Come on over…

…and visit my brand new blog!  I’ve made the move over to Wordpress, and would love to see you there.

www.AdjustingToTheWorld.com

A quick visit with friends old and new.

I typed and deleted and retyped about a dozen different openings to this post, only to settle on this unimpressive opening sentence.

To my faithful readers….hello, and thank you for sticking with me! To my visitors and new readers….thank you so much for stopping by. I cherish your visit and wholeheartedly hope that something you find here blesses you.

It has been so long since I posted anything here, but it hasn’t been because I have nothing to say. This blog evolved in a lot of ways since I began a few years ago, and through that journey God has made it abundantly clear that this is an avenue He wishes to use in my life for bigger things than I have allowed. I’m currently in the process of radically making over this humble blog – upping the ante, if you will – and moving full speed ahead toward what I feel God is leading me to in this life.

There are big things happening in my corner of the world, and I can’t wait for the day when I can share them with you all. In the meantime, know that I’m still working…still writing…and still eagerly expecting to experience God in the everyday moments of life. He’s there. Keep looking. He’ll meet you where you are, and I promise that things will never look the same.

I’ll see you soon.

What is Sown

This morning on the news, I heard that NASA has launched an unmanned spacecraft destined for Jupiter. This craft…it will fly for 5 years before reaching its destination on a faraway planet. Five years! When I heard that, I looked over at my daughter, who – at that moment – was fiddling with beads and wire for the first time in her life.

I looked at her, in her early childhood, and all I could think was, “When that crazy technological wonder of a spacecraft reaches Jupiter, my little girl – this little person sitting here with me – will be nearly 8 years old.”

Something about that floored me, and I kept thinking about what an eight year-old Leah would be like. I tried to imagine her being more grown up than she is now….what her interests might be and how her personality might have developed….but it was very hard to do so. She’s different today than she was yesterday, and I imagine that tonight, when I tuck her into her bed and kiss her goodnight, she’ll be different – in seen or unseen ways – than she was when I took her the first cup of milk this morning. She will, and while ultimately all of her development and life are in God’s hands, I will have played some sort of a role in those changes as they happen.

So five years from now….or five days from now…..what seeds will I have planted in her life that will only then be blooming?

It makes me think. It makes me realize, again and for the first time, that everything I do with her will plant a seed in her life. Every conversation….every interaction….every disciplinary move and early morning snuggle…..everything I do plants something in her.

In a way, as I type that, I think it’s an overdramatic exaggeration. Maybe a little melodramatic.

And maybe it is….but maybe it isn’t. Perhaps not everything I do and not everything she experiences will embed itself into her little heart and mind like a subconscious splinter. Maybe some things will, and some things won’t. How can I say, though, what will and what will not leave a permanent impact on her? How can I know which harsh words will sting for a moment, only to be forgotten in a few minutes….and which ones will echo in her ears and in her heart for minutes and years, altering who she becomes?

When my little girl is either years old, the person she is will, to some extent, be a result of what I have been to her. The things I say to her and the things she experiences with me and the things she sees in me will all meld together to become the bundle of influence her mama had on her. Because I am human, I will not live in constant awareness of this fact. Life will get in the way and I’ll speak without thinking and act without reason. Because I am human, I cannot be who I want to be on my own power. Left to my own devices, I cringe to think what sort of an influence I’ll have on this precious life.

Thankfully, though, I don’t have to live on my own devices. I don’t have to do it myself. I don’t have to be perfect. I can make mistakes and still have a positive influence on her, as long as I point to the Lord as I get back up from my fall. He’ll help me plant seeds that are worth growing. He knows which words will linger and which won’t, and He has the power to grow things in her that I can’t control.

I’m so thankful that as hard as it is, I don’t have to rely on my own power. Really, if I can show her that – that I’m not relying on my own power as I attempt to be who she and God need me to be – then I’ll have planted the most important seed of all.

“For God is working in you, giving you the desire to obey Him and the power to do what pleases Him.” (Philippians 2:13)

Precious Dark Eyes

Belize, from the air

There are three little girls in Belize who have changed my life. Two of them, Jessica and Ingrid, I met during my first trip to Belize last November. The third, Carla, I met this past April as members of our mission team built a home for her family.

I think about these little girls all the time. I talk about them as though they are a daily part of my life. I pray for them, and worry about them as though they were members of my own family. I look at the glass bowl Ingrid gave me – filled with the dried remains of flowers given to me by all the girls – sitting on my kitchen window sill, and I miss the girls so much I could cry.

(L-R) Jessica, Ingrid, and Carla

These little girls have shown me that the world is much smaller than we make it out to be. The Lord has used them to tie me to the beautiful country of Belize in a way that would not happen without tangible, personal human relationships.

I am so thankful for them. I am thankful for their open hearts and their willingness to love. I am thankful for their generous smiles and abundant kisses. I am thankful for their affection that says, “Yes, you are sweaty and not very attractive right now, but I love you just the same.” I am thankful for their willingness to welcome me back after an absence of several months. I am thankful that they see fit to call me their “best friend” because of something as simple as a hug and a smile and a promise to pray for them.

There is just something about those girls that has changed me. When God sat Ingrid and Jessica behind me in church on that first humid morning in November, He knew that they would serve as a tool to soften my heart somehow. He knew that their dark eyes would speak to my soul, and that their little voices would echo in my mind as though He Himself had spoken audible words to me.

I am so thankful that God uses unlikely people to do unlikely things, and that God saw fit to bring these precious girls into my life. I can’t wait to visit them again.

What a difference a word makes.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. (Hebrews 12:1-3)

Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing. (1 Thessalonians 5:11)

After a couple of years (!!!) of living a somewhat sedentary lifestyle, I’ve recently bitten the bullet and started a new exercise routine. It’s no big thing, but I’ve really been enjoying it and actually look forward to my workouts in the evenings. It’s been a good thing, and I have no plans of quitting any time soon.

