Streams of Mercy

Where is the marshmellow?

2010-04-07T14:16:00.002-05:00

A sweet friend sent me the recipe for "resurrection rolls" to make during the Easter season this year. A fun idea. You wrap one triangle of crescent roll dough (from Pillsbury) around a buttered marshmellow, dip to into cinnamon and sugar, and put it in the "tomb" for ten minutes at 375 degrees. When the buzzer rings, Jesus (the marshmellow) has disappeared. He has risen from the tomb. They were fun and delicious.

One problem though. My kids didn't want the marshmellow to disappear. They wanted to eat it too. Of course, Nathan had trouble understanding that the marshmellow hadn't disappeared. It had just melted. So when the rolls came out of the oven, his was so disappointed. And the rest of us, were at least pretending to be excited. He had RISEN! He had RISEN indeed!

I've thought about that morning this week. And I've thought that Nathan's reaction was not too different from mine. Not unlike both Marys that went searching for their Lord's body, do I really want the tomb to be empty. Wouldn't it be easier if He were still here? In flesh and blood? So that I could touch Him, taste Him, smell Him, and Hear Him? I want to see the marshmellow and to know that it is real and that it tastes so sweet. To believe that He truly is with me and loves me and is holding me in His strong arm.

It is so much easier to walk by sight than by faith. Isn't it? But, of course, faith is the "assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." (Heb. 11:1) But thankfully, faith is "not of your own doing, it is the gift of God." Otherwise, I would be sneaking some more marshmellows...

2010-03-21T19:54:00.007-05:00

I cannot help myself. I'm posting an advertisement.

Almost three years ago my family moved from Oklahoma City to Tyler, Texas. You would think that moving from a fairly large city to a small town would prohibit decent grocery shopping and that you would wind up shopping for everything at Walmart. (Now, believe me, I'm not knocking Walmart. It is the cheap one-shop-stop, and convenience does comfort my soul.) BUT, at the risk of being called a grocery snob, I would much prefer a grocery store for my groceries. Now, all that is to say, you would think that OKC's options for grocery shopping would be much larger than Tyler's, but actually the reverse is true. The Walmart Neighborhood Market was my best option across the Red River, but one of the most wonderful things about living in Tyler is Brookshires.

Three brief stories to prove my point. We moved here with a 4, 2, and 2 week old. Chaotic at best. I hardly knew a soul here, and my days were filled with nursing, picking up toys, and just trying to keep order. I made my first trip to Brookshires alone, thank goodness, so this won't be the crazy-mom-with three-kids-pulling-stuff-off-the-shelves-poor-pitiful-me-story. That will be my third one. But I first went to the Flagship Brookshires off of Rice Road accompanied only my purse.

I walked in, and at least three guys stocking fresh produce greeted me. First of all, I never saw anyone putting anything fresh out at Walmart. So this was immediately "refreshing," not to mention, their greeting me as I walked in. Being the new girl on the block, I didn't know where anything was, so I slowly wandered around to get my bearings. Lots of great specialty items, great looking fish (also not at Walmart), a real kitchen for visiting chefs to offer a class or two, fresh Boarshead turkey by the pound, and a good-looking bakery. I was impressed.

After filling my cart with lots of the necessities, I realized that I had missed one thing. Refrigerated pasta. Where was the refrigerated pasta? Well, before I had time to blink, another kind employee approached me and asked if I was looking for something in particular. She had seen my inquistive look. I asked about the pasta and she replied simply, "Oh, I'll go get it for you." She returned (seconds later) with two or three packages of each variety of ravioli that I had requested. "Which of these would you like?" I couldn't believe it. Was she some kind of grocery angel or something? She actually went and got the pasta for me instead of looking at me like I was an idiot or pointing in some general ballpark direction. I almost pinched myself.

And to top it off, as I entered the check out line, two efficient and very competent employees removed and bagged my groceries, rang me up, and one walked me to my car to load them. I offered a tip like my mom had years ago, and the bagger refused claiming that Brookshires did not accept tips. I smiled the whole way home.

The second story is probably what truly won me over to my local grocer. So six months into our move here, I had had another hard day. Hadn't left the house. The kids were so very needy, and I was still getting up in the night to nurse. One tired and grumpy mama. Greg kicked me out of the house, and I told him that I'd make the much-needed trip to the grocery store.

