tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55784087274020370142024-03-14T02:00:55.787-04:00sixteen:elevensharing the stories on this path of life...-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-38253608730971281862014-05-25T14:33:00.005-04:002014-05-25T14:33:48.054-04:00Hey there! Long time, no see.Oh my word, it's been a long time.<br />
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I'm taking a cue from a friend who recently caught up her own blog despite the enormity of the task. Like her, I have serious "catch-up anxiety"and, well, there is a lot to catch up on. It's safe to say I've been paralyzed by the task. There are pages and pages of writing stored up- mostly unfinished or too-honest thoughts. I feel full and tired and fragile. All in good and healthy ways, if that's possible.<br />
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Since last May we have acquired a puppy. And a cat. And a baby.<br />
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The puppy is named after this great state and also for her dreamy ginger coat. We call her Ginny even though she doesn't answer and she likes her name so much that I've walked this neighborhood with four children and an empty leash one too many times.<br />
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The cat was a rescue and the adoption story is one for another day. Just trust me when I tell you it is ridiculous at best. At any rate, she also ignores me when I call her name but I rather expect this from a feline. Her name is Buttercup (after THE princess bride) and the children carry her upside down while dressed in french berets and American Girl frocks. She has yet to draw blood or even show a claw. The children frolic with her at lengthy intervals and so when life gets crazy and the stresses mount, I tell everyone to go and find the cat. I maintain that obtaining the cat was my bright idea and that it was a good one.<br />
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And if the dog and cat and their accompanying allergens/fur weren't enough to cause our visitors to dwindle, well, we also managed to squeeze another tiny human into our cozy little space. The girls now live in the attic. Seriously.<br />
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So if you haven't been over in a while, don't worry. There are no hard feelings. There probably isn't anywhere for you to sit.<br />
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In November I birthed a sweet babe and she tricked me on All Saints Day with a fake water-break episode. When we arrived at the hospital to welcome her, she was upside down. And so somehow, my fourth baby joined us feet-first from the operating room. We all held our breath while the team assembled in the wee hours of the night and we cried relief when we kissed that perfect c-section head. I thanked her for not arriving on Halloween and I assured her of a great company of saints who prayed her into my arms on the following day instead.<br />
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For the record, whoever said having four children was no harder than having three is just plain fibbing. Or crazy. Or infinitely more together than I. But when I start to feel nuts and wonder what in the world were we thinking, I look at this chubby, now half-a-year old gal and I could keel over in love. Each new baby we welcome is simply divine in his or her own way. And each one grows into a divine little person. We are stunned each time by the journey, the family transformation, and the heart-space they find to fill.<br />
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Yes, I am madly in love with this one too. She is the first of mine to cry when I am out of sight and she holds the back of my arm with a desperate little grip. She sways quiet on my hip during church and I miss her when I grocery shop alone.<br />
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I have a serious baby girl crush and her name is Anna Katharine.<br />
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And so I suppose this is where I have been. Homeschooling and bouncing babes and wrangling pets. Singing ABC's and Patty Cake while learning how to be more organized, more patient, and more certain of this season at home. I remind myself often of how quickly it will pass.<br />
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I assure you it isn't always pretty. But I promise it is good.<br />
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All that to say, we are alive and well.<br />
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For old times sake, here are a few (pretty) moments. <br />
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<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-39017780941530739132013-06-16T09:30:00.000-04:002014-05-21T23:07:56.519-04:00Talking about dadShe was just a few hours old when he spoke his first father words over her. The night had birthed more than just the morning and the process hadn't gone as planned. I was exhausted ... certain he'd been traumatized. <br />
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For two years I had worked as a Labor and Delivery nurse. I had no personal life experience as I coached, telling all those mothers-to-be what champions they were. "Hang in there," I would whisper. "Your little person is almost here."<br />
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Now, it was my turn to do the laboring.<br />
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I knew too much for my own good in that delivery room the night before. I talked technical words with the doctor. I watched his face turn from casual to all-business ... the way he focused in, got quiet. The way the nurse's feet moved a bit faster. I had been that nurse too. And I read those monitors, told myself when to turn to my left side, when to deep breathe from the oxygen mask. <br />
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This man I made vows with sat by my side, quiet and sure. <strong>And he doesn't do hospital speak.</strong> Years before, I had stressed over thick, heavy books. Patho and pharmacology kept me up too late and I called when I needed to talk out what I was learning. He would tell me we needed to change the subject, say he didn't feel well.<br />
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He'd drive the hours to visit and then sit on my floor. I'd trace the route of blood flow over his t-shirt, recite what was going where ... superior and inferior, pulmonary and so on. I'd tell him how I could start a really great IV in the thick vein near his wrist. He would pull away, turn a new shade of pale green. <br />
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So when our girl was close to making her entrance, we made a back-up plan ... just in case he went horizontal. <strong>But he was an all-star.</strong> When that baby came out with a vacuum shaped head, it was I who did the teetering.<br />
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"It was not suppose to happen that way," I said over and over again. I wanted ocean music and Enya in my delivery room, not forceps. <br />
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More than that, I was convinced <em>he</em> would never be the same. I wondered what friend we could call in ... he would need to debrief, discuss, <em>recover</em>. <br />
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But my Todd was shockingly steadfast. <br />
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Later, in the wee morning hours, he scooped our "dear one" into his arms. He sat upright in his green, plastic recliner and he grabbed the only thing he'd packed. With his little girl lying vertical in the crease of his lap, he opened up to the words he'd <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x8164bREyzk&feature=related">played on repeat</a> for weeks.<br />
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<em>Everyday I will praise ... for you open your hand and satisfy desires of all things ... One generation will commend your kingdom to one another; they will speak of you and I will meditate on your wonder.</em><br />
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He didn't tell her how much worry she caused or ask her why she took so long to get here. He just cradled her there, in a cocoon of pink and blue and a knitted pumpkin hat, all in orange. He turned to pages of praise and, with a new sense of awe and a bit of holy fear, he told her what she needed to know. <br />
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<strong>On the day he became a dad, He introduced her to the Father</strong>. <br />
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<em>The Lord is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in love ... </em><br />
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<em>The lord is faithful to all his promises and loving toward all he has made ... </em><br />
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<em>The Lord is near to all who call on him, to all who call on him in truth. </em><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">psalm 145</span></em><br />
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Almost without warning, this baby girl is nearing seven. Two more have joined us since. Some days I feel like the oldest one just entered our little world. With first-grade fervency, she claims to love this Father that her daddy spoke of. And what transpires between her little heart and His, who can say? <br />
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<strong>But I know this: she has seen father-love in real life, in real time.</strong> <br />
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There is a man in her midst who has modeled well and loved her in extravagant ways ... the way he still scoops her up, cheers her on, runs along beside. <br />
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There is so much of this parenting-life we still cannot grasp, so much of this dad-life he claims to not know. But, in faith, we follow his dad-lead. <br />
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We follow the precedent he set on that first morning with our firstborn. In faith, we commend <em>His</em> works to those in our care. <br />
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In faith, we trust that they too might tell of the Father's mighty acts.<br />
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<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-82078768917001357622013-05-05T16:33:00.001-04:002013-06-14T10:23:40.849-04:00On time and quiet growth and resurrection<br />
I haven't been able to write for nearly a year. No more than a few words here and there. And it's felt a little like dying. And it fits really, if I'm honest. Because I'm only just now coming to realize that we did, in fact, do some dying this past year. And time has a way of marking necessary growth. We are always changing, shedding old skin ... dying a little ... becoming more and more like new.<br />
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It's been just over a year since we started turning <a href="http://madeknowntome.blogspot.com/2013/01/at-home-in-2012-and-review-of-sorts.html">right instead of left</a> on Sundays. And it is possible, you know, to celebrate <i>and</i> to grieve. To walk away and also walk <i>into</i>.<br />
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When we walked through new church doors one year ago, it was the beginning of Lent. And I watched my husband stand up tall and brave among a new crowd of witnesses. I took in a deep breath of certainty, mimicking him there, and I had never seen him so sure.<br />
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<b>And it was like a homecoming.</b><br />
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That was last Easter. And truly? We've declared together and apart:<br />
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this has been our finest year yet.<br />
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As if we entered a living, moving, turning organism with all its liturgy and its calendar and its rhythms. We were swept up into a current that is fluid and brilliant and deep- its riches seemingly bottomless. And like a whirlpool with Jesus at its center, we have found ourselves plunging again and again into still deeper waters, swimming around and around - and always closer in.<br />
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And I am convinced that we were made for this: this spiraling, this liturgical living, this time-keeping. The way we keep hours in a planner and mark days in boxes on our walls. Alarms in our phones. Reminders on screens. We are creatures of habit and time- made with a limited amount of it and always living in a way that just confirms: yes, we are finite. And we were created for rhythms. Seasons.<br />
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Sure, we live the daily but aren't we running in much bigger circles, all of us? Large, twelve month, orbiting circles that bring us back to the same points on the calendar time and time again. And we run ahead and fast as if we are one up on time. But really? We crave what is familiar. <br />
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And what we know best ... is time kept.<br />
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Who hasn't felt it? When we move outside of time's zones, the way our bodies can feel foggy and inside out. And even those of us who long to be globe trotters and time travelers must learn patience ... must allow for the getting there.<br />
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And then for the catching up.<br />
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I suppose I am learning this right now. We waited quiet throughout all of Lent and the waiting continues. We took a bold step, made the initial move. And I would like for the Lord to be doing visible things and directing us in outward ways. Instead, I sense the same whispers over and over again. Every day, just this:<br />
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<b>Wait for the Lord. Create rhythms in your soul and habits in your home. Wait for the Lord. Shed some fear skin and die to control. Surrender to love. Wait for the Lord. Write quiet prayers in secret.</b><br />
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And it is one year later and my heart longs to tap out meaningful words in this space. I want to know that I've grown or changed and so often I can't see myself clearly until I see my own words. I want to know what He has been up to from springtime last.<br />
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Instead, this year found me stretched. Quiet. <i>Baffled</i> by its necessary silence. It was Lent again and my struggles were similar, my fasting equally tough, equally eye-opening to my own sin nature and frail human tendencies. And still, I'm thankful for the rhythmic reminders in a year. Lent was a time to slow and remember, go into the desert with Jesus on purpose. To believe that I, <i>we</i>, really do live on something other than bread alone ... whatever that bread may be. It was time again to wait. <br />
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And in our church now, we are still celebrating Easter. Six weeks later we are still talking of the resurrection and, yes, I am being resurrected too. And this church calendar reminds me to linger- not to rush necessary growth or grief or celebration. Inside those church walls, time seems to stand still and I'm swept up into something infinitely larger than myself.<br />
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<b>I am learning not to fear time.</b><br />
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I am learning, in the quiet, that He is always keeping company with me- this man who is outside of the hours I keep.<br />
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I am believing now, with a new posture, that My Jesus really has marked all of my days.<br />
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I watch the calendar and pray for growth from this year to the next. It has been a year of sporadic words. And I have learned to be alright in this place. Perhaps gestating. Perhaps finishing up with a necessary grief. And my answer, when someone asks, has become semi-lame but always the truest response I can find.<br />
