Comfort.

I cradle my favorite autumn yellow mug and sip hot, creamy coffee.

It's 7:58am.  We've been up for two hours.  I grin.  It's a typical morning for us.  Quiet, peaceful, the birds still shaking off the chill of Spring nighttime.

The music hums in our messy kitchen:

"... Nothing is impossible for you... nothing is impossible for you... Jesus You're all I need, more than enough for me...".    My morning anthem - Kari Jobe singing to Jesus on the little ipod.

I stand looking out the oversized back window, open journal in front of me.

Comfort.

I sigh, almost snort.

Yeah, I know comfort.

My brow furrows.

Comfort - she's my best friend.  She's safe.  She's so easy.  I've known her all too well.

I could count and count and count the gifts I daily receive. 

And I do.  Sloppy thankfulness sprawled by the window table.

The Lupines grow fresh in our low country window sill.  I smile, but it's weak.

8:01 AM, I glance at the clock.  My mind flies to Uganda.  It's late afternoon there.  I wonder how our friends are, what they're up to.  If it's rainy there again today.  I wonder if a Mama like me sits alone this very moment.  Needing.  Desperately needing some of these comforts I take for granted.

Clothing.
Food.
A Home.
Green grass.
A Garden sprouting beans and tomatoes.

Me and my easy life.  My having everything always.  We mutter, "we're broke", but we don't even know the meaning of going without.  We are filthy rich, actually.  Really.

And I want to know it and not only be thankful for all this, but actually do something with the much I've been given.  DO something with this abundance.  A wise and cherished friend taught me how to transform my life by counting gifts and I did this two years ago and why did I stop?  I've started up again.

And it awakens me to everything.  Every little thing - every gift.  And I'm giddy and happy all day long.  He meets me where the pen hits the page.

This week:
#537 - Grandma's Strawberry Rhubarb pie...
#538 - Sister.  Home.
#539 - Grandpa.  Just him.
#540 - Bike rides to paradise.
#541 - Frogs and Toads peeking out, everywhere!

And so it goes... my blessed life.  And it IS.  And it isn't wrong to have a life of gifts.  It's what we do with them that makes us deeply grateful and humbled or completely oblivious and spoiled.  And for some reason, this morning, my list is sitting like a clump in my stomach.

Because doesn't He give so we can pour out?

Have I poured?

I've certainly received.

Friends, why has it become radical Christianity to sell a car so hungry children can eat?

Radical?  I gulp it back.  Lord, help us, we're so far from You.

And to cry it in coffee cups for the pain of knowing and loving comfort too much. 

I stack dishes and listen to our children banter about who is boss.  Boss - isn't that it?  We all want to be boss.  But the truth is, we don't know what we need.  We think we need more when we always, always need less.

Less stuff.  Less food.  Less comfort.  Less.

What we need is more of Jesus.  More love.  More selflessness.  More gratitude.  More giving bubbling up from everything we've already received.

Oh, Lord, help me be crazy aware of my own comfort.  Help me fight the lie that this is what I'm made for.  The picket fence and the country gardens - I love them too much and it should bother me.

Yes, God, help us humbly stay bowed at Your feet.  Show us Your way.  Yes, we have much and we are comfortable but we are called out of this and into something unbelievably different and defined by You.  Show us, Lord.

Because Your plan - oh, it's so much better.

I gaze out the window past a bouquet of dandelions the kids collected.  A cherished gift for Mother's Day weekend... weeds... I can't help but giggle.  But they are so beautiful.  Amazing how God makes glorious beauty out of weeds.  I sip a second cup of coffee and write it down:

#596 - Coffee and morning window gazing
#597 - Weeds, beautiful in morning glory... weeds made glorious

Father God, help me see and emerge far beyond this window of comfort.  Far, far beyond only myself.  Take this broken girl of much and make me beautifully poured out for You.

