Why I Should Go To Bed At 9:00

It's only 10:28. In my wild hey-day of youth, the party would have just been starting, the event would have just been planned... hey, four months ago (even on a work night) I probably wouldn't be thinking of bed for at least another hour.

And I married a non-night owl (i.e. an early bird).

I love mornings. The coolness, the crisp new air. The world is fresh. "A new day with no mistakes in it yet..."

But I'm not a morning person.

So, that's why I'm sitting on my back porch, crickets sawing around me, while my dear, sweet honey bun starts another REM cycle.

Unfortunately, at night, I start thinking. And thinking at night is not a good thing.

I lie there and thoughts start whirling through my head... "Did I close the freezer door tightly enough? The electric bill was really high this month. I wonder if that was because of the freezer door. Bills.... are we ever going to escape bills? I wonder how much longer I'll work my current job. Will I have to work forever? Will I ever get to just be a mom? What if I have a baby sometime in the next two years? We can't do that. Scott's in seminary. I'd have to go back to work. I'll have to drop my baby off at a baby daycare. I didn't plan on that. I didn't plan on a lot of things. I didn't plan on marrying the most amazing man in the world... who doesn't know where God wants him. What will he decide to do? Where wil we be? What if I don't like it?"

See?

It's very bad to think at night. All of a sudden I'm a working mom with triplets and a husband who is killing himself in a dry patch of ministry. It all happened in less than 1 minute.

I have to mentally turn myself around.

"No good thing does he withhold 

   from those whose walk is blameless."

"In perfect faithfulness 

   you have done wonderful things,    

things planned long ago."*

We don't know where we will wind up for ministry.

"Wonderful things.... no good thing withheld."

I have a baby and have to go back to work. I wasn't planning on that.

"Wonderful things.... no good thing withheld."

Ministry is exhausting and no fruit is ever seen.

"Wonderful things.... no good thing withheld."

Groceries, electric, water, sewer, home owner fees...

"Wonderful things.... no good thing withheld."

The freezer door is left open and my yummy lemon sorbet melts to a gooey puddle.

"Wonderful things.... no good thing withheld."

It's true. Even in the dark of night with a whirling mind. The Lord has planned wonderful things. He brings such good and lavishes it so freely in my life. Why should I doubt it now?

My God is good.

Amazing husband. Wonderful family. Thriving church home. Fulfilling job. Delightful friends. Beautiful house. A large closet. Pretty high heeled shoes. My expanded book library (came with the hubby!). Free country. Blessings upon blessings upon blessings upon blessings....

* Psalm 84 and Isaiah 25

Yellow Play-Doh!

Meet Skunkguin.

 Skunkguin is a half skunk, half penguin created by my husband. Scott didn’t know he was making a half skunk, half penguin when he made Skunkguin. He just thought he was making a skunk.

But two weeks into our marriage, I discovered Skunkguin.

“What is this?”

“A puppet!”

“I know it’s a puppet…. But what animal is it supposed to be be? A penguin?”

“Honey, it’s clearly a skunk.”

“It has a very penguin-looking beak…”

“But please note its skunk tail. It is most definitely a skunk.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I made him. ”

“I don’t know, honey. It looks like his mother was a skunk and his father was a penguin. He’s a skunk-penguin. A skunkguin.”

And thus was Skunkguin re-created. (Don’t take car rides with us. Skunkguin and I have a jolly good time, and Scott just laughs and laughs and laughs. I imagine it would be irritating to those outside our little family.)

Vacation Bible School was a few weeks ago, and Skunkguin made his grand, Faith VBS debut. I had the lovely delight of teaching 73 kindergarteners each night’s Bible story. (And there is no touch of sarcasm in that phrase… it was truly a delight.)

On the last night, Skunkguin aided me in talking about the apostles and the early church. Skunkguin was so excited about his yellow play-doh he had just gotten that he kept yelling, “yellow play-doh!” right in the middle of the lesson.

“There once were two men named—"

“Yellow play-doh!”

“Skunkguin, please, its story time. These two men were named Peter and—"

“Yellow play-doh!”

And so we continued. Skunkguin was so excited about this yellow play-doh that he couldn’t stop talking about it… Skunkguin learned that Peter and James were so excited about Christ that they couldn’t stop talking about him either. And the Kindergarteners learned that when you’re excited about something, when you truly love something, you want everyone to know!

I’ve been met by Kindergarteners with yells of, “YELLOW PLAY-DOH!” in the hallways of church ever since.

