on pushing chairs around the room

"What are you trying to do El?  Can I help you?"

I ask this question in response to the screams I heard from the other room.  First, I heard the sound of moving furniture.  Then a small bang.  Then screams.  Screams of frustration, so I did not run, but I finished what I was doing, took some deep breaths, and then walked into the room to see what was the matter.

Eldon had gotten in his mind that he wanted to move the chairs around the dining room.  However, he is not quite old enough to be able to plan ahead very far, nor can he articulate exactly what it is he is trying to do.  He simply goes up to a chair, and uses every inch of his tiny body to make it move.  Soon, it gets stuck on a table leg.  Without wasting time trying to problem-solve, Eldon moves immediately into scream and cry mode.

So, can I help you honey?
"AARRRGGGHHH!!!"  The screams get higher pitched, and he throws himself on the floor.

In my motherly wisdom I see that my old standby tactic ("Do I need to separate you two?") will not work this time.   Perhaps separation from that particular chair would help, but who can separate a child from all uncooperative, inanimate objects?

"Honey, where are you trying to take that?"
Eldon gets up, hits the chair, screams, and falls back on the floor.

I try to redirect him, scoop him up quickly, and sit on the couch,  "You want to read a book?"
He climbs off my lap, runs back to the chair, smacks it again. With screams.

I am getting a bit frustrated now too.
"Eldon what is the big deal? Nobody even asked you  to do that!"
In frustration I take him out of the room, and when the screaming does not stop, I set him in the corner until he calms down.

Nobody even asked you to do that.  The words come out of my mouth, and again  I see my own self in this irrational child. (again God? really? c'mon I thought I had grown up a LITTLE!)

How many times in my day do I get frustrated because I am unable to accomplish things that nobody even asked me to do?

It takes a good deal of wisdom to properly triage all the things on a list.  I have not this wisdom, and so I am often frustrated.  The craft that seemed like a great idea, the laundry I wanted to get done today (NOT tomorrow,) the potty training session I'm not even sure we are ready for, the little things that never get completely finished to the point where I feel CAUGHT UP enough to really have TIME to deal with the childish interruptions....

AARRRGGGHHH!!!

Though I confine my own fit throwing to the inside of my head (on my better days,) I must admit I do relate to Eldon's frustration over things that seem like nothing to anyone else who might be watching.

God, keep me from the folly of pushing chairs aimlessly around the room today.  

Help me to see what is important! 

Amen.

discontentment

As the children squawk, "I want to sit by you for the movie mama!" wrestling and pushing and climbing over each other to get to me, I try to pry them apart and make room for everyone.


"Easy kiddos. There's enough of mommy to go around," I say. I say it quite often, yet they never seem to believe me.

They struggle with each other, always needing, always asking mommy for whatever it is they need. I give what I can, though sometimes they must wait, and sometimes they must hear the word "no." Nobody is really starving, nobody is naked, and nobody's been left at the grocery store. Isn't that proof, dear children, that there really is enough of mommy to go around?

Except, honestly, there's not.

Were it possible, sheerly by my own effort, to make my children get and stay content, I think it would have happened by now. But most often, at the end of the day, my efforts are spent, and still they are not content. I say this not to play the martyr. I say it because again, I see myself in them.

I am also not content. I am restless, I am disapointed, or I am frustrated, every single day. There is usually someone or something to blame for this. The children are uncooperative. My husband is too busy. My house is messy. My head hurts. My dog ran away, again.

If these things were not so, would I be content then? Would I, if my husband spent 100% of his day doing my bidding and telling me how great I am? Would I be content if my children were kind and clean and healthy, and my body never hurt, and the stupid dog stayed where I put him? The truth is, even if today was the first day that every single thing in my life went to plan, tomorrow would not be that way, and the bit of contentment I felt today would disappear.

My children see me as the Ultimate Need Meeter in their lives, but when I daily fail to meet every one of their needs, they are disappointed. Their desire for their mother to meet all of their needs will surely change as they grow, and is already changing. Yet restless striving for contentment will not go away. They will try to settle themselves in their friends; in their studies, in their young loves. They will someday try to find contentment in their spouse, or their career, or even their own children.

I like that they need me, but my children need more than just me. And I need more than just them.

What is it we need to be truly content? We want our needs met now, and we want to know whatever needs we have in the future will be met in the future. We are restless because even if our health and our relationships are intact today, we have no assurance that things will go well for us tomorrow. Those we love are unpredictable. Sometimes they sin and fail us; sometimes they get sick and fail us; sometimes they are called by God to serve people other than us. Sometimes God calls them to Himself, and away from us. This is simply the reality of life in our fallen world.


But God does not fail us. Only He can give us our daily bread today, and only He can promise to do it for us again tomorrow. The gifts He gives may not be those gifts we think we need so badly. It may not be all the motherly attention the children want, it may not be the clean house I want, but He abudantly gives to His children those things that are truly best. He gives forgiveness and destroys sin. He gives and sustains life. He gives breath to we who are but dust. He gives us Jesus.