Other than the simple enjoyment of the exercise, I’ve felt motivated to continue because the other night, my husband said he could notice the physical effects of the exercise. (Read: the lingering effects of pregnancy might actually be fading away.) His compliment was unsolicited, enhancing its weight and making me feel very, very good about myself. Knowing that my exercising (and the slight changes in my eating habits that always seem to accompany any change in activity level) is making a difference, I am even more driven to continue. Even when I don’t feel up to exercising, knowing that 1)it will make me feel better mood-wise and 2)I’m reaping some visible benefits as well…hard to explain, maybe, but it makes it a lot easier to change my clothes and get moving.

As I thought about how my husband’s words made me feel, I was reminded, too, of similar unsolicited compliments I’ve received recently and in the more distant past. The most meaningful compliments are always those that come without provocation, and those that concern things I’m especially conscious of and am working on.

For example, when a friend told me awhile back that I seem much more easygoing than I used to, I was thrilled. Over the past few years, as I have beaten my anxiety to a pulp with much prayerful labor, I’ve become pretty self-conscious of my past and lingering anxious ways. It’s not something I wish to maintain, so any progress I make toward a more complete trust in the Lord and a more peaceful existence is considered a victory, however small. Feeling that progress is one thing, but hearing that others can tell a difference? Incredible. It’s enough to make me want to do a Rocky-esque dance at the top of whatever staircase is closest. It’s empowering to know that our work is yielding results. It’s encouraging to know that our progress is not imagined. It’s uplifting to know that we clearly aren’t where we used to be, but are moving toward a better version of ourselves.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking on this, and am realizing that I have never been very good at paying compliments to others. Knowing how good it feels to receive a compliment, I don’t know why it is hard for me to pay it forward, but it always has been.

I’m working on changing that, especially in reference to complimenting people on things that really matter. A casual remark of “Oh, I really like your shirt today” is easy enough, but commenting on how someone’s character has been affected by their growing relationship with the Lord? That’s more difficult, yes, but imagine how it would feel to hear those words!

Walking with the Lord is hard. It requires honest self-examination and diligent effort, clinging to Him and allowing Him to change things in ourselves that we might be very, very attached to. It is slow going sometimes, and sometimes, we can lose sight of our goal of becoming more Christlike. Sometimes – on days when we hear angry, bitter words coming from our mouths and don’t know where they came from, or when we find ourselves in the desolate cell of familiar sin – we may not feel like we’re making any progress whatsoever and that it just isn’t worth the pain and effort. The world (and our spiritual enemy within it) loves to make us feel that we are standing in place and that our efforts are futile. The Lord, though, speaks empowering words of truth….sometimes through other people.

What if we all looked for ways to encourage each other as we move from our old existence into life with Christ? What if, when fruits of the Lord’s beautiful Spirit become visible, we were more quick to point those things out than we are to draw attention to the flaws in our brothers and sisters? What if words of genuine words of praise flowed freely within our communities?

What if? I think the answer to that “what if?” is that we would all be encouraged to keep going. We’d all see that we are making progress…or that the Lord is making progress within us, and that while we may feel as though we’re standing still, we’re actually creeping toward the life He has for us.

(I’m reminded here of what I’ve always heard about tornadoes: When they appear to be standing still, you are directly in their path because they’re coming straight for you. The illusion of stillness sometimes means that the movement is most urgent. Does this mean that when we don’t appear to be drawing any closer to where we’re supposed to be in relation to the Lord, we’re actually right on track? Perhaps…. That’s something I’ll be thinking on over the next day or so.)

I’m really challenging myself on this point. I want to be an encouraging person…not just so that people enjoy being around me, but so that the Lord is using me to draw people into the life He has for them. No, I cannot push people down the path toward righteousness, but I can encourage them from the sidelines. I can let them know that yes, they are getting there. Yes, I can see the Lord in them. Yes, He is working, and yes, it’s worth it to keep going.

Unmerited compliments don’t do anyone any good. Compliments that come from an awareness of real progress, though…compliments that remark on the fruits of the Spirit emerging from someone….those are edifying to the body of Christ and are glorifying to the God who makes them possible.

Something to think about. I know that I am.

Repurposed

Leah and Scott in the pool…..just one of the diversions occupying my time these days.

It’s been awhile since I wrote publicly. I don’t know if anyone out there has missed my words, but I have certainly missed the process of getting those words down on “paper.”

The break was never planned. They rarely are, I find, and are most fruitful when they come about on their own rather than after planning and purposing. This has been a time of reflection and pursuit of other things. It has been a good thing – an opportunity to see myself and life with fresh eyes – even if I have missed my old dusty blog and the arduous (at times) process of straightening out these muddled thoughts into something that makes sense. I’m back, though, if only for now.

Over the past few weeks, the Lord has been working in me to show me something….what, though, is still somewhat undetermined. I’ve been dealing with the fervent conviction that I am somehow missing the mark….falling short of what I could and should be in my personal life. As often happens to me, one area of my life will be blossoming and blooming and yielding fruit of all colors and sizes while another area of my life seems to wither. I could theorize as to why that might be – whether one causes the other, for instance, or whether I’m made aware of imperfections in one area to keep me humble while another area of life threatens to swell my ego – but the truth is that it happens, and when it does I have to deal with it.

I’m embarking now on a journey of repurposing myself in my roles of wife and mother. I’ve felt convicted of ways I might be selling myself and my family short, and have finally decided it’s time to do something about it. In a staff meeting a few weeks ago, my pastor said (in reference to something unrelated) that sometimes it’s time to just grow up and do what we’re supposed to do. Those words have burned in my ears and on my mind; I think now is the time for me to grow up and embrace who I should be to my family. It’s time. No more excuses. No more distractions. Just prayerful pursuit of the woman I was made to be.

