More Than A Season

Christmas returned to the attic in our house today. I got up in the morning with the itch. “These decorations have got to go…,” I thought, and by lunchtime they were all but gone.

It was an easy transformation for me – from the festive decorations of Christmastime to the normalcy of the rest of the year – but it was a difficult and confusing one for my nearly two year-old daughter. Over the past few weeks, she has grown accustomed to there being a tree in our family room, complete with lights and ornaments. She’s gotten used to stockings hanging from the mantle and the nativity on the table and the Christmas-themed tins scattered around the house. It became normal for her to ask first thing in the morning, “Star on?” as she wondered if I had already turned the lights on the tree on. Christmas, for her, had come weeks ago and, as far as she was concerned, it was supposed to be here for good. As I removed the ornaments from the tree, she stood nearby with a perplexed and sad look on her face. Once the ornaments and lights were all gone, she stared forlornly at the bare tree, asking if we were going to turn it back on.

She simply didn’t understand that Christmas, for us, is a season. She didn’t understand that the changes around the house weren’t permanent and that the things she had gotten so used to were going away.

It was obvious that she didn’t understand why the sights and sounds and smells of the Christmas season were ending.

I don’t pretend to think that she had a philosophical outlook on the day, and that she was pondering the complexities of time passing and the human condition. What she did, though, was get me thinking about those things, and made me wonder some of the same things she appeared to be wondering throughout the process of un-decorating.

Why is Christmas just a season? Why, for us, is it little more than a time of year for us to think about that sweet story from Luke 2 and to bring out the prettiest of our household decor? How did we get so far off track from what it is about that once one certain day – December 25th – is gone, Christmas (and all that it is about) is over? What brought us to hustle and bustle in the weeks leading up to “the day,” only to collapse from exhaustion when it is over and thank the Lord that things can get back to normal? In all sincerity, why is Christmas – and all that it is supposed to be – not our normal way of life?

No, not the stress and the shopping and the spending and all of the other chaos that we associate with Christmas. The tree doesn’t need to stay up all year, and summer need not be marked by blinking lights and candy canes. Rather, why can’t it be about the things God intended Jesus’ arrival to be about? Peace. Calm. Rescue. The unexpected blessings. Love beyond anything we can fathom. A celebration of something really worth celebrating. There is something in the air during Christmas, and it is something worth holding onto. Why? Because it is about something more than what we create. More than we can perceive or imagine.

Once December 25th is crossed off the calendar, nothing changes in the cosmic realm, but the world of January 10th or March 26th or September 17th is barely recognizable as being the same world we see in December. Why? Why does it have to change?

Without saying a word on the subject, the innocent wondering of my little girl challenged me to see things a little differently. May my ramblings do the same for you.

A Little At A Time

Over the past few years, there have been many, many times that I have prayed that God would show me His plan for me. Some of those prayers came at times when I had no direction…had no idea where I was headed or how I was going to get there. The prayers and pleadings with the Lord to show me even part of His plan for me came out of desperation and a need to know that I was, in fact, headed somewhere of significance. It was a search for meaning.

Some of those prayers, though, have come at times when I could feel God’s hand on me, leading me and guiding me and using me. Those prayers came from a joyful heart, excited that He was moving me and eager to see His bigger picture. “Just give me a glimpse, Lord,” I would pray. “Just one little glimpse of where we’re going together.”

We’ve all heard, though, that the Lord won’t give us more than we can handle. I’ve said that to people. I’ve also heard that God won’t show us all of His plans at once because it would be far more than our minds can wrap around. On Christmas morning, God gave me an illustration I could understand, and while I didn’t get the answer to my prayers I was looking for, I now have something to go back to when my heart again begins to yearn for a glimpse of the bigger picture.

On Christmas morning, it became obvious really quickly that it was all just too much for Leah. She was well-behaved, of course, but she was clearly overwhelmed by all of the things we were thrusting at her and letting her open. She would open something, play with it for a minute, and then run back to her older, more familiar things in her toy corner. Occasionally, she’d stick with one of her new things for awhile, ignoring everything else; usually, though, she’d get kind of a glazed-over look in her eyes and zone out. It was just too much, and she just couldn’t process it all.