Heavenly Father, teach us to desire the good things that You have to give us. The troubles in this fallen world and the confusion of our own hearts create discontentment for us daily. Help us to look to You for comfort and security during our journey here. Mercifully provide daily bread to both body and soul, and sustain us in Jesus until that glorious day when Your Kingdom finally comes. In the name of Jesus, the Bread of Life, Amen.

Awkward Honesty

In our women's Bible study, we have been talking about how salvation "by grace alone" in Jesus radically changes everything. For example, knowing we are truly loved and saved by grace allows us finally to be truly honest with ourselves about our sin, to God and to others. We can admit we need help, and ask for it:


With that request for help comes and end to our playacting before the imagined audience of God and the people around us. We also receive relief from the intolerable pressure to demonstrate how much spiritual progress we have made and to show how spiritually mature we have become. (Grace Upon Grace by John Kleinig p. 39)



My children are so good at forcing me to put abstract theological ideas into practice.
This week, Lorraine skipped over to me, excited to tell me about her day at school. First, English class:

"Mommy, at school today we read a sentence that said, 'The mommy was patient with her active child' and I said (snort), 'That's not my mommy!"


"What do you mean by that!?" I protested. She giggled and went back to her painting. Painting. Mothers with no patience do not let their children paint, do they? Not to mention there were FIVE other children painting along with her at that very moment!
I pressed her a little bit, but she probably sensed my defensiveness. "What do you mean I am not patient?" She shrugged and smiled and continued painting.


Hm, did she tell her teacher that too? I wondered. As a litany of my own "good deeds" ran through my head, I thought about sharing them with her. I wanted to make her believe that I am a patient mommy, show her how many of the things we do every day would be impossible if I really had no patience whatsover! I even thought about lecturing her about how hard it is to be patient with little boys; a fact she ought to know, as she loses her temper with her brothers at least as often as I do!

But who would I be kidding? This is my daughter we're talking about here. The one that sees how I get up in the morning, bleary eyed and staggering to the coffee pot, kicking children out of the way as I go. She knows the wild-haired person I am after a day of time-outs and failed nap attempts.

I wish I was always patient, compassionate, and kind to my children, and I hate that I am not. I know that I cannot fool God on this point, but I still would really like to fool my children. I would like to hide my sin at least from them, to never let it hurt them or discourage them. I wish they did not have to know that even mommy is selfish and ugly, even mommy must come to God as a pathetic beggar, relying only on His grace.

Grace. That is what keeps me going. The grace of Christ, who takes my sin from me and nails it to the cross, who cleanses me, who gives me what I lack, who cares for me even though I sin; this grace is my only security, the solid foundation on which I stand even when my works are tried by fire and found wanting.

God reminded me of this grace, and helped me to speak, "You are right Lorraine, I do not have enough patience. I am glad we have Jesus who forgives us and helps us, aren't you?"

It felt very unnatural, to let my sin lay out in the open in front of my child, and to refrain from covering it again with my words. But hiding my sin would teach them to hide theirs, instead of exposing it to the light and receiving grace and healing from Jesus.


But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin. If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. 1 John 1:7-9

Kicking it in

When I ran track in high-school, middle-distance was my "specialty."  This was not my choice, but it was my lot, because I was not built to sprint, and I was too wimpy to train harder for long distance. So by default, the half mile became my race.

I was in terribly good shape at that time, and I remember running at nearly full speed for that entire half mile. I remember the muscle fatigue, the absolute exhaustion and burning lungs that seemed to persist through the whole race. I remember getting a little dizzy and feeling the temptation to slow down. I remember the rock that marked the spot where I was told to "kick it in," the last 150 yards of the race where I was supposed to draw on strength from who knows where and go even faster when what I really wanted to do was lay down on the soft grass.

The rock meant it's almost over!!!! and so was a welcomed sight. Yet it also meant one last burst of energy, muscle pain everywhere, and becoming so tired my eyes no longer wanted to focus. The final efforts squeezed the absolute last drops of energy out of me, until finally, the finish line, the collapse, and the eventual catching of breath.

What made me think of this experience this week?  My evenings.  That last bit, between about 7pm and 830.  The end of dinner has become my new "rock," the moment of time that shouts "your're almost there!" and encourages me to pour out the last drops of energy for the last 100.  Minutes, that is.  Until I can collapse.

My list after dinner: kitchen cleaned, coffee ready for tomorrow, baths perhaps, 6 children in PJs, three in diapers, teeth brushed, clothes out for tomorrow, lunches packed, checking homework, buddies located, music on, closet doors closed, night lights on, "hug kiss and tucks," breaking up the last few fights, and then finally, quiet.

