Come Ye Thankful People, Come... Let's eat turkey!!!

I'm not much on recapping in the bloggosphere. I usually love reading other people's journaling, but I typically use this space to crock-pot on things that God has been teaching me. It's like a public forum for my private catharsis. My hubby maintains that it is a weird form of personal discovery, and he's probably right. 

But on days such as today, when the gray sky presses at my windows, and the washing machine tumbles around in the background, I just want to relive the rest and joy that was my past week. 

Thanksgiving was a whirlwind of food, family, and sunshine. I'm so thankful that I have literally too many gifts to write down, and my daily life is filled with continual discovery of God's goodness.

So, today I give you, a Thanksgiving in pictures... for they are worth thousands of words. I owe most of these pics to my talented sister, Erika Aileen, whose fantastic artistry can be seen if you follow this link. 

A houseful of people!? This is my heaven on earth...

These two drove all the way out, and then juggled tons of seminary life responsibilities so that they could be at Thanksgiving. I'm fairly confident that my whining played  a large role in their planning, and while I could be ashamed, I'm merely elated that they were a part of our celebrations.

Grant has fantastic grandparents... and he enjoyed milking the attention for 5 days of expert cuddles.

Oma is the baby expert. And Grant knows it.

Uncle Teej time.

Kamikaze! Poor Oma didn't even see it coming...

I love my daddy.

So I married a man who is so much like him. 

Attention monger. 

Caramel Pecan cinnamon rolls. I love having people to cook for... I can bake all the yumminess that I can't justify demolishing by myself.

Someday, she'll ask why we let her do this in every picture. As if it was our fault.

Chopping veggies is very relaxing.

I love that my job now is almost totally June Cleaver-ing.

This year I prepped the turkey by brining it... I'm never making turkey any other way.

I love my "Thankfulness Tree" and the centerpiece that cost me less than five dollars. 

Everyone wrote things they were thankful for on the leaves of the tree... Each year we'll add more leaves. This year I was thankful "for 2 babies when last year I had zero!" Can't believe I'm a mommy x 2. 

My son. Eating goldfish crackers on Thanksgiving. Only a baby would be happy with this on Thanksgiving. 

We dressed up like characters from the first Thanksgiving. Teej was "Miles Standish"

Scott was William Bradford. Of course. I was pregnant with "Peregrin White"... the first Pilgrim baby born in the New World. Of course.

Apple Pie. Classic Staple.

Cranberry Tart. Not so classic, and probably not returning.

Dad did the turkey and ham carving honors.

Table full of thankful.

Grant cleaned up the ham and turkey.

All the men did the dishes... This is a tradition I can get on board with!

Sisters, sisters! So glad we're finally friends... after years of angsty adolescence, we're finally buddies!

One fish, two fish... Julie's reading to Grantish. 

My son. Can't believe it.

The thumb has become a recent staple... 

Auntie ErBear is a good cuddler!

We paint pottery every year... this was year #6. We painted pottery in New Jersey near Mama's old Kindergarten!

I love my mama's pottery-painting face. 

Erika. Done first. Super cute. Typical.

These are two pretty girls. I'm so thankful that my mama loves being a mama and decided to love on Julie after all her older kiddies were grown.

While we painted pottery, napped, and made soup, all the men worked on our laundry room and did a massive amount of gutting and remodeling. Merry Christmas to me!

Thanks, men!

Thankfulness is overflowing. 2013 was a good year.

An Update: on sickness, joy, and snarky comments

Phew!

It's been a while.

Last night, I dissolved into tears because I had once again spent an entire day on the couch. Everything that I attached worth to--cooking, cleaning, decorating, creating, writing, mothering, reading--I was unable to do. I was so sick that even sitting upright while feeding my little baby was almost more than I could handle. Again.

For those who would like nitty-gritty details... My ulcerative colitis has calmed down. God has miraculously maintained my hemoglobin levels, and even though I've been more sick than ever, it does not appear to be affecting wee Elizabeth Wynne at all. For this I am grateful. However, the ulcerative colitis has manifested in an unusual and very irritating way. As opposed to isolating my inflammation to the colon, the ulcerative colitis has caused a systemic inflammation that has taken over my entire body. This inflammation mimics severe anemia. (Think: having a horrible flu... all the time.)

