Stepping into the Second Half
I hadn’t typed in the URL for my own website since before Dad died. It’s so funny the things you avoid without even knowing it, because somewhere inside you know it’ll just make you miss them so much. Sure enough. Pulled up the site, and there is the Livesteam link for his memorial service. On the backside, comments waiting for approval: “…one of the best men I’ve ever met…”, “…how joyful it will be when we get reunited in heaven…”.
The screen blurs.
That lump. I hold my breath. Maybe just a tear-up and not a real cry? Nope, it’s a full cry. Dang it.
I just miss them so much.
And yet, in the bizarre juxtaposition that life often is, this is the sweetest season of life I’ve ever experienced. Hands down. Stepping into the Second Half.
When Dad died, two years after Mom, I remember distinctly thinking, “This will be a dividing line of my life.” Of course none of us know how long we have, but I sensed that there I’d have roughly halves.
Half of life with parents. Half without.
Half of life as a daughter. Half not a daughter.
Not a daughter.
It’s odd when part of your identity goes away. I can’t even imagine how life-shattering divorce must be (on so many levels, of course). I attended another memorial recently and the daughter of the deceased said it so perfectly: “You have a life before you have children, before you are married. But you have never had a life without a mom … until you no longer have a mom.”
My few dear friends whose moms passed away while they were young are in my mind’s eye…
I know this isn’t true for everyone, but for me, my entire adult life I’ve had a very clear, very strong sense that honoring and taking care of my parents was an integral part of my life calling. That was just what I was supposed to do. A race to run.
Getting Dad’s house up for sale felt like the last leg of that race. (Want to buy it?)
I had to catch my breath for a bit, as one does after a long run.
And now I’ve caught my breath and I am filled with gratitude that I was given the honor of running that race.
For the past few years, I remember having the thought that I wouldn’t really be able to write honestly until both my parents had died. That might sound weird. It’s not as if I have secrets about them to tell, there were the most transparent, what-you-see-is-what-you-get people I’ve ever known.
But they read everything I wrote. So I remember often holding back writing about hard things because I didn’t want to make Mom sad. After she passed, I didn’t want to write openly about how much I missed her, because I didn’t want to make Dad sad.
Nothing can make them sad now. *smile*
I have so many things I want to write about I don’t know where to begin. It feels like opening a closet filled with special things, stashed away. A special visiting guests asks to see a treasure or two. Where do I start?
I guess I’ll start with gratitude.
You don’t know how critical some habits are until you realize that without that habit, that training, you wouldn’t have made it through something hard. Like training to run a race but then one day you need that speed to outrun a bear. 🙂 Whoa, that 6-minute mile sure came in handy.
Honestly, gratitude is easy right now. We are in an exceedingly sweet season. Dutch & Heidi are flourishing and so fun to be around. The little boys are a load of work but so, so funny. All four kids are at home for this very short season. Jeff and I had a hard few years but are in a great place, truly enjoying each other more than we ever have. We love our home. We love our church family. We laugh a lot.
But I’ve also seen gratitude carry someone through the valley of the shadow of death. Incredibly, both Mom & Dad became more grateful with age.
It is well-known that as we age we become a caricature of ourselves. A slight tendency in our youth becomes an almost comically exaggerated trait as the years go by. I have seen this, so sadly, in a tendency to see oneself as a victim. This chosen perspective can take over one’s mind and become the only lens through which life is seen. All of life can become complaint.
Of all of life can become thanksgiving. In his final weeks, my sweet dad would quietly thank Kris every time he changed him. No mention of his discomfort, the difficulty of dying, the humiliation of the situation. Just, thank you.
As long as she had words my mom lips poured out broken phrases of gratitude.
The day we buried Dad I put the song Gratitude on repeat.
So I don’t know what my Second Half looks like, but my prayer is that it continues to become increasingly characterized by gratitude. And, I hope to write more. 😉 Thank you for reading.
How Justice Came: Delivery (2 of 2)
Continuing from part one » How Justice Came: Preparations
After sleeping soundly through the night, I woke at 7am Saturday morning with a contraction.
Not painful or intense, but definitely a contraction. I had never had them during the day, so that was a bit different from usual. Dutch had just crawled into our bed on Jeff’s side, and since he doesn’t snuggle with his body but rather with his words, I curled up close to him and listened to his latest lecture on some aspect of Lord of the Rings. Something about Smaug.
Another mild contraction.
I got up. Now let me tell you, after having hundreds of contractions and a dozen false-alarms, I didn’t even want to think about announcing labor unless it was well underway. I went along the morning as usual, mild contractions coming about every 6-7 minutes. I went out to the garden, pulled weeds, ate peas, and periodically timed squeezes.
At 10am I told Jeff that I’d been having mild, regular contractions, so thought I’d go lay down and rest and see if they’d stop. At this point I didn’t want to “try to get things going” because I’d done that so many times, I just wanted to try to make things stop, and see if true labor might actually progress.
Sure enough, I laid down for a nap, and they slowed way down. *sigh* I rested for an hour, thinking that was probably the end and we had another normal day ahead.
But as soon as I got back up, they began again. Slowly over the next hour, they intensified a little and were consistently 3-4 min apart. By 12 I just wanted to be alone. They weren’t overwhelming, I just found myself irritated by any interactions with the kids, and kept wanting to close my eyes and be alone. The kids were eager to get to my parents’ house and play with cousins, so I asked Jeff to take them there so I could have some time alone. Even if this wasn’t real labor, they’d get to play and I’d get to relax.
While he was gone, things ramped up a bit. When he got back at 1pm I had my earbuds in and was outside on our patio, listening to soft nature music and breathing through contractions. My back hurt so he pressed my back with each contraction.
From that moment on, for 7.5 hours straight, Jeff never left my side.
At 2pm, I texted my midwife to see if I could come into the birth center. I knew I wasn’t super far along, but I felt uncertain about how to even know how far I was. The contractions weren’t super strong but they were close together and consistent. I knew the “labor at home as long as you can” rule, but we also live 30 minutes from the birth center, and after so many false alarms, I found myself wanting some sort of check point. She agreed to meet us there.
After arriving, she confirmed I was only 3.5 cm, so would need to labor some more at home. She also suggested doing three 30-minute Spinning Babies techniques to get baby spun around to a better position. She said things usually pick up more at night, so perhaps by the evening time things would progress more.
Gratefully, I wasn’t discouraged (though Jeff told me the next day that he was!). Even though I had to go home, Justice WAS coming. This wasn’t a false alarm. I was dilating. This baby was coming, and God had perfectly prepared me for exactly this moment.
On our drive home, I texted a few praying friends and asked them to please pray that things would progress.
Pray they did!
By the time we got home at 3:30, things were already much more intense. I did the forward inversions for 30-minutes straight and YOW! that got things moving! The next 30-minute stretch was even more intense, this baby was most certainly moving! Before I could finish the last 30-minutes Jeff called the midwife back and she could hear me 😉 so she said it was time to come back in.
I’m not sure how descriptive of a birth blow-by-blow y’all want here on this blog, so if you love birth stories and want more details I’m happy to share. 😉 The short version is we arrived back at the birth center at 5:30. I labored to Hard Love in my earbuds for an hour and a half.