By the close of dinner, I am out of words, or at least I would like to be. I have kept pace with the kid chatter all day long and I just feel like there are no words left inside me at all. Yet as we go through our list, their words continue to bombard me.

"Mommy we forgot to do my word cards! Can you do them with me?"
"Marcus dumped water on the floor mommy!"
"Mommy where is my Curious George?"
"Mommy daddy's reading to Eldon, can you read to me?"
"Can we wrestle?"
"Mommy! He's watching me put my PJs on MAKE HIM STOP!"
"Can we go to the park?" No, it's dark out. "Can we go tomorrow?"
"Someone didn't flush the potty!"
"Can we watch a movie?" No. "OK then can we tomorrow?
"I can't open the toothpaste!"
"Can we paint?" No. "OK then can we tomorrow?  When?"
"Eldon bit me again Mommy!"
"Mommy when can we go to Michigan again?"
"Mommy look at this beautiful picture! Can we send it to grammy pammy right now?"
"Mommy can we listen to the story about the flower girl?"
"Mommy can you brush my hair? Button my PJs? Find my blanket? Kiss me, tuck me, tickle me?"

Inside I say to myself, "You can do it, just a little bit more, you're almost there, just a couple more things, the house will be quiet soon... kick it in kick it in kick it in!"

But it's not like track.  Yes, I am exhausted.  Yes, it would be more efficient and I would get to collapse sooner if I rushed through the last part of the night as quickly as possible.  But it is no longer just about getting a good time.

It's about finishing the race with kindness.  With grace.  Tucking them in and sharing their giggles, and saying "I love you" in a way that actually communicates "I love you" and not "Oh please, just stop talking now."  To me, this is about as natural as running with grace, or even worse, cheerleading.


God, give me strength for that last hour of the day!  Give strength to my muscles and to my heart, and teach me to finish the race of the day with grace!  I need to borrow all of it from You!

Pretty little checkmarks, all in a row

Sometimes it feels like God gives me too much freedom. When I am feeling the pull of ten different things, unable to give myself fully to any one, and feeling like every priority is getting too little of my attention, well, I would really just like a list. Not just general guidelines, not only ten commandments, but a detailed list. I want something like this:

Emily's to-dos today

Thou shalt remove thyself from bed when the first child calls. Feed, dress the children, and line them up neatly in front of educational television.


Thou shalt spend ten minutes with God and coffee.


Thou shalt work in kitchen for 1 1/2hrs, in three 1/2hr intervals, and no more.


Thou shalt use ten of the minutes I have given thee to catch up with current events


Tho shalt endure 18 knock-knock jokes, but thou canst redirect the child that bringeth the 19th


Thou shalt change each of the 17 diapers that are presented to you this day.

Thou shalt entertain children for 4 hours, educational activites consuming the better half.


Thou shalt exercise thyself and children for one hour.


Thou shalt spend no more than two hours on other housework, laundering thy towels and ordering the disorder visited upon thee by thy children.


Thou shalt snuggle thy children for 10 minutes, three times, afterwhich thee may excuse thyself to do your other jobs.


Thou shalt converse with thine husband for at least 60 minutes.


Thou shalt spend 20 minutes talking about God to children, reading this specific Scripture passage, praying, and bearing the nonsensical questions that are presented you in this time frame. After those minutes have passed, thou shalt send them off to bed.


If thou has completed the above tasks and are still without sin, thou may indulgest thyself in telephone or computer-facilitated socializing. Then, get thyself to bed by ten.

I am sure the list would be long and tiresome, but at least it would be clear! If I had a nice checklist like this, at least THEN I could look at all the things still undone at the end of the day and shrug, "oh well! God didn't tell me to do it so it is not my problem!" And I could go before Him with all those nice little checkmarks in a row and say, "Here's my report, Lord! I got it all done! Now give me some good sleep tonight please, and I'll see you tomorrow!"

But there is NO LIST! No black and white job description for me, and as far as I can tell, you don't get one either.

What does that leave me with? God's Word, and the Holy Spirit, and a bunch of demands, and a sinful heart that gets in the way when I try to sort all of this out. There is generous amount of freedom, and a great deal of gray.

And at the end of the day, there are things left undone, and the things that were done were done by me, a sinner, and I see even my best is tainted.

No checkmarks, no gold star. Just me. I come to God at the end of the day with the things I have done, and in His light I see there is not much to be boasting about. "Um, here you go Lord. It's a pencil holder... I think. Or maybe a coffee cup? I guess it's not at all finished, and I'm not sure what it is going to be...and I messed up in a few places. So there you have it... it is what it is... and I'm tired Lord."

Me, commiting the demands of the day, my efforts and my failures, to Him.

No pretty checklist to make me feel good about myself.

Just a lopsided sculpture that may or may not be a pencil holder.


My head does not rest at night comforted by what I have done. And yet by God's grace, what I have done and what I have left undone is taken from me by Jesus.

I am not sure what He does with all the gray; I cannot picture exactly what it is He is making.

