Category Archives: Sacred Mundane

I can still remember asking my mom the question when I was all of 7-years-old:

“Mommy, can I have a report card like the kids at school?”

I can still remember her smile. Her looking down at me. Her reply: “Honey, you are doing great. You work hard, you have a great attitude, and you’re learning lots. I’m so pleased with you. Why do you want a report card?”

Why did I want a report card? I don’t know. I was homeschooled. I didn’t have to have one. But I remember her kindly humoring me and taking a sheet of paper, writing my name, and making a list of A’s down the side with categories such as “cares for others,” “works hard,” and “listens well.” I clutched the hand-written report and beamed.

Now I have to chuckle and shake my head at this story. Partly because I still find myself 26 years later walking around the world and looking for a report card. Please? Or, worse–seeing everything in the world as one giant report card. Each day ends with a giant letter grade scribbled across the page of my life. Have you ever been there?

Sometimes it’s my kids. If we have a smooth day with cheerful attitudes or they sit quietly in church, I have an A. If they’re particularly sour or we had an incident at the store, I’m down to a D- and wish I weren’t even in the class.

Sometimes it’s my husband.  Even though my man is awesome, way too often I have believed the lie that if he’s struggling it’s because I’ve somehow failed on my end. Haven’t submitted enough or been joyful enough or haven’t given him enough lovin’. No matter what the issue is, surely his struggle must indicate my failure. It’s just another unfortunate report card.

Sometimes it’s my writing. Can I just be brutally honest and say that sometimes, just sometimes, the number of Facebook “likes” can feel like a giant report card? Sometimes, when my eyes are not on Jesus or my heart is in a bad space, it can feel like daily standing naked before an audience and watching a thousand thumbs point up or down. Is it any wonder writer’s block plagues us at times?

Sometimes it’s ministry, friendships, the state of my house or the number on the scale or a whole host of other ridiculous “whatevers” that that particular day might hold. Anything can be taken by the enemy and folded into a nice paper report card, by which my happiness can come …

… and go.

The truth is, whatever the report card of the day might say, if we look to it to find our worth we are well on our way to misery.

The truth is, the world is not your report card. 

The truth is, some days your kids are angels and some days they are … something else. Some days your man will be flourishing and some days he will struggle too … just like you. Some days you will be celebrated and some days you will be forgotten.

Just like Jesus. 

His children misbehave sometimes. His Bride struggles often. His Word usually isn’t “liked” much at all. 

What does that mean?

It means we must remember that our report card was a list of F’s for every category. But there is now, written in His blood, the name JESUS printed across the top, cancelling out every debt, every failure, every shortcoming.

We no longer need a report card. Jesus Christ nailed ours to the cross and told us, once and for all, we are accepted and beloved in Him. My mom’s words, “I”m so pleased with you. Why do you need a report card?”

You’re right, Mom.

I don’t. 

~

{This is from last year but I love, love, love this truth and cling to it constantly, because Jesus is enough and His blood covers it all! Be free today from the shackles of a report-card existence. I pray blessing for you today … thanks for reading}

It was like deja vu, them sitting there on the couch saying, “I don’t know.”

Them, missionaries to Africa, like the missionaries to Papua New Guinea who had sat on that same couch a few months earlier and that sudden comfort and encouragement and strength welled up in me when they said those words:

“I don’t know.”

I look up to both couples so much. Those Yoders and Hunters who have counted the cost and sold the farm, so to speak. Their lives seem other-worldly, filled with third-world tales of the miraculous. They loom large, so godly, in my mind, and I love and respect and adore them all at once.

And then they both said, “I don’t know.”

We chuckled as they both recounted similar experiences. When greeted, as known missionaries “home” from the field, the usual peppering of questions usually involves, “When are you going back? What’s next? What’s the plan?”

And they smile, restful, and say, “I don’t know.” 

The Hunters, 30 years senior to the Yoders, are more restful when they say it. (Smile) They’ve lived seasons and seen loss. They’ve made plans enough to see them changed more often than not and to know the goodness of God so completely that it’s become easy to let those words slide off the tongue:

“I don’t know.”

And when we asked them about culture-shock, and what it’s like being back in the States, the Hunters’ one commentary on American culture was surprising. They didn’t remark about material things or how greedy and godless we’ve all become. They just said:

“It’s odd. No one here seems happy.” 

