Hide and Seek

You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all of your heart.  Jeremiah 29:13

My summer project, the advent calendar, is finally live, and it has been fun going through it with the kids.  At this point, it has been so long since I wrote the entries that I feel like I’m discovering them for the first time.  Writing is funny like that; often I look back at the words I typed months or years before and think, “I wrote that?  I have absolutely no memory of writing those words.”  It kind of takes away the idea that I’m in control of what I write; it really is a gift.

So tonight’s advent entry talked about the wise men and how they sought after Jesus relentlessly until the found him.  The activity was to play a game of hide and seek.  Can I tell you how awful my boys are at hide and seek?  When Caleb was looking for Eli, Eli hollered, “I’m in the closet, Caleb!”  Then they both screamed with delight because they found each other.  Really.  It isn’t particularly hard to hide from them either.  I curled up on the floor next to Caleb’s bed, and both boys came into the room, looked around, and totally missed me.  My feet were hanging out beyond the bed, for heaven’s sake, and Caleb walked right behind me, looked the other direction, and walked back out.  “She’s not in here,” he informed his brother. I guess that's proof that you don't have to be good at something to love it...because these kids would have played hide and seek all night.  

And then I had the ah-ha moment.  We were supposed to be thinking about what it means to look for God…and to find him.  I wonder how many times God is right in front of my face, and I’m too distracted by the world to notice?  Hide and seek requires focus; it demands that we keep our eyes peeled for what matters.  What if I maintained that kind of laser-like focus in my quest for my Father?  What if I wouldn't quit until I found Him?  Would I see more of what He does?  Would my perspective change?  I don’t know, but I feel like it’s worth adjusting the glasses, right?  I’d hate to miss the really good stuff because I’m not really looking.

God, please show me how to seek You with all my heart, even when the world is pressing in on every side.  

God's Got This

Slowly I am learning to nag God instead of my husband.  Because nagging my husband gains absolutely nothing.

Every year we participate in the Angel Tree program at church; this year the boys are old enough to understand what we are doing, so I’ve been talking to them about raiding their piggy banks to pay for the gift.  The trees went up Sunday, and on the way to church I reminded them once again that we would be choosing a child to bless.  Yes, I know we are not exactly in a position of wealth…because we aren’t.  Yes, I know we can’t afford my own heart’s desire; to stay home with our kids.  But I want my children to learn to give of themselves, to give sacrificially. 

My husband exploded.  “Give, give give.  I’m tired of giving.  Let someone else give.”  The tirade continued into church.  “We have tons of bills.  We are one disaster away from poverty ourselves, but OK, give the rest of our money away.”  It was the old James, back with a vengeance.  The accusations about my spending, the complaints about how hard he works, the fury at the idea of giving something away.  I ignored him, because what else could I do?

Arguing with him in that condition does nothing but create a larger disaster, so I breathed a prayer and didn’t say another word.  “God, if we are supposed to take part in this, You will have to change his heart.”

We left church on Sunday without choosing an ornament, and in the midst of a tirade about Violet’s sleepy cries from the backseat, he turned the radio on and turned it up. 

And lo and behold, the radio show was sharing the testimony of a young woman whose entire life was changed by the mentor who sponsored her family through Angel Tree.  It was the first time she experienced love in her young life…the first time she experienced trust.  As an adult, she still breaks down in tears when she talks about what that gift meant to her.

She hadn’t yet finished her story when James muttered, “OK fine.  We’ll buy a damn gift.”

Which I think is code for “God’s got this.”  

Ten Percent

A little over three years ago, I visited with an older couple at church who prayed over some major issues I’d been struggling with.  They were encouraging and kind, but I didn’t see any immediate impact from their prayers.  In fact, I didn’t see an impact at all.  One of the things they prayed was that God would provide other believers – men of God with a passion for their families – to mentor and encourage my husband at work.  I’ve echoed that prayer for years now, and…nothing. 

Another battle that has marked our entire marriage is our feeling about tithing.  Call it guilt or good training, but I’ve almost always tried to hold to the ten percent tithe.  Last winter, facing some extended time of work, I made the executive decision to bump up our monthly giving to almost the full ten percent.   Well, we didn’t exactly get a windfall, and when James found out in May how much we were giving, he was furious.  I was so distraught, I couldn’t remember how to log in to modify the gift, but in that moment, when I typed in the new numbers, God gave me peace.  He told me to honor my husband…that I didn’t have to give ten percent to be right with Him.  So I followed my husband’s directive and also prayed that God would change his heart about giving if we were supposed to give more.

Last night, we attended a leadership night at church, and we were given the chance to commit money to advance the ministry.  James had told me for weeks in advance that he had a number rolling around in his head; last night, he told me he was consistently woken up out of a dead sleep to that number.  I could tell he was wrestling with it; he wanted to include our current monthly giving in that number to make it less daunting.  So for once, I stepped back.  I handed the card to him to fill out, and did not look at it again.  At some point, he decided that God gave him that number and he needed to honor it.  He put the whole thing on the card. 

I can’t begin to tell you how big this is.  James doesn’t like to spend money on anything, and for a decade now I’ve listened to his tirades about churches asking for money.  And yet, the ministry of our church has touched him, and he wants to advance it.  My feelings are bittersweet.  We can afford to give this much, but after a year of struggling financially, I was looking forward to paying off some debt and loosening up.  And my salary is pretty crucial to our ability to afford what we committed, which pretty much means I won’t be staying home with the kids for three years.  If ever.  I can’t even think about that.  But last night while I was not sleeping, God showed me the change in James’ heart and reminded me of my prayer.  He answered it…in his time.  And not only that, He reminded me of those prayers for James to be surrounded by believers at work.  He has a Crossroads guy on his team now, and another working on the same floor.  One of them went to Man Camp with him.  As much as I want him to get the promotion he so deserves – sooner rather than later – he is suddenly surrounded by just the people he needs.  And so, God answered another prayer…in His time. 

Every day, a notification on my phone reminds me to look for God’s greatness and love.  I can’t help but think that I got to see just a glimmer of it today: a flash, a glance of His glory and His provision when I had long ago given up.  I feel surprising lightness...surprising for a person who has just made a major financial commitment in the face of great uncertainty.  I have to believe that comes from God.

Caleb is Four: On Giving Good Gifts

I am quite sure there is no joy quite like what you feel when you fulfill the desires of your child’s heart.  For the past month, I got the same response every time I asked Caleb what he wanted for his birthday.  “I want Rocky from Paw Patrol, with a truck that has lights and noises.”  Now we haven’t watched Paw Patrol in probably nine months, so I was pretty confused by his request.  I kept asking, thinking that it was a fluke thing.  His answer never varied.  Think Ralphie in A Christmas Story, only Caleb never copped to the football.  Finally I decided that since it was HIS birthday gift, the right thing to do was to honor his request.  I guess I should be grateful that he wasn’t asking for a Red Ryder BB gun with a compass in the stock, and this thing that tells time, because the answer would have been markedly different.  Fortunately, Rocky is cheap and well within our budget from Amazon, so I ordered it. 

                Fast-forward to this morning, Caleb’s first morning as a four-year-old.  I cannot tell you how excited he was.  He literally hovered over the floor, vibrating with excitement.  “Mommy, am I four now?  Am I really four?”  I am quite convinced that no child ever has been so excited about a birthday.  His dad pointed out the presents stacked up on the buffet.  I had planned to let him open the book this morning, but his dad let him open the present of his choice.  He grabbed the biggest package (because, of course) and tore into it.  “Mommy, it’s ROCKY!!!!” he squealed.  I couldn’t get that toy out of the package quickly enough.  He opened the back hatch, lifted the front, drove it up and down the hall and through the kitchen, watching the headlights illuminate the wall.  He begged to show it to Miss Sue at school, so I let him bring it under the condition that it could not stay.  I listened to garbage truck sounds all the way to school, and watched the headlights light up his face in the rear-view mirror.  As if anything could compare to the glow he already had.  Miss Sue obligingly asking appropriate questions and admired his treasure, oohing and ahhhing over the place where the garbage goes and the lifelike sounds.  Eventually, Caleb agreed that Rocky could leave with me, but only if I took him to school and kept an eye on him.  So here I am, at a high school, with a Paw Patrol toy on my desk.  My students find it hilarious, but that little toy makes me happy every time I look at it.  Why?  Because I was able to give my little guy the desire of his heart, and my heart soars every time I think of his unfiltered joy. 

