‘Til the fog lifts…
I looked out the window: Thick, heavy, fog. Great.
What is it with funks? So hard to explain. So hard to predict. We know all the right answers, the shoulds and oughts and answers. We can quote the verse. Rejoice!
What about when you don’t?! That fog settles inside too. So heavy. The kids awake cross. I feel lethargic and sleepy. There’s nothing inspiring on the agenda today, and even my favorite mundane activities have lost their charm.
I go through the motions, looking for miracles. Where are You in my mundane today, Lord? I make the oatmeal. Pour coffee. Even my beloved morning brew lacks its usual draw. The kids can feel it too. What will we do today? Our plan, OMSI, is changed because apparently the museum is closed.
I look outside the window again at the cold, thick fog. I can’t even see the chicken coop.
We’d had the false-promise of sunshine. 66-degrees and sunny. Really? But it’s not really the weather, it’s something else. My own tendency to isolate, draw in, find comfort in independence, hole up and hide a bit ’til the fog clears. I don’t like the fog–draw the blinds and crawl back in bed until the sun breaks.
We wait. And wait.
And I stare at my phone because I know a quick text can open up this darkness and let a close friend in. I know who and how, they are always near and eager to love me, to pray, but there’s a sick satisfaction in just lying down in the fog, hiding in obscurity. I stare at my phone. Nah.
The kids and I go upstairs, try to plan our way out of the fog-funk, come up with a solution. That always works, right? (Rolling my eyes here.) We have ideas, different ones: both kids disagree (on everything). I turn to do something and some random gyration (as they roughhouse) lands his head straight into her nose.
SCREAM!
That is IT.
I’m so done.
Get in your room now.
The command is for him but I do it too. Walk into my room and throw myself on the bed, close my eyes, facedown in a pillow. I just can’t look at it anymore, any of it. I’m being childish and selfish, I know it. But I don’t care. Don’t I ever get to pout?! Why do I always have to be the grown-up??
Heidi tip-toes softly in, she’s ten-times more mature than me at this point. She stands beside the bed, and softly caresses my back, her tiny starfish hands gently running up and down my back.
“It’s ok, Mommy. It’s ok.”
Oh that girl. She’s the one that got hit and here she is, leaning over me, in love. I pray the simple pathetic prayer, “Father, show me what to do.” And for me, now, I know what it is:
Reach out into the fog.
I pull Heidi up into my arms, kiss her perfect tiny mouth, and go downstairs, send out that text to that dear one: Honest confession and request for prayer. It isn’t long, but it’s me reaching out into the fog:
“I can’t see clearly right now, help! Could you reach out and take my hand?“
Even before I hear back, I can see a little better now. See my sin (anger) and theirs (complaining). I head back up, gather them into my arms, talk honestly about our sin and sit in prayer together, asking God to forgive us and grant a fresh start to the day. My phone buzzes with a response, one so perfect in its perspective that it has me laughing out loud. Oh, being loved–what grace!
Just then we three look up, through the skylight: Perfect blue.
The fog has lifted.
{For whatever fog you face today. Reach out, to Him, to another. Even here–I’d love to pray for you. Thanks for reading.}
Mishaps into Miracles
The conference was scheduled months in advance. I knew Jeff would be in Africa, but my parents happily agreed to come with me and watch the kids there at the coast. Perfect. I rented a small beach-house, right by the conference center where I’d be speaking. All set.
Until mom broke her leg just before the conference. Now what do I do? I have a conference, a beach house, and 2 kids. Hmm…
Of course, I prayed. Then I texted my mother-in-law. Could you come? She already had another trip planned. Next, my aunt and uncle. So sorry, it doesn’t work for us. Because it was a Mon-Wed conference, it had to be someone either retired or who didn’t have any normal weekday commitments and who would feel comfortable sharing a tiny house with us and taking care of my kids … i.e. there aren’t very many of those people!
But every time I prayed, I has this strong sense: Wait. Trust Me.
Days went by. Wait. Trust Me. With just a few days before the conference, the question crossed my mind. Where is the line between faith and irresponsibility?
Wait. Trust Me.
Then, just a couple days before the conference, Dutch asked if he could stay with my parents instead of going. Of course! I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s way easier to do things when it’s just Heidi and me. She’s a great little sidekick. Then, one hour after he asked that, the coordinator for the conference emailed and said she’d be bringing her two little girls and a hired helper, and that Heidi was welcome to play with her girls with the hired helper during my teaching sessions! This now meant that Heidi and I had a 3-day Girl’s Beach trip to ourselves, complete with a house and childcare provided during my teaching times.
In the course of an hour, what seemed like a test turned into a treat.
A mishap into the miracle.
But that wasn’t it. More miracles and mishaps were ahead.