So my husband and my daughter, by no choice of their own, are accompanying me on this journey and will, hopefully, enjoy the trip. We all may never reach the ultimate destination, but hopefully we’ll get to see the target growing closer on the horizon as we travel together toward the life we’re meant to live as a family.

I don’t know what kind of vistas we’ll find on our way, but I’m eager to share the process with all of you. Maybe my trek toward more purposeful living will inspire similar changes in your lives as the intentional lifestyles of friends have inspired me. Either way, I’m glad to have a venue to share my thoughts along the way.

Because sometimes, learning is messy.

I am not the mom I always assumed I would be.

One of the best ways for me to explain what I mean is to show you this picture:

That is my daughter’s PlayDoh. Four colors of it, to be precise….in only three blobs. With specks and flakes and pieces of different colors scattered throughout. Plus, what you can’t see, is that this is my kitchen counter….and that this scene continues unto the floor and the breakfast stools.

I never, ever thought I would be okay with that, but somehow I am. Somehow, God has done something in my heart that makes me okay with the everyday messes and hundreds of inevitable cleanups that come each day. Something in my Type A, obsessive, “everything must be just so” heart is okay with this.

I think, really, that I’ve realized since my daughter was born that sometimes, learning is messy. It just is, and if I want her to learn, she’s going to have to have the opportunity to make a mess here and there…or all around. If she’s going to learn to make elaborate PlayDoh shapes and discover what different colors do when they mix, she’s going to have to make a mess.

If she’s going to learn to help me with supper and set the table and pour things into the mixing bowls for me, she’s going to make a mess sometimes. The table may not look perfect, but she’s learning. (And really, I think she does a pretty terrific job for a two year old.)

If she’s going to learn to use the big girl potty all on her own, there are going to be times when I find inordinate amounts of toilet paper unwound across the bathroom floor, with her standing nearby saying, “I got too much, Mommy. Made a mess, too.” That’s okay. I’ll just wind it back up and congratulate her on her progress…because today, maybe, she doesn’t use quite as much as yesterday, and anyway…she made it to the bathroom in time. Mess or no mess, she’s learning.

And that’s okay.

I always imagined somehow that I’d be a mom who cringed with every mess, dying a little inside with every piece of strawberry that landed on the carpet or every spoonful of banana bread batter that splattered on the counter or every pile of tiny toys that littered my kitchen floor. I really thought I wouldn’t be able to handle it, and that somehow, I’d have the one child in the world who never, ever made a mess.

I don’t know how the change was made in me, but I’m thankful that it did. I don’t have the neatest, cleanest child in the world (though she’s far from being the messiest, I’m sure), and I’m able to love (nearly) every moment of her mess-making as she grows and learns. I’ve come to understand, too, that if I obsessively clung to the cleanliness of my home, I would miss a pretty amazing illustration of how God “parents” me.

You see, now that I’m a mom and this change has happened in my heart, I understand that sometimes, learning is messy. Sometimes a child has to mess things up a little in order to figure it out. Sometimes it’s the mess itself that teaches her something, and from dealing with it – whatever it is – she might be better off.

God knows that’s true with me, too. He knows that in the mistakes and the crashes and the ungraceful stumbles of my life, that has been where I’ve grown the most. Every time I have messed up, there has been a part of Him that cringed because He didn’t like to see me fall….but a part of Him knows full well how necessary those bruising calamities are in teaching me and helping me to grow.

No, the messes I make don’t usually involve spilled food, but are usually of a more serious nature. A harsh word spoken to a family member, perhaps, or a responsibility that I have shirked in favor of my own leisure. They look different than the typical messes of a curious and exploratory toddler, but are no less important in my development into the woman I was created to be.

My own relationship and walk with the Lord, for example, began as a result of one of the biggest stumbles of my life. The incident hurt….tore my inside up….brought on more tears than I’ve ever cried before….nearly took everything from me….but from where I’m sitting, I’m thankful for it. I am sincerely thankful that God allowed me to make that mistake, crashing into an ugly pile of wreckage on the inside of my heart. Without the debris from that calamity…without that mess…I definitely would not be the woman I am today.

God knows that sometimes, learning is messy. He could have made life clean and neat and easy (and originally, He did….but we messed it up and that’s an entirely different blog post). He could have made the lessons easier to learn and less painful as they healed, but He knew that sometimes, learning is just messy.

It has to be, and it needs to be okay. It needs to be okay with us, because it is okay with Him.

So, no. I am most definitely not the mom I always thought I would be, and I’m grateful that I’m not. I think this mom is better than that one would have been. It’s more fun, anyway, and I think there’s some pretty good stuff in it for my daughter, too.

“Dreaming in Chinese,” by Deborah Fallows

This book…… It was great. (I feel like I say that about every book I read, and I probably do enjoy most books more than most people do, but I’m just being honest. Read back into some of my reviews and I promise you’ll find some that weren’t raving.)

It’s not like most of the books I read. My dad suggested it to me, knowing how I love culture and language and the adjustments required when someone is transplanted into a world very much unlike their own. I studied in Spain for a semester in college, and the culture shock (and reverse culture shock, but that’s another story) that I experienced surrounding that experience stick with me still today. The language challenges of entering a culture before being fluent in the language…well, that’s not something you forget, nor is it something you can experience without growing and changing exponentially.

(Side note: I remember emailing my parents at one point during my tenure in Spain and telling them that I had “made it.” I had dreamed in Spanish the night before, and that – as any serious language student knows – is a terrific indication that a language has shifted from being vocabulary lists on a page to being a living, breathing language. It’s pretty neat, and made the title of this book hit home.)