I do know that He takes the black, the ugly sin, and hides it in His own wounds.

And then, He takes whatever remains of my lopsided creation, and He uses it for my good and the good of His people.

Then finally, He looks on me with pity, and gives me something concrete that I am to do with myself:

"Daughter, go, sleep in peace."




But whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God that depends on faith.



Philippians 3:7-9

 

Peace like a baby

The nappers were napping, or quiet if not

Dinner was simmering in the crock-pot

Big sisters in school, big brothers in bed

Small baby upon me, warm, happy, and fed

His breaths whispered softly, my shoulder was sodden,

But my lists and my worries were quickly forgotten.

I sat there with Peter, we sat there we two,

and I said, "How I love having nothing to do!"

See the plants- how they wither!  The  laundry- how smelly!

The puddles of milk and the splatters of jelly!

On the couches, the blobs and the boogers were showing

But the baby upon me, how fast was he growing!

Ignoring demands of the clutter and mess,

I stroked his soft head, and in quiet, was blessed,

to be warmed by new life, as with the sun's ray,
to simply be mommy for one moment today.

Go Tigers!

Fragility

How fragile is this life.  How vulnerable those we love to death, destruction, and so many things out of our control.  How can you not be reminded of this on a day like today, witnessing the devastation in Japan?

I wish I could forget.  I wish it were not so.

Is that the way I will meet my end?  If not, how will it go for me?  I remember all too much that I am dust.

Aggie is in bed early tonight, with the bug that Eldon has had all week.  I snuggled her to sleep for the first time in a long time, and could not help but remember her days of epilepsy as I laid there with her.  My dear, fragile Aggie, how will it go with you?  I remember that you are dust.

It is easy to feel secure in this life when things are normal.  And then suddenly, one quick moment comes, and normal vanishes.  What, then, is left?

There is only one hope for we who are walking dust.  If we have a God, and if He is a forgiving God and a loving God, then all can never be lost.

In Christ, even sinners sleep secure, even dust breathes in life.

As a father has compassion on his children, 

   so the LORD has compassion on those who fear him; 

for he knows how we are formed, 

Psalm 103:13-14

   he remembers that we are dust. 

ash wednesday

Ash wednesday is here again, and it is still just as hard on this mother's heart as it has ever been.

It is an odd thing for Christians to take time out to observe this kind of holiday. I do not believe I have seen a secular adaptation of Ash Wednesday at Walmart.   The world may be able to make its own version of Fat Tuesday, Easter and Christmas by subtracting substance and adding bright colors and materialism, but it is hard, even for the best marketing experts, to make a holy day that focuses on our mortality something that will sell.

Today my little girls will come home from school with ashes on their heads.  They will have heard those words,  "From dust you are, to dust you shall return." They will have heard them from the lips of their own father, and have received a reminder of this awful truth from the same hand that feeds them.  They will sport the black reminder of it on their foreheads all day long, but it will likely be forgotten to them, as they rush home to show me their special papers and cheerfully devour whatever it is I set out for an after-school snack.

But I will not forget.  The ashes on those pretty young heads shout to me, and tell me things I would rather not hear.  Especially those ashes smudged on the forehead of Aggie, whose life we will never take for granted.  Will her tumor return this year?  Will she return to dust even before I do?

This holiday cannot be sold without Jesus.  This reality, death itself, cannot be conquered without Him.  But He has conquered it for us, and with the church we look forward to the day when fear and dread will be no more. 

And so, even on this holiday of death, even in this world covered in death, we can sleep in peace.  Whether we are speaking of sleep in our beds or sleep in the grave, we take refuge in the one place that is safe:  in the blood of our Savior, Jesus Christ, poured out for our sins.

I shall lie down and sleep in peace, 

for You alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.

Psalm 4:8

This is how we know

This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. 1 John 3:16

Inner contortions not necessary!

Listen here

It is less than a minute long, and you will be encouraged.

Get well soon

"Mommy! The pukes are coming!"

My son runs towards me yelling these words. Towards me, and away from the bathroom.

Few words get me moving so quickly as these. Immediately I switch from relaxing on the couch mode to super-ultra multi-tasking mode. I leap towards my son, scoop him up in my arms, and begin my lecture, "Honey! If you have to throw up---" toilet seat up, kid in position, "go to the bathroom first, don't---" Lysol, paper towels, "come running to me first--- Oh, honey." The lecture is silenced by compassion. The child looks up at me in between heaves. His world has utterly changed. He has come face to face with pure evil, and its name is "stomach flu."

One by one, the six children succumbed to stomach flu last month. Each one insisted that mommy be present and involved when the heaving was happening. So there I stood, time and again, next to the toilet, rubbing backs and murmuring words of compassion.