                It is moments like this where I feel God nudge my heart.  For years (like, all my life) I have struggled to “feel” God’s love the way other people describe.  I want to feel it, to be impacted and wrecked and brought to my knees.  But I am so jaded, so hardened, that I simply can’t imagine God wanting to fulfill my desires.  Desires are bad, right?  They are meant to be denied, thwarted, concealed.  Acknowledging that I have a desire is like asking for rejection; I keep my heart hidden so it can’t be hurt.  Admitting that God has possibly given me those desires is even harder.  But God has set himself up as this amazing father, and good fathers delight in their children.  The only – truly the only time – my heart begins to grasp my Father’s love is when it bubbles over with love for my children.  Is it possible that God delights in my joy the way I delight in Caleb’s birthday morning surprise?  Is it possible that God has given me these children to teach my heart to feel His love? 

                If Caleb is a picture of the love my Father has for me, I am far too hardened in my faith, far too hardened by throwing my hands up to protect from blows that never come…that were never even threatened, far too hardened to anticipate anything but pain.  My father promises to give good gifts, and I expect curses.  What tiny faith I have.  “You fathers, if your children ask for a fish, do you give them a snake instead?  Or if they ask for an egg, do you give them a scorpion?  Of course not!  So if you sinful parents know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him.” 

                I pray that I can become as childlike as my little boy, asking my Father in hope, waiting in expectation, and delighting when God provides.  Only He can soften my heart, so that I can offer my delight – my joy – as a sacrifice of praise.  

Just Be Near

For the past two weeks, our household has been terrorized by a four-day fever bug characterized by sleepless nights, lots of whining, and general misery.  Of course, the kids couldn’t all get it at once because that would be too helpful to a mama with no sick days, so instead Caleb burned up for four days, recovered for one, then Violet went down, and two days later, Eli joined her.  It. Was. So. Much. Fun. 

                The thing about this particular virus is that it didn’t bring any scary symptoms (thank goodness).  No one had trouble breathing or barked like a seal.  No one developed pink eye.  No one broke out in a rash.  They just alternated between sweating and shivering while complaining of sore backs, heads, and knees.  And you know what they asked me for over and over again?  Even more than they asked for a drink?  “Just stay with me, Mommy.”  “I want you to sleep with me, Mommy.”  “No, Mommy, please don’t leave.  Just stay here.  Sit on my bed.  Lie down beside me.  Be here.”  I’d like to say that I did better with these requests than I did.  While it is darn near impossible to say no to a child with such a loving request, I confess that I found myself lying there thinking about all the things I should be doing.  I worried about the germs I was catching when Caleb fell asleep with his head on my shoulder for the third time.  I worried that I was actually keeping him awake when we all needed sleep.  I worried about unpaid time off work.  I worried…I let me mind wander elsewhere, when in reality, there is no greater gift than I child who craves my presence in his hour of need.  No one asked me to make them better, although there were plenty of requests for Motrin (granted).  They. Wanted. Me.  What a gift to be a mom.

                My heart is so soft toward my children when I think back on those weeks.  They’ve shown me what God asks of me.  “Draw near to God and He will draw near to you.”  “Seek the Lord and He will be found.”  For the last few days, the cry of my heart has begged God to be near to me.  I had a vivid dream of being cuddled up next to someone (nameless?) who wrapped his arm around me and made me feel safe.  I can’t tell you how much I crave that safety.  That tenderness.  That love that desires to protect.  

               Life is hard and I’m just so tired and I feel so alone…please just sit with me.  Let me feel better because You are here, Father.  Please let me feel Your presence…Your comfort.  Please let that be enough.

Not Yet

***Rant Alert***

Not yet.

I seem to be hearing a lot of that lately, and it SHOULD be encouraging.  After all, “not yet” doesn’t mean “not at all.”  It leaves the door open for hope….for a lot of hope, really.  It means God is still working on something His word promises is good.  But when you desperately want to be at home with your babies while they are babies, when you know that the days of chubby feet, smooth skin, and first steps are racing by in an impossible rush to adulthood, when you know (because every single person over the age of sixty constantly reminds you) that you can’t get these days back, and you are spending them in a haze of exhaustion while those babies sit in daycare…”net yet” sure does suck.  When am I going to get the chance to devote my best self to my kids?  When they’re in college and never want to call because after all, I did regularly dose them up with Motrin and take them to daycare because I didn’t have any sick days?  When the class party stage is over and mom is the contemporary equivalent of a person with leprosy?  When they are in school all day anyway?  I mean, yes Anna got to see Jesus…right before she died of old age.  My hope kind of has an expiration date, so if I’m waiting that long, why bother hoping?  For me right now, “not yet” feels just like “never”. 

I am trying hard to be grateful.  To be faithful.  To remember that I don’t have God’s perspective, just like my children don’t have mine.  To lean into his promises, even though I can’t see even a tiny glimmer that they are true. 

It still sucks.

Cleaning the Windshield

On the way home from Summit Park on Saturday, we stopped to get gas and James washed the front windshield. I’d like to tell you I do this regularly, but Eli’s reaction should tell you all you need to know.

                “Mommy, what is he doing to our window?  I CAN’T SEE!!!!  How are we going to drive if we can’t see out the window?” 

                “Buddy, he’s going wipe off the soap and water when he’s finished, and then we’ll be able to see even better than before.”  Eli still looked doubtful, so I told him, “Watch.  Tell me when you can see.” 

                Sure enough, wipe by wipe, the house adjacent to the gas station began to materialize in front of us, clear and bright through the transformed glass.

                Cleaning is messy stuff; sometimes things look a whole lot worse before they get better.  I feel like I’m buried under the mess right now.  The future is obscured by a thick layer of suds and grime, and I can’t make out even glimmers of a future I can hope for.  Life lately has been messy (literally and figuratively…because when am I supposed to clean this house?), and I am exhausted and discouraged.  Caleb’s tantrums have returned with a vengeance, Eli is trying to make sense of these changes by asserting himself, Violet just needs me all the time, and I am exhausted and stretched too thin.  There’s nothing left to cut and no one to ask for help.   At any given moment, all I’m thinking about are all the things that have yet to be done.  The quiet time and space to reflect that marked my recent months is gone, and my spirit and soul are dry.  I hate the mother I have become, but I can’t find the strength to be any better.

                God, you promise to make all things beautiful in Your time.  I beg you to make our family  beautiful.  And please make me beautiful again, instead of this shell of hurt and pain that I’m living in.  I cannot do this on my own, but You are a God who specializes in healing the broken, in making the dirty clean again.  You can resurrect this life we’re living.  Please help me.  

Handing it Over

Just ramblings today.  I've been working on some projects, but mostly just working on life.  On surviving life.

Caleb doesn’t eat breakfast until he gets to daycare, but often he wakes up ravenously hungry.  I wouldn’t ask myself to wait an hour and a half to eat, and I won’t ask that of my kiddo either, so he usually gets a banana or a smoothie on the way out the door.  Often he receives his snack before we head out the door and finishes it in the car on the way to daycare because our mornings just…are.  That leads to a moment of stress when I am fastening him into the five-point harness and his arm simply won’t fit through with a whole banana firmly in his grip.  “Let me have the banana for a minute, honey.” 

                “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!  It is MY banana!  You. Can’t. Have. My. Banana!”  Caleb can scream like no other; I should send an apology note to the neighbors.  I would not want to wake up to that. 

                “Honey, I’m not taking your banana.  I’m holding it so that I can buckle you safely into your seat, so that you can relax and enjoy it while we drive to school.”  And literally, I pry it out of his grubby hands for thirty seconds, snap the straps into place, and hand it back to my fuming child.  Thirty seconds in exchange for a safe drive.  It is nothing, really.  Except to him, it was a whole lot.

                I’ve mentioned before how much I learn about my heavenly Father as I parent these children of mine.  This is no exception.  In his infinite wisdom, He can certainly ask me to hand something over, either for a minute or a lifetime, because it is good for me.  And when he does, my flesh will scream and holler because it, like Caleb’s tummy, is hungry, desperate.  Unless I cling to God’s promises that He is good, I will think that He isn’t.  And even though His reasons are good, that doesn’t eliminate the hunger.