If you, too, have an interest in culture and language, you’re bound to love this book. It’s a memoir, of sorts, of a woman who moved to China with her husband and, subsequently, struggled for several years to gain a working, functioning knowledge of the Chinese language. She pairs her strategies for learning the language with her observations of Chinese people and culture, making for a fascinating study of the expatriate experience. Going into this book, I didn’t know much about either Chinese culture or languages; when I finished, I felt like I had enjoyed a cup of coffee with someone who had just lived the experience and passionately shared their stories. Really, there’s no better way to learn……as the author, who knows more than she did but still admits limited knowledge, will tell you.

Anchored and Dancing

Several months ago, my husband took me on a little overnight getaway to the lake. We stayed in some friends’ lake house, lounged on the dock, kayaked at sunset… It was pretty amazing. Early on Saturday morning, I got up and sat on the dock, enjoying the utter silence and solitude of the morning. As I did so, bobbing on the floating dock and staring into the water, I was struck by the strength of an anchor tied nearby.

At the time, I thought about the strength of that rope. The boat, tied tightly to the dock, was able to move. It bobbed and moved and was even allowed to drift a little. At times, it was quite a good distance from the dock, drifting with the current and the wake of passing motorboats. At other times, though, it moved closer, nestling up to the dock as though there were no slack in the rope at all. The boat was free to move….but never so far that it was on its own.

I think that’s kind of how God is. If we’re grounded in Him, living with His Spirit deep in our hearts, we’re like a boat anchored…moored…tied to a dock. We can only go so far. He’s always there, holding us and drawing us back when we begin to drift. He never holds us so tightly that we can’t live – can’t move or make choices or think for ourselves – but He holds us, nonetheless, so that when He needs to bring us closer, He can. The waves and the current and the wind of life – all of those things in life that try to pull us away – will constantly be at work on us, but with Him as our anchor, we can’t go far. Those things can’t do much to us – can’t pull us very far – if we just stay connected. We are held somehow, and we can feel it. We know it.

What’s more….I think that’s all kind of the way God asks us to be as parents. We have to teach our children about Him, giving them the information and the background and the heritage to keep them grounded as they grow, but we cannot control them. We cannot make decisions for them or treat their lives as our own. We can only give them an anchor – connect them to Him – so that when life moves in and the waves get taller and rougher and scarier, they can grab hold and know that they won’t be taken away. They are held, and they know it.

I was reminded of this idea recently, strangely, while watching “Mary Poppins” with my daughter. She loves the movie, and I love the scene with the chimney sweeps dancing and singing on the rooftops of London. As I watched that song and dance routine, I noticed for the first time how, when fired upon by Admiral Boom’s cannon next door, panic ensued with everyone….but Mary Poppins. The chimney sweeps and the children all hit the deck, running and scrambling for safety. Meanwhile, Mary Poppins barely moves. She stands, posture erect, watching the chaos and hullabaloo with apparent wonderment. Her face almost seems to say, “Whatever is the matter? Everything is going to be just fine. Calm down, all of you.”

And how appropriate! Mary Poppins was used to strange things happening all around her, like hysterical laughter carrying sensible people to the ceiling and children disappearing into sidewalk drawings. She knew that life is characterized by the unexpected and even the scary, but she also knew that her reaction to those things in life will sometimes make little difference… She seemed to know something the others in the scene didn’t know, and her reaction is eye-catching and almost humorous. No panic…no fear…no turmoil. Just calm in the midst of the storm.

I think God wants us to live that way. Drifting, yes, and floating through life, connected to what comes and really experiencing what it is to live…..but never being rocked or taken or swept away. I think, too, that we are to equip our children to live that way. The Lord gives us an anchor – a sure place to hold on when things get bumpy – and we have to introduce our children to that peace.

Direct your children onto the right path, and when they are older, they will not leave it. (Proverbs 22:6)

We can drift…we can live…but we can always hold on and come right back.

They can live….they can make mistakes and experience pain….but they have something to hold onto, and can always come back.

And, when the waves get higher and higher, frightening everyone around them and carrying even the most sensible people away, we can all stand firm.

I have told you all this so that you may have peace in me. Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world. (John 16:33)

Everything will be fine. There is nothing to worry about. We can all continue to sing and dance, on the rooftops or in the rain, because we know something others might not.

Then he got into the boat and his disciples followed him. Suddenly a furious storm came up on the lake, so that the waves swept over the boat. But Jesus was sleeping. The disciples went and woke him, saying, “Lord, save us! We’re going to drown!” He replied, “You of little faith, why are you so afraid?” Then he got up and rebuked the winds and the waves, and it was completely calm. The men were amazed and asked, “What kind of man is this? Even the winds and the waves obey him!” (Matthew 8:23 – 27)

How much more fun would it be, though, if everyone knew? How much more fun would it be if everyone could sing and dance with us, laughing at the storms and fearlessly dodging the attacks?

Something to think about. It’s something that’s challenging me.

Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved. How, then, can they call on the one they have not believed in? And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them? And how can anyone preach unless they are sent? As it is written: “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!” (Romans 10:13-15)

A tree is just a tree.

I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree. ~Joyce Kilmer

I don’t think it’s any secret that I have a soft spot in my heart for trees. I could spend an inordinate amount of time sitting and watching them – the sun casting through the leaves, the branches dancing in a breeze, the colors changing with the seasons. We were in North Carolina recently, spending a weekend in a cabin; the time there was perfect for an avid tree-watcher like myself.

One morning, as I sat on the porch of the cabin and enjoying the silence that is pretty uncharacteristic of life at home, the trees caught my attention (as they always do). From where I was sitting, I could lean back and really watch the trees – and nothing but the trees, unobstructed by anything else around. As I watched them, with things from home on my mind and my usual introspection at work, I was struck by a thought.

Trees don’t worry or care about anything.

They just are.