The day of the conference, we got Jeff on the airplane to Africa, and met up with my parents to hand Dutch off. It was a gloriously sunny day, and we happened to be just blocks away from my dear lifelong friend, Janae, who I rarely get to see because both our lives are so busy. Just the week before, Heidi had been asking if she could please play with Janae’s daughters sometime. I texted her to see if we could swing by on our way to the beach. Our convo –>
By the time we swung by her house 10 minutes later, her kids already had their beach toys ready to go! “Just like old times!” She said with a smile, reminiscing to our college days when impromptu road-trips were a common occurrence.
That afternoon we laughed as the kids splashed in the freezing ocean. They came back to our beach house and huddled up around the fireplace while we made dinner then walked to the park, pushing them on swings and finally getting hours to catch up after way, way, way too long.
Late that night, she loaded up her kids for the long drive home. Just as they were pulling out, I remembered that I’d forgotten Heidi’s favorite breakfast cereal, a treat for our trip. I told Heidi quietly, and in the perfect storm of missing daddy, and saying goodbye to friends, and feeling a little out-of-place in this new house, she started crying. (Yes, crying over Cheerios.) I comforted her, and told her it’d be ok, and we waved goodbye and headed inside. We curled up in bed, but she still cried softly, missing daddy. I kissed her tears, and we prayed.
Then my phone buzzed.
Something’s on your porch. 🙂
Heidi and I ran to the front door. There it was. A big yellow box of cheerios and 2 pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. In college Janae and I used to eat B&J together, almost every day. I hadn’t tasted the super-rich, delicious ice cream in years.
Heidi jumped up and down, holding the yellow box. It’s silly, maybe, it’s just a cereal, but we poured her a little bowl as a bedtime snack, and it was just the little gift, the little kiss from God, to comfort her heart and make her feel loved.
The next day, still basking in God’s love, Heidi and I went to the conference. Again, a little mishap–the childcare option fell through. Now what do we do? My session was scheduled to begin at 2:00pm, and at 2:05pm I was sitting on the floor in the hallway holding my daughter, wiping her tears, assuring her it’d all be ok. Would it?
“I’ll tell you what sweetie-girl. I’d LOVE to have you with me while I speak. It’d be such a treat for me. You can sit at my feet, ok?”
And so she did. I sat behind a conference table, and she sat at my feet, playing with her stuffed animal and typing notes on my phone. At one point she tooted loudly while I was talking. Yup. It was all fairly awesome adventure.
The rest of the conference went on without much more mishap, but later, after getting home, I received a message from a dear gal who’d attended:
God used you a mighty way when precious Heidi was under the table. Your gracious love for her in that time really taught me a few very important things about my daughter. God got my attention! Thank you for letting your change of plans be for is glory.
That last line has so stuck with me, it’s become my prayer: “Lord let my change of plans be for Your glory.”
In His hands, all mishaps turn to miracles.
{For whatever mishaps you meet this week, may you place them in His hands, in trust, and watch Him work them into miracles. Thanks for reading!}
Because you don't need to hide
Where was Heidi?
One afternoon before Christmas the kids were playing when I realized Heidi wasn’t in the room. I peeked in the kitchen, not there, then pushed open our bedroom door. I heard a slight rustle so I silently tiptoed along the side of the bed and peered over the footboard.
She was peeking at a particular pink gift tucked into a gift-bag.
Startled, she looked up at me, eyes-wide, and her face froze. I knew what would happen. I was her 29 years ago. Her lower lip began to quiver and for several moments her face slowly contorted as she tried to hold it in — but it gushed out.
Wail. Sob. Hysterical crying. Caught guilty she melted in a heap of tears. I can remember exactly the same feeling.
I held out my arms to Heidi and she ran into them. Tears streaming down her face, burying her face in my neck, refusing to look up. Jeff, who had followed me in and seen the whole thing, began to talk to her. She hid her face deep in my neck, wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t look at him.
She sobbed, took a breath, “I wan’ go to bed.”
“It’s not bedtime — you want to go to bed now?”
“Yes! Pease I need go to bed!”
“Do you want to go to bed because you know you did naughty?”
She just broke down again, dug her face deeper in my neck, wouldn’t answer. Oh sweet girl I understand.
“Heidi, I know you want to go to bed and hide because you did naughty, but Mommy is not mad. I just want you to tell mommy you’re sorry for looking at things you shouldn’t, and ask mommy to forgive you.”
I thought it would take coaxing but it came quick. I remember that feeling too — tormented by guilt is a terrible place to be.
“Mommy, I suhwey for looking at thing I shouldn’t. You please ‘uhgive me?”
I smiled wide, nuzzled her nose, make sure she sees my smile all the way through my eyes.
“Yes, baby-girl. I forgive you. Thank you for telling me. Mommy loves you.” Then she asks if we can get a blanket and snuggle together. Of course I find the softest one — the one from the foot of our bed — and we snuggle up together. Inhale each other’s breath.
“Mommy, I wan’ keep you forever.”
“I wan’ keep you forever too babygirl.”