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"I'm really good," I say.<br />
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Because I really am. Perhaps moving into a long awaited season of security. I sense an infant, sure knowing ... both new and strong. I'm not so afraid of breaking anymore. I'm growing into some new word skin. And I think I can see it now- how I needed to find some courage in the quiet.<br />
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Friends, time brings change and change brings growth. Growth can bring some hurting. But good, healthy hurting brings clarity and purpose. Vision. And God willing, next spring will come again. We can bet that in the midst of time turning, Jesus will not change. His words will still hold true. His call to holiness will still be clear. His love will still be abundant ... His grace still plentiful.<br />
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I've watched calendar months fall away and I've been a bit restless. What will come of all this unmarked time? I can hope this next year is not as quiet as the last. I can hope that as the seasons turn again, my heart will turn too-<br />
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always spiraling closer into the heart of the One who holds me, and time itself, in the palm of His hand.<br />
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<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-70033188816584382462013-03-04T10:45:00.000-05:002013-05-05T12:56:16.589-04:00On my birthday- a letter to my teenage selfDear Girl,<br />
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You are beautiful. You are talented. You are worthy of good things. You are lovable.<br />
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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, <em>all of this</em>, for one more day. <br />
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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. <br />
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<b>Dear girl. You are more than the MVP, SCA, SAT, GPA, or an AP <i>A</i>.</b><br />
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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 <em>everything</em> 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. <br />
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<b>But the people ...</b><br />
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And it's funny really how you are all the same there within those mascot colored bricks, laminate lunch tables. <br />
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Same fears. Same needs. Same desires. <br />
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Rejection, isolation. Acceptance, grace. Love, belonging. We are people ...<br />
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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. <br />
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And your parents really <em>do </em>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. <br />
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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. <br />
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<b>'Cause DNA doesn't morph and the Maker doesn't make mistakes. </b><br />
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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.<br />
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The world is waiting for just-right you. <br />
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At 35, you'll look back and see it. "Oh, I was good at that back then too ..."<br />
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If friends call you 'safe' now ... they will call you 'safe' later. Yes, this is your gift. <br />
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So stop trying to be elusive, dynamic ... cool. Just be a soft landing. The world needs more of those. <br />
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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. <br />
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But choose wisely, huh?<br />
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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. <br />
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All penned by the same Great Author. So be gentle. Patient.<br />
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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. <br />
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So don't size up too quick. Write off too fast. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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She'll wonder if you remember her. She'll breathe relief when you do. <br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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You'll see it was a mere piece of the whole picture.<br />
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Girl, take a deep breath in and out and let your shoulders sink. <br />
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Be good to yourself. Be brave. Love yourself well. And others too. Trust the bigger story. <br />
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And hang in there. <br />
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What is devastating you won't break you, even if you are toe-over-edge and teetering.<br />
And if you hold on, you'll be stronger, built up, and battled-scarred in the best kind of way. <br />
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<b>Because what bruises you now will make you a well of grace later ... Grace for a fracturing, waiting world. </b><br />
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So girl, this life? It funnels fast and funny and no matter where you go, where you work, what job or university you land ...<br />
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You'll eventually see how this life adds up to <em>people</em> - in our wake and in our grasp -<br />
people yet waiting to hear from us, see us living our lives well, to the glory of the One who gave us our days. <br />
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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!<br />
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You are just right and fiercely brave: saying 'yes' in your own time ... keeping step with His.<br />
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Girl, you are lovely and darling and dear. You are but one perfect piece in a most beautiful puzzle. <br />
Take your place with grace and with ease. Look straight ahead and don't be afraid. Be excellent, yes! Work hard, yes!<br />
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Be brave enough to treasure your life and then hand it over, not to the masses, but to the One who first gave it.<br />
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<b>You, <i>beautiful you!</i>, exist for the benefit of us all. But first, you must exist for Him. </b><br />
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And He who began a good work in you <em>will</em> finish.<br />
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This, girl, is a promise. He has only just begun. <br />
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<em><br /></em>-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-32521371636262561952013-01-06T14:44:00.002-05:002013-05-05T13:14:50.703-04:00If you are fishing for some encouragement<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Hoping your first week of 2013 was filled with happy laughter and a bit of hyper color. </div>
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And if not? No worries, friends. </div>
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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 </div>
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re-shuffle and redirect if and when we are in a jam. There's no shame in losing a hand or two ... </div>
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Because sometimes losing is really winning and handing over your best card is really making room for one that's better. <br />
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Sometimes it feels like all bets are off ...<br />
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can we open up empty hands and wait patient?<br />
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Friend, this could be the time to stop fishing for what is next.<br />
And simply be.<br />
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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.<br />
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We are not yet who we will be.<br />
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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. <br />
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So run the race today, friends. And then again tomorrow. Don't drop out.<br />
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Don't flip the board and pout, throw down your cards when your pal wins.<br />
Let's cheer, "Wow, look at you!"<br />
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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)<br />
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We have all we need. We are enough just as we are. And we <i>will</i> be made complete. <br />
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Someday.<br />
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But in <i>this</i> moment ... could we say in faith, "Come, Lord Jesus. Do what you will ... today."<br />
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Just one right-now at a time.<br />
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<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-44363441141906286722013-01-03T01:44:00.000-05:002014-05-28T21:25:37.352-04:002013 is The Year of ...I have been known to hide out when I am in process. <br />
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To hunker down in the fog and then emerge into the clear, seemingly unscathed. <br />
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My mom knows this about me. And when I was in college she waited before calling- always waited for me to check in first. But if I didn't? She knew I had gone underground. <br />
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And she hates to leave a message- feels 'so silly talking to a machine,' she says. But she left the messages anyhow, always the same: 'Mary Abigail, I'm missing you. Where did you go?'<br />
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Most of the time I called back quickly. 'Sorry mama. I've just been busy.'<br />
But other times, I would only have to hear her voice on the other end before cracking wide open. I would cry quiet into her ear, always trying to hold it together. Keep the flood contained. Keep her safe from my burden. <br />
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Because I never wanted to trouble her. Not <i>anyone</i>.<br />
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I have a few heart friends who always come to me when they find themselves mid-crisis. Call or show up right in that bad moment when the world is all coming down. And I love them like crazy for this, for the gift of being vulnerable. They don't know it's sacred space when they do this: show up at my door and spill it all out for me to catch ... only to offer it back up to Jesus on their behalf. <br />
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And it's not that they couldn't or wouldn't go to Him in their distress. But it's hands and feet they need and it's holy privilege to be safe space in those gut honest moments. I've been called that: safe space. <br />
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And I have been, for the most part. For every person but myself. <br />
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And I've always said I work everything out on paper. That I don't know what I think until I see it. Don't know what it all means, what it is all really about until it's over and done. Until the storm has passed. This is only partially true. <br />
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The other part? I don't like to flail. Don't like to fail. Don't like to fall apart. Don't give myself that much room. I'm just private, I say. Not likely to come to your door and spill.<br />
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Back in school I never let anyone edit my work ... would have taken my words to the grave before letting you mark them up with red ink. Too afraid to show process. To proud to need direction.<br />
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I'll show you my A plus ... just not my rough draft. <br />
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And fear and pride will play tricks on your heart- keep you all bound up and alone, tell you you are wrong for needing people. Wrong for being in the middle of the journey. Wrong for being a bit rough around the edges. Fear and pride will tell you to hide out, work it out alone, resurface when all is well.<br />
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Pride will whisper that just you and your quiet faith is highly spiritual. <br />
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Only, God gave us each other...<br />
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And I spent the first half of my life showing only the good stuff. Lived out an addiction-to-thin among college roommates for five years. I led bible study and raised my hands at Inter Varsity, covered up my hurts behind closed doors. <br />
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I finally sought out some help. I did it all by myself. And for months, while living with four girls, I drove away to therapy instead of to class. Four days a week I sat in groups and private sessions, learned it was alright to say 'I'm not okay.'<br />
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I just didn't want others to know.<br />
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And I had a major breakthrough- found some power in the Word-made-flesh and I stopped being afraid of my own. When that doc said I had years of work to do, I simply told him I wouldn't be back. I had found some new freedom.<br />
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My eventual victory was radical and powerful. It was also lonely.<br />
I had no one to share it with, no cloud of witnesses. <br />
I wondered why I'd done it all alone. And every year since, when spring hits and I smell the first whiff of green grass, I'm bowled over by memories of fear and keeping secrets ... and yes, of finding the way. <br />
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God's grace.<br />
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Because how do you share your greatest joy when you hide your deepest sorrow? <br />
How do you share real beauty when you hide all of the growth?<br />
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And we were created by Him and for Him. All of us are His. And so we are family- brothers and sisters around every turn, if we will allow each other to be. We want so badly to belong, to be known, to find safe arms but we stay all tucked in, arms crossed. We keep people out. We show only our best selves, our finished selves- resurfacing when the hard is behind us, when we can tell about how we made it through, how tough it was, how strong we were.<br />
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We are terrified to be needy or lacking or a tiny bit broken ... right now.<br />
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I am guilty of this.<br />
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And so when my words go underground, you can guess that I've gone there too. Waiting for just the right thing to say. Packaged well. Perfect.<br />
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This word crafting- the putting out into the open is risky. And I just don't know how to write words that aren't a bit transparent. They are real and they are all red streaked. And lately, this life is feeling all inked up. Red. With cross-outs and missing verbs and misplaced punctuation.<br />
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But it's what I've got to show, even if it's not that pretty. <br />