Trees don’t worry about what everyone else is doing. If a breeze catches one, it doesn’t hesitate to dance…even if no one else is. If the leaves on one begin to change, a tree doesn’t feel self-conscious about its vibrant colors, afraid to stand out. If one reaches new heights and stands taller than the rest, it doesn’t slouch down to look more like the others. If a dead branch falls off a tree, the tree doesn’t move all of the other branches around, attempting to cover its imperfections.

No. A tree just is.

A tree stands up tall and straight (or bends crookedly, or leans to one side), and keeps on doing what it does.

It is what it is, and that is okay.

I realize how silly this all sounds, since no, trees don’t think…and what else would a tree do, really, but stand there? For me, though – having struggled with brutal self-comparison and bitter self-loathing for much of my life – it was a revelation. A tree is just a tree…..a compilation of roots and branches and leaves…..but it has something to teach me.

A tree…..just a tree…….nothing more………

….and yet here am I, the pinnacle of God’s creation (His Word says so….I didn’t make that up, I assure you)……here am I, insecure in who I am and unhappy so much of the time with my place in this vast world.

I long for something I am not, when I am created in God’s own image…..from His own heart……out of His love for me.

If the trees….just big plants, really…..are confident with their place in the world, how much more should I be? If a tree is okay with its particular characteristics that set it apart from the others, how much more should I be, having been carved and sculpted and knit together in my mother’s womb?

Creation was not complete until woman entered the scene. There is a scene in this world that is not complete without me, yet I spend a lot of my time wishing I were different….wishing for a different calling in my life…..wishing somehow that my life looked more like others I see around me.

The trees, though, never think that way….and neither should I. If God declared the trees to be good…..how marvelous and beautiful must I be in his eyes? And who am I, really, to question what He thinks of me?

The Reality of Journeying

We’ve all been there.

Some people feel it more on Monday mornings….or idle Thursday afternoons….or only following big spiritual events like a retreat or a vacation. Personally, I call it the “Sunday afternoon slump.”

It’s that sense of wonderment….and wonderment lost. It’s the feeling of remembering, with distinct clarity, the peace of worship in community. Remembering the undeniable presence of God. Remembering the tug on one’s heart that couldn’t possibly come from anyone outside….but only from the One who is inside ourselves and all around, all at once.

It’s that feeling of wanting the world to fall away. It’s the desire for the meetings on the calendar, the dishes in the sink, the laundry in the basket…the desire for all of those things to simply wait.

It’s the realization that though we wish and dream and long for the mountaintop of worship and closeness with God to last forever, it simply cannot.

And then, we slump.

Life will go on…the noise will again crowd in…and we’ll again long for that closeness…the peace…the quiet…the intimacy of time spent with our Creator. We’ll long for it until it comes again. However long it takes, we’ll go on longing. Whatever comes in the meantime, we’ll never cease our longing.

As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When can I go and meet with God? My tears have been my food day and night, while men say to me all day long, “Where is your God?” These things I remember as I pour out my soul: how I used to go with the multitude, leading the procession to the house of God, with shouts of joy and thanksgiving among the festive throng. (Psalm 42:1-4)

Sometimes, the recollection of worship seems otherworldly, and placing ourselves in that memory seems impossible. With the way we feel right now, in this moment, it is hard to imagine having ever felt the way we did then.

That was the mountain, and here, on Sunday afternoon or Monday morning, we find ourselves in the valley.

The high has passed, and here we are, once again, in the harsh reality of life. The mountaintop cannot last…

…and really, if it were possible, I wonder if I would want it to. It has been in the valleys that I have grown. It has been in those places of panic attacks and tear-soaked pillows that I have seen God most clearly and felt His hand on me. It has been in those moments of utter desperation that I have reached the end of myself and entered, finally, into the bliss of allowing Him to take over.

That can only happen in the valley, whenever and wherever it may come. So if that mountaintop could last, would I want it to? I know myself. I know that given time and space, I will lose my appreciation for the things that at first swept me off my feet. I know that given time, my wonderment would cease. I’d like to think it wouldn’t, but I know myself.

So no….the mountaintop cannot last forever, and I will inevitably plunge into a valley as a result. The valley will be cold and harsh and dark, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. If all I knew was sunlight, I wouldn’t appreciate its warmth when it peeks from behind a storm cloud. The valleys, in truth, help me to see God more clearly and to understand His heart.

It’s about the journey. How much of a journey, really, can one make on top of a mountain? There isn’t much space to move around up there. At best, I could turn in a small circle, barely shifting my feet as I pivoted slowly around. That, friends, is no journey. And in doing that I would be no pilgrim.

The journey takes me to the valleys more often than it takes me to the mountaintops. Sunday morning is but a small portion of my week. The rest of the time, I must continue my sojourn through life.

Blessed are those whose strength is in you, who have set their hearts on pilgrimage. (Psalm 84:5)

I’ll wait….you’ll wait….and when He sees fit, He’ll escort us back to the mountaintop. Meanwhile, I’m setting my heart on pilgrimage knowing full well that this pilgrim will descend into the valleys. The journey will take me to the low places, and when it does, it will be okay. It will not be fun, but it will be okay.

All photos were taken by me on our recent vacation to North Carolina.

“God Loves Ugly,” by Christa Black

I saw Christa Black at a Michael W. Smith concert recently, and her book and CD caught my eye as soon as I walked up to the merchandise table in the lobby. The words “God Loves Ugly” jumped off the table at me, and I thought, “Yeah…….I’m probably buying that book.” I flipped it open to see a little of what it held inside, and this sentence jumped off the page at me:

“Fear keeps me from doing things I want to do.”

At that, I got in line and bought the book and accompanying CD. They had to come home with me.

I plowed through the book (and meanwhile listened to the CD nearly non-stop) in less than a week. It was amazing.

