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...)

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...