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What rough draft is?<br />
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My goal in school was to have no edits. I wanted to get everything right the first time. I equated revision with wrong. Suggestion with failure. I'd turn a rough draft in a day late before I'd turn it in with fixable flaws. I've been that way here- with all these words. <br />
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I want them to be right. And staying right takes tons of energy and we spend most all of our lives being mostly wrong- needy, mixed-up, unsure. I think I might write a bit more if I let you see those parts too.<br />
I think I might like that. <br />
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I want this space to have a theme and a direction. A purpose. Truth is? My life looks nothing like that. I am all over the place. Could I be all over the place here too? <br />
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I could tell you about how I'm always reading six books at once and how most homeschooling days are a sweet disaster. I'd write about Africa and how I have this crazy notion that I belong in war-torn places with war-torn folks; how I'm learning to rest in my 'right now' with these good gifts of young children and a man who loves me in radical, daily ways.<br />
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How I have a roach problem and how, honestly, I've acclimated ... made peace with those sneaky buggers; how I really like my exterminator because he says I'm still clean and that's it's all these woods and all this rain and not at all a reflection on my domestic habits.<br />
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How most the time I feel like a lousy friend and a mess of a wife, never calling or showing up or showering when I should; how when I do wash up, I turn the water real hot and sit there too long, pray a prayer or two because I'm finally alone and if someones calling me ... well, I won't hear them.<br />
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How I love my new church and how I crave the Mass ... can't get enough of communion; how it's been the most beautiful and quiet journey of our little family's life; how I am afraid to talk about it, afraid the right words won't come, afraid I'll be misunderstood ... make another red streak on this page. <br />
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But here's the thing. I feel some victory coming on. And I can't share it with you if I won't share a bit of the process too.<br />
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I want to celebrate wild with you at the end of all of this.<br />
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So, for now, you need to know: I'm in process. And aren't we all?<br />
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So what do you say? I'll show my rough draft if you'll show yours. Maybe in 2013 you could let some folks into your journey? Celebrate the messy 'right now' together?<br />
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And later ... we'll celebrate together, okay?<br />
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It will be a red-streaked party called Grace for all of us who are holding out for the A plus. <br />
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Friend, you already made the grade. There's no report card around these parts. I'm tossing it out<br />
(mainly because Jesus did long ago and I'm praying that head knowledge will become a heart truth). <br />
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And because I'm ready to be safe space- for you. And for myself. <br />
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So ...<br />
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I'm declaring 2013 <b>The Year of the Rough Draft</b>.<br />
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Yes, this is the year to be okay ... right now ... in the process. Whatever it may be.<br />
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And I think I feel better already.<br />
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-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-53209454270033233352013-01-01T16:20:00.000-05:002014-05-28T21:25:37.355-04:00At Home in 2012 and a review of sortsLast year at this time, we were deep in transition. A major life-change. <br />
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We were quiet. Private. <br />
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I was vague with my words ... hoped you might, or might not, read between the lines. <br />
And we named 2012, the way we do each year, <a href="http://madeknowntome.blogspot.com/2012/01/finding-home.html">The Year of Finding Home</a>. <br />
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And it fit so many themes, really. We were homeschooling and we were home. <i>A lot. </i><br />
I needed to understand this space and these four walls in a new, everyday sort of way. <br />
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I was planning a trip to Africa- finally flying off to a place that has always been home in this heart. And I stood up in Uganda, around a dinner of lentils and orange Fanta and new friends- told them all how I'd been <a href="http://madeknowntome.blogspot.com/2012/06/homesick-and-happy.html">homesick</a>. And couldn't this African soil be home too?<br />
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But more than this- Todd and I were on a journey, one that we had been on, collectively <em>and</em> apart, for quite some time. My journey was emotional, nostalgic, and from a deep place I couldn't articulate. His was intellectual ... at first. And in 2011 I told God, alone and from a church pew on Holy Thursday, that I wouldn't ask it of my husband. <br />
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He would find his own way if this place would be our home.<br />
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I would wait quiet. <br />
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Anyways, I feared resentment. Feared misunderstanding from outsiders. Feared change and estrangement. But the Lord weaved and intercepted, gave us friends who stood in the gap. And<br />
He brought this marriage closer still ... walked us further into communion.<br />
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And in our Year of Finding Home? We did just that. <br />
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But I've been known to go underground when I'm in process. I want to have it all figured it out and then tell you the back story from a place of wholeness. Clarity.<br />
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I've also learned over the years that the less process I share, the less celebrating I do in the end.<br />
Because how do you celebrate wonders and victories if you don't first share the trials and the journey?<br />
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We've experienced some quiet wonder this year and I wonder if we, if <i>I</i>, could have shared more along the way. Except that I can hear my husband in my head, reminding me ... "Ab, we're not that cool." And while I wholeheartedly agree about the cool factor, I wonder ...<br />
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Because the truth is, you've journeyed a bit with me, with <i>us</i>, over the last year. And I haven't been able to write lately because I don't know how to write words that aren't see through. And because I've been nervous. <br />
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To some it may just be a church change. No big deal! Especially not big enough to write about. <br />
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But for us, it's been a major shift in community, in comfort, in control. Leaving one beloved church family for another just miles down the road ... this has been an ironic homecoming of sorts, full of beauty and full of risk. <br />
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This new community is one that my husband never claimed until now, the very one I left at age eighteen- frustrated with questions I couldn't answer, history and theology I didn't understand, and emotion I couldn't articulate. As a teenager, I embraced a new church filled with dynamic men and women, exciting programs and worship, leaders and teachers of the highest caliber. I got to know God. And my husband served on staff and I led young women and we lifted up brand new babies in front of a great cloud of witnesses. We grew friendships and shared life in all its glory for ten years. <br />
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But suddenly on Sundays, we pull up to the neighborhood stop sign and we turn right instead of left. <br />
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We miss our people.<br />
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Because we are still here! and we are still the same not-so-cool us. But life is busy and common walls on a Sunday, common childcare rooms, common seats in the back/left of the sanctuary? These givens make staying connected a bit more easy.<br />
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But what about when you suddenly find yourself in different space ...?<br />
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And we asked ourselves the same questions over and over again, up at night, for a year. Why would we ever leave our people? Why would we give up these walls? This worship? Our history? <br />
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We were married here. <br />
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And our new space doesn't offer the same kind of childcare. Let's just say we've spent some time in the foyer with some kids. And it's a whole new crowd- equally large, equally rooted. <br />
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We have felt lost in a sea of faces. <br />
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But then this:<br />
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In the past year we've also kneeled, shoulder to shoulder. Cried collective gratitude with foreheads in hands. We've been bowled over by the richness of a sensual, sacramental faith. We've discovered liturgy and tradition- how those alone offer us a community without adequate description. And we have found a family that transcends walls and a history that reaches far beyond ours alone.We've walked forward each week, with palms turned up.<br />
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We have found communion. <br />
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And despite everything- despite the gratitude, the quiet grief, the immense change; despite what we've left down the road to the left-- the God-given and God-grown friendships, the comforts of familiar space, the full-of-Grace-and-Truth teaching we received, the story of our growing-up; despite all of the new questions we can't answer perfectly and the Mystery we've knowingly embraced ... despite it all, we are sure of one thing:<br />
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In 2012, we found Home. <br />
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Happy New Year, dearest friends. May you find your home in Him in 2013. <br />
<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-74820659705682702302012-12-24T17:42:00.000-05:002014-05-28T21:25:37.360-04:00When roses bloom in winter {a re-post}<em></em><br />
<em>I've been struggling with words these days ... can't find words to fill this space. They just don't come readily like before and I'm trying to be patient. I wanted desperately to write, here, after last week and all that happened in Connecticut. But I had to write it all down for myself, in ink and on my own paper pages instead. Those words will likely stay there. Because last week was all too close for any of us- and I had to do some private dealing, just me and my Jesus. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>But the events marked me and they marked all of us. And those dear little faces on the cover of People magazine mingled and messed with my Christmas joy. I can't shake the thoughts of their mamas. I have struggled to stay out of the emotional weeds. Still, Christmas is here and I believe in the Incarnation now more than ever ... this God who became flesh, born to save us all from everything we can't bear. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Below is a re-post from one year ago and, oddly enough, I think it works for today.</em><br />
<em>Have a truly blessed Christmas, friends. I hope to be back soon.</em><br />
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I nearly complain when I walk out the front door a few mornings ago. <br />
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This weather is so very bizarre and it is difficult to feel Christmas-y when the temperature hovers at 65. I suppose I don't <em>really</em> mind. How can I mind bike riding without coats and street play as if it were spring? I know the cold will come soon enough-- it always does. Somewhere, right now, there is a chill in the air and it will move this way in time, follow those black birds that descend in flocks and tell of colder days to come. <br />
<br />
I see it that morning, out of the corner of my eye ... that thorny vine that is wily and misshapen. I don't know how to trim a rose bush and so it just does it's own crazy thing. It is mid-December and for months it has been nothing but a brown, thorny eyesore. I would have snipped it away long ago if I had known where to find the sheers. <br />
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But this week it is blooming roses. <br />
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Red and pink ones and I find it mysterious. I snap a picture. The next morning I read over <a href="http://www.chattingatthesky.com/2011/12/21/if-your-christmas-feels-upside-down/">here</a> about how Christmas can be hard and all "upside down." The women respond candid and brave. I cry as I read ... pray for women I don't even know, women who will be alone or sad or stretched this Christmas. And who hasn't known pain? Aching loss?<br />
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I read and Christmas feels a bit more sacred, more necessary. It is about more than peace and waiting and anticipating. It is about deep need.<br />
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Need for light when the lights seem to be out ... or are just beginning to flicker. Need for hope that answers the ache. Hope that dispels the dark. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BTef4m3wDhg/TvUBoPCqWlI/AAAAAAAABcw/K42af6o-D1o/s1600/IMG_5733_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" rea="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BTef4m3wDhg/TvUBoPCqWlI/AAAAAAAABcw/K42af6o-D1o/s640/IMG_5733_1.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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Because there are people who are hurting at Christmas. <br />
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And I think on another mama that I <em>do</em> know. It is ten months now, home without her girl. This will be her first Christmas with an empty chair and she posts on Facebook, tells of the memories that keep taking her breath away. At the funeral last year, they said their goodbyes amidst a sea of pink flowers and pink balloons for a girl who was just six. Her and that sweet aroma of pink ... mingling and lightening the air. <br />
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Dispelling the heaviness of a goodbye. <br />
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Her mama weighs heavy on my mind. <br />
<br />
A few short hours from here another <a href="http://getwellpk.blogspot.com/2011/12/final-days.html">family keeps vigil</a>, with thousands of others who have come alongside. And a dear friend's friend is dying. He won't likely make it to Christmas and his beautiful, strong wife informed the masses late last night, bid friends to come. <em>Come now</em>. <br />
<br />
Come say goodbye at Christmas. <br />
<br />
I watch a community plea for prayer and I pray too. I have tried so hard to make this season about the waiting and the knowing that He is coming, the anticipation of this arrival. <strong>God with us</strong>. It has been peaceful around here, just as I had hoped but I wonder if, in my pursuit to flee the Christmas Craze, have I missed something? <br />