–
Oh sweet girl, I remember being you. I remember sneaking into mom’s closet one December day 28 years ago. Seeing the brown stuffed teddybear with the homemade sweater mom had knit for it. I saw it, then was plagued with guilt. Overwhelmed. It ruined all the joy.
It made me want to hide.
Because that’s what sin does. Every time. From humanity’s first sin we’ve done it. What did Adam and Eve do right after eating the fruit? They hid from God.
Humanity’s been hiding ever since. From God and from each other.
But once again I will sing this same song: There is freedom in repentance. As my son says it, “When we say sorry, Jesus forgives.” He does, when we confess our sin He is faithful and just to forgive us our sin and cleanse us of all unrighteousness. He pulls us close, looks us in the eyes, smiles a smile that warms our souls and heals all that’s broken.
Remembering this from a few years back. Is there anything that’s making you hide, dear friend? That shame and guilt need not be yours! Hide no more. Go quick to confession — He’s waiting to hold you near. Thanks for reading.
In case you have any twinkly tongues tomorrow
As you give your family The Gift of Whatever tomorrow, remember that it’s usually the things we don’t plan that make the most special memories. Or, most often, the mishaps. I’m sure we all have our own holiday-mishap stories, but this one takes the cake (and renders it inedible):
I found a recipe for “Dutch Cake”, which I was so excited to make for Dutch’s 4th birthday, right before Christmas. I whipped up the recipe only to realize there was no way on earth that kids would actually eat it–it was hard and dry and only sweetened with molasses. I could just see the kids at Dutch’s birthday party staring down at the hard little rock cupcake and wondering what they’d done wrong to deserve that. No, I would not be the dud mommy, so at the last minute I used the Funfetti cake mix, forced myself not to think about the hydrogenated soybean oil contained therein, and whipped up a batch of cupcakes and homemade frosting.
So far so good. It would be a hit.
But then I thought it’d be fun to make something special for the family party we were having in the evening. I knew Dutch’s little cousins loved Cake Pops, so I found the directions and went for it. Mush cake and frosting, form into balls, easy. But then you’re supposed to dip them in melting chocolate, of which I had none, so I thought it’d be super fun to instead dip them in powdered sugar and serve them as “snowballs”–perfect for a December birthday!
Yes, snowballs! Perfect.
Now, did I have powdered sugar? Hm…wasn’t sure. I dug around and found a clear Winco baggie (I buy everything in bulk), squeezed it with my fingers (it squeaks and has a distinct feel if it is cornstarch), and it didn’t squeak so I knew immediately that it was indeed powdered sugar. I happily powdered up my special snowballs and we were all set.
After dinner the kids gathered around excitedly for their treats. I served the kids then got busy cutting cheesecake for the adults. I overheard my neice exclaim, “This doesn’t taste good!” but was quickly chided by her mom for being rude, so she hushed up and picked at the rest of her snowball. I was vaguely aware that the other kids just sort of picked at theirs as well, but I was busy doing other things. Soon they were off playing again and I thought nothing of it.
Later, doing dishes, apparently my sister-in-law nibbled on one and knew immediately what I had done. My brother came into the dining room, grinning:
“So you coat your snowballs in baking soda, huh?”
My jaw dropped. Of course! I had just for the first time bought baking soda at Winco in the bulk section and forgotten about it.
“No wonder,” My mom said laughing, “Dutch kept saying, ‘This snowball makes my tongue all twinkly.’”
Yes, twinkly tongues for sure! Poor kids, they were awful and made your mouth fizz something terrible.
Thankfully we had no reactions, and no fizzy bubbles came out their noses. It makes for a fun memory. So just in case you have any memorable mishaps tomorrow, I pray you can laugh and remember twinkly tongues. Thanks for reading. And thank You, God, got for the sprinkles of humor you give us each day!
*Plenty:31 sips of joy for moms everywhere is still available for $.99 today and tomorrow! If you haven’t gotten your copy yet, head here and check it out. (Even if you don’t have an e-reader of any sort, you can just download it on your computer to read.) You can also borrow it for FREE on your kindle with Amazon Prime membership. Thanks!
When everything's infected and infested …
I could feel that same rubber band stretch tight again. But this time I’m not mad at my kids. For a week I can’t rest my right middle finger on the ‘K’ key. Can’t stretch it up to strike the “I” so I just peck around it with my other fingers. My silly finger had a hangnail that bizarrely became infected, so bad my finger was all swollen and red-hot hurting. Couldn’t get it to heal. Weeks before Jeff got some bizarre sort of spider bite while outside in the grass. 2 1/2 weeks of Popeye arm, red-hot swelling and pain, headaches, antibiotics, having it drained, watching his muscle be eaten away by whatever poison’s inside. What in the world? Then Dutch gets some little spot on this chin, just a little impetigo, that won’t go away, grows and hurts and itches and I read on the WebMD website: “Common in children, particularly those in unhealthy living conditions.” Oh for crying out loud! Of course I know it’s common in all little children, but between my infection, Jeff’s infection, and Dutch’s infection I’m frustrated–why is everything infected?!!