After making my rounds again at Brookshires, I entered the check out line. The familiar checker ran my "Thank You Card" (a frequent buyers discount card), and I waited. After a few minutes, the lady looked at me and said, "Oh, congratulations! You have won a roaster!" What? My sleepy, grumpy self looked at her like she was crazy. She told me to hang on a minute and came back carrying a brand new boxed roasting pan with lid. I did not own a roasting pan. Nor did I own a lid. I stood there stunned, asked her why I had won, and she claimed that I had spent a certain amount of money at Brookshires showing that I was a loyal customer and that I had won a roaster. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Still don't. But I did laugh hysterically all the way home thanking God for comic relief, for my roaster, and that He had chosen to bring us to such a wonderful town. Six months later I won luggage.

The third story happened two days ago. Not quite as funny, but amazing enough to put on paper. This time I had all three kids - 2, 5, and 6 year olds (definitely not funny). They know Brookshires well now and are past the extremely difficult phase grabbing things off the shelf or taking a bite out of the apples, but that day I did have alot of groceries and all of our patience was wearing thin.

It was about that time that Nathan fell, bumped his head, and started screaming. I tried to calm him down, feeling like, of course, the whole store was staring at the cart packed with my food and family. Within thirty seconds (maybe), the florist (did I mention the great floral department?) ran over and asked each kid about their favorite color. Minutes later she returned with three helium balloons in each color, and I had three smiling faces. But that was not all. Not surprisingly, as we were checking out, Nathan let go of the balloon and it flew to the top of the warehouse ceiling. We practiced saying "Bye-Bye Balloon," and I didn't give it much thought. But then the manager walked by and realized that my little guy (who isn't really that upset about it) was missing his balloon. He left and returned with one of those long poles that some of you may use for your gigantic closets - to pull down clothes on your second tier of summer shirts. He worked at it awhile, and was heriocally able to rescue that little blue balloon. Amazing. Surely he had something better to do with his time?

Now I am a natural cynic and very little impresses me. But really friends, are there any stores that you could think of with this kind of customer service? In my former grocery store experience, it was difficult to find an employee, let alone one that speaks to you, looks at you close enough to realize that you have a need, and is eager to help. And if that is not enough, Brookshires actually rewards your loyalty to them. Isn't that amazing?

Not sure how to end this...I don't have a jingle to sing or a sentimental picture to leave you with. Just wanted to share a positive customer service experience...they seem so rare....maybe if I print this out, and take it up there, I'll become Brookshire's poster child....I don't know...but regardless, I'll probably win a bird feeder or something next month.

Immediately

2010-03-06T08:16:00.008-06:00

About three weeks ago, I frantically dialed those three dreaded numbers for the first time. It was a "school day" and I had been reading in Ben's room with all three kids. Nathan was on his third day, fifty-second hour, of throwing up and a trash can waited by Ben's twin bed where our sick little guy tried to rest. The dreaded stomach virus had attacked, and it still haunts me every time someone in my family so much as coughs.

We were reading our Roman mystery aloud and as I said, Nathan lay listless on the bed. I looked at him briefly because he started moving around restlessly. Ben and Lauren were coloring and building with some Legos (a special treat sometimes when we are reading). Then, in the blink of an eye, Nathan's body froze. He had been on all fours like a little puppy, and just like that, he tipped over. He lay still (in an all-fours position) and his eyes got really wide. He was slightly trembling, unconscious and stiff as a board. I ran to him, grabbed him, tried to pry his arms out of their locked position, and then started screaming....He began to spit up a bit...

I ran to the phone and dialed 911. Obviously trained to respond to hysterical women who think that their 2 year olds are having seizures, the lady who answered talked me through Nathan's unidentified "episode". I think that it lasted a mere thrity seconds before he was sound asleep in my arms, his body limp like linguini.

After the ambulance ride, an IV of fluids, and a doctor's visit, we were home in about four hours. A morning I would like to forget. Doctors believe that our little guy had a "vasovagul" episode due to dehydration from the virus, but I'm not sure that we will ever be sure. It is simply an educated guess. He is fine now and doesn't remember it.

So after the reality of something like this is over, and tears and fears have been replaced by a return to diapers, books, and extracurriculars, it is interesting to look at the whole thing again. Not to relive it, of course, but to think about it.

