Freeing Candles

Before Winston-Salem added its Winston - and its namesake tobacco companies - it was just Salem, a thriving community planned by a group of religious refugees who called themselves Moravians. The Moravians were ahead of their time in many ways; in particular, they opened a college to educate young women several centuries before women’s suffrage was even on the radar. While other religious sects wanted women to sit and home and tend the babies, Moravian women were reading and writing and creating.

Moravian culture is woven seamlessly throughout Winston-Salem, and never is it more evident than Christmas. The unique Moravian star hangs, illuminated, from local porches and homes set out an elaborate Christmas village display, called a putz. Central to the Christmas holiday are the candles, which children hold while they sing Christmas songs at a traditional service they call a Love Feast. And because the Moravians were masters of food, these services also feature creamy coffee and warm rolls. What’s not to love?

For the past two years, the kids and I have attended a Candle Tea. Set in the living history museum of Old Salem, the love feast teaches kids about the making and symbolism of the candles and ends with a lighted retelling of the Christmas story and an acapella version of “O Little Town of Bethlehem”. Every year when we enter the room where they make the candles, my Moravian friends breathe deeply and sigh. For them, the smell of beeswax is as much a part of Christmas as the scent of pine.

This year, an elderly woman dressed in period garb showed us how they knot pieces of cloth to the bottom of the candle mold. “We have to keep the wax in here while the candles harden,” she told us. “Otherwise, it would just run out.” She poured the boiling wax into the mold and set it aside to harden. Before we left the room, she returned to the mold. The wax was hard now, and the candles needed to come out. She grabbed a sharp knife, turned the mold upside down, and began ripping the knots she’d tied a few minutes earlier.

“These knots that were once so important to our candles are now just in the way. They’re preventing us from seeing the finished product,” she told us. With one last swipe of the knife, the fabric gave way and eight tiny candles flew out of the mold. The crowd gasped. I thought to myself that it must be very gratifying to give a presentation to a group of homeschooled elementary-aged kids. They are very easily impressed.

Once free, the candles were ready for the red tissue decoration that goes around the bottom, and decoration that symbolizes the blood of Christ and protects tiny hands from dripping wax. The Moravians were poetic and practical, bless them. Once assembled, the workers put them in a tray that holds hundreds of candles. The sight of the red and yellow candles, illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the centuries-old window will forever be one of my favorite Christmas memories. Each year, I think nothing could be more beautiful.

But I couldn’t help but think about the candles and those knots. Those knots that were once so important, until they became in the way. It struck me as a vivid lesson about letting go. I had no idea how applicable it would become. Or maybe I did. Maybe that’s why it struck me.

I bet that candle mold was warm and comfortable, not unlike a comfortable job with regular paychecks and benefits. Don’t get me wrong: those are important things that I hope will be part of our lives again soon. But that comfortable mold was also preventing them from growing, from fulfilling their purpose, from lighting the room, not unlike the way I had grown comfortable accepting my broken marriage, skipping opportunities for growth, and putting my writing on the back burner. As much as I want justice for our family, and medical benefits, and a regular paycheck like the one we lost, the tearing of these particular knots have set something in me free. It’s time to grow again. Time to grow in my faith in God. Time to grow in my faith in prayer. Time to grow in my confidence that God will provide. Time to use that scripture that I’ve been devouring with the kids in their Awana books. Time to step back into writing, not just editing. Time to demand counseling and insist that God has more for me than this crippling anger and hurt.

When you’re online late at night, filling out applications so your kids can get Medicaid, it helps to feel a sense of purpose. It helps to look back at that late November field trip and realize God was speaking through an elderly woman and a candle mold.

My former pastor referred to this as pruning: removing something seemingly good in order to make room for something better. I really hope there’s something better out there, and not years of trying to start over - again. This whole thing is a load of crap, but I trust God can use loads of crap to heal and protect us.

It seems like every other verse in the Bible promises God will protect and provide for us, and each time I hear one, my mind argues back, “Well, not the way you would want for yourself.” But that’s just not true. This is a God who gives us immeasurably more than we could ask or imagine. Just look at the life we’ve lived for the last year and a half, when I was sure we’d be barely scraping by. Instead, we paid off a car and nearly all James’ student loans. We went to the beach multiple times. We ran races. We explored this magnificent new home. I homeschooled the kids and they thrived. And I was so afraid we’d be dirt poor and life would suck.