Of course not everything is. Some things are just infested.
Our house that is. And our car.
With mice.
Their evidence is everywhere. Nibbled boxes. Food gone. Shredded paper towels. Mouse poop. I’m livid. We set traps, and last night they manage to eat all the treats off the three traps without getting caught. Tricky little buggers!
Between our three infections, the evidence of some dangerous hobo spider in our yard and the mice everywhere I look (this morning they left their mark all over a stack of bathroom towels), I am crazy. I escape Sunday afternoon to run some errands alone, only to show up at Costco and discover I’ve left my card at home. A rational person would have reasoned that they’d give me a pass and let me in, but I’m not rational. There’s mice in my house, poisonous spiders in my yard, and everyone is infected with something. I can’t think straight.
On the drive home I ask it flat-out: “Ok Lord, what is it? We’re all infected and infested … what is it? I know you use the physical realm to speak to our spiritual needs. What is it?”
Silence. The whole way home.
“Ok, Lord. What’s the deal with that?”
Later that night, I take the kids to church. I had explained to Dutch the day before that he wouldn’t be able to go to his class because of the sore on his face. He was so disappointed, and said that he was going to pray and ask God to heal his face before church so that he could go to his class. So he did that night. And the next morning. And then, Sunday night, as we’re getting out of the car, he’s still praying as we walk through the parking lot, “Dada God, please heal my face so I can go to my class.” The boy has tremendous faith, and to be fair, God has answered some remarkable prayers of his, so he has reason to believe!
But this time I see he needs a further lesson in prayer.
“Babe, I know God can heal your face. But maybe what God wants more than your face to be healed is for you to learn to sit with Mama in church, to learn self-control, to learn to worship God with the mommies and daddies, to listen to the sermon and learn about Jesus there. Maybe that’s more important than your face being healed right now. Maybe God’s using your owie to move you to where He wants you to be.”
He protests for a moment, but then he lets it sink in.
I do too.
Are any of us immune to the universal human addiction to fast, smooth, effortless movement? To immediate answers to prayer? To mice-less houses and infection-less bodies? Those are good things, but our God is so great He can use mice and infections to move us, sit us down, take us out of our normal routine to teach us something new.
To move us to where He wants us to be.
Honestly, I don’t know what that “something new” is and don’t know where He wants me to be. Although I know a good place to start:
At His feet.
And so, the mice, the spiders, the infections of life–they drive us to His feet. Again and again and again.
So that’s what I’ll do again today: Sit at his feet …
and set some better traps.
{Thanks for reading.}
He's 70.
(Yes, apparently my two thought this was a “goofy face” picture. Goofy is the only face they have.)
|He’s Papa|
We walked in the door and within 30 seconds the two of them were far-off in some mutually imagined world.
Dutch grabbed the telescope and instantly the front room became a pirate ship. Dad was immediately in character–whether Billy Bones or Captain Flint or Long John Silver I’m not sure, they’re all the same to me–and Dutch was Jim Hawkins.
Then this morning he was outside with the kids, hunting for wild animals of some sort, exploring the property, inspecting mole-holes.
As I type these words he’s reading Treasure Island (all 121 pages!) aloud.
Yesterday he led a treasure hunt for all four kids–Seifers and Pattersons–complete with treasure map labeled “very old”, with x’s and trails and dollar-store puzzles hidden for each child.
Earlier this week he was Tinker Bell. With amazing adaptability he transforms from scruffy swashbuckler to pixie-dusting fairy. This game is new to him so he follows Dutch and Heidi around, learning the ropes of Neverland play.
Last week he was Chewbacca. Then Darth Vader.
Next week it will be back to Lightening McQueen. Dad will do his best Mater impression, talkin’ Hillbilly-like, then switchin’ to Doc or Sarge on cue.
He builds the Lego spaceships, towers reaching to heaven. He reads the same book over and over. He goes outside, even when it’s cold, to draw chalk treasure maps on the driveway or build some wooden masterpiece in the shop. Dutch will race in, later, nose red and fingers freezing, carrying whatever they’ve constructed, beaming.
When it’s a question of Will you do such-and-such with me? His answer is always,
Yes!
—
|He’s Husband|
He shows us all What Love Looks Like:
{From last Spring} When I woke this morning at 6am, he was already gone. My dad, that is. I don’t know what time he left to get back to the hospital with mom. The night before last he slept here until 12:30am and then was back by her side by 1am to be sure she was alright. There’s no extra bed in her hospital room, so he just sits in a chair by her side. He helps her go to the bathroom. Cleans her up, gets her water, makes her laugh. He challenges her to do one more leg lift, insists she do 10 “windshield wiper” exercises and then produces–to her great delight–a dark milky way candy bar from his jacket pocket. Her reward.
The truth is that he is her reward.