Because of that, we still have a little stack of gifts that she hasn’t opened. They’re still sitting under the tree and waiting for a time when she is ready for them and can appreciate them better. It may take a few days, but that’s all right.

As I thought about the way that Scott and I had pulled some of her gifts back for her to open later, I realized the parallel between that and what God does with us. He blesses us, for sure, but He knows us too well to heap everything on us at once. He knows that as wonderful as His plans are, we wouldn’t be able to appreciate or process everything at once. He holds things back, not revealing them to us until the proper time, in order to keep us on track and focused on the moment.

I, for one, am thankful for His wisdom in His care for us. He knows me better than I know myself, and while He would never withhold blessings from me, He times them and distributes them so as to maximize their effect in my life. He’s smarter than me, and I’m learning to trust His plans….even if I can’t see all of them at one time.

“Look at the nations and watch—and be utterly amazed. For I am going to do something in your days that you would not believe, even if you were told.” (Habakkuk 1:5)

Unexpected Places

One of my favorite things about walking with the Lord is the way He consistently surprises me with lessons and new perspectives of Himself in the most unexpected of places.

Scott’s birthday was about a month ago, and that was the first time she began to realize that with birthdays come cake. Logically, then, when I started telling her that Christmas was Jesus’ birthday, she began asking me if we were going to have a cake for His birthday. Whenever the subject of His birthday came up, so, too, arose questions about His cake. I’m no baker, nor do I claim to have extraordinary cake decorating abilities (as you’ll soon see), but I wanted to fulfill my daughter’s request. Last night, I made a cake so that we could decorate it today.

This morning, I set out to create some Christmas memories for Leah, and wound up with a lot more than I bargained for as God showed me a few things about Himself and life with Him. Bear with me on this one. It makes sense to me…..but it might be one of the more odd parallels God has ever given me.

As I started frosting the cake, I soon remembered that I’m just not good at this, and wondered what I had gotten myself into. I thought about just throwing in the towel and giving it up, thinking that it wasn’t worth doing if it wasn’t perfect. As I worked, though, I began to see the cake as a sort of representation of my life. Soon, I thought of something: the cake – like my life – is for Jesus. Neither has to look perfect, because really, all He’s concerned with is the offering and the fact that it’s dedicated to Him. The effort and the intent are what matter. The heart behind the project are the important thing. I live to please Jesus, and I make random birthday cakes to please my little girl. The products aren’t perfect, but the motive behind them is.

I didn’t have a plan for how I wanted the cake to look, so I had to make it up as I went along. That made it kind of messy, and pretty random. At some point, I decided that there needed to be a little icing border along the bottom of the cake, which went well…..until I realized I was running out of icing and had another side of the cake to do.

“Nice,” I thought. “What am I going to do about that? Keep that side pointed against the wall so no one sees it?” I worked on it more, though, and was barely able to squeeze out enough frosting to cover the edges of the cake. I ran out just as I reached the last corner.

Through that, God showed me how His sanctification works. Sometimes, in life, I think that I’m just too big a mess and too sinful and too much for God to fix. I see all of the imperfections in my life and wonder, desperately, if I’ll ever be all that He wants me to be, or if His work on me will ever be finished. Sometimes I feel like I am an endless project, with one thing after another needing His touch and never quite making it to the point where I should be. God reminded me this morning, though, that He is enough. He is enough to cover it all, and He is enough to create His image in me. It won’t happen until the very end of my story, but it will happen. He can pull it off because He is enough.

There was one corner, though, that was quickly messed up. Every time I would frost it, I’d turn away and turn back only to find the icing gone. I covered that corner with the border I was trying to get around the whole thing, and when I looked again a minute later, the border was gone….and a little girl sitting nearby had icing on her fingers. As frustrating as that was, I saw God in it.

He reminded me then of how He works. He reminded me that He works and works and works….and that sometimes I mess up what He has already done in me. He reminded me that even in those moments, when He is frustrated and even a little disappointed that I did what I did, He loves me beyond measure. He showed me, too, that in other ways, sometimes the work He does is just irresistible to people around me. Follow me here. If I am the cake, and He is the baker, sometimes His touch on my life makes me irresistible and attractive in ways I can’t understand. People around me might be drawn to me not because of me….not because of what I look like or what I do….but because of who is working on me and because He makes me good.