                I feel myself in Caleb’s spot now: my heart hungers to be home with my kids.  My heart worries constantly about our finances.  My body and spirit are oh, so tired.  These are real things; God does not ask us to deny our truth, and that is mine.  I don’t know or understand what he’s doing…why He seems so slow.  I don’t understand why provision hasn’t come.  Why my tires should have been replaced three months ago and I still can’t afford it.  Why we just can’t get a break.  I don’t understand, but He is holding all of this in His hands and I have to trust that He’ll hand it back when He is ready.  When the time is right. 

                And so these are my prayers for today:  that God will teach my children to have a heart for others, that He will protect their innocence and protect their health, that He will show himself to me in ways that I cannot deny or write off to coincidence, that He will use me and give me the words He wants spoken.  I pray that He sees me as faithful, and that it delights Him.  

On Forgiveness

The ways of God are not the ways of man. 

Humans are not wired to forgive.  At least, no one in my household seems to be.  I need to buy myself an entire wardrobe of black and white referee shirts, because that’s what I do from the moment I pick up the kids until they finally drift off to sleep at night.  Sometimes the first fight happens before we even leave daycare.  I’ve been pushing the whole “be a gentleman and open doors” thing in a big way, and now Eli sprints down the steps to get to the door first.  He has a good two years of agility on Caleb, which means that every day I don’t intervene ends with Caleb sprawled on the filthy tile floor by the door because he “DIDN’T GET TO BE A GENTLEMAN!”  And if I do intervene and make Eli wait for Caleb to open the door, I get a five-year-old with his bottom lip popped out sullenly refusing to take another step toward the van.  Obviously I enjoy both scenarios immensely. 

I keep telling them, “This doesn’t matter.  SOMEONE held the door for Mommy and Violet and that’s all that matters.  Didn’t get a turn today?  Enjoy walking through that door.  Tomorrow will be your turn.  What matters most is that we are at peace.”  I guess I talk a few years above them because that lesson has yet to sink in.  They would rather have a knock-down, drag-out fight about a door than enjoy the rest of a lovely fall afternoon with their family.  In the immortal words of Elsa, “LET IT GO, KIDS!  LET IT GO!”

Which brings me to last Sunday’s service at church and some hard-hitting words on forgiveness.  Our pastor made the point that if we want to know the ways of God, we have to obey him.  And He commands us to forgive.  Over and over again.  No matter the offense.  This. Is. So. Hard.  To me, forgiveness feels like saying, “It’s OK.”  Yes, go ahead and disrespect me again.  By all means, keep taking advantage of me.  Yes, I enjoy being accused of things I didn’t do.  Let’s keep things the way they are because I just love being treated like crap.  But that isn’t forgiveness.  I don’t know where the line is drawn between defending yourself and letting it go, but I suspect that God is standing over me pointing to the beautiful day and asking, “Do you want to miss this because your heart is clinging to your rage?” 

I have so much I’ve been hanging on it, so much hurt that I am justified to carry.  But it is just weighing me down.  And I can feel it…just a little bit of peace…when I say, “God, take it.”  His ways don’t make sense to the world.  But forgiveness doesn’t make me a doormat.  It makes me free.  Free to enjoy the tiny people I get to raise.  Free to enjoy the blessings God has given.  Free to hope for the future. 

I want to know God’s ways, so I’m doing my best to step out on this one and release my anger to God.  I suspect this will be a daily, maybe even hourly battle, but it is one I know He'll help me with.

Because God’s ways are not like ours.  

I Forgot to Wave

I forgot to wave.

Every day, Caleb stands in just the right spot in his daycare classroom and watches the window to wave goodbye.  But that day, I had to stop in the office to pay for the week, and I was rushing to get to school because I had a student coming in for help.  About halfway through the day, it occurred to me that I had forgotten something, but I couldn’t remember if I’d promised to wave or not.  I kept wading through the fog in my brain until it was time to pick him up.  He had long ago recovered, but his teachers told me he stood and waited at the window and refused to move.  They tried to convince him that his mom had probably forgotten, but he still wouldn’t move.  He refused to budge until his teacher promised to write me a note, and then reminded him it was time for breakfast.  Breakfast broke his resolve, obviously.

To say this breaks my heart would be an understatement.  My sweet boy, the one I’m always afraid will get overlooked or left out, had so much faith in me that he would not be moved.  Even when it became apparent that I wasn’t going to come through.  He still believed.  I know that feeling.  I feel like I spent eight months doing the same thing, waiting for my God to show up.  Only God doesn’t forget…he’s not prone to the human failings of a mom trying to juggle a demanding job and the never-ending responsibilities of running a household.  He’s God.  His resources are endless.  So when he doesn’t show up, what am I to make of it?  Was I not steadfast in my hope?  Did I quit looking and head to breakfast?  Or did He show up and I missed it because I was looking for the wrong thing?

I feel like the last six weeks have sped by in a vacuum.  I’m getting things done, checking off lists, somehow making sure all the plates are spinning, but I can’t find God.  I do hear a relentless voice, one that points to other people who are writing, who are obviously far better at it than I.  It tells me how foolish I was to think I could make a living at this writing thing, to think I’d do anything other than preside over a classroom.  It tells me that teaching isn’t all that bad, that daycare is good enough, that I’m not cut out for anything else.  It is the only voice I hear.  Maybe it is God, and my heart was on the wrong page altogether.  Maybe I should just be grateful for the morning sunlight outside my classroom window, the first classroom window I’ve had in seven years.  Maybe I should just be grateful for a paycheck, for the chance to dig out of this financial hole.  I am.  I am.  Maybe this is all there is. 

I weaned the baby, and I’ve been crying for two weeks.  Crying because this is it.  There will be no more babies to nurse.  These days are flying by and I can never get back what I’m missing.  And I’m missing so much.  I hate that, and I don’t know what to do about it.  I’m waiting and the window, and…nothing.

No, God did not fail to show up because He forgot.  He has something else planned.  It is hard for me to trust that His plans for me are good, although He promises they are.  Faced with the decision to declare my faith in Him, I still feel there is no other choice.  Of course I have to have faith.  I just don’t understand.  And it hurts.

I do know that my heart softened toward my often tempermental sweetheart when his teachers told me how faithful he was.  I saw him anew, how he loves me, how he craves my attention.  I’m so glad he covets that wave and blown kiss.  I want to give him more…so much more than I do.  I hope God knows how much I crave His revelations of Himself.  How sorry I am that I don’t see more, understand more.  How I want Him, even though I don’t really know what I want.

Drop-Off Condemnation, For the Love

This post is part of Jen Hatmaker's "For the Love" Blog Tour, which I am delighted to be a part of along with so many other inspiring bloggers.  To learn more and join us, click here. You can find out more about the book by clicking here.

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I saw her in the drop-off line, right after I kissed my kindergartener goodbye at the door.  Skinny, clad in expensive work-out gear, Starbucks in hand as she kissed a little one goodbye and climbed back into her gleaming Lexus SUV.  One glance and I forgot how delighted I was to actually get to drop my kiddo off at school instead of sprinting off to work at the crack of dawn.  I forgot his sweet kiss, and his delight that he got to “teach” me the drop-off process.  I forgot about the sweet baby girl at home, celebrating her first birthday.  I forgot that I am a treasured daughter of God, a daughter who is loved in spite of what I can or can’t do.  Instead, a toxic mix of envy and condemnation gripped my soul.  She inadvertently hit all my trigger points: the baby weight I’m struggling to lose, my desire to be at home with my kids, and my inability to afford it no matter how much I cut from the budget.  The ugliest part of my soul began to speak.  She has the money to stay home with her kids, work out, buy overpriced coffee, and drive a nice car.  Her husband certainly appreciates what she does at home.  Maybe that’s because she’s still skinny and looks so put together.  God certainly loves her more than you.  Maybe if you worked harder, you’d look like that.  Maybe if you were a better parent, you would have been given that opportunity.  Why are you always such a mess?  Such an embarrassment?  What a foolish decision it was to take the day off work.  Since you have nothing worthwhile to contribute, you can at least go earn some money.  And with that, all the hopes, prayers, and dreams I have been clinging to these last few months evaporated from my heart.  I was back to not-good-enough.  The same not-good-enough I’ve been my whole life.  The same not-good-enough I will seemingly always be.  What a fool you've been to hope that God has something better for you.

I suspect my friends who struggle with infertility feel this way every time they see a blossoming belly, and my friends who desperately want to be married hear that same voice with every engagement announcement: it might be classified as envy, but it so much more.  It is the voice of condemnation that tells us we are foolish to hope…that we have earned our lot in life…that God has not heard our prayer because we haven’t earned His attention yet.  It is a voice designed to turn our gaze from our loving Father and center it on our pain.