So… what’s your “yellow play-doh”?

What makes you so incredibly excited that you can’t stop shouting? What makes you jump out of bed in the morning? What do you mark on your calendar and look forward to? What do you wait for, hope for, plan for?  It elicits a crackle of energy.

What “makes your day”? What makes you smile? What makes you feel alive?

Because that will tell you what you’re loving, praising—what you’re giving your life to.

Don’t church-it-up for me.

What is it?

Too often life is characterized by the “yellow play-doh” of experiences, things, people, family, or even the feelings and emotions those different situations elicit. Life so easily consists of the abundance of things. Not possessions, perhaps, but experiences, plans, and people.

Evaluate your love solemnly.

For one man spent a lifetime exploring different varieties of play-doh, and he did write: “so I commend the enjoyment of life, because there is nothing better for a person under the sun than to eat and drink and be glad. Then joy will accompany them in their toil all the days of the life God has given them under the sun”

But this was followed by, “remember your Creator in the days of your youth… Now all has been heard; here is the conclusion of the matter: 
Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the duty of all mankind.”

Don’t curl your nose up at the use of “duty,” for in this duty is found the most delightful joy….

“You make known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand.”

A lifetime, an eternity of the most exciting joy you can possibly imagine.

“Yellow play-doh!”

**Ecclesiastes 8:15, Ecclesiastes 12, Psalm 16:11

My writing is dead...My Lord is Alive

I've sat down to write five times in the past twenty-four hours.


I start to type.


I delete.


I start to type.


I tuck it away to a random folder.


My writing feels dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.


Part of what I'm struggling with is what to share... so much of my life is wrapped up in work (and there are laws about sharing that), and being a new wife (and we're still not sure how the hubby will respond to being a blog topic).


But this morning we sang,

"I'll stand with arms high and heart abandoned,

In awe of the one who gave it all.

I'll stand, my soul, Lord, to you surrendered,

All I am is Yours."

And each and every time I sing that, I want, so very, very badly to live as if this is so. I don't want the words to come from a heart that isn't committed to whole-hearted passion. I want the abandonment of total service to over-ride fear, timidity, and selfishness.

So, that's why I'm writing. I'm making myself write. Writing is my outlet to praising God. Writing is a gift I was given. Writing is my passion. I have to write. Even when the words won't come.

Writing is my praise and worship.

My soul feels tired. Dry. Stretched. New phases in life will do that to you. I don't know how to be a good wife. I hadn't even mastered being single...

But that's not what I've been asked to do. Perfection has not been demanded. I haven't been asked to gush forth new words, new thoughts, new actions... perfection. I can't be the perfect wife, the perfect daughter, the perfect writer, the perfect... the perfect... the perfect...

I want so badly to be perfect.

But that's not what's being asked.

"Do not offer any part of yourself to sin as an instrument of wickedness, but rather offer yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life; and offer every part of yourself to him as an instrument of righteousness." (Romans 6:13)


I am just to offer... all I am is Yours.

 I thank Christ Jesus our Lord, who has given me strength, that he considered me trustworthy, appointing me to his service.

(I Timothy 1:12)

"Hi, Mrs. Skunk!"


(One of the reasons why you shouldn't introduce a skunk puppet to a bunch of Kindergarteners...)

Fifth Avenue in heaven, please?

I'm missing the City. Spending a couple weeks in a location hardly makes one a native, but it can be a little bit like eating samples at the grocery store. "Ooh, that's yummy... I want the whole package!"

I like to think that someday heaven will have a slice of the "big city" feel... I'll get my big city experience in a perfected world.

That sounds nice.

Of Red Mixers and Toothpaste... and returning to the writing rut.

It is with a gasp of relief that I am surfacing from the tidal wave of wedding planning. Granted, there's still some flotsam of residual thank you notes and extra spatulas, but for the most part, I'm settling quite nicely into the rut of being married.

Ruts are nice. I've missed my rut... I've missed writing.

And I've missed my sweatpants.

I tried being "cute" all day, every day after I got married. I managed for five whole days until the last day of the honeymoon when I broke down, "But I don't want to go out for a nice dinner.... Can't I just wear my sweatpants!? I love elastic waists! Please... can't I just be a bum?" And that evening we were sweatpant bums together.

That's why I married him-- he loves me even when I look homeless and hopeless in my men's XL sweatpants. (Why are men's sweatpants so much more comfortable than women's? WHY?)