The upside: the meds seem to be working, and I'm having pockets of coherence and productivity. The downside? They are very little pockets, usually followed by a day or two of being completely horizontal.

So... during last night's deluge, I erupted into a massive pity party. The gist of this lame party was the irritation I felt at not being able to do a single productive task. I have this huge, beautiful home--and no energy to decorate. I am finally a stay at home mom--and I've only taken my child to the park once, and I never do play dates. I love to cook--no energy coupled with overwhelming nausea. I have a stack of books--most days the letters dance on the pages and I can't remember what I just read.

People can tell me it's a "season." Sure, it's like being stuck in February. FOREVER. People tell me I am being productive--I'm growing a small life. But what about those women who grow lives and also cook, clean, lead aerobics classes, run marathons, and star in TV shows? Why can't I grow a life like one of them? I have a highly inefficient oven, and last night, for whatever reason, I was exceptionally grouchy about it.

My husband was very understanding. He hugged me. He listened. He let me weep copious tears onto his shoulder. He even let me sprawl, uninhibited across the bed (even though I know he detests sprawling, and wishes I would just lay on the bed like a "normal" person). But at the end of all this sympathy, he changed to a tougher love.

"Courtney. Seriously. Stop. You're being ridiculous. I know this is hard. Trust me. But let's be honest. Your life could be a lot worse. You could be a Christian in North Korea."

In our family, "You could be a Christian in North Korea" is used frequently when your complaining has reached a fevered and irrational pitch. The thought of that misery and persecution is usually enough to make you stop griping about the price of paper towels, the traffic home, and the complete idiocy of your neighbors who don't want a privacy fence installed. It quickly brings your "suffering" into perspective.

But last night, I was not swayed. Without batting an eyelash, I said, "Yes, and I could also be a American Christian driving a Lexus and teaching spin classes during a perfectly healthy pregnancy." What followed was a brief, but snarky interlude in which I refused to see the glass as half-full, and steadfastly ripped all my husband's attempts at redirection to shreds.

Not my proudest moment.

Shortly after this I repented of my grumpiness and sarcasm (largely because I hate going to sleep feeling guilty), but my repentance was born more of habit than of genuine acknowledgement of wrong.

This morning, as I was wandering through Walmart picking up sundry items not to be found at Aldi, I kept staring a people's faces. Sad faces. Vacant faces. Angry faces. Stoic faces.

I am surrounded by miserable people. I'm not in North Korea. But people in Philadelphia don't exactly look like they're living in completed joy.

Horribly, awfully, totally miserable people. People miserable in their lives, surrounded by things that don't satisfy, trapped in relationships that are broken, caught in conflict they have no idea how to resolve. I don't live there.

Because of my Savior, I live next to hope. I have peace bubbling inside me. When I wake up in the morning, I'm automatically flooded with excitement and joy... every day is filled with goodness. The Gospel has taken all of the day's mundanity and filled it joy inexpressible.

A puddle of sunshine reminds me that God allows the sun to continue rising and setting.
A whiff of pumpkin spice sets my taste buds watering, as I'm blessed by God's provision.
A gurgle of laughter from my baby reminds me of the blessing of new life. God does not have to give us babies. If I was God, I would have stopped making babies a long time ago.
The ready forgiveness of my husband points me to the massive forgiveness enacted on the cross.
The feel of warm socks.
The creaminess of coffee.
The hugs from family.
The artwork of frost.

Every moment of every day is saturated with God. With His goodness. With handfuls of little blessings.

When was the last time you saw them? You acknowledged them? You grabbed them, tasted them... praised God for them?

Perhaps the problem with my Thursday was not my lack of health, or Lexus, or even North Korea... Perhaps the problem with my Thursday was my lack of gratitude.

Joy flows immediately from thankfulness.

In this month, we remember to be thankful. We post it on Facebook, we talk about it with others, we design kitchy Pinterest crafts to help the kiddies and family members focus on thankfulness.

But I would argue that to relegate gratitude to one month out of the year is the same as only taking multivitamins vitamins for one month of the year. It's a good thing you're doing it, but you'd be a lot healthier if you took them every day. Forever.

My challenge is finding things to be thankful for while horizontal on a couch... and it's not hard. The tree right outside my window is a gorgeous yellow. It's so funny to watch Grant pull himself up to the window and pound vigorously every time a truck passes. My blanket is warm and fuzzy. All my pants are stretchy and comfy (and no one judges the pregnant lady!). Apple cider is in season...

