JUST ANOTHER WIFE AND MOTHER HAS MOVED!

Hello, all!

My new blogging home can be found at: www.justanotherwifeandmother.com 

It was fun using this space, and it's also fun to move on. Check out the new digs! I think you'll like them. They're much cleaner, prettier, and easier to use.

See you over there!

Of Popsicles, Screaming, and Missing Moments of Desperation

Yesterday was not great.

My children screamed. At all the worst possible times. Not screams of need, but screams for attention and screams for fun, and screams of anger.

I was exhausted. I hadn't slept well. All day, I had a low-grade fatigue coupled with some physical weakness that I just couldn't shake. And trust me. I tried. 12 cups of coffee. Green smoothies. 100 ounces of water...

But somehow, nothing changed. Building blocks exploded all over my living room. Kids fought over library books. And this was "bathroom cleaning day." Which means, I was trying to corral "helpful" toddlers, as I was sweating, covered in bleach, scrubbing down showers.

They yelled at each other, fought over blankets, ran screaming down the hallway, and wailed every time they had to go to the bathroom.

I brought out the popsicles.

And as my daughter dribbled purple popsicle down her chin (because, guess what? Kids don't scream when they're eating popsicles.), I tuned them out. I turned on Netflix, I texted, I scanned Instagram.

And I lost the gospel in my home.

Bad days happen. There are seasons when they happen more often than I would like, and then there are some smooth sailing times. It's happened to me at every stage of life... school, college, career, marriage, and now full-time parenting.

And almost without exception, something precious gets lost every time I have a day like this.

I lose a moment of desperation.

I cover it up, I mask it. I try to use something else to fill that moment: more work, a to-do list, a nap, Netflix, social media, a friend call. And this precious little canyon of a moment gets blown by or filled up with garbage.

Because that yawning pit of desperation, that split second in which my day unravels and I'm left holding the threads as two screaming kids latch onto my legs, that is a beautiful moment.

It feels like I'm free-falling into chaos.

It feels horrible.

It's actually where I'm supposed to be.

Every day, every moment, every breath... I am tumbling into that abyss of chaos, and I am stayed only by the gracious, faithful love of my Savior. As a weak-minded sinner, I'm convinced that I have control over my day, that I can call the shots, that I can handle life.

I can't.

I am totally, completely, without exception, dependent on my God for every moment of peace, order, and happiness that I gather in my life. I just don't always realize it.

And He is kind. He doesn't force me to realize it.

But on days when every effort at order is met with tension, and messes, and yells of anger (not all of them coming from my children...), on those days, he is showing me my deep and desperate need for Him.

Sometimes he creates a canyon of chaos, so that I will look to him.

I waited patiently for the Lord;

he inclined to me and heard my cry.

He drew me up from the pit of destruction,

out of the miry bog,

and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure.

(Ps. 40:1-2)

Here's my new game plan...

I cry out to God. And wait patiently. Because sometimes he is working bigger things through chaos and turmoil. So, I will wait patiently. I will not fill my moments with my phone or my sitcoms. I will fill it with prayer.

Because I know that he will hear me, and that relief from the destruction and slimy pit into which I've fallen is coming. I may not see when. I may not know how. But it is.

And he will show me where to do. And it won't be an uncertain path, it will be secure. He will direct my responses and my decisions.

And he promises a beautiful end...

Many will see and fear;

and put their trust in the Lord.

Blessed is the man who makes the Lord his trust.

(Ps. 40: 3b-4a)

Perhaps my chaos and my running to God will enable others to see the gospel. Maybe my children will remember the bad days as testimonies to the goodness and care and availability of God. Maybe my friends will know that hope comes when ordinary days are turned into theology lessons and practice. Maybe my days of chaos, when I'm all alone, are preaching to an unseen audience of angels, demons, and rulers of the air... "My God is enough and I will forever run to him."

Because God promises: waiting patiently for his deliverance means that many will see and fear.

But beyond that... I will be blessed. If God, not my to-do list, not peace, not order, not a clean house, not quiet kids, not perfect days... If GOD is my trust, then I will be blessed.