Jeff was right beside me and held my hand through every single contraction.
With my hand in his, it was so awesome to just completely block everything out and focus on those amazing lyrics. It was the perfect picture of embracing pain, struggle, of setting oneself aside for the sake of giving life to another.
It was intense, it was hard, but it was a hard love.
My water broke and they thought I was fully dilated at 7pm, but strangely enough I felt like God had impressed on me that Justice would come at 8-something. So I knew it couldn’t yet be time. Besides, it didn’t seem difficult enough.
Yep, turns out I still had a little ways to go.
Then things ramped up and I needed a change. So I turned to Resurrection Day. Yes! THIS, this was my resurrection day. This was the day of redemption.
This was the day God rewrote those words above my head, changed them from WEAK to WARRIOR.
Not in my strength. Not in a pride, puffed up way. In a way that recognizes that in myself, I am nothing. In Christ, everything.
This wasn’t about having something to prove, it was about HIM PROVING HIMSELF to me, and showing His resurrection power in me.
I broke into a huge smile and praised God. Four midwives standing around, I was able to close my eyes and worship God.
Resurrection day!
The end was …*ahem* intense. No music. At 7:30 I sensed my spirit weakening. I was slipping…the thought slowly crept into my head,
“I can’t do this…”
NO. I knew that I couldn’t speak that out. Yes, the thought was there. The feeling was there. That’s legit. But I didn’t have to speak it. I didn’t have to give it life. I didn’t have to give power to it.
If I learned anything during our difficult year, it was the absolute necessity of taking every thought captive. Yes, we have them. They are legit feelings. But we can CHOOSE whether they get to take residence in our hearts and minds.
God’s exhortation to take every thought captive isn’t a sweet little suggestion—it’s necessary for survival in the life of faith.
So instead I wrapped my arms around Jeff’s neck, squeezed myself into his chest as hard as I could, and whimpered into his ear,
“Please…pray for me. Please.”
And He did. And, unbeknownst to me, so did several dear friends—all around 7:30 struck with an urgent need to pray for me.
That gave just the breakthrough I needed.
At 8:15, we stalled again a bit, and again one of the amazing midwives did some techniques to get over that last hump and BOOM, there he quickly descended.
Leaning on Jeff, with my arms wrapped tightly around his neck, my face right next to his, holding each other…
WE, TOGETHER, AS ONE, brought Justice into the world.
“Oh Justice! Justice! Oh Justice! I love you!”
Tears and exhaustion and relief and sweat and blood all mingled up into inexpressible JOY and triumph. Justice was here! We did it!
And yes, I may have said to Jeff shortly thereafter, “I don’t know if I want to do that again.” Haha!
BUT, it was worth it, and although I want this little boy to be able to just be a little boy—no expectations, I know that God has a special plan for his life. And I continue to hear interesting tidbits about God’s JUSTICE coming. Just one hour after Justice’s birth this was shared on Facebook. I don’t know this person, but it was sent to me by another, and is certainly interesting. No matter what, we are wise to line up with God’s Word and pray for His justice on this earth, for truth to surface and sin to be found out, for mercy and justice to be extended to the poor and marginalized, the helpless and voiceless.
I have no idea if Justice will himself be part of this. (We won’t occupy ourselves with anything too great and marvelous for us, just reveling in this moment.) For today, we just cheer when he poops and takes a good nap. We celebrate his perfect squishy goodness and kiss his cheeks and lips and LOVE HIM to pieces, just for being the little boy that He is.
Just how God is with us.
And honestly, even more than my joy over Justice, I am overwhelmed with joy over Jeff. Yes, I love this baby. But Jeff will be by my side long after Justice spreads his wings and flies.
I’ll tell you what: The most difficult part of last year was a low-point in our marriage that was completely my fault. I allowed thoughts to take residence unchallenged: negative, critical, selfish, undisciplined thoughts that caused my heart to cool. But Jeff fiercely fought for my affections. He pursued me when I was distant. He served me when I was selfish. He was undaunted by my indifference and won my heart back over more fully than ever before.
This experience, of laboring together to bring Justice into this world, was the glorious culmination of our hard-won love. In my previous labors, I would have said, “I could never have done it without my anesthesiologist!” (Nothing wrong with that, just sayin!) This time I can honestly say, “I could never ever have done it, without my husband.”
So, dear friends, that’s the story. Of course it’s not over, but I’m putting my feet up for a moment and just thanking God for His faithfulness. Thank you for following along on this journey. Until next time…
…thanks for reading.
How Justice Came: Preparations (1)
Yesterday, I drove a familiar route and a flood of memories filled my mind.
It was the first time on that road since September 16th of last year, when I drove home in a wild mess of bewildered, angry tears.
It had been a long 9 months. We’d lost two babies through miscarriage (I wrote about HERE), and walked through an incredibly intense season of trial. There was outward grief and hidden, inner grief. There was sorrow and shame and then, after the miscarriage on Aug 7th, my sweet friend’s precious 16-year-old son passed away. A team of us had prayed, fasted, interceded, believed…and now I sat in silent shock.
September 16th was his memorial, and that seemed to break the dam of pent-up grief, anger, fear. I already wrote about it HERE, realizing that He holds a map I cannot see. Little did I know, when I wrote that post, that just two days later Jeff’s dad would die tragically, suddenly, and the river of grief would deepen, widen, for us both.
But friends, as you know, sorrow may last for the night, but joy DOES come in the morning.
Our morning came in early November when two little pink lines confirmed my suspicion. I was pregnant. Hope is an indefatigable thing, and it swells quickly into a wave you can ride forward into the future. I felt it. I felt certain, somehow, this baby would live.
But there were bouts of fear to overcome. I shared HERE about the scare on Christmas day that brought the blessed dream of our boy, and was later confirmed that indeed, Justice was coming.
And so, we eagerly anticipated the arrival of this child. One of the interesting things I sifted through was how many prophecies seemed to surround his coming. For example, there was reason to believe he might be born on May 14th. Though this seemed unlikely, I felt obligated to prepare myself in case this was a reality (NICU, etc.). It also seemed that somehow Justice’s arrival had something to do with justice coming to the nation of Israel, to the Jews, God’s people. In my own heart and mind, I prayed that his birth would bring Justice for Oma, and that perhaps she would be healed. I won’t go into them all, but it seemed everywhere I turned there was some layer of significance seeming to surround his birth.
While this is most certainly wonderful, it was a lot to process. I found myself trying to figure out just why God would so clearly call us to birth a child named Justice, I analyzed and evaluated, sorting through so many dates, ideas, verses, prophecies. I share this because I want to paint a realistic picture of following God. Usually, we don’t get a clear and detailed explanation. I did not want to despise any prophecy, but test all things and hold fast to what is good (1 Thess 5:21), so I tried to hold these things loosely. Believing God, but not putting too much stock in my own ability to figure things out.
That was good, because I figured exactly nothing out. 😉 Which is totally fine. Usually God shows us things in the rearview mirror.