My blessings overflow.
My cup is more than half-full.
And joy comes quickly when I focus on the goodness of God.

My two men, who never cease to be blessings.

Baby Squidgette's Real Name

I have a weakness.

I can't name things until I have seen them.

I was like this a child with stuffed animals and baby dolls. I may really, really like the name "Rustic" for my new little stuffed puppy, but if I looked deep into his eyes, I knew, deep down, that his name was really supposed to be "Ferguson." And I just couldn't stick with my first name.

When we were in the process of adopting Grant, we had a list of names that we liked. When we saw him in the hospital, we chose from that list: Grant Alexander. He was our very tiny gift. And we had big dreams about his future defending others and championing the weak. So, that's how he became Grant Alexander.

I then proceeded to spend the next week in NICU absolutely miserable because I was convinced that we had named him the wrong name. Clearly this child wasn't a "Grant." He was supposed to be a "Michael." Although "Michael" was nowhere on our list of preferred names, although I had never, ever even remotely thought about naming a child "Michael," I was miserably convinced that I had misnamed my son.

This is where it's very good that I married Scott. He does not understand my need to see someone, to look into their eyes, to choose a name. So, our son's name is still "Grant" (for which I'm very thankful, and I now believe to be his right name), and he is making a similar list of girl names to take to the hospital this time.

Because, I also have a horrible habit of choosing awful names when I'm under that kind of pressure. (For example: Percival, Matilda, Cecil...)

But prepping for a utero-baby is a little different than prepping for a maybe-adoption. So, we've been hashing and re-hashing girl names for quite a while. In a culture where babies are considered babies only if they're "wanted" or after they pass through the birth canal, we want to be very clear in letting others know that regardless of her size, development, or story, she is a unique little bundle, being created just for us, by our Heavenly Father.

So, wee Squidgette's name is...

Now... where did that come from?

Elizabeth: My middle name is "Elizabeth" and I was named after my great-grandmother. Although I only knew her for the first two years of my life, she was hilariously similar to myself. I say "hilariously" because apparently we both approach life in the same casual, fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants kind of way... and that usually leads to laughable mishaps.

Elizabeth also means "my God is abundance." Which is strikingly appropriate, as this baby is an addition to our abundance that we never imagined. The Elizabeth of the Bible, who was noted for her fear of the Lord and gentle acceptance of God's plan, is my favorite woman in the Bible.

Wynne: When we found out we were having a girl, my knee-jerk reaction was panic. How on earth was I supposed to parent a girl in this culture? Perhaps because I am a girl, I am even more acutely aware of the trials facing little girls, the perverted messages of beauty, and the distorted view of femininity and roles. As Scott and I prayed over our little one, the same word kept reappearing in both our prayers, in the same request: "Lord, may this baby girl be winsome in counter-cultural beauty." We want our little girl to be strikingly different from her culture, in a way that wins her culture to Christ.

Short of pulling a complete "Puritan" and naming our little girl "Winsome," we abbreviated (and yes... misspelled) this word to become little Squidgette's middle name.

So, Elizabeth Wynne... we can hardly wait to meet you!

Our own little "Bets."

Lessons... that I should be learning

This past week has been a long, long lesson in patience and humility.

I hate learning both.

In fact, my general disdain for learning either or both of these attributes might be a large reason for my current trial. It might be. If God is, in fact, interested in the minute changes in my life and in grooming my sinful soul more into the likeness of his Son... then it might be a lesson I should learn. And it just might be a lesson He's prepared specifically for me.

Maybe.

Let's not get too hasty here.

(insert wry smile)

But, yes, God is teaching me patience and humility... I'm very, very weak right now. I'm largely horizontal on the couch, with an occasional transition to my bed. My body has lost a massive amount of blood. And I'm pregnant. Neither of those is a recipe for overwhelming amounts of energy. This past week, my husband did not get a single meal prepared by me (aside from a frozen pizza), my housework consisted of dishes, picking up, and sporadic laundry. That's it. And my motherhood goals each day were, "Keep the baby fed and changed."I didn't even go grocery shopping. Aside from going to the doctor. I didn't leave my house all week. Shoot. I barely left the couch.