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Have I forgotten that He is hope and light, the One who causes light to shine in dark places.<strong> </strong><br />
<strong>And didn't He come in the middle of the night?</strong><br />
<br />
And the weather has been strange and Christmas is coming in with the cold. I am thinking of mothers, lovers, and a little girl who will kiss her dad goodbye on Christmas. <br />
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Today we walk through Trader Joe's and the aisles are filled with shoppers buying gingerbread coffee and cinnamon cheese. We pick up peppermint taffy and I see them there to the right. In a sea of red and green poinsettias ... a small tin of pink roses. My heart speeds up and I tell my girl to look. <em>Look!</em> And we know who they are for. We know where we have to go next. <br />
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Later we leave roses on a doorstep, come home to taffy, and dad is off work early. He plays Christmas music and dances with his girls in the kitchen. I can't catch my breath and I mark the moment in my memory before I step out of the room. Thankful. Heavy. <br />
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Because I am still thinking of roses and I need to get away for just a minute. I shuffle through more Christmas music, favorites that mark the season, and I hear it-- this old hymn. <br />
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I have never listened well to these words but my ears are tuned today. <em>A flower bright .... when half spent was the night.</em> A savior foretold, to show God's love. A babe, whose sweetness so filled the air that kings and shepherds came to see. <em>Dispelling darkness everywhere and lightening every load</em>. <br />
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It is the eve of Christmas Eve and I am thinking on a rose. I am waiting for a light that shines in the dark ... for a hope that enters gladly into the night. <br />
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Come, Lord Jesus. <br />
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<em><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A4plkVZoPhY">Lo, how a Rose e'er blooming</a> from tender stem hath sprung!</em><br />
<em>Of Jesse's lineage coming, as men of old have sung.</em><br />
<em>It came, a floweret bright, amid the cold of winter,</em><br />
<em>When half spent was the night.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>Isaiah 'twas foretold it, the Rose I have in mind;</em><br />
<em>Mary we behold it, the Virgin Mother kind.</em><br />
<em>To show God's love aright, she bore to us a Savior,</em><br />
<em>When half spent was the night.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>The shepherds heard the story proclaimed by angels bright,</em><br />
<em>How Christ, the Lord of glory was born on earth this night.</em><br />
<em>To Bethlehem they sped and in the manger they found Him,</em><br />
<em>As angel heralds said.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>This Flower, whose fragrance tender with sweetness fills the air,</em><br />
<em>Dispels with glorious splendor the darkness everywhere;</em><br />
<em>True man, yet very God, from sin and death He saves us,</em><br />
<em>And lightens every load.</em><br />
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<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-53210315186569282352012-11-03T17:08:00.003-04:002013-01-23T16:09:25.949-05:00Running 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. <br />
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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. <br />
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He said, "go do what makes you <em>you</em>."<br />
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And I said sorry too many times even though he wasn't angry, told him I <em>would</em> 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.<br />
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Because the trek into new places feels safer among a crowd. Other voices cushion the quiet; other bodies temper the nerves. <br />
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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. <br />
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And I heard His roar but I saw His beauty. I felt my own heartbeat. <br />
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And when the call of God and the pulse of your own blood meet up in one place- well that's how you know. <br />
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<strong>I was made for this place.</strong><br />
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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.<br />
<br />
Following Him into that space when He calls. <br />
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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. <br />
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But his squeals echoed what we all know when we stumble into the Maker.<br />
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<strong>This is where I belong.</strong> <br />
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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 <em>me</em>."<br />
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But last weekend, I spent three days at <a href="http://allume.com/">Allume</a>. I drove north again for the second time this month. This time I went alone. I was afraid. <br />
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When I cried, called myself an impostor, my husband looked right into my eyes, said it plain through the iPhone. <br />
<br />
"<em>You belong. You are loved. Go be who you are."</em><br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Following His invitation into the unknown can be both inspiring and just scary enough to hide out forever. <br />
<br />
Believe me, I tried. (And really, it was <a href="http://www.elizabethesther.com/">this girl </a>who saved the day. Fiercely courageous and for whatever reason, knocking on <em>my</em> door.)<br />
<br />
Because my hotel room was just cozy and quiet enough to lounge unnoticed for seventy-two hours. <br />
<br />
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- <br />
<br />
women who love the <em>Word</em>. <br />
<br />
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: <br />
<br />
<strong>Ooh,</strong> <strong>I know this place</strong>. <br />
<br />
I wanted to hide away. But they had come too. Hearts pounding, inspired, and perhaps a bit afraid like me.<br />
<br />
And it's ironic really- how I ran away to learn how to <em>do</em>.<br />
But I came home knowing <em>who to be</em>. <br />
<br />
Because this writing life isn't really so much about the words, but about the girl jotting them down.<br />
And it's not so much about who critiques them ... but why she bothers to write them at all. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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,<em> just</em> <em>maybe</em>, we might gain a credible voice to share with the more.<br />
<br />
And it was dearest <a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/">Ann</a> 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, <em>people</em> applause, well ... Heaven's applause may be silent. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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And my, how we get to watch Him work. <br />
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Last month on our drive north, with the family altogether, we missed the leaves changing color. It wasn't quite time.<br />
<br />
But today the leaves are changing. And so am I. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
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<strong>Because of Him.</strong> <br />
<br />
Grateful for the invitation. Grateful for women who heard the roar and followed the whisper. This time, the all-alone was worthwhile. <br />
<br />
Sometimes it's in the all-alone that He calls loudest. <br />
Sometimes it's in the all-alone that we discover our part matters. So can you hear Him ...<br />
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He's calling you too.<br />
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<em>"Come on now, girl. Come do what makes you you. Come and be who you are."</em><br />
<em><strong></strong></em><br />
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<strong>For the glory of His name. And for the benefit of us all.</strong><br />
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<em></em><br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-19942249582178063732012-10-22T17:21:00.001-04:002014-05-21T23:07:56.510-04:00Here's to good, imperfect days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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Here's to reminding myself that this life is a collection of moments. And the best days are the <em>real</em> 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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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? <br />
<br />
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. <br />
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It was a good day. <br />
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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 <em>all</em> 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. <br />
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Happy Monday! And peace, friends.<br />
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<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-41561649474539635852012-10-19T12:14:00.000-04:002013-05-05T13:14:50.705-04:00When you want to stay dressed<br />
So here's the deal, friends. I've been out. <br />
<br />
Out of words. Out of steam. Out of touch. Just plain out. <br />
<br />
And I have this crazy friend who is more like a lifeline and a year ago we decided to "do this thing until it becomes a thing." We didn't have any big plans really; we just knew it was time to get busy being brave. Stop lingering in the back row, start giving what we had. I had stories to tell. She had words to speak over women. And we had quite a year together- doing that thing- whatever it was.<br />
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She is one stage ahead in life, with big kids in big-kid school. She does life first, then coaches from a distance. She encourages me to love my man with a thumbs-up, teaches me to spur my children on toward cleaner teeth.<br />
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And for whatever reason, for all these years, she has taken on this friendship. Calling, speaking bold encouragement right through the phone and over the distance. Praying me into and home from work, and driving north on 95 to share some weekend courage. <br />
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The other day she proposed something crazy (the way she does) and I protested (the the way I do). While chatting in my ear, she brought me up to speed on her latest Wednesday. And her Wednesdays are all wrapped up in her "doing her thing" and she stands up brave in front of women and she is as real as they come.<br />
<br />
She calls it being naked and we talk about that a lot. <br />
<br />
Not about <em>being naked</em>, but about how it feels to put honest words out there. How the words can't be taken back. How being brave can leave you a little over-exposed. We talk about how the wanting to hide can overwhelm, how the self-critic whispers in the aftermath, how it's a fight every single time to not cover up thick ... decide right then and there:<br />
<br />
"Next time I'll show less skin." <br />
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And while she chatted in my ear from another state, I drove and listened and I made two wrong turns before pulling over altogether. Because she asks tough questions and tells straight truths. She requires my full attention. So I parked in the bookstore lot and turned off the engine. I spent the better part of my free afternoon with my car in park.<br />
<br />
I cried and told her how I just don't have anything to say these days. She didn't bite. I told her again. <br />
I told her I can't be a good mom and write too. I told her I'm too tired. <br />
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And then I told her one more thing and it fell out of my mouth like a brick. <br />
I told her I don't like being naked anymore, that I don't know how to write words that aren't see-through. That, right about now? It all feels too risky. <br />
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"What if I can't do it anymore?" <br />
<br />
"What if I can't keep writing the real?"<br />
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"Because I <em>do</em> have things to say. I just don't want to say them." And my chatty friend said, "Mmm hmm."<br />
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I hung up after crying some more, wandered into that bookstore and bought an empty Moleskin. <br />
It's still empty and the irony is this: I've self-talked myself right out of words. <br />
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And so I guess I have to write about being afraid or else I just may never write again. <br />
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And her brilliant plan, the one I protested, was that I write every day in October. <a href="http://madeknowntome.blogspot.com/2011/11/spend-yourself-day-31-just-beginning.html">Just like last year</a>. And naturally, I froze up afraid this week ... and the week before that ... spoke that whole line again about not having any words. But I've been chewing on my lower lip over here, watching October come and go. We've camped and we've picked pumpkins, plucked apples in a mountain orchard.<br />
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All without words. <br />
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But my friend called again last night, always right on time. She reminded me gently that we are stewards of words, not keepers. Borrowers of our gifts, not hoarders. And when we manage them too closely, we can snuff them right out. And instead of slimming down in the sharing, we fatten up on all things self-indulgent. Fear, insecurity, pride ... All the while, we suffocate while others search about for gifts we have - and won't offer. Words, time, compassion, joy. <br />
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And I imagine Wednesday mornings with all of those ladies in Florida, poised and ready with my friend nowhere to be found -- hiding out somewhere with words she won't share.<br />
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This would never happen, because my friend is fiercely brave. But if it did? What a shame to miss out on her, in her shoes and her bangles. Her sharp, no-frills, no-fear truth that cuts right to the heart in a most ironic and tender way. <br />
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Listening to her, I'm certain of this. Her wealth to share with the world? It's truth and grace all wrapped up in words. Every time she stands up, she speaks it. And women drink her in,<br />
<br />
because it is the truth that women really want to hear.<br />
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And my friend will tell me it is costly. And in the same breath she will tell me it is the only way. <br />
Last night she said, "You have <em>got</em> to speak up. You don't get to stay quiet after you say 'yes' to a gift. You risk everything now. You risk everything to share what you have." <br />
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Because what she is really saying is this: "What is your other option?" <br />
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<br />
And I know the answer to this one.<br />
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I think I'm living it right now. And from where I stand, I'm wondering if feeling a bit naked is really so bad after all. I'm thinking this stifling cover-up is way worse. <br />
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I'm thinking that not risking <em>is</em> the risk. <br />