I hate sick eyes. Sad, sick eyes looking up at me, begging me to make it stop, or at the very least to explain why it is happening. I could do neither, so I sighed, prayed, and rubbed backs. My ineffective, weak hand could not stop the violence that attacked my babies' small bodies. I gently encouraged,, patted, and assured the little ones that it would be over soon.

What was the point of that, really? Why in the world was it necessary for me to be there with them every time? Why did they want to hear those words that I could not fulfill, those mere wishes that they would get better soon? Why was it necessary for me to crawl from underneath my warm covers, stand with them through the heaving and the crying, and maintain some sort of hopeful and comforting attitude through it all? Why did they want my powerless hands to comfort them when they could not take away the sickness? Yet they insisted on it, adamantly, making clear that messy consequences would follow if I even hesitated for a moment.

It made me think of another situation I hate even more than I hate stomach flu: when evil, the kind worse than stomach flu, attacks me or people I know. I hate when I know of someone facing an enormous trial that I can do nothing about. I hate when my heart breaks with theirs, and when I feel so utterly powerless to do anything about it. I hate the helplessness so much that sometimes I am tempted to say nothing, do nothing, and ignore it if I can; to stay under my warm covers and simply comfort myself with denial.

I remember when Aggie's brain tumor was making her terribly sick and nobody knew what was going to happen. I hated being the person that reminded everyone of this huge, sad thing, the family that was suffering so much that anyone who knew about it couldn't help but wonder, "Where is God and why isn't He helping?"

Yet I also remember being comforted. I remember those who allowed their own hearts to be pierced as they shared the burden with us. Those who let themselves love Aggie, and us, even though it hurt. Those who were there with a meal or a hug or an offer of help. Those who dared speak a word of encouragement. I remember, through those seemingly small things, I was comforted.

I was comforted because what was given to me was not simply a cheerful pep-talk or unfounded optimism. I was encouraged by those actions that reminded me of Him, by the words of encouragement that were echoes of the Truth of God's love for us in Christ. It is all too easy to forget the love God has shown us in Jesus, the peace and forgiveness and grace we have in Him, when we are suffering. God knows this about us, and in His mercy, He sends people into our lives during times of suffering to remind us of these things.

Mere words cannot take away the sadness of this life. They cannot turn heavy boulders into feathers, they cannot make the sun shine in the pit of hell. But God can do all of these things! In Christ we have a hope that will not put us to shame; even if the worst should happen, our God will be victorious, and we will be OK.

Because we are in Christ, we can join with those who are facing hardship that we cannot relieve. We join with them by bringing them in prayer to God, and bringing the encouragement we receive from God back to them. We can take the hands that tremble into our own, and look together to the God that steadies them both.

Even though we suffer, we are not forsaken. God is with us, and because of Christ, we will get well soon.

serving the multitude

Solomon's words (1 Kings 3:7-9) resonated with me today, as I consider the enormity of the task of motherhood, how often I fail at it, and how utterly unequipped I am for it. (My modifications in italics)

And now, O Lord my God, you have made your servant a mother ...although I am but a little child. I do not know how to go out or come in. And your servant is in the midst of your people whom you have chosen, a great people, too many to be numbered or counted for multitude. (It feels that way!) Give your servant therefore an understanding mind to govern your people, that I may discern between good and evil, for who is able to govern this your great people?

These dear children are Your people, Lord, and you have made me their mother though I do not have what they need. Because of the grace You have shown to me in Jesus, I am bold to ask for what I do not deserve: Let me borrow it all from you. Loan me your patience, energy, strength, compassion, wisdom and love, that your dear children may have what they need from me. In His name, Amen.

Inheritance

I think the children are inheriting some of mommy's sentiments...

The other night Seth prayed, "God, please make Peter stay a baby forever!"

Oh honey, I like him as a baby too, but God didn't make him to stay a baby forever! God has plans for him as He grows up, just like he has plans for you. We love and enjoy him as a baby now, and God will help us love and enjoy him when he's big too!

(I lecture him and myself!)

"What would you say if I prayed to God that you would stay four forever, would you like it if He said yes?"

"No mommy! I want to get big and go to school!"

So he understood the lesson, and better than the giver of the lecture, who would be perfectly happy if God allowed her to stay 30-something forever.

But God has plans for me as I grow up too, so I'm told.

Tending

"I'll finish our book in a minute, honey. I need to tend to Peter."

I use the verb "tend " all the time to refer to the baby of the house. I hear crying or fussing, and I rush off to "tend," to meet whatever need it is that needs meeting. I tell the other children I must "tend," because as I go pick up the baby I do not know if he needs changing or feeding or cuddling or what. Hang on a minute big kids, mommy needs to "tend!"

I remember when Eldon was little and needed tending to, and Aggie was sick and needed so much tending to, and the others tended to each other as much as possible. I remember the day I was cooking dinner and talking to baby Eldon and dosing up the epilepsy meds, when Marcus pulled on my leg and demanded with big sad eyes, "Mommy! Tend to me!"