My most acute response and concern lies with Nathan...is he epileptic? Was this really just a viral response? I won't have that answer until it happens again.

But, as for myself, it is interesting to think back on my response to the "emergency". I certainly think that I did the right thing at the time by calling 911. And I think that it was a normal response for a mother of three little ones who had never witnessed anything like that before. But I have been reading the gospel of Mark this month and it has been interesting to revisit "sick people's" responses to their illnesses. Gentile women, Roman soldiers, disciples at many levels, are described as going "immediately" to Jesus with their aches and pains (I counted about 12 immediatelys in the first 6 chapters). Many of the episodes read as though the ailing one (or family member of the sick) makes a B-line directly to him, probably stumbling over the crowds of His followers trailing his robe.

Of course in that day, there was no 911. No Tylenol. No Benadryl. But when I read Mark, broken man and women from all over, with lots of different "theologies" so earnestly fled to this Great Physician, this Son of Man who walked gently with them. Who wept. Who was thirsty too. But whose powerful hand could heal the blind, the mute, and the demon-possessed.

And what amazes me more is that they didn't even know exactly who He was! They couldn't know that the resurrection was coming. They didn't know of that this healing power was a glimpse of a power that was to come.

I envy them. I long for that same faith. For that immediate disaster response when even so much as a headache flusters me. Would I dare, Lord, flee to you with the smallest headache? Do I turn to you first when I think my son is seizing? Do I run like an Olympic champion to you with all of my fears about the future? I know that Paul liked to say that we are running a long, grueling marathon to heaven. We must stay the course with much endurance. This is true. But I sure would like to win a few sprints....if it meant that He was at the finish line.

It is finished

2010-01-29T13:34:00.007-06:00

Finding time to write has been like finding time to redo my toenails. It hasn't been a priority (I don't wear flip-flops in the winter), and I really don't want pull up all of the yucky stuff today anyway. And for me, as with toenails, you kind of have to finish what you have started. Who wants three red toenails? Likewise, I'm not one to start a blog entry and not really finish, at least within two or three days. I know this is a gift that the great writers possess, to mull over passages of genius before pushing the "save" button, but I'm not one of them. I like to have a finished product fairly quickly. And, most often, it is definitely at the expense of the product.

This is true in most areas of my life. Just ask my husband. I like knitting projects, dishes, sweeping, to-do lists, registration forms, meals, lesson plans and deadlines COMPLETED. I can rest quietly at the end of a day only if what I was supposed to finish that day is DONE. And, yes, I confess, I'm a little obsessive about it. Thus, there are many sleepless nights and many lists lying around our house waiting to be crossed-off and thrown into the abyss of completeness.

Our family loves hymns. There is an old hymn in our Trinity Hymnal called "Hark! the Voice of Love and Mercy". It sat unnoticed among the worn pages of our family hymnal until just this past year. My family purchased a copy of Red Mountain Church's (Birmingham, Alabama) redone hymns. There have produced several fantastic CDs (I recommend them all),but the one entitled "Help my Unbelief" is one of our favorites. It has some great acoustic interpretations of beautiful hymns, most unknown to the contemporary world. Song #4 (as my children call it) is called "It is Finished" (otherwise known as "Hark! the Voice of Love and Mercy" on page #259 in our hymnal).

In my college days I had a 25 minute commute to my favorite local church in Franklin, Tennessee. With windows rolled down, my left leg propped up on the side of the driver's seat, music flying out of the windows of my Honda, my soul sang with the poets of our days and those of long ago (I loved hymns even then). I sang loudly. But now I rarely sing with gusto, or with pleasure, or with tears; most of my time in the car is spent driving three kids to ballet or to the grocery store - hardly time to emotionally let go and enjoy those five minute trips that let you listen to music freely. I might have time for one song in the car, but the kids usually get to choose first. And if you have kids, you know why. Occasionally when I have a little drive to Dallas by myself or when I'm driving to an evening coffee date, I might turn up some tunes, but usually it is Coffeehouse or something like old Dave Matthews. Nothing to rock my soul like those hymns.

But the other day, Song #4 came on while racing to basketball practice. Much had been left undone at home, including laundry, unlocked doors, and the scattering of toys in the driveway. Something struck me as the song began and I sang. I sang loudly. I sang with pleasure. And I sang with tears. I even smiled. Let me share a brief excerpt from the updated version. I think you can find the tune on www.redmountainmusic.com.