I raised my eyebrows.

They went on to explain. That “poor” Africans laugh and sing and dance and joke. But back here, they keep looking for happy people. Where are they?

Why is everyone so solemn? So sad? So heavy?

So serious?

Could it be that they–these “poor” people who don’t have a pot to pee in (his words, not mine), take God seriously but themselves, not so much? That even though they don’t know where the next meal will come from, or if the crops will succeed or fail, or if the baby will survive, they do know the God who knows all things and this allows them to smile and say, 

“I don’t know.”

Could our heaviness be the burden of believing we have to know it all? Have to have a plan? Have to have it all figured out?

Could it be we take ourselves too seriously and God not enough?

That the reason we have to know it all is because we don’t actually believe He does already?

And so these missionaries–lifelong friends–sat on our couch and when we asked about the future they smiled restfully and said, “I don’t know.” And again, something inside me lept, comforted and encouraged and strengthened all at once. And I felt–yes–happy. Because they didn’t know and yet they knew. They knew Him. They knew His goodness, His love, His faithfulness. His power, His sovereignty, His grace.

Knowing Him means we don’t have to know everything else.

And so I sat there, listening, encouraged and comforted and strengthened, because there is just so much I do not know. And the more I take myself seriously the less I take Him seriously.

And when I list out all the unknowns in my life, each one ending in a question mark, I can calmly pencil in beside each one:

1. …? I don’t know.
2. …? I don’t know.
3. …? I don’t know.

But I do know. I know Him and He knows me. The hairs on my head and the number of my days. He knows my thoughts before I have them and every word before I speak it. He knows my coming, going, lying down and rising.

Because He knows all things I don’t have to. My trust is not in the certain outcome but in the Certain One.

And, in this there is peace.

{May you find rest and peace and joy in every “I don’t know” you face this week. Thanks so much for reading.}

Yesterday I had to discipline a certain child. It was approximately the eight-thousandth time I have disciplined this child. For the eight-thousandth time I chose to follow through and give consequences and for the eight-thousandth time I hated it and how hard it is. BUT, I reminded myself of this forgetful grace …

~

Heidi whined again and I swatted her bottom with my hand.

“Heidi, use a nice voice,” I said firmly looking straight into her eyes.  She understood and changed her voice but my conscience nagged. Was there anger in my voice? What about in my heart? Did I swat her bottom in frustration? How do I be firm but still pleasant? Am I disciplining my children in anger? Why can’t our days be fun? Why are they filled with reminders, rebukes, corrections?  I do try to praise more than I correct but they just need so much stinkin’ correction!

I reminisced back to my childhood days. ”I don’t remember my mom ever being harsh with me,” I thought to myself.

To my continual amazement, even when I’m at my worst (or I feel that way) my kids always want to snuggle up, always want to rock or read together, always want me to carry them and be silly.  I’m so glad they do but the haunting question still nags me, ”Will they remember a barking mommy who spent her hours endlessly correcting? Will they ever remember having fun?”

I got them settled in for their rests — Heidi snuggled into her crib and Dutch playing quietly in his room. Relieved but feeling defeated, I laid down on my bed, prayed, again thinking to myself, “I don’t remember my mom ever being harsh with me.” Why can’t I be more like her?

Then it struck me.

“I don’t remember my mom ever being harsh with me…”

“I don’t remember …”

I don’t remember!

That’s it! Of course.  I don’t remember.

Just 30 minutes later my parents stopped by on their way through town.  Just to be sure, I checked with her… “Mom, did you ever just feel at your wit’s end…?” She laughed out loud, told me about plenty of times the only thing that kept her sane was remembering James Dobson’s words, “Someone has to be the grown-up.” So she’d coach herself through every moment, reminding herself she had to be the grown-up.  When I told her that I didn’t remember a single time that she ever grew impatient or frustrated she just laughed.

“Then that’s a miracle.”

I smiled, understanding.

Perhaps this is the miracle of mommyhood. Don’t get me wrong, there are always consequences for sin, and I understand that if I am sinning against my children it’s not as if it just disappears.  But as I, a mommy-sinner-turned-saint, grow in sanctification and stumble through my days growing in grace and falling on my knees and training and trying and loving and correcting and crying, by faith I trust that God weaves all my messes into a beautiful childhood for my children.