I don't like being still. I like having my house immaculate. (My poor mother worked for years towards this goal, she'd be thrilled to know that something sunk in. They used to call my room "The Black Abyss."). I absolutely love cooking. Love it. I have a chair that's half reupholstered (another hobby that I'm falling in love with!), a house that's unpacked, but not decorated, and a gorgeous "studio" space that's dying for hours of writing and projects. And I have all my goals. My wonderfully outlined stay-at-home wife and mother goals.

Underneath this physical exhaustion and thwarted goals, there's an undercurrent of raw disappointment. I like for other people to see my life well-organized. I like for other people to be impressed by my clean house, willingness to serve, and love for my family. I work because I love my family, yes, but I'm learning that's not the only reason that I work. My love is not untainted with selfishness. I love to work, work, work to show how amazing I am.

But right now, I can barely climb a flight of stairs. Ah... humility.

So God is teaching me about quiet work. About a striving that doesn't come from physical labor. About diligence that's not reflected in how clean my house is, or how yummy dinner smells. My family cannot benefit from tangible, visible love right now. I am physically unable to provide it. (Aside from daily cuddle sessions and book-fests on the couch!)

So, I am learning about prayer. I use the word "learning" loosely. I'm like a barely walking, wobbly little baby deer. My mind is an undisciplined bramble of tangential thoughts. But when else in my life will I have hours of silent, still time, in which to pray for those in my life? (My heart is begging that this be the only time!)

When Scott and I were in premarital counseling, we memorized Psalm 131...

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up;

my eyes are not raised too high;

I do not occupy myself with things too great and marvelous for me.

But I have calmed and quieted my soul,

like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me.

O Israel, hope in the LORD

from this time forth and forevermore.

That's it. The whole psalm. I'm learning to still my heart through prayer. To serve others through prayer. To focus on my Savior through prayer. And, because I'm a very slow, slow learner, God had to remove all other distractions and tasks. Because I'm proud and conceited, God removed the props that were supporting my own glory, and is slowly working on me to seek His glory.

Patience and humility.

Not what I would sign up for.

But clearly what I need...

When You Don't Have To Understand...

God has been teaching me that I don't have to know.

I don't have to understand.

And I don't have to provide a unique, trite Christian answer to every struggle.

He doesn't ask me to grow mountains of faith, all he wants is a mustard seed of clinging to Him.

And sometimes, keeping a hold of that mustard seed, hurts more than I ever imagined.

I have been sick the majority of this pregnancy. Normal, nauseated, chronically exhausted sick. And I would give anything to go back there. Because something much worse has started to happen...

I have an autoimmune disease known as ulcerative colitis. My body basically reacts as though normal stomach tissue is some deadly pathogen, and my body attacks itself. It's a painful, embarrassing disease... When I was younger, I used to imagine I was chronically ill with some romantic, wasting disease (the side effect of too much Victorian literature), and now my imagination has become reality. And there's nothing "romantic" about it.

For the past 2 1/2 years, I have not needed any medical intervention. Because I was healthy when I got pregnant, I hoped that I would maintain the status quo throughout pregnancy. And for 20 weeks, I did. Then it came back. With a vengeance.

In the eight years since I was diagnosed, I have never had the disease attack with such intensity and deteriorate with such speed. I have lost massive amounts of blood in a very short time. All my tried and true remedies for controlling this disease have been completely useless.

And I'm in a new home, without my favorite doctor, without insurance (to cover this preexisting condition), without funds to supply medical needs, and without my mom. (I've decided you're never too old to want your mom.)

And another human life is depending on my body for her life.

This is terrifying.

And I don't understand why this is happening.

But in my fear, my distress, and my weakness, this truth keeps coming through: God is god.

It's not profound. My mind can't grasp profound right now. All I can think is He is in charge. I've been living in Job... And never has my awareness of God's bigness been so real. And you know what all that bigness means?

That maybe I can't understand. Maybe I don't see a reason. And maybe, just maybe, I never will.

But I don't have to. Because behind the scenes of billions of human lives, God is creating a story more vivid and imaginative than I could possibly imagine. And someday, I will see it. Someday, I will understand.

May I rest in my ignorance. And may I never grow angry at God for His inscrutable ways.