<br />
And maybe this is the way. Being keenly aware of our bare spots, we give what we have anyway. And in the crazy risking, we shrink rightly into Him ... into and under the One who covers all. <br />
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So, here's to starting again. Here's to putting words on paper. Here's to remembering how to undress, and how to put on God. Taking off the fear, the pride, the whatever ... and dressing in the only other way I know.<br />
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Wrapped tight in truth and grace,<br />
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and hoping that's all you see. <br />
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<em></em><br />
<em>Wondering, friends. What is your gift to give away? And is it worth the risk?</em>-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-10981160615847908312012-08-28T02:29:00.001-04:002013-06-18T15:38:06.122-04:00Playing catch-up<br />
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<br />
I'm all out of words these days and it's just enough to make me batty. Because it's in the words, and it's in the getting them down, that I make sense of life all around me. <br />
<br />
So when there aren't any? I'm all clouded up, in a fog. <br />
<br />
But I think maybe I'm missing all of these faces and I think I'm ready to talk. The end of summer is pressing in and we've done well here. Tanned little bodies and a backyard full of bats, balls, butterfly nets, bug jars. In the everyday hours, my feet waded in the river and my knees bounced a boy at the pool. We ran in too-tall grass out back, swatted at monster mosquitoes. We blew endless bubbles and I lost, over and over, to a four year-old at Old Maid. She laughed hysterically every time, fell over backward, when I pulled that old hag from her hand. We blended smoothies and I tricked them right before their eyes, tossing in handfuls of spinach, avocados. We traveled and summer-camped, watched Gabby and co. flip for Gold.<br />
<br />
Life, this summer, was good. Mind and body, we were all in. My heart, however, has been keeping it's own time ... trying hard to catch up.<br />
<br />
When I got off that plane all jet-lagged and beaded-up, a friend said I didn't have to have any answers. He said, "When people ask what the trip meant to you? Tell them, 'I'll let you know in three years.'" And I laughed nervous and thought, "Well that would be really rude." But the truth is? <br />
<br />
I might have to tell you in three years.<br />
<br />
On the surface, our team touched down and we served long days, long lines. We pushed through and then re-boarded a plane. It was quick and methodical. But I've spent my life pouring over statistics and books and relief organizations: praying that Jesus would feed his hungry, fill hearts and bellies, stop the brutality, ease the oppression. I waited for the time to go and see, touch, look someone in the eyes. Just. Learn. Something. And while I was there, I was <em>all</em> there: body, mind and spirit.<br />
<br />
Hands and feet, finally.<br />
<br />
And now? I'm looking at little faces in my kitchen and we're flipping pancakes. And all the while, those other faces hang in my mind. Lovely faces. And while I'm listening to my girl explain why koalas sleep all day, I'm hearing Mandela Beatrice in Uganda. How she waited all night at age six, the same age as my girl. How her parents never came home. How it was the LRA and an ambush. How she longs for a mother to rub lotion on her back, buy her a bar of soap. How she sang right then and there: "I'll never leave my Lord"... then asked me to pray everyday for her future. <br />
<br />
I'm thinking of a fifteen year old with a daughter turning one. An orphan- turned- mother and who really needs all of the details? I told her she was a wonderful mama, the way she bounced and sang to her girl, blew raspberries on her tummy. <br />
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I'm remembering Bweyale, a resettlement camp, and the metal fence dividing the Compassion school children in green from the refugee children in rags. The two women who smiled like the sun- peaceful eyes, warm words, beautiful English. They held my hands and told how they walked from Sudan. <em>Walked</em>. How they fled from war. Lost children along the way. <br />
<br />
They spoke of how it won't matter if there is peace some day. They won't go north again. <br />
<br />
So I'm here and life is good, <em>more</em> than good. I'm just in a bit of limbo, in the healthiest sort of way. I'm not angry or despondent or detached. My heart just got home a bit later than my feet and that old fire in my bones is raging. I'm restless and trusting God who is here <em>and</em> there. Trusting I didn't spark the fire on my own. <br />
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I'm thinking on those faces and all of the joy, beauty amidst strife, across an ocean and I'm resisting the urge to frantically DO. I'm choosing to cool off and quiet down by staying close to the One who knows and sends and preserves life. I'd like to get back on a plane or earn a new degree. I'd like to hold up a megaphone. <br />
<br />
But just for today: I'm trusting that He knows how often they cross my mind. I'm trusting that they don't ever leave His. I'm reading and learning and telling. I'm waiting quiet, praying with zeal like it all depends on me ... <strong>knowing full well that it does not. </strong><br />
<br />
And I'm remembering all of the faithful who are scattered over this planet- loving, serving, risking, reconciling, advocating, chronicling, innovating for change. I'm remembering that God is not absent, nor is He silent. He is present in all ways, in all places, at all times. He is visible. He is tangible ... <br />
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in His people.<br />
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</em>-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-41559948115951798872012-08-14T23:08:00.000-04:002013-05-05T13:28:55.414-04:00For the hungry heart<br />
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I learned, as a girl, to believe in the promises of God- learned how to trust. My mom spoke Jeremiah 29:11 over us and I scribbled the same reminder in the front flap of all my journals:<br />
<br />
<strong>Hope against hope, I trust in You.</strong><br />
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And sometimes it can feel downright insane to trust in what you can't see - when life just seems all wrong. Sometimes, trusting in "what will be" is the only way through. <br />
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<br />
As a high school senior I couldn't see beyond the next twenty-four hours. I wanted to believe in the promises of God when all went haywire. I wanted to believe He had a plan, maybe even a back-up too. I had messed up and I needed to know that all would be well.<br />
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Because from where I stood, the locusts were feeding on my days and on my future. I needed to know He would buy back what time was devouring. <br />
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When I was seventeen I walked New York City with a youth pastor who served up grace and truth like no one I've met since. We had walked the streets of Quito just one year before and our conversation was still going. He fearlessly led our group of teens to the city. We slept in rows and our sleeping bags overlapped on the second floor of a men's homeless shelter. <br />
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For ten days we called The Bowery Mission "home". By day we served up steaming plates and then washed them again. We painted walls and stairwells, gave out sandwiches and soap on the Midnight Run. <br />
Each day, the men filed into Bowery chapel pews, always a precursor to a hot, free meal. And for some reason they invited us to lead worship ... us white kids from white suburbia. <br />
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We did our trembling best. <br />
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But really, <em>they</em> led <em>us</em> and when we looked out into their faces, all we really knew was that we didn't know a thing.<br />
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Because those men walked in off the streets and they were glad to open their mouths for praise before they ever opened them for food. They bellowed six simple words that soared up to the heights, cut right to my core. The men meant what they sang. And I felt hollow. <br />
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<strong><em>It is well with my soul.</em></strong> <br />
<br />
I stared straight ahead and my eyes welled up. I tried to sing but that sound of their words ... it plunged into deep places. And I envied them.<br />
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I needed it to be well with my soul too. <br />
<br />
We walked up and down Bowery Street in July heat and the city smelled of concrete and rubber, exhaust and stale urine. My eyes blurred and stung while I cried on the inside for some soul healing.<br />
All the while, I couldn't eat. Not at The Bowery, not anywhere. Not for a good year before and not for several after. Not well, at least. Never letting myself get full ... my hungry heart starving right out in the open. <br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">by LuciaM</span></div>
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Each night, bakery trucks rolled up to the curb and we met them outside, assembly-line ready. The pastries, breads, donuts and bagels hauled in from all over the city, just twelve hours stale and unsold. The men who were hungry for a sweeter life fed on the city's finest treats. And those sweet smells crazed me and the youth pastor watched real close, watched me pine away and pass them along the line, right under my nose. He wondered with grief while I denied myself anything good at all. <br />
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But the men were thankful. They fed their mouths and filled their guts with the bounty. It was the city's goodness and they swallowed it down as if it were God's.<br />
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And it was. <br />
<br />
<strong>It's strange now, how my memories of that time aren't so much about homeless men ... </strong><br />
<strong>but of hungry me.</strong> <br />
<br />
<br />
That pastor walked me through Central Park and through The Met. We looked at art and I told him how my life seemed to be turning out all wrong, one grey/green sloppy brush-stroke at a time. I forgot about hope and a future. I was disappearing into shadows, my self melting into my mistakes. He offered plain bagels and he pulled out his bible right there in the middle of the city. <br />
He said how sorry he was, acknowledged the hunger. And he offered me Jesus. <br />
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It has been sixteen years since I slept hungry in New York City. But a few weeks ago, I drove down Bowery Street. <br />
<br />
On the way to a birthday surprise with friends, the street sign caught my eye and the moment snuck right up. And I hadn't been back since my heart has been well. Suddenly there we were, away from home and on city streets. <br />
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And can't Jesus prove a promise kept at any moment He chooses?<br />
<br />
Because for the better part of July, we'd been living in a cabin in the woods. We' been working for friends who said "come." I played camp nurse while my family played hard. <br />
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We lived simple on our friends' Pocono property where kids pulled in by the busload all summer long. Weighed down by heavy living, they stepped out of New York City concrete and into God's creation. They came hungry and hoping, unable to name the deeper need. They sang by campfires, slept in cabins. They prayed to crazy rhythms I still can't find and, at Fort Plenty, they ate their fill. <br />
<br />
They came to me with belly aches and tears and it wasn't a nurse they really needed. <br />
<strong>Because I can recognize Homesick and Hungry when I see it.</strong><br />
<br />
And for a few sweet weeks, we sat back and watched their souls fill right up. <br />
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For each of the seven days they came, they took in mounds of love, heaps of encouragement. They drank down God's promises over broken lives. <br />
<br />
Promises that are hard to conceive of ... near crazy to believe. <br />
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They sat in a chapel where the praise went up and the light streamed in. They heard about a plan and they imagined a future. They listened and believed as others spoon fed the hope. <br />
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And I didn't catch the irony until we drove Bowery Street that night, the four of us together. Our closest friends for all these years, <em>all this time ... this camp. </em>They work for The Bowery. <br />
<br />
So when we took a night off to celebrate, we made our way toward their headquarters, toward the city. We sat on hot concrete and we talked of time and change and friendship. I held my husband's hand while we marveled over our children who slept back at camp, how our God knew long ago about their plans for a hope and future. How He knew about <em>our</em> plan.<br />
<br />
<strong>How He knew about mine. </strong><br />
<br />
<br />
We laughed hard and sang loud in the backseat. We ate cannolis and gelato, shared cappuccino. I was filled with all things good and my God made sure the moment wasn't lost on me. My husband and the others kept right on talking while my eyes stung quiet in the backseat. I took it all in: the heat and the smells and all the bounty that's been mine since then. This time, when the sweet smell of grace passed under my nose, I inhaled it long.<br />
<br />
<br />
I received all the good and I whispered "thank you" from a satisfied place.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EL92hWESLXA/UBs2rVqmw4I/AAAAAAAACHs/vVuQjAoWKZQ/s1600/IMG_9101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EL92hWESLXA/UBs2rVqmw4I/AAAAAAAACHs/vVuQjAoWKZQ/s640/IMG_9101.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
Later that night, we drove from Little Italy and back towardcamp. I brushed remnants of city sweets from my teeth, washed July sweat from my skin. Our drive past Bowery Street had been inconsequential for the others. I didn't fill them in. But for me? It was the sweetest celebration of the night:<br />
<br />
a celebration of a God who keeps promises, <br />
a God who fills empty spaces,<br />
a God who is always enough.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pkzKZw0KThk/UBs2SCF3RcI/AAAAAAAACHc/34YGLVfiirw/s1600/IMG_9089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="418" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pkzKZw0KThk/UBs2SCF3RcI/AAAAAAAACHc/34YGLVfiirw/s640/IMG_9089.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
It has been sixteen years since I was hungry in New York City.<br />
<br />
And I'm not hungry anymore.<br />
<strong>It is well with my soul.</strong> <br />
<br />
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<em>Thankful today for Rich and Suzy- for showing Jesus in radical ways, for celebrating life so well. Grateful to Dave S. who walked and talked with Truth and Grace. And humbled for the privilege to serve among the all-stars of Mont Lawn Camp. Thanks for loving His kids, every single day. </em> <br />
<br />
<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-20358356169196879652012-08-03T12:12:00.005-04:002014-05-21T23:07:56.513-04:00Come in close for the fillingMy 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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Determined for togetherness. <br />
<br />
Then she reached behind her, grabbed my dangling arm, and pulled it right over her waist. Enveloped. <br />
<br />
My girl wore me like a blanket. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OYDdmtBTzZI/UBvTXOh0L9I/AAAAAAAACLE/mJTd7slW6Oo/s1600/IMG_9041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OYDdmtBTzZI/UBvTXOh0L9I/AAAAAAAACLE/mJTd7slW6Oo/s640/IMG_9041.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
'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.<br />