Someday perhaps they will look back and remember, by some miraculous forgetfulness, that their mother was always loving, always joyful, always kind.  Just as Sarah, in the Hebrews 11 Hall of Faith, is remembered as a woman who always considered God faithful. We read that and wonder, Don’t the biblical writers remember that Sarah laughed at God’s promises? Don’t they remember how she took matters into her own hands with Hagar? Don’t they remember how she made a royal mess of things before God brought it all to pass?

They must have forgotten, because all they have to say is that she lived by faith.

Perhaps, then, my fumbling attempts at motherhood are mingled with enough faith that, in retrospect, they will, appear to be something beautiful.

Perhaps, like Sarah, our lives are bathed in forgetful grace.

“For I will be merciful toward their iniquities, and I will remember their sins no more.” Hebrews 8:12

Nothing is wrong with God’s memory. He’s just extravagantly gracious.

His grace extends even to our children, to their memories.

To their moms.

This we must remember: There is forgetful grace.

–

{Rest in this today, dear mommy. Thanks for reading…}

It was two days before Jeff’s birthday, last year, when our world began to spin a little crazy, and everything changed, and I went for a run and bawled my eyes out and yelled at God and straight up told Him I thought He had a rotten plan.

That plan involved us leaving our comfortable ministry, job, church, and home, surrounded by security and love, and like a baby chick kicked out of the nest, getting flung headlong over the edge, flapping and screaming and squawking and flapping our wings like heck, our eyes bulging out of our heads.

Crazy scared.

His birthday last year was bittersweet. What would we do? Where would we go? How would this all work out? All we knew was something “new,” but what? And so his 34th birthday fell on Father’s Day, and he worked all day at church and I stuck a candle in the pie at lunch-time and we ate, grateful, but a little on edge.

What would this year hold?

What would Jeff’s 35th year hold?

And soon, slowly, like watching clouds form in the sky, this new venture began to take shape. It would be a church plant. It would be different. We would be weird. (Nothing new there.)  We would eat and drink together. We would move to the city. We would live in community. We would commit to generosity, community, prayer. We would give stuff away. We would talk about Jesus all the time. We would fail (guaranteed), but we would continue to trust the Keeper of our Souls and entrust this work to Him. We would believe Him, that He makes all things new. That he re-news all things by His power, His Spirit, His life. That the gospel takes old, dead things and makes them new, alive. And so it began to take shape:

RENEW

And there was nothing magical and no warm feelings came, and despite God’s faithful provision, month after month, we plodded along a bit weary, wondering why this was all so hard. We would doubt, often, and look around, desperate for validation, approval, affirmation. We would come up empty and lonely, then fall back on grace and remember, This is all His gig. It’s not up to us. It’s His. 

And we would be slowly blessed. We would look around us and see these saints, crazy faithful Rowells and Snyders, Smiths and Kent, Hardings and Hannas and so many others. We’d meet the Garrisons and shake our heads in awe at their humble service. We’d laugh long over meals and make peanut butter sandwiches for the homeless and write checks to World Vision, grinning ear to ear.

We’d discover The Revival Building and see the $800, 000 pricetag and get a twinkle in our eye and pray circles for months and not be one bit surprised when the keys were handed over, for use on Sundays. Of course they were. Do you know our God? 

And I’d watch as my man grew wings. As he sloughed off hindrances and layers and learned behaviors and began to lean, really lean, on the Savior. But still I’d cry often–often–on Sunday nights when my eyes weren’t on Jesus and I’d look around this circus we call church and wonder, Who on earth would want to come here? 

And I’d unload, brutally honest, on him afterward and he’d smile, unwavering, reminding me our job: faithfulness.

It is God who brings the increase.

And then one day (When did it happen?) I looked around and tears filled and spilled over when I realized, Yes, this is a church! This is home. This is ME.

This is where I want to be.

And then they began to come. People! And I wondered if perhaps they were blind, to overlook our messes and faults and foibles and insist that this was home for them too?

That they liked it this way, just a little bit messy. And when that man, the new visitor, who hadn’t been in church for ages, later told Jeff:

“When you were preaching and you said, ‘I don’t have all the answers,’ I knew this was the place for me.”

Who knew?

That broken pots could hold glory.