Sometimes, people are attracted to a life that is covered in the fingerprints of God, and it’s hard for them to stay away.

And the sprinkles….the sprinkles that I covered the cake with…..

The sprinkles are joy. They go all over the place, bouncing over the cake and onto the table and overflow onto the cake plate. There is no containing them. They go where they want to go, and nothing I do can hide them or restrain them. They abound, drawing people in, and cover everything I am and everything I do.

Ask Leah, and I think she’d tell you now that the sprinkles are what it’s all about.

Ask Jesus, and He might say the same thing about my cake. It's not so much about the cake...as it is about the message in it.

Happy birthday, Jesus. The cake isn’t perfect, but it’s for you. I did the best I could.

More Than Memories

Christmas with a child in the house is a very different experience. It, like everything else in parenting, has become a much more intentional affair, and just letting it pass by without much fanfare or deliberation is no longer acceptable (if it ever was). I still don’t think she understands all of what’s going on, but she is able to talk with me about it and seems to be processing things. She knows that Christmas is Jesus’ birthday, and is asking for me to make Him a birthday cake. (That will be in a couple of days.)

She knows that the big guy in red is “Slaus” (as she calls him), and points to the fireplace when she asks if he is coming.

She knows that the presents under the tree are not for her, even though she helped pick some of them out and even “helped” me wrap them. Strangely, she remembers who each one is for and can pick out their gift when asked.

I don’t know how much of all of this she will remember, but I take my job of “memory maker” and “legacy leaver” very seriously. The tree and the stockings and the traditions of the season are important to me, of course, but the most important thing to me is that she grow up knowing that Christmas is about more than all of that. A nativity on the kitchen table and a cross on the tree and a candlelight service won’t teach her how much God loves her and the lengths He went to save her. That’s up to me, and she will know.

Oh, she will know.

Emmanuel

I wrote this last year as I reflected on the miracle of Christmas, and I thought I would repost it now. Let’s celebrate what it’s all about.

Yesterday I was listening to this song in my car and was struck by its message. I can’t remember when a song has touched me so deeply. As I listened to the words, I couldn’t believe it. Jesus – God with skin on – came here, into our sinful darkness. He left the perfection and glory of heaven to come live with us…all because of His love for us. An all-consuming love that knew no limits. A passion for us that drove Him to extravagant obedience.

All of the power and glory of heaven came to earth in a tiny baby boy. A tiny baby…..a human baby……not so very different from the one I carried and delivered less than a year ago. I wonder what He was like as a baby. When one of our friends or relatives gives birth, there is a sequence of questions that inevitably follow. I wonder those same things about the baby Jesus.

How much did He weigh? Was He a tiny one, or did He already have the rolls and folds of a healthy baby? And how long was He?

Did He have hair? Maybe just a little bit of fuzz….or maybe it was a full head of thick, dark hair.

Did His mother have to trim His tiny fingernails, to keep Him from scratching His holy face?

Did He have baby acne? Cradle cap? Diaper rash? Did his skin flake and peel as He adjusted to His new surroundings?

Did His eyes – the windows to heaven – drain and crust during His first days on the earth? Was Mary concerned?

Did He like His first bath, or did He fuss and cry until He was once again in the warmth of His mother’s arms?

Was He a good sleeper? A strong feeder?

Did He ever have bouts of colic? Gas pains? Spit up?

When did He learn to walk? Talk? Write His name?

Are these uncomfortable questions to ask about our Lord? Is it inappropriate to wonder these things about Him?

Perhaps. He is the Creator of the universe, after all. The Alpha and Omega, beginning and end. The cloud maker and wave tamer. Yahweh – the One whose name Jewish tradition holds as too sacred to be spoken by human mouths. He is the Holiest of the Holy….

….and He humbled Himself to come to earth as a baby boy. A baby boy who would have to learn to sleep through the night…feed Himself…say His name…walk on His own…

Yet that baby– the One born in a stable on a cold night in Bethlehem – was very different from other babies. His sleep brought dreams of heaven. The bread He would feed Himself would one day become a holy sacrament. The name He would learn to say was one first uttered by angels. The feet that had to learn balance would one day be pierced by nails.