Hark! the voice of love and mercy
Sounds aloud from Calvary:
See, it rends the rocks asunder,
Shakes the earth and veils the sky
It is finished! It is finished! Hear the dying Savior cry.
It is finished! It is finished! Hear the dying Savior cry.

Finished all the types and shadows of the ceremonial law;
Finished all that God had promised; death and hell no more shall awe;
It is finished! It is finished! Saints from hence your comfort draw;
It is finished! It is finished! Saints from hence your comfort draw.

Dear friends (I'm preaching now), this is a song to turn up and belt out. Amidst all of my unfinished blogs, amidst all of the lingering chores, amidst all of the toys left on the ground, amidst all of the unresolved conflicts, amidst all of the feelings of being imcomplete, my GOD, my LORD, has finished His business. He has finished all that matters. He has finished our salvation. He has finished our glorification. He has finished the brokenness in me and in my world. He has defeated the enemy. He has finished all that He started on that first day. And my guess is that those toys on the ground don't matter quite so much....

He has finished.

It is finished.

So, dear Saints, from hence your comfort draw.

Triscuits or Wheat Thins?

2009-12-31T14:13:00.009-06:00

I used to buy Triscuits. Now I buy Wheat Thins. If you are a mom, you may know why I switched. If you are a mom and have no idea why I would make such a drastic change, then I can tell you, you are blessed.

As soon as Ben was able to chew and swallow a single cracker, I introduced the Triscuit. Is there really a better cracker? Grainy, lots of texture, great with peanut butter or special cheeses, and flavored with the perfect amount of salt. You would have thought I was giving him his first M&M. Or his first taste of ice cream. I couldn't wait to see how he liked my very favorite cracker in the world.

Until he took that first bite. I picture it all in slow motion. I watched while his teeth came down right in the middle of the cracker. Of course his little mouth wasn't big enough to take off the entire side, and on either side of his mouth little grains of wheat rained down like sleet onto the floor. And then another bite. The same thing. Little pieces of that delicious grain flew out and covered my floor. I just stared at them. Like tiny beads from a broken necklace were those grains - all over my hardwoods. With every bite more grain, and I sat on my knees trying to catch each one in the cups of my hands.

At first, I was simply annoyed. Another mess for mommy to clean. Another time stealer. Another rag. But after the initial sigh and frustration, I knew I was sad. It was over. I realized that I didn't have the patience or time for Triscuits. They are without doubt the world's best over-the-counter cracker, but entirely too messy for real life with kids. Aren't they?

And so to this day, six years later, I still buy Wheat Thins. A creature of habit and a creature of cleanliness. But I've started thinking about it lately. What if those Triscuit grains did't get swept up immediately? What if I stepped on them barefoot while unloading the dishes? What if someone actually came over and saw that my children couldn't put an entire Triscuit into their mouth without grains falling to the floor? What if my kitchen was a mess? (Don't worry, much of the time it is.)

I think that I often try to live life as though it weren't a "mess". Instead of expecting or even embracing those grains that fall from Ben's mouth, I avoid them altogether. I deny myself simple pleasures to avoid what isn't "clean" and well-kept, and I try to keep things ordered and neat at the expense of enjoying something new. Taking it even further, sometimes I wonder if I choose friends whose lives don't appear "messy" either. Or maybe I even make choices for my children simply to avoid disorder or conflict or struggle for them and for myself? Probably. But with that, I wonder, do I miss the pleasures and joys that my children could experience? Do I miss friendships with depth, with struggle, with growth, and with joy? And isn't the messiness of one person's life often a testimony of God's grace and God's favor? I certainly want to be a part of that. And, ironically, are the floors and windows in my own heart always so swept and vacuumed?

I think oftentimes we avoid this mess at all costs. We try to clean ourselves up, and in doing so, we miss the joy that comes with repenting and returning. We miss the joy that comes in trusting. And we miss the joy of knowing that the the only "clean" One who can rescue our souls from their mess is the same One who DID rescue our souls from their mess and who counts His perfect life as our own. I already know that my God DOES see my mess. But He doesn't hold it against me. Praise God. I just seem to forget that I need Christ's life just as much as His death.

