Natural Causes

I've been thinking about this ever since I read the cynicism chapter in Paul Miller's book The Praying Life.

I pray. It is oftentimes in the middle of the night, and sometimes while doing the dishes; but either way I do long to feast on my Father's presence and grace. I wish it was more often than it is, but I am obedient to His command to pray. I know that the extent to which I pray is really the extent to which I believe the promises of my God. And this is a moment by moment, ever-so-changing, often nose-diving, sometimes soaring, kind of belief. But I do pray.

I pray simple prayers that I believe He can answer. And I wait.

Then something funny happens. He does answer.

Surprising, I know. My God answers prayer. And what do I do with this? What is my reaction? First, I don't recognize or look for the answer. I guess this isn't that unusual. We can't always know His answer. He is weaving together a very complex tapestry in our lives and His story and purposes aren't always very clear. But let's say that I see the "answer" to that simple request. Instead of acknowledging my Father's grace and love in the answer, I often chalk it off to some natural cause or scientific explanation. And I'm not even a scientist.

Let me give you an example. "Lord, please help my daughter whine less this week. Give her contentment as Your daughter. Give her patience. Show her Your love." Simple request. No magic required.

I pray this earnestly. At the end of the week, in passing, I notice that Lauren has hardly whined or complained the entire week. What a blessing - a tangible answer to prayer. But how do I respond? "Oh, that early bedtime this week must have really helped. She must have been tired last week."

Funny, isn't it? I answered my own request (and those of you that know me, know that an early bedtime is the answer to everything)! You laugh. But this is real. Could this possibly be how sovereign, or how generous, or how concerned I believe my God to be?

Another example. "Lord, please take away my anxiety today as I raise and school three children." A constant prayer for me. Days later, God answers. I have a week or so of trust and peacefulness with little anxiety. I recognize it this time. But my gut response? "My hormones must have evened out this week." I'm not kidding. Isn't it sad? My God, My Savior, the One that cares for me and knows me better than I know myself has so graciously answered my simple prayer and I find myself analyzing endocrinology. As if I know any of that stuff anyway!

Am I the only one that does this? I'm guessing not if Miller spends several pages of his book on cynicism in prayer. Maybe that is a bit of a comfort. He goes on to explain how the Enlightenment has such a great influence on how modern skeptics approach prayer. Probably very true. But despite this pervading cynicism, I think the real comfort is that no matter who I attribute the answers to, whether it be my silly scientific explanations (they really can be ridiculous, ask my husband) or the alignment of the stars, my Father will just keep answering. He continues to care whether my daughter is whining or not. He even cares to intercede when I am unloading the dishes. He is fast pursuing this pseudoscientist until she herself will one day see Her Father and God answer prayer and say, "I know in Whom I believe, and this is just like Him."

Me, homeschooling?

So why in the world is this mother of three "homeschooling" her children?

I live in a town with decent public schools and several private school options that we can afford.

As for my educational philosophy, I don't feel that I have to homeschool because only then will my children be truly educated and well-rounded.

Nor do I feel that it is what God has called us to do as mothers. He certainly calls some, but not all. It is not some higher educational standard that God has for His people. Homeschool mothers are not more holy.

Nor, do I think, am that I'm trying to protect them from that big bad world out there.

Were my kids struggling in school? Socially or academically? Not that I'm aware of.

Am I trying to recreate my own identity as a mother? I hope not. I have always loved teaching and I definitely enjoy it with my own children. So far. But I'm still just mom.

Was I bored? Maybe. I may have needed a little challenge. An intellectual, not physical one. And maybe Ben and Lauren did too.

But I guess the real question is does it fit our family today? And this is definitely, yes.. And that is my only answer when anyone asks. It just fits us. We love it. At least right now. We know that it could change tomorrow. And we are open to that. But for today, it is wonderful.

God led us in this direction and while I still don't know why, it feels right. Another stream of mercy.