Yes, that baby boy was very different. No other baby boy can be known as the Prince of Peace, the Light of the World, the bread of life, the True Vine, the Way, the Truth, and the Life. The King of Kings. The Lord of Lords. The great I AM.

No other.

And there is no other reason that we celebrate. There is no other reason that we sing. It is all for Him, that precious God-child born so long ago.

Illogical

While we are not sure if it is a phase or an indication of her little personality, we are certain that Leah is a hoarder. She collects things – anything small enough to fit in her little hands – and treasures each of them as though they are the only things she owns. Rocks, toothbrushes, sticks, acorns….if it is within her reach and is present in any significant number, she must have it and find more and more like it. She is obsessed.

Interestingly, because we love her and want to spend time with her, my husband and I are now obsessed with these things, too. On any given day, you are likely to see one or both of us walking around our yard, stooped over in an awkward position as we scour the ground for acorns or rocks or whatever else might interest her that day. When I was in Belize, I gathered rocks and toothbrushes for my sweet girl because I knew that nothing else I could bring her would please her as much as that would. Wherever I am, I look for the things that interest her because it comes naturally. I love her, and because I love her I am interested in the things that interest her. Because of my love for her, I will do things that are unnatural to me to make her happy. I am a college educated, reasonably intelligent woman, but I walk around hunting for rocks and collecting buckets full of acorns. It is not logical, but it is love. It works out well for her because she gets to spend time with Mama and, of course, gets more and more rocks and acorns and toothbrushes. It works out well for me, too, because I get to spend quality time with my little girl.

The trouble with this habit, though, is that her little hands don’t allow her to hold nearly as many of anything as she would like. If she had her way, she would be able to tote acorns by the thousand and toothbrushes (yes, toothbrushes) by the dozen. Instead, though, she is severely limited in what she can carry around at one time, and this is very frustrating for her. She tries to carry her treasures and simultaneously gather more, which inevitably leads to an avalanche as everything falls to the ground. She can’t handle it all, and when I see her struggle, I have to step in. I have to help.

We’ve done different things to help her with this. My husband introduced her to the concept of pockets; this naturally made my work with the laundry more interesting, but it made her task of hunting and gathering easier. We’ve given her different bags and buckets to carry her treasures in, and at times have our own hands and pockets full of the things she’s found. Again, it isn’t logical that two grown adults would spend their time and energy in this way, and it makes little sense that we would voluntarily weigh ourselves down with rocks or dirty our hands with acorns. It isn’t logical, but it is love.

And now…..the parallel.

Has it ever occurred to you how illogical it is that God – the creator of the universe, seen and unseen, fathomable and beyond comprehension – would stoop to involve Himself in the mundane things of our lives? He is Almighty. All powerful and all knowing, He can do anything and be everywhere at all times, and what does He choose to do with that power? He chooses to be with us. He chooses to walk alongside us, stooping in awkward positions as He preoccupies Himself with the things that are important to us and getting His hands dirty with the loads we carry. Just as it would be easier for me to sit on the porch and watch Leah play by herself, searching for rocks and struggling with her handfuls of acorns, it would likewise have been easier and more logical for God to stand at a distance as we busy ourselves with the things of this life. Instead, though, out of love and an intense preoccupation with the objects of our affections, He and I both step out of our worlds and into the lives of others. I become obsessed with rocks and gather thousands of acorns, and the God of the universe takes on my burdens as though mine were the most important thing in the world.

It isn’t logical, but it is love.

From One Extreme to Another

Coming home from Belize has been a difficult adjustment for me. The things I saw there and the things I experienced – in the flesh and in the spirit – were so profound and life-changing, and coming home to such comfort and complacency is difficult. The poverty of the world is such a dramatic contrast to the extreme materialism of life in the United States, and the Christmas season and all of its extravagance amplifies those differences. My greatest fear is forgetting it all. I went to make a difference in this world for Him, but the difference that lingers in my mind is that which appeared inside of myself. I’m shaken somehow. I’m different, and there’s nothing I want more than to never, ever be the same as I was before.