Alongside the spiritual aspect of Justice’s coming, there was the physical aspect. Not only had it been almost 10 years since birthing a baby, we were opting for a natural, unmedicated, birth-center delivery. This was most certainly a new experience, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. Friends generously dropped two key books into my lap (Mama Natural’s week-by-week guide and Hypnobirthing) and another friend invited me to a 10-week video course and FB community on natural childbirth by Karen Welton. These things were hugely helpful! I watched the videos and read the books, although I admittedly spent way more time thinking about the spiritual aspects, than the physical.
In other words, I didn’t have a clue how hard the labor process would be. 😉
Not only that, but I still very much saw myself in control of this process. I had clear expectations and requests on how I wanted things to go. And some of that is fine, Karen Welton talks about relating to God your heart’s desires for your labor process. That’s part of intimately relating withe the Father. I don’t regret a bit of it. I prayed for a specific day. I wrote out an idea of how I’d like it to progress. All of these things were fueled by a desire to make it as stress-free for others involved in our life. I didn’t want to put strain on our church, on Jeff, on the kids, or on my parents. I didn’t want to make others work around me.
I wanted Justice’s coming to slip seamlessly into our life, without a wrinkle.
(You’re smiling, right?)
As you all know, this didn’t happen. When prodromal labor began at 39 weeks, the unraveling began. But each point of frustration was a critically important adjustment, and I would soon realize, a necessary preparation for what was ahead. First, I learned HERE that Our labor is never in vain, then HERE that the certainty enables us to wait joyfully, and finally, the most critical lesson, How to calm and quiet your soul. This one was especially key because it freed me to relinquish any and all expectations and release myself into His care and perfect timing.
That very next night, I had the most intense false-labor yet. I really thought it was real. My kids went to my parents, and I labored for almost 4 hours before everything stopped. Monday morning I was at an all-time low. For some reason I was left super puffy and sore from the previous night’s labor (I learned more about this later), and delirious with fatigue. I went for a walk, and let loose the torrent of tears to God.
“What do you WANT from me?! Haven’t I already died to myself enough?! Am I not dead enough for you?! Why are you doing this to me?”
Silence.
Thankfully, our visiting family for the week was the most kind and compassionate you can imagine. My sister-in-law went 2 weeks overdue with her 2nd child, and she was the perfectly empathetic friend, genuinely understanding and sharing some of her own journey. Another friend called and shared a significant insight–suggesting that perhaps there was an underlying fear or anxiety that was somehow halting the labor experience. I didn’t know what that was, but I instantly cried at the suggestion, so I knew perhaps there was some underlying current of anxiety.
That afternoon, Jeff and I sat lawn chairs in the river and had time to process and pray. As we prayed, I realized that, indeed, I had some fears and anxieties. The bottom line of it was–every false-labor experience had seemed to erode my confidence in God’s willingness to carry me through labor successfully. Each day, my supposed pillar of faith wore down, farther and farther, until now it was barely visible. Further, my mom’s deterioration in health seemed to mock my faith at an even deeper level.
The voices mocked, God hasn’t answered your prayers for your mom, why on earth would He answer your prayers for this birth?
See, I knew, deep down, that I was not a tough person. Some women are. I would never have made it in the pioneer days. I would have died, or I would have complained so much they’d have left me behind. 😉 I like to think I’m tough but I’m not. I was begging for an epidural at both of my first births. I knew, deep down, that I could not do this, and I doubted whether God would miraculously come through and provide me a birth story that would be anything other than traumatic.
That was it. The voice mocked: Why would God ever do this for you?
Like a broken dam, all the grief and insecurity came rushing out. I sobbed, choking out finally-honest prayers to God about how I really felt. Why I doubted Him. I told Him the truth about myself–that I knew how weak and wimpy I was and unless He came through for me I couldn’t do it.
And then, of course: Peace like a river.
From that point on, I can honestly say, I felt peace. I didn’t feel comfortable–Justice wasn’t born for another 5 days, but I had peace. At least everything was out in the open.
And, I realized, I had learned something else. During that night of false-labor, I had listening, non-stop, to one song on repeat: Hard Love by Need to Breathe, with Lauren Daigle. Everything about that song makes me want to rise up and overcome. As I began to reflect more on the lyrics, I realized–God had given me that song. I would need it for when true labor came. Especially the lines:
Trading punches with the heart of darkness
Going to blows with your fear incarnate
Never gone until it’s stripped away
A part of you has gotta die today.
And I knew it did. In order for me to bring Justice into the world, I would need to die. Then:
It’s not enough to just feel the flame
You’ve gotta burn your old self away
Yes. Essentially, you have to embrace every agonizing contraction and let it wash over you, burning your old self away to make way for new life. Then:
Hold on tight a little longer
What don’t kill ya, makes ya stronger
Get back up, ’cause it’s a hard love
You can’t change without a fallout
It’s gon’ hurt, but don’t you slow down
Get back up, ’cause it’s a hard love
Gah! I start crying all over again just re-reading. I knew this was key:
I would need to die, but this process would not kill me. It would make me stronger. It would hurt, but I had to not slow down, but press forward, get back up, because labor-techniques aren’t what would ultimately bring Justice into the world.
LOVE is.
Hard love. Only if my strength was fueled by a hard LOVE for my son, would I be able to endure bravely.
That night, driving home, another song came on that I instantly knew would play a role in this process as well. Resurrection Day by Rend Collective.
Because You’re living I’m alive
Because Your cross is powerful
Because You rose invincible
I can get up off the floor
Nothing’s gonna hold me in the grave
This is my resurrection day
Nothing’s gonna hold me down
Say goodbye to my yesterdays
Ever since I met You I am changed
This is my resurrection day
Nothing’s gonna hold me down
Because my debt has all been paid
Because You stand in victory
Because You crushed the enemy
I can get up off the floor (get up off the floor)
This would be my victory song. Christ’s resurrection power IS at work in us. Because of His power, I can get up off the floor, so to speak, and bring Justice into the world.
In the four days that followed, I spent time every afternoon listening to worship, meditating on these truths, and practicing sinking into myself and focusing on God. On Thursday, I curled up with my earbuds, and again began relating and worshipping God. As I did, a flood of gratitude welled up in me. God had been preparing me all this time. All these “false alarms” were His generous, kind, gracious, tender advances of love, preparing me and helping me be ready for something that I was not prepared for in my own strength.
His delay was sheer grace, love, and mercy.
And then, after weeks and weeks of silence, I heard so clearly:
“You’re almost there. You’ve done such a good job.”
(And I’m sobbing again just remembering!) Tears fell as I felt the Father’s reassurance and loving approval wash over me. That was all I needed to know. My Dad was pleased.
I went outside and walked up and down the driveway for a long time, the joyful happy tears streaming down my face. Like a movie playing, I could the past 18-months play before my eyes. The wrestling and struggle and the eventual choice for vasectomy-reversal, the waiting and anticipating, the miscarriage, the months of personal struggle, the next pregnancy, the gazillion choices to trust, then losing that baby, then all the months of pregnancy–the thousand choices to trust, smile, choose faith. The morning sickness, the fear, the anxiety, the days and weeks and months of saying yes to God again and again and again. And as Lord of Hosts by Shane & Shane blared over and over on repeat I just poured out gratitude to God realizing:
Lord of Hosts, You’re with us
With us in the fire
With us as a shelter
With us in the storm
You will lead us
Through the fiercest battle
Oh where else would we go
But with the Lord of Hosts
And especially the line: God who makes the mountains melt, Come wrestle us and win.