That all the cracks make space for His light to shine.

And so, today, my Love, on your 35th birthday, I look back at this past year and that is what I see:

You, my beloved broken pot, have His crazy glory busting through your life like never before. This year has been the hardest one of our life.

But the best.

And I love you more than ever, in all your gray-haired glory. And it is my joy to keep journeying down this road with you, both of us limping, and in love.

Happy birthday. {Thank you, all, for reading.}

Many a man proclaims his own steadfast love,

but a faithful man who can find?

Prov. 20:6

Right now, as I type these words, I sit, blissfully alone in my quiet bedroom, tucked under a light quilt, the evening still bright outside. My husband is sitting in the yard, both kids piled on this lap, reading bedtime stories in the fresh summer air.

~

Early this morning my phone rang. The screen read, “Parents,” so I knew something was up. My dad doesn’t dial me early in the morning just to say hello.

“Hey baby. Mom fell and thinks she might have broken some ribs. We’re headed to the ER.”

I sigh. Not again.

Falls and spills and surgeries are the norm these days. And this man cooks and cleans and drives and shops and makes her laugh and pushes her to walk just one more lap.

The folks at the hospital, they don’t know what to make of a love like that, it’s so rare.

I arrived at the hospital shortly thereafter. We got a good laugh when the nurse had to ask her, “Ma’am, are you safe at home?”  We agreed she isn’t safe at home but it certainly isn’t Dad’s fault! When the x-ray was clean we teased her mercilessly about faking falls just so she could come to the hospital, which is right by our house, to see the grandkids. I left them smiling, Dad steering her wheelchair. Dad, always at the helm. Always driving her, protecting her, serving her.

~

Thursday night I dragged myself in the back door at 10:30pm, exhausted. We’d had evening plans 7 out of the past 8 nights. I. Was. Wiped.  I knew the day ahead was busy, my eyes burned with want of sleep, and for several days the overwhelmed feeling kept mounting. I knew the next night meant hosting another thing at our home.

Jeff met me at the door, took my jacket and purse.

“Guess what tomorrow night is?”

I sighed. Did he have to remind me? “I know, I know, we have that dinner thing at our house.”

He smiled. “I cancelled it. We have a night at home, just us. And Ben & Misty brought us pizza, so dinner’s covered.”

Relief washed over me. Such a small thing, but this girl was worn thin and this one small thing made all the difference.

The next morning he brought me coffee in bed and made the kids breakfast himself.

~

When 1,000 women ages 21-54 were interviewed and asked what the top desirable traits were that women want in a man, I was surprised to see the #1 answer. Above wealth, above looks, above sense of humor, the top quality was:

Faithfulness.

A faithful man, who can find?

Apparently that really is what we’re all looking for.

But sadly, it’s also the thing I most often overlook.

See, criticism comes easy for me. Too often I am fixated on what needs fixed. What he’s not. What I want. I remember in high school doing the same thing to my dad. I wanted my dad to be more “spiritual” (whatever that means), started getting all bent out of shape because he didn’t do Bible studies and what not. When the truth was I had the most faithful man I’d ever met staring me straight in the face and I was  so distracted by religious fireworks I didn’t recognize it.

The truth is, I was spend so much time looking for something I don’t realize I already have it.

The truth is, some of our men are rough around the edges. Maybe they leave dirty clothes on the floor. Maybe they drink beer or  (gasp!) smoke cigarettes. Maybe they cuss every once in awhile. Maybe they draft up batting line-ups during church (Yes, Dad I saw you do that when I was little. You’re totally busted). Maybe they’re messy or they don’t like to pray out loud.

But I know two faithful men when I see them, and I know we all have a choice:

Choose to look for and praise every glimpse of faithfulness we see in our men.

Whatever man God has put in your life–a husband, father, brother, son– choose to praise his faithfulness today.  The gift of praise is better than any power tool, tie, grill, or 6-pack. Be generous and be specific. Make a list!

Who can find a faithful man? You can!

Find a faithful man, and thank him today. 

{Thanks for reading.}

My initial Summer Reading list was twenty titles long, most of which were classics.

Then I had the corn-planting epiphany and realized I was ridiculous.