Even so, I am afraid that I will revert back to the same ways of thinking I had before. I am afraid that I will fall back into the comfortable way of life I know here, rather than continuing to live in a shaken, unsettled state of mind. I just don’t want to forget, and my singular prayer has been that God would allow me to remain changed and to never be comfortable with my old way of life again.

As I have struggled to adjust (or rather, to not adjust) to life in the States, I have been struck by the thought that this might, in some small way, be the way the Lord felt about His coming to Earth. When I got on the airplane to go to Belize, I was in one world; when I stepped onto the tarmac in Central America, I was in another. Similarly, when Jesus stepped out of the splendor of heaven and emerged as a tiny baby in a dirty, smelly manger in relatively poverty-stricken Israel, He found Himself in a world that was completely foreign to what He had always known. He chose to come, because He knew that He had to and because He knew that there was something He had to do here; still, though, He had to have felt a bit of culture shock at what He saw and experienced. He lived in the middle of our mess, though, for 33 years, walking our dirty roads and touching our disease and speaking to our deafness and experiencing our painful life just as we did. He felt it all, as a foreigner but yet as a native…..God made flesh, resident of heaven relocated to the depravity of earth.

And when the time came for Him to go, He went. He cried human tears as His human body was drained of life and He left human existence to return to His home alongside God. I am sure that it was a shock to return to the glory and perfection of heaven after seeing and experiencing what He encountered here. I can’t imagine that the adjustment to golden streets and utter peace and undistorted presence of God was a smooth one, and I can’t pretend that He wasn’t at least a little bit glad to get back home, to the place of comfort where He was exalted as He should always be. I can’t pretend either, though, that He was willing to become completely absorbed by that life and to forget about the life He had lived and the people He had met and the things He had experienced while visiting earth.

No, I think He probably felt a little torn, too. I think He probably felt a little conflicted, realizing that yes, He had done what He had come to do, but that we were still living in such horrible conditions. We were still living in a world of sin, and while He had done His part to free us from that, He couldn’t do anything to simply pick us up and remove us from our context. He had to go back, and we had to stay here.

The beautiful thing for me to remember, though, is that though His surroundings changed so dramatically, He did not. He was the same when He was here as when He was in the heavens, and when He returned there, He did not forget what He had seen. He remembered us, and remembers us still. He sees us and feels our pain as clearly today as He did when He walked alongside us in the flesh, and no distance or amount of time can change that. He has not forgotten, and He never will.

That is remarkable to me as I struggle to acclimate myself to a life that once was so comfortable but that now seems so foreign in so many ways. Even if I do someday forget, I am grateful for the experience, and I am grateful for the insight into what the Lord may have felt as He did what He did for us. Any experience that lends insight to the tremendous sacrifice He made for me is well worth it.

Still, though……I don’t want to forget.

A Riddle

Leah: “Mommy, one? One? One? One? One?”

Me: “What’s up, sweetie? What do you need? One what, honey? One what?”

Leah: “One, TWO!”

She runs away laughing, leaving me standing in disbelief. Her first joke. She got me. She got me good.

The memories flood me. Like a tidal wave, they come.

I’ve been home from Belize for two weeks now, and I’ve been trying since then to process everything that happened….everything that I experienced….everything that God did with me and in me while I was there. There is so much to think about and so much I want to try to remember and so much that I want to be forever changed by, and it’s almost too much to take in. I’ve looked at my pictures a thousand times and have talked about it all ad nauseam, but I still feel like I’ve only scratched the surface. Can I ever really absorb all of it?

I feel like a lot of the struggle to process everything comes from the fact that the learning that started in Belize hasn’t ended yet. I feel very strongly that the things I went through there were just the beginning. I can’t process the whole experience because really, it isn’t over yet. The story is still being written. You can’t summarize a book if the final chapters aren’t on paper yet.