Christa (I call her by her first name because I feel like we’re friends) talks in the book about her own struggles with self esteem and ghosts in her closet, and how she went on a very real, very raw journey to wholeness and a realization of who she is in God’s eyes. The end of each chapter has a section called “Your Turn,” which gives the reader a chance to reflect on what they’ve read and to answer (pretty challenging) questions. My favorite of these sections asked me to write out, in as much detail as I could, who God is to me. Very, very powerful. (Even if you don’t get the book, I encourage you to tackle that assignment. It could change your life.)

The CD is beautiful, too, and if you visit Christa on her Facebook page, you can listen to it there. Highly recommended.

My copy of this book is already promised out to several women who, like me, were drawn in by Christa’s story. If you want to read it, I’d be happy to loan you mine when they’re done….but you can always get a copy of your own. It’s worth it.

“A Million Miles in a Thousand Years,” by Donald Miller

After reading my enthusiastic review of Blue Like Jazz, a friend generously let me borrow her copy of another of Donald Miller’s books. A Million Miles in a Thousand Years was to be my vacation read, but I never dreamed I would finish it (yes, FINISH IT) in three days. The writer in me loved it. The introspective analyst in me loved it. The word nerd in me…yes. Loved it.

It was so, so good.

In this one of his books, Miller writes about a period of aimless wandering in his life. This was a period that, for all outward appearances, should have been one of the best in his life but, for different reasons, left him feeling depressed and lost. As his memoir was being made into a movie, he was forced to look at his life in a new way, and to make a decision about how he wanted the rest of his story to play out.

With relevant examples and stories that make you want to invite him over for coffee, Miller describes his journey from meaninglessness to living a provocative story. Reading about his story – or, as he puts it, his lack of story – cannot help but make you look closely at your own life and the story it tells. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I finished it the other day.

My only complaint? That I didn’t read a copy of my own, so I could scribble and write in the margins at will. I’ll probably be getting my own copy, and reading it again. And again.

And probably again.

It’s just that good.

In Search of The Real Thing

One Sunday at church, my daughter snagged a toy army helmet from the children’s minister. It is flimsy and plastic, but carries the mandatory camouflage pattern marking it as a serious tool of war. When my little girl got tired of wearing it and plopped it on the kitchen table, I noticed something on the inside that made me laugh out loud. There, on the bar code sticker, was a warning: This is a toy, does not provide protection.

I shook my head in amazement. Is it not painfully clear that this plastic helmet is just a toy? Is it not obvious that this flimsy thing wouldn’t protect against an older sibling’s play attack, much less anything threatening serious injury? Would someone actually make the mistake of thinking this phony little thing was the real thing, placing on it the responsibility of saving one’s life? Could that be possible? The whole thing struck me as riotously funny and yet, simultaneously, really sad.

And then, later that same week, during my morning quiet time, I encountered this passage:

Then they called on the name of Baal from morning till noon. “O Baal, answer us!” they shouted. But there was no response; no one answered. And they danced around the altar they had made. At noon Elijah began to taunt them. “Shout louder!” he said. “Surely he is a god! Perhaps he is deep in thought, or busy, or traveling. Maybe he is sleeping and must be awakened.” So they shouted louder and slashed themselves with swords and spears, as was their custom, until their blood flowed. Midday passed, and they continued their frantic prophesying until the time for the evening sacrifice. But there was no response, no one answered, no one paid attention. (1 Kings 18:26-29)

I read that, and again, I laughed out loud. Can you even imagine it? That many men – 450 in all – dancing and shouting and cutting themselves and acting generally ridiculous, all in the name of worship and calling on a god that does not exist? I’m afraid that had I been there, I would have shaken my head in disbelief and laughed a pitying laugh. Hilarious, yet somehow strangely sad.

To be so misguided…..so lost…..

The thing about it, though, is that today, we can see this same scene played out all over again. Likely as not, you won’t see a crowd of 450 people dancing in the streets, chanting the name of a bizarre deity and slashing at themselves with knives.

You may, however, walk down a street in the business section of town and see people marching, briefcases in hand, eyes glazed over, silently worshiping the gods of success and status.

You might see throngs of people crowding a shopping center on a random Saturday, trying on clothes they don’t need and shelling out money they don’t have, diligently pursuing the god of stuff and possessions….striving for wholeness and a filling of the emptiness inside.

You might see young people revealing fake identification cards to purchase alcohol, hoping to numb the ache they can’t seem to heal…dying to find rest…desperately pursuing the god of who knows what.

Are those things funny, or just really, desperately sad?

The tough thing is that unlike cheap toy army helmets, the things of the world don’t broadcast clear warnings that they aren’t quite what you’re looking for. They don’t tell you up front that though they look good and real and enticing, they are not going to do the job. They aren’t going to fill the void or provide the protection or build you up in the way you need.

No, they don’t have stickers on them letting you know that you’re about to be disappointed. Rather, they draw you in…and then drop you.

Those gods in the world….the ones we all eagerly dance to and shout to and give offerings to….they aren’t quite what we think they are. They look like the real thing just long enough – just convincingly enough – to get your attention. What they lack is the power and the substance to carry you any further forward than you are right now.

Thankfully, though, there is a God who amounts to more.

At the time of sacrifice, Elijah stepped forward and prayed, “O Lord, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, let it be known today that you are God in Israel and that I am your servant and have done all these things at your command. Answer me, O Lord, answer me, so these people will know that you, O Lord, are God, and that you are turning their hearts back again.” Then the fire of the Lord fell and burned up the sacrifice, the wood, the stones, and the soil, and also licked up the water in the trench. When all the people saw this, they fell prostrate and cried, “The Lord – he is God! The Lord – he is God!” (1 Kings 18:36-39)

There is more out there that we are willing to experience. We bow down and cry out to the fake things the world offers us, while the Real Thing stands and watches, waiting for us to turn.