As Job said,

“I know that you can do all things,

    and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted." (Job 42:2)

His purposes are big. And they are good.

Back Home Again... In Michigan

Well, more than a week after our return, I've finally unloaded my camera (but still not my suitcase!), stocked the kitchen, scrubbed the house, and returned to normalcy. Grant and I were able to fly home for a short visit to see family in Indiana and Michigan before flying became impossible for mommy and miserable for Grant (the child likes to move!). We left Scott in Philly, and became seasoned jet-setters, as we navigated airports solo... just baby, Mommy, a car seat, a massive "purse," and rolling carry-on. Needless to say, we were relieved to finally land in Detroit. (I'm not sure how happy most people are to arrive  in Detroit, but I most definitely was.)

'

We visited "Granny& Gramps" Allison in Lansing... and Grantopatomus enjoyed all the attention (who wouldn't!?), and mommy enjoyed all the pizza and fun conversation.

Probably the cutest lil' gangster around. 

What on earth  are they feeding my little Boilermaker!?!

I would submit that no child's life is complete if there are not plenty of embarrassing bath pictures. And (of course) the quintessential bath picture should really  be snapped while you're in Grandmama's sink, playing with your father's vintage toys.

At this point in our documentation, Grant was still not familiar with any camera other than my iPhone. But Grandmama looks just lovely.

Heartaches & Boundless Love

When I first held my baby in my arms, he weighed 4 pounds, 10 ounces. My whole body was in knots as I cuddled, dressed, and fed my miniature package for a terrifying week in the NICU. I never really fell asleep, I didn't rest, my mind couldn't focus on anything else. My heart ached for my new baby. Every spasm of pain and miserable feeding, I held him, prayed over him, wept for him...

We left that NICU after one week. A short stay compared to many...

But something had lodged itself in my heart. Like a splinter of glass, there was a new rawness, a new edge. Sometimes, it quietly lets itself be forgotten. During long days of working while he was still so tiny. During nights where we both finally fell into an exhausted sleep. During those times... I forgot.

And then he smiled at me.

He had his first belly laugh.

He needed a sick-boy mommy cuddle time.

He got fatter.

And bigger.

His personality begins to peep through.

In those moments, I remember. And the ache returns. My heart aches over the little life entrusted to me. Every joy fills me with gladness, every sorrow makes me cry, my heart longs after my baby. 

And this is but a shadow of God's aching and longing for you.

In the New Testament, God is referred to as "our father" or "the father" over and over and over again. The phrase "grace and peace to you from God our Father" occurrs nine times (in my brief search through the ESV translation alone).

The Bible is a relatively short book. It is our guide in this life. Think of all the things God could have possibly wanted to cram into it: "don't do this," "make sure you do this," "remember such-and-such."

But in this short book, God chose to refer to himself as our father again and again. And as our Father, He sent blessings of grace and peace. Again and again.

If I, a fragile, fallible human parent, feel the aching of sacrificial love for my small son (and unborn baby girl), then how much more so is God's infinite aching after us, His adopted sons and daughters? He gave the perfect sacrifice to save us. He equipped us with everything we needed to become like His perfect son, Christ. And He watches our daily struggles, our fight on this earth, with the aching and longing that we would fully realize the grace and peace He so freely offers.

Revel in belonging to a God of whom it is written:

"Your steadfast love, O Lord, extends to the heavens."

Because with this boundless love... He loves you.

My New List And My New Happiness

Several weeks ago, when I was feeling particularly horrible and barely able to get off the couch, I began to wonder how on earth I would get everything done. While being a stay-at-home is markedly less stressful than corralling autistic three-year olds every day, there is (nonetheless) a to-do list.

And mine was getting longer.

I would rush around one day like crazy, be couch-ridden the next, all the while with a niggling suspicion that I wasn't doing a good job loving my husband or child...

A pithy saying kept ringing in my ears: "Never let the urgent crowd out the important."

I didn't know how, but I had a sneaking suspicion that I was letting the urgent drown out what was truly important.

And so, I came up with a plan.

A list.

I had made lists before, but this was a new list. And this one was very simple. Every day it stayed the same. And every day it provided the structure needed to address the variation in my new routine, while simultaneously providing a framework to remember "the important."

It's been several weeks, and my success with my list is variable, although, I will say that I'm a happier, calmer wife/mommy.

