You Don't Need Kids To Be A Mother

You don't need kids to be a mother.

Eloise never got married. I'm fairly confident she never even dated. She had no children. Aside from some distant great-nieces, her family was pretty obsolete. Yet, somehow she wound up with twenty-four grandchildren. She became my grandma. She hosted junior-high girl sleep-overs. She taught us how to make butter-cream mints, snickerdoodles, and sweet pickles. She shared the gospel with countless people in schools and nursing homes, and she brought us with her. She prayed over us every day. Did you read that? Prayed. Every. Day. She took us to the mall, watched us play dress-up in prom dresses, and had quiet talks about priorities and our futures. She was one of the most intensely fierce, dedicated, committed mothers I've ever met.

You don't need kids to be a mother.

I know women who counsel hurting college students. Women who throw baby showers. Women who teach preschool classes. Women who knit blankets. Women who feed hungry new moms. Women who pray every morning over a myriad of hurts. I know women who organize Christmas gift drives, who rock babies in nurseries, who lead Bible studies, and take teenagers on winter retreats.

You don't need kids to be a mother.

We have somehow defined motherhood by a very narrow set of criteria. We have decided that to mother you must give birth, or at least fill out paperwork and pay a lot of money. You need children. Preferably, young ones. No one wants to sign up for motherhood with a full-fledged teenager. You need to have peanut butter always in your pantry and an unending supply of fruit snacks. There will be diapers involved.

But ladies, this is WRONG.

Each one of you, by virtue of being a woman is a mother. You are hardwired for mothering.

Eve, in the garden of Eden, was named Eve "because she was the mother of all living." There were no kids. But she had already been deemed a mother. The name "Eve" sounds like the phrase "life-giver" in Hebrew. By being made a woman, Eve was automatically a life-giver.

We live in a broken world. This is the same world Eve entered immediately after her terrible sin, with the pressure of giving birth, and carrying the (as yet unfulfilled) name "life-giver." Alone. Her job was to give birth to sinful humans. She was given this job without a close walk with God, without a mother, without an idea of what was going to happen. Eve faced painful, brutal mothering hurdles.

It's not much different today.

Today, some women can't have children. Some women won't get married. Some will have far fewer children than they hoped. Some will lose children. Some will watch children walk away from truth. Some will watch children suffer. Some will never hold a new baby. Some will watch that new baby break their hearts.

Motherhood is broken.

But one of the redemptive truths is: you don't have to be a mother to practice motherhood.

You, as a woman, are hardwired to mother. Just as Eve was. Before there was a baby in existence, she was called a mother. A life-giver. By default of being a woman, by default of being created to mimic God's gentle nurturing, you are a mother.

One of the most powerful mothering figures I know is a mom who had two children, and then was given no more. (Of course, if you're going to have just two, these are a pretty awesome duo!) But she went on to mother countless college girls and young moms. She (probably even today!) is sitting in a coffee shop, listening patiently, passing Kleenex, dispelling truth, and pointing to God. She is a mother to hundreds. By the time she's done, those numbers will probably be in the thousands. What a way to enter eternity! The mother of thousands. She is a life-giver.

So, here's my question... Who are you mothering? (Please, don't mention a pet. I mean, pets are amazing, but if they are the sole beneficiaries of your life-giving, you need to re-evaluate.) Where are you giving life? Intentionally. Becoming a mother takes some work when you pop them out biologically or through adoption. The same is true when you become a spiritual mom.

You need to be a mother! The church needs you! There are countless, floundering "babies," that need you. Maybe you should be with the babies in the nursery. Maybe you should be teaching them in elementary Sunday school. Maybe you should learn how to counsel, organize a ministry, or help in a nursing home.

Your children may not be as cute as the mom down the street, who gets to push her little babies in a designer stroller and dress them in matching outfits. But when you enter heaven, it won't make a difference.

You are woman. You are a mother. Find your babies. They need you.

I Didn't Wake Up This Crazy (or why we are pursuing foster care)

It has been a fascinating experience telling people that we're pursuing foster care.

When we announced that we were adopting, we got adulation, encouragement, and horror stories.

When we announced that we were having a baby, we got excitement, big hugs, and horror stories.

But, when we started telling people that we were pursuing foster care, we got horror stories, horror stories, and horror stories.

And then some more horror stories.

And a few more.

In fact, I can count on one hand the number of people that expressed excitement and encouragement. There was a very small number of people who reacted with joy and a pat on the back. Only a very small percentage were thrilled that this was the path we were taking.

I was not one of that small percentage.

This was not my plan.

I have some friends who, even while they were dating, talked about their home being a haven for hundreds of children. They talked about the beauty of foster care, the selfless love, the willingness to spend yourself... and then have a baby ripped away. And they were game. They were ready.

I was not.

I don't like foster care. It's a broken system. I don't like getting in other people's lives. I don't like nurturing a baby and then have it be taken from me. I don't like the idea of countless meetings. I don't like the idea of handing a baby over to someone with sub-par parenting skills. I don't like it.

God pushed me here.

I don't have a naturally selfless heart. I don't have a generous spirit. I don't have bountiful love.

So, God pushed me here.

Adoption was part of my "plan." Natural child-birth was part of my "plan." But foster care? Not part of my plan.

God pushed me here.

Adoption is too expensive. Natural child-birth is too dangerous (for me and my sick body). Suddenly, I was out of options, and standing in the middle of a childless desert, clutching three convictions I knew to be true.

I knew these three things were true. God proclaimed them. I cling to them. And suddenly, He had cut off all other avenues. And He was there, looking down at me, asking, "Do you really believe? Do you really trust me? Do you know that my truth is enough?"

Then He asked a very sobering question, "Are you going to back-up your convictions with actions? Even if these actions are unpleasant and unplanned? Are you willing to sign-up for something you deem "miserable" because you know my commands are marvelous?"

So. Here I am. Getting finger-printed by the FBI, sitting through a sexual education seminar (in which we discussed the "right age" to make a drawer full of condoms available to your children and how to help them masturbate "appropriately"), filling out piles of paperwork, and buying cribs, dressers, and booster seats like they're going out of style. 

Because I believe these three things:

1. Love doesn't care. 

Love doesn't care if you're going to be ripped from our home. Love doesn't care if I dump massive resources into a baby and then the baby is gone. Love doesn't care if it hurts me. Love only cares about you. 

Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends. (John 15:13)

In my head, I always read this verse in the context of martyrdom. Will I be willing to die for Christ? That's not what the verse says (sure, it's what it implies, but stay with me!). Am I willing to give up  my life. My schedule. My safety. My convenience. My money. My heart. My ease. My comfort. My insulation from pain. My life. Am I willing to scrap everything that I hold dear, because of love?