My dad is the greatest earthly gift my mom could ever imagine. This year my he will turn 69 years old. He and mom have been married for 40 of those. He is the hardest working man I have ever met. When he was 15 he wanted his own bedroom so he built one on to his parents’ small house–by himself. Bought the materials and built the whole darn thing all by himself. That tells you a little bit about my dad. He once wanted to repaint his car so he converted an old shop-vac into a paint sprayer and did it himself. He played college football at Linfield. He served in the Vietnam War. He was Athletic Director and coach for more years than I can count. He built all three of our homes with his own hands … after getting home from work.
But now is the real work.
The toughest coaching job he’s ever had.
The greatest battle he’s ever fought.
Mom’s battle is his battle because they are one. My mom has Parkinson’s, as many of you know, and just recently had her second hip replaced. She’s having some trouble recovering, so she’s still in the hospital doing rehab. Because it took so long to get into surgery, she spent the last 3 months unable to walk at all. Dad, the man used to having dinner served to him for the last 40 years, jumped in with both feet–the only way he knows how too–and learned how to do it all himself.
He cooks. He cleans. He grocery-shops. He gets up multiple times at night to take her to the bathroom. He dresses her, cleans her, and kisses her while he’s at it. He scrubs floors, does dishes, pays bills. He loads her in and out of the car, driving to doctor appointments. And now he sits by her hospital bed, quietly coaching: lets do 10 leg lifts, 5 more windshield wipers, no don’t go to sleep Karen, keep at it, we’ve got to get you home. He’s spent his life with a clipboard in hand and whistle in his mouth, shouting plays and running drills and pushing athletes. Now he sits holding her hand, no whistle, no shouting, but still the most amazing coach I’ve ever known. Ten more, Karen. You can do it, babe.
He loves her.
While there, a young nurse timidly peaks her head in their hospital room.
“Could I ask you a question?” She looks at dad. ”You’ve been married for 40 years. I just got married last year and I want to hear from you, because you obviously know. How do you do it?”
Dad smiled and looked at her. “Pray together every day.” He left it at that. I dare say the rest of the sermon was preached through his 24/7 selfless care of his bride. His life preaches whether he knows it or not.
Yesterday he asked me to stop on my way to the hospital and get her some new clothes to wear while she’s there. I prayed my way through Target and found the perfect thing, in her favorite color. Today on the phone dad said, “She’s wearing her new outfit and she looks hot!”
That’s love.
Not just to serve, but to lift up. Not just to coach, but to inspire courage. Not just to sleep at her side but to assure her that she’s beautiful in the midst of a most unbecoming circumstance.
This world offers us very few glimpses of true love.
But this is one.
The 4-West wing of SW Medical Center has seen a little glimpse of Jesus this past week.
So have I.
—
|He’s Dad|
I remember…
- Dancing around the May Pole. I barefoot in that long turquoise dress. You in polo shirt and PE shoes. I proud. You prouder.
- Working on my free-throws. How many times did you say,”Keep your elbow in!” A thousand. My elbow still creeps out, Dad.
- Going to that minor league baseball game. I telling you about a guy I liked. Scared to death, I told you. “His name is Jeff Patterson…”
- You scaring many boys to death. Thank you.
- Being tiny, sitting on your lap, fingering your earlobe. I loved the feel: Soft and rough at the same time. Just like you.
- “Daddy, can I marry you when I grow up?”
- You always tearing up when you pray.
- Boat rides.
- You silly. Always silly. Riding bikes at the beach and coming around the corner to find you on your back, riding your bike upside down.
- Waving goodbye every morning out those big front room windows, waiting excitedly for that one spot when we could see you down the road. How you always knew to hold your arm out the window and wave. Knowing we were back there, waiting and waving.
- Hearing the sound of the garage door open. “Daddys’ home!”
- You getting pulled over for speeding and listening to you lecture the police offer that he should quit wasting his time giving measy 5-mile-over speeding tickets when real creeps were out in the world. No one ever said you didn’t speak your mind.
- How you built those wooden lap-tables for us so we could have all our books and colors and papers with us on those long road trips to your basketball games.
- Watching you ref. Being about to burst with pride that I got in free to all the games because you were my dad. I thought you were a celebrity. Now I know you are.
- How you taught me to ride my bike that one Christmas, freezing cold, driveway a sheet of ice. How many miles did you run holding onto the back of the seat?
- Jeep rides up in the snow.
- The gym you built in our backyard. A gym! I still sometimes shake my head at that. Who gets to have a gym in their backyard?!
- That moment–was I nine-years-old?– after we moved from our Deardorff drive house, when just you and I went back for one last look, make sure we hadn’t forgot anything. How we stood in that entry-way. I had started to cry and tried to hide it, then looked and you were too. You looked at me and I could read your mind, you’d carried me home from the hospital to that house.