Yes. I want God to wrestle me and WIN. I want His way. And He is WITH us in the battle. There were some battles during those 18 months. God dealt with some significant sin in my life. But He won. He won me. He won my heart.
He rescued me from me.
And so, I went into the weekend, somehow sensing that the work was already done. Yes, the actual labor would need to play out, but in a sense, it was complete.
I went to sleep Friday night settled, secure, rested, at peace.
{We’ll finish next time. Thanks for reading!}
Justice is coming
Today marks another little leg of our journey, and I wanted to share it with you… Jeff and I had the joy today of discovering it is a little BOY who is coming to join our family.
I shared a bit of our journey back here: Our Hope Is in Heaven. Back in the fall of 2016, when we were praying and fasting through whether to pursue having more kids, God gave us two names: A girl (Honor) and a boy. We lost Honor, and then later miscarried Hope, but God was in all of that, and He used it mightily in our lives. I can honestly say that God was so GOOD and did so much GOOD in our lives through those losses, even though it was heart-breaking.
During the September-October time period, God continued to speak some certain promises to us, although some of them didn’t quite make sense. Honestly, I still don’t understand how it’s all going to work, so I’m waiting to share some of it, but He generously allowed us to get pregnant in October, and I assumed it was another girl.
Since we had lost baby Hope at exactly 11 weeks, I found myself becoming anxious as my 11-week mark neared. At 10.5 weeks, a precious friend of mine miscarried, and I was devastated for her. I also found myself shaken at the news, and kept seeking every moment to TRUST. On Christmas Day I was 2 days shy of 11 weeks, and I had a lot of cramping that day. I told myself it was nothing, and pretended it wasn’t there, but it lingered. Finally I texted friends and asked them to pray. That night when I got home, I had a message from another friend that she had miscarried as well. My mind swam, so sad for her, and again seeking to keep my eyes on Him. No matter what. Trust. Trust. Trust. Tuesday morning the cramping continued, so I left my midwife a message, but I never got a call back. That night, Tuesday night, 1 day shy of 11 weeks, I went to bed with a heavy heart, praying myself to sleep.
And I had a dream.
It was one of those remarkably vivid ones, that’s like living real life. In my dream I was holding a precious, healthy, baby boy. I was testifying to everyone around about God’s faithfulness. There were some other parts of the dream that I’ll wait to see how they play out, but I knew the significance:
This baby boy would live.
The next morning I woke with joy. My midwife had me come in for an ultrasound, just to check things out, and sure enough: A happy baby bounced around that screen. Relieved and rejoicing, the cramping stopped and hasn’t come back since.
Since then, I felt, deep down, this was a boy: This was Justice Scott Patterson.
And today we saw him wiggle around on that screen, and we rejoice!
Why the name Justice? Of course I don’t pretend to know completely. I don’t know what his life will be like, or the calling God has for him. But I know that God talks about justice 130 times in the Scriptures. The Lord loves Justice …
And Justice is coming.
The message of the past year has been unmistakably clear: Honor is lost, or Hope is in heaven, but Justice is coming.
What is God’s justice? My dear friend put it this way, “Justice restores what has been stolen by the enemy.”
For the Lord is righteous, he loves justice; the upright will see his face. Ps. 11:7
The Lord loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of his unfailing love. Ps. 33:5
And the heavens proclaim his righteousness, for he is a God of justice. Ps. 50:6
For I, the Lord, love justice. Is. 61:8
And so I pray that this boy will become a man who does justly, loves mercy, and walks humbly with His God (Micah 6:8), that he will “administer true justice; show mercy and compassion to one another” (Zech 7:9), that he will “learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow. (Is. 1:17). I pray that he will be a defender of the weak, a mighty force upholding righteousness and honor, that he will be a strong man who loves and serves others well. And even more than who he is, I know who He is, and God is the Just and the Justifier, and Christ’s power sets free all who are oppressed and restores what has been stolen.
And for today … I simply pray that this tiny boy will continue to grow healthy and strong. That I can carry him all the way until he is destined to be born. Continuing to trust God each day of this journey. Thanks for praying for this little one; and thanks for reading.
“Our Hope is in heaven…”
I shared here, about Honor, the unborn child we lost through an early miscarriage on March 5th of this year. I wanted to share a little more about her story, about ours, and about Hope. This is personal stuff so if you’d rather pass on this lengthy post, I understand. But I welcome you to come along.
After having Heidi 8.5 years ago, I was exhausted and overwhelmed. I was serving as Women’s Director, speaking at retreats, and drafting up the proposal for Sacred Mundane. Dutch, 2, was difficult and mostly baffled me. I loved being a mom, but felt like a failure most of the time. I wasn’t really a “kid person” and both babies came without trying, so I couldn’t imagine having more. I wanted a preventative method that was permanent.
Appointment made. Procedure done. Close that chapter. Moving on.
Life was full. We sold our dream house. Moved. Planted a church. Moved again. Lived on next to nothing. Had an assortment of housemates. Wrote a book. Moved again.
Then, a couple years ago, I was speaking at a retreat, and casually sat down with a woman holding a baby. We got to know each other, and she shared that she and her husband had had a vasectomy, but then years later felt that they heard clearly from the Lord to have more children. They obeyed, had a reversal, and now had several more children. She was sitting there, beaming, bouncing her darling little bundle. So clearly happy.
I was horrified.
God can DO that?!
I mean, He had told us to do stuff. We had sold our home. Given money away. Planted a church. But those were gospel-y things. Kingdom things.
Could God tell you what to do with your body???
I’m smiling here because of course He can, but it was certainly disconcerting to me to think that God would interrupt someone’s life in this way. Go on a foreign mission? Sure. Give money away? Of course.
Have more kids? Now wait a minute.
I remember going back to my room a bit unsettled. Her story challenged my assumptions of what God would or would not ask of me. Of course I loved my kids. But this was years later. That season was over. I was 35 for crying out loud. Advanced maternal age. Didn’t that have to do special tests for pregnant people my age?
I pushed the thought out of my mind. Too much time has passed. That ship has sailed.
As the next year went by, I thought of that conversation. I also reflected on how very different my life was now that my kids were older. In short, they’re SO FUN. I remember being exhausted during the baby stage, but this … this was fabulous! I loved seeing who my kids were becoming, and I found myself often saying, “If I had known how awesome this would be, we would have had more…”
But we hadn’t. So we didn’t.
I was also amazed that year to hear that a friend of mine, well into her mid-40s, gave birth to her 8th child, with a 10.5-year span between her next youngest and her newborn. My “I’m too old and too much time has passed!” excuse seemed a little lame.
Fast forward to last September. With these thoughts still on my mind, I received an invitation from a friend, asking if we could meet for lunch. She drove 5 hours from her hometown just to meet me, so I was eager to hear what was on her mind. Knowing nothing of my own inner wrestlings, and to my jaw-dropping amazement, she shared her incredible story of how God had revealed that there was an area of her life that wasn’t fully surrendered to God. The area?
Willingness to have more children. They too had had a vasectomy. Closed that chapter. And now, 7 years later, God had led them to get a reversal and be open to having more children. She too was beaming, so filled with the joy of obedience.