But this is a battle for me because I just love to read so much. I could easily take to the lounger with my lemonade in the sunshine and ignore my family for hours on end. No bueno. So, I needed a way to focus and trim down my list. Plus, I needed a way to ensure these books were worth my time. So I researched–top novels of all time. Best reads of the 20th century. You name it, I read up on it. But unfortunately this just made my list longer and longer. I began creating my “holds” list at the library. But even as I began reading the first two “classics,” I didn’t feel they were worth my time. So, the question of focus surfaces again:

How do I focus on what’s really worth reading??

Insert my brilliant husband with one brilliant book recommendation …

Besides the Bible

That’s the name of the book: Besides the Bible. It’s a great compilation of 100 books (fiction and non-fiction) that have, should, or will influence Christian culture. Now, of course this is written by mere mortals, and you may be surprised by what made the list and what didn’t (CS Lewis, AW Tozer, Andrew Murray, and Henry Nouwen are all absent. What?!). But the key is, whether or not I agree with every inclusion or exclusion, these books have shaped Christian culture and I want to peruse their pages and figure out why. Plus, it’s kind of fun to go through the list and check which ones you’ve read. (I was surprised by how few I had read, so I’m starting with some must-reads I somehow missed growing up.)

So, if you’re looking for a fabulous resource to help guide your summer reading list (for many many summers!), this is a great place to start. My list is short but the books aren’t–two of them are over 600 pages each. This should get me through many tall glasses of strawberry lemonade:

The Brothers K  by David James Duncan

Pursuing Justice by Ken Wytsma

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver

The Well-Trained Mind by Susan Wise Bauer

Lord of the Flies by William Golding

Orthodoxy by GK Chesterton (the kindle edition is free!)

There are a few others I’ve been slowly traveling through for awhile: Love-Powered Parenting, The Mind of Christ, Bringing Up Girls, the 1,000 Gifts Devotional, and re-reading Screwtape Letters.  

Your turn: What’s on your Summer Reading List? Please share! And, with all the thousands of books you could be reading right now, thanks for being here and reading this. With love, Kari

It’s a miracle.

For the first time in … oh, probably six years, I accomplished every single thing on my to-do list today.

Now, if you lean in real close, I’ll tell you the secret:

A really short to-do list. 

(I know. Brilliant. I should write a book, right?)

Another recent divine unit-lesson from my Heavenly Father has been the issue of Focus.  Last month I read the book, One Big Thing (Thank you, Paul!), and was impressed by this: The reason many of us feel discouraged, confused, overwhelmed, and aimless, is that we’re simply trying to do too many things instead of focusing on doing a few things well. (The right things well!)

Yup.

Focus.

This proves true even in small, insignificant daily decisions:

Last week the kids and I were cleaning up the yard, weeding, and tidying up after having company over. I found a bag of seeds, leftover from our garden last year. There were corn, beans, some peppers, lettuce. I knew this was probably the last year we could use the seeds, and mindlessly turned over the package to inspect planting times, etc. Before I knew it I was scoping out garden-bed potentials, mentally measuring spaces, making notes to self to buy more potting soil. Then all of a sudden I came to my senses:

Why the heck am I planting corn???

I replied to myself: “Because otherwise the seeds will be no good! And I don’t want to waste them. And it will be a good learning experience for the kids. And we’ll save money on corn. And … and … and …”

Then I said to myself: “UM… since when it throwing away $.99 of seeds in order to SAVE three hours worth of a work classify as “waste”? You have a to-do list as long as your arm and you’re concerned about throwing away a half-used packet of corn kernels?”

“Girl, FOCUS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!”

I wonder if I ever give God a migraine with all my ridiculousness.

Sometimes, this call to focus means simply writing fewer items (the REALLY important ones) on my to-do list. Sometimes, this call means writing down all the things I’m already doing, and ruthlessly pulling a few out.

It seems I must do this every year, because last year I was doing this:

Last year, our ugly rental house had a lively patch of landscape adorning the front. There were lilacs, rhododendrons, irises, and a dozen other luscious green things which I cannot name. The whole huge patch was full of green and every time I arrived home I smiled–it just looked so full and flourishing and healthy!

But then one day I looked a little closer. 

The kids and I had been outside playing in the dirt. It was the perfect opportunity to admire the flourishing foliage of the front yard so I eased down into the grass and looked a little closer at the plants.

I blinked my eyes. Had I really never noticed? 