What’s Left Behind

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about legacy…..about being intentional about what kind of heritage we leave for our children and for the people who will come after us. Some of that is because of a book I’ve been reading and a series we’re in at church. Some of that is because of these:

Cicadas. This year is a particularly bad one for cicadas here in the south, and we’ve had some extraordinarily noisy days lately as millions – literally, millions – of these little guys have emerged from the ground for the first time in 13 years. They camp out in the trees and do a little flutter dance with their wings, making a ridiculous amount of noise. Their festive celebration of freedom, though, is not the reason I connect them with my thinking about legacy. I do so because of their molted shells.

They leave them on the trees when they come out of hibernation, and most years, this is all we see. We hear their ruckus as they do what they do in the trees, but rarely do we actually see one of the bugs themselves. All we know is that they have been here, and we know they’re out there somewhere because we still hear them. They are kind of elusive, and because of that are almost mythical. Visitors from other regions of the country come, and we can’t show them a bug, but can say, “This is one of their shells…..and that sound is a bunch of them in the trees……” That’s all we can do to describe the weird little things. If they didn’t leave something behind, we’d have no idea what they were really like.

And that, friends, leads me to my thoughts on legacy. I, too, want to leave something behind. When I’m gone, be it from a room or from this life, I want those who are left to know what I was like….what I stood for….what was important to me. I want to raise my daughter in a home that teaches her who and Whose she is, in order to give her something to cling to when things get hard. I want her to have the truth of God so firmly embedded in her heart that there is no distinguishing where she ends and He begins. I want everything she experiences in this home as she grows up to lead her to the Lord…to the cross…to a place of worship and relationship with her Creator. As her mom, I have the power to do that. I can point her to eternal things, or I can point her to things that will fade.

These things, I am realizing, do not happen on their own, but through intentional, daily effort.

I’m still learning all that it means to lead her to Jesus. I’m still trying to figure out how to do it.

We sing songs about Him. She’s memorizing scripture. (Amazing to witness.) She knows who Jesus is and that He died on the cross because He loves her a lot. (She knows, too, that He woke up after He died.)

I’m teaching her, yes. Her head is learning, and I only hope that in so doing, I’m teaching her heart.

One day, she’ll be set free in this world, and mama won’t be there to walk her through her verses. One day, she’ll face things that are more difficult than I can bear to think of for my little girl. She’ll be out there on her own, and she’ll need a foundation that will stand firm when things get stormy.

My prayer – with everything I have in me – is that the Lord will have worked through me to equip her for life. My prayer is that somehow, her time here at home will never fade, but that it will go on forever in her heart and in her life as the eternal things we meditate on sink deeper and deeper into who she is.

My prayer is that my legacy will be one she’ll be proud of, and one that will launch her into the plans the Lord has for her.

We’ll all leave something behind when we’re gone. We leave something behind with the people we know…with every person we encounter. What will it be?

Broken in Secret Places

The other day as I was emptying our dishwasher, I pulled a glass out that was in much worse condition than it had been when I put it in. Strangely, part of the glass had just broken off. It was not shattered into a million pieces, but had simply come apart. (Adding to the peculiarity was the fact that the cups around it in the dishwasher had all been plastic, making all obvious scenarios as to how the glass had broken highly unlikely.) When I showed it to my husband, he said something that got me thinking.

“It might just have been a weak place from where it was made. We couldn’t have known it was there until it broke.”

And then I began thinking about something…….

Several years ago, when I was in my worst place emotionally and mentally, I made a trip to Wal-Mart. It should have been a routine trip to the store, and most people in the world would have thought it was. For me, though, it was difficult and devastating and enough to crumble an already unstable little world. Something was said to me in the store that, again, would not have affected most people to the extent it did me (if at all). For me, however, it was the end of the world; I literally retreated to my car, where I sat and cried and pounded the steering wheel and trembled and screamed for at least half an hour before regaining my composure enough to drive safely home. I remember saying to myself, “If she knew what I deal with, she wouldn’t have said that to me. If she knew how hard it was for me to even leave the house this morning, she would have been nicer about that. If she only knew….. If she only knew……” Rattled and teary, I drive home and tried to continue with my day. (I never did accomplish what I set out that morning to do. In light of the attack I felt I had received, it was unimportant.)

As I type that last sentence, I again see the truth of what happened.

I felt I had received an attack, so the attack was real. I perceived what had happened as terrible and hurtful and personal, so for me, they were. The woman who said the offending words to me did not mean anything by them, and I’m sure she had no idea the effect they had on me or that I am thinking about them over five years later. The problem, I realize, was in my perception of the words, and in how the lenses through which I see the world tint all that I experience. In a counseling class years ago, we learned that perception is reality. If I perceive something as offensive, it doesn’t matter the intentions behind it. If I perceive it as being offensive to me, it is. Period.

The Wal-Mart incident is not unique in my life and, maybe, in yours. Maybe the offending blow came from a friend, rather than a stranger. Maybe it came at home, rather than in a public place, and maybe instead of crying in solitude you reacted with a harsh word.

Regardless of the circumstances, though, the attacks come, and they can break us. Maybe they have broken you, and maybe instead of friendly understanding, your brokenness was met with criticism and more harshness.

Because of my own experiences, God has gracious allowed me to see something clearly that helps me to process those things when they do happen.

Those issues I have – the ones that are so vulnerable to idle words and casual remarks – are my secret broken places. Those are the places in my heart and my soul and my past that have left me scarred and, perhaps, weakened.

No one sees the cracks in my exterior….the weak patches in my makeup that threaten to give way at any moment.

They don’t know, for example, that if they comment jokingly on my clothing, that I spent an inordinate amount of time considering what to wear and that, as I did so, I dreaded and even anticipated the remarks and thoughts others would have about my outfit.