I think that the main thing that God showed me while I was in Belize was that my plans may be fine and good, but He has something infinitely better for me than anything I could plan on my own. So many times during the week, my own plans and anticipations were taken away from me, only to be replaced by something bigger and more fulfilling. In my planning for the trip, I had thought I would be helping with the women’s ministry during my down time from the worship team. Instead, I was with different children and the medical team….where I had the richest experiences of the trip and built the most fulfilling relationships. I hadn’t anticipated being able to speak Spanish while I was there, because we were told that most people there speak English. Instead, I worked as an interpreter for the medical team and spoke (and sang) in Spanish in front of the gathering at revival. I got to see how God was putting pieces of my life together for His glory, and how He always has something planned for my ultimate benefit…even if it doesn’t look that way at the time.

Essentially, God showed me that He is sovereign, and that His plans – infinitely bigger than I know – are better than mine.

I also experienced a peace in Belize that I’m unaccustomed to. Here at home, when things go wrong with my day, I fall apart. I am gripped by fear at the thought of car trouble or missing a flight. In Belize, though, I never felt scared or worried, even when situations said that maybe I should feel that way. I’ve challenged myself to try to maintain a little of that attitude in the rest of my life now that I’ve come home. If I can be at peace with car trouble in the middle of nowhere in a foreign country, I can be at peace with a glitch in my schedule at home.

The experience was (and continues to be) life changing. I’m working hard every day to try to remember everything and not let myself fall back into my old way of living. I have encountered things that should change me, and I am determined to never be the same person again. I think that was God’s purpose in the whole trip for me, and I’m just trying to stick to His plan. It’s better than mine, after all.

A Little Sabbatical

Oh, my sweet and silly girl. She’s been a delight lately, making me laugh and playing and getting into things…. She’s just so much fun, and I’m trying to spend as much time with her as I can. I always do, but anticipating my trip to Belize has made it even more important than normal.

I hate the thought of leaving her. Every night, when I’m sleepy and my thoughts veer toward the irrational, I begin to cry as I think about what she might think when I’m not around for a few days. “Promise me she won’t think I’ve abandoned her,” I tell Scott. “Promise me she’ll understand more than I think she will.” He obligingly promises me that she’ll be okay, and that she’ll know I’m coming back, and that on some level she understands far more than we think she does…..but still I cry. I just hate the thought of her sitting and wondering where I am.

So I try to talk to her and tell her what’s about to happen. She seems to look right through me, processing what I’m saying on some level. She tilts her head and says, “Beez?” when I talk to her about Belize, and says, “Mama go?” as I explain that I won’t be here for a little while. I still question how much she’ll understand….and I still worry.

She’ll be fine. She’ll be in good hands and will be very well taken care of….but I just worry. I’m her mama, so I worry.

I leave in a little more than a week, and until then I’m going to be spending as much time as I can with my sweet family and doing everything in my power to prepare everyone involved for what’s coming. That’s as much of an explanation as I can offer for my recent and upcoming absence. I’ll be back, and I’ll have lots to say when I am. Until then….be well.

Discerning

My mind is – and has always been – my worst enemy. Ever since I knew that thoughts can be “good” or “bad,” it has been really hard for me to tell which thoughts were true and which ones I should ignore. When I have something on my mind, it has never been easy for me to quiet my thoughts and tune in to only the logical, realistic things that come into my mind. Everything usually blends together in my mind and creates a mishmash of confusing ideas, sending me spiraling into panic and fear. Recently, though, that has started to change. I’ve recently learned a new trick to help myself with that, and because it has helped me so much, I’m sharing it with you.

It’s a pretty literal method for discerning whether or not a thought is good and true and lovely, or is vile and evil and should be discarded.

Scripture talks a lot about the power of words. In the book of Proverbs, it says that “words kill, words give life; they're either poison or fruit—you choose.” (Proverbs 18:21 MSG) The trick, for us, is being able to tell whether the words in our minds are poisonous or sweet. Once we can tell that, it is much easier to know what to do with them.

James 3:11-12 says this:

Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? My brothers, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water.

John 8:44 says of the devil, “When he lies, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies.”

These verses were floating around in my mind one day when I realized, out of the blue, that there is a practical way to tell which thoughts are of God and which ones are not. The trick, for me, has been to identify the tone of the thought – or how it would sound if spoken, rather than simply thought.