I don’t know how to silence the envy and the condemnation, but God gives us clear words to speak back to them.  Romans 8:1 tells me “There is no condemnation for those who belong to Jesus Christ.”  None.  No condemnation for the laundry that has been sitting in the dryer since last week.  No condemnation for the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup I ate instead of carrots and hummus.  No condemnation for the time I forgot to wave to my three-year-old on my way out of daycare and he sulked until breakfast. I might feel terrible about my shortcomings, but they don’t change God’s divine purpose for my life.  They don’t cause Him to delight in me any less.  And they don’t cause Him to curse me to a life of never-good-enough…because it never was about how good I am to begin with. 

My sole purpose on earth is to glorify and obey my Father, not to keep up with my fellow moms.  “For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord.  “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.”  (Jeremiah 29:11)   I don’t understand what God is doing right now.  The only place I can see him moving is in my heart, and it is painful, exhausting, slow-going movement.  But God tells me that He is in these circumstances and His plan for me is good.  My goal isn’t to be good enough or better than…it is to be the woman He created me to be, and I can do that only by keeping my gaze fixed firmly on Him.  

God Will Know...

There were signs on the door of the Adoration building when I parked my van to pick the kids up.  My vision is not, ahem, what it used to be, so I walked up to the stoop to have a closer look.  An elderly couple was walking to the car, and they thought perhaps I didn’t know the code to get in. 

“Would you like us to open the door for you?”  I would guess both were in their upper eighties.  Just getting to the car was a laborious process, so turning around to let me in amounted to a generous offer.

I told them I was curious about the Catholic concept of adoration.  “What does it look like?  What do you do?”  I said I was exploring the idea from my own Protestant perspective.

“Well the Catholics invented adoration hundreds of years before the Protestants came up with it!”  His wife swatted his arm.  Feisty, this one.  I decided not to share that I knew quite a bit about church history…mine and his. 

The wife was soft-spoken and kind.  She murmured a few words about their experience.  He chimed in.  “It is so peaceful.  So moving.  Such precious moments with God.”  His animated face and eyes visibly softened when he spoke of it.  It was an experience that obviously impacted him on a physical level.  “You should go in sometime and try it.”

I was surprised he extended the offer to my Protestant self.  “Is it OK for me to do that?  Even though I’m not Catholic?”  I distinctly remembered the unfortunate experience when I attempted to take communion at that same church.  I say “attempted” because the priest chased me down and took it away. 

“Well God will know you’re not Catholic.”  His wife swatted him again.  I decided not to tell him that I didn’t think God would care.  His eyes twinkled a bit.  “But the code is 2205.”

So there you go.  Funny how God invites you to adore Him.

The Sleep Prayer

If I had to point to one thing that has consistently weakened my prayer life in the last five years, it would be the sleep prayer.  You moms of littles know what I’m talking about: Dear God, I haven’t slept more than an hour in four days, seven hours, and twenty-three minutes.  My husband sleeps peacefully through every single cry, and reminds me that I’m the one who wanted these kids anyway if I wake him up.  I have to work/take care of other littles/both in the morning, and I’m quite certain death is right around the corner if my head doesn’t find a pillow stat.  Please, please, please, give me some grace and let this kid sleep. 

How many times did I pray that in the months of colic when my dad had just died and the tidal wave of change that came with parenting had knocked me clean off my feet.  Or when I was pregnant with Caleb and couldn’t miss a day of work because I needed those days for maternity leave, but of course Eli had fevers/cut teeth/inexplicably wanted his mama.  Violet isn’t exactly a great sleeper either, and I’m wondering if perhaps the sleeping through the night thing is just a sham perpetuated by people who aren’t parents.  Anyway, in all the nights that I’ve prayed/begged/cried to God for help, I can’t remember a single time when God has actually given me sleep.  Not a single one.  Sure, it came eventually…nights down the road.  But eventually I just quit asking, because when I ask and don’t receive, I find myself questioning the God I claim to believe in.  It is just easier to believe and not ask.  As I rocked a feverish Violet last night, I found myself whispering, “I frankly don’t know why I’m asking you to heal her, because it seems like my prayers bounce right off the ceiling.  But you know, maybe if you’re in the mood you can knock this fever down because I need to be back at work on Wednesday.  And because I hate seeing her so miserable on her birthday.”  Inspiring stuff, that prayer.  I know.

This whole question of what to do when God doesn’t visibly show up looms large in my life right now.  Why do some people have these amazing stories of faith where they pray and (Boom!) God shows up?  And why do my own prayers have such a checkered history?  Certainly I can point to times in my life where God intervened and circumstances changed in ways I couldn’t imagine.  But I can also point to times when nothing happened for years…if ever.  Sometimes the reason for His silence becomes clear, but often it doesn’t.  So am I asking for things outside of God’s will?  How can I tell if I’m misinterpreting God’s leading?  And how can I step out in faith if there’s only a fifty/fifty chance of God coming through? 

I don’t know.

I am in my fourth week back to work.  I finally got my first paycheck and I can’t deny the relief of bringing in enough to live on.  But Violet has been sick for three weeks now, and currently she’s playing around with a fever of 103.  I already used the half a sick day I had left over from last year, and it is clear I can’t take her to daycare tomorrow.  If God wants me back at work, why didn’t he provide a care situation where my kids wouldn’t be sick 360 days a year?  I did ask for that.  If He doesn’t want me back at work, why didn’t He give my husband the promotion he earned months ago?  Or provide an opportunity for me to make a living from home?  Was that call, that pull towards the work of writing just my imagination?  Why couldn’t I find any open doors?  Why should I keep asking?  Knocking?  Seeking?  Hearing silence is demoralizing, and I can’t decide if I should blame myself or God.

But I’ve decided to keep asking: for financial provision so that I can focus more on raising this tiny tribe of children God has given me.  For a way to make a living from my words.  For a healing in my marriage that I’m fairly certain is impossible.  Why?  Because my Savior told me to keep asking.  Because He has given me promises and asked me to trust them.  Because my faith is more than seeking answers to prayer; it is obeying my Father who professes over and over again that He loves me.  Because mustering the courage to keep asking is the muscle behind my faith, and it needs a work out.  (So do my abs, but that's a different post.)

I have to tell my kids “no” sometimes all the freakin’ time.  It doesn’t mean that I don’t love them…it just means that I see a bigger picture and I want to give them the best gift I can give them.  I know that if they have a third cupcake, the wave of sugar in their systems will carry them straight to the type of behavior that puts little boys in time-outs for the next three days.  All they know is that there's still a purple cupcake left over from Violet's party.  I flat out beg them to trust me.  To believe that I am good.  They struggle...because they can see the cupcake and not the future.  Today, in these frustrating moments, God invites me to trust him.  To believe that He is good.  I need to respond by adoring Him: by affirming the truth of who He is…even though I can’t see it.  I suspect it is no accident that daycare is right smack next to the a building marked "adoration" and used by parish members for that very purpose.  It is my daily reminder to press into the goodness of God.

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.  Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will hear you.  You will seek me and find me, when you seek me with all your heart.”  Jeremiah 29:11-13

God, thank you for making plans – good plans – for me.  Thank you for being a God who cares about my future and who wants me to have hope.  Thank you for hearing me when I call.  Please help me to see you, because I am seeking you with my whole heart.

In His Time

The previous owner of our house made many questionable decisions, but he did have a stroke of genius when he planted a beautiful blue hydrangea bush right next to the front door.  When we bought the house in the dead of winter, we didn’t realize just what we had, but summer revealed it to be nearly four feet in diameter and covered in showy blooms.  Since I have the special talent of killing almost everything I plant, I was thrilled to have a mature hydrangea that provided me with cut flowers for most of the summer. 

Something happened, though, during the deep freeze of 2013-14, and that spring the bush struggled to put on blooms.  It still filled out, leafy and green, but I couldn’t cut enough flowers for a bouquet.  Adding insult to injury, the neighborhood deer aggressively mowed down the side of the bush near our front door, and James wondered aloud if it was a goner. 