I like the verb "tend," and have begun to use it in my prayers. I miss my family, more than usual during the holiday season, and I hate not knowing what is going on with everyone. I have friends back home that are going through some hard times and I wish I was there to help them through. There are some in our church family who suffer, and I don't know what to pray or how to help them. So I use that wonderful verb that covers it all- I pray that Jesus tends to them. He knows whatever needs there are that need meeting, and He is also able to meet them.

Jesus, please tend to those I love in Michigan. Tend to my mother and father and sister and family; tend to my dear in-laws and my extended family. Tend to those who are rejoicing for I know not what, for those who bear sadness and trials that I do not see. Tend to those who miss loved ones like I do, tend to those who suffer both near and far. Jesus Our Good Shepherd, tend to us. Amen.

On Scowling

"Mommy, look at this beautiful picture I made! I am going to bring it to school tomorrow to show Mrs. Barnett!" Aggie yells. She digs through her church bag to find the picture, still breathing hard from beating all her siblings in the run home from church.

"Oh honey," I sigh, remembering her upcoming MRI, "It's beautiful, but you are going to have to wait until Wednesday to give it to your teacher. You don't get to go to school tomorrow; you have to go to the hospital so they can take pictures of your brain instead."

"But mommy!" she whines. "I want to go to school!" I watch as a hard scowl smashes the joy from her face. She stomps down the hall, a picture of woe, certain her life is entirely ruined. I suppress a smile, watching her moan and complain about this small misery. It is day 445 of seizure- freedom for that girl. She has no idea what a small thing one little MRI really is.

Yet I see myself in her, so I withhold my lecture for once. Telling her, "you think this is bad? Let me tell you how much worse it could be!" would be as unhelpful to her as it is to me when I am feeling overwhelmed and burdened. Of course, I act like her sometimes; surrounded by a million mercies, yet pitching fits over minor inconveniences. Fighting children, interrupted schedules, stomach flu, broken dishes--any one of these things has the potential to elicit sighing and complaining from me. Aggie is blessedly shielded from how much worse it could really be, and so, an MRI counts as a trial in her world. That does not make her suffering pointless, or something that can be lectured away. "God says to rejoice always, little girl, so buck up and get yourself happy right now!"

The concept "It could be worse!" is often used as an attempt to comfort those in trial by well-meaning people. When this idea comes from a Christian, the implicit message sounds an awful lot like: Jesus died for you! How dare you be sad?! Is this what the Bible says about suffering? Your laundry machine is broken. Rejoice always! You miss a birthday party to spend the day throwing up into a bucket. Rejoice! That baby you prayed for has died. Again I say rejoice! Really?

Christ has died for us, and has received the enormous suffering we deserve for our sins. Our greatest debt has been paid, and on top of that, our Heavenly Father surrounds us with His grace and blessing as His children. Surely this is reason for great joy! However, that does not mean suffering is no more. While we remain in this fallen world, we will suffer. We have not been told to wear plastic smiles and pretend it is not so.

Rejoicing and suffering are often mentioned together in Scripture. Peter wrote to the suffering church, "In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials" (1 Peter 1:6). Trials, from minor inconveniences to breath-taking grief, have been part of the life of the Christian since the beginning. The imperative "rejoice!" is not intended to be a heavy word of Law slapped on the back of a suffering Christian. It is not a call to rack our brains for a hundred reasons to be thankful even as we tremble under the shadow of death.

God's children suffer, sometimes greatly, sometimes without knowing why. And yet they are made able to rejoice even while suffering. The important question is: Rejoice in what? Surely not in the fact that they suffer! No, rather read the beautiful words Peter uses to direct the eyes of His fellow saints to their source of joy:

In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil, or fade--kept in heaven for you, who through faith are shielded by God's power until the coming of salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time. (1 Peter 1:3-5)

In this we greatly rejoice, though now for a little while we suffer grief in all kinds of trials.

As God's children, we have been given so much more to comfort us than "It could be worse!" We have a risen Savior, a certain hope, and a God who keeps our inheritance for us, who will carry us through our trials to that day when we are with him in eternity. We may sigh today, we may even mourn, yet even as we do these things, we are tenderly invited to look to that day when the promises God has given us in Christ will be fulfilled. Soon, we will be gathered with all His saints, and He will destroy for us every reason for scowling and tears.

Yes Eldon, life IS hard!

Grandpa's favorite hymn

He giveth more grace as our burdens grow greater,
He sendeth more strength as our labors increase;
To added afflictions He addeth His mercy,
To multiplied trials He multiplies peace.

His love has no limits, His grace has no measure
His power no boundary known unto men;
For out of His infinite riches in Jesus
He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again.

When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
When our strength has failed ere the day is half done,
When we reach the end of our hoarded resources
Our Father's full giving is only begun.