I was speechless. I think I muttered something like, “Oh wow, good for you.”
I walked from Cafe Yumm back out to the car and sat in the silence. Just me and the Spirit. I didn’t sense conviction, per se, or some heavy condemnation, as if I had sinned. I just knew that the right answer is always surrender, and I never wanted to have an area of my life where I refused to let God move. Without much passion, I spoke the words into the air,
“Fine. I surrender. Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do.”
—
A month later, the idea of a reversal still stuck with me. I knew I should at least mention the idea to Jeff, since it kind of involved him. 😉 To my amazement, he was all for it: YES! I’d love to have more kids!
You what??! I was shocked, but happy too. Over the course of the next month the idea grew, specifically in the form of two names. Just as both Dutch & Heidi’s names were clear to me before they were born, I kept having two more names come to mind, one of which was the girl’s name Honor. I loved that name for a girl, and it was as if these were children God had thought of for us that we had yet to hold. It’s hard to explain, but it’s like they were already conceived, as in thought of, by Him, before they were conceived by us. I found myself WANTING to hold them.
The true reversal was of my heart, and God did that completely. Now I found myself, more than anything else, longing to hold these children our Father had for us.
Now, the decision. We knew that if we were to have more kids, we should probably do more than pray for an immaculate conception.
Obedience usually requires action.
And often, cost. While vasectomies are easily covered by most insurance, reversals are most certainly not. We were quoted $8,000 out of pocket at OHSU. Ouch.
And yet, David said, “I will not offer to the LORD that which costs me nothing.” Sometimes undoing a decision is costly, so we needed to be willing to pay that cost.
But we’re still frugal! We wanted to be wise stewards of God’s money, so we prayed, researched, and while Jeff shared our journey with the church Elders, I was home researching and I stumbled upon a chat thread that mentioned Dr. David Wilson, a Christian urologist in Oklahoma who had a ministry of offering at-cost reversals. He loves the Lord and has performed more than 6,450 reversals at cost, as a generous ministry. Instead of $8,000 it was $1,900. And he loved Jesus.
Yes, please. We bought cheap airfare for a few months out, and kept our secret over the holidays.
Although, it seemed the Spirit was speaking to someone else as well.
Although we had never said anything to our kids, they both began talking about siblings. Dutch wanted a little brother and Heidi a little sister. That seemed surprising, since they’d never brought it up before, in the past 8 years! Then, one December morning, Heidi came downstairs and said,
“Mommy, last night I had a dream that I prayed for you to get pregnant and you did.”
I about choked on my coffee but tried to stay cool. “Hm. That’s interesting,” I responded, and dropped it. But that night she pressed the issue,
“Mommy, what about the dream? What do you think about it??”
I smiled. “Why don’t you just pray about it.”
And so she did. I heard from her Sunday school teachers that each week for her prayer request she’d pray for a sibling. I was amazed and silently hoped God would hear her prayers.
And then, in January, without telling anyone what we were doing (not even my parents, who were watching the kids, ha!) we flew to OK and had the procedure done. When we arrived in Tulsa, the car rental place explained that even though there were only 2 of us, they needed to upgrade us to a minivan. Ha! We winked at each other (“It’s a sign!”) and hurried on our way.
It was a great trip. We enjoyed the time away, loved Dr. Wilson who prayed with us, played worship music in the surgery room, and encouraged us along our journey. However, we knew the chances were still slim, since so much time had gone by since the original procedure was done.
We didn’t know if I’d ever get pregnant.
But 3 weeks later I did.
We were stunned. Thrilled. Over the moon excited. It worked! This was happening!
The few friends who knew our journey were celebrating with us. God is faithful! Hallelujah.We told the kids.
“Heidi! God answered your prayers!” She was thrilled. We rejoiced.
And then I miscarried.
Now I was stunned, in a different way. I knew that this was not uncommon, but Dutch & Heidi’s pregnancies were so easy, uneventful, uncomplicated. I’d never had a moment of doubt or worry with them.
And now, just like that, this child was gone.
The swell of momentum and joy and hope and excitement … was over.
Now it was just pain, and recovery, and explaining to the kids and all the shocked people who didn’t understand how on earth we could have even been in a situation to have a miscarriage.
So much explaining.
Not at all how I pictured “the blessing of obedience” would be.
But there was Hope.
As I was going through the miscarriage, I sensed God saying that this child, this tiny barely-formed child, was Honor. I was losing Honor.
But I still knew that God had put on our hearts to have two children we would hold, so I cried out to Him, in tears,
“Then God, please, give me another name. If I’m losing Honor, speak to me, who do you have for me instead?”
As clear as an audible voice, into the darkness:
“Hope.”
Yes. Hope. Of course. I knew Romans 5 — suffering produces … hope. And hope does not disappoint. This suffering would produce Hope and I would hold onto her. Hope would be the child who would remind me always of God’s good work through suffering.
I looked forward to Hope.
—
The months ahead brought up more stuff. Disappointments do that, they bring things to the surface that should have been dealt with long ago, but the pain or discouragement drags it up, so then you get to deal. It was a hard few months. I was surprised by how long the recovery took, the ups and downs and hormones and swings.
But I held onto Hope.
And around May 5th, I felt like myself again. The winter was over. Spring! Hallelujah, spring.
A month later, during one of our church prayer meetings, a good friend felt led to pray specifically that I would get pregnant immediately.
I did.
YES!
This is Hope.
Yes! What redemption! God’s promises are sure! We can count on Him! Hope does not disappoint! We waited longer to share the news, but each passing week seemed to solidify the surety of this child. My first appointment was scheduled for 11 weeks, and we couldn’t wait. Morning sickness was in full swing, I gained 6 pounds right off the bat, and was already rounding out quite nicely.
I just couldn’t wait to hear Hope’s heartbeat.
And then.
A couple days before the appointment, the pain began.
No. Fear threatened. No.
I will hold onto Hope. I prayed, prayed, all day, under my breath, in my mind. Through that night. Through the next day. Sunday morning I came to church still in pain, but holding onto Hope. As I walked into worship practice, my sweet friend Christine was singing the worship lyrics,
“Your Name is Hope inside me, Hope inside me…”
Tears welled up as I sang out with all my heart, praying through each twinge of pain, singing for Hope, holding onto Hope.
That afternoon it began in full force.
It was horrific, to me, so I don’t need to share details. I didn’t realize how different a later miscarriage was than the one I’d experienced earlier. I passed out three times from loss of blood. Jeff was a hero, carrying me, holding me, through six hours of horrendous labor-like loss.
I prayed constantly for hours, holding onto Hope, and then, in a crystal clear moment, in the darkness I heard in my heart,
“Our Hope is in heaven.”
Through my blurred eyes I pulled up the verse on my phone–did it really say that? Yes. Colossians 1:5,
… the hope laid up for us in heaven.
Hope was laid up for us in heaven.
You’ve probably been there before. When the waves of grief just wash over you, like the relentless waves of labor contractions, and the physical pain seems endless and it all feels overwhelming, but there’s peace too.
The physical process continued in all its mercilessness, but Jeff carried me, and somehow heaven seemed so real and suddenly there was so much there.
I was just so grateful. All I could think about was how grateful I was.