Waiting

It has been a week since the first post. Five days of schooling my children along with driving to ballet, choir, soccer practice, hymn sing, golf lessons, and small group. That was my week in writing. In and out of books and cars. But I don't remember any of this. More accurately it was spanking, rebuking, encouraging, teaching, wrestling, admonishing, reminding, waiting and pleaing, waiting and urging, A long list of busyness, isn't it?



I find myself wondering what it would be like to live in the days of plowing before sundown, baking bread for Sunday morning, walking to the "market", gathering and storing, washing dishes for the next meal, and hanging clothes to dry. I guess remnants of those days remain, but now it is much less physical, less labor-intensive. And so I wonder, when a mother laid down after a week of work, did she think of the folding and hanging? The kneading and sewing? Or did, she too, remember the waiting? What did she wait on? Was she waiting on the harvest, on her children to jump into the wagon, or on the bread to rise?


What am I waiting on? Nathan to be potty-trained? Lauren to write her lower case letters? Ben to read on his own? Dad to come home from work? Or a list of crossed-off tasks? Or am I just waiting for the weekend?


I think of my week and I think of the waiting. It seems endless. Either in cycles of tasks, or in moments that require patience on reserve. But REALLY, what am I waiting for? I am waiting on my Father, who orchestrates and designs the waiting. Waiting for His providence. His blessings. His strong arm. His discipline. His love. All of this for my good, and His Glory. This is how He grows me. He asks me to wait. And yes, ultimately I am waiting to be with Him. My Maker. My Bridegroom. My Heavenly Father. Therein lies the hope in waiting.

Behold, this is our God; we have waited for him, that he might save us.

This is the LORD; we have waited for him;

let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.

Isaiah 25:9

One Sunday afternoon in October

I've probably needed to do this for a long time. Ever since the first baby was born over six years ago and life was no longer about how to spend my days...but was it ever? My hours moved from discussing Jane Eyre to changing diapers, arranging nap schedules, and picking up goldfish from the carpet. Nothing unusual or worth writing about, really. It happens to most women my age. But suddenly, it seems, there are fewer venues to speak. Junior doesn't seem to understand what you have given up, nor does he seem to mind that your life is now immersed in his well-being. Time floats away on nursery rhymes and your voice grows hoarse as you cough up dinner menus and to-do lists.

And so, six years later (with the help of technology - did I really say that?) I can quietly (after the now, three!, little ones have gone to bed) sit down and write my story. No one may hear. No one may care. But it is a story. And even Jesus liked to tell a story.

No I won't start at the beginning. I'm not up for reliving my high school years as a moralist or my college years spent trying to earn magna cum laude and a husband. And really I have already written and spoken endlessly of the Father's initial capturing of my soul and adopting me as His child. It too was a process, and I guess still is. Especially my twentys were wondrous years of studying God's truths and promises, taking notes on three point sermons, discussing salvation, repentance, and holiness with friends. Years that were invaluable to who I am now.

I still do drink from the wellspring of that time, " the crystal fountain, whence the healing stream doth flow;" BUT, now, amidst the busyness, the monotony, the noise of the world and of motherhood, I often miss the small "streams of mercy never ceasing"...over and over...from that same Fountain. The daily streams. The streams that simply refresh, not just heal. Today I need sips. I want to lean over on my knees, smell the freshness of the water, hear the soft sound of the ripples, and know that the stream is going somewhere. It is taking me with it on a journey. A story. The Author and Perfector of the story bids me come, and I am still thirsty. I don't have to have an appointment to drink. I don't have to drink much. I just have to return to the streams and see, hear, taste and smell that He is good. Maybe these writings will bring me back there.

I've been inspired by four people. Paul Miller, author of The Praying Life. Kent Travis, Sunday school teacher extraordinairre who just this week dared us to venture away from systematic theology and to return to the Story. Ann Voskamp, whose own blog is a small taste of online heaven. And my husband, who was holding my hand when I experienced my first real stream of mercy.

"Come thou fount of every blessing,

Tune thy heart to sing thy grace;

Streams of mercy never ceasing,

Call for songs of loudest praise."