I believe this happened when it did so that James wouldn’t be so comfortable in his former job that he’d miss a better opportunity. There’s someone out there looking for him right now. We need to figure out who. And in the meantime, we get to experience God in a whole new way. I just realize hope he provides something other than Medicaid. You know, something with benefits.

So please pray for us. Pray for peace. Pray for miraculous provision. Pray for doors to open that we thought were impossible. And please pray for protection. And rest. It has been a month, that’s for sure. We could use some rest.

Daughter

As I was getting ready for bed last night, a tiny figure emerged into the dark hallway. The glow of the nightlight illuminated her, tiny arms raised high above her head, as she ran toward the sound of my footsteps.

I’m not sure there’s anything that melts my heart like the sight of my daughter unapologetically reaching for me. Yes, she could totally get the bathroom and use the potty on her own, but I’ll carry her every time. Because she reaches for me with so much hope and expectation. Yes, sometimes I’m tired and get annoyed and grumble that I have ten thousand things to do that don’t involved picking up a three-year-old, but I pick her up nonetheless. Because she reaches for me. I can’t resist.

I suppose it’s no accident that God compares himself to a father. That’s not for the benefit of the children out there, it’s for the parents. It’s for the people who understand how your heart melts and how you’ll do anything to care for the children who reach for you. The only time my heart comes close to understanding how God views me is when I think about my love for my children. I don’t expect anything; I just adore them. I can’t help it.

The last decade has left me deeply hurting, deeply scarred. It’s been remarkably devoid of love in the parts of my life that should be defined by love’s abundance. I’ve had to defend my very existence, work harder than I ever thought I could work, and accept treatment I should have to accept. I can assure you that when I reached my arms up and begged for help, the person on earth who should have done that sneered and turned away. I’ve been left utterly alone.

I’m defined by that response. I don’t ask for help. I find a way to handle it, whatever it is. That’s better than rejection.

But I can’t handle this situation now. I can’t run out and get a full-time job with benefits and toss my kids in childcare. I can’t afford childcare working in my profession. I can’t afford a private school for my kids. I can’t do anything at all to motivate my husband to look for a new job…to understand the breadth of his responsibility to his family. I am, frankly, stuck.

I mean, yes I can try to take on more work. But it won’t get us medical benefits. And there’s really no more time in my days to do more. I’m exhausted and wrecked as it is.

But the one thing I can do is look to God. And my daughter reminds me that when I lift my hands to him, he doesn’t sneer at me. He’s not frustrated with me. He doesn’t shrug and say, “You got yourself into this. I guess you’ll figure it out.” He doesn’t turn over in the bed and ignore me. When I lift my arms to Him, He scoops me up. He helps me, whether I deserve it or not. He defends me. He comforts me. I can’t see what He’s doing on my behalf, but He promises to do it.

I can’t depend on the human I hoped I could. But I can depend on someone much greater. And He looks at me with love.

Delight

I was getting Violet ready for her nap. We’d spent the morning running around SciWorks, and stopped for free Krispy Kreme on the way home. (Because in this house, we celebrate National Donut Day. Every. Single. Year.)  Krispy Kreme glaze dotted Violet’s face and the tiny waves of blond hair that had escaped from her pigtails. She was still munching on the Swedish Fish she received for successfully using the potty five minutes before. Girlfriend knows how to savor the experience, let me tell you. She also knows how to hold her pee and release it a little at a time. I mean, the more times she goes, the more “feces” she gets to eat. We’re still working on that “sh” sound.

Violet before naptime or bedtime is the perfect balance of silly and sweet. Sleep is currently the worst thing that could happen to her, and she pulls out all the stops to push it back. Today was no exception. Silly faces, hysterical laughter, sloppy kisses. She did not want to go to bed.

And I looked at her, and she took my breath away. I’m sure I must have had moments like this with the boys too, although maybe it’s different with Violet because she’s a girl. Her eyes met mine, she grinned, puffy cheeks scrunching up to her eyes, and I thought, “This. This is what it means to delight in something.” I wish I could somehow weave better words for this one, but I think you have to experience it to know it.

