On my birthday- a letter to my teenage self

Dear Girl,

You are beautiful. You are talented. You are worthy of good things. You are lovable.

Sometimes, you believe this. Some days it comes natural. Feels easy. Other days, your world tilts and all is a bit cock-eyed. You find it hard to crawl out of bed, do this, all of this, for one more day.

Dear girl. You are worth more than a name call at an assembly, an acknowledgement over an intercom. Your cumulative contribution to a sports team.

Dear girl. You are more than the MVP, SCA, SAT, GPA, or an AP A.

Somehow right now, life is an endless race out-of-bed and into-the-shower. Get to class. Rack up the points, the prestige, the popular vote. Blend in, ride low or sit up front.  Not much changes between now and then ... even though everything does. What will matter later is what really matters now and you won't remember the position or the paper. The brand of your pants.

But the people ...

And it's funny really how you are all the same there within those mascot colored bricks, laminate lunch tables.

Same fears. Same needs. Same desires.

Rejection, isolation. Acceptance, grace. Love, belonging. We are people ...

Dear girl. This is life! ... only the junior-varsity version. And you are YOU through and through since the day you entered in, all flailing and needy in mother arms.

And your parents really do know you best: all those quirks and the unspoken messages you send. The way you storm away, slam a door, look away when you fib. The way you pick at your food.

And all the gifts you came into the world with? They are the same gifts you possess right now; they are the gifts you'll hand out unknowingly over your entire lifetime.

'Cause DNA doesn't morph and the Maker doesn't make mistakes.

So, girl. Don't hold out on us! Forget that gift you wish you had. It ain't yours to give away!  So don't steal her joy and don't make us miss out on yours. The world is waiting for you to grow into your just- right-skin.

The world is waiting for just-right you.

At 35, you'll look back and see it. "Oh, I was good at that back then too ..."

If friends call you 'safe' now ... they will call you 'safe' later. Yes, this is your gift.

So stop trying to be elusive, dynamic ... cool.  Just be a soft landing. The world needs more of those.

Girl, you are emotional and in your head and details are not your thing. But you are hungry for real living and you feel things deeply, crave aesthetics and adventure at your core. This won't change.

But choose wisely, huh?

Give lots of grace and love well. Because everything comes down to people and everyone is in the midst of their own young story. Think of it! A million half stories being written: day by day by day. So be kind. Some books are longer than others. Some novels more gritty, others pure symphony. But all worthy reading ... all with plot and conflict, irony and climax.

All penned by the same Great Author. So be gentle. Patient.

With yourself. And with others. Because we only really know the chapters we have lived ... mere fractions of the whole.  And you? God willing? You're still in the first fifth of your  story.

So don't size up too quick. Write off too fast.

Love that gal who trips up instead of calling her a hypocrite, a disaster. This faith life is hard to wrap arms around. And it's in the working-out of your faith that it becomes real ... worth holding onto for dear life. 

Give her grace? Not more grief. Because you'll meet again and she'll be toting a baby on her hip at Target. Just. like. you.

She'll wonder if you remember her. She'll breathe relief when you do.

Then she'll ask you about Mom's Morning Out and nap schedules ... how to find time to run. You'll tell her you have no idea- about the running thing- and she'll admit how tired she really is. How marriage can be so lovely ... and so hard. How she really shouldn't be spending any more money but how she's simply got to get out of that house.

She'll ask you if you're still at that one church. And she won't really be asking about a building but about a way of living. She'll be asking how to make it through these days, and girl? It's then that  you'll begin to see the bigger picture. Because we all still need to know that we have high purpose, high value... a reason for being.

You'll look back to now- these high school walls- you'll look ahead to where you thought you wanted to be. You'll see this whirlwind of fashion and friends and fierce feelings as beautiful and tormented and yes ... fleeting. You'll thank God you made it through.

You'll see it was a mere piece of the whole picture.

Girl, take a deep breath in and out and let your shoulders sink.

Be good to yourself. Be brave. Love yourself well. And others too. Trust the bigger story.

And hang in there.

What is devastating you won't break you, even if you are toe-over-edge and teetering.
And if you hold on, you'll be stronger, built up, and battled-scarred in the best kind of way.

Because what bruises you now will make you a well of grace later ... Grace for a fracturing, waiting world.

So girl, this life? It funnels fast and funny and no matter where you go, where you work, what job or university you land ...

You'll eventually see how this life adds up to people - in our wake and in our grasp -
people yet waiting to hear from us, see us living our lives well, to the glory of the One who gave us our days.

So I wish I could tell you to treasure your uniqueness, to value your gentle spirit, and not to wince every time someone says, "speak up." They want to hear what you have to say!

You are just right and fiercely brave: saying 'yes' in your own time ... keeping step with His.