- Building that house on Wright Rd, how we hadn’t drilled the well yet so we had to ride our bikes to the neighbors’ house and bring home buckets of water. Showering in the locker room at school late at night. I just remember all that being SO fun, which has everything to do with you…
- All those summers in high school building decks together. All those complaints about the 3-minute lunch breaks we were allowed and the $5/hour wages I received. You worked me hard and now I’m so very glad.
|He’s 70|
And now, you’re 70. Seventy never looked so good. God has been gracious and you have worked your tail off extending that grace to mom, us, everyone you meet. A whole hoard of folks are coming tonight to your birthday party, not because we told them, just because word spreads like wildfire when it comes to honoring a man who’s loved by all.
And you are: Loved by all.
But the only voice I have is my own. Sure, you’re loved by all, but you’re also loved by me.
Your only daughter adores you.
Happy birthday.
Life in the blender…
When we pray for God to pour us out we never intend that He might blenderize us first.
I told the girls in my mentor group: “I feel like I’ve been in a blender.”
A God-ordained blender that’s chopping me, pureeing me, perhaps preparing me to be poured out? Or, just making me less chunky, easier to swallow. Whatever it is He’s doing, I can feel it.
Have you been through blenderized seasons before? For a few months things felt pretty still. We still had the whirlwind of ministry, Dutch’s birthday, and holidays, but my walk with the Lord felt pretty stable.
Then, as I’ve mentioned before, we began this study Discerning the Voice of God. Perhaps all His messages had been built up over the past few months of not listening carefully because they all seemed to come tumbling down at once. I shared with you already about Him saying to finish the book. Even though I reminded Him that there is no publisher yet. He keeps reminding me, I don’t need to know the end, just obey Him along the way.
Then this 4am thing. Really, Lord? Really. Ok. We keep getting up, day after day, week after week. It’s been 3 weeks now. The first few days were awesome, a sort of high. Then on day 3 I get up, do the study, and would you believe what He says?
Don’t drink coffee.
What?! What on earth? Where did that come from? I feel like it’s God (that thought would certainly not come from me!), write it down, but I put a question mark after. I want some straight-up confirmation before I swallow this word. The next day it’s the same thing, then again, then again. Our study that week?
How God repeats Himself in our lives until we’ll listen.
Ok, fine! I put the coffee pot in the back of the pantry, hide the coffee behind a can of beans, and brace myself for the 4am alarm.
Then the kids get sick. SO sick. Almost two full weeks they are sick and not sleeping at night so we’re not sleeping and I keep asking if I can quit this writing/early morning/no coffee gig and God keeps saying No. Gently, lovingly He says No.
Keep going.
Really, God? I feel like a child. Asking just one more time if I can have something. I find myself taken aback at His firmness. Really? I’m reminded of my children when they’re trying to process a firm No. Really, Mommy? Really we can’t get out of bed a single time? Really you mean I have to finish every single bite of peas if I want a treat?
Something else comes up. Something I don’t want to do. Something I have the perfect excuse for not doing. In fact, outwardly it makes sense for me not to do it. But you know what? He visits me in prayer — tells me to do it. Tells me He knows my heart and even though I have the perfect excuse He knows my heart. I can’t use an outward excuse to cover what’s really in my heart.
Ouch. Can You turn off the blender please?
No answer.
But then the week goes by and I go for my weekend run. I don’t want to. So tired. Not enough sleep. I go, and somehow feeling weakest I run the farthest. Could when I am weak then I am strong be more of a reality than I think?
And it’s on the hill when He says it. Or when I feel it:
That most of the time we don’t know what we’re training for.
God has the perfect preparation–training plan–for whatever it is that He’s called you to. Only He knows. Your training plan is probably not 4am and no coffee. Yours might be an ongoing commitment to a relationship you’d rather avoid. It might be living with your parents and living on pennies while you put your husband through school. It might be staying at a job you hate and working with a person you struggle to love (and struggle to not strangle). It might be a sick child or parent you’re called to care for despite the emotional and physical exhaustion.
You’re training for something. And it’s as if He’s placed dumbells by our bed. And each morning we’re supposed to pick them up, lift, do reps, train and strengthen ourselves. For what?
Only He knows.
But He does know. Nothing’s wasted. The struggle is making you stronger and there will be a day–like my 5+ mile run today–when you’re surprised by how strong you have become.
Because He’s been training you … in the blender.
{Are there ways your life feels like a blender today? Are you unsure of what He’s training you for? I pray for the grace to trust Him along the way. He’s so good, amen? We can trust Him. Thanks for reading.}
That which God chooses …
There was an old man who lived in a tiny village. Although poor, he was envied by all for the beautiful white horse he owned. Even the king coveted his treasure. People offered fabulous prices for the steed, but the old man always refused. “This horse is not a horse to me,” he would tell them. “It is a person. HOw could you sell a person? He is a friend, not a possession. How could you sell a friend?” The man was poor and the temptation was great, but he never sold the horse.