I held my breath this spring.  Again, the leaves came in thick and full, and the side the deer left untouched began to produce blooms.  However, the branches that were decimated in the fall were slower to regrow, and I began to wonder if the bush would be lopsided forever and the blooms were few and far between.  It sounds silly to be so sad about a plant, but those showy blue blooms gave me so much joy every time I entered and left the house, and they brightened up even the messiest room.  To me, they represented how much God loves me: he not only gave us a home we could never afford, but He planted my favorite flowers right by the door.  Like a man pursuing the woman he loves, God had even considered my favorite color.  And then they were gone.  “He gives and takes away,” I reasoned as July rolled past and the plant remained mostly barren.  I cut a few blooms to dry indoors, and figured we were done. 

Right around the time I returned to work, my experiment in trust seemingly a failure, I noticed a tiny bud near the front door.  Just one, and I expected that would be it.  We rarely got showy blooms at the end of the summer in the past.  And yet, as I walked the garbage outside and checked the mail day after day, I noticed one new bloom after another.  Barring another deer attack, the showiest weeks of the summer are going to come when summer is almost gone. 

God likes to work that way, doesn’t he?  He waits until human achievement and reason and science can no longer take credit.  Then…pow.  Think of Hannah and Elizabeth, barren well into old age, when God enable them to conceive.  Only God.  Think of Lazarus.  John 11:14-15 tells us that Jesus was glad He didn’t get there before he died, for now you will really believe.  Our God loves us much that He aims to resurrect our hearts while He puts together the pieces of our lives.  The physical miracle is only a blurry picture of the spiritual one.  My hydrangea is blooming with promise that God is not done yet.  

Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time.  He has planted eternity in the human heart, but evens so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end.  Ecclesiastes 3:11.

Late for Pancakes

Maybe you think you’ve seen someone completely and totally devastated.  I’m here to tell you, you haven’t.  Unless of course, you were in my house on Saturday morning to see the kid who woke up considerably later than everyone else in the house, wandered into the kitchen to find no one but me, glanced at the dining room table to see empty plates, and immediately reached the conclusion that Saturday pancake breakfast had already happened…and there was nothing left for him. 

“BUT I WANTED PANCAKES!!!!! MOMMMY, I MISSED THE PANCAKES!  AND I’M SO, SO HUNGRY!  MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMY.”  There were even the beginnings of some tears. 

He failed to notice that the plates were still empty of syrup, that I was still measuring flour into the bowl, that the griddle wasn’t even plugged into the wall yet.   

“Eli, do you trust your mom?  Do you really think I would make pancakes and not save any for you?  Don’t you know that I make the pancakes especially for you and your siblings?  I enjoy seeing you enjoy them, and I wouldn’t miss out on that just because you slept in.”

He paused, and I asked him again.  “Do you trust your mom?”

He shook his head no.  Of course, I already knew that; his reaction told me everything I needed to know.

“Why don’t you trust me?  Have I ever not been good to you?”

Of course he thinks I have.  I’ve said no to ice cream on days when he had too many sweets.  I’ve taken toys away when they caused fights between him and his siblings.  In my love for him, I’ve had to make decisions that he didn’t like, and he can’t always see my heart, especially if he’s too busy throwing a tantrum instead of listening to my voice. 

I can’t think of anything that’s taught me as much about God’s heart (and mine) as my kids.  In many ways, I am in the same place with God as Eli is with me.  To my heart, He didn’t come through.  He didn’t provide financially so I could stay home.  He barely got us to my first paycheck.  (Actually we are not there yet and it is coming down to pennies.)  He didn’t change my husband’s heart towards me…at least not yet.  He didn’t provide an in-home caregiver so I could keep my kids out of daycare.  And this dream I have of weaving words into a career?  I feel like I woke up too late.  Everyone, and I mean everyone, has already been there, done that.  I waited too long, and He’s already handed out the best He has to offer. 

My heart does not yet trust God.  My heart does not yet believe.  My heart cannot comprehend that God loves me…just for me…with a ravishing love that is only faintly mirrored by my love for my own children.  I cannot fathom that God takes joy in my joy, that He delights in seeing me savor His gifts.  My heart believes God dishes out difficulty for sport…that any joy He provides is purely accidental.  My mind has made a choice to serve God, but only He can persuade my stubborn heart.  As I gaze into His word and the promises He’s made, I’m dependent on His healing…His transformation.  I think…some days…that it is already happening.  Even in the “not yet.”  Create in me a clean heart, oh God.  Renew a loyal spirit within me.  Psalm 51:10

Truth and Life

“I think you are in a position to speak truth and life into the kids you teach.”

I recoiled from my husband’s words, sent in a mid-morning text during the first week of school.

How nice of you to apply the Sunday sermon to me.  What about taking a glance inside yourself? 

So what you’re really saying is that you like my paycheck and want to make sure it keeps coming, regardless of the impact on me and the kids.

I am too overwhelmed and exhausted to learn all their names; how am I supposed to speak truth and life into them?

Who is speaking truth and life into our own kids?  Into your daughter whose screams follow me down the stairs and out the door when I drop her off at daycare each morning?  Into your son, who gets picked up by a daycare van instead of his mom when half-day kindergarten gets out?  And your other son, who doesn’t get to go to real preschool like his brother?

I didn’t respond at all, too stung by hurt and indignation.  To me, acknowledging that God has placed me in this position seems like accepting that it will always be this way.  That God wants my kids in daycare.  That He wants me exhausted and frustrated and heart sick.  That He somehow favors my husband’s quality of life over mine.  That isn’t true.  It can’t be true.  But it sure does feel like it.

But here’s the rub: I know that sometimes God lets us sit in situations that aren’t ideal.  He lets us wait longer than we want to.  He knows the future that we don’t, and His decisions don’t always make sense to us in the moment.  I find myself sitting in one of those places right now, and that doesn’t mean I’m off the hook for obeying Him.  My job as His child is to love, to speak truth and life into everyone I rub shoulders with, including my students.  Being the best teacher that I can be and loving on kids who might not get that love elsewhere does not mean that I am committing to stay in this life, this career, forever.  It does not mean that I love my own children any less.  Loving my students does not mean that I can’t move on when God opens another door.  It just means that, for whatever reason, I am still in room 123, and I still have a job to do here.  And God is still good.  Even if my heart doesn’t feel it.

I have to know that my children will obey me no matter the situation: no matter how frustrated, upset, or tempted they are.  It is a matter of safety and harmony in our household; when I speak, they do.  I am no different.  If I call God my father, I am compelled to obey in any circumstance.  His Word tells me He is good, He keeps his promises, He can do the impossible, He will protect me and provide for me, He loves me passionately, and I can trust him.  To disobey would mean that I don’t really believe those things about Him, and perhaps my hesitation reveals that my heart hasn’t quite caught up with my head.

But I want to believe, and maybe the beginning of believing means speaking truth and life to these teenagers if and until God sees fit to open a new door for me.  Even though I feel like I’m stuck sitting in a place I never wanted to be. 

Impossible

Last night was hard.  Today has been hard.  Circumstances are crappy: the kids are eating crap, they aren’t sleeping worth crap, they meltdown from the moment I pick them up until they (finally) fall asleep.  Sweet Violet was up screaming at 4 am.  All she wants is her mommy.  She doesn’t understand why mommy is suddenly not there.  Months of hard work to create routine, to help Caleb find control, to get Violet on a schedule: gone.  Just gone.  I am broken because all that work really was for nothing.  I am broken because my kids are broken and that is not ok.  (You can tell me it is.  I know it isn’t.)  The teaching part is not the problem; I can do it in my sleep.  The problem is what happens to my family when I teach.  And what happens to the bank account when I don’t.

And because I was tired and all introverted-out, and because Caleb was screaming and refusing to stay in bed and because Violet was screaming because she can’t get out of bed (for an hour and a half, folks), I lost my mind.  I was not glue that holds us together…I was even more anger and instability in our day.  Because my resources were completely tapped out.  When I dropped the kids off at daycare this morning, Violet was screaming and reaching for me and she would not stop.  Her screams followed me down the steps, until the door slammed behind me.  Please do not tell me this is good for kids.  Please do not tell me they benefit from a mom who works.  I know better.

Part of the reason I struggle to hold it together is because I believe putting on a smiling face is saying this is OK.  If I look on the bright side, it feels like saying “This is our forever.”  And I can’t bear that.  But we still have to get through this, with as little collateral damage to the children as possible.  It is my job to acknowledge that this is not what I hope for our family, but it is our right now, we have to get through it, and this is how.  I just need help.  I need that acknowledgement that this is temporary.  Someday our situation will improve.  But what if it doesn’t?