So what am I afraid of? Why do I try so hard to hide my messes? Or why try so hard not to make them?

Maybe this year, I'll invite the Triscuits over to play again. I've missed them.

"Tis the season to be jolly"

2009-12-12T13:51:00.010-06:00

Am I the only one who every year secretly hopes that December will come and with it those "peaceful easy feelings" of joy and renewal and passion? And instead, midway thru, I just want January to get here as quickly as possible. And then January comes, and I hope for the same all over again. Every December seems to just get busier, even with concerted efforts to minimize. I'm still wrapping, ordering, baking, cleaning, preparing, shopping, and this year, I am schooling. December begins in fast forward and doesn't stop.

My blog ideas usually come when I run and right now running is sporadic at best so I haven't much to say. I've been hoping that thoughts of Christmas in all of its magic would drift from head to page in the last couple of weeks, and I would be able to articulate, with great gusto and emotion, like the apostle Paul, "for me to live is Christ!" But alas, nothing. On I good day, I might muster up something like "Carpe Diem!" but that is about as spiritual as it gets. Regretfully, it is more of an indication of my heart than of my creativity (which, yes, is flighty too). The Christmas carols that we sing each night with our kids have been rote and habitual. While my kids eagerly anticipate opening our advent calendar each day, for me those little boxes are no different than opening a can of green beans. This year, hanging the Christmas tree ornaments was another opportunity to check off my to-do list and give my husband the silent treatment. And so December is like any other month, isn't it?

Yes, in fact, it is. Praise God.

I think this is where I've been affected by all of the "spirituality" out there. The hype of emotion that seems to permeate our pulpits, stages, and showtime Sundays. I'm looking for a "feeling" to draw me to my Savior. Something that I could claim is a special connection with the Spirit. It is not unlike my feelings approaching worship on Sunday morning. I want a "pick me up" to get me through the week, to be spiritually "drugged" by some one hour experience.

So I guess the same is true for December. I want the feelings that this month evokes to get me through the year. Can hot chocolate, a Christmas tree, roasted chestnuts, and Santaland do that? Maybe. But it seems to me that it should look something more like this: like knowing that while I bake that 13th loaf of pumpkin bread, I remember and cling to my Bread of Life. Or while I carefully wrap up all of those shirts and trucks and dolls, I pray that my children would know the True Gift. Or while I set the table with Christmas china and polish the silver, I remember the Great Banquet waiting for me in heaven. Wouldn't that be wonderful? To depend on truth like that? Apart from some outside entertainment?

And does only have to happen with pumpkin bread? And Christmas gifts? And do I have to eat on Christmas china?

I think what I'm learning is that I don't need the "chills" to know my Savior. I don't need to weep to see my Christ. I don't need to belt out "Glory to the Newborn King" just like the herald angels did. I certainly don't need snowmen (already learned that). No, what I need has already been given to me. It is Christ Himself. He is enough in July. He is enough when it is raining. He is enough when someone else is preaching. He is enough when the worship leader is out of town. He is enough when my dearest friend turns against me. He is enough if we have to skip Christmas next year! My feelings are seasonal, but He and His Word are not. "Thanks be to God!"

Ms. Bea

2009-12-05T20:27:00.009-06:00

I wasn't an animal person. Once my teenage years hit (or maybe just my first weeks of deodorant in sixth grade), I gave up contact with most animals. After all, I needed to smell good. I'd spent hours on my rather tall, wave-like bangs. And I was already struggling to put on mascara by myself. How could I afford to pet an animal? My family had two different dogs over the course of my childhood, both of which were fairly harmless, and they did bathe, but I was, again, too busy trying to maintain perfect hygeine, remain put together, and somehow win over prince charming. I couldn't afford to be slobbered on or trampled down by some furry, hyped-up pooch.

And, several years later, nothing had really changed. Until this Thanksgiving with my family. I kept my mouth shut, but I wasn't terribly excited about having my parent's new four month old goldendoodle running around the house. Aren't three kids (6 and under), two uncles, an aunt, another blind dog that poses little threat to anyone, and two grandparents enough under one roof?

It wasn't the first time that I had met Ms. Bea. I had met her briefly when she was about 9 weeks old and fortunately, I was with my kids, so they could properly dote over the new pup (Lauren and Nathan loved her). She was definitely cute, but still furry and wet, and just like a swimming pool, isn't she better left at grandma's house?