Fear not that thy need shall exceed His provision,
Our God ever yearns His resources to share;
Lean hard on the arm everlasting, availing;
The Father both thee and thy load will upbear.

If God were here

(I wrote this for the newsletter awhile back but never posted it here. Yet these thoughts come back again as our church grieves the loss of a dear member. In times like this we are glad when God's word reminds us that it is not always going to be this way.)

One beautiful evening this spring the girls and I took a walk down our country road. We talked excitedly of the new baby that was soon to come- in a couple weeks or so, I told them. Lorraine, ever fascinated with babies, asked me “Mommy, why do the doctors not know what day that baby will come? Why do they just have to guess?”

“Well, honey, there are still lots of things even doctors don't know about our bodies and how God made us. We still get sick... there are still some things doctors don't know how to fix.”

“Mommy!” she said excitedly, as though stumbling on a terrific original thought, “If God were here, nobody would ever get sick again!”

I opened my mouth to take advantage of this teaching opportunity, to say something about God doing good things for us even in sickness, about the cross, or the good things that can come out of bad days...but as I took a breath, the grief that I had been carrying all day about Aggie came rushing up my throat. Images filled my head- the six seizures so far that day, the one on the top of the slide at the playground that could have been disastrous, the weepy eyes and confusion caused by her newest medicine that doesn't seem to be working.... It took all my energy to get my breath back. I turned my eyes to the woods and used all of my strength to hold back my tears. In true toddler fashion Lorraine immediately forgot what we were talking about and moved on to something else. Now it is night, and she sleeps peacefully. I am awake, her comment still haunting me.

Marcus has a high fever and an awful cough tonight.
If God were here.....

I just woke Aggie to check her for a rash or another side effect from her new medicine. I could hardly wake her... is it because it is midnight, because she just had another seizure, or because this new medicine is hurting her sweet body already?
If God where here...

We don't like to say this out loud, but sometimes we do feel abandoned in our pain. We face suffering beyond explanation, and pain that does go beyond what we can handle, pious platitudes aside. We sigh and ache and grieve, we shiver under the shadow of death, and we are sure things would be much better if only God were here.

So is He really here? How do we know? The enemy would have us do what comes naturally to us, and look to our circumstances to answer that question. If we are healthy and happy, it is easy to believe that there is a God, and that He loves us. If we are hurting and miserable, then it is easy to believe that everything we have been told about this loving God must be a lie, or that it does not apply to us. We are attacked with doubts, and doubt turns into fear, and our hearts sink with our burdens.

I can only imagine the disciples and friends of Jesus felt this way as they watched His crucifixion. Of all the dark days humanity has ever experienced, surely that was the darkest. As the innocent Son of God was crushed under the weight of sin and evil, even the sun withheld its rays, All life and hope seemed to disappear with the light.

Yet God was there! His love and grace were right there in that dark and terrible scene. We can see it now as we look back, now that we have learned from the resurrected Christ exactly what God was doing that day.

Because of that day and the resurrection that followed, we have good reason to believe Jesus' words: “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” He comes to us in our time of trial, He sees our doubtful, struggling hearts, and sends His children and His Word to give us new life. His Spirit reminds us of His faithfulness to us in days past, how time and again He rescued us, even when we were rebellious and stubborn. Like His children throughout all of history, we will face trials as we journey through this world, yet like those children, we will be carried safely through them all. God is with us.

And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast. To him be the power for ever and ever. Amen. (1 Peter 5:10-11)

the last night of normal

Tomorrow will definitely be one of those days we mark time by- this will be our last day "before Aggie's brain surgery-" everything else will be in terms of "after Aggies brain surgery."

How do you spend the last night of normal before brain surgery?

We took Aggie on a walk to the lake this afternoon. We let her run around a bit, and I gave her a good (last?) wrestling match. We had a feast later in the hotel room: fried chicken and chocolate milk and a good amount of candy. We were blessed with company too- Mary Anne, Annette, Grammy and Bump and Lorraine came late this evening. They got to squeeze in a few last tickles and snuggles and hugs and even brought Aggie some cotton candy from the fair!

I can't help but notice- She doesn't feel the weight of these moments. She has no desire to soak up these experiences, to store them away somewhere just in case things never go back to normal. She's not breathing in the fresh air deep enough- not enjoying her last evening with hair like I would if I were her. She is just being a kid- bouncing from one thing to the next, going on as normal and taking those every day blessings- the sunshine, the wind in her hair, the running and playing- for granted.

She knows what is coming tomorrow, yet she is sleeping soundly. And why should she worry? God who gave her joy in the sunshine today will hold her close in the valley tomorrow.

Ash Wednesday is hard on a mother's heart (written in 2005)

Ash Wednesday is hard on a mother’s heart.

It is one thing to consider your own mortality. But I remember the first time the ashes were placed on my baby girl. Something inside me wanted to reach out and stop the pastor. My heart said No! That black stuff does not belong on my sweet little child. But the pastor put them there, and every time I looked at them I was surprised all over again.