My answer has to be "yes." It's a painful "yes." But if I claim Christ's name, then I must also claim his painful, inconvenient, life-sacrificing love. 

2. Children are a blessing.

We live in a world that doesn't believe this. Oh, we believe children are a rare treasure. You should only have a couple of them. You should lavish them with everything they could possibly ask or imagine. You should let the one or two you have run your home, run your marriage, and run you.

But we don't believe that children are a blessing.

Children are a gift from the LORD; they are a reward from him. (Psalm 127:3)

Notice, there are no caveats on "children." It doesn't say: "healthy children are a gift from the Lord." It doesn't say "emotionally well-adjusted children," "beautiful children," "well-behaved children." It just says "children."

I love kids. Love 'em. And if I am to live as though ALL CHILDREN are a blessing, then I can not pick and choose those I will love based on their history, back-story, or whether or not they are "permanently mine."

3. I must practice what I preach.

This basically ties into the previous two points, and all other un-listed points on life, love, and being like Christ.

Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress and refusing to let the world corrupt you. (James 1:27)

I'm supposed to be caring for the "social outcasts." People in their distress. This isn't just about these stranded kids. It's also about their families. I am to care for these women and children in distress. If I am actually practicing "genuine religion." I hate a good hypocrite. I'd also hate to wake up one morning and realize that I am a hypocrite.

So, that's it. I'm falling in love with a crazy form of love. I'm not holy enough and intentional enough to have arrived here on my own. God shoved me into a corner, desperately clutching my beliefs, and then he asked me, "Are you willing to live it out?"

And I gulped.

And said, "yes."

This is crazy, but this is good. This is amazing. This is terrifying. This is where God wants me. And I'm excited. And reluctant. And thrilled. And horrified.

Hello, foster care. It's gonna be a great ride...

Making Eden

This. 

This is peace. 

I'm curled up in "Clifford" our big, red chair, coffee cup cradled in my lap, a candle flickering. Peace. Quiet. Clean. 

I love learning about God, and honestly, I'm one of those people who need quiet in order to meet Him. I think most of us are that way. If we'd really stopped and acknowledged the need. If we cared enough to step away from the noise, the mind-numbing, the crazy. 

One of the things I've been falling in love with is God as my Creative Father. He designed the earth, filled it with goodness, and prepared years of activities and fulfillment. He prepped the ultimate nursery/playroom. Then he put two children in this beautiful newness. Imagine his joy as they stumbled around in new delight and awe. As they began to work and play as he had designed. 

This year, I've struggled and tried and pushed and shoved, trying to buckle my selfish laziness under the saddle of responsible home management. I'll paint a wall in a red-hot second, but dinner dishes? They can sit in slimy water till the next morning. Honestly, housework with toddlers can seem a little futile. Pick-up, get out, pick-up, get out. Scrub, spill, scrub, spill. 

But when I stood in another spot, when I looked at house-wifing from a different vantage point, I saw the creative possibilities and the endless delight that could come from creating Eden. 

So, I've worked really, really, REALLY, EXTREMELY (you got it?) hard at cleaning. And organizing. And purging. And managing. For months. Yes, months. I'm not a quick study. But over the past several weeks, I realized that it has become easier. My house is clean. My kids are cuddled and played with. Laundry is kept up with. Dishes promptly done. I've even had time to tackle several creative projects.

All of this born from a realization that God sees creativity in my juggling of cleaning babies and bathrooms. God encourages invention in the world of husbands and housework. 

And He makes it delightful! By mimicking God's creativity, I'm also allowed a slice of His joy. 

I'm enjoying creating my Eden. It has a lot of weed pulling, and only a smidge of planting and inventing, but I'm learning to love weeding and to "plant" and create more wisely. 

A New Addition

There are formula containers sitting on my kitchen counter.

Two new car seats are in my laundry room.

I've painted a dresser, painted a room, and bought a crib.

Something new is coming to the Allison house...



I have always, one-hundred percent, totally and completely believed that God wants me to be a big-family mother. In my childhood, I had eight dolls. Yes. Eight. And they had a birth order, back-stories, and personalities. I would care for all eight at the same time. Because I wanted eight children. I went through a phase where I wanted 6 boys and 6 girls. I believe this happened when I still thought there was a Wild West to explore, and I couldn't decide on which children's names to cut, so... they all stayed. If "Oregon Trail" taught me anything, it was that probably 3 of them would die on the way to Oregon, so the more, the better. In high school and college, I lobbied for 8 boys. Just boys. The idea of having girls was completely exhausting (and now, as a mom of a little girl, I believe that this assumption was correct. Not the whole picture, of course, but definitely correct).

I married a man who (after 1 month of dating) talked about family size and planning. Which was a little shocking. But okay, because he also wanted lots of children.

We love kids. We love babies. We love children. Teaching, discipling, growing, playing... Love it.

But then our family got off to a rocky start, and then a pricey (totally worth it!) adoption process, and then a nightmare pregnancy (with an adorable outcome). And our picture of a huge family dwindled. We were reminded that God determines how many children we are blessed with. God determines the shape and size of each family.

But each of these separate circumstances were used to grow in us a very specific love. We saw desperate mothers, hurting families, and broken health. We experienced two fragile infants, a NICU stay, and multiple nutrition/feeding specialists. And our hearts were broken. Again. And Again.

I say this because you need to understand: what I'm about to tell you was not in our five year plan. It was not a dream we woke up with or a passion we were born into. God knew we needed some chipping, chiseling, and softening.

We are becoming foster parents.

And it wasn't our plan.

I had a woman tell me, while we were in the process to adopt Grant, "I'm not really sure why you would sign-up to take on someone else's problems." I almost blew a gasket. The woman was an idiot.

But God knew me.

He knew that I had a category of people that I was guilty of viewing that way... Why would we ever sign up for this? The broken families, the traumatized kids, the drugs, alcohol, horrible atrocities, and almost certain separation from a child that you poured your life blood into. Why would you sign up for this? For the emotional exhaustion, the physical demands, the constant up-and-down, the unknowns...

Because it's my job to "take on someone else's problems."

Two thousand years ago a man came. He entered the brokenness, the trauma, the abuse. He gave his life. After a roller coaster of emotions, constant pressure and physical demands, he gave his actual life blood. For a really big mess. For my problems.

"The one who says he abides in Him ought himself to walk in the same manner as He walked." (I John 2:6)

For that reason (as soon as the FBI says that I'm not an escaped criminal), we will throw open our doors to "other people's messes." If God lets us add more "permanent" children to the Allison clan, hallelujah. But our goal is not 8 places around the table... We want to share Christ. And this is the path God has prepared our hearts for. This is the way we're supposed to go. It's going to be a great ride.