So back to Thanksgiving. Well, if you know me, I am still the early riser in the family. Sleeping late has never been in my vocabulary, even during those glorious slumber party years (I remember fake snoring at most of those so that someone would wake up and I could go home). So Friday morning after Thanksgiving I woke up about 6:00. My father, the other early riser, had gone hunting so I was making the coffee for everyone else. Within minutes of pouring the first cup, I hear these pitiful whimpers from the basement, and I knew it was HER. I knew that she needed to go out. I also knew that I could pretend that I didn't hear her.

That didn't happen. Something in me (very deep inside, almost invisible) wouldn't let me ignore her and I trudged downstairs to let her out, not real happy about the prospect of having my alone time interruptted by a needy, hairy 4 month old.

After she finishes her business, we head back in. I can tell that she is just as excited about the sunrise as I am. But unlike me, she doesn't really want to be alone. She runs around the room (no cries or pants or whimpers, thankfully) and begins to play with her basket of toys. I opened my book and began to read, trying hard to ignore my companion. I didn't want to give her any unnecessary attention. But suddenly, without warning, she leaps into my lap, licks my face, lays down on her back, and stares up at me.

At first, I was rather put out. Wasn't she quite presumptuous? I mean, I am not a dog person, and I am fine with that. But, she didn't move. She lay there, belly-up, looking at me without a flinch. Now I know that most of you are thinking, "she just wanted a belly-rub". And you may be right. She did get her belly-rub, don't worry. But the funny thing was that, as I thought about it later, she didn't look at me with a question on her face like "hey, will you please scratch here." She looked at me with a statement: "You will be my friend." It wasn't with arrogance or vengeance or spite. It was a simple look that stated a simple truth. I just stared back at her sort of dumbfounded.

And so, now, I have a dog friend. I'm not buying her a Christmas present yet or anything, but I still have a dog friend.

Sometimes when I think about that few moments with Ms. Bea, I think about Jacob wrestling with God and crying out, "I will not let you go until you bless me!" I think of his claim to the covenant promises of his fathers. I think of his boldness toward His Caregiver. And I think of Ms. Bea.

Or sometimes I think that Ms. Bea is very much like another Hound of Heaven that I know...and I am glad that she chose to be my friend.

"Wuv you"

2009-11-21T08:33:00.000-06:00

If you're a mom, you remember the early days of your first infant. You faithfully read about your child's stages of development in Dr. Spock or What to Expect the First Year, and you listened on pins and needles to your doctor's expectations for your child. I remember those first days with Ben at home being rather chaotic, and I was watching for each development by the minute.

So, the books told me that I would see Ben's first "smile" at six weeks. At the beginning of week five (surely my kids was "advanced"), I remember trying to force it out of him. Don't I deserve it a little early after all of these sleepless nights? After all of the spit up, murky yellow diapers, and pacing around the house, couldn't you give me just one little grin? You should have seen the dances that I would do, the contorted faces I would make, the toys I would shake for hours in front of his little face. Greg and I used to laugh at the videos that could be made of ourselves just to get a little smile out of the guy. Why in the world did I need that smile so badly? I know I imagined the first few smiles, but I do remember that feeling of elation when I saw a genuine smile form on Ben's mouth. Especially the first unsolicited one.

Also fresh to the story of child-rearing are those precious words, "Wuv you, Mama." It was less than a year ago that little Nathan began to form his first words and phrases. And since his birth, like any mom, I would tell him over and over, "I love you." For several months, of course, I didn't expect or even need a response. But when I knew that he was capable of saying it, some little human part of me, wanted to hear it. I had poured so much of my time and life into his. And, true, he was my third child in four years, and yes, I had the development book down by now, and yes, I realize that every child develops at his own pace. But what mom doesn't long for his child to return their love as soon as possible? Couldn't he just say it?

The happy ending is, of course, that he did. One day just a short "Wuv you" followed my three little words to him. And I was happy.