They have no way of knowing that, and don’t know that the next day, as I dress, I will be thinking of their words and trying to fight back tears and the certainty that someone that day will think something badly of me, too.

No can knows about the cracks in my carefully assembled exterior unless I am willing to expose them…and that, in a real way, makes the exterior unnecessary. When there is nothing on the inside that we feel we have to hide, there is no need for a perfect facade. Vulnerability can be the most liberating exterior.

No…I should not walk around exposing every weakness at every opportunity, making people feel as though no subject is safe for conversation with me lest something offend my delicate makeup.

But yes…..I should realize that what someone says to me is, most likely, intended harmlessly and that I, because of my weak places, perceive them otherwise. Perhaps the other person is thoughtless in the way they speak to people, and perhaps their words are spoken with a little more sting than sweetness. I can have no control over that.

I can, however, control how I receive what they say. I can allow myself to be crushed and broken and devastated by words, or I can choose to see them differently…to guard myself from attacks, real or perceived…to understand that as I am not responsible for the words coming from someone else’s mouth, they are not responsible for how I receive them.

Yes, people should be sensitive to the power their words have on others. We should all realize that words carry with them the power of life and death. We should take our words and our actions seriously, because we don’t know what brokenness someone is carrying with them today.

However, because we are human, words will fly carelessly. Words will be slung that should never be allowed to see the light of day. Tone of voice is hard to control, and in bad moments words seem get lives of their own. It is true, and even as I can bear witness to the pain words can cause, I know that my words have inflicted pain on others.

Much talk is given to how each person should have a filter to control what words are allowed to leave their mouths. What if, just as well, we all have filters whose sole purpose is to regulate what can come into our souls? What if we took responsibility for what comes in just as much as what goes out? How different would all of our lives be?

A Targeted Audience

It happens to me every month. My husband brings the mail in and hands me my Parents Magazine for the month. I sneak a peek at the cover and, upon seeing the featured articles, I laugh a little. They are always – always – somehow eerily relevant to what we’re going through in our family. Bedtime struggles, suppertime aversions, taming temper tantrums…whatever it is that has been on our minds, that is what the magazine editors have chosen to feature.

It struck me as odd, really, until I thought about it recently and realized that there’s a reason for the correlation. The magazine business knows their audience, and knows what they need to read and hear. My concerns are not unique, and most likely, other parents think the same things when they see the covers every month.

“They did it again! How did they know?!”

“Oh, thank goodness…..what page is that article on?”

“Honey, I’m going to be in the living room…..I’ve got to read this NOW.”

There is a sense of community, too, when I read those pages. As a stay-at-home mom, I get the reassurance I need. I see that I’m not the only one doing this. I’m not the only one feeling what I’m feeling and struggling with what I’m struggling with. Raising a child is not unique to any person, nor are the troubles and strife that come with this, the most satisfying and fulfilling job in the world.

I’m struck by what happens with my magazine every month, but something much deeper happens on a daily basis (when I allow it to). Has this ever happened to you?

You sit down for your quiet time, or even flip to the assigned passage for a group discussion or devotional. Perhaps you scour your concordance, looking for something – anything – to speak to the ache your heart is feeling. As you read, you think, “Wow. Thank you, God. Thank you for that message. I needed that.”

It may not happen every time, because let’s face it – there’s a lot contained in those leather-bound pages. However, when it does happen – and the more you read, the more often it will happen – it is deep. Soul touching. Heart wrenching. Exciting to the point of tears. Intimate and personal.

“He wrote this for me. He knew somehow…. I’m not the only one…..”

What a gift….a blessing….a treasure….to know that the One who sculpted your life has not forgotten about you. He knows you, right where you are, and knows what you need. He hears your cries, even when you don’t know you’ve uttered them, and He sees you when you are convinced you’ve done a great job of hiding.

He knows, and He cares. He cares enough to address everything you feel in a personal, specific letter He has written to you. What’s more…..someone else has been there. Someone else, too, has felt what you’re feeling.

He knows me. He cares about me. And…..as precious as anything…..I am not the only one who has ever felt this way. What a treasure.

Heartstrings

I don’t know what to say. I’ve been home from Belize for nearly a month already, and I’ve yet to write much of anything publicly about it. Believe me – it’s not because I have nothing to say, but because my mind is still reeling and processing all that the Lord did while we were there and all that He continues to do.

That country and the people there have my heart. La gente de Belize son como nada del mundo….y tienen mi alma para siempre. I cannot sever my heart’s connections with the people of Belmopan, nor do I ever want to. I’ve been twice, and I have every intention of going as often as I am able. The Lord has made it abundantly clear that He has a place and a plan for me there, and I am not about to run from that.

I think that one of the most phenomenal things about our church’s connection with the church in Belize is the effect it is having and will continue to have on the children of our community. My daughter is two, and she already knows that there is a place called Belize that is important to Mommy. She knows that there are children in Belize who look different from her but who are not otherwise all that different from the way she is. She knows that Mommy goes there to tell the children of Belize about Jesus, and she knows the names of the kids she sees in my pictures. (She even pretends to call some of them on her little play phone.) She has met the pastor of our sister church in Belize, and she talks about him all the time.

My daughter is only two, but she is already beginning to grasp that the world is bigger than her own experience.

I cannot express how that touches my heart.

I don’t know how long I will feel called to Belize, nor do I know what role I will serve on subsequent trips. I know, though, that I will go, and I know that when I do, I will be no less in awe of my experience than I have been twice before.

Flying into Belize felt surprisingly like flying home….and the reason for that is simple. The Lord is here, but He is also there. He is working here, and He is working there. When people – regardless of how physically distant – are connected in the Lord’s name, one word to describe it is “home.” Wherever we go that we find those joined to us in the name of Jesus, we will be home.

Belize – for me – is home, and I’ll go as many times as He asks me to.