We Are Home

My emotions are... special.

A little delayed.

Sometimes eons behind the time.

I like them. I'm very attached to my emotions. But I'm a little oblivious.

For example, it took me weeks to break down after my grandmother died. I'm slow to find embarrassing situations funny. And I have a tendency to say, "I'm fine! I'm fine!" (and firmly believe it) and then completely lose it several weeks later.

Which is why no one should be surprised that one week ago, I finally realized... that I live in Philadelphia.

Yes. We've been here for over two years.

Yup, I've become a registered PA voter. I shop at local institutions, I say "wutter ice," and I completely and totally love cheesesteaks. Love them. I live in Pennsylvania. I love Philadelphia. And, while I'm not in the city-proper, I have grown to love this scrappy, blue-collar town teasingly known as the "City of Brotherly Shove."

But about a week ago it hit me.

THIS. IS. WHERE. I. LIVE.

Falling in love with this place means more than that I enjoy living here. It means I have willingly set my affections on this town.

And it means I'm not going "home." I'm not returning to my mid-west roots. I'm not (unless God moves the earth in massive ways) ever going to live down the street from my mama and exchange Sunday lunch hosting. I won't return to the church that I love. I won't ever do regular, weekly ministry with my brothers and sisters. I have friends that I'll only see once or twice a year. I'll have mentors that I won't regularly meet for coffee.

Also, groceries and houses are really cheap out there...

But I'm making a new "home."

And here's why...

I fell in love with a dark, lonely, hopeless spot.

Our tiny church is a tiny light. It's people are a beautiful gift.

But our neighborhood is a desperate place. It's not the jungle or some deep dark place in Asia. I think I would have been ready for this "cut" with my roots had it been more dramatic. Yes, it's a jungle, but it's concrete and trash instead of trees and snakes. The languages I don't understand are Spanish and Ebonics, not some unknown language.

I could long for a Mid-west removal. Ministry and life are not "easy" anywhere. But there are places where I'd be a little bit less of an odd ball. Sure, a stay-at-home mama who wants to homeschool and adopt 10 children would be weird in Indiana. But it's practically insane in our current neighborhood.

I look out my window and I see homeless men limping by. I drive to the grocery store and watch kids shivering on street corners without coats. I hear angry fights, drunken brawls, and raucous partying. Every night. Every day. I'm surrounded by the pain and emptiness that sin and the absence of God creates.

So, we're not going "home."

Because we love our tired, beat up, worn out, God-less neighborhood. We love our beautiful, loving, tiny church. And we believe that if the two meet... if tired touches hopeful. If church and Christ meet neighborhood. If beauty reaches down into ashes, and kindness touches pain... then light can explode.

And Acts 17:26 takes on new meaning. "And he made from one man every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth, having determined allotted periods and boundaries of their dwelling place..."

God determined this period.
He drew the boundaries of our current dwelling place.

So, this is our home.

Because this is where Christ is needed.

Hatred Without Caveats

I hate the Holocaust.

Hate it.

I hate that it happened. I hate that the world stood by and watched. I hate that people were gathered, based on their DNA, into pens, camps, and gas chambers.

Hate it.

If I were to state this sentiment at a cocktail party (what a buzz kill, right?), or to express these thoughts during a history class (probably a more suitable venue), everyone would nod along with me. Everyone would agree. Everyone would join in with their hatred of this atrocity and suggestions of how we could have acted faster.

But let's say everyone didn't join in my indignation.

I shout, "I hate the Holocaust!" And everyone just stared, and then someone patted my arm and said, "Courtney, you can't really hate the Holocaust. I mean, you're only allowed to protest about it if you're also for a Jewish relocation program."

I stare at them blankly.

And the person on my other side said, "I mean, I understand you're upset about the super-intelligent Jews that were killed, but you can't really be anti-Holocaust unless you're also pro-Jewish education."

I blink. Shocked.

It was genocide. It was horrible. It was deplorable. I am allowed to hate it. Without caveats. Men were killing men based on a man-made determination of worth. I. Hate. That.

So, this is what I'm saying...

I HATE ABORTION.

It is genocide.

It is murder.

It is the mutilation of little babies.

Don't tell me I also have to support adoption. Don't tell me that I also have to be pro-woman. Don't tell me that I must caveat my hatred for this despicable, horrible, satanic practice.

Listen to what I am saying: I am a woman. I respect women. We bring something to the world that no man can. I love children. I've adopted one, birthed one, and I've just completed training to become a foster-mommy. Because I love children. And I want to help and heal and serve those who are hurting, overwhelmed, and underprivileged. I love women who work at those clinics. I love women who are driven to desperation. If you've been through an abortion, my heart yearns over you. I want to hold you and let you cry. I want you to find help and healing. (If this is you, please. Please, there are women who want to help you heal... https://www.healinghearts.org/). I love the women who made this painful choice. 

BUT I HATE THE CHOICE.

I love the doctors, the nurses, the heads of these difference agencies. My heart aches for them, because I know that they are hardened or struggling. They are trying to provide truth in a vacuum. I cry for their souls. I shudder at their future.

I HATE ABORTION.

I do not need to provide a list of things I am "pro." I am pro-life because abortion is genocide. No one asks me to caveat my views of the Holocaust. In the wake of Planned Parenthood videos, I see many people stating that I must be "pro" a whole list of other things in order to justify my "anti-abortion" standing. Listen to me. There is no verse in the Bible where I have to support my intense dislike of murder.

I refuse to caveat my hatred of abortion.

These are babies.

Abortion is slaughter.

This is our Holocaust.

You're allowed to hate it.

When The Hard Is Empty

These past four months.

When I didn't blog.

When I quietly disappeared.

They were rough.

I feel as though I talk about this all the time... but I have ulcerative colitis. It is a chronic, intensely painful, and embarrassing disease. And God chose to trust me with it. He chose to believe (and subsequently prove through the power of the Holy Spirit) that I would use this decade-long trial to learn more about him and become conformed to the likeness of Christ.

That doesn't mean I'm thrilled to have ulcerative colitis. I'm not a masochist. I don't enjoy being miserable and in pain. Sign me up for mani/pedis, not self-flagellation.

That being said, I have treasured the things that God has taught me over the past decade. Beautiful, painful lessons.

But I made the mistake of doing some internet research. Public service announcement: DON'T GOOGLE. Several years ago a doctor had told me that ulcerative colitis does not (necessarily) last forever. Many people who are diagnosed in their twenties often recover. So, as I approached the 10th anniversary of my first colonoscopy, I did some more research... Apparently, many people stop having symptoms after a decade.