<br />
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<em> that</em> is the best way to start the day."<br />
<br />
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, <em>all of them</em>, into this space? Not our bed, per se, but into closeness, into safety for the filling.<br />
<br />
How do<em> I</em> stay filled up, invite them into the overflow? Because there are days when<strong> I just don't got it</strong>. 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. <br />
<br />
But really? We weren't meant to fill. <strong>We were meant to spill.</strong> <br />
<br />
And when the tank is on empty ... we don't invite in. We repel. <br />
<br />
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? <br />
<br />
<br />
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How do I teach them to put on God? To wear<em> Him</em> like a blanket. How do we all wrap up,<strong> live in</strong>, a Father embrace? How do we find him at the start of a day and then hold on, tucked inside and under?<br />
<br />
Isn't it the closeness that fills us up and isn't it in the together-space that we grow? Secure, sure, safe. <br />
Isn't He always inviting us into an embrace? Waiting to fill us right up and over?<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
And I've got to have something to spill. I've got to have some togetherness. <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4WGDU9gWqLg/UBvTonwuiiI/AAAAAAAACLU/51bufot1veY/s1600/IMG_9047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4WGDU9gWqLg/UBvTonwuiiI/AAAAAAAACLU/51bufot1veY/s640/IMG_9047.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
This morning I started with a fresh reminder from a girl of four who whispered it right and well-- right into my morning rising: <br />
<br />
<strong>Just come in close and put on God.</strong> <br />
<br />
Wear Him like a blanket today, right now, every moment. Wrap up in His sure covering.<br />
And in the quiet space of sure love, get filled up.<br />
<br />
Then ... go and spill over.<br />
<br />
Yes, I am certain. This is the best way, <em>the only way,</em> to start a day. <br />
<br />
<em><strong>"But as for me, it is good to be near God." Psalm 73:28</strong></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>We do a lot of love-tank assessing around here. You can read more about Gary Chapman's Five Love Languages<a href="http://marriage.about.com/cs/communicationkeys/a/lovelanguage.htm"> here</a>. And p</em><em>erhaps we can begin chatting again, you and me? I know it's been a while.(I've missed you!!) </em><em>Want to talk about how to put on God? How do you start your day, friends?</em><br />
<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-85181870759086165392012-07-11T00:52:00.000-04:002013-05-08T16:15:13.659-04:00Home away from home ...<br />
So ... we packed up for nearly twenty days and I forgot to let you know.<br />
<br />
We shoved bikes and baby dolls and bits of each room into bulging bags. We pulled out and went north to make a home away from home, to be with friends who <strong>feel like home</strong> in so many ways. <br />
<br />
They called and asked, "Will you come?" And well, in the midst of our Year of Finding Home, somehow leaving for all of July seemed a logical decision ...<br />
<br />
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<br />
I'll tell you what we've been up to in a day or two. A few hints? I've got a walkie talkie and the kids have a nanny. We meet up each night at six to "drop that beat." <br />
<br />
And these friends of ours? Each time we're together, our little family gets another lesson in loving well. <br />
<br /><br />
<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-35665402237321831182012-06-23T12:40:00.000-04:002013-05-05T13:14:50.704-04:00'Cause maybe you needed this too ...<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=psalm%20139:1-18&version=NIV1984">I know you</a>. I know your heart. I made it. <br />
<br />
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<br />
I know your struggles, your deepest desires, your most honest thoughts. <br />
I know how you sometimes wonder 'why.' <br />
<br />
<br />
But I am weaving, child. <br />
And waiting can feel like a death, like you are missing an entire portion of yourself ... <br />
a whole part of your person.<br />
<br />
I am stoking a fire. I am always in process.<br />
<br />
<br />
Child, stop moping. Stop mourning. Stop flashing ahead. <br />
I can't take you <em>there</em> until you are faithfully and obediently <em>here. </em><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1 Peter+1:16&version=NIV1984">Be holy, as I am holy</a>. Be excellent. Persevere. <br />
Allow me to weave and grow you, grow the others I will entrust to your care. <br />
<br />
<br />
Show me, by faith, that you can trust. <br />
Show me, by grace, that you can be trusted. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
You say you feel fragile?<br />
Then break wide open into me. <br />
<br />
You say you feel tired?<br />
Then fall hard into this net of mercy. <br />
<br />
You say you are disappearing slowly?<br />
Then fade right into the <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+63:7&version=NIV1984">shadow of these wings</a>.<br />
<br />
You say the walls are closing in?<br />
Then run headlong into my freedom. <br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
Stop criticizing who you are. <br />
Stop confusing what is good.<br />
Stop controlling how you are perceived. <br />
Stop clarifying what is already clear. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Deuteronomy+31%3A6&version=NIV">I won't leave you to yourself.</a><br />
I won't let you fall apart. <br />
I won't forget that I called you.<br />
I won't give away your place at the table.<br />
<br />
Stop looking back, stop glancing ahead. And for goodness sake, stop flailing.<br />
<br />
<br />
Live now, by faith, in joy. <br />
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<br />
I want to see you smile.<br />
I want to give good gifts.<br />
I want to be your helper.<br />
I want to show you extravagant love. <br />
I want you to be brave, courageous.<br />
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I want you to use your gifts ... for <em>my</em> glory. <br />
<a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=romans%2012:1&version=NIV">This is reasonable worship.</a> <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Do you see it?<br />
I want to make you more like me. <br />
<br />
<br />
This life of yours is yours alone to hand over.<br />
<a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=john%2015:13&version=NIV1984">I know how costly this can be.</a> <br />
But lay it down anyway. <br />
<br />
Then lay it down again. And then again. <br />
<br />
<br />
Give it away here and now.<br />
Stop preserving, stop holding back. <br />
Stop saving up your energy.<br />
<br />
Live loved. <br />
Love others well.<br />
<a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=isaiah%2058:10-11&version=NIV1984">Spend yourself on their behalf</a>.<br />
Open up your hands.<br />
Only "do the next thing."<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Receive my love. <br />
Then let it spill over. <br />
<br />
Whatever I give, <em>you give it too</em>. <br />
Mercy. Pardon. Refreshment. <br />
<br />
Keep walking straight ahead. <br />
Don't slow down. <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Isaiah+30:21&version=NIV1984">This is the way, walk in it.</a> <br />
<br />
Stop calculating, orchestrating, solving.<br />
Stop adding me up.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
<strong>I am mystery.</strong> <br />
<br />
And my puzzle is made of a million intricate pieces ...<br />
all different shades of the same color called Grace.<br />
<br />
I am the beginning.<br />
<a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Revelation+1:8&version=NIV1984">I am the end.</a><br />
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And you?<br />
You fit beautifully into <em>my</em> story. <br />
<br />
You bring me joy. <br />
<a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=zeph%203:17&version=NIV1984">I am singing over you</a>.<br />
<br />
So relax your shoulders.<br />
Exhale that stagnate air.<br />
Do only what I've given you ... today.<br />
<br />
Look for me. <br />
Thank me often.<br />
<br />
<br />
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And then <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+33:20&version=NIV1984">wait in joyful hope</a>.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Jeremiah+32:27&version=NIV1984">'Cause I've got this</a>. <br />
<br />
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<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-24112998057662513222012-06-16T00:32:00.003-04:002013-05-05T13:03:50.618-04:00moments.He took his first ride ever on the merry-go-round, picked his own horse and waved to the same stranger with each orbit.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!"<br />
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<br />The clouds were overhead and the train whistled below. We hovered in between, suspended with delight and a bit of fresh perspective. <br />
<br />
Here's to great moments, no matter how small or fast. Here's to being in the present tense.<br />
Here's to having eyes to see ...<br />
<br />
Peace today, friends. <br />
<br />
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<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-53025630665625517532012-06-14T10:59:00.001-04:002013-05-05T13:01:29.687-04:00Footloose and free ... part 2We rolled out from under mosquito nets and into our scrubs, into shoes that had straddled pit latrines the day before. We woke up with the sun and a sip of dark coffee, peanut butter on toast. We piled into vans with armed guards and boxed lunches. We hoisted pills, braces, crutches, and creams onto van roofs. <br />
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<br />
Each day, the clinic sites varied while the set-up remained routine. Start with triage, then the doctors, then physical therapy. Finish up at pharmacy. <br />
<br />
And I've never seen, in all of my life, a more patient and dignified crowd: quiet, gracious, and waiting from dawn to dusk under an African sun. Hungry babies. Strong mamas. Men in best dress. Their eyes told soul stories.<br />
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They waited outside while I stayed in. One by one, they stepped into a dirt-floored classroom with posters on the walls, all in English. They came with fevers and questions and heart pains. We listened and narrowed down, taught on-the-fly and rapid tested for malaria. We de-wormed and counseled and auscultated. Occasionally, we moved someone small to the front of the line.<br />
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And the lines were long, snaking through Uganda's red dirt and lush green with bikes and jugs and wash basins. Some days we turned hundreds away. <br />
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"We are so sorry," we said.<br />
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Just not enough hands, not enough hours in the day. In Uganda, the second fastest growing country in the world, there is 0.001 doctor for every one thousand people.<br />
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And for the little ones in the crowd each day, we had one box of shoes to share. Just one. <br />
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They were placed in the care of the physical therapists, an extraordinary group of young professionals with immediate and practical skills. They taught body mechanics and dressed wounds. They fashioned braces right on site from boiled plastic, old neoprene. They shared knowledge and hope. <br />
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"Do these exercises, wear this brace, bend your knees while you work ... your boy will walk." <br />
They cut off casts, sewed belts, arranged an amputation. <br />
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And each day they put little shoes on little feet. <br />
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I didn't work with them directly- always a few doors down- but I knew they had been up to some good. Each day at clinic's end, I stepped out of my tiny triage space and into open air. I greeted darling faces, grabbed hands and sang songs, helped the pharmacy distribute long awaited meds.</div>
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And each day, without fail, I wrapped up our clinic time with delight over little feet. Just as soon as I shook my last limb to the Hokey Pokey and turned myself around, my eyes caught a glimpse of little shoes. <br />
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And the first time I noticed? I cried. <br />
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Because they were <em>my</em> baby's shoes- the little green sandals with the flowers- and there they were, all those miles from home. The moment caught me off guard, and then it bowled me over with delight. <br />
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Her mom said they were her first and only pair. <br />
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And I didn't <em>need</em> to see them. Bringing your shoes and mine was never about seeing who received them. When we are called to give, we simply give. We don't get to calculate or manage or oversee.<br />
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But suddenly, there they were. Everywhere I looked, my shoes and yours were running to and fro nearly half a world away. <br />
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I thought of that <a href="http://madeknowntome.blogspot.com/2012/06/when-giving-is-good-for-your-soul-part.html">big box in my attic</a>, all the hanging on and what-ifs and just-in-cases ... how sometimes the clinging can stifle, take on a life of its own. Suddenly, we become hoarders of blessing never meant for the keeping. <br />
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And in the letting go of <em>things</em>, we grow a size or two.<br />
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These shoes were just bits of rubber and leather after all. But suddenly my heart was laced up in a new way ... this little life all tied to theirs somehow. <br />
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Like when I saw <em>him</em> in my boy's first shoes and how my eyes welled up. I held my breathe for just a moment. Because my Ben learned to walk in those shoes. Then he ran down our street like he'd been born to fly. <br />
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And now? <br />
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Here they were. <br />
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And I watched <em>this</em> little guy run right into the wind, and thought of my own blue-eyed boy back home ... all of his busy steps. <br />
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And two worlds really can collide, if we'll let them. If we'll give a bit of ourselves away... make some room to see. <br />
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You did the giving. And so I really wanted you to see too. <br />
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Thank you again, friends. For sending along some joy and for meeting a very practical need. <br />
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(I'd like to talk more soon about how so many are learning to meet their own needs in long-term, sustainable ways. Through vocational training and hard work, many are providing for themselves and for their families- not merely relying on gifts from afar. And isn't this really the goal? Why not send boxes and boxes of shoes several times a year? What then of the small business man who fashions and sells rubber-soled shoes from discarded tires, hemp ... for his village and for his income? These are things worth thinking about. Plus, I'd love to introduce you to some of the folks I check in on from time to time.)<br />
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Friends, here's to running fast into Him today. Here's to letting go of the obstacles. Here's to giving with joy, so that <em>His</em> joy might travel far.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo credit: Chris Kundrock</span></div>