Here's to a better Thursday.

With plenty of time to call out to God.

Which is why I have popsicles in my freezer. So I can have a quiet moment pleading with my Savior.

Because popsicles are never a bad idea...

Because You Are Strong

The world doesn't get to define what makes a strong woman.

For centuries now, culture has lied to its ladies.

Large portions of the past are filled with a "women are possessions" type mentality. Women were inferior, weren't allowed to vote, and had no say in the management of their own money or resources. (Legally, that is. There have always been a handful of forward-thinking, gospel-driven men who saw things differently.)

Then, as the legal pendulum swung, women were allowed to vote, to work, to fight for rights in a court of law.

All of these are good.

But when the legal shift began to happen, little to no attention was paid to the theology behind being a woman. The crusade for women's rights was led by some godless, perverted women. And while God used them to accomplish some amazing things, they mobilized their arguments and attacks with little to no thought of what an appropriate view of women should be.

The only thought was: be like men. Or (if you're a little caustic and cynical), be better than men.

And that became our standard. For everything. For the jobs we pursued, the clothes we wore, the demeanor we put on, the physical prowess we tried to achieve.

Don't get me wrong, I love my yoga pants. I'm not advocating for a return to dresses. I enjoy voting, I'm glad I own my own property, and I'm thankful that there's legal recourse if someone wrongs me.

But when we began to fight those battles, we lost an important war.

The war of woman.

We now allow the world to tell us what makes us strong. We let the world tell us what makes us successful. We allow the world to tell us our place, our role, our strengths, and our future.

I have seen the world's definition of "successful" women, and let me tell you, they're lying to you.

We stand, shoulder to shoulder, as daughters of Christ, and sisters through Him... so I can be honest, right? Strength does not mean being able to pull an 18 hour work day and then come home to make cupcakes for your daughter's birthday. Strength does not mean having every single job a man has and doing it better. Strength does not mean calling the shots on your families size and long-term planning. Strength is not being able to meet all the expectations of your beautifully color-coded calendar.

Strength is not in your job, your salary, your amazing Pinterest projects, your well-behaved children, your tireless serving, your ceaseless cleaning, or your ceaseless-refusing-to-clean...

Sister, put down your self-righteous busyness (or laziness!), and breathe.

The joy of the Lord will be your strength. Remember when these words were spoken? In the midst of repeated moral failure. To a crowd of tired, over-worked, and desperate-for-good-things people. Nehemiah and a handful of faithful Israelites were trying to do the right thing. They were trying to rebuild a city, a temple, and a way of life. All I have to build today are some piles of clean laundry and a block tower...

Joy is your strength, friend. And not just any joy... joy that is firmly rooted in your Lord. The One who is calling the shots. The One who designed you as a woman. The One who is guiding every aspect of your life for your good.

So, put down your "strength." I don't know what that is. But I know some of my past and present "strengths." I've thought I was strong in my academics, my career, my job, my graduate school successes, my intellect, my health... I've struggled with trying to grab strength from people ("Do you like me?! I don't care. I do! Please like me! Or not... whatever."). Or from a clean house and a cuddle from a toddler. I've looked for strength in good days, manicures, successes, and accolades. Friend, I've hunted just about everywhere for strength. Put it down.

And pick up your joy.

I've fought for joy for years now. It is my heart-beat, my passion, and my delight. Just as I shared last week signs that your joy tank is empty, I want to leave you with some ways to fill it back up... God doesn't hand us a command like "Rejoice in the Lord always" just to watch us fail. He hands us a gracious, happy command, and then gently guides our feet down paths of truth as we obey.

1. Open your Bible. No. Stop. Listen to me. Don't open a devotional book, an inspirational story, or a Christian non-fiction best-seller. OPEN YOUR BIBLE. Open it EVERY DAY. Don't know where to start? Start in the Psalms. They are peace and balm to a weary, striving, (possibly dried up?) soul. You wouldn't skip chemo treatments if your body was dying. Don't skip Bible reading. Your soul needs it to fight the cancer of sin and despair.