I have been craving comfort, familiarity... Marriage is delightful. But it's different. Very different.

I'm not used to cleaning whisker-bristles off the sink, and he's not used to the fine dusting of cosmetic powder over his razor. I sort every basket of laundry, his strategy is more of a general "just get everything clean." I leave piles of shoes around every enterance. He forgets to rinse his oatmeal bowl.

He gets up at 6:00 a.m.
And sings.

I get up at 7:00 a.m.
Because he pulls me out of bed.

He carefully works up from the bottom of the toothpaste tube.
Because it's economical and careful.


I just grab the tube and squeeze.
Because it's just toothpaste and I'm in a hurry.

We are two, very different, very in-love, very fallible human beings. And we're probably incredibly entertaining to watch.

But we both love working on our new home. We both like cooking for each other. We like driving to church in the gray sunrise--praying. We like using our different wedding gifts and saying "Wasn't that nice of _____?" and "I hope our future children don't break this..." We like arguing points of literature, movies, and shopping techniques. It is wonderful to have someone to walk towards Heaven with...


He likes fixing tubs.
I like not standing in six inches of yucky water.

I like my beautiful red mixer.
He likes eating the cakes that it mixes.

It's very nice being married... I'm enjoying creating new ruts and new habits. (I'm learning how to squeeze the toothpaste.) But it's also nice climbing back into old familiar ruts...



Yes, this is Courtney as a "Mrs.", but I'm still writing.

Lattes, the Hallelujah Chorus, and Heaven...

My eyes are tired, but open. Propped, glazed, fixed by the caffeine I so foolishly imbibed this evening. 


My old age is peeking out. I used to be able to drink coffee at 10 p.m. and be sound asleep by 10:17. Now, after a 4 p.m. latte, I stare at my ceiling, willing myself to fall asleep.


Tonight, in my sleeplessness, I propped my chin in my hands, snuggled under my down blanket, and traced the moonlight on the tree outside my window. My eyes wouldn't close. Foot tapping, and tired eyes staring, I began to think of today.


Today was a day of exceptional blessings--worship with the family of God, coffee talks (hence the sleeplessness) with delightful sisters in Christ, singing at the top of my lungs with a mass of other believers.


Yet in all this blessing, I was rather wistful. Longing. We talked about it briefly over lattes. Despite a life full of happiness and Starbucks, I still yearn for something yet to come. As I become older, and as I see more of who I am and how truly broken and fallen the world is, I become increasingly anxious for Christ to come back. 


I want to see Him. I want to worship Him, uninterrupted, forever, free from the sin which wraps itself into the very acts which should be most honoring to Him: my prayers, my praise, my meditation. I go from praising God with every fiber of my being, to blatant pride in a split second. I'm so tired of my sin. It is forever sprouting heads like the mythological Greek Hydra... I slice off one head, only to have two more grow.


Imagine the pure, unadulterated joy of praising God. Forever. Have you ever heard a really good performance of Handel's Messiah? When the "Hallelujah Chorus" bursts onto the scene, goosebumps run up and down my arms. 


Imagine that. Only better. Fuller. With every voice of everyone who has ever proclaimed Christ as Lord joining with you. Perfectly. The thunder of the praise, bounding into the stars, spreading infinitely throughout the galaxy, proclaiming what creation has sung for years: "The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge."


And as I lay there, tracing moonlit branches, again and again, I wondered, "What am I doing? What am I doing right now to "redeem this time"?"


I know that these "days are evil," but that my purpose in proclaiming the glory of God does not start when I join the multitude in heaven. No, I am told that I am to "shine among [the world] like stars in the sky." I am already designed to portray the glory of God. Here. Now. Flawed. Sinful. Weary. God could have chosen to make me perfect at the moment of salvation, but we all know that didn't happen.


Why?


Because something that I don't understand, something in this battle, which "is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms," something about my struggle to conform to Christ, brings God more glory than immediate perfection.


So, while I wait to join in heaven's immortal "Hallelujah Chorus," am I waiting passively? Or am I actively redeeming each moment. Each second. Each action. Taking "captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ." 


Because, before I sing with that multitude, even more than worshipping with the amazing servants who have gone before, I want to hear my Savior say, "'You remain true to my name. You did not renounce your faith in me.' 'Well done...'"


How good it will be to go home...






************
Scripture used:
Revelations 2:13
II Corinthians 10:5
Ephesians 6:12
Philippians 2:15
Ephesians 5:16
Psalm 19:1-2
Luke 19:17