Girl, you are lovely and darling and dear. You are but one perfect piece in a most beautiful puzzle.
Take your place with grace and with ease. Look straight ahead and don't be afraid. Be excellent, yes! Work hard, yes!

Be brave enough to treasure your life and then hand it over, not to the masses, but to the One who first gave it.

You, beautiful you!, exist for the benefit of us all. But first, you must exist for Him.  

And He who began a good work in you will finish.

This, girl, is a promise. He has only just begun.

If you are fishing for some encouragement

Hoping your first week of 2013 was filled with happy laughter and a bit of hyper color. 

And if not? No worries, friends. 

Because you've got all year to test new waters, discover new shades, and lay your burdens down. It's our year to be ok in the now, to trust the process we are in, and to let Him 

re-shuffle and redirect if and when we are in a jam. There's no shame in losing a hand or two ...  

Because sometimes losing is really winning and handing over your best card is really making room for one that's better.

Sometimes it feels like all bets are off ...

can we open up empty hands and wait patient?


Friend, this could be the time to stop fishing for what is next.
And simply be.

So whether you started strong or you've already wished for a do-over -- pair up, again today, with the Creator of the game, the One who knows how every hand will end.

We are not yet who we will be.

And someday we will see Him as he really is.  (1 John 3:2) We will know just how faithful He has been, just how trustworthy ... just how committed to make us like himself.

So run the race today, friends. And then again tomorrow. Don't drop out.

Don't flip the board and pout, throw down your cards when your pal wins.
Let's cheer, "Wow, look at you!"

Because we each have winning and losing moments. Refining times. Yes, seasons. We are all growing into maturity. We are all moving toward one goal. And He will keep His promise to finish what He began ... yes, the good work in each of us. (Phil. 1:6)

We have all we need. We are enough just as we are. And we will be made complete.

Someday.

But in this moment ... could we say in faith, "Come, Lord Jesus. Do what you will ... today."

Just one right-now at a time.

Running into the fear {Allume 2012 and why I'll keep writing}

Last year we stumbled onto a new favorite place. We walked downhill, carried a baby boy. Answered the invitation of falling water, its far-off roar. We followed its trail between rocks and under leaves showing their first signs of fall. And last year I forgot my camera and I shook my head all the while. Needing desperately to bottle that place, cup all its goodness at the foot of the falls. 


On our last day up north, we packed the van tight and settled in for the nine hours south. And my man knew we would meet D.C. traffic right at rush hour. He also knows me well. So he pulled off the road anyway and handed me my lens. Told me to be careful, told me to hurry.

He said, "go do what makes you you."

 

And I said sorry too many times even though he wasn't angry, told him I would hurry. I left the whole crew on the side of the road and ran into the woods, down the trail and over sopping leaves. I followed the sound all on my own, and the descent out of sunlight- into water- was a bit unnerving. For a minute I forgot the goal, wanted to turn back.

Because the trek into new places feels safer among a crowd. Other voices cushion the quiet; other bodies temper the nerves.

And at the foot of the falls I found myself alone and silent. The waterfall was deafening and I was fine. I was afraid. I wanted to hurry away. I wanted to stay.

And I heard His roar but I saw His beauty. I felt my own heartbeat. 



And when the call of God and the pulse of your own blood meet up in one place- well that's how you know.

I was made for this place.

Because it's how we all started ... the heartbeat of the Maker in our ears, us wrapped safe in a place all our own. So is it really any wonder that we would feel right at home ... and a little afraid too.

Following Him into that space when He calls.

That was last year and just a few weeks ago we made our annual trek again. This time my boy ran down into woods as fast as his feet would carry him. He navigated rocks and crags in his little gray Crocs and we were certain we would sew up a chin by day's end.

But his squeals echoed what we all know when we stumble into the Maker.

This is where I belong.

And when He is nearby, even unfamiliar land isn't so strange and so how do you deny someone running headlong into God. Me, I've been wrapped up in fear too long- not wanting to run. Saying sorry too often for "doing what makes me me."



But last weekend, I spent three days at Allume. I drove north again for the second time this month. This time I went alone. I was afraid.

When I cried, called myself an impostor, my husband looked right into my eyes, said it plain through the iPhone.

"You belong. You are loved. Go be who you are."

And walking into a crowd of women (or four hundred) can feel like running right into the woods. Finding a friendly face ... an empty seat at a table ... can be downright terrifying.

Following His invitation into the unknown can be both inspiring and just scary enough to hide out forever.

Believe me, I tried. (And really, it was this girl who saved the day. Fiercely courageous and for whatever reason, knocking on my door.)

Because my hotel room was just cozy and quiet enough to lounge unnoticed for seventy-two hours.

Only this: I had run off to follow an invitation. A call into an adventure that makes my heart beat loud. I had driven all that way to meet up with word women. Women who love words-

women who love the Word.