2. Be thankful. In the book of Philippians, Paul is repeatedly giving thanks and urging others to give thanks. Key themes of Philippians? Suffering and joy. Paul was in prison during this letter writing. And yet he was thankful. Make yourself practice thankfulness. Keep a list. Write thank you notes. Have an entire prayer time each day in which you don't ask for anything, you only give thanks. The options are endless.

3. Read Christian Biographies. Seriously. Just do this. It's amazing. God gives us examples throughout scripture, but he has also shown himself faithful throughout the generations. Sometimes I forget that. Sometimes I forget that a life lived for Christ is beautiful and joy-filled (regardless of the circumstances). I've included a list of my favorites on the side-bar of this blog. I really, really, really want you to dig into the joy that God has never failed to give his children.

The world doesn't get to define a strong woman.

God does.

The joy of the Lord will be your strength.

This is a promise. Dig your heals in and grab it.

The Sputtering Joy Tank of Mommyhood

I just spent all day potty training an emotional two year old.

Potty training. Two year old. Emotions.

ALL DAY.

My child apparently couldn't decide if the potty was going to eat her, or if it was her best friend. We just never knew. The tears and squeals were dynamic and unpredictable.

Her brother decided that he would try and go to the potty "like a big boy." Which means he stood up, and sprayed down half of my dining room as he attempted to hit the little training potty. This is my kid who is already "potty trained."

I should have created a Lysol stock portfolio. I would have made some money today.

I'm pretty sure my current sweatpants (yes, I wore massive sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt all day. I look amazing.), I'm fairly confident they have large amount of urine on them.

On top of this, my children chose to grab, push, scream, poke, squeal, and push boundaries all day. All day.

They went to bed early.

I probably will, too.

But I love being a mom.

I enjoy it. It is amazing.

When I say that, I've started to worry about what people are thinking. Our mommy culture is not conducive to thankfulness and excitement. Mommy culture feeds off of discontent, comparison (hello, the thief of joy), and "hard days." It's almost like, if you're a mom with a pretty Instagram feed and an excitement about your mommy challenges... well, then you must be faking. Stop being perfectionistic. Be transparent. Be real. Show me your mess so I can feel better about mine. Compare. Complain. Criticize.

I'm sitting here in questionable sweatpants telling you... that is not okay.

Being a mom is a beautiful, amazing, gospel-fulfilling, joyous calling.

You realize that you did not choose to become a mom. God let you become a mom. Some become moms traditionally. Some, not so traditionally. I love the "untraditional mommies." They're some of my favorite people.

From the dawn of time, God's used childbirth and the continuation of Adam's race to promise hope and proclaim his love.

God could have stopped making humans a long time ago. Honestly, even the best of us don't turn out that great. But he still forms small bodies, creates tiny souls, and grows little families.

That is amazing love.

Your life, your kids, the fact that you are dubbed, "mom" is an amazingly joyous blessing. A gospel-furthering blessing.

So, maybe our mommy culture has it backwards?

Maybe the potty puddles, the tantrums, and the dirty kitchens shouldn't break us and make us "real." Maybe these germy, sticky hurdles exist to make us fight for joy. Maybe we've covered cheap, breakable happiness in the veneer of "joy." Maybe that's why our mommy times are filled with hopelessness, bitterness, and comparison. When you step in a questionable puddle, as your children whine for fruit snacks, does the veneer crack? Does the good feeling break? Do despair, anger, frustration, hopelessness... do they come crowding in? Do you hide in the kitchen, stuffing chocolate in your mouth, quietly sobbing to yourself?

No?

Just me?

Because if that happens, you've exchanged brilliant, diamond-hard joy, for a cheap trinket.

Motherhood is hard.

Um, hello. Obviously.

It's part of life.

Life is hard. Because of sin. And the curse. And the fact that Jesus hasn't come back.

But it's not joyless. It is enjoyable!

I get it. Griping is easier. More fun (in the moment). Everyone likes a good horror story.

But that's not what you're called to.