To be alive. To have a husband who stayed up all night holding me. For two beautiful children, alive and asleep in the other room. For our home, for this land that is green and lush and gorgeous. For grace, for life, for Jesus and for all He’s done and is doing and for our friends and amazing family, and for HEAVEN.
The hope of heaven. Whatever the worst is this world can do to us … it’s got nothing on heaven.
Heaven wins.
And so my Hope passed from this world to the next, just like that.
Sure, I know my God works miracles here too. Jesus clearly shows us that. He heals bodies. He parts seas. He feeds thousands. He opens eyes.
But that isn’t all He does. Ultimately, our Hope is in heaven.
And I know God’s good will isn’t miscarriage. He’s shown us that too (Exodus 23). But no matter what this busted, messed up, broken world can beat us down with, heaven wins.
And then, afterwards, the gratitude couldn’t help but grow because God’s people are amazing and who can grumble and gripe when there’s gorgeous flowers filling my countertop and the kindest words poured out on cards and gifts and love that leave me speechless? When friends show up with my favorite treats, and Clear Mind kombucha flows like water 😉 and when I don’t know what on earth to do for dinner the housemate comes up with steaming hot spaghetti and then the husband walks in with brownies dropped off by a friend, and, and, and …
How can I complain of pain when there’s still so much beauty in this world???
There is still so much beauty in this world.
Of course there is still grief. And I know two miscarriages is nothing compared to some of your pain. You who are battling cancer or fighting for little one’s lives or grieving loss that’s beyond my comprehension. But I know this:
He wins.
The worst this world can do is death.
Oh death, where is your sting? It has been swallowed up. You know by what?
By victory.
And so, that was this Monday. 🙂 And now I’m unplugging for a bit, laying low with my feet up and I hope you have a great week. Just wanted to share a bit of our journey with you.
It’s not over.
{Thanks for reading.}
46-years faithful: What love looks like
When I walked in the room and saw this, I had to take a picture, because to me, this is what love looks like.
No, it’s not what you’d seen on the cover of a marriage book, or a clip from a romantic movie. Nothing about this immediately makes your heart go flutter.
But it says so much to me.
Because this is the picture of a man who has faithfully loved his wife for 46 years today. This is the man, who at 75-years-old, is sleeping on a cot in a hospital room so that his wife never has to be alone.
This is the man who has heroically stood beside her through fourteen years of Parkinson’s, through countless surgeries and broken bones, through doctors visits, and thousands of meals cooked, through changing her and dressing her and showering her and loading her in and out of the chair, the car, the bed. This is the man who makes it his daily goal to make her smile before breakfast.
This is the man who wept beside her bed, saying goodbye before she went in for her last surgery. This is the man who gives up sleep, comfort, pleasures, and pursuits, in order to take care of his wife.
This is love.
And she has loved him well too. This is the woman who has given her life to love and serve him. This is the woman who traveled to endless sporting events to watch him play, coach, ref. This is the girl who fixed up old campers and worked on cars. This is the girl who made his favorite meals for almost 4 decades, before she was forced to hand over the kitchen to him.
I’ve never seen such selfless love. And so today, on their 46th anniversary, I just wanted to say: Thank you, Dad & Mom, for being faithful for 46 years, through the highs and lows, thick and thin. Thank you for showing us what love looks like. I love you so much.
{No matter where we are in life, or how we’ve failed in the past, may we all love like this now. Thanks for reading.}
For all your Pinterest-fails this holiday season…
I can STILL remember my so-called Pinterest-fails from when I was five years old. Long before that red icon resided on my phone-screen, I was trying to create crafts, clothes, and cookies. I can still remember sitting on the carpet, trying to sew some doll clothes by hand. The stitches weren’t straight, the edges frayed, and when I turned the shirt right-side out it was too small for the doll’s head to fit through. Argh!
Just last week, my Heidi was in tears over the exact same thing. She was sewing doll clothes, by hand. The stitches came undone, the dress didn’t fit over Elsa’s head, and bottom edge had frayed. Her frustrated tears totally took me back to my childhood!
Now that we have Pinterest, it might actually be worse. Before, we just had pictures in our heads of what we wanted to create. These mental pictures can be rather forgiving. Not so with Pinterest’s pictures. They’re perfect. They’re often professional. I have a hunch they might be photo-shopped.
In the last week I’ve actually attempted not one, not two, but FIVE new Pinterest-informed endeavors. I’m not sure what is wrong with me, it must be the holiday season. I get ridiculously optimistic and seem to forget all the past Pinterest-fails that trail behind me, creative wreckage. I forget all this because it’s Christmas-time! Everything’s possible at Christmas, right?! Of course I can sew myself a floor-length plaid tartan circle skirt even though it calls for 5 yards of fabric and I only have 1.5. AND I can stain and antique my kitchen cabinets AND whip up three new recipes. Anything’s possible at Christmas! Right?!
My fatal flaw is that I often “wing it”. I often don’t follow recipes, I never use patterns, I eyeball rather than measure, and I like to move quickly, so there’s not a lot of time for prep. This doesn’t bode well for beautiful outcomes, but I will say that the experiments of this past week have reminded me of some timeless truths:
People are more important than things.
I noticed that when I was staining my cabinets (and really cared about the outcome) I was quick to grow impatient with Heidi, who wanted to help. God actually had to deal with my heart on this issue, because I easily get more absorbed in my project than in giving my full attention to the kids. I let it sit unfinished for several days, until the Father gave me the green light to continue, after I’d surrendered my silly project and made my kids the priority.
Ugly food often tastes best.
No explanation needed.
No one notices your frayed hem.
So, I did sew a plaid skirt to wear to a speaking event, and I was hoping they’d have the lights low so no one could see what a terrible job I’d done. I figured no one would look low enough to see my imperfect hem. Wouldn’t you know it, the stage had FULL LIGHT (ha!) and I was up high enough that the audience eye-level was exactly at my hemline. Ha! But you know what? No one cares. Be free!
The imperfect version is the most fun.
Last night we made THESE. And we laughed so hard we we were snorting and crying and I haven’t laughed that hard in years. And it was all because they turned out so gloriously imperfect.
Controlling kills the fun every time.
I won’t lie, when we started making these cookies, Heidi wanted to do it all on her own. I admit: I cringed. The gingerbread men began looking like victims of some horrible accident, and I was so tempted to reach right over and do it myself. But that would have been the worst. And when she frosted them and sprinkled all five colors right on top of one another, and put the red hots there as eyes and they started looking like horror-movie characters, I thought about telling her to do it differently. But I stopped. And I’m so glad because she LOVED this whole adventure, and asked if we could do it every year and woke up the next day and asked to finish decorating the rest. Seems like success to me.
And so I share my #pinterestfails as a friendly reminder that an imperfect Christmas might just be best, and maybe we can lighten up a little and love each other more than our ideals. I’m sure you know this already, but it never hurts to have a little reminder. Happy holidays! Thanks for reading.
PS For the record, some of my projects turned out ok! I like the cabinet-stain, and THIS sugarless flourless chocolate cake is incredible!!
The way I see it.
Of all the shocked Americans, I may be the most.