Happy weekend, friends.  And big hugs and blessings for Mother's Day.  Mama's Day...  grasp it and take hold of those little ones.



Written for Five Minute Friday.

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Dear Mama, you are enough.

I'm sitting cross legged in the small upstairs hallway, back against an old wood banister.  I hear his little tiptoes behind me and I half-smirk.  I'm burried in a book, but I look up.  He's the cutest four-year-old on the planet, I'm sure, crouched in his PJs, wide eyes and rosy cheeks.

"Yes, Alex?"
He gazes at me but says nothing.
I look at his hair and giggle aloud.
"Alex - you have a Cheerio stuck to your head..."  I pick it out of his bangs.  He explodes into giddy, uncontrollable laughter and I fall into him.  Fall into this moment, this blip that I'll never get back.

"Mama," he whispers close.
"Yes?"
"I gotta tell you somethin'"
"Yes, Alex?"
"I wanna kiss you."
I melt and lean in to this sweet boy I get to call mine.

He leans in too and licks me full out.  A big spit puddle right on my cheek.  Then he laughs a great big belly laugh and scurries away and back to bed.  I shake me head.  Boys.

Earlier in the day I read about another Mama getting her book deal and another Mama with a huge ministry and yet another Mama with an enormous purpose-filled organization behind her name.  These Mamas, now they're really doing something.

And sometimes, I squeak out the 'when me?' from deep within.  Some part of me feels I'm missing out. After all, most of the time, I'm just Mama.

Just a simple Mama in this simple little house doing simple, quiet things.

 

 

 

It's amazing though, when you welcome Him in, how quickly the Lord can speak truth where a lie wants to haunt.  I hear the Spirit almost immediately when I question my calling.  Quietly He whispers: "Hush, child.  You are in the midst of my highest call for your life..."

I gaze around the room.  Scattered toys, art supplies, Math books open, peeled veggies on the counter, three little ones.  I bend low and wrap my daughter in Mama arms.

"I love you," I whisper it into her crazy curls. "I'm so glad, so blessed to be your Mama."
She gazes up at me; safe, sleepy.
"Mama," her voice is so little, so sweet.  "When I grow up, can I still come to your house?"
I well up as I smile.
"Oh baby, of course.  Any time you want.  Always.  We're best friends - remember?"
She melts into me, satisfied.

This is Tuesday 'schooling'.  It's the education of this Mama and God's the Master teacher - showing me what I have been called to.  Right here.  Right in these arms.

Book deals?  Bah.  I'm not really a writer.

Big projects?  Maybe.  If God wills it and in His timing.

Big missions?  Yes.  Right here in this kitchen.



Yes, they are wide-eyed and open-eared and looking to me for life's direction and purpose.  To me?  Faith.  Eternity's message.  Little, precious souls, in my hands.

And I seek a higher calling?
(Forgive me, Father.)

 

 

Oh, Mama.  
I whisper these words to you and to my own spirit, broken and imperfect.  This is my love note to every Mama who sits with little ones and pours into them on days like today:

Go out into all the world?  Yes, of course, but start in your own living room.  Especially there.  Shake off the lies that what you do as a Mama isn't enough.  That you're missing something, or that you've been slighted in some way.

Lies are poison.  Truth will free you.

Mama - you have been set apart.  Appointed for such a 'time as this' for your very children.  Hand-picked one for the other for God's glory and in His love.  What Amazing Grace!  Yes, you were chosen as the life-giver and mercy pourer and the crazy agape lover of your child's soul.  To show tenderness and authenticity so they can grow to trust and know that you're for real.  And so is this Jesus you serve.

So they'll see truth and long to serve Him too.

So they'll be willing to lose life to find it.  So they will know Mama did everything she could to nurture and grow with them in divine purpose.  So they will grow up and know you did everything you were called to and all in God's grace and by His strength.

"Mama" is not little or insignificant, friends.

"Mama" is enough.

