of myself away than I would've ever dreamt possible when this all began. And yet, I know that God, the Master Gardener--he never grows weary and so I pray for some of his strength, seek His face like a blind woman, feeling the grooves and crevices with her hands, desperate for some spark of recognition, some slight remembering.

It comes out in a whispered hush when I first get out of bed in the morning and Satan whispers his first words of defeat to me for the day. I hear him--"You're such a failure, an idiot--you should just crawl back in bed." I hate that I do this ugly self-talk, and my soul cries and it just comes out gently hushed--in barely audible groans--"God, help. Help me through this day."

I want to find a well that runs deep, an oasis in this desert. God, He's still gardening, though my eyes see darkly and I can't make out the fruits--He's preparing something like paradise. Oh, I've searched so hard and so long, so desperately I've drank blood from the camel's side, letting it substitute when God offers real drink in this parched land.

And my eyes widen in horror at what I've allowed my children to drink in lieu of God's pure goodness and sweet righteousness.

How?! How, I ask God, can I give them drink, these children looking at me, thirsting, when I am parched myself?

How do I die to self some more, because really--I get it--I think that's what you're asking of me--asking me to forge on, to travel through this pilgrim land searching for the Promised Land, only a cloud to follow, the holy heaviness of you pointing the way.

My eyes are hazed over with the fog of you, You all mystery, and my limbs are weary with the weight of promise and the burden of this place called Now. I groan and ache with the reality of it.

And I sojourn with others weary--I see it in their eyes, hear it in their words, read the pain in their face as they stand there and tell me that they had lost all hope. Yet, I know You've promised so much more--and all you ask of me is to trust that I will some day hold the promise in my palm.

For now, it is elusive this side of Heaven and Your perfect Presence, and the only real joy here, now, is getting to know You, tasting of you, yearning for you more and more until my heart's cry is only "More of you! More of you! Christ, come! Come, and save! Part those skies and ride in like thunder, swift, mighty, fire in your eyes, take me, Beloved!"

But here I stay and while I wait, orphaned, here--in this Now--I wander under-prepared and oh so inadequate and I just beat on Your chest, God, like a confused, angry child and beg, "Why?" My heart hardens and I struggle in my own sin-stench. I have been the desert-wanderer, the chosen child, grafted into your family vine--I've been that one, given so much grace and refusing to see--refusing to open my mouth and eat the manna.

My stomach lurches and groans with pains and yet I refuse to see the manna you've provided as good. 

I don't do what's good for me. I go deep inside and hide in caverns of sin and recesses of bitterness and grievance. What I would see if I came out of my cave, is you standing there, gently holding out your hand, offering life--real life.

And the whole time I'm refusing what's good for me, You're saying "Something better is coming, child, if you will just eat--just open your mouth."

I swallow down the goodness of you, and I'm a stubborn child, surprised at the sweetness and delight of it. I want to be there with my children--swallow down all that goodness--open mouth wide.

I dont want to miss the moments that were designed for me to comfort, to soothe, to affirm. I don't want to miss any opportunity because of my lack, because I'm inadequate to behold the beauty with abandon, because im shunning all the noise and racket and pounding feet that make up the song of life.

With so many things calling all around for my attention, so reckless, holding me, dangling there in their throat-choking grasp, God just keeps planting me firmly on the ground, keeps showing me that the most authentic, most deserving and most precious community is right here at home.

They are my sojourners.

I flail around in bitterness and the cold left by absence of fellowship. I grieve and what for when God has put me here with them to nurture and to talk with, to read for hours in the hammock with and play music with and read the bible with, to worship with as we bake cookies and scrub dirty counters, to explore nature with, to run through the hills and go on a life-adventure with.

The whole wide world--and the wide web--can make it seem as though what mothers do in their homes isn't important--that the little, quiet, sacred community we're building isn't holy work. It all seems to scream that we need to be doing some ministry to the poor, or we need to be involved in a local church, or serving in community in some way.

The deceptiveness of culture has slowly trickled down into the church and told women that just being a mother and wife isn't enough. But that's a lie from the roaring hell-lion.

Oh, how the roaming lion wants to decieve us to think that the work we're doing--the work of a mother--isn't holy and sacred--he does not want us to think that just loving them is enough.

I know that if I'm serving in the context that God has placed me in, I will touch the lives I'm meant to touch, regardless of my church affiliation, my community and ministry involvement, or my blog numbers.

I am only human--and God knows--He designed me this way. A standard that tells me I have to constantly be reaching higher depletes me of the air and life that I could give where He has called me to give--and mostly, that is at home.

I really think this could be my oasis--the deep well of laughter and bedtime giggles and stories and living like Jesus is in the room.

This could be my strength to never stop--the eternal value of four lives that have been discipled for Christ--literally led to Christ's feet at the cross and transformed, radically changed and devoted to His cause.

We can do that--you can do that--I can do that--that's the burden God placed in us mothers.  When else will we get the chance to disciple so intensely? To put our mark on someone, to leave a legacy?

We have such an amazingly golden opportunity here with our children.

When else will this godly call, this priceless hour pass by again?

We must seize it with all the gusto we can muster and that takes putting off of some earthly things, some voices that call wild in the wind and vie for our attention and ask to carry us and toss us around with every new doctrine and opinion.

So I won't crawl back into bed. Not today. I will stand with my children, Husband by my side, us all just orphans at the gate. And I will remember that. I will remember that as I mother them--they are orphans--they are His--and they are waiting for His return just as ardently, expectantly, desperately as I am.

While they wait, while I wait, I will mother these gifts well, with my dying breath, I will be a real mother to them--a mother worn for the journey--and they won't have to journey or wander alone.

I will journey with them, and at the end, place them back into His hands.

Gratitude: {#956-976}........


#956...a lunch in the park...women talking, children playing...

#957...the warmth of sunlight...

#958...hard eucharisteo...learning to hang in there when these social events aren't easy for me...

#959...my sweet Bella flourishing in the classroom with her Mama after not doing so well in the other classroom...

#960...a director who gives me the week off when energy is flagging and anxiety takes over...the practical care of a sister in Christ...

#961...having the week to clear my mind, rest, renewal...

#962...patching up disagreements, how best friends can scrub you like sand-paper and make you Christ-smooth

#963...chasing butterflies, dragonflies in the backyard with my girls...

#964...watching my strong girls swim their hearts out for the team...

#965...hard eucharisteo...pounding headache and nausea, the noise of the crowd too much--giving it to God and learning to be a {somewhat} patient mama through it all, loving on my children...

#966...going out to celebrate with the girls for their first meet out of town--Husband meeting us when he got off work..

#967...watching birds, squirrels in the backyard...

#968...not going anywhere, napping in the hammock on a Sunday afternoon; Sabbath rest...

#969...my Bella asking if she is still the new girl next week, reassuring her that no, she is not the "new girl" after the first week.

#970...taking care of my sweet Bella-girl, how she lets me bathe her face with a cool cloth to bring down fever, how she sits up and tries to spoon in the ice cream, submissively puts the thermometer under her tongue, lets me hold her...

#971...Lorna making oranges for Bella, bringing them to her bed...

#972...Ivy's concerned "Bella, are you hot?"

#973...Spider lillies splashing the whole backyard in red...

A gift cool, warm, sun-soaked...
#974...the end of my daughter's nose...
#975...hot shower
#976...feeling the warmth of sun on my bare skin and then the first of tiniest drops of rain....













Still counting and linking up with sweet Ann and others...