It is flat out impossible for us to find a way for me to be at home next month, or even next year.  I have been up since four AM; it is impossible for my tired heart to hold back the tears.  Everything good is impossible.  And so today, while I wonder what my babies are doing while I sit at my desk, these words are written on my wall:

Jesus looked at them intently and said, “Humanly speaking, it is impossible.  But with God all things are possible. (Matthew 19:26)

Jesus replied, “What is impossible with man is possible with God.” (Luke 18:27)

For nothing is impossible with God.  (Luke 1:37)

Today I am too hurting and broken and guilty to see you, God.  And I certainly can’t see how you look at me.  In spite of my circumstances, please show my heart that you are a God who can and does defeat “impossible.”

Mean Mommy

Last night, Caleb dragged his Razor scooter up to the main floor so that he and Eli could practice their skills in the air conditioning.  They had a nice course set up: down the hallway, turn around in Violet’s room, turn right into the kitchen, circle through the dining room, then down the hallway again.  They were taking turns nicely, and Eli even changed into his Batman costume so his cape could blow in the wind as he blew by.  All was going well until Violet finished eating and I put her down on the floor.  A month ago, when I could put her down and she STAYED there, this would not have been a problem.  But now she takes off as soon as she hits the ground.

“You may not use the scooter in the same room as your sister.”

Caleb ignored me, flying down the hallway where Violet was eagerly heading to meet him.  He grazed her toe, causing an explosion of tears, no actual injury, and motivating a certain mean mommy to confiscate the scooter until baby girl’s bedtime.  That caused another explosion of tears (from a kid whose name begins with “C”) and declarations that mommy is so, so mean.

Am I mean?  No.  My first job is to keep all my kiddos safe, even little ones who crawl places they shouldn’t.  My second job is to teach them to look out for others.  Caleb needed some teaching, so I put the scooter in the garage so he wouldn’t be tempted to go for another ride.  I fully intended to get it out again once Violet went to bed because playing on the scooter is good, healthy play, and they were by and large doing it in an appropriate way.  However, Caleb’s perspective is limited by his age, understanding, and experience.  And his immediate experience told him that Mommy took away his super fun toy.  Therefore, Mommy must be mean.

I am quite certain many of my misconceptions of God come from that same place.  My immediate experience tells me something about God that is totally contradictory to His word, and I believe my experience.  My current reality tells me that God does not answer prayer, He does not give good gifts, He does not keep his promises.  I’m back at work.  The kids are at daycare.  Every day finds my patience spent by the time I get the kids home, my body is exhausted, and the only time I get with my babies is colored by my frustration and hurry.  It is NOT good.  But Hebrews 10:23 tells me that He who promised is faithful.  Matthew 7:11 tells me that God gives good gifts.  1 John 5:14-15 tells me that He will give me whatever I ask.  If I believe God is calling me to be a writer, I have to lean into his promise and keep asking.  If I believe that God wants me to be at home raising my kids, I need to keep praying.  I lack the perspective to know why He hasn’t answered my prayers yet, so I have to continue believing what His word tells me about His character. 

Today I am meditating on these three verses and praying for God to show my heart who He truly is.  And the scooter will probably stay on punishment in the garage.

Adoration

Sometimes I go through my day and just assume that the boys don’t listen to a thing I say, because let’s face it: they certainly don’t hear any of my instructions.  Nevertheless, we’ve started doing “High/Low” at dinner, and the other night while I was trying to think of a low, Eli chimed you.  “Your low was that you have to go to work and you can’t stay with us.”  I guess I’ve been saying that a little too much, huh?  Eli is a noticer; he has been studying me.

Something happens in my heart when my kids notice these little details -  when Eli decides that Cast Your Cares needs to be Mommy’s new song, when Caleb tells me that the waffles I made were the BEST part of his day, when they just want to touch me, even if that means holding onto my ankle and dragging behind me while I try to make dinner.  They soften my heart.  Suddenly it isn’t just about what they want from me.  I’m not just their servant.  They love me.  They want me.  They have watched me and they know me, and usually that’s the key to the pantry or whatever it is they are hoping to get.  Their adoration moves mountains in my own heart.

I’ve been struggling with this concept of adoration, and how to really do it.  Thanks to years in AWANA, I have a fairly good command of what scripture says.  I know God on an intellectual level, but I’ve never focused on moving that knowledge to my heart.  For example, I know that God promises to answer our prayer, but my heart doesn’t really believe that.  It expects that I will be the exception…that what I ask will simply not be part of God’s plan.  And so I read “Ask, and it will be given to you”, and my heart whispers, well, maybe not you.  You still have these problem areas in your life.  And you probably don’t want the same things God does, so it will probably not be given to you.  And then when I ask and nothing happens, my image of God takes that circumstance and turns it into my new reality.  My new version of God.

In the last few days, as my heart breaks and I search for peace, I’ve been turning back to the book I read while I was nursing Violet in those early days: Every Bitter Thing Is Sweet by Sara Hagerty. This is her description of adoration: “Adoration makes walking with God more than just reacting to a series of externals.  Adoration calls the circumstances, no matter how high or low, into proper submission in our hearts.  Adoration roots us in a reality that no amount of pain and no amount of blessing can shake.” (97)

This summer I wrote twenty-five Advent Calendar entries for my church, and as I reflect on the verses and stories God led me to use, I realize He was giving me a road map for adoration.  He was directly addressing the areas in which my own faith struggles.  And so, I have spent some to unearthing my hurts and looking for the hidden beliefs they reveal.  For example, I really do not expect God to do the impossible.  Its, well, impossible.  And yet, I found at least three Bible verse that tell me nothing is impossible with God.  So when my heart screams at the impossibility of our situation, I lean into those verses instead.  My sincere prayer is that God will begin to transform my view of him.

One of my great hurts right now is the fear that God will not give me good gifts; that he’ll only give me more pain.  And yet, there’s Luke 11:9-13.  Keep on asking.  He who asks will receive.  Your father knows how to give you good gifts.  I have the verse copied on a notecard, hanging next to my desk.  When my grieving heart moves to pray because I don’t know what else to do, I speak that verse to the voice that says, “why bother?”  I adore God for answering my prayers and giving me good gifts, and I pray that He will move both my heart and his.  

What I'm Not Selling...And Why

For the last few months, more than a few friends have approached me with a solution to my work situation, and it always involves selling something.  Usually something they already sell.  I’ve dodged a lot of these emails because I can't figure out how to be tactful, and I feel like I need to put my thoughts out into the universe…in case anyone wants to know.  This is why I have chosen not to go the network marketing route.

First, I don’t think God is calling me in this direction.  It certainly appears that many of my friends have found a great solution in network marketing, but I also believe that God gives us peace when we are pursuing his leading.  Every time I think about taking the plunge with a particular product, I am decidedly uneasy.  Also, I have limited time and resources at this stage in my life, and I have to use them in a way that matters.  In my case, I feel strongly that God wants me to be writing.  That might not be a book or a newspaper column, but he’s given me a love for words and I feel him drawing me to that.  Anything else I take on will just be a diversion from my true work.

Second, I currently make up a sizeable chunk of our income each month, and I can’t just give that up based on sales that may or may not happen.  Many of these products are subject to consumer trends that ebb and flow dramatically.  What is hot this month might not be in six.  It simply isn’t prudent to leave a job we depend on for one that may or may not pay the bills next month.

Third, many of the products are things I simply don’t use.  I’ve spent a lot of time paring down our budget and figuring out ways to do things myself and save money; I’m not going to add an expensive product if I can do the same thing myself for a fraction of the price.  And even the ones that I do use and like might not be things my friends like.  Which brings me to my last point:

My friends are more important than a product.  I have plenty of friends who do network marketing well, and I never feel pressured to buy from them.  I don’t mind seeing memes on Facebook, and I always reach out when I need a product.  Younique mascara is legitimately the bomb.  I really do like several essential oils.  Thirty-One could be a problem if I let it.  But I don’t want my friends to recoil every time they see a message from me.  I want them to know that I care about them regardless of whether they buy my crap.  

I don’t want it to seem like I’m being picky…like I only want to stay home with my kids if I get the right offer.  I’m not.  I just want to make sure that I’m running after the things God has for me, and not every other breaking wave.  And if you hear of any writing opportunities, please send those my way.  