This is my list:
1. Show love to my Savior
2. Show love to my husband
3. Show love to my baby
4. Be a good steward of this house
5. Be a good steward of my talents/employment
6. Show love to others.

Each day, many of the other things I need to get done slip right into these categories... I fold laundry and iron dress shirts, because I know that is showing love to my hubby. But maybe I do a smidge more... maybe I also make some pumpkin muffins on a whim. Because the word "love" is in my list, and going the extra mile for those I love is much different from crossing off an item on my to-do list.

Depending on the day, one category may get a more time-intensive task than the others. On days when I'm sick, the tasks in each category get shorter, but they still exist. Each category still gets filled... As seen below:

1. Show love to my Savior...by spending 15 minutes in prayer before breakfast
2. Show love to my husband... by cleaning out his sock drawer, putting away summer clothes, and hiding a note somewhere.
3. Show love to my baby... by introducing him to a half hour of bubble playtime!
4. Be a good steward of this house... by sweeping and mopping the floors.

And someone was once afraid of water!

5. Be a good steward of my talents/employment... by practicing the piano, and sending a follow-up email to new boss.
6. Show love to others... write on _________'s Facebook wall and tell her what I've seen/been encouraged by.


But what I love most is that my list is forcing me to enjoy the relationships around me in tangible ways. I want my wee baby boy to grow up knowing that he is an incredibly important part of my day, and that I am never too busy for him. I want my hubby to know that he is the forever love of my life. And I want my relationship with my Savior to deepen on a daily basis.

Unfortunately, I often want all those things, but lose sight of the daily practices I need to utilize in order to see these blessings fulfilled in my life.

We were so wet and muddy after this adventure that we needed another bath!

My little bundle of delight (who takes so much work that I was forgetting to have fun with him) has loved his new mommy play time. Sometimes it's just 10 minutes of crazy cuddles, or sometimes it's hours of water fun...



I'm so blessed to be his mommy!
I'm so blessed to have this amazing life...

Lord, help me to be a good steward of these blessings.

And Wee Squidgee Is A...

I am completely surprised. And I have no idea what I will call this little pink doll. As soon as I saw her, all the names I HAD thought I liked flew right out the window...

But I am sure of one thing... Scott will be an amazing daddy to "Baby Squidgette." (And these are the only two pink things we own... I don't have a lot of pink, and that color hasn't really come out in Grant's wardrobe. I know. Shocker.)

Loud Singing & A Bloody Sacrifice.

The spiced cider candle is flickering. Toasty pumpkin muffins are cooling on the counter. Baby is sleeping, the dishwasher is humming, and I'm curled up in my favorite bedraggled sweater listening to soothing African-style easy listening nothingness.

Today is a day of rest.

The beginning of a fresh week of battles.

But today is not about those battles. Today is about praise. Worship. Rest. Reveling in God's glory.

And today I got to do that...

The past five months, as I've struggled to remain upright, to focus, and to get through each day, Sunday was not a day of rest. Sunday was a day of more work: get up, try to look decent, clean up baby, get out the door, smile, nod, try to worship, smile, nod, remember people's names...

Worship was hard. Worship was work. Worship was draining. Exhausting. Drying. Saturation in the grace of God didn't feel real. I went through the motions.

I wasn't mad. Or depressed. Or bitter.

I was just exhausted. Drained. And barely able to focus on the words I was singing and the truth I was hearing.

One Sunday morning, as I (tiredly) wrapped Velcro rollers around another strand of impossibly frizzy hair, I began to hum... "We bring a sacrifice of praise into the house of The Lord..." And then it hit me:

My worship is to be a sacrifice.

Think about that phrase. Just think.

Worship. A sacrifice. 

A brutal, blood-spilling, emotion-draining, laying down on the alter. My worship. Slitting the throat. Burning the carcass. My worship. Gory. Bloody. Painful.

A sacrifice.

Not an emotional high. Not a feel-good fest. (Not that it isn't wonderful when God gives those moments...) But my worship should be an act of obedience. Whole-hearted willingness to shout my God's glory and revel in His Word.

Regardless of my fatigue.

Regardless of my pain.

Regardless of fears, broken relationships, betrayal, apathy, anger, or boredom.

Worship.

Set aside thoughts of you.

Focus on your Savior.

And pour out the blood of sacrificial worship.