I’ll use a thought that frequently comes to my mind: “You are not good enough.” Now….knowing that God is loving and merciful and kind, I can only imagine that He would speak to me – if His voice were audible – with a loving, merciful, and kind tone of voice. Can you imagine such a voice saying those words? “You are not good enough.” Those are not loving words, and they clearly cannot be spoken in a loving way. The fresh spring of the Lord cannot speak such salty, bitter words.

Imagine, though, that the words were spoken with an evil voice – one of horror movies and nightmares. “You are not enough.” Bitter words spoken in a bitter voice. Bitter feelings arise, and the thought must be banished.

This is a hard topic to write about, because clearly I cannot write in the voices I am referring to. Hopefully, though, this basic idea is of some help to you if you, too, struggle with thoughts that run amok. Let me know if you have questions or comments or would like to talk about this more. I have a new trick to this, but I am in no way, shape, or form an expert. I would welcome your insights, too.

A Song of Love

Leah, on one of her last nights in her crib…..though we didn’t know it at the time.

Since Leah was a tiny baby, I’ve sung to her at bedtime. I have a little bedtime music repertoire made up of songs to remind her how much she is loved by me and, of course, by Jesus. I run through the songs every night. Some nights I sing quickly, because she is in no mood for songs and just needs to get to bed. Some nights I sing slowly and repetitively, cherishing that she is willing to let me cuddle with her in the quiet moments before sleep. Every night, though, I sing.

It’s not always a pretty sound. I’ve sung in choirs and have performed for years, but I don’t do well by myself. My vocal prowess is better demonstrated in a large group, where my flaws are hidden and I can mesh with those more talented. The beautiful thing about singing to Leah, though, is that she doesn’t critique what she hears. She doesn’t compare me to someone she heard on the radio or the way she thinks it ought to sound. She hears her mama singing songs of love to her, and she finds them beautiful.

How do I know? She snuggles in, listening to my voice reverberate in my chest and, periodically, gazes up at me with an incredulous stare, giving me the look one only gives when beholding something beautiful. She hears me and finds it lovely. She sees me and finds me beautiful.

Her enjoyment of my songs gives me the courage to keep singing. Knowing that she is enjoying those moments as much as I am, I am content to sing as long as she will listen. I’ve even been known to get up in the middle of the night and sing her back to sleep. (I have to make sure to turn the monitor by Scott’s head off. He loves me infinitely, I know, but somehow I don’t think he would appreciate my midnight serenades as much as Leah does.) I embrace her and her blanket and, by the glow of the hall night light, I ease her back to a place where she can sleep.

There have been nights when sleep eluded her for hours. Those nights are usually when she is teething or otherwise not feeling well, and knowing her discomfort I am even more willing than normal to sit up with her. I sing……pause for a few quiet minutes…..hum…..pause……sing another song….. They are very sweet moments and ones that I know I will remember for the rest of my life.

During one of those middle of the night serenades, I realized the parallel between Leah’s enjoyment of my singing to her and how God truly must feel when we sing (or talk, for that matter) to Him out of our love for Him. It’s a beautiful thought. He doesn’t critique the noise we make. He doesn’t compare our song to someone else’s vocal offerings. He hears the voice of one who loves Him, and finds it beautiful. That alone makes me want to sing.

Roadside Jesus

It happens nearly every time I leave the house, regardless of how far I’m going or how long I am gone. The circumstances are almost always different, but the emotions I feel are the same every time.

I see someone on the side of the road. He is pushing his dead motorcycle. She is walking in the hot sun. He is humbly holding a cardboard sign asking for help. He is standing, thumb out, waiting for his ride. I see them, and I drive on by. I inevitably feel a tug on my heart, telling me to stop…to help…to give him a ride or offer to do something. Anything. I feel the tug and I ignore it, rationalizing all the reasons why it’s okay for me to not help.

It’s not safe. I don’t know him. I have my daughter in the car, and I can’t potentially endanger her. Their intentions might not be pure. I can justify doing something risky when it’s just me, but not her, too…..

Honestly, these are the thoughts that go through my mind. I don’t usually think of the obvious issue of giving money away when I’m living on a tight budget. I don’t usually worry about whether any money I give will go to good use. I don’t think about my time constraints or how I’m running low on gas or how my car is a mess. My mind goes to concerns of safety, both for me and for my daughter. Practical concerns, yes…..but are they right?