Bow low in reverence for the calling over your life.  Don't rush it, resent it, or try to act like it doesn't matter.  Mama, you are called to a Holy and deeply valuable mission.

Stop.  Look around you.  Crouch and hold that child who plays quietly.  Count gifts.  Every day, count those gifts.  Seek the beauty and grab hold of it.  This brings joy - trust me, I know.  I've lived the grumble and I've lived the crazy, wildly happy.

Treat every, "Mama?" as an opportunity to love and lead.  To create a tender memory.  Don't hold back the "I love you like CRAZY cakes", and the "I'm so proud of you".  Watch as miracles unfold and multiply right in your sun room.  In our home, boys who would never hug are now gushing with "Love you Mama," and long, tender gazes.  (This is grace too...)

When you bow lower and listen and obey, Motherhood can be Holy.  Fold laundry to the glory of God.  Walk in nature and rejoice and point out the beauty, bask in it.

Snuggle close and whisper sweet nothings and read that book one more time.

Reject the lie that you need a 'status'.

When the "Oh, so, what do you do?" question makes you cringe, shake it off.  Stand tall.  What you 'do' is sacred work, Mama.

Gaze around at those precious sticky faces, the messes everywhere, the books, the piles, the craziness of life and give thanks.  It is all God's grace.  And in the midst of the everyday ordinary the Creator of the Universe is writing you love notes and whispering, "This, this is for you."

Breathe it in.  Drink it up.  Gaze wide-eyed before it fades.  Embrace the season you are in and stand firm and secure that when you are hand in hand with your children, you are right where you should be.

Mama, you are blessed.

And Mama?

You are enough.


Big hugs to you right where you are, friend...

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How Screen Time affects the love of Reading (especially in boys...)

I had the privilege of working as an educational consultant with a large publisher of children’s books for two years.   A huge part of my job was meeting with teachers and parents to help in the process of choosing books for kids.  I thoroughly enjoyed the job because I genuinely love books and love kids.  I’m passionate about childhood literacy not only for our own children, but for other children in the community.

The more I worked in schools and homes though, the more I realized an unsettling problem: 

The vast majority of boys are labeled ‘reluctant’ readers.

The vast majority of boys labeled 'reluctant' readers also spend way too much time in front of the screen.

 

Let's dig in... join me at The Homeschool Village today to read more...

 

 

 

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Celebrated.

I watch them at the park.  A couple of new parents, completely mesmerized by their baby girl.  It's her first time on the slide and it's as if she's climbing Everest.

"OH!  She loves it!  She's smiling..."  the Mom beams as she hollers to her husband from the bottom of the plastic swirl.

Daddy's at the top, gently guiding a blond haired, rosy cheeked little girl to sit at the top of the slide and shuffle her diapered bum until she starts to slowly glide.  She barely moves as she bum-shuffles her way down, but Daddy won't let go of her hand until Mama takes over half-way down.

I smile.  Tears form.  (Why do I cry about EVERYTHING?)

I whisper to my kids as we munch PBJs at a picnic table nearby:

"Do you think that Mommy and Daddy love their baby, or what?"

My son chuckles and rolls his eyes the way 8-year-old boys do, then says: "Yea, just a little."

Audrey beams, eyes sparkling.  "Yes... a lot."

They see it.  Everyone can see it.  Love is bubbling right out of those parents and all over the wood chips in that sunny park.  They can't contain their celebration of this child that is theirs.

They aren't young parents.  Maybe in their forties.  And for some reason I think they've waited long and hard for this girl child.

"Ok hun, I think we need to switch so I can see her face while she comes down,"  the Daddy is completely serious about his need as he leans over the slide and shouts to his wife.

"Oh, yes!"  Mama shuffles towards the slide and in the process baby hits her head.  Both Parents drop down and coo and shush and kiss and hug.  I wonder how this babe got so lucky and how so many others have never even felt an embrace let alone THIS kind of affection.