Women who have heard an invitation too, to be who they are by putting pens to paper and fingers to keys. Women who meet up with God in the writing down, where they whisper like me:

Ooh, I know this place.

I wanted to hide away. But they had come too. Hearts pounding, inspired, and perhaps a bit afraid like me.

And it's ironic really- how I ran away to learn how to do.
But I came home knowing who to be.

Because this writing life isn't really so much about the words, but about the girl jotting them down.
And it's not so much about who critiques them ... but why she bothers to write them at all.

At a conference, literally, filled with virtual connections- I found out about community and fear and courage. Reconciliation and understanding and how words can break down barriers and unify His people. For our sake. And for the sake of the church. And sure, the converse is true, but why wouldn't we, the Word lovers, use them for good.

I discovered that writing heals and authentic words matter; that the words make no difference if they haven't first been lived, wrestled; that words never take precedence over people- how Jesus was all about relationship and proximity. How we are called to live well in the here and now, with the people He's given us. Right in front of us. And how maybe, just maybe, we might gain a credible voice to share with the more.

And it was dearest Ann who said it soft and straight: the only way to write well is to go lower all the time, writing on lives in the quiet. And if we spend our days seeking word applause, people applause, well ... Heaven's applause may be silent.

I discovered that every time we put words out into the open, we invite others in. We add to our fold and how this tending is no small thing. We are changed in the reaching out ... they are changed as they enter in. 

I discovered how to be content- how my small and nervous words may really be big and courageous enough. How we don't decide our venue or our audience. We merely run ahead through the fear. Answer a call.

And my, how we get to watch Him work.     




Last month on our drive north, with the family altogether, we missed the leaves changing color. It wasn't quite time.

But today the leaves are changing. And so am I.

I'm home and I'm sure of it, this call to authentic words. I was there and afraid but now? I'm ready to find a space, right here in the quiet, with all of the words and all of the women who have been grounded by them.

Because of Him.

Grateful for the invitation. Grateful for women who heard the roar and followed the whisper.  This time, the all-alone was worthwhile.

Sometimes it's in the all-alone that He calls loudest. 
Sometimes it's in the all-alone that we discover our part matters. So can you hear Him ...

He's calling you  too.

"Come on now, girl. Come do what makes you you. Come and be who you are."


For the glory of His name. And for the benefit of us all.

Here's to good, imperfect days

 

 

Here's to fall days and flailing a bit, in the best kind of ways. To finding some new freedom and doing away with fear all over again. Here's to running barefoot in public, laughing too loud and skipping nap time. Letting your hair fly. Giving up the worry. 

 

Here's to regrouping quickly, managing less, praising more. Here's to getting down on her level, seeing the view from her eyes. Here's to saying "sorry" first, choosing grace, making his favorite meal. Here's to catching all things good right in front of you ... just today. And believing that tomorow will take care of itself.  

 

 

 

 

Here's to reminding myself that this life is a collection of moments. And the best days are the real days with the beautiful and the difficult all wrapped into one. Because even the best days are high jacked by real life; the rough spots and places still unpaved. We mess up, fumble through and regroup. We stop, turn back and start again.

Here's to learning all the time and realizing: who wants to live perfect when its the imperfect that makes us lovely? We take one step forward and a gillion steps back. We shake our heads, stay bent on grace-needy knees. We glance upward and acknowledge the only One who doesn't need refining. The only One who sees perfect when He sees the ones He made.

Here's to the moments before our barefoot soccer match when I argued with my husband under a poplar. Here's to just moments later, when the kids had a collective meltdown in the van. And the parts I remember?

The grass on my feet and how fast she can run and his all-boy belly laugh and, later, saying sorry in the kitchen. Swaying to the just-right song ... just moments before the bedtime frenzy.

It was a good day.

So, here's to YOU and high fives all around for journeying on, for keeping your head up, for praising when it's tough. For embracing all of this life- and all that He offers. For catching the sacred in the midst of the daily and for letting Him grow you up ... one baby step, one not-so-perfect day at a time. 

Happy Monday! And peace, friends.

Come in close for the filling

My girl climbed into our bed this morning and she wrapped her arms around my waist, pressed her little legs against mine. She brushed the bottoms of her feet up and down along my shin and calf, patted the small of my back with her teeny palm. Connecting with every limb. 

She whispered "good morning" and "I just love you, mama." Then she flip-flopped to her other side- scooched backward even closer and right into my curve. And it doesn't seem so long ago that I cradled her here every second ... all wrapped and growing in multiplying mother-love. This morning she whispered like a little pal while she inched closer, her spine meeting my chest.

Determined for togetherness.

Then she reached behind her, grabbed my dangling arm, and pulled it right over her waist. Enveloped.

My girl wore me like a blanket.