It was weeds.

All weeds. 

Sure, a few legitimate shoots were desperately poking their heads above the cacophony of noxious plants, but the rest–by far the majority–were nothing more than enthusiastic weeds.

Really?

My heart sank as I realized that all this time what I’d thought was beautiful, lush, healthy growth was really nothing more than a creeping commotion of impostors. And so wildly had all this commotion grown that the entire patch of landscape was literally overrun with green nets of tangled arms. This was no neat and tidy weeding job. There was nothing to do but set to work with trowel and dig out huge patch after huge patch of weed-infested earth.

After spending all afternoon weeding, I stepped back and surveyed my work. Most of the weeds were gone, it was true, but sadly the result was … ugly.

True, the real flowers were cleared away and no longer suffocated by weeds.But now the space looked sparse, empty even. The patches of bare dirt made the whole space look awkward and blotchy.

Honestly, it looked better when the weeds were there. 

I knelt back down in the dirt, sunk my trowel back in to unearth one last weed.

And I paused just long enough to listen:

This is what the church must do. 

Not my church, or your church–the church. That is, us. 

That is, me.

Bare dirt looks terrible. Almost as bad as blank space. Or empty seats. Or quiet calendars. (Or pathetically short to-do lists!) We must FILL. Must fill the space. Must fill the calendar. Must fill the seats at all cost. But I wonder, How much of that filling is fruit … and how much is a commotion of weeds? 

Commotion. 

I know this word is for me, but perhaps some piece of it can apply to you as well? The truth is that only true fruit will last. Only the real stuff. The legitimate plants. The weeds will be burned up. Gone. But in the meantime, sometimes we are content with our landscape full, flourishing, abounding. But what if it’s abounding with weeds?

Weeds: Any activity less than the pure, authentic, Spirit-led work of God. Any daily busyness other than the good, right, perfect will of God. 

What I was amazed by was how pretty some of the weeds were. I was tempted to let them grow until I googled them and saw how noxious they are. So too, some of our “ministry” can look so pretty, can seem so good, but I wonder–is it merely commotion? Does it choke out the real fruit? Is it simply something to fill the space because bare dirt just looks so ugly?

Plain soil isn’t beautiful.  Is it?

Plain soil is beautiful to a Gardener who loves to grow remarkable fruit. Plain, rich soil is exactly what our Father wants. Days with some white-space, some margin, are exactly what He wants.

His hands are full of seed and He is ready to plant.

Will He find any space to plant?

Is there any bare space in our lives for Him to plant His good fruit?

Or have we allowed the commotion of weeds to fill the space, because it looks better?

Because it makes us feel better about ourselves.

Ugh, these seeds are getting poked down deep in my heart.

Poked down so deep it hurts just a bit.

How is your soil? Is it full of commotion? Overrun with weeds and activity? Is there any bare soil, just a spot, where the Gardener can plant his perfect fruit to glorify His name?

Perhaps some ruthless weeding is in order today? Or at least a shorter to-do list, making white space for whatever He might want to add?

Me too. Both.

Thanks for reading.

Sometimes it’s almost as if God has teaching-units. His instruction is never random, but carefully planned, like lesson plans. 

And apparently last week’s unit for me was this:

The best and greatest joy is found living outside yourself. 

Now, let’s be clear: I will likely need to learn this a thousand more times along this road of life. But last week it looked like this:

I wasn’t going to go. It was Compassion Connect–an outreach providing medical services for under-resourced people in Oregon City. Honestly, I didn’t want to go. Jeff was going to volunteer all day and I happily volunteered to stay home with the kids. My kids. (You know, the ones I like. Not other people’s kids.)

But then Jeff sprained his ankle, so at the last minute I threw on the purple issued volunteer t-shirt that read, “I volunteer because God loves you!”  but really it should have read, “I volunteer because my husband sprained his ankle and someone had to come do this …

… and I really don’t like wearing purple.” 

But to my everlasting wonder:

I came home FULL of joy. The privilege of seeing hundreds of people served. Of sharing the love and truth of Jesus with six blessed spanish-speaking folks who had never heard the gospel. I came home brim full. Delirious with joy.