AND I WAS COMING UP ON A DECADE.

Call me crazy, but I had this little, insane hope that I would blow out the candles on my thirtieth birthday cake, and ulcerative colitis would say, "Gee, Courtney, it's been great, but I've gotta go now." and it would walk out of my life forever.

Guess what.

I blew out the candles.

And nothing changed.

In fact, the exact opposite of "nothing" happened. I suffered a massive, huge, 6-week-long flare that resulted in my being bed/couch ridden for the bulk of almost every day. I was no longer treading water. I was drowning.

But as I entered the craziness, I clung to a hope: God had always been more real, more present, more "involved" during my flares. I knew he would be close by. I knew he would wrap me in truth. I knew he would teach me. Even if it was just a tiny truth, it would become more tangible. I would believe it on a "whole new level."

So, I cooked pots of bone broth, made sure a toilet was always nearby, and waited for my amazing truth to come through.

It didn't.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

Silence.

No comforting wave of emotion. No beautiful crystalizing moment of truth. Nope. Just silence. And misery. And pain.

Then, in the midst of all the silence, the lack of emotional comfort, the absence of my traditional wave of peace, I realized what was happening... I had boiled down the presence and teaching of God to a very specific formula. God does not change. He is not bound to formulas. He is not required to give me a feeling. He is the unchangeable, eternal, forever, constant. He is no less faithful and loving just because I don't feel like he's faithful and loving. He hasn't stopped teaching me just because I don't feel like I'm being taught.

So, dear friend, if you are walking through darkness. If you are treading in deep waters. If you are stumbling through a maze... and you don't feel loved or cared for or protected, YOU ARE. Because HE IS.

If your darkness is because of your sin... He has not changed. "For I the LORD do not change; therefore you, O children of Jacob, are not consumed. From the days of your fathers you have turned aside from my statutes and not kept them. Return to me, and I will return to you, says the LORD of hosts." (Malachi 3:6-7)

If your darkness is because of a trial...

Though I walk in the midst of trouble,

    you preserve my life;

you stretch out your hand against the wrath of my enemies,

    and your right hand delivers me.

8 

The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me;

    your steadfast love, O Lord, endures forever.

    Do not forsake the work of your hands. (Psalm 138:7-8)

Or, if you're like most of humanity, and you're a lovely blend of both sin and trials. (**raising my hand**) Remember that the flawless mediator, the one who speaks to God for you, of him it is written: "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever." (Hebrews 13:8)

He will never stop working.

Even if you don't feel it.

When Peace Is Refining

God, you have brought me to a place of peace. Here, as I listen to the waves crash and the wind ruffles my hair, I am resting and happy.

Thank you.

Too often I acknowledge the angst, the pain, and the fight you've created for me. Frequently, church culture expects me to say, "I am struggling" instead of saying "I am blessed." It's as though we believe that holiness is only refined struggle. That holiness cannot be honed when I am rested.

But right now, I sit in your peace. I rest in your beauty. I bask in your vacation. You created "the change of pace." You brought the good of nature, beauty, and relaxation into my life.

And here my holiness can also explode.

If I look at your face. If I don't demand ease. If I don't grab at satisfaction. If I rest. 

I can see you. 

Battles teach me your sovereignty. Vacations teach me your tranquility.

And so my prayer now is that I would not glorify pain as the only means to you. I want to see you in the quiet. I want to praise you in my peace. Let my face be lifted to yours. Show me beauty in the quiet happiness. Protect me from selfish entitlement. May praise for the God of my Sabbath rise from my heart and lips.


May I join with the ocean. "He is good."

Won't You Join Me For A Fast?

Dear friends, my heart is heavy.

Over the past few weeks, videos of the horrible atrocity of abortion (and the side-crime of selling black market baby carcasses), have penetrated my dull dislike for abortion. They have hammered at my apathy and they have ripped at my soul. 

I am grieved. 

I am grieved because I have tolerated these murders without a fight. 

I'm grieved because these women are in pain and I have not reached out in love. 

I am grieved because my beloved nation has willingly sanctioned both of these travesties, and I have done nothing. 

Then I turned my face to the Lord God, seeking him by prayer and pleas for mercy with fasting and sackcloth and ashes. I prayed to the Lord my God and made confession, saying, “O Lord, the great and awesome God, who keeps covenant and steadfast love with those who love him and keep his commandments, we have sinned and done wrong and acted wickedly and rebelled, turning aside from your commandments and rules. 

{Daniel 9:3-5}

So, tomorrow, from the time I rise until the time I go to sleep, I am offering my God a day of prayer and fasting. 

I will plead with Him to extend mercy. 

I will plead for legislation that will protect unborn babies and their mothers. 

And I will plead for forgiveness. My sins of apathy and ignorance ashame me. 

Every day, I hold a baby boy who was given life primarily by God, but then again by his birth mother. My quiet complacency is inexcusable. And tomorrow I will mourn. 

Will you join me?

My Grimy Little Eden

I shouldn't be writing.

It's a stall tactic.

My kitchen is covered in carrot shreds, there are crumbs and dripping substances caught in the crevices of my cabinets. A pile of laundry is sitting in the doorway. Somehow, I always think that this will make me fold it faster. Instead, I wind up stepping over it 17 times throughout the day and slap-dash folding it right before my honey walks through the door.

Our weekend does not allow for blog posts. We have 15ish women for breakfast Saturday, a church-planting group from Rochester (hellooooo, New York!) coming for dinner, worship team Sunday morning, set-up (gotta love church-in-a-box), and then a big, backyard BBQ after church with 30+ people. 

I should be cleaning bathrooms.

Instead, I'm sitting here, meditating on one of my newest delights... Wanna hear? Yes. You do.

Several weeks ago, I attended a parenting class before church. It was taught by my husband. (I know. He's super-wise, isn't he?!) And as I sat there, like a good lil' student, pen poised and notes ready, he said something which I hadn't thought of for a long time. He said, "God modeled parenting with the Israelites and into the New Testament with the church. God is our Father. He is the example we are to follow when parenting." 

You're saying, "duh."

But my mind was blown away. I knew that God was our Father. I knew I was supposed to be like Christ. But somehow the practical connecting of those dots: parent like God, never really sunk in.

God is a god of order, law, consequences, grace, forever peace... and he parents us like that. Do I parent like that? (And everyone mutters, "Um, obviously not...")

But my whirling mind encountered a beautiful thought when just a couple days later I stumbled across this quote by Derek Kidner:

"The earthly paradise... is a model of parental care. The fledgling is sheltered but not smothered; on all sides discoveries and encounters await him to draw out his powers of discernment and choice, and there is ample nourishment for his aesthetic, physical and spiritual appetites; further, there is a man's work before him for body and mind." (Genesis, p. 61)

As an imitator of the Father God, I am supposed to model Eden!