And just the night before I asked her a "would you rather ...?" It's their silly question-asking game and it's our way to get a pulse from time to time. She replied, "Oh, a hug. A hug. I would rather have a hug!" Because I'm always wondering how to best fill these little folks. And this one? She is a time and touch girl. Even more, she knows when her "love-tank" is running low.

We haven't done the communal sleep thing here, not in all six of our kid years. "This is our special place," we have always said. Sometimes, though, this wee one finds her way into our warm, close space. She seeks out proximity, the filling up that comes from contact.

We are under sheets and her wispy hair mingles on my pillow. Her back rises and falls with my belly. She is all wrapped up and hidden and when she comes in close this way? I can practically hear her little heart filling up to the brim.

'Cause I am a touch girl too, and when my Todd hugs me tight I giggle and make the same sound every time: "bloop, bloop, bloop" like a bubble rising to the surface ... it's my tank filling to the top. And he knows when I'm out of steam and when to embrace well.

My girl sat up with new purpose this morning, flung off the sheets and spun to meet me. She kissed my nose the Eskimo way and said it plain: "Now that is the best way to start the day."

She hopped out and she was off. Dressed-up in mom love and ready to go. I didn't rise as quickly and I wondered ... how do I keep inviting her, all of them, into this space? Not our bed, per se, but into closeness, into safety for the filling.

How do I stay filled up, invite them into the overflow? Because there are days when I just don't got it. There are days when even my husband doesn't come in for a hug. No ... these days it looks more like a backing away slowly.

But really? We weren't meant to fill. We were meant to spill.

And when the tank is on empty ... we don't invite in. We repel.

So how do I give good mother-love when I've simply got nothing at all?  And how, in these school days coming, these growing years passing ... how in the world do I (we) stay filled?




How do I teach them to put on God? To wear Him like a blanket. How do we all wrap up, live in, a Father embrace? How do we find him at the start of a day and then hold on, tucked inside and under?

Isn't it the closeness that fills us up and isn't it in the together-space that we grow? Secure, sure, safe.
Isn't He always inviting us into an embrace? Waiting to fill us right up and over?

I'm thinking on curriculum and a school year, what can feel like chronic fatigue, small groups, and how to go out into the world right here in my town. I'm wondering how to serve three children and a man and how to keep heart tanks brimming. I get tired.

And I've got to have something to spill. I've got to have some togetherness.





This morning I started with a fresh reminder from a girl of four who whispered it right and well-- right into my morning rising:

Just come in close and put on God.

Wear Him like a blanket today, right now, every moment. Wrap up in His sure covering.
And in the quiet space of sure love, get filled up.

Then ... go and spill over.

Yes, I am certain. This is the best way, the only way, to start a day.

"But as for me, it is good to be near God." Psalm 73:28




We do a lot of love-tank assessing around here. You can read more about Gary Chapman's Five Love Languages here. And perhaps we can begin chatting again, you and me? I know it's been a while.(I've missed you!!) Want to talk about how to put on God? How do you start your day, friends?

'Cause maybe you needed this too ...

I know you. I know your heart. I made it.

I know your struggles, your deepest desires, your most honest thoughts.
I know how you sometimes wonder 'why.'


But I am weaving, child. 
And waiting can feel like a death, like you are missing an entire portion of yourself ...
a whole part of your person.

I am stoking a fire. I am always in process.


Child, stop moping. Stop mourning. Stop flashing ahead.
I can't take you there until you are faithfully and obediently here.


Be holy, as I am holy. Be excellent. Persevere.
Allow me to weave and grow you, grow the others I will entrust to your care.


Show me, by faith, that you can trust.
Show me, by grace, that you can be trusted.





You say you feel fragile?
Then break wide open into me.

You say you feel tired?
Then fall hard into this net of mercy.

You say you are disappearing slowly?
Then fade right into the shadow of these wings.

You say the walls are closing in?
Then run headlong into my freedom.

Stop criticizing who you are.
Stop confusing what is good.
Stop controlling how you are perceived.
Stop clarifying what is already clear.



I won't leave you to yourself.
I won't let you fall apart.
I won't forget that I called you.
I won't give away your place at the table.

Stop looking back, stop glancing ahead. And for goodness sake, stop flailing.


Live now, by faith, in joy.

I want to see you smile.
I want to give good gifts.
I want to be your helper.
I want to show you extravagant love.
I want  you to be brave, courageous.

I want you to use your gifts ... for my glory.
This is reasonable worship.



Do you see it?
I want to make you more like me.


This life of yours is yours alone to hand over.
I know how costly this can be.
But lay it down anyway.

Then lay it down again. And then again.


Give it away here and now.
Stop preserving, stop holding back.
Stop saving up your energy.

Live loved.
Love others well.
Spend yourself on their behalf.
Open up your hands.
Only "do the next thing."





Receive my love.
Then let it spill over.

Whatever I give, you give it too.
Mercy. Pardon. Refreshment.