And in that moment, there was a whisper in my heart. “This is how I feel about you, too.”

That’s so hard for me to imagine. The wistful beauty of youth, the innocence, the joy…is long gone for me. I feel like I’m all hard edges, except for my abs, which will never be hard again. How can I get my heart to believe that my heavenly Father delights in me? That he loves me a thousand times better than I love my own impish daughter.

And what would it mean for my life if I truly lived like a child who knows my Father is delighted in me? Because I know what it’s like to live with a human who does just the opposite, and that has shaped my heart for so long. I can tell you this, a woman confident in her delightfulness would be a force to be reckoned with.

For just a minute, I saw a glimpse of God’s heart for me, and it lifted my heavy soul. I want to live like the object of God’s delight. I want to understand it down to the core of my being. I want it to change my life.

“For the Lord takes delight in his people; he crowns the humble with victory.” Psalm 149:4

Other Things

I've been writing less on here because I've been fortunate to write paid pieces for local companies. I always intend to link them up here, if nothing else because I need a one-stop place for clients to read what I write.
And then life happens.
But I'm trying to fix that, and in the spirit of trying, here are some of my recent blogs.
This one is a parenting post for Triad Moms on Main, a local blog that welcomed me to the Triad before I even officially moved! I love the work I do for them because I get to write about so many facets of parenting and teaching, and especially homeschooling. What a gift!
And this one was written for a Cincinnati tutoring company called Connections. They do great work with kids...some of their clients have been my students. And the owner, Amanda, gave me the chance to do this work when I was just starting out and trying to figure out if it was even possible to make a living from words.
Most of my work time goes toward projects in educational publishing, which I love...and it pays the bills. But it never gets old to see my name in other published forums. I'm so grateful that people - you! - read what I have to say.

When God Gives Us More

After well over a year of waiting and wiggling and hoping, Eli pulled out his first tooth yesterday. It was a dramatic process that involved nearly fainting and nearly throwing up…from fear. It took far longer than it should have, as evidenced by the fact that I can already see the adult tooth poking through the newly exposed skin. Like everything with Eli, it was perhaps a little more over the top than it needed to be, bless his heart.

This post could totally skew to the importance – and difficulty – of waiting, because that’s what Eli has been doing since his peers starting losing teeth in preschool. But what happened after the tooth was lost spoke so much more to my soul.

We aren’t fuddy duddies about fictional childhood characters, and the Tooth Fairy joined Santa and the Easter Bunny on the roster of creatures that sneak into the Simon family home during the night. Eli carefully crafted his letter (Dear Tooth Fairy, I just lost my first tooth. May I please have three pennies? Love, Eli), put the tooth and the letter in an envelope, and slid it under his froggy pillow. I repositioned it a little, explaining that we don’t want him to wake up when I – er, she – shows up to collect it. Hours later, I slipped a dollar bill AND three pennies into another envelope, tiptoed into his room, slid the old envelope through the rails on the top bunk, and replaced it with the money.

Then I tiptoed to my room and spent the night trying to sleep through what might, possibly, have been a mini-tornado. When Eli dragged into my room the next morning, I was exhausted and confused. I mean, Eli has a tendency to be Debby Downer, but he looked like he’d lost his best friend.

“She didn’t come.”

I wiped my eyes. She? Who didn’t come? Were we expecting company? What? Oh yes – the TOOTH FAIRY. What do you mean she didn’t come?

I hurried to his bedroom. Sure enough, there was nothing under his pillow. I climbed up into his bed and looked down behind his mattress. There was the envelope, resting where it had slipped during the night. Obviously, I need a better strategy for the Tooth Fairy, because we are only going to repeat this 20 times per kid. (Gah. That’s like $60 bucks. For teeth.)

I handed him the envelope and his face lit up. He tore into it. “There’s pennies in here!” he screamed. “Wait, there’s a dollar. Why is there a dollar? I asked for three pennies.” Three pennies fell out onto the bed, and he scooped them up, still staring dubiously at the dollar. “Why did she give me a dollar? I didn’t ask for one.”