One morning the horse was missing from the stable. All the village came to see the old man. “You old fool,” the scoffed. “We told you that someone would steal your horse. You are so poor, how could you ever hope to porotect such a valuable animal? It would have been better to have sold him. You could havew gotten watever price you wanted. Now the horse is gone, and you’ve been cursed with misfortune.”
The old man responded, “Don’t speak too quickly. Say only that the horse is not in the stable. That is all we know, the rest is judgment. How can you know if I’ve been cursed or not? How can you judge?”
The people contested, “Don’t make us out to be fools! We may not be philosophers, but great philosophy is not needed to know what’s happened here. The fact that your horse is gone is a curse.”
The old man spoke again, “All I know is that the stable is empty and the horse is gone. The rest I don’t know. Whether it be a curse or a blessing, I can’t say. All we can see is a fragment. Who can say what will come next?”
The people of the village laughed. They had always thought the man to be a fool; if he wasn’t, he would have sold the horse and lived off the money. Instead, he was a poor woodcutter, living hand to mouth in the misery of poverty. Now he had proven that he was, indeed, a fool.
After fifteen days, the horse returned. He hadn’t been stolen, he had run away into the forest. Not only had he returned, He had brought a dozen wild hroses with him. Once again the village people gathered around the woodcutter and spoke, “old man, you were right and we were wrong. What we thought was a curse was a blessing. Please forgive us.”
The man responded, “Again, you go too far. Say only that the horse is back. State only that a dozen horses returned with him, but don’t judge. How do you know if this is a blessing or not? You see only a fragment. Unless you know the whole story, how can you judge? If you read only one page, how can you judge the whole book? All you have is a fragment! No one knows. I am content with what I know. I am not perturbed by what I don’t know.”
“Maybe the old man is right,” they said. But down deep they believed he was wrong. They knew it was a blessing. Twelve wild horses returned with one horse. With a little bit of work, the animals could be broken and trained and sold for much money.
The old man had a son, an only son. The young man began to break the wild horses. After a few days, he fell from one of the horses and broke both legs. ONlce again the villagers gathered around the old man and cast their judgments.
“You were right,” they said. “The dozen horses were not a blessing. They were a curse. Your only son has broken his legs, and now in your old age you have no one to help you. Now you are poorer than ever.”
The old man spoke again, “Don’t go so far in your judgements. Say only that my son broke his legs. Who knows if it is a blessing or a curse? No one knows. We only have a fragment of the whole.”
A few weeks later the country engaged in war against a neighboring country. All the young ment of the village were required to join the army. Only the son of the old man was excluded because he was injured. The enemy was strong and the people feared they would never see their sons again. Once again, they gathered around the old man, crying and screaming because their sons had been taken. “You were right, old man,” they wept. “God knows you were right. This proves it. Your son’s accident was a blessing. His legs may be broken, but at least he is with you. Our sons are gone forever.”
The old man spoke again, “why do you always draw conclusions? No one knows. Say only this: You sons went to war, and mine did not. No one is wise enought to know if it is a blessing or a curse. Only God knows.”
The old woodcutter was content with what he knew and not disturbed by what he couldn’t understand. Epictetus said, “I am always content with that which happens, for I think that which God chooses is better than what I choose.”
Linda Dillow, Calm My Anxious Heart 163-164
{Praying Epictetus’ heart for us today … thanks for reading.}
When we slip from describing to prescribing …
Imagine you went to a marriage conference. The conference speaker stood and up and said, “Here’s how to have a successful date-night experience with your spouse:
“You need to go out every Friday night at 7:15pm. You should wear black slacks and a tie, and your wife needs to wear a purple dress (preferably sleeveless). Make sure she has on earrings and you wear cologne. Drive about 20 minutes, and go to Stanfords. Be sure to have waitress Ann. Sit in the corner booth at the Northwest corner of the restaurant. Hold hands across the table and then order the buffalo wings and have your wife order a Caesar salad. Tell the waitress a joke about the crab that walked into a bar, and then wink at your wife and squeeze her hand. Finish the night by at home with a glass of wine, then …”
You can see where this is headed. It’s ridiculous. Obviously that man had had a fabulous experience taking his wife to Stanfords some Friday night and thought her purple dress was smokin’ hot. But that’s for them. Your successful date night might look just like or it might look completely different. There are surely some components that will successfully transfer (men, smelling good is always a good idea), but the speaker has taken something that should be descriptive and he’s made it prescriptive.
We sometimes slip into this, don’t we? (raising my hand)
I wholeheartedly believe that sharing our stories is one of the most powerful ways that God communicates His work, truth, love, power, with the world around us. We were meant to share our stories. God has often spoken to me through the stories of others. But sometimes we can slip from simply describing an encounter with God and begin prescribing an encounter with God. (Or prescribing any number of things!)