D-Day

We are down to one day.  I thought I had a great nanny candidate, but she took another job before we could interview her.  No other candidates have panned out, so daycare it is.  My emotions change by the day, hour, and minute.  On the one hand, I know intellectually that His timing is perfect; He has always come through and in retrospect, I can’t think of a single time when I wish He’d answered my prayers differently.  Personally, though, when I stare at the reality of where my kids will be day to day, I am just not OK.  I wonder if I missed something.  If maybe I wasn’t really following His leading after all.  If I was supposed to resign even though my husband was against it.  If I was supposed to ignore the balance in the checking account and the work we need to do on our house.  I also wonder why, if God intends me to work, he didn’t provide a better care situation for my kids.  Because He knows I looked.  At least, I think I did.  And there I am again…back at wondering if I missed something. 

Sometimes I feel like this is temporary: a part of His plan that will unfold in crazy ways I couldn’t imagine.  But then the pessimist shows up and says that either I have to keep my job because yet again I’ll be supporting the family, because some sort of tragedy is impending, or (worse still) that I am simply meant to do this forever.  That makes me feel really sick.  Throw-up sick.

Every once in a while, I’m relieved at the idea of bringing in a salary, of not worrying about bills month-to-month, of getting some of these projects done around the house and maybe paying down those student loans and my van.  But then I think of my kids…of the days, hours, and minutes that I’ll never get back.  I’m worried about Eli navigating kindergarten pick-up when I won’t be there to make sure he’s safe.  I’m worried about Violet being sick all the time.  I worried about Caleb being guided in the best possible way for his strong temperament.  I know that if this is the road God wants me to walk, He will take care of my kids, but it just doesn’t seem like it.

Then I think of the people who longed for the desires of their heart for so long, and God never came through.  I suppose that is their journey, not mine…but it could be mine and it makes me sad.  Will my marriage always be this way?  Will I ever get to experience real love?  Will I ever get to experience the little privileges of motherhood: school drop-offs and pick-ups, the ability to just stay home with a sick kid without checking my sick-leave balance, the feeling that somehow what I do is good, that I don’t have to perform to be worth the food I eat.

And yet, I know that God didn’t NOT show up in these past months.  He has parented me so much as I’ve loved on my little ones.  He has held me as I navigated horrible post-partum depression and struggled to adapt to the reality of my marriage and the demands of parenthood.  He has instilled in my heart the sense that He is not finished yet, so I should not despair.  He has let me see the beginnings of Caleb’s spirit healing.  He has given me platforms for my writing, and words to put on paper.  He has shown me what it means to love the work you do, even though it is still work.  We have made progress, I think.  I just hope we don’t take one giant step backwards on Monday. 

I have no other choice but to believe.  As I’ve written the advent calendar over the past few months, God has told me over and over that He can do the impossible, He keeps his promises, He uses people in spite of their qualifications, He values and rewards obedience, He loves me deeply, and He is faithful.  I am trying to cling to these promises as the storm in my heart rages on.  

Hope Floats

Thanks to the brilliance of Time Hop (and I mean brilliance), I got a cool little reminder from five years ago last week.  It was cryptic…even I had to consider the timing to figure out what I meant.  “…giving up a dream,” is what I wrote, since at that point Facebook statuses began with “Laura is…”  What dream?  Why so dramatic?  Well at that point, we’d been looking at houses for close to a year.  Our two bedroom, 1000-square-foot on a good day, no-back-yard starter house was obviously not a place we felt we should stay much longer, so we branched out.  We looked outside of Fort Thomas, but never really felt right about the schools.  We looked at no less than 5000 total dumps in Fort Thomas, and a few really nice houses that we couldn’t remotely afford.  We almost built a house in Cold Spring, panicked because of the traffic, then almost bought a market home in Fort Thomas (but not the school district).  Ultimately, we realized we were financially in over our heads and backed out.  And then James found it: a lovely brick ranch on one of the prettiest streets in town.  It was totally dated on the inside, but it was clean and had a large lot.  It was pricey, but we could just barely make it…if we didn’t have a second kid and if no one lost a job.  We went under contract…we haggled over the inspection report, and ultimately neither one of us had peace about the price and the amount of work that had to be done.  We walked away, and I muttered unhappy things about never finding a house that nice on a street that nice in Fort Thomas ever again.  I was crushed.  We would be living on Brentwood with a cliff in the backyard forever.  I really did not see any other option.  I gave up the dream and posted it on Facebook.

Fast forward six months.  A house popped up for sale on the same street, but much closer to the cul-de-sac.  It had three bedrooms instead of four, and it was a bi-level and I said I’d never live in a bi-level.  It was also disgustingly dirty and terribly dated.  BUT, the backyard was far nicer than the other house, and as a short sale, the house was half of what we were going to pay six months earlier.  Most of the work it needed was cosmetic, and the space was perfect for kids.  We went under contract and waited, the way you wait when you buy a short sale.  Two weeks into our wait, I found out I was pregnant with Caleb.  If we’d bought the first house, we’d have been sunk financially.  We waited some more and I threw up a lot, and ultimately we got the keys to a house that, even in rotten condition, was way out of our price range.  And we got it without increasing our monthly mortgage payment from our starter home.  It took a ton of work, and there were two stressful years as landlords while our old house didn’t sell.  (But then it did…to the tenants who got to live in the home for two years until they were financially ready to buy.  And even that arrangement came about because someone did something crappy to us and God turned into good in the just the right timing.)  This house payment walked us through almost a year on one income, unpaid maternity leave, another surprise pregnancy, and still more unpaid leave.  Had we bought the other one, we would be renting and waiting for our credit to recover from foreclosure right now.  And yes, we gave up one bedroom and some pretty cool neighbors, but we got a far better yard, an attached garage, and some other really awesome neighbors.  And most of all, we got two precious babies that were WAY out of our price range.  God took away the dream that would have harmed us and gave us the exact same thing, only better.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord.  “Plans to prosper you and not to harm you.  Plans to give you a hope and a future.”  Several people have unknowingly prayed Jeremiah 29:11 over me recently, and I choose to believe that right now God is planning to prosper me and not to harm me.  Just because I have to go back to school now, just because the kids have to go to daycare now, does not mean it will be that way forever.  It doesn't mean it will be that way for a year.  It doesn't mean that I'm selling out my dream, or that I'm too wimpy to step out in faith.  God is lining up His plan in ways that I cannot imagine.  I choose to believe.  And while I wait, I choose to be wise about the ways I use my time and resources.  

I am still sad. I think God allows that.  And I'll probably hover somewhere between despondent and hysterical in those first weeks when we all fall apart.  Still, He gave me this dream for a reason.  And I don't believe that reason was to dash my spirit with defeat.

Eventually hope just floats right up, right?.

A Letter to My Children: On Healing Our City.

Today's post is on the Cincinnati Mom's Blog; you can follow this link to read it.

Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;
You shall cry, and He will say, 'Here I am.'

"If you take away the yoke from your midst,
The pointing of the finger, and speaking wickedness,
If you extend your soul to the hungry
And satisfy the afflicted soul,
Then your light shall dawn in the darkness,
And your darkness shall be as the noonday.
The Lord will guide you continually,
And satisfy your soul in drought,
And strengthen your bones;
You shall be like a watered garden,
And like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail.
Those from among you
Shall build the old waste places;
You shall raise up the foundations of many generations;
And you shall be called the Repairer of the Breach,
The Restorer of Streets to Dwell In."
Isaiah 58:9-12

Sometimes My Thoughts Aren't Pretty

I started this blog to document the crazy journey I was attempting to move away from my cowardly dependence on my job to become a woman who walks with God in faith.  I wanted to be honest; to see the whole story unfold, and I supposed I knew some of it would be ugly.  Sometimes the struggles in my mind do not neatly align themselves with what I know the Bible teaches, and this is one of those moments.

It turns out the peace was short-lived.  Today touched off a violent storm of emotions again; I nearly cried on the way to the grocery, and again on the way home.  I thought about the preschool experience that has been taken from Caleb, and tears welled up again.  I put Violet down for a nap in a dark room where she can sleep, and the lump in my throat swelled.  I read books and kissed boo-boos and made meals and did dishes and folded laundry and wondered out loud how on earth I’m going to do all this in two weeks.  My body is so close to quitting…why not add forty-plus hours off site and an hour in the car and hope for the best?

I am equal hearts heartbroken and angry, mostly at God and my husband, both of whom I hoped I could depend on and both of whom do not seem to give two you-know-what’s.  At least God does not get to sleep through the night, but still.  Resentment does not do pretty things to a girl, even if it's justified.  God is a tender, loving God, but I do not feel tenderly loved.