So when I'm cleaning, organizing, painting... I'm creating a mini-paradise. As I help my kids color, explore, make messes, re-arrange things... I'm letting them explore the way that God wanted Adam and Eve to explore. When I'm structuring the things they're exposed to, the places we go, the books we read, the movies we do (or don't!) watch... I'm nourishing and equipping them for a delightful future of work and delight in God.

Suddenly washing dishes just got a whooooole lot more interesting.

I think, as human beings, the repetitive, constant tasks of cleaning, organizing, explaining, helping... they can get a little wearing.

But when I see it not as drudgery or chores, but as a chance to mimic God in my own little kingdom, suddenly it becomes a delightful, colorful, exploding-with-creativity adventure.
 Now... excuse me as I go clean up my rather grimy "Eden."

Learning to juice his veggies.
While eating bacon.
If this isn't Eden, what is?

Enjoying the grandeur (and
dirt!) of God's creation.

Enjoying our patch of green.

Home is the perfect place to explore
Bible stories in more artistic/less
traditional ways!

Wear a basket on your head!
I'm a firm believer that home should
be a place to be ridiculous without
ridicule. At least until your high
school graduation party....

Helping the "earthly dad" figure out
a tricky plumbing adventure.

Yesterday's Visitors or Who I Invited Over

Yesterday, as I was popping the children out of their bike buggy, I heard a cheery "hello!" behind me. I turned around and grinned.

One of my dear old friends was standing on the stoop, watching me unpack two wiggling babies.

"Was it a long ride?"
"Not too bad... just about 10 miles. But my legs are killing me and I'm exhausted."

She nodded her frowzy head understandingly. "I totally get it. I always like to kick back with a good book or some "Gilmore Girl" episodes after a long ride." I smiled, shifting a baby to another hip.

"Oh, me too! That sounds heavenly, but I have things to do..."

"Pressing, important things?" she asked with a grin.

She knew the answer. It was just laundry and play time with the kids. So I shrugged my shoulders and smiled a little. "Okay... wanna come in?"

She pushed back her rough, untamed curls and nodded with a smile, "If you don't mind, I'm babysitting for the day, can I bring in the little guy?"

"Of course! Little guys are always welcome here!"

As she hoisted this kid out of the van, I began to wonder about her definition of "little." This kid was very chubby, with big fat rolls up and down his arms and legs. He made the Michelin-man look like a strict Weight-Watchers fanatic.

But the little guy was cute. So I opened the door a little wider and helped him climb over the threshold in breathless panting.

Before I knew it, my dear friend had curled up on the couch, monopolizing the blankets and telling my kids to be quiet as she watched some Netflix. Her chubby little charge was running around with a jar of peanut butter and whining for chocolate chips. But I'm a good hostess, right? I didn't say anything. I found chocolate chips. I curled up next to my friend on the couch. And the minutes passed slowly by.

**thunk, thunk, thunk!**

Someone was at the front door. I got up slowly. The show was engrossing. Plus, there was peanut butter everywhere and somehow the kid had gotten his hands on some animal crackers. Someone needed to reign that little chubby beast in, but I  certainly wasn't going to do it.

I opened the front door, and there, completely wet, sobbing, stood another good friend. As quickly as possible, I ushered her through the door. Shaking, sobbing, her black, baggy-clothes dripping puddles all over my floor, she added to the chaos in my living room. The little chubster stuffed another spoonful (who are we kidding, he wasn't using a spoon... it was his fist) of peanut butter in his mouth, and my first, frowzy friend turned the iPad screen so that our newest addition could watch the latest antics of our favorite Lorelais.

I turned slowly to look at my house. Peanut butter everywhere. Chaos. Three incredibly needy people were now curled up on my couch monopolizing my day. One of them was still dripping. As I weakly attempted to clean up a peanut butter smear, I realized that there were puddles and dripping gray liquid all throughout my house. My two year old was playing in one of these puddles in a rather perplexed manner.

What had happened to my calm and peaceful day?!




Did you have visitors yesterday, too? Have you ever opened your door to a frowsy, yoga-pant clad woman, and her remarkably fat little child? Did a dripping mess ever show itself on your door step? You had visitors, whether you realized it or not.

You see, yesterday, after writing a blog post about faithfulness, I made a mistake. In a moment of shaky-leg, post-biking weakness, I turned around and saw my dear friend Laziness standing at my door.

I should have slammed the door in her arrogant, entitled face.

Instead, I invited her in.

But laziness never comes alone. When she visits me, she tugs along a little guy known as Gluttony. And he will eat anything, everything, and all things. Even if you're not hungry. Even if you don't like him. He will creep into your life and you will stuff him and attempt to satiate him, because it's too hard to shove him out the door.

At the end of such miserable "play-dates," I firmly believe that each person wraps up their days with one more visitor. Maybe self-pity. Perhaps justification. Maybe your favorite is a very bad maid known as "Denial" who tries to sweep the peanut butter and Netflix barely out of sight.

I'm usually visited by a weeping, sodden mess known as "Despair."

That was yesterday. After a very long, honest confession with my heavenly Father, I'm ready for today. You see, the sad guests, like Despair, Laziness, and Gluttony tend to just show up on my doorsteps (they like to travel together). The wonderful, happy guests like Industry, Faithfulness, and Joy? I usually have to send them an engraved invitation. (Okay, who am I kidding, I usually have to don my cowboy boots, grab my lasso, and chase those suckers down in a farm yard.)

Who will be knocking on your door today? Take it from a weak, feeble sister... Be so careful who you let in. Sometimes they don't leave without a fight.

My Very Little, or How I Managed Not To Kill People With My Flaky Chaos

I am a chronic over-achiever, stuck in a chronically sick, chronically lazy body.

I dream big.

And then I sleep in, eat a bowl of ice cream, and spend my nights watching "Murder She Wrote" instead of pursuing any grander venture.

I call it creative and vibrant.

In reality, I'm a little flaky. And a sluggard.

Several weeks ago, as I was battling my intense urge to "do something big" (these urges include adoption, counseling certification, fund raising, publishing books, and losing 139 pounds in 2 days), I received a still, small nudge.

Just be faithful.

I'M GOING TO CONQUER THE NEW YORK MARATHON! I'M GOING TO ADOPT FIVE KENYAN KIDS!

Just be faithful.

I'M GOING TO PUBLISH THREE BOOKS THIS YEAR! I'M GOING TO CHANGE THE FACE OF TRAUMA COUNSELING WITH CHILDREN! I'M GOING TO APPEAR ON "THE VIEW" AND WIN ALL THOSE WOMEN TO CHRIST!

