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."

Our Assateague Vacation, or "When We Learned That Wild Horses Are Like Giant Raccoons And Toddlers Don't Sleep In Tents"

So, we went camping.

With toddlers.

On an island.

With wild horses.

Brilliant.

While I am not advocating, nor will I ever be a bill board for, "Camping With Toddlers!" it was much less traumatic than I thought it would be. I just mentally prepared myself for the fact that I would be doing the same job that I do every day, only I would be doing it in dirt, sand, and with sleep-deprived children.

That was pretty much true.

What I was not prepared for was the way in which they loved the outdoors and camping. Bets in particular (total shocker, I know!) loved camping. She loved sleeping in the tent. She loved getting dirty. She loved the sand. She loved the ocean. She loved waves and chasing down baby crabs.

I say all this because in the pictures that follow, Bets does not come off as though she enjoys camping. In fact, she would seem to hate it. And the outdoors. And the ocean. That's because most of those pictures were taken just before she fell asleep for an hour on my lap. Bets never naps in public. This nap on the beach indicates her extreme exhaustion level. There. I feel that I have exonerated my daughter. Someone tell her this when she's sixteen and wondering why I have more pictures of Grant from this trip.

We were also visited by wild horses. Twice. There is no photographic evidence of these visits. Here's why:

Our first visit was at two in the morning. We heard horses. Scott peeked his head out the tent, and started throwing shoes at them, trying to get them to go away. Why? Because they were eating our food. I peeked my head out of the tent, and my reaction was much more violent. It probably had something to do with the massive amount of time and energy and money that I had put into making sure my family ate well on this trip, but for whatever reason, I snapped. I charged out of the tent, grabbed a lawn chair, and went yelling and flailing in the direction of the horses. I, for one, am glad that there's no photographic evidence of that encounter. They left us alone for the rest of the night.

The next day, after a trip to the store to replace our stolen merchandise (seriously, wild horses can open Ziploc containers), we spent the rest of the day on the beach. When we returned to our campsite, the horses were back. This time, they had broken into our Rubbermaid tub, smashed our "bug tent" flipped open the cooler and eaten almost everything. Even my super-expensive organic, tummy-approved snacks. Gone. This time, I snapped a different way. It is an excellent thing that the delinquent park ranger who thought saying, "Stay away from the wild horses" was enough of a warning wasn't in the vicinity. I raked that idiotic man up one side and down the other. I'm not a stupid camper. I pack up all my food. But... NO ONE TOLD ME THERE WERE DEMON, TENT-DESTROYING, COOLER-CRUSHING HORSES ON THE LOOSE! So, obviously, I was too steamed to take pictures of that encounter. If your aspiration is to be a park ranger don't be like bleary-eyed, lazy "Steve" (real name forgotten) at the guard gate. The man was flipping useless.

I wasn't upset or anything...

We ate trail mix and peanut butter out of the jar for dinner that night. And we buried our s'mores rations in the sand so that the horses wouldn't find them.

All that to say... we're probably going again next year. And we've already devised a very rigorous, continually-locked-in-the-car food system.

We found tons of (dead) horseshoe crabs. Props to Daddy for knowing what they were.

Our beach oasis. 

Hunting for baby crabs.

Right before "The Nap."

Ready.

Set.

Go!

If you can't tell, this is his "ohmygoodness-I-love-being-buried" face. No sarcasm. He legitimately loves it.

These are "our" horses. The herd that attacked my $12 bag of granola.

Their leader.

It was seriously amazing. And fun. And exhausting. And sandy. And we realized our first "official" vacation in 3+ years. It was time.

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.

Because "I love you" Isn't Always Enough

When I married my husband I was a "free spirit." I use that term to cover a myriad of housekeeping/lifestyle messes. I had piles of clothes in my room, a layer of dust on my piano, and piles of dishes in a sink. Because, you see, I was a creative person. What is "creative" about gray algae growing over last week's casserole dish, I'm not sure, but that was my excuse.

Scott was the first man I said, "I love you" to, and the gravity of that became deeply rooted over our dating. Saying "love" meant saying "sacrificially give." When I told this skinny, tired, desperately-in-need-of-food, but-oh-so-handsome seminary intern "I love you" I was actually saying "I will willingly sacrifice and give to you." 

But when marriage revealed that he was a morning person and a "neat freak." I became disgruntled. He was also incredibly methodical and enjoyed a consistent schedule. I love adventure and daily variety. 

So, there I was: a creative, adventurous free spirit, who had said "I love you" to a methodical, clean, early bird.

And I became concerned. I told my husband "I love you!" a hundred times per day. But I didn't load the dishwasher. I would cuddle him and plan fun outings, but laundry would pile up. I would praise his spiritual leadership in our home, and then hit the snooze button 13 times and doze my way through what should have been my quiet time. 

When I said, "I love you" I was lying.

Not willingly. Not whole-heartedly. Not even knowingly... but I slowly woke to the realization that my husband might hear my love, but he wouldn't experience my love. 

I wasn't sacrificing for my husband on a daily basis. I wasn't telling my supposed-creativity "no." There was no indication in my daily life that I actually was practicing what my mouth was proclaiming.

So... I started washing dishes.

I came up with a laundry schedule.

I told myself that staying home on Friday night was not a crime. And I found ways to make being a homebody fun. (New pop corn recipes and "Quiddler," anyone?) I stopped sobbing every time our weekend wasn't filled with social engagements. (It's shocking how often I did this...)

My husband really likes everything put away. I came up with a schedule every morning and every evening to guarantee that our house would be tidy.

I got up in the morning.

And slowly. almost without realizing it, I began to change. I started loving having the clothes put away. I enjoyed a tidy kitchen. Staying home and cuddling with my family became fun. I turned into a morning person.

One morning this spring, I woke up, at 5 a.m., looked around my tidy room, and realized that I had changed. These things were no longer work. They were just simply the ways that I loved my husband. And I enjoyed them.

Now, I must caveat this post... my husband never bullied me into changing. He never made my life miserable. I voluntarily chose to make his life easier by removing certain things that were quiet stresses. We could do another post about how he loves adventure and exploring with me. We could talk about how our house is a den of creativity (he lets me paint all over my walls, and just grins when my new decorating/teaching/planning craze takes over). 

And you know what? Increased discipline (getting up early, organizing closets, and keeping a tidy house) actually increases my creativity! I may have less time to be lazy, but I have more time to create in a happy, sunshiny place (without first brushing off a layer of dusty and grime).

This picture is a picture of our new harmony. There's writing on the wall, a crazy reupholstered chair, and a little bit of quirkiness. But it's clean. When I stopped merely saying "I love you" and started acting like I loved him, beautiful blessings abounded. I'm clearly not perfect at this, but I'm delighting in growing in "I love you" actions.

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...)