Keep walking straight ahead.
Don't slow down. This is the way, walk in it.

Stop calculating, orchestrating, solving.
Stop adding me up.

I am mystery.

And my puzzle is made of a million intricate pieces ...
all different shades of the same color called Grace.

I am the beginning.
I am the end.

And you?
You fit beautifully into my story.

You bring me joy.
I am singing over you.

So relax your shoulders.
Exhale that stagnate air.
Do only what I've given you ... today.

Look for me.
Thank me often.




And then wait in joyful hope.

'Cause I've got this.

moments.

He took his first ride ever on the merry-go-round, picked his own horse and waved to the same stranger with each orbit.

Then he stood firm on the pavement and gazed straight into the sky. He watched the tracks spiraling straight down ... all those g-forces weighing in. And I don't know who squealed loudest, him or the daredevils up above.

Later, she peered over the edge of her blue gondola on a wire and announced, "I think the Sky Ride must be the best thing in the world. I can see everything from here!"

The clouds were overhead and the train whistled below. We hovered in between, suspended with delight and a bit of fresh perspective.

Here's to great moments, no matter how small or fast. Here's to being in the present tense.
Here's to having eyes to see ...

Peace today, friends.

moments.

Catching some early summer sweetness now that we're all under one roof again. We ran across a bridge to catch the sun and we ran down a path as fast as little legs could go. We have new wheels and we have lots of will.

Run after something sweet today. Catch a moment worth holding.

Blessings to you today, my friends.

When unfinished is a good thing ...

She is a finisher, my oldest gal. I can't pry her away from a project midway ... I don't dare. Because when she has a vision, she sees it through to the end. And this trait necessitates my catching her before she begins. 

Or else we are all in for the long haul.

This is a wonderful trait ... the will to finish a task.

And this little gem of a girl who hums non-stop has constructed a full penguin suit from brown paper bags and established, in the yard, a nest-home from twigs for each of her birds. So when she said she would trace an entire coloring book, page by page, so that her sister would have a copy  too ... well, I should have known that she would, in fact, trace the entire coloring book. 

I love this about her. She is gentle and kind and intuitive ... and strangely tenacious with the focus of three adults. Sometimes I project myself onto her, calling her my "mini-me." And there is a visual resemblance, naturally.

But tenacious I am not.

I tend more toward the drifting along with an insatiable wanderlust. I may, or may not, finish what I begin. I assure you, He is working on me in this area.

And it is slow-going.

In my defense, what I lack in follow-through, I more than make up for in vision. Oh! There is a lot of VISION around here.

Truth is, I would like to be more like my daughter. She is inspiring at six and I am painfully (and gratefully) aware that I have a long way to go.

I am so very thankful that that my Father is tenacious too. And focused. 

He is a finisher. He followed through. He is following through. He will follow through.

For me, for each of us, this is very good news ...

Perhaps give yourself some grace today? Find peace in the knowing that you are not yet complete. Artwork unfinished ...

Surrender a bit to the process, to the vision? And if you feel you've got a long way to go?

Excellent!! Let's journey out this growth together, one brush-stroke at a time.  

"being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus."    Phil. 1:6


Ah, friends. I have so much to say and I'm missing you! Lots of words here, all back-logged and waiting. Soon!?!

If a little bit of change sounds nice ...

She was just two and a half when she memorized her first bible verse. It wasn't intentional. She had this favorite book about a caterpillar. You know, the very hungry one.

And parenting was still new when she was two and I didn't know how to "train up a child" (I still don't ...!) but it just seemed natural to recite it with her ... the way the old goes and the new comes. And so we did. After that caterpillar munched its way through one piece of chocolate cake, one salami, and one slice of cherry pie, it wrapped its old self up for the waiting.

Each time we turned the very last page we held the book up overhead, opened and closed its pages and pretended to make that "beautiful butterfly" fly. She would articulate it just right and cheer the last part as if there were an exclamation point. Maybe there should have been.



"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old is gone, the new has come(!)."

For four years now, she has recited her "butterfly verse" at the end of that story and at the end of (nearly) every day.

This was accidental parenting too, us not knowing then how it would pave the way for hearts just before sleep. Night time is an ideal time, after a day of mess-ups and missteps, to talk about needing a little new life pumped into day-drained vessels. They seem to do their best thinking after the lights go out. I know I do. And by days end, which one of us couldn't use a little transformation?

Who doesn't need reminding that we are new and we are being made new all the time ... simultaneously soaring while shedding this mess-up prone life-skin -- one real, hard day at a time.

Each Monday here, we begin school the same way. I hand my girl a new character card and we learn the sentence together, then practice the lines from weeks before.  "I don't quit, I persevere."
"I am a wise child, so I work hard." This week she asked why the card included a butterfly. We read the words, "God can make me new."


I smiled, told her I bet she already knew the answer. 