I’m writing these Advent calendar entries about God’s promises, how He always keeps them, how He can always be trusted.  Yet, I have no current evidence to support that theory.  I feel like a fraud.  This storm in my life feels like forever.  The voice is loud.  Just give up hope.  Quit asking for things you know you won’t ever have.  Bury the call in your heart and raise your kids just like everyone else.  Be glad for the weekends. Why do you think you deserve to stay home, anyway?  You chose to marry him; this is your punishment.  Miracles happen for other people; not for you.  You forfeited your right to a miracle years ago.  It will never change. 

Yes, I know the error of those words, but it hurts too much to go on in hope.  Yes, the Bible tells me that nothing is impossible for God.  I believe that.  It also tells us He keeps His promises.  It says He will provide.  It says He loves us.  I am reciting these truths to myself over and over and waiting, hoping for some peace to come of it.  I have been waiting a long time, and time is running out.  Maybe I should have named Violet Anna; it appears I will be nearly dead before God fulfills His promise, and what will it matter then?

I’m fairly certain I’m guilty of being the “Oh ye of little faith.”  It. Just. Hurts. Savage, heart-wrenching hurt.  I can’t possibly emote enough to find relief. 

So I’m off to write about how we face opposition when we follow God, and how He can tame even the worst storms.  While wondering if He’ll ever do that for me.

When the Tether Snapped

My bracelet fell off. 

No, not my Pandora bracelet.  (Calm down, Mom.)  I mean the little piece of rope that I tied around my wrist during the Brave experience in April, the reminder that I am tethered to God much like a ship is tethered to the sail.  The reminder that He is guiding me through the storm, that I am not in charge of charting my own course.

When I first tied it on, it the two loose pieces created by the knot constantly tickled my wrist.  I cut them down and they still tickled.  But after weeks of showers and swimming pools and little fingers tugging at the rope, the loose ends were absorbed into the rest of the band and it just became this smooth thing that was always there.  I glanced at it often, each time sending a subliminal pang to my brain; it became an extension of me.

Of course, a tiny piece of rope is no match for my daily life, and I noticed it was becoming thin and frail, almost like a piece of thread.  About a week ago, I marveled that it was holding on at all and considered stealing my husband’s rope from the floor of his car.  And then there I was in class, and it brushed my pinky as it fell to the floor.

My immediate thought was panic.  Two weeks before I have to go back to school.  Two weeks from D-day and my tether falls off!  What kind of omen is that?  (I do not believe in superstition, but my mind really wants to.  The struggle is real.)  I tucked it in my school bag and started the hike to my car.  As I was pulling out of the parking lot, worrying, I felt these words.  You do not need the rope anymore.  The rope was only a symbol; the real tether is between your heart and mine, and you have let me tie it firmly in place during these months of struggle.  Breathe.  Your heart is seeking mine; we are starting a new leg in this journey.  I am working even now.

I want to tell myself that I am putting these words in my own mind, but that is not how my mind works.  My mind sees the broken symbol and assumes the worst.  My mind has spent the last week so agonized that it forgot to tell my body to be hungry.  (Side note: great diet, in all the wrong ways.)  It has been ping-ponging back and forth between hope and despair and possible solutions and worst-case scenarios.  It has been wondering how on earth to find rest with a deadline taunting just days away.  And suddenly?  My mind found rest.  My heart found joy.  God is working.  If we have to do daycare, it won’t be forever…maybe not even for the school year.  God will be there even in that. 

I have no idea where this came from, and I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you the old ways of thinking are still trying to fight to the surface.  But they aren’t winning.  It was like God said, “This is finished.”  And He flipped a switch.

Absolutely nothing has changed in our situation.  I don’t know what is next.  I don’t know what to expect.  I don’t know when or how God will redeem the cry of my heart.  What I do know is that for a moment he answered my prayer.  I saw His face.  And it was good.

Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in Him.  Psalm 34:8

Sarah Laughed (Laura Cried)

When God told Abraham he was going to bless his wife, Sarah, with a son in her old age, Abraham must have thought he’d heard wrong.  “Just bless Ishmael,” he responded.  And God had to spell it out more clearly: “No, I’m giving you another son, this one by your wife, Sarah.”  Abraham thought what God promised was impossible, so he gave God a pass.  “This will be good enough, God.  I don’t want to get my hopes up.”   Sarah overheard the conversation, and she laughed at the absurdity.  She was ninety years old, after all; she was well past the time frame for God to show up.  Still, God made good on His promise.  By that time next year, ninety-year-old Sarah had given birth to a son.

This is the story I found when I Googled doubt and God.  We visited the daycare today…the only daycare that will pick Eli up from half-day kindergarten.  It happens to be the same daycare I was so overjoyed to rescue Eli from five years ago.  I knew I’d never go back.  As August 10 tightens the noose around my neck, I’ve pretty much given up hope that God will provide a way for me to stay home.  I mean, there’s optimism and then there’s stupidity.  Those little blessings that happened earlier in the year – an unexpected paycheck, and then another – they stopped long ago.  The confirmations I prayed for – a blogging job, a writing contact – they have ceased happening, too.  Even the joy I felt about writing the advent calendar is just…gone.  I feel like I got one chance to stay home with my kids and I wasted the time trying to make it permanent, trying to follow where I thought God was leading.  I can’t help but wonder if I misinterpreted God back in December.  He gave me a little extra time at home; my mistake was loving it too much.  And so lately, my prayer has been more along the lines of: If I have to go back to work, please just provide good care for my kids.  And now this…this place.  Will they be safe there?  Probably.  Will they eat good food?  No.  Will Caleb be academically challenged by the teacher who has never taught four-year-olds before?  Nope.  Will Violet nap?  Not a chance.  I know what is coming and it has two –l’s at the end of it. 

I wonder…am I pulling an Abraham?  Am I looking at circumstances (2.5 weeks) and thinking God decided to go a different direction?  Am I giving him a pass on the big miracle?  Am I doubting Him and settling for second best?  Or am I being a realist?  James says I need to find my way to reality.  It seems God wants to prove him right. 

I just don’t know.  I have worked this over in my mind night after night; I seem to find peace when I decide to pull my retirement and finance the next five years.  But then James enters the equation, and the bottom line is that he won’t be happy unless I am working outside the home, too.  Because all that matters to him is not working…and sooner rather than later.  Retirement.  The collateral damage to the rest of us doesn’t enter his equation.  Perhaps I should act on what I feel God leading anyway, but I'm not strong enough to fight that force.  When we started this experiment, I told James that I believed God would provide, and he agreed that if we were really following God, yes, He would.  And here we are in July, and by all accounts, it seems that He hasn’t.  At least not financially.  The kids and I have made great strides emotionally and spiritually, but that doesn't change the balance in the checkbook.  So maybe we weren’t following God?  Of course I don’t know what He’s doing in heaven…I only know that on earth I cry so much that the boys ask why I am crying NOW, I can barely eat, and I’m missing out on my last weeks with my kids because my heart hurts too bad to let it feel anymore.  I wouldn't be so angry if they were going back to Pam, but they’re not.  She was taken away, too.

I’m so afraid that this year will set Caleb on a course I don’t want him to take.  I firmly believe that negative school experiences damage a kid, and I don’t want that for his exceedingly sensitive spirit.  I am just now getting us into a rhythm after the glorious disruption of Violet’s birth, and now we’re going to send everyone into a tailspin again.  I feel like I’ve wasted my year of turning off the TV, making food from scratch, and relentlessly pursuing God.  In the scheme of things, what does any of it matter if we go back to what we were before? 

And I’m so afraid that if I miss this chance (was there a chance?), I’ll set the course for the rest of my life.  I will always be working a job or two that I hate, doing what has to be done while ignoring what is best for my children.  I do know this: I am out of costs to cut, I am out of resources, and certainly I don’t have anyone to help me.  So if I did hear right and God does want me to stay at home, He is going to have to speak so loudly that I can’t mistake it.  And he’s going to have to hit my husband over the head.  And maybe give him a promotion he isn’t supposed to get. 

So I don’t know what to do.  The anger and hurt have hijacked my heart.  Do I hope and believe what I thought God said?  Or do I assume I heard wrong, turn my heart from God, and go on with my life devoid of trust?  Sarah may have laughed at the absurdity, but I am crying at the impossibility.  And I hope I'm not selling God short.