Jesus told us to help everyone. Jesus told us to love and help and do everything we can – even beyond what we think we can do.

[Jesus said,] “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the Kingdom prepared for you from the creation of the world. For I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home. I was naked, and you gave me clothing. I was sick, and you cared for me. I was in prison, and you visited me.’ Then these righteous ones will reply, ‘Lord, when did we ever see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you something to drink? Or a stranger and show you hospitality? Or naked and give you clothing? When did we ever see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me! (Matthew 25:34-40)

Those are His commands to us….and still I drive on by. Don’t think for a second that it has never occurred to me that the man or the woman on the side of the road might be Jesus Himself. I consider that possibility every time. I consider that if it were Jesus and I stopped to help, I would be blessed for my obedience. I even consider that if it isn’t Jesus and I am obedient in trying to help, I will be protected from any evil intentions the person may have.

All of those things cross my mind and swiftly exit. I am not proud of that.

I tell myself that Jesus was speaking and preaching in a completely different time. I tell myself that the people He was speaking to never had to consider such malicious things as carjackings and kidnappings and murders, though in my heart I know that there were dangers of that time that we – in 2010 – know nothing of. I am torn between feeling justified in my inaction and feeling horribly convicted for my disobedience. Unsure what else to do, I mutter a quick prayer - “Lord, please watch over him/her. Bring him/her whatever she needs. Protect him/her. Get him/her where he/she is going safely.” I drive by, my fish decal and church sticker trailing behind me as Jesus stands on the side of the road.

Behind Closed Hearts and Doors

I’ve recently been fascinated by different documentary-type shows about hoarding. It is interesting to me to see the way the people are living and to see how their illness has affected the people around them. I usually watch with sadness as I see someone hurting and struggling and desperate for change, but completely unequipped to bring that change about themselves.

Most interesting to me, though, are their stories of how the hoarding began. The death of a loved one, perhaps, or a long-held dream that collapsed that their feet. It is interesting what leads them down the path they’re on.

I find it amazing, too, that from the outside, so many of the houses look normal. From the street, no one would know what is going on inside. No one would be able to tell that there is clutter and trash and indescribable pain behind the front door. From the outside, they look like every other house on the street.

Sometimes even the people closest to the hoarders have no idea what is going on. On a recent episode, a successful and attractive middle-aged man was seeking help for his problem, and his long-time girlfriend had never even been to his house. She had no idea how he lived and what he struggled with; when she went inside for the first time, she was shocked to find that she had to walk on mountains of clutter. Astounded, she kept saying, “How…? I had no idea…. How….?!”

That episode in particular made me really think about how we all live. Yes, the man featured in that episode had a problem with physical clutter and its affects on his life, but how many of us live in similar ways? How many of us have secret issues, struggles, and pain that we don’t let anyone see? I’ve been there. At times, I’ve been so depressed I could hardly breathe and so scared to leave my house that I simply didn’t for days on end. I’ve felt the loneliness and isolation of struggling with something alone. I know how it is.

I also know how it is to find out that someone in my life has been struggling, but that I had no idea. I know how it feels to get the phone call of news out of the blue. I know how it feels to be blindsided by something terrible going on in someone’s life, and to wonder, pointlessly, if there were signs I had missed or something I could have done. I know how that is, too.

We all have a tendency to be closed books when we think there is something inside that no one will understand…and to allow others to remain closed when their defensive fronts go up. The hoarders have reminded me, though, that if allowed to remain hidden in the dark, bad things become worse, and that we never know what is going on behind closed doors and hearts…but it can only benefit the people in our lives if we dig deeper. We can never know what is really going on if we never ask, and we can never find healing if we never open up.

“Mommy and Me” Monday

It’s been quite awhile since I participated in “Mommy and Me” Monday, just because of sickness and surgery and recovery and all that entails. Yucky.

Things are settling back in to normal now, though, and last night Leah and I spent some sweet time coloring together. It’s these moments that melt my heart and that I know I’m going to miss one day.

Visit the home of “Mommy and Me” Monday to find more sweet pictures!