You are called to joy. I love Nehemiah 8:10. It says, "Do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength." This hope was not spoken into a day of successes and triumph. This was spoken to the children of Israel as they heard the law of the Lord read. As they heard countless laws they had broken, ways they had failed, weaknesses they had ignored. And they began to sob.

Sound like a rough day in mommyhood?

Are you there? Feeling weak, alone, like a failure?

The joy of the Lord is your strength.

I love joy. It's my heart-beat. My passion. My gasoline. What keeps me going. And I've learned, over years of battling for joy, triggers and sign-posts that I've slipped from my path of joy and started beating around in brambles of fake happiness. I've listed several below.

Signs of joyless living:

1. Your prayer life is like a cut-out sugar cookie. Same thing. Every day. Or perhaps something you only use on special occasions.

2. You don't enjoy singing with others on Sunday morning.

3. You criticize other people constantly. Because you know how to do things better. Obviously.

4. You have no sympathy for the pains of others. Or rather, your problems are bigger.

5. Small, earthly blessings, like puddles of sunshine, warm coffee, comfy clothes, a clean kitchen counter, no longer result in a prayer of thanksgiving. 

6. You don't read my Bible. Or you read it, close it, and walk away bored.

7. You make excuses for habitual sins. In fact, the old sins, your comfortable bad habits, usually grow a little stronger.

8. Scrolling through Facebook or Instagram or Pinterest doesn't elicit feelings of interest, but rather cattiness, comparison, hopelessness, derision, and scorn.

9. Your husband can't do anything right.

How's your joy tank, friend?

What I'm standing here saying after a brutal mommy day is, "It doesn't have to be like that!" Tough days don't have to crack you. You can sit down, in the midst of chaos and smile, laugh (not from insanity!), and redirect your family to truth. You can. And I'm not saying that because my life is perfect.

I'm saying it because my God made it that way.



(to be continued)

Hello, 2016, I shake you warmly by the hand

As the title suggests, I'm at probably Willy Wonka levels in my sugar/sweetness/candy intake (note the subtle salute to this great and creepy movie). The holidays got me, and they got me good. Even though everything is "technically" tummy healthy, you can't eat pints of coconut milk ice cream and almond meal chocolate chip cookies for days on end... they always find you.

So, as I stood in the line at the grocery store, debating between roasted nuts and blackberries, I was largely oblivious to the scraggly haired man staring me down.

"So... Pennsylvania Boilermaker, huh?" He was commenting on my sweatshirt, which I had stolen from my husband. It is blazoned, with gold letters: Pennsylvania Boilermaker. I love it. 

"Oh, yes, it's a salute to my alma mater, Purdue University."

"Eh, I'm a unionized contractor/plumber. I know all about boilermakers. But I'm not doing that work any more."

I tilt my head politely and fake smile. You know the one. The smile that says, "I'm so unbelievably gracious, but I have little to no interest in talking to you." Don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about.

"Yeah... I had a surgery. Can't be doin' that plumbin' no more. I have a scar..." And he begins to hoist his pant leg.

I back politely away, "Oh, that's too bad." But it's too late, he's hiked his pants up, way past his knees, and he's showing me an eight inch scar up his thigh. Way up his thigh.

He then proceeds to tell me about his 16 year old daughter, his contracting woes, his lawyer's advice (apparently, someone is being sued for the horrible surgery he had to go through).

As I meander slowly down the aisle, occasionally backing away politely, he follows me relentlessly.

I hear about how young he is (the guy looks 60+, but apparently he's in his 40s.), I hear about how finding work is hard, I hear about his views on free handouts (he thinks you should take them even if you don't need them), etc., etc., etc. We probably conversed for 10-15 minutes next to the chips. I don't eat chips. He didn't seem to need chips, but there we stood.

And I started grinning.

Because apparently, God wanted to give me a jump start on my new year's goals.

I love new years. Love them.

I love new notebooks, fresh goals, crisp spreadsheets, and planning. I love dreaming of possibilities, and picturing new successes. I know that most of my counterparts are a little jaded. A little tired. A little weary. New years don't always hold the appeal that they should.

And I'm here to say, "I'm sorry."