So we read books about butterflies and she drew their life stages. She didn't say. We painted butterflies on canvas and she ran after moths with cupped hands in the yard. But she didn't say. So, when she let that back door slam on her way in from outside, I shushed her loud, nearly yelled  (always ironic) that "Ben is sleeping!" the way I tend to do. And then this ...

"I figured it out, Mama! It's just like my butterfly verse ... God does metamorphosis in us! That's why there's a butterfly on my card. "

And four years later, her "butterfly verse" came into full color and she was animated and jumpy with the knowing. Later, she dug a bit deeper. "Mama, can God make anyone new? I mean ... like anyone?"

I knew what she was really asking. And she wanted to know what we all desperately need to remember. Is there anyone who is too far gone, too far out, too far away? Ah, and this girl of six doesn't know her own heritage, the oldest born to two prodigal parents.



I smiled. "Yes, He can make anyone new." I told her how we don't ever stop loving, hoping with, anyone. "Not ever, ok? Because God can always change a heart."

I say it loud and clear, tender but emphatic. I say it with authority because I've lived it. I've seen it. And I've listened, jaw-dropped to the floor, to humble men and women who speak of the old, but only display the new. Yes, this is one I'll die on -- for myself and for the one out there who appears unchangeable, for the one who believes too much time has lapsed, for the one who has been given up on.

Because really? What good is Easter then?

What are we remembering? Hoping for? Celebrating? Why all the praise that will come on Sunday morning? Why bother with any of it if not for the promise of the new?

Later that day I mess up big and I yell and I have to apologize to my kids. For a minute my couch with green marker streaks trumps a kid's heart and I crush it good. I send everyone outside with wide eyes while I scrub and the marker comes out but I'm all messed up.

I tear up while I apologize and I try to make sure they know I value them more than a piece of furniture. But my oldest girl has internalized this butterfly truth and she leans in, pats my back the way I do hers. "It's ok Mama. We all need a little metamorphosis everyday."

She winks and I'm stunned because what do you do when your kindergarten kid ministers to your soul? I tell her I guess I'm just a stinky caterpillar today and my middle gal just thinks this is hilarious. 



On Palm Sunday we entered into Holy Week and began this final leg of the Easter journey. I've failed miserably in writing about any of it here-- but God has met us in these past forty days. Beautiful things, rich and lovely, are transpiring.

To begin the week, we planted a tiny garden in a silver tub. We chose plants still green with the knowing that they will bloom ... soon.  We bought parsley for the sole purpose of attracting butterflies and Cara has been toting a self-made caterpillar habitat, complete with caterpillar, for three days now. Our house is full of anticipation and the watching for signs of new.

And I just keep laughing, thinking about how badly I need some metamorphosis, and how often. I think on how we shed just a bit more of this everyday skin all the time -- everyday becoming a bit less like a caterpillar and a bit more like a winged beauty (2 Cor. 4:16).

This is the hope we have and the promise He made good on. "God can make me new."

Friends, today is Holy (Maundy) Thursday. If you missed Lent, missed Palm Sunday ... perhaps begin today?  Perhaps read through Mark 14 and 15 and begin to walk this road a bit, before Easter sneaks up?

Because everything changed, and became new, at the cross. 

Peace and grace today.

If you need a little courage ...

May you stand tall today, courageous with your chin held high. May you know Truth as you cling to Him who writes it on your heart, engraves it on your soul.

May you live out what you know. Really live it. Because He can be trusted.

May you lean into Him who makes you brave, moves your feet, and keeps you from stumbling. May you take a leap, or even just one step, and know this: the One who broadens the path beneath you won't let your ankles turn. 

Peace (and courage) to you today, my friends.

From middle class to masterpiece

My middle gal is in a phase.

I don't know for certain because my oldest sailed through these years with yes mama's and a lot of tenderness. But lately, when the middle one most needs a hug, she is more likely to throw an elbow. And I haven't read the book on elbow throwing yet ... though I recently picked up 'The Young Peacemaker."

She doesn't feel heard and she has trouble with patience. She takes what she wants by force: hitting, wrecking, grabbing ... then crying popcorn tears right on cue. Life has been a bit dramatic lately. She needs to make her presence known and she is a middle child. I could be mistaken, but I think I am watching textbook play out in real time.

We remind her to use her words, tell us what she needs. Maybe it's my job to know so that she doesn't have to ask? No one reacts as quickly as she wants when her heart has been hurt: her middle voice unheard and her middle height overlooked.

There is a blue-eyed boy who still needs a mama to pick up and hold. There is a tall, firstborn who needs help to piece letters into words, decipher b's from d's. The littlest needs my help and the oldest  is the helper and the middle one with fair skin and full cheeks ... she is known to wander a bit.

Todd and I stay up late and ask question over handfuls of peanuts, black coffee.