Just be faithful.

BUT... BUT... I WANT TO DO SOMETHING! SOMETHING BIG!

Just be faithful.

So, with a sigh, and just to see what would happen, I put down my striving. I walked away from this blog, from my artistic endeavors, and from my attempts at beginning my own small business. I walked away from my dreams... and I found dreams that God had created.

I kept my house clean. The laundry didn't fall behind. I hosted Easter and made my second-ever ham. I poured into my children. I wrestled with my tiny demons of laziness and Netflix; tiny demons which controlled so much. I exercised. I meal planned.

And the little voice kept nudging.

On hard days, when I just wanted to collapse into bed with my broken, tired body, the little nudge (which I think we can now call "the Holy Spirit") would tell me, "Just be faithful with the next thing. Don't look at the big picture. Just be faithful with the next thing." So, I would take a deep breath and dice some carrots for dinner. I would be patient while disciplining (for the same sin, on the same day, for the sixth time). I would put on mascara and kiss my hubby with passion when he came home. When my head was hurting, I would still clean out the sink and laugh at my two-year old's silly dance. And I would whisper to myself,

"Just be faithful."

And a glorious thing began to happen. Peace flooded my life. Joy filled up my days. My to-do list got shorter, more manageable, and I began to look upon it as a PRIVILEGE.

An old Sunday school verse came back into play: "One who is faithful in a very little..."

I'm living in my "very little."

Sure, I still have dreams of "being faithful in much," but I recognize now that it was God's grace to me (and all others I might have bumped into with my flaky chaos), that I wasn't given more.

And so, I'm slowly adding things to my "just faithful" list.

And enjoying the privilege of being given "very little."

Because, honestly, I can't handle much more.




(and everyone who knows me nods enthusiastically...)

What Anne of Green Gables and John Both Taught Me

I've read Anne of Green Gables a couple times.

All right. A lot of times.

Okay. Fine. I've read every single Anne book. All eight of them. At least eight times apiece. I'm not even kidding. It's probably been more than that...

All that to say, I can quote them, I could perform a dramatic reading, and I have cried every single time I get to certain chapters.

There's one chapter, in Anne of the Island which has always stuck in my mind. It's the one chapter that makes me cry every time. I even know that it's coming (obviously), and I mentally prep myself, "I am not going to cry. This is fiction. I will not cry."

And then I turn into a blubbering mess and cry my eyes out.

In this chapter, Anne goes to visit one of her life-long friends, Ruby, who is dying. The friend is in staunch denial of her imminent death, until one, perfect, moonlit night, she turns to Anne and in tears breaks down, terrified of death. And the reason? She says heaven is "not what I'm used to."

Montgomery then writes: “All that Ruby said was so horribly true, she was leaving everything she cared for. She had laid up her treasures on earth only. She had lived solely for the little things of life, the things that pass, forgetting the great things that go onward into eternity bridging the gulf between the two lives and making of death a mere passing of one dwelling to the other. From twilight to unclouded day. ...it was no wonder her soul clung in blind helplessness to the only things she knew and loved.” 

This passage haunts me.

What if my life is so incredibly full of stuff that I will be "unused to" the things of heaven. It will still be heaven. It will still be eternal glory with God. But will it taste as sweet if I have not stored up a delight for the things of eternity.

And one early morning, as I was stumbling with bleary eyes through the book of I John, I read the following,

"And now, little children, abide in him, so that when he appears we may have confidence and not shrink from him in shame at his coming." (I John 2:28)

And it clicked.

The reason this literary passage always moved me to tears. was because it was rooted in truth. The Bible confirms it (much more succinctly and authoritatively than L.M.Montgomery ever could).

By daily running to God, by daily dwelling, standing, living, lingering, remaining, and accepting who my God is, I'm not just gathering joy here on earth, I'm dressing my soul for heaven. I'm increasing my delight at his coming. I'm erasing the possible fear and shame his coming might bring. So I agree with my fictional heroine and say: "When she came to the end of one life it must not be to face the next with the shrinking terror of something wholly different--something for which accustomed thought and ideal and aspiration had unfitted her. The little things of life, sweet and excellent in their place, must not be the things lived for; the highest must be sought and followed; the life of heaven must begin here on earth.”

Because this is just a blink.

Heaven is a glorious forever.

God's Work Through Grime

There's a potty chair bleaching in the sink in my laundry room. My leggings I am wearing just busted a hole. They chose to do this right in the part of my inner thigh that I was already uncomfortable about. I just cleaned out my bathroom cabinet, painfully aware of how many beauty products I haven't touched in days. Okay... weeks. Fine. MONTHS.

We own 7 sippy cups. They are all dirty. I only have two children. My youngest has latched onto her first "purse" and I've caught her delightedly stuffing it full of pepperoni and clementines. This "purse" is also the pocket on her bib. I'm not sure she's eaten a full meal all day. But her "purse" is well-stocked.

The piles of dirty laundry are taller than me. I'm not sure how this happened. I had a system. A SYSTEM.

I planned a delightful eggplant French concoction for supper. We ate pizza.

My body aches all over. I'm tired. I have three foreign substances on my shoulder alone. I'm pretty sure at least one of them is salmon alfredo sauce from lunch... the others, I'm not sure.

I ate a yogurt parfait for breakfast. Hard boiled eggs for snack. A delicious salad for lunch. AND THE ENTIRE REFRIGERATOR AS SOON AS MY CHILDREN WERE IN BED FOR THEIR NAPS.

Here's the deal... everyone's always talking about being "real."

This is the real me.

I smell like old salmon, I have crusty bits all over me. My hair is frizzing up and breaking off, and I'm growing a zit the size of Montana on my chin. Today, my children were not exactly angelic. And I'm calling my housekeeping successful because the house is still standing. I'm exhausted, bloated, ugly, and wearing busted leggings. And we're out of chocolate. Because I inhaled it.

This is the real me.

And you would think I would be crazy depressed.

Honestly, if you saw me right now, I might induce depression. I wouldn't blame you for sobbing tears of horror/pity/gratitude-that-you're-not-me. I'm a warning poster for all young women/non-mothers. Today, I would make you older women feel like blazing successes. And for my peers? You're looking good, my friends. You're looking good (especially compared to me.... you are welcome).

But I'm not really depressed. I'm tired. I would really like to smell better. And a live-in hairdresser would be lovely, but I'm actually feeling very contented. Yes, even loved.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not happy with how I handled every part of my day. (The spoonfuls of peanut butter and chocolate come to mind...) But I'm not crushed and despairing. I'm just tired.

And a little amazed.

Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us. (Romans 5:3-5)

Let me say it in short sentences. (Those are the only ones I understand right now.)

I've had rough patches.

They built some endurance.

That endurance has kept plugging away in my life, gradually shifting my character.

My character has learned to latch onto God's love for support.

And this gives me hope.

Even on a messy, grimy Monday.

So today, in the whining, tornado-mess that was my life... I am tired. But I am not hopeless.

And now I'm super-psyched because I love seeing the way God is transforming me! Eek! So keep plugging away, sister! Keep dragging that mind back to truth. Keep running to God for help. Keep praying, reading that Bible, and disciplining your time/mouth/thoughts/etc.

Today wasn't a big trial. But after hours of little bumps, I'm still hopeful. Still resting. And pretty excited that God has been gradually transforming me.

That being said, I think I need to go shower...

Another Sunday

You know, right now I am tired. (And so, apparently, is Grantopatomus.)

Sundays are exhausting. 

The babies wouldn't eat their special Sunday banana-chocolate-peanut butter muffins. My shirt was wrinkled. My kitchen looks like a well-intentioned bowling ball tried to make lunch.

Sundays are fun. 

I pounded my way through the worship set today. My son told me that salmon and alfredo pasta was yummy. I was encouraged as I chit-chatted and prayed with my sisters in Christ. 

And in this swirl of exhaustion and fun, I'm reminded why. 

Psalm 116:16-17 O Lord, I am your servant; I am your servant, the son of your maidservant. You have loosed my bonds. I will offer to you the sacrifice of thanksgiving and call on the name of the Lord. 

God is my master. He has the right to ask for my service. Sometimes that's exhausting. 

But he has freed me. So I stand forgiven and thankful. And that is fun. 

Happy Sunday. 

Transluscent Beauty

It was six a.m.

I was barely coherent.

But as I leaned my fuzzy eyesight closer to the mirror, I saw them.

A myriad of channels, working their way across my face, from my eyes down into my cheeks. A preview of what's to come.

Gasping, I smeared lotion on my face and then looked again. They were a little smaller, but they were there.

I've resigned myself (in holier moments) to the deep grooves on my forehead (it's not fun when worry marks itself permanently on your face, even when the sin is long gone), and I had noticed that my healthy eating post-baby hadn't resulted in the quick body-bounce-back that it once would have. But let's be honest, they were just two little worry wrinkles, and I never had what could be labelled a "slammin' bod."

So, I was okay with it.

But for some reason, on this morning, as I looked down at my chipped, blue nail polish, a sink full of beauty products, and the newly constructed "age canals" that were working their way down my cheeks, it hit me.

It's going away.

I never imagined myself a knock-out. But youth was always in my favor. Sure, I may not be gorgeous, but my skin was smooth and my hair grew crazy fast, and my energy levels were through the roof.

That's all leaving.

And while I'm not horribly crushed to see my twenties disappear in the rear-view window, I realized that I'm creeping steadily towards the true test of beauty.

My spirit.

I was warned about this... I'm not supposed to rely on creams and accessories and a fantastic hair-do, I can chase all the fads, the perky cheeks and the perfect body, they're not going to last. The world will tell me beauty satisfies, that each new treatment can return youth, but they're lying. Crazy, big, fat lies.

Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain,

And even if they could promise eternal youth and beauty, that's not what I'm supposed to be chasing... I'm supposed to be manicuring myself with grace, clothing myself in gentleness, styling a soul of quietness.

And if you think obtaining a perfect coif is tricky, try grooming a soul...

Do not let your adorning be external—the braiding of hair and the putting on of gold jewelry, or the clothing you wear— but let your adorning be the hidden person of the heart with the imperishable beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit

As my outsides breakdown, wear out, and wrinkle up, I have a chance to see what's been going on inside. And God has a way of creating a gorgeous, translucent beauty. There is a beauty that shines through the wrinkles, the tired eyes, and the bigger-than-size-6 body.

It's the beauty of a woman who in God's sight is very precious. 

And just as the beautiful outfit, the manicured hands, and the perfect hair are testaments to the hard work and diligence of their wearer, so the works of the soul will be paraded for all the world to see. Youth covers a multitude of soul flaws. Perhaps this is why God makes us most beautiful when our hearts are least groomed. But as the "beauty" begins to dissipate, the soul is brought to the front.

Now, I'm still slathering on anti-wrinkle cream (and some of you older ladies want to laugh at me for my wrinkle phobias... trust me. I would mock me, too), but I know that the days are drawing me closer to the test of true beauty.

Give her of the fruit of her hands,

    and let her works praise her in the gates.

And when the wrinkles are everywhere, and my body is falling apart, and my grandma-chicken arms are softer than my hair, I want to shine with the translucent, triumphing beauty of a woman who is precious in God's sight.

For the LORD sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart.
{I Samuel 16:7b}

At The End of a Fast, The Beginning of A Storm {A Summation of 30 Days of Silence}

Thirty days ago, I decided to stop.

Stop Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Netflix, Hulu...

And I did.

And I walked into this self-induced silence, waiting to hear God speak.

And He did.

I can't tell you what that was like. I can try. But I won't be able to. It was like a secret, month-long rendezvous with my Savior.

And it was glorious.

But I also can't tell you how hard this was. Radical amputation hurts. Doing without comfort and ease hurts.

This was a beautiful month.

And (at the risk of boring you with another list!) here's what I'm thinking at the end...

1. My sin is horrible. Deep. Dark. Deceitful. And prolific. And if you clamp down in one area, it likes to squirt out of another. I wasn't flawless at this techy fast. I would sneak the occasional Netflix episode. I had a couple of sick days that drew me to Pinterest. And even when I was perfect on the tech fast, I would find some other way to express my craving for ease... an extra piece of chocolate, a nap, wearing sweatpants for the hundredth day in the row. (Not inherently sinful, but the way I was doing them. Yikes... I was substituting physical comfort for spiritual comfort. Not okay.)

2. I can justify anything. None of the things I abstained from were in and of themselves sinful. I wasn't cheating on my husband, lying to my friends, or neglecting my children. But they sapped a little joy, stole a little time, manipulated a few thoughts... and drew me away from filling my heart and mind with Christ. All the ways I cheated, or chose to sin since I didn't have my typical comfort crutches? They weren't inherently sinful either. They just were not best. But I let them slide.

3. GOD IS UNEXPLORABLE. I feel as though I know more of my Savior and God now than I did a month ago, and the largest thing I know is that I don't know anything. The depths of the riches of our God are unimaginable. We get to spend eternity discovering Him!