But then Monday, I turned again to Self. Something triggered it and I picked it straight up like a tasty morsel, like a smooth, sweet piece of candy, and I slid it in my mouth. I tasted the self-pity. Let it melt in my mind. I could feel the insecurity, the desperate feeling for love and approval. I could feel my thoughts slipping further into self. Before I knew it I was tempted to try to think of something bad about another person–a condolence to make myself feel better.  I began to slide …

But God.  God’s gracious Holy Spirit stopped the slide. “Father help me live outside my self.” The simple plea slipped from my lips. And with the single, silent tear came His help, His presence, His answer:

“I love you. Let it go.”

I went downstairs, and what I “had” to do was read and watch a documentary on Intelligent Design and Creation. And even though it was so incredibly boring, and I didn’t understand half of it, it took me to Scripture and to the miraculous marvel of creation. To billions of stars and galaxies. To miraculous design. To His creation that speaks of His greatness. To all that reflects His glory.

The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. (Ps. 19:1)

When I consider your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which you have set in place,
what is mankind that you are mindful of them,
human beings that you care for them? (Ps. 8:3-4)

And slowly my eyes were drawn up, out of self …

and onto Him.

And joy came again.

Then DHS foster and adoption training came this weekend. Who wants to spend her sunny birthday weekend sitting in a small room, blinds shut, to learn about horrific topics like sexual abuse, abandonment, fetal alcohol syndrome, and the like?

But again, to my surprise, there was joy. There was hope. There was a woman named Misty who stood before us and modeled to me the joy of a life outside herself. She has fostered 137 drug-affected infants. She and her husband have adopted 9 children. The ones no one else wanted. And she was plain to look at and wore capri-pants with slippers and I’ll just tell you straight up this lady didn’t spend much time on fixing up the outside.

But this lady was like pure joy bottled up in a body.

She loved those crack babies like nobody’s business. And she stuck with them when nobody else would take them. And she didn’t live perfect, but she lived outside herself.

And by the time she was done telling her story I wanted to be her when I grow up. 

You know her secret?

She knows Jesus.

See, when we truly know the love of God, when we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we are loved and accepted by Him. When our worth is not based on our performance, when we know that every ounce of our worth is wrapped up in the TRUTH that we are chosen, loved, adopted by God, we can then live outward-focused lives.

We can live outside ourselves.

And joy is found there. Life. Peace. Abundance. And now tonight I’m excited to attend the Door to Grace dinner-a ministry helping local victims of sex trafficking. I guess in some ways it doesn’t sound like the most fun thing.

But a bunch of us ladies are piling in the car and seeking hard after joy, going to this thing.

Living outside ourselves can be going to an event or just going outside our self-interest, just for a second. It can be serving a toddler her lunch with a smile, or bowing low (again) to pick up his socks on the floor. It can be fostering, adopting, writing, laughing, learning, loving, giving. It can be anything that lifts our eyes to others and to Him.

There’s a lot of joy to be had outside ourselves. 

{Here’s to a week lived outside ourselves. What’s one way you can step outside yourself and your interests in order to learn, bless, serve, give? Try to identify one concrete way. THANK YOU for your love and birthday wishes, and thank you for reading.}

…ALL of us because we are LOVED and have been adopted by the Father and chosen before the foundation of the world to be His beloved children.

God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. This is what he wanted to do, and it gave him great pleasure. (Eph. 1:5)

You, beloved, were adopted by God because it’s what He wanted to do, and because it gave Him great pleasure!  You are a delight to God! Hallelujah! Believe that and receive that today!

And, below are those who were chosen to receive the free copies of Richard Stearns new book, Unfinished. (Also, check out the DVD series that accompanies it!)

To you dear commenters, thank you for your kindness, and I wish I could send every single one of you a book (and I might, I just need to save up more money! It might help if I quit giving my e-books away free–ha!), but for now the winners are:

1. Joy
2. Brenda T
3. Erin Heins
4. Linda Bossle
5. Amy Boone
6. Susan T
7. Catie

How here’s what I need you folks to do: HERE please send me your name and mailing address so I can send you your book right away. (If you don’t send your address I can’t send the book!)

I pray you all have a blessed Sunday, seeking God and enjoying His people. We are being SO incredibly blessed by the DHS foster/adoption training this weekend. I had no idea how rich this time would be — I love it! Bless you, friends, and may you know His love more than ever before. May it change you from the inside out. Thanks so much for reading.