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<br /></div>-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-37397540516926157102012-06-09T02:37:00.003-04:002013-05-05T13:01:29.680-04:00When giving is good for your soul ... Part 1Our packing list was really pretty basic. Bring only the necessities.<br />
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Scrubs, Cipro, malaria prophylaxis. A journal ...<br />
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Do not bring a hair dryer. <strong>We will know who you are </strong>... that's what the note said. <br />
Quite frankly, I've never seen a more darling group of gals with messy hair.<br />
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I was an out-of-towner and couldn't drop donations by the office. They said we would keep our Cipro and undies close, but all donations would go under the plane. I wasn't flying out with the group. I hadn't planned on donating this time. <br />
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Five days before we left, I had my little crew in the attic. Ben was playing trains the way he does- pushes one solitary boxcar from the back with just two fingers. He goes steady, around and around that table. <br />
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And that particular day, he just kept walking around that one storage bin- filled to the brim with little shoes. Big memories. <br />
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They were my babies' shoes and I could see all three of my children in those tiny soles. Even now, I know they are just <em>things ... </em>just rubber and leather all bound together.<br />
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But it can be hard to give away sentiments ... and my mama-heart is bound up in all their running and climbing and fast out-growing. <br />
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I had tried before- to give them all away. <em>Some little person could use these</em>, I would say.<br />
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But I was holding onto every footstep. I had grown up right alongside them, after all. Three babies later, I'm standing a little taller in my own big-girl shoes.<br />
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But we were upstairs and Ben just kept walking into that box and it was clearly an obstacle.<br />
I wondered if it was an obstacle for me too. There was the box and then there was <em>me, </em>holding on tight to things instead of giving away what was never really mine. <br />
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I wondered. Can I give away rubber and leather? Can I create some space here in this attic, <br />
here in this <em>heart?</em><br />
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The next day I put out a quick word, barely audible. <br />
"Hey all, if you have little people shoes- I'll take 'em with me. Next week they'll be on little feet."<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vE7G43yT9hc/T9LWpZ0312I/AAAAAAAAB48/S-WR3JE8z4o/s1600/IMG_7744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vE7G43yT9hc/T9LWpZ0312I/AAAAAAAAB48/S-WR3JE8z4o/s640/IMG_7744.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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And then the text messages came.<em> </em><br />
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<em>I overnighted a box to you. </em><br />
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<em>These were hard to give away, hope you can use them! </em><br />
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<em>Made my heart sad to remember my babies ... but happy to think of these on new feet. </em><br />
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I told them all how I could relate. I had done my share of hanging on too.<br />
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The next afternoon my door bell just kept ringing. Sweet mamas on my doorstep with bags of tiny soles for tiny people. Little shoes covered my little floor. As the momentary clutter grew, I could feel how the giving away was already making new space on my inside.<br />
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My middle gal, and best helper, joined me in the sweet chaos. We sat in the center of it all, held hands and whispered big prayers over little feet ... little lives so far away.<br />
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At the end of the day, my doorbell rang one last time. Through channels of mail and people, my <br />
heart friend had sent a tiny gift bag with a sticky note. All of the other generous women had done what<em> I</em> had done ... given from our excess. But my friend had gone shopping.<br />
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I sat at my kitchen table and I opened her bag and I had a little cry. <br />
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And inside that little bag? She sent just one. perfect. pair. of shoes. <br />
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They were brand new and picked out and paid for with one little soul in mind. <br />
And on the sticky note? Just this:<br />
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The night before I would fly, my Todd and I kept each other company. I stalled and stared into my tiny suitcase and shifted my protein bars that required way too much space. He encouraged. And he sorted and matched and tied together and packed a gillion little shoes. <br />
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I was stressed and afraid to fly so far away. He lined them up in rows ... told me to take a few pics. <br />
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A few days and a few thousand miles later, I helped unpack onto hot pavement. </div>
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And right there, I knew that all of the miles these little shoes had traveled were just a glimpse of <strong>what will be</strong>. </div>
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And all of the miles<em>tones</em> and grateful mamas here at home? Oh friends, <strong>now there are many more of those too.</strong> </div>
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Because in the giving away we get to watch the blessings grow, multiply, t<em>ravel</em>. </div>
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So, to you-- my sweet mama friends-- <em>thank you</em>. Thank you for giving. </div>
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Right now, a lot of little somebodies, and their mamas, are thanking you too. </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo credit: Kris Kundrock</span><br />
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And by the way, I can't wait to share Part 2 with you. Oh my...<br />
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<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-73282660451546827722012-06-06T08:41:00.000-04:002013-01-23T16:08:09.633-05:00moments.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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. </div>
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Run after something sweet today. Catch a moment worth holding. </div>
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Blessings to you today, my friends.</div>
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<br /></div>-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-13942552475790845372012-06-05T02:30:00.002-04:002013-06-15T12:28:11.941-04:00Homesick and Happy<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've been back in town for three weeks. It's been twenty-one days since I washed that red dirt out of my toes and out from under my fingernails. I stood long in the warm water here and I scrubbed really well. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But Africa lingers under my skin. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can smell a world away in the quilt across my lap, but I won't be washing it under any water. I'm too afraid to blur the browns and reds and blues, too afraid to rinse away the scent of His "</span><a href="http://madeknowntome.blogspot.com/2012/04/when-yes-is-sweet.html"><span style="font-family: inherit;">yes</span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">."</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PC78d0Si_FM/T82LHHit7SI/AAAAAAAAByY/x0_Lg9-arc8/s1600/IMG_7572.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PC78d0Si_FM/T82LHHit7SI/AAAAAAAAByY/x0_Lg9-arc8/s640/IMG_7572.JPG" width="640" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And I've been home longer than I was away, can't believe the moments came and went already. There are people, a world away, who have committed their whole lives to a country. A continent. There are new friends who stayed behind, forfeited the round-trip home in order to seek and serve ... indefinitely. </span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-evqWvuaQrjk/T82LTBHpdnI/AAAAAAAAByg/AplOG9Cp92A/s1600/IMG_7574.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-evqWvuaQrjk/T82LTBHpdnI/AAAAAAAAByg/AplOG9Cp92A/s640/IMG_7574.JPG" width="640" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My abrupt arrival and departure barely feel noteworthy ... already back to taming the laundry, attending preschool graduation, blowing up pink floaties for the pool. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I want to multiply what happened three short weeks ago and the longer I am home, the more apparent the gift becomes:<em> my feet were on that soil. </em></span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bif5DKNhCwU/T82LctKeXxI/AAAAAAAAByo/wcO_ICXcFrg/s1600/IMG_7722.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bif5DKNhCwU/T82LctKeXxI/AAAAAAAAByo/wcO_ICXcFrg/s640/IMG_7722.JPG" width="640" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And people have asked if my desire has finally been quenched. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Gosh, no!" is all I can say. Truth is, the whirlwind trip simply affirmed what I already knew: I love a place and a people now more than ever before. And dare I say it? </span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7gdb4t_kyYc/T82Lo4a91AI/AAAAAAAAByw/Bm0bTubtxN0/s1600/IMG_7814.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7gdb4t_kyYc/T82Lo4a91AI/AAAAAAAAByw/Bm0bTubtxN0/s640/IMG_7814.JPG" width="640" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It felt a lot like home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-roWk00JUasA/T82uNxxe-tI/AAAAAAAAB24/XKTjnUbyKh4/s1600/IMG_7881.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-roWk00JUasA/T82uNxxe-tI/AAAAAAAAB24/XKTjnUbyKh4/s640/IMG_7881.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Back in January, over red wine and broken bread, we finally named the year ahead. We had pondered and prayed ... wondered if we were too presumptuous, trying to name a year that wasn't ours to claim. </span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Dm2kLhrRDrw/T82LxLbUPyI/AAAAAAAABy4/lui7Lnn4iTM/s1600/IMG_7833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Dm2kLhrRDrw/T82LxLbUPyI/AAAAAAAABy4/lui7Lnn4iTM/s640/IMG_7833.JPG" width="426" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We agreed on a name and 2012 would be our <span id="goog_1834408691"></span></span><a href="http://madeknowntome.blogspot.com/2012/01/finding-home.html"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Year of Finding Home<span id="goog_1834408692"></span></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">. Mostly, because we were feeling the squeeze ... these walls pressing in with three children and toys and squeals and life rubbing us all raw. We laughed occasionally, sang a little made-up ditty about how we'd been "<em>struck down in the prime of life ... "</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And we didn't really mean it, only we sort of did. That tune with just one line made us laugh hard and it lightened the mood when moments seemed bleak. </span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1X85dkLiGg8/T82Yh6VsDTI/AAAAAAAAB18/FxGsCLKH8II/s1600/IMG_8073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="414" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1X85dkLiGg8/T82Yh6VsDTI/AAAAAAAAB18/FxGsCLKH8II/s640/IMG_8073.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Year of Finding Home seemed to fit ... for months we had talked and prayed, felt like Jesus was inviting us into new spaces. And our address didn't change but heart walls were under construction.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Naming the year was like bringing life into focus. We wanted to really see, find out what our home on this side of heaven might really look like. Could we look for Him, see Him, <em>join</em> Him in the now? Could we be <strong>at home in Him</strong> even when being at home in general was wearing us down?</span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FnFY1r-l0zo/T82MFuW5hFI/AAAAAAAABzI/IGf8P1WAIs8/s1600/IMG_7785.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FnFY1r-l0zo/T82MFuW5hFI/AAAAAAAABzI/IGf8P1WAIs8/s640/IMG_7785.JPG" width="426" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OTC_oePRYjo/T82OqUhjz6I/AAAAAAAAB0A/9FX0r4f7eGU/s1600/IMG_8070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OTC_oePRYjo/T82OqUhjz6I/AAAAAAAAB0A/9FX0r4f7eGU/s640/IMG_8070.JPG" width="426" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">All the while He was redefining home. When we named our year, we were planning a simple sun-room addition, a quick porch make-over. We thought we might bring in some light.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But He was reworking the foundation. </span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FA3BZ5b2vqg/T82O_BKFVJI/AAAAAAAAB0I/35XpfoNRapo/s1600/IMG_7900.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FA3BZ5b2vqg/T82O_BKFVJI/AAAAAAAAB0I/35XpfoNRapo/s640/IMG_7900.JPG" width="426" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qYsOrIqiLek/T82Mp4r4bsI/AAAAAAAABzQ/BzI56gek3mQ/s1600/IMG_7756.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qYsOrIqiLek/T82Mp4r4bsI/AAAAAAAABzQ/BzI56gek3mQ/s640/IMG_7756.JPG" width="640" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And home has a particular scent. It lingers on your clothes and greets you square when you pass through the front door. We were walking into all new territory that felt strangely familiar ... like He had been there before us-- inviting us into safe, sweet smelling space.</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vOWCxuwUFVw/T82YETDXYxI/AAAAAAAAB10/vSybiciNwRE/s1600/IMG_8064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vOWCxuwUFVw/T82YETDXYxI/AAAAAAAAB10/vSybiciNwRE/s640/IMG_8064.JPG" width="426" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sJbt5kUK5OU/T82M3m5eWzI/AAAAAAAABzY/fQr7GiJ6Dg0/s1600/IMG_7829.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sJbt5kUK5OU/T82M3m5eWzI/AAAAAAAABzY/fQr7GiJ6Dg0/s640/IMG_7829.JPG" width="640" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We spoke of adoption. We wondered, in barely-there whispers, if a child could find a home in ours.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We held on to our<em> </em>people while bravely branching out to new family. We walked through new doors and looked new brothers and sisters in the eyes ... humbly asked to drink from their cup too. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We committed to homeschooling this little crowd, committed to learning how to live and love well within these walls ... for better or worse. </span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ViLddZOBDNo/T82NBCpJp7I/AAAAAAAABzg/UFuxhu1mNt4/s1600/IMG_7845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ViLddZOBDNo/T82NBCpJp7I/AAAAAAAABzg/UFuxhu1mNt4/s640/IMG_7845.JPG" width="640" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And the home we spoke of suddenly had many new rooms ... held more than one shade of paint. We spoke of finding home just as the walls were closing in. Suddenly, they began to expand. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So when I cried over Africa again and he said "It's time for you to go," I thought it odd. Why, in this Year of Finding Home would I fly so far away on my own?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When that 747 touched down in Entebbe I knew: this too was part of our heart-home expansion. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And I caught His sweet scent there in that Ugandan breeze. Over an ocean and a continent away, I tilted my head back with a quiet laugh. <em>Oh there You are. Of course You are here too</em> ... </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Todd had said it before: "You know this trip you're going on? You need to know it's a family affair. We're <em>all</em> in this ..." He had meant it and I had believed him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Just a few nights later, I pushed back a chair in the open-air dining room. I told new like-minded friends how I named my years and how I felt at home right there in that space, with all of them and with all of that dirt in my toes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I wondered how. <em>How</em> does a girl feel at home a world apart and under a mosquito net? Away from a man and the babies she named ... the babies who named <em>her</em>? I wondered it out loud to new family in the dark, over lentils and warm Fanta with a straw. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">And really, I already knew. <strong>Isn't home wherever He is?</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So I'm home now and He is here but He is<em> there</em> and so am I. I am here under my quilt with my <a href="http://madeknowntome.blogspot.com/2012/05/when-time-stands-still.html">purple watch still ticking loud</a>. I am there with friends who stayed behind and I am there with women and children and their stories that go on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And perhaps that sweet scent of home has nothing to do with an African quilt or the breeze over a continent. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Perhaps that scent of home is <em>really just Him</em>-- the sweet Savior who is for all, in all, and through all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And when we make our home in Him, we too become a sweet aroma to the world. And all those lovers of Him? Don't they fill our lives with His sweet aroma too? And regardless of the soil we're standing on, we can be at home. Him in us. Him through us. Him all around us. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm so glad to be home with these expanded walls. And I'm more homesick than ever before. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>"You have been our dwelling place, through every generation ..." </em><em>Psalm 90:1</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Friends, interspersed among the rambling are pictures depicting a typical clinic day. Forgive me if you had trouble focusing. I did. Later this week, I'll share some of the sweetest faces you can imagine. I'll also tell a story of shoes ... the shoes that <strong>you</strong> sent along. Have I thanked you? :)</span>-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-47210417486613784772012-05-30T01:42:00.000-04:002013-05-05T13:01:29.685-04:00When time stands still ...They circled around and they listened to my watch and for a minute, time stood still. As the second hand ticked loud in their ears and they giggled and tugged at my arm, I counted the seconds too. <br />
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And I wished it would never end ... all of that right-now joy. <br />
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Kindest friends, I am home and well-- a heart filled and already longing to return. </div>
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I have had a most challenging time sitting still with thoughts, just can't seem to put words to anything at all. </div>
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But I have stories to share. And I will. </div>
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For now, what an honor and joy it was to serve with an extraordinary and talented group of folks. I am in awe of what the body of Christ can be, and do ... each person working with God-given gifts in order to serve and love well. If I have ever been convinced to become fully me for <em>His</em> glory, it is now. </div>
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Thanking Jesus for a beautiful picture of His church working together, for new and dear friends, for my sweet home and family here ... and for a country that has found a forever-home in this heart. </div>
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<em>Thank you, sweet Grier, for capturing my camera and moments I'll hold tight.</em> </div>-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-56142979446501504762012-05-02T10:37:00.000-04:002013-05-05T13:01:29.690-04:00When reality sinks in ..I had my first real anxiety dream ... filled with episodes of me running to and fro, looking for my lost children, my lost backpack. I have been to Target way too many times, considering I can pack close to nothing. Really, I don't need anything else at all. I am just a little restless. <br />
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I registered my name with the State Department. And according to my updated shot record, I shouldn't come home with hepatitis, yellow fever, polio, meningitis, or typhoid.<br />
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Or malaria. Or the flu. <br />
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Todd and I said some important words to each other. You know, just because Africa is pretty far away. And despite the anxious dream or two, I'm really not afraid to get on that plane. <br />
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After all this time ... I'm more afraid to stay right here.<br />
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Below is a short documentary about the clinic I will work with (please note: video contains medical images). This clinic runs year round while incoming volunteer teams arrive every three months to serve the more remote populations/areas. <br />
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Our team will caravan each day to new locations, setting up makeshift clinics on site- complete with triage, dental care, occupational therapy, and medical providers. Past teams have served 2000 people in just six days. <br />
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Pray me there and back, would you? Pray for wisdom and sure hands, a steady mind. Pray for my sweet husband and my little guy and gals. Pray for our mamas who will stand in the gap. Pray for <a href="http://www.palmettomedical.org/about/">the whole team</a> who will GO. Pray for the beautiful and gracious people of Uganda who are already there. <br />
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Hoping to post just one more time before that long plane ride ... a quick video filled with beautiful faces and our family's new favorite song. But if not? I'll meet you here in a week or two. And check in <a href="http://www.palmettomedical.org/blog/">over here</a> once or twice as well. Power permitting, we'll get a post or two up while we are in country. <br />
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Peace to you, sweet friends!<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lr7Qf8mPuY4">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lr7Qf8mPuY4</a><br />
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<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-79527046120141384292012-04-25T00:50:00.001-04:002013-05-05T13:01:29.697-04:00When the "yes" is sweet ...He and I didn't exchange presents this past Christmas. At some point during Advent, we agreed. Let's just receive what we already have. Let's not do anymore asking. <br />
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And we fell into a Christmas rhythm of waiting and watching and speaking of the real present found in the Presence. The God who comes down.<br />
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Backtrack just one month to Thanksgiving and it never fails. Each year the dearest family members begin asking for our "lists." For years I have been quietly defiant, passively refusing to write down the wants. And for years a family has given the extravagant gifts anyhow, always the showering with the tangible, the practical, the visible. For years, I've held my breath in the moment of receiving, never knowing what to say ... my 'thank you' always feeling so feeble. Inadequate. <br />
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I've got this sweet husband who says, "This is how they love you well, just let them <em>love</em> you, Ab." And he inherited these giving genes and he can go overboard in the kindest sort of ways ... like the time he imported chocolate cereal from Ecuador after I mentioned it with nostalgia. He says his greatest joy is to give, support, surprise this girl. This is the same girl who wrestles a critical voice like a lion and cries uncle too often under that weighty lie: "You're not good enough for all of this." <br />
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We are an awkward pair: he, the ultimate giver and I, a girl who doesn't like to ask. <br />
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And let's be honest. It's not because I don't like to receive. <br />
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There have been lots of tears these years too, wanting desperately to grasp the art of giving.<br />
<strong>Because I want to be a giver too.</strong> <br />
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I wonder sometimes if it isn't the getting <em>and</em> the giving that can change a person. I have not been great at either ... both all wrapped up in stifling insecurity: fear of inadequate giving, fear of unworthy receiving. <br />
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And I think it odd that my Jesus would give me a abundantly generous man to model generous love; that He would graft me into a family of crazy-givers who make me voice my wants, make me hope out loud.<br />
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This is the family that asks for snow each year and after years of humoring, I've begun to believe they could actually conjure it up somehow. Anyways, how many of us dare to put out the big, impossible ask?<br />
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Isn't it easier to keep the big desires quiet? Whispered only in soul closets. <br />
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I have lived in this space. <br />
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I wonder about asking God for the extravagant and I discuss with myself on paper. "Can I put out the big ask? Can I anticipate the extravagant yes from the Giver of all good things? Can I also trust the 'no' that may come instead ... if He truly is good all the time?"<br />
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He has been good, in the giving <em>and</em> in the withholding. He has known better than I, each time a request went up and out. He will be good again.<br />
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And while we didn't give gifts to each other this season, we did select a few for the kids. Intentional and special. As we sat back, sipped coffee and watched them swirl and play, I felt it deep down in a new way: it is good to give a well-timed 'yes' ... to give a good gift with great affection.<br />
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On Christmas night, after kids were down and baby dolls were tucked into new doll beds, I sat down with a pen, thought on how the baby born was just that ... an extravagant 'yes.' An extravagant answer to people sick from hope deferred for far too long. I thought about how the infant God-gift was all wrapped up and waiting before their asks ever went out. <br />
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I imagine an extravagant God, waiting for just the right moment. <br />
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And even though I didn't ask Todd for a gift this year, I <em>did</em> ask the Father for three. (Ah, the other two for another day perhaps??) But the first?<br />
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"Christmas is here," I wrote down in a journal "and I've got Africa on my mind ... all those faces ..." <br />
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As it went down in ink I knew it was too big, this ask. How does a mama just up and go? Fly over an ocean, land on another continent? There is laundry and school and there are little people with so many needs. A man. No, this one is better left a dream. And I can't get a 'no' if I never actually ask ...<br />
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But my pen made the leap and so did my heart. "Can I go? How soon can my feet touch the ground?" <br />
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This husband-giver said, "I think it might be time" and then a passport came in the mail. I wrote a country on the wall and we started to pray. <br />
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And after all these years of quiet hoping ... we heard an extravagant, well-timed "yes."<br />
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Friends, my feet will hit red soil in just. ten. days. <br />
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I've been overwhelmed by the receiving, all of your gifts and prayers (you know who you are) coming together to sing a resounding YES over this dream. The thank you's feel far too feeble and I imagine there will be many, many more to say. To you and to the Giver ... there is only gratitude.<br />
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I cant wait to tell you more ... these words are all jumbled and fumbling. But I know this: He is teaching me how to receive well, all of this lavish love, so that I might truly be a giver too.<br />
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<em>Peace to you. And more Africa info. to come!</em><br />
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<br />-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5578408727402037014.post-49334730440580142292012-04-17T00:10:00.002-04:002013-01-23T16:12:05.011-05:00When unfinished is a good thing ...<div style="text-align: left;">
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. </div>
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Or else we are all in for the long haul. </div>
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This is a wonderful trait ... the will to finish a task. </div>
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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 <strong>entire </strong>coloring book. </div>
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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. </div>
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But tenacious I am not. </div>
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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. </div>
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And it is slow-going.</div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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I am so very thankful that that my Father is tenacious too. And focused. </div>
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He is a finisher. He followed through. He <em>is following</em> through. He <em>will</em> follow through. </div>
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For me, for each of us, this is very good news ... </div>
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Perhaps give yourself some grace today? Find peace in the knowing that you are not yet complete. <strong>Artwork unfinished ...</strong></div>
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Surrender a bit to the process, to the vision? And if you feel you've got a long way to go? <br />
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Excellent!! Let's journey out this growth together, one brush-stroke at a time. </div>
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<em>"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."</em> <em>Phil. 1:6</em><br />
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<em><strong>Ah, friends. I have so much to say and I'm missing you! Lots of words here, all back-logged and waiting. Soon!?!</strong></em> </div>-Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08532679911571397901noreply@blogger.com1