One option — that many take — is just to not share personal stories at all. I know our college pastor never felt comfortable sharing personal stories because he didn’t want college students to feel like that had to be their story. A good caution, to be sure. But perhaps he erred too far in the other direction? I for one wanted to hear his stories. I love hearing others’ stories. In fact, I often think of some friends of ours who don’t have children, and wish they had kids just so I could hear the hilarious and insightful stories they would undoubtedly have.
So how do we share our stories without doing what the speaker did above? We do just that, right? We share them. We describe a story, we don’t prescribe a regimen. Do lessons usually surface? Yes! I believe the story from yesterday that I described does have a lesson — listen to God! 🙂 But the lesson is NOT that you need to get up at 4am, run a 10k, or write a book.
Isn’t it freeing to describe instead of prescribe?
(BTW, I know that I am the one most guilty of this. And I can’t promise I’ll never slip into it or do it again. Grace, ok? I’m learning, along with you …)
{Thanks for letting me learn, grow, and continue to share my stories … and thanks for so patiently and faithfully reading them.}
Just another crazy God-story…
There is a buzz among the beloved Women’s Bible Study ladies right now … God Speaks! We’re journeying through Priscilla Shirer’s Discerning the Voice of God Study and it is phenomenal. It was so fun, this past week,, to hear from women — many! — with stories of how God truly is leading them, speaking to them, drawing them into new depths in their times with Him more than ever before. You can’t help but me moved by this work God is obviously doing — thank you, Lord!
And can I just share another crazy God-story? So, recently I have been praying and feeling burdened about finishing the book (I’m writing Sacred Mundane the book). People kept asking me how it was going and my answer was, “It’s not going. I have no time to write a book!” It was true. With Bible study, speaking, ministry, family, two kids, blah blah blah… when on earth was I supposed to carve out time to write? Even my Friday “writing-days” have been full with other things for almost four months. Not a single word more had been written (besides the first few chapters already completed).
So during the first week of this study this seemed to be the topic of conversation between me and God. He kept bringing it up, through prayer and through the innocent inquiries of other people. I kept saying I didn’t know what to do. So He started hinting.
First, a conversation with a godly woman I know. I’ve often wondered, “How do you do it all?” She finally shared that she goes to bed early each night then rises between 3:30-5am to begin the day.
Excuse me? You rise before 5am? I had been battling just being up by 6am! (And losing that battle, I might add.) Surely, she was just plain crazy. But it lingered with me …
Then, as I prepared to write a week’s 52 Bites post, another one stood out to me. Get Up Earlier was the title. I didn’t even read the rest of the entry … I could guess what it said! Then, finally, yesterday I went to my weekly 6am prayer meeting. A group of sweet women have been meeting for two years and every week God faithfully shows up. This particular morning there were fewer women than normal so apparently I was going to be getting some questions about my life:
They asked pointedly about the book. I explained: No time, blah blah blah.
My lame answer didn’t satisfy them one bit. They prayed like nobody’s business. They called out to God and asked Him to miraculous open up time, lead me, show me where to say no, to make me more efficient. They offered to watch my kids (!), these women are amazing. Then just as we left one of the older gals mentioned that God had led her recently to get up at 4am each morning, to do some of her own writing work. And she’s near 70! Perhaps … I went home walking on clouds — God was clearly leading.
Talk about a quick answer. That day was divine. Our chores and homeschooling were done earlier than normal. The week’s laundry got done. The ironing got done. The kids were happy. I even had a friend over and got a haircut! I wrote a half a chapter during Heid’s nap! The kicker: Because my mom’s foot has healed so well my parents offered to come in on Mondays and hang with the kids so I can write.
AMAZING. All in one day. The only tricky thing that remained was this running schedule. I had felt led by God to do this half-marathon to support my friend Shawna. No way I was backing out of that. But half-marathon training is time consuming! Even just 4-5 hours a week is time when a lot of words could be written … but God could sort through that too.
So last night, I told Jeff my plan, expecting me to say I was crazy. He didn’t. In fact, he said he’d get up too. (My sweet man!) So at 4am that morning my alarm chimed and, by His miraculous power, I got up!
After a sweet hour of real quiet time, talking back and forth with the Lord (which was amazing in and of itself) I opened my computer to write. As my email popped up I noticed a message concerning Shawna’s half-marathon. This, the very first morning of getting up early by faith to write, I began to read … smiled … shook my head.
Her half-marathon run was switched to a 10k.
What? Half the distance? Instead of more than 13 miles I’d now be running 6.2??
Crazy.
Really, God? You are amazing. A 10k will still let me be in great shape and keep me regularly exercising, without the tremendous time-commitment of training for a half-marathon. There will be time to write Sacred Mundane.
Sometimes you just have to stop and worship.
I just had to share this. Our God is so personal! For the last few months, I’ll confess, I felt like something was missing. This is it. Communing with God and LISTENING to Him. Not going through the motions. Not striving, stressing, worrying. Listening.
He is up to something great in your life. Perhaps, today, stop for a moment and ask Him what it is…
{THANK YOU for reading, and I welcome your continued prayers throughout this adventure.}