It doesn't have to be that way.

In 2015, I entered the year battling massive lies and worries. I made 3 goals. I didn't think I could handle any more. I was right.

My biggest goal was that I would steadfastly cling to the fact that I was "beloved" by God, and that I could peacefully abide in Him. I didn't know what abiding looked like. And I didn't feel very loved.

But I learned something. God likes it when our goals are in pursuit of Him. When it's not a waistline, better life, prosperity goal. He loves it when we picture a deficiency, cry out to Him, and run in truth. Day after day.

You need goals. You need to identify weaknesses. You need to plan to change. Because while the Holy Spirit does tremendous things with our weakness and blind willingness, he can also work so much more powerfully through intentional running, and crying, and clinging, and seeking.

Goals help you do this.

I can say, without the slightest reservation, that God changed my soul this year. My heart is filled with peace, and I am wrapped in the unconditional love of my Savior. I am more aware of what abiding, daily seeking, daily relying on my Savior looks like. I'm not flawless, obviously, but I've grown, and I'm so unbelievably thankful.

Enter 2016.

I started praying two weeks ago about my plan for 2016. And like a typhoon, a lightning bolt, and a tsunami, the truth came crashing in on me. That still small voice whispered in a decimating way, "Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near."

I am not gentle. I desperately want to be. But I tend strongly towards sledgehammer, just-do-it, suck-it-up-chump, tendencies. But after a year of experiencing the unconditional grace and love of my Father, I realized that I desperately need to show the same love to others.

Which is probably why God chose to kick off my new year's celebration prep with a lonely, grizzled old(ish) man in a super-market. He needed some grace and gentleness. 

So your new year's party may be a bummer (I don't think I've been to one that wasn't...), but 2016 doesn't have to be. Praying that you find the grace and grit to dig into the new year. I'll be waiting here, ready to listen, because, after all, gentleness does a lot of listening. 

Happy 2016!

When The Most Wonderful Time of The Year... Isn't

I cry in the bathroom almost every Christmas.

Sob.

Quietly. Alone.

Christmas movies and songs with bells in them... they tell me that this is the most wonderful time of the year. And everyone loves that. It's bright, and sparkly, and gift-wrapped. But the truth is, life doesn't go on hold during the month of December.

I cried because I was single. I cried because I was dating. I cried because I was sick. I cried because I didn't feel healthy enough. I cried because I looked ugly in my Christmas outfit. I cried because my grandma wasn't there. I cried because someone else was there. I cried because I had no children. I cried because my child came and was terrifyingly tiny and sick. I cried because I was alone. I cried because there were so many people. I cried because of my sin, because of someone else's sin, because of some unknown longing and gnawing that just wouldn't quit.

Life doesn't pause in December.

And sometimes all the gaiety and merriment just makes your ache that much more profound.

It makes you wonder if this is it. Is this my happiness? Even in the wonderful moments, there's the knowledge, "this won't last forever... crap. I hate packing up ornaments..."

I'm telling you this because my life is idyllic. It's ideal. My family is amazing, my husband is phenomenal, my children are undeserved blessings.

And I still felt this gnawing emptiness.

Let's just be honest. If I have felt it, surrounded by all my earthly peace and blessings... surely I'm not alone.

My kids have several Little People books. The people are fat and chunky, the mountains in the background are flat and a weird color purple. All the buildings and surroundings are symmetrical and pastel colored. While it looks quite cheerful, in reality, it's all a poor, flat representation of life.

That's where we're living. We're chunky Little People. Our surroundings are flat and boring. We don't know any better. This is our world. But someday, we will see true beauty. Just as a person who has only seen purple mountain blobs, would fall down dead in shock at the power of the Rocky Mountains, so will you and I gasp in amazement at the power a beauty of heaven.

This is not the ultimate home coming. This is not the end. All the beautiful decorations, the amazing food, the gifts, the hugs, the family... it's just a cheap, bumbling representation of eternity.

The past several Christmases, I haven't sobbed in the bathroom. Because I know this is only a flat representation of true joy. It's wonderful. But it's not the most wonderful.