3. I didn't miss Facebook. Like, seriously, not at all. I missed Instagram. I missed Pinterest. I missed my daily Netflix dose while folding laundry. I did NOT miss Facebook. At all. I'll probably evaluate whether or not I'll keep it... but... Seriously. Instead of posting a status about the drama, just leave. There isn't even any drama on my Facebook news feed, and I still enjoyed the break.

4. God knew I would need this...

Here's the deal, on the very last day of my fast, our family was hit with some heavy news. We were hurt and wounded. And the repercussions will be around for a while. But God knew that this was coming! He spent an entire month drawing me closer to him, honing the disciplines of mental faithfulness, so that when this news hit my husband, I was able to pray truth with him. And the first place I wanted to run was to God. Not to my tired husband, but to my Savior. And I like to think I helped him run to Christ along with me. I had my God to cling to. I had practiced faithfully turning my mind to truth instead of worry. It was awesome!

I mean, seriously awesome.

No one wants trial and pain, but when it comes (and it will!), and it is met with the sufficiency of the scripture and the power of my God... WOW. IT IS AWESOME.

Like, I'm totally psyched right now. I wish this storm was done, but I am so excited that God is letting me see his character in technicolor right now.

And I wouldn't have been ready for that, without these past 30 days.

I am unbelievably blessed and thankful.

The Rebel That Remains, The God Who Has Won

When a sister battles.

When a "peace singer" dies.

When your children harden their hearts.

When 21 men die for the cross.

When the world comes knocking at your door, with arms filled with hurt, ugliness, and violence...

You are going to cry.

Tears will fill your eyes. Your heart will ache. And your soul will cry out "why?"

No one told me that drawing closer to the heart of God would mean more tears. I thought of peace, joy, and rest. That has been true. But I didn't know that it would also mean deeper sorrow, grieving, and nights of sobbing.

You see, when I look more closely at my God, I see the permanence of joy, while also seeing the horror of sin. I pull around me my comforts... safety, warm dinners, quiet Sundays... and I insulate myself against the sin and suffering in my world. I expect to be rested and safe. Reading of suffering makes me uncomfortable.

And in this quiet cocoon of fragile, manufactured peace, I forget the terrors of the battle.

For a while.

And when it comes roaring in, back around me, shattering my attempts at control, what am I going to do?

You see, I can look out my front door and see terror, and in my ignorance, I think that's where it stays.

But inside my soul, the same evil resides.

I have been washed.

But I am still dirty.

I have been saved.

But I'm in a world of danger.

I have been clothed in beauty.

But my sin still clings to filthy nakedness.

Sin is a powerful, wicked, forceful presence. In our world. And in me. And as I've cried out for my God, as He has become more real... and so has the evil which foolishly tries to depose him.

And as I cry out to my God to deliver us, me, the world... He gently whispers, "I already have."

I want physical safety, earthly peace, a plethora of comforts.

He soothes my tears and says, "Dream bigger."

Because my deliverance has come.

Christ.

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ, who gave himself for our sins to deliver us from the present evil age, according to the will of our God and Father, to whom be the glory forever and ever. Amen.

We are delivered. God has already won. The painful cuttings and whippings of the present evil age? It is only an outlawed rebel who has already lost the fight.

So, through my tears... To God be the glory forever and ever.

Amen.

My Fear, My Friends

Today I woke up from a nap (a Sunday nap, mind you, this qualifies as heaven in the napping world, I should awake beautifully content and rested, but instead...), I was anxious. Low-grade dread hung over my head, and I struggled to wake up and identify what it was.

Do you know what I'm talking about? A low-grade, nebulous, unidentifiable fear?

I had it.

I've actually had it a lot since becoming a stay-at-home mom. All the silence and free time opens me up to worry. Where my mind could be using this time for creativity and joy, it instead chooses to dwell on future (imaginary) trauma, horrible fear, and a low-grade sense of impending doom.

Here's a sample: as I'm waving good-bye to my hubby.... what if this is the last time I see him?... What if I'm left to raise these children alone?... What if I have to sell this house?... What if I have to move back to Indiana and find a job?... What will my children turn out like?... Will anyone ever love me again?... OH, MY WORD, I'M A SINGLE MOM OF TWO SMALL CHILDREN, LIVING IN MY PARENTS' BASEMENT, BARELY SCRAPING BY ON A PITTANCE OF A SALARY, WITH CHILDREN THAT WILL GROW UP TO OPENLY RESENT ME AND RUN AWAY FROM GOD WHILE I DIE ALONE AND UNLOVED.

Yeah. All this happens in my head while I'm waving goodbye. I single-handedly widdow, impoverish, and strip myself of all hope and joy in the short 60 seconds it takes my husband to drive out of view.

Basically, when I'm going through suffering, I'm freaked out, and when I'm brought to a place of relative rest and ease, I'm freaked out.

I'm constantly doubting my God, doubting his good gifts, and doubting my joy and security.

Over the past year, God has given me wonderful triumph in this area. I no longer have to consciously slow my breathing and repeat, "My God is good" as my husband drives away each morning.

But on some days, like today, there's a nebulous fear that is incredibly difficult to shake. Today it stemmed from a harmless comment and a fear about what someone was thinking of me. I did not know what they were thinking, but I guessed. I felt. I panicked.

And that's when I was so thankful for the people that God has placed in my life.

I am thankful for my mama. She planted the idea of daily dwelling on a different attribute of God and a corresponding verse.

I am thankful for a dear friend who is doing the verse activity along with me, and whose transparency in her own walk is encouraging to my soul.

I am thankful for a God who has so many amazing attributes that I couldn't narrow down my choice for today.

I'm thankful for the generous people that He has placed in my life. People who pray, give amazingly generous gifts, and who walk through terror and truth with me.

I'm thankful for these ladies...

The lovelies at my bachelorette party!

Whose hubbies walked through seminary with mine. These beautiful women who shared our time of preparation in humility and honesty. Ladies who welcomed me into the "Seminary Wives Club" with open arms and gentleness.

And who, twelve kids, two years, and 3 churches later, can still come together and talk honestly, encourage with truth, and laugh and cry. I'm so thankful for these iron-sharpening-iron friendships. These ladies don't lie or sugar-coat. Their transparency is never unduly raw or without purpose. Every single on of them shares struggles and triumphs through a lens of grace.

The mommies, wives, and friends. (Minus Tori!)

And so today, as I fought of irrational fear, I took up truth. And I was able to pick it up, in a large part, because of these encouragers that God has placed in my life. Let us never get distracted by things of earth and forget the One who created all the things. And may our friendships never sink to mindless sharing of little nothings. Because when we are honest and humble, we not only praise our Creator, but we encourage His daughters.

For this I am truly thankful.

Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up! 

{Ecclesiastes 4:9,10}