Such abandonment for the glory of God does not return to you empty. And today God allowed peace and happiness as I sang each line and listened to each word... Focusing on the sacrifice resulted in wonderful joy.

"... let us continually offer up a sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of lips that acknowledge his name. Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God." (Hebrews 13:15b-16)

Guilt and Unpacking

I've just completed my 33rd day of my new career.

33 days ago, Grant and I came to Philadelphia.

33 days ago, we didn't have a home, I didn't have a job, and I couldn't find my toothbrush.

I also didn't have a clue what I was getting myself into...

For the past three years, I've worked full-time and enjoyed it (almost all the time, promise!). I loved being a speech therapist. And then I met a guy... A guy who on our third date asked me if I would ever want to be a stay-at-home mom. (I don't know about you other ladies, but for me, that was like finding the Holy Grail of manhood. I most DEFINITELY wanted to be a wife and mom first (and a therapist second).) Short story even shorter (we met and married in less than 6 months), I fell in love with that amazing man.

He was in seminary... So I brought home the bacon.

We had a baby... I kept bringing home bacon.

But this July he started bringing home the bacon.

And I was upgraded to my new position.

And I was terrified.

I began having recurring dreams of flunking out of school, failing at life, and never measuring up.

At every other time in my life, there has been a measurement. I've known where I stand.

But here? In motherhood? There is no measure. None.

So, I floundered. I alternated between panicked frenzies and helpless stupor. One day, I would unpack tons of boxes, scrub floors, and scour old wood work. Then, for the next three days, I would barely scrape by, wanting to nap, eat, and read my way through my free time. Being nauseated, pregnant, and exhausted didn't help with my motivation, but it was also a nice crutch to lean on. No one faults a pregnant lady for taking a nap.

I tried everything I could think of... I prayed, I wrote lists, I spent more time in the Bible... I was searching for a magic key. Because, deep under my mood swings, there was pure, unadulterated terror. I would wake up in the clutches of guilt and fear, and no matter how much I did, every night, I felt inadequate, incapable. I was a failure. I have never wrestled with such a intangible, internal fear. There was nothing outside me. My husband was loving. My new church was supportive. We had a house, a baby, and a future that was incredibly stable and filled with blessings.

And still I was guilt-ridden.

Was I doing enough? Was I measuring up? Was I failing at this incredibly important job of motherhood? I was miserable...

But I was supposed to feel this way.

Not so that I would wallow in my guilt. Not so that I would live in fear.

But so that Christ can be glorified.

The Apostle Paul had an amazing ministry. God allowed him to see a myriad of things... And he could have become quite conceited. In fact, he had reason to be. And God knew this. So He gave Paul a weakness... And Paul was miserable. He pleaded and prayed that it would go away. But God answered,

  “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” 

I have been given much. I am surrounded by blessings and goodness and extra joy beyond joy. God has allowed this. And I could become quite complacent, conceited even, with all this blessing. And God knew this. So He gave me a weakness: a desire for success and tangible reward. And, because I did not use this as it was intended, I was miserable.

There is nothing wrong with wanting to measure up. There is nothing wrong with desiring to be an exemplary mommy. In a backlash against Pinterest, I have read countless mommy-blogs that reiterate over and over, "you don't have to be perfect..." And, while this is true, there's a piece missing.

You were designed to crave success. You were designed to seek rewards.

But we've been looking in the wrong places.

Someday, I will find out how I did as a mommy. Someday, I will be given my reward. It won't be today. It won't be on this earth. I won't be able to frame it in a cute, Pinterest-project-frame.

But it will come.

I will receive a reward.

Knowing that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward. You are serving the Lord Christ.

If my work is the work of eternity it will speak for itself.

If the work that anyone has built on the foundation survives, he will receive a reward.

And Christ himself has told me,

"Look, I am coming soon! My reward is with me, and I will give to each person according to what they have done."

So, I will keep striving for perfection. I may not have a Pinterest-board house, but I want a Pinterest-board heart: beautifully, perfectly tended, selfless, and loving.And I won't know where I stand, until the very end. The Lord has given me a desire for success... And I will pray daily for His tuning of my heart. I'm weak and inadequate. But in this God is glorified.

Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses.

And someday... I will find my reward.

Although, kissing this sweet face is a reward in and of itself!