There are a slew of status updates out there, a combination of horror, disgust, excitement, praise, lament. It’s fascinating that we can all watch the same event unfold, and yet see it in drastically different ways. So I share with you here, quite simply, the way I see it. It is my own perspective, so I share it with you not to campaign my convictions but simple to tell you my story.
I’ve shared some already here. In the midst of my Trump-disgust, we embarked on a corporate 40-day fast, and to my everlasting surprise, in the middle of the fast, I felt clearly a conviction to the core of my being, that I was to vote for Donald Trump. Not because he was a saint, but because God had a plan through this man, to “access” him somehow, for God’s glory.
I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that the battle in my heart these four months has been the most fierce I’ve ever felt. God convicted me of my cowardice and called me to share my conviction publicly, first with my most cherished family and friends, and then here. The challenge was real. I have never in my life felt a conviction that my husband didn’t share. I wept in prayer, in angst, asking God to help me reconcile honoring my husband and honoring His word to me. With all my heart I wanted to be obedient, without causing division in relationships I greatly valued. Thankfully, as I prayed and surrendered, God paved the way for peace. Every word I’ve spoken or written has been with my husband’s blessing.
Quite frankly, I never in a million years actually expected Trump to win. In fact, in some ways it felt “safe” to share my conviction with people, because I was equally convinced that DT would never win! Plus, I live in the bluest of the blue states. My vote basically didn’t even matter.
But amazingly, my prayers did. As the election neared, we began to sense more and more urgency to pray. A small group of us who shared this conviction, in response to Lou Engle’s call, agreed to fast lunch for 11 days, to pray and ask God for His mercy on our nation. Each day as we fasted, I admit it seemed a little futile. Skipping lunch for a guy who basically had no chance to win? But we prayed. And I know millions of others did too.
Over the days, my prayers changed. I saw things. Realized things. Scripture leapt off the page. More and more it didn’t matter that this man DT was the “lesser of two evils.” Of course he was! Jesus Christ has never run for president so even the best candidate is the lesser of two evils. Plus, I began to see Trump’s past, his shortcomings, as potential for God to move and work, to glorify Himself.
We continued to pray. On Monday we experienced the darkest day I have possibly ever felt. It was bizarre. Hopelessness, discouragement, weird thoughts, everything going wrong. Jeff and I both felt strangely despondent. Another dear friend who was also fasting, had a severe health attack that rendered her incapable of getting out of bed. But that night, we had our weekly prayer meeting at our house, on the eve of the election, at the same time I know millions of others were too. And the heaviness lifted. We didn’t pray for DT or a certain outcome, we just prayed for God’s mercy. We prayed Joel 2:12-14,
“Yet even now,” declares the LORD, “return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; and rend your hearts and not your garments. Return to the Lord your God for He is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love … Who knows whether He will turn and relent and leave a blessing behind him?”
Yesterday morning, I woke with unquenchable joy, even though I figured the election was a done deal, in Hillary’s favor. The polls were clear. I figured we were done. But that morning in prayer, the Holy Spirit rebuked me—We’re not done! Keep praying. This isn’t a done deal. I texted my friend, “Let’s keep praying!” So we did, even though I honestly didn’t expect much.
That night, we went to my parents’ house. At 5pm, I joked with Jeff that we should splurge and drink a Coke that night as a consolation prize. I was 100% expecting a Hillary win. I just wanted to be there to pray and watch this whole thing unfold.
And then, before my very eyes, a miracle unfolded. Within hours, the entire election flipped upside down. Before my very eyes I saw the same vision I had seen in prayer, of states literally morphing from blue to red. Before my very eyes I saw history change. I wept. I got on my face. We prayed. We worshipped. We repented and confessed and asked for mercy. We asked for states, then watched with jaw-dropped amazement as those states gradually crept toward Trump, over and over and over.
I have never seen anything like it in my entire life.
PLEASE hear my heart. I am NOT equating Republican=good, Democrat=bad. I am not gloating, boasting, bragging. I am just as shocked as anyone else, probably more so. I do not put my hope in ANY human president. But I believe that God has a plan that is greater and more glorious than we ever imagined, even if it also includes a lot of pain and difficulty, confusion and complexity. All I know is that I witnessed a miracle last night, and I spent most of the evening on my face, worshipping our amazing God who hears our prayers.
We do not need to be afraid. Sure, we don’t know what the days ahead of us hold. WE NEVER DO. If we have EVER hoped in a person or certain government as our security, it is high time we trusted in the perfect plan and provision of God instead. Let’s stop lamenting and begin PRAYING. Let’s recognize that although we may not be in the ideal situation, God’s MERCY on us is great.
Friends, please hear me: I’m not asking you to like Donald Trump. I’m asking you to PRAY. I was so convicted by the fact that I was PRAYING over our nation, and over states, and over people, like nobody’s business last night. I am challenged to KEEP PRAYING WITH THAT SAME FERVENCY. This isn’t the end. This is only the beginning. It is time for the church in America to wake up, repent, love, serve, submit to the Scriptures, uphold the holiness of God, and birth true HONOR and JUSTICE. It’s time for America to be a blessing to the world God loves.
Let’s unite under the great and mighty name of the Lord our God, who alone is in control of this crazy world we live in. Let’s pray like never before, love like never before, and live for God like never before. Thank you for reading.
My one and only political post
I type these words with trepidation, feeling hopelessly ill-equipped and under-qualified to speak on political matters. For my 18-years of voting, I have never muttered much of an opinion. I basically avoided the topic, maybe mentioning I was voting for Jesus, or something like that. I also of course believe that Jesus is the answer to our issues, not some new political leader, so I honestly wasn’t tuned in much to current affairs.
But something happened during our 40-day fast, and I’m convinced I’m supposed to share about it here. My intent is not to persuade you to vote a certain way, necessarily, but to simply vocalize what I believe to God’s heart in the matter, at least for me.
During the 40-day fast, we prayed for our country, and about the election. I don’t want to say I labored in prayer, I didn’t, but it was one of the things on my spiritual radar, to be sure.
During this time, I was sick of Donald Trump. He was such an idiot, I never dreamed he’d make it past the primaries. I was shocked when Ben Carson endorsed him, and I was a bit disgusted when I heard that some highly respected people I know were supporting him as well. Not me! I found myself feeling happy every time the media discovered more “dirt” on him from his past. Serves him right, slime-ball!
So, imagine my surprise when, during our fast, I was cleaning my kitchen and out of the blue I felt very clearly that I *heard* in my heart, “I want you to vote for Trump.”
It literally stopped me in my tracks. I stood still. Wait, what?! Lord, WHAT DID YOU SAY? Um, do you even known him? He’s kind of a jerk. Like, you DO know about those nasty things he’s done, right???
Nothing. All I was impressed by was the story of Nebuchadnezzar. Somehow, I sensed that Trump was likened to Nebuchadnezzar who God used to judge the nation of Israel AND who was publicly humbled in a extraordinary way (going insane, eating grass like an animal for 7 years), in order to bring about a supernatural transformation that brought glory to God in front of an entire nation.
Now, I wasn’t sure what to do with this, but I definitely didn’t want to tell anyone, not even Jeff. I figured I’d just sort of see how things played out, and I sort of forgot about the whole encounter.