Little Lorraine quickly forgot the ashes on her head, and had no understanding of why they were there in the first place. She smiled and flirted with me with her big brown eyes all during church, and I was struck by her cheerfulness in contrast to the portent of death on her forehead.

My children are mortal and I would rather not think about that. It is easier to pretend that life will keep going just as it is right now, to imagine that I will be here to comfort and love my babies forever. It is not hard to join the world’s denial of death. There are plenty of things to distract myself with, and when then thoughts come anyway, I can soothe myself by putting it so far in the future that it feels less threatening.

As adults, we know that the smooth skin on our babies will not stay perfect forever. We know that toddlers (and teenagers) are not invincible, even though they believe they are. Yet we are still shocked when they get the high fevers we cannot treat, when they do something dangerous (like eat glass!) and have to be rushed to the ER. We are shocked to be reminded that we live in the “valley of the shadow of death,” and that our children are vulnerable to this death just as much as we are.

God’s word intrudes into our comfortable little worlds to remind us of what we already know: this life is not going to last forever. It is easy to get caught up in training our children merely for life in this world. While it is a good thing to have a house that runs smoothly and children that are clean and relatively kind to each other, that is only a part of our vocation as parents.

This life is not going to last forever. We need to say this out loud to ourselves, and to our children. We must remember those ashes, and take to heart those ER trips. We must teach our children that they live in fragile bodies in a dangerous world, and remind them that their hope is in God alone. Every minute of this life is a complete gift from a Father who loves us more than we can imagine—a Father who plans to have us with Him in heaven forever. His grace frees us to live with joy in these mortal bodies. His love frees us to giggle like toddlers, even under the shadow of death.

Christ is Risen—He is Risen indeed.

As a father has compassion on his children,
so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him;

for he knows how we are formed,
he remembers that we are dust.

As for man, his days are like grass,
he flourishes like a flower of the field;

the wind blows over it and it is gone,
and its place remembers it no more.

But from everlasting to everlasting
the LORD's love is with those who fear him,
and his righteousness with their children's children-

Psalm 103:13-17

To Aggie, my nap buddy

Aggie Sue, I love when you are my nap buddy. To see my little tornado relatively still and calm is a rare treat. I love the way you ask to hold my hand until you fall asleep.

Today you had a long seizure right before nap time that made you so tired you were asleep in my bed even before I laid the other kids down. I climbed in next to you anyway- I just wanted to be close to you. I held your little hand.

Like so many times before, I rested next to you and stroked your hair. My heart loved and ached, and my eyes were relieved to release a few tears that had been resting there all day. As I sighed over your raccoon eyes and I stroked your hair, I wondered where on that beautiful head they would cut should they have to do surgery. My spirit prayed fervently to the God who loves us both.

We laid there in the sunshine, you snored peacefully as I wrestled with my worries. The sun shone brightly even through the blinds, and soon I found myself relaxing into the quiet and warmth of the bed.

I thank God for that moment, when you and I lay there in the sun, wrapped in warm blankets and love, enjoying a green pasture before our journey through the valley.

We have darkness to go through yet, my dear child. I am sure we will often hold hands through the darkness as we are doing now. I suspect we will get separated for some of it. I know we will be carried through all of it by Him who loves us both, the One who has been there before.

But for this sweet moment, we rest on our pillows that smell like home.

I wonder, after the days of valleys and darkness, will we be given moments like this again? Will we rest together, hold hands, and enjoy the warmth of each others love on pillows that smell like Home? Will we give goodnight kisses, smile, say I love you for the millionth time, in that Other place? Perhaps then the shadows of the valley will be distant memories. Perhaps the sun will be the Light of Christ, the light that chased away our fears and pain, and our “I love yous” will finally be sweet and pure and simple.

Holiday Dissonance

As I am writing this, the kids are jamming to Christmas carols in the bedroom. Lorraine has vowed to wear the Santa hat I bought her all day long. She is still excited from our Christmas shopping extravaganza last week. We skipped in and out of 5 stores buying gifts and baking supplies, just the two of us. Her wide-eyed excitement is absolutely contagious!

As we pulled into the parking lot of Hobby Lobby (our most favorite store,) I got a call from Josh who was at home with the other kids. Apparently Aggie had a seizure while climbing on the bunk bed and fell straight back from the top. She was still having the seizure after she fell, so for several minutes she just laid there unaware of any pain at all. Both of the little boys knew this was NOT normal and were making a huge fuss about it. It took her about a half hour to really notice her aches and pains, and she spent the rest of the night snuggling daddy on the couch. As Josh and I talked about this, the familiar ache in my heart for Aggie returned, and the laundry list of worries I have for her future began to replay in my head. (She was a little bruised but otherwise just fine the next day.)

I slowly closed the phone and looked at the giddy toddler sitting next to me. “OH mommy I