But then it happened. One day it was actually unsolicited. I don't remember doing anything especially sweet, sacrifical or noteworthy. He just said it. Out of nowhere. "Wuv you, Mama." Now this was completely different. What joy! A simple love that told me nothing more than he just wanted to be with me. That he liked me. That he knew that I loved him. I will tell you, that if this is at all familiar, there is nothing more precious than to taste and know this simple love from your child. Does he really love me? Apart from all of my labors of love and apart from my own words? I think so.

It has made me wonder about my love for my Father. How often do I tell Him that I love Him, unsolicited, not in response to a particular blessing, not because it is Sunday morning, not because He has rescued me from danger, not because He has forgiven a particular sin, but just because He is my Father. Just because...I want to be with Him. I like Him.

While I know that I could never say those three words often enough to my Creator, my Friend, my Great Shepherd, one thing I know for certain. My Father is not sitting up in heaven looking down on me trying to make funny faces, or shake some bells and whistles to get my attention or to get those three words out of me. He is not anxiously trying to make me smile or to get me to do something for Him.

He already knows it. He knows it because the ultimate Sacrifice has been made. His labor of love was wholly effective. He doesn't need to do anything else. He has written the words of His love and my own on my heart. He has put them there. He knows that I am childish, and that I will forget, and that I often love other things more than Him. But He knows and loves this child despite it, and He knows that to His children, belong the kingdom of God. What grace.

Yes, He probably does wait often to hear "I love you" from me, but always with a gentle, loving and sovereign grin, knowing and believing those words better than I do myself.

Craziness

2009-11-14T08:54:00.000-06:00

A sweet friend of mine recently gave me a copy of the book Crazy Love by Francis Chan. I was scared to death.

Why, might you ask? Well, I must say that while normally I'm not really swayed by titles, anything with the word "crazy" in it makes my heart beat faster, my hands itch, and my face harden. Anyone taking the time to read this probably already knows this about me, but I LIKE ORDER.

What is it about "craziness" that makes me so uncomfortable? Is it 3 screaming children running around the house swinging light sabers and crashing strollers, or is it the matchbox cars under every table, or laundry piles as high as mountains, or crayons stuck between chair cushions, or trails of sand from the sandbox winding through the living room, or tub water drowning the bathroom tile, or black-eye peas boiling over for lack of attention, or ....

Honestly, that may be part of it, but I don't think that is what scares me most about craziness. Maybe it used it be. Now, that is my norm, so I'm a little more comfortable with it.

There is a "craziness" that scares me even more. And it is not someone daring me to bungee jump, or train for an Iron Man, or shave my head. It is not that kind of crazy either.

It is the craziness that Chan talks about in his book, and it is exactly why I feared reading it. The craziness is twofold. First, our Father, our King, has a "crazy", inexplicable love for us. Our creator actually considers His people "His inheritance". This scares me. I can't do anything to change His feelings for me. I can't mess up enough to push Him away and I can't keep Him from pursuing me with His unquenchable affection for me, one of His children. His mercy and grace hound me. His Spirit won't leave me alone. Is that scary to anyone else?

The other side of this "craziness" is intimidating too. He calls us, as believers, not to "be conformed to the patterns of this world." (Romans 12:2) AHH! That verse haunts me sometimes. Is my life any different than the average middle-upper class white mom of three kids? Do I make decisions any differently because I am a follower of Christ? Does the "crazy" love that my Father have for me make me look "crazy" in the eyes of the world?

I'm afraid that for the most part, it does not. I spend my money much in the same way as everyone else. I care more about what soccer team Ben is going to be on than on how Christ is being exalted in Ben's life. I want Lauren's ponytails to somehow lay perfectly smooth (which never happens) at the expense of time spent just telling her about her beauty in Christ. As long as Nathan doesn't have his tantrum in the grocery store, I've had a successful day. And that house down the street is so cute and has so much more space for our family. Sound familiar?

I have no answers. But I am resigned to pursuing "craziness" (Did I really say that?). I'm praying that God will show me more of His crazy love for me, and that I would be willing to be "crazy" for Him. I don't think this means that I have to sell everything that I have and move to Africa, but I do think that by His changing me, my life will be foreign many people. I have no idea what this may look like. But it is completely scary and yes, crazy. So why then am I so excited?

Natural Causes

2009-10-24T11:10:00.000-05:00

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?

2009-10-18T20:37:00.001-05:00

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

2009-10-10T20:06:00.000-05:00

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

2009-10-04T21:48:00.000-05:00

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."