"How do we make her feel special?"

"How do we encourage her heart, how do we 'fill her love tank?'" 

"How do we teach her right behavior, not crush her little spirit?"

We have guesses, inklings. But who really knows? We land on the way of extravagant love.

"We just need to love her well," he says.

I think on my kids from work, how their most desperate attempts to separate were often the loudest cries for closeness. I think on my own life and how the anger and the pushing-away can grow right out of the heart-hurt.

A soul cry can look a lot like throwing an elbow. 

It's late in the evening and dad should be walking through the door any minute. The glass storm door usually creeks first and this is the hint that he is just seconds away ... bigger door separating father and the waiting few. Sometimes the wind pulls the glass door open just a bit and then lets go again. The kids are tricked every time, running for dad who isn't really there.

On this day, my middle one is aimless and she has ostracized herself from the two, no longer welcome. It is six o'clock and I have to choose: damage control or dinner. 

I see her in limbo and four year old shoulders can slump low like my own. I stop the doing and sit on the kitchen floor. At the foot of the fridge I scoop her into my lap, ask if she wants to read a book, play a round of Connect Four. Really, she just likes how the red and black pieces spill loud with one slide of the lever. She will fill and spill, fill and spill, laughing each time. She shakes her head no and she doesn't know what she wants.

I think about Peter. He was a semi-disaster and Jesus loved him well: called him a rock until he became one. Peter had to learn who he was, had to be told before he could grow into his name.

Truth spoken right into his skin. Words entering marrow.  

Someone did this for me once and who says four years old is too young to start knowing?

So I tell her she is wonderful company even though she just pulled hair. I tell her she is so fun to be with even though she just wrecked block cities. I tell her she is a wonderful big sister even though she runs with toys overhead while the smallest screams wild.

The  moment shifts and her face softens and she settles sideways into my chest. The words begin to come easy and suddenly I have a lot more to say. I tell her Truth. She listens while taco meet sizzles and the glass door creeks. The other two yell for dad and four little feet sprint.

My middle child doesn't budge and and this is how I learn it.

This is how we have to love this girl.

We have to call her loved until she knows it deep; we have to call her loving until she acts it out. I pray into her sandy strands right there on wood planks and we, just for a moment, ignore dad.

She hugs my neck and she kisses my cheek soft, doesn't bulldoze.

I think how I, too, have been loved this way for years and years ... Someone calling me lovely even though lovely is but a vision.

I hold this middle child in my lap and I let go of middle-child fears. I cling, instead, to the hope of  what and who she will be, who she really is ... because He is speaking it into her already.

He is speaking it over her today.  

For your Sunday...

Hoping your day includes some sweet rest, a quiet knowing that you are loved, and perhaps an all-star dance party ... well, just because.

 Be blessed today, friends.

 

Finding Home

It was on Day 6 of Advent, back in December, when this little family read about Jacob who slept on a rock and dreamt of heaven. When he woke, he was afraid and in awe at the same time.

"How awesome is this place," he said. "Surely God is in this place and I was unaware."

My oldest girl drew Jacob's ladder that day, the stairs to heaven colored red and blue with the angels ascending and descending. Wings bright yellow. God hovering at the top. She folded it up, put it in her pocket like Ann told us to do-- to remember, throughout the day, that everywhere is a house of God.

Later that night I pulled it out of her pants pocket, was reminded of its truth before tossing denim into the wash. How had I forgotten so quickly? I was certain I had missed Him that day ... because some days I just don't know how to make a home.

Some days home can feel elusive.

And Todd and I have always named our years, faithfully together on January 1. For years now we have performed this New Year liturgy. We sit close on New Years day, communion between us. We eat bread, drink wine. We remember the twelve months behind us, ponder the twelve to come. We confess, ask, laugh nostalgic, offer up this next trip around the sun. We ask for grace and courage. We give thanks.

And recently we've witnessed the passing of years named COURAGE, FREEDOM, MATURITY. And it sounds audacious, I suppose, to name a year that hasn't yet happened. But the naming has become, for us, more of an asking ... a recognition of a need mixed with humble anticipation.

Becasue He has worked on this family's behalf.

But this year, we sat together with the calendar wiped clean and we had no name-- 2012 glaring at us like a newborn swaddled tight. Infant hope all wrapped up in endless possibility.

And nameless.

This nameless babe has haunted me for nearly a month. I haven't been able to move on, figuratively speaking. For the first time in years, the weight of a name is weighing me down.

But on Day 6 of this new year, one month after my oldest put that ladder in her pocket, my littlest one stirred something in me. On the day of the Epiphany, I had one.

We were talking about church and how it is a building and how it is also God's people, inside four walls and outside as well. This concept is difficult and I wondered if she was tracking. Then she asked me if it was the same as "that story." "You know, mama? The one with the rock pillow and the stairs and the angels? Not just church, but everywhere is God's house."