When my to do list is too long, when relationships are stressful, when the glitter keeps falling off my Pinterest ornaments and the tape keeps popping off my carefully wrapped presents... I take a deep breath.

"I have calmed and quieted my soul." I breath out David's peace. "I have calmed and quieted my soul." This is not all there is. This is not ultimate happiness. This is not my satisfaction. And I say with the psalmist, "Oh, Israel, hope in the Lord from this time forth and forever more." God, may my hope be in you, in your steadfast love, in your faithfulness to save, in your unchanging goodness. My hope is not in my family, my presents, my traditions, my glitter... It's in my GOD.

So, withdraw to that bathroom. It's okay to feel this way. But take that deep longing, that dissatisfaction, that overwhelmed fatigue, and cry out to God. Ask for a quiet soul. Ask that God would be your hope.

The most wonderful time of the year... isn't actually that wonderful. It's just a sample. Better things are coming. This I can promise you.

Merry Christmas.

He Loved Them To The End

He spent nine months in a uterus.

He grew fingers, toes, a brain, and skin.

He was squeezed through a birth canal.

He sat in poopy diapers.

He learned the walk, talk, run, and play.

The God of the universe who knows chemistry and physics we haven't even discovered.

He had siblings antagonize him.

A faulty father, whose every sin was laid before his Son, was his teacher.

He went to Hebrew school to learn the very Word of God. The Word that He himself had spoken.

He went through puberty.

The God who was, is, and always will be unchanging... had pimples.

He recruited followers. They were blind, stupid, and arrogant. He lived every day with them for three years, and entrusted the spread of the gospel to them despite their ignorance.

He had aching feet.

He got dirty. His hair was greasy.

He experienced damp, uncomfortable clothing, money issues, and lack of food.

The God who perfectly created all food, humans, and animals, joined us in our sin-filled discomfort.

He cast out demons and was accused of being a demon.

He helped people and was driven from their town.

He was abused and hunted down for his willingness to heal.

He was rarely thanked.

He taught constantly. Nobody listened.

He lived perfectly. People still watched for him to fail, laid traps to trick him, and rooted for his down-fall.

He got tired. Bone-wearing, dead-dog, debilitatingly tired.

He was compassionate and gentle to the shy and timid.

He told his followers of the suffering, tragedy, and brutal trial that was coming. He told them again and again. They didn't listen. They just wanted to know which one of them was the most important.

He told them again. They fell asleep, with bellies full of food that he gave them, and he was left alone. With no friends. No prayer warriors. No one listening.

He was blameless. And he was arrested.

In a trial that fell apart because all the witnesses were lying, he alone told the truth. This truth caused the judges to rip their robes and wail and claim that the sham trial was over because he had accused himself. The lie of a trial was over because of the truth. And they claimed it was blasphemy.

He was quiet. People hurled angry, egotistical, jealous accusations.

He was beaten. He had made the muscles and sinews of each arm that beat him. He controlled the life breath of each man who mocked him. He did not stop them.

And then, after all this, he was skewered to beams of wood to die. He who caused trees to grow, who gave men minds to create good things, who designed the human body.

After all this... he was left alone.

The most precious, treasured, nurtured, constant love of his Father. The God he repeatedly withdrew to pray with, who sustained him, who nurtured him, who walked with him through the difficulty and humiliation of being a man and being God... He left.

He was alone. Pierced, throbbing, aching, despised, spit covered, misunderstood, lied about, ignored.

Alone.

"He loved them to the end." (John 13:1) This phrase sprang off the page at me. In the midst of pain, betrayal, discomfort, and sin... Jesus willfully chose to love us. Till the end. The power, the life-saturating force of this love is staggering. That in the moments when he was alone, when his body was ripped wide and throbbing, when his Best Friend and his Father did not look at him: he loved them to the end. When his mind could have filled with self-pity or anger, he chose to plant it firmly in love.

"For His steadfast love endures forever." (Ps. 106:1).

And then with a loud cry, he breathed his last.

"Truly this man was the Son of God!"(Mark 15:39)