Daddy finally makes his way to the bottom and his whole being ignites when he sees his daughter giggle and smile as she slides.  He claps and woos  and completely and utterly revels at her achievement. 

"You're doing it!  You're sliding down!"  They are a happy, wonderous sight, the three of them.  I'm a mushy puddle as I look on.  Our children are still staring.  I think they can honestly feel the affection bouncing towards them and they smile softly as we feel the breeze.

I thought about that family for a long time after they left.  I wondered what it was that made them stand out so much.  What made me feel like breaking down in happy tears right on that splintered park bench?

It came to me later - yes... Celebrated.  That baby girl was celebrated.  She was the light of the show and she was a precious, cherished gift.  Everything she did was miraculous. And it was beautiful.  And she deserved it. 

I started remembering when ours were little and had their 'firsts'.  First steps, first swing, first meal, first word.  We celebrated. We video taped it.  We did happy dances and bragged.  We were the gushy, over the top weirdos. 

But, then it hit me -  do I still celebrate our children?

I mean, every day?  That kind of beaming elation that yes, they are alive and I get to share life with these presents from God!

Sure, I encourage them.  I love them to pieces.  We're together all the time.  We discover life together.  I hug them and tell them I love them.

But do I revel in them?

Do I just look on them with wonder?

Do I move towards them and position myself in front of them, just so I can see them smile?

Do I beg to be part of their amazing achievements?

Do I do things just to watch them giggle?

Do I make them feel the way that little baby must have felt in that park today?

Because they deserve to be celebrated when they are 8, 6, and 4 just as much as when they were newborn or 5 months, or 1.  They are still just as precious and just as much a miracle...

I'm praying and thinking about these things tonight.

Parents - tomorrow is a brand new day to celebrate the gift of these amazing kids God gave us.  Because they are little human presents, the best God ever wrapped up - and I want to choose to celebrate.  Let's grab hold of that opportunity and let love bubble over as we embrace our wonderfully amazing children.  In every season - they are indeed cause for celebration. 

Hugs to you...

 

 

 

 

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"Christian" Opinions vs. Love

For years, I thought I knew a whole lot about a whole lot.  I had an opinion for everything, many of which made it to the pages of this blog.  I've had so many people email me and message me requesting past articles and commentaries that I've since deleted.  Sometimes, people completely understand why I've deleted certain things.  Sometimes, people actually get pretty upset.

But when you're broken and convinced you know nothing - there's a lot of room for God to move.  And when God moves, I try to listen.  And when He whispers to me to remove posts and realize I'm judgmental, I'm brought to my knees.  Be open to God's correction, and He will speak. 

The truth is, life - it's a journey.  If we aren't journeying, we aren't living.  And for the Christ-follower that means seeking constantly how we can become less like us and more like Jesus.  So, sometimes, that means deleting a post or two and wishing you could delete a few chapters or at least sentences of your past life.  Things you've said.  Things you've done.

Over the past several years, I've had the insane privilege of meeting people of all races, religions, ages, walks of life - and I've realized something:

I know nothing. 

I've experienced very little.  My life has been shamefully easy.  I rarely do hard things.  I have no right to place my opinions or judgments on anyone.  I am insanely under-qualified to offer commentary to people's lives.  Because unless I've walked their exact walk, who am I to say anything about their choices?

See, a lot of Christians like to judge.  And that's why so many non-Christians think we're a big pile of hypocritical, two-faced punks.  Because, often, we are.

You'd think I would remember how I felt when I was so harshly judged for 'getting pregnant' when I was 20.  I was the 'fornicator'.  Sinner!  Sex before marriage, how 'disappointing'.  But, did anyone who judged me ever really see the soul of the girl?  The soul of the boy who wanted to marry her?  No.  The judges saw the perceived 'sin', not the people behind it.  And it cut deep.  So deep, we're still healing from some of the words that were spoken to us.  We didn't need judgment, we needed love and support.  And thank goodness for those that loved us unconditionally and embraced us in a hard time.  Because look how God redeems and look at our marriage and these three beautiful gifts God has given.  And oh boy, look at the lessons we've learned and the story that's been written on the pages of our crazy life.