But then, it was time to vote in the primaries. I let Jeff fill out my ballet, as a way of sort of skirting around the whole ordeal. Let’s just say he didn’t check the Trump box. I stayed quiet. But, as I was signing my ballot and sealing up the envelope, I heard so clearly in my heart, “I told you how to vote.”
Oh. Yes. So apparently that really was a thing. I’m ashamed to say I still didn’t speak up, I just sent in the ballot as it was, and still never said anything to Jeff.
Fast forward. Months go by, the election gets uglier, we’re left with Hillary and Trump.
And then, two weeks ago, in prayer during my morning quiet time, while sitting in a lawn chair in Arizona, the Holy Spirit convicts me big time that He had told me what to do and I’d ignored it, not even telling my own husband about the conviction. I was ashamed to say to anyone, “God told me to vote for Trump.” It sounded preposterous.
But I knew I couldn’t ignore Him any longer. As I sat there I just happened to be reading Luke 9 and verse 26 leapt off the page:
“For whoever is ashamed of me and of my words, of him will the Son of Man be ashamed when he comes in his glory and the glory of the Father and of the holy angels.”
Yikes. I had never before considered this verse applying to anything other than Scripture. I’m not ashamed of the Bible! But, was I ashamed of the word that the Holy Spirit had clearly spoken to me during our 40-day fast?! Was I ashamed to admit that I thought I’d heard from God? Was I willing to endure the ridicule of looking like an crazy lady who thinks prophecy should inform our politics? Besides, I’m not exactly a wealth of political knowledge. Who was I to weigh in on such a matter?
Besides all that, if you say you’re voting for Trump many people automatically think you’re a racist bigot who doesn’t care about the poor. I’m not that! I would gladly welcome refugees into our home, just like we have welcomed the homeless, a drug-user & a prostitute. We welcome them not because they’re refugees or druggies but because they are PEOPLE, created in the image of God. (Just like the unborn are.) Our entire life has been drastically altered by choosing to give to the poor, especially those in foreign countries.
So, I was afraid of being misunderstood, but I prayed for a little further information on why this was God’s choice (for me), and I heard: “I have access to him.” I don’t think it’s that Trump is a godly man (he’s not), but I believe somehow God has access to him in a way he doesn’t to other candidates. Similar to Nebuchadnezzar, who God accessed through a dream and the prophetic gifts of the prophet Daniel, I believe somehow God will have access to Trump and use something (humiliation?) to exalt Himself publicly.
So, I told Jeff. I told our elders’ wives. I told my family.
And now I’m telling you. 😉
So there. I’m not ashamed. There’s much more I could say, but I am PRAYING with far more fervor than lobbying or rallying, I am not saying I agree with all Trump’s choices or lifestyle. I’m not saying you need to agree with me, or vote this way. I believe there are wise, godly followers of Jesus on both sides of this election. I just knew that I needed to share my experience with you, as crazy as it sounds.
The one thing I would say is this: PRAY AND VOTE. Do not pass up on the incredible privilege we have to influence our world through prayer and voting, for the glory of God. Please.
God, give us wisdom not only as we vote, but as we LIVE. May our lives be one giant ballot cast in favor of King Jesus, our only hope, the Lord and Savior of our country and of the world. Make Your Kingdom great again!
{Thanks for reading.}
How imperfections perfect.
Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing.
James 1:4
I had worked so hard to have everything perfect. I’d planned ahead, cooked ahead, packed and laundered and cleaned and … then I got sick. Noooo! We were leaving on our 19-day road trip and the day before I came down with a terrible cold and was so miserable I could barely get out of bed. Our first stop was in the Redwoods, where the forecast predicted 45-55 degree weather. And nonstop rain. Did I mention a tent-trailer?
As soon as church was out, the kids and I hurried home to finish the last minute preparations. Of course, everything took longer than I thought. Of course, by the time we got everything ready and pulled out the driveway I was already so exhausted I just wanted to turn right around and go back to bed.
Our ETA was 8pm. But then again, we were pulling a trailer, and it was pouring rain and dark by the time we wove our way through the curvy Redwood highway. By now I was already a little irked that we’d made three bathroom stops (I won’t name names) and I knew we were behind schedule and I was just so tired. I just wanted a warm bed.
By the time we wound through the final stretch of highway, I was beyond irritated. Jeff was driving so slow. I kept staring a hole in the speedometer. Sure, he was being safe. Sure, it was pouring rain, pitch black, and we were on one of the most dangerous stretches of highway. But really?!
Finally, we arrive. It’s almost 10pm. My head is pounding, I’m sneezing, my nose is raw and running, my throat’s burning. Now it’s time to set up camp, which takes us until 10:30pm. All I can think about is warmth. If I could just get warm. I knew we had a heater in the tent trailer, so I figured once we got curled up into bed, it’d be ok.
We crawl in under the cold covers. “The heat’s on, right Babe?” I check with Jeff. He assures me it is. It sure feels like cold air. I huddle under the blankets, and wait, hoping it will get warm soon. I can’t breathe through my nose. Maybe it will get warm soon.
It never did. It was just cold. Super wet and cold all night. I wake in the morning, more miserable than ever. Jeff goes out to check something, and when he returns he says, “Oh, I never turned on the propane last night. So the heat never turned on, it was just a fan.”
Right. It was just A FAN BLOWING COLD AIR ON US ALL NIGHT. That’s exactly what it felt like as I lay in bed blowing my nose and NOT SLEEPING.
I don’t even need to get into the rest of the morning, right? Ha! You mamas know that when camping, the normal routines of cooking and cleaning take ten times as much effort. Finding the food. The clothes. It’s pouring rain and the floor’s already covered in mud, my head is pounding, eyes are burning, nose running … ARE WE HAVING FUN YET??!!!
Eventually, of course, we find our food and groove. Jeff goes for his run. The kids get started on their school lessons, and I get curled up with a blanket and hot coffee.
Of course, the day gets better. We get out. We look up. Nothing like thousands of 300-foot-tall trees to remind you of your smallness, God’s bigness, and the proper perspective on our problems.
Although I still felt terrible physically, my eyes turned up and I knew this was good. Why? Because imperfection perfects. It is these mundane “sufferings” — the irritations and inconveniences that shape and mold us, that mature us, that perfect us. Just like God’s Word says. We seek spectacular, thrilling experiences but it’s these experiences that most often make us more like Jesus.
When I get home, Jeff takes the kids for some adventuring, and I get a quiet hour to curl up and prayerfully write—the process that always sharpens my focus and settles me back into peace.
And that night, between 7-8pm, I’m struck by how I begin to feel dramatically better. My headache goes away, my nose clears, my throat no longer hurts. And joy rises. I sleep like a baby (with the heat on!) and wake feeling completely better.
I’m so struck by the dramatic improvement, I consider what could have happened. Then I realize:
It was Monday night. It was 7-8pm.
The time of our church’s prayer meeting.
Yes. I knew it. They were praying for us.
Wow. Gratitude wells up in my heart, I send out texts, giving thanks. He allowed the imperfections to perfect me, bit by bit, making me more like His Son. And then, by His grace, He led His people to gather in a little humble group and bring about complete healing through their faithful intercession.
God is good. All the time.
{How are imperfections perfecting you today? Thanks for reading.}