I remember how Jacob woke up afraid that morning. And amazed. With fear and wonder mixed together, he got up and declared that place God's house. Awe at what he had seen, fear at what he hadn't understood, wonder at God's presence and the promise ahead of him. All the while, he had a knowing that he was on holy ground.

God there in the mystery.

And I wonder if fear of the unknown (un-named) could be holy wonder too? God here, sprawling across empty calendar space, taking up residence in my nameless days ahead.

I go back and read Jacob. And when he woke he went on his way, but not before making a proposition:

"If you'll be with me and watch over me, if you'll provide for me then you'll be my god. And all that you give me? I'll turn around and give it right back. And this place of rock hard sleep will become your house.  If you'll get me home, I'll declare this place a house of God."

Only this: God had already told him, "I will bring you back to this land. This is the land I will give you." Jacob wanted to get home and God said, this place you named 'House of God' will be your home.

Your home will be wherever I am.  

And in the first four weeks of my nameless year, I've been thinking on this idea of home without even knowing. Conversations and books and prayers and encounters, all pointing not to a place but to a reality. "You have been our dwelling place..."

It's nearly February now and Christmas is lingering under my skin; this God who came down to dwell among us, within us, is reminding me again and again that home is wherever He is.

And so it is one month late and right on time that I'll declare this year The Year of Finding Home.
Because there's a stirring here within these walls and we're sensing that home is far more than where we lay our heads. It's a mystery and it's lovely and the welcome embrace is safe, sure and strong. 

On roots and rhythm ...

It's advent around here, and during the month of December we do what we have always done.

Every year since I was four ... we start on Day 1 and we tell the story. And my mom created this rhythm in our home all those years ago. Now life just seems to ebb and flow with the seasons ... with me always on the lookout for what is coming around the bend. Again.

And I love this circular living, the knowing and the waiting. My girls wait with anticipation the way I waited when I was small, each morning waking up and looking to the day. What day is it? They want to know and I am thrilled. They are putting down new roots, grafting into mine and hers ... grafting into His.

And my mother was thirty-nine when she crafted the Jesse tree out of felt with the other West Point ladies. It was 1982 ... military moms banding together to create an advent tradition, weaving Truth into a tangible story for small minds.

I woke every morning of December to put that figure on the tree and my mind doesn't know advent without them. Without her all wrapped up in them ... telling me of Him. She taught me in quiet, simple ways how the small tales are really part of one large story. How the old weaves right into the new. How every word pointed to His coming. How scripture told He would come from the root of Jesse ...

All along, through those rhythmic years of Decembers, my mother was making Christmas more than just a day. She was making Christmas a story-- a life in the making-- with real heroes and reminders of our place in it all ... us, all unknowing and hero-needy.

So at Christmas time each year we begin at the beginning. We tell of Adam, Eve, Noah and the flood, Abraham and the promise, Samuel, David and a royal bloodline. We tell the story one piece at a time, starting with a miniature earth and that ol' apple.

We start with a serpent and we end with a Savior. We start with a promise and we end with a Person.

The Word making good on his word.

My mother is 66 now and her Jesse Tree, all its felt figures, shows signs of wear. And she said I could have it someday, when she is gone. But I don't like to think about that and I prefer it hanging on her wall in her home. Still, it has taken me years to create may own version and the felt characters just don't feel the same in my fingertips. I want the smell and the taste and the touch to stay the same and I have to remember that we are paving new ways. Same roots ... new rhythms.

I am thankful for roots.



And somewhere along the way, during these last years, I have grown to love this woman too. As a young mother and no longer a little girl, I need reminding again and again of this rhythmic living.  Always coming back to Christ, day after day, season after season ... the story always pointing to Him. She helps me to see.

And lately I find that I need this story now more than ever and I wonder if my mother, way back then, didn't need it too. I wonder if that Jesse Tree was more for her than for us ... creating her own space of grace and awe ... a space of remembering while a young family and four children swirled at her feet and swept through her kitchen. 

Looking back I know it was all by grace ... me picking up on the rhythms she created. Me breathing in the story that was so much bigger and substantial than I ever could have known. And how we invited Him into our living room, our life, all because she knew our need ... 

Because more than a Jesse Tree, did she know that we just needed Jesus? And I live now by these rhythms ... created by her, rooted in Him. This God among us.

It is December 14th and we are following the lead of my mother and we are following the lead of Ann (dearest Ann who quietly follows the lead of Christ). We are looking toward Him. And for the last few years now, we have joined up her words with my felt roots and I smile big each advent season, like I did when I was small ... the knowing that this is a good fit for us.

This new weaving into the old and the knowing that there is room for these roots to sprawl and plunge deeper still. Always pointing behind and ahead too ... each day a reminder of the One who came and the one who is coming still.