At this point, I’ll confess to my desire to throttle him. Maybe that was part of his strategy. He has another loose tooth…maybe he thought I’d help him knock it out. But seriously, this kid got what he asked for and a whole extra dollar, and he complained about it!

Obviously we need to work on understanding the value of a dollar. And we really, really need to work on gratitude. As the parent who made a special trip to break a five-dollar bill, who stayed up late to make sure he was really asleep before I slipped the envelope under the pillow, who found joy in giving him not just what he wanted, but enough to get a really big piece of candy, I. WAS. PISSED.

So often, my kids teach me more than any theologian could. This is one of those times. Eli didn’t even know what to ask for. (Really. Can three pennies buy anything these days?) I gave him what he asked for AND something even better. And he didn’t even recognize it as a gift. In fact, he complained.

And then the Spirit nudged me. I’ve been really caught up lately in the difficulties I face in my marriage. They are real and not trivial things. But in that, I’ve forgotten to be grateful for the gifts God has given me – gifts I thought were impossible just two years ago. I’ve been given the chance to homeschool my kids. I’ve been given the chance to work part-time from home. I’ve been given a far larger house than I thought we could afford, and I grumble because the neighborhood isn’t everything I hoped for and there’s no fireplace. I make far more working from home than I ever thought possible, and I get to play with words for a living. I asked for the ability to eke out an existence, and God gave me abundance. How dare I complain?

The act of gratitude doesn’t erase the hard things in our lives, and it doesn’t pretend they aren’t there. It just shifts the focus to the good. To the blessings. And right now, I’m experiencing plenty of those.

So let me be the first to say that God has richly blessed me. Blessed us. He gave me more than I thought to ask for, more than I thought possible. That’s His nature. He’s a good, good Father who wants to see our joy and elation when we find the treasures he’s hidden under our pillows.

And I want to be the daughter who takes his gifts with unreserved delight. 

On Forgiveness

Back in December, I bought stocking-stuffers from a small local vender and swiped my card for $21.30.  Whether it was (as she insisted) a glitch in technology, or whether she was padding her wallet to pay for her kids’ Christmas, the charge that showed up on my statement days later was $213.00. Panicked, I began a battle with the merchant that continues to this day. She admitted the error and promised to refund it. And didn’t. Then she didn’t answer or return my calls. Then I went to her store and confronted her in person. She admitted the error again and promised to refund it. She didn’t. Finally, I went to my bank and filed a claim against her. She lied to the bank. Increasingly, it is becoming obvious that this isn’t someone who is flighty and forgetful; she’s a liar and thief masquerading as a small business owner. And it looks like she might win.

I’ll work for five hours to earn the money she stole from me, so this isn’t a situation where I can just flippantly “let it go”. And frankly, I am absolutely flummoxed at her boldness in lying and stealing from someone. I mean, who does that and goes to sleep at night? And posts pictures on her business page of her children at church? Perhaps that’s what burns me the most. A Christian.

In addition to fervently asking God to go to battle for me (because at this point, I’m pretty much out of options), I’ve also been wrestling with this anger. It’s righteous anger, for sure. I don’t share the blame in this one. It’s taught me a thing or two as well: demand a receipt, keep it, check your account balance regularly, use a credit card instead of a debit with local merchants. But that anger? It’s eating me up. I can be reading to Violet, and I’ll think of that woman and my heart goes sour. (It is hard to have a sour heart with Violet around, so that should tell you something.) That anger steals the joy in taking walks and teaching spelling and finishing a project. It hurts my soul even more than it hurts my wallet.

As I keep taking it to God, I keep hearing the word “forgive”. Holding this anger isn’t going to get my money back. But it will make me sick. I’ve learned my lesson, and it’s time to leave it to God. Because you know what? God can take care of my family. He can provide that money in other ways. I can trust him, even if I can’t trust people on earth. I’ve been trying to let go of my claim against her, and praying that the love of God will find her. And that God will care for me as well. I’m not sure if it’s working, but forgiveness is heavy stuff.