Over and over I read posts and comments and quotes about how terrible abortion is and how the world is condemned and how we ought to fight, fight, fight for what is 'right'.  People post things on Facebook that make me choke. I sit in tears and wonder where in all this is love?

We preach love, but we speak words of judgment.  We show pictures of aborted babies with no thought of the mother who sits in a corner, gripping her stomach when she is reminded of the pain she went through.  We reject the homosexual and tell him he's a sinner - but we fail to look at our own lives and ask what reeks of sin around our house.  We want to have opinions, opinions, opinions.  Because opinions are so much easier than actually getting off our butts and extending love.  Let's just judge the gay, the prostitute, the liar, the cheat... let's spend so much time judging them that we never have a chance to look within our own selves.

I've heard people say, "Love the sinner, hate the sin!".  I have a better idea.  How about, we love the sinner (as in, we love EVERY ONE), and we hate our OWN sin. 

You know what I've realized?  You know what I've heard God whisper into the deep, dark places of me?  "Don't worry about other people's issues.  Just worry about how to love them."  That's it.  We are called to love.  Not to judge, to love.  Period.  It's painfully simple, friends.

Because behind every 'sin' is a person.  A person who has been hurt and who is hurting. (Aren't we all hurting in some way?)  They need a friend.  They need an embrace.  They need someone who will calmly sit by them and whisper the 'me too'.

God has plunked the hurting and the so much better than me right in my lap and I've sat and I've wept with them and I've listened.  Listened to the story of their life.  Wept the painful tears that burn into the memory forever.  Screamed out to God the "WHY?!"  Yes, I've sat broken and contemplated everything I do not know. 

And I've realized that divorce, prostitution, abortion - these are all things not far from my own spirit.  I am the prostitute.  I am the divorcee.  I am the women who could have aborted a child if I was walking that path.  We are all one in each other and we can all bleed on one another if we allow it.  We need to stop pointing fingers and start extending a passionate embrace.  If I was in their same situation, what would I do?  Most likely, the same as these dear friends have done.  Because hopelessness cuts the spirit in two.

And hopelessness is my problem as a follower of Christ.  For every hopeless person in this world, there is a Christ-follower who is not in their proper place, standing beside the broken one.  We are to walk beside the hurting.  And so often we don't.  We're too busy having our opinions.

I've never been abandoned.  No one has ever tried to kill me.  No one has ever spit in my face, raped me, beat me.  No one has ever told me I was worthless.  But I know women who have lived this hell.  And where was I while they suffered?

I was too busy living my cake walk.

I know what the scripture means when it says, 'blessed are those who mourn'.  Because I've begun to mourn so deeply for MY OWN sin. Because that woman who sits hopeless is a product of our earthly sins and my own selfishness.  Love has not been my highest goal, friends.  And I'm broken. 

Who has time to help a stranger?  Who has time to bend low and embrace the one who is down?

For my own blindness and for the way I've judged others even in the most quiet, hidden ways- I mourn.  Because I was that person who looked at others and criticized the way they thought and the things they did.  Because I was filled with filthy pride and thought I actually knew something.

It's like when Saul had those wretched scales pulled from His eyes.  He saw again, He saw more clearly, because first he saw God.  Christ spoke to Him and straightened His path.  It's the original, 'I was blind, but now I see'.

Shouldn't that be the anthem of the Seeker's life?  Over and over we realize, "I was blind, but now, I SEE."

It's Christ.  He takes the scales of our soul away and shines light where there was darkness.   Then it's up to us to let the light overflow.

He whispers this truth:

Lord, help me be this heart...

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