I have a lot of forgiving to do.  My husband routinely speaks lies over me: his favorites are lazy and liar. You’re lazy. You’re lying to me. He’ll insist that I did things years ago that I know full well I didn’t do. He’ll insist that I said something that I didn’t say. He’ll insist that I thought something that I never thought. Even in the face of proof to the contrary, he’ll stand by his story. I fight back. I speak the truth. But the burn of the dishonesty remains. I don’t dwell on it as long as I’ve managed to dwell on the stolen money, but it impacts me the same way. How dare he speak these things to me? Why won’t he acknowledge the truth?

It's especially hard to forgive when the hurt keeps piling up, when you can't just cut ties and never seen the offender again. I can resolve never to shop with the dishonest merchant again, but I wake up every day in my husband's house. The criticism is new every morning. I know this has built up a wall of scar tissue around my heart. It’s a source of protection, really, but it hurts me in its own way. If nothing else, this theft has taught me the words to say to God when J hurts me. “God, please take this battle from me. You know the truth. I can trust you to take care of me – even my heart – even when people on earth try to harm it. I forgive him. Please let your love reach him.

I’m not going to lie. It feels like being a doormat. But what other choice do I have? Fighting for myself isn’t getting me anywhere except sad. The act of forgiveness is really the highest form of trust. It says, "I trust God enough to obey Him. I trust Him enough to let Him fight for me. I trust him enough to believe that he'll take care of me regardless of how He intervenes in this moment."

Trust is hard, people.

I don’t yet have any resolution to share with you, just the acknowledgement that I’m trying to handle this God’s way. I don’t always do the right thing, and because of that, I’m grateful that He shows grace to people who make mistakes. And He can make things right in ways I never could.

It's OK to Say It's Hard

One of my goals this year is to link begin linking my outside work to this blog, if nothing else because I need a common place where clients can access what I do. Here's my most recent blog post for Triad Moms on Main, a local online resource for moms. Thanks to all of you who read what I have to say!

New Every Morning

As I reflect on 2016, the one emotion that continually grips me is fear. Yes, fear. Why on earth would I be fearful after a year of unprecedented open doors? After I was finally able to quit my teaching job? After I’ve consistently made enough to pay our bills each month by writing and editing? After seeing my dream come true - my own words next to my own name in multiple publications? After selling a house for a significant profit and finding a space just right for our family right now? After paying off my van? After starting a homeschooling journey? After landing in a community that has us smitten?

Why am I afraid?

Because a little voice inside me whispers, “You’ve used up your blessing allotment, Laura. God couldn’t possibly have more in store for you. This year will certainly take you back to the status quo of praying for nothing to happen.” That little voice looks around me at the still very real pain, the wreckage of a relationship, the unclear next steps, and it assumes that God is finished. “Don’t hope!” it whispers. “You might be disappointed.

Of course, that’s not how God works. This morning, Lamentations - of all books - reminded me, “The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is His faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh every morning. I say to myself, ‘The Lord is my inheritance; therefore, I will hope in Him!’” (Lamentations 3:22-24) I’ve always thought of this verse in terms of forgiveness. It is a verse to cling to after a really bad parenting day, after I’ve made too many mistakes to count, after I’ve lost my ever-loving mind and screamed at the kids. (Again.)

But God’s mercy, and his love, is completely undeserved. And it isn’t limited to forgiveness. Every gift He gives us is completely unmerited, a drop of his precious love. And his love NEVER ENDS.

Many times each day, I lose patience with my own children. “This is it. You didn’t eat your lunch, so I’m not cutting up any more grapes.” “That tantrum has just convinced me that tablet time is over. Forever.” “There will be no more fun in this house until you pick up your toys without whining!” (Really, I’ve made that threat.  New mercies. Every morning. Sometimes multiple times a day.)

My children need to learn boundaries and natural consequences, but they are also children. Sometimes I forget that they need time to grow in maturity and self-control. I’m so glad God is a better parent than I. I don’t believe He is sitting in heaven saying, “That’s it. She grumbled. I am so done with her.” The Bible shows us that’s not how our God operates. The Lord IS my inheritance. His mercies NEVER cease. Not on my worst days. And not because he’s given me all He has to give.

God has more mercy, love, and hope to give me in this coming year, if I can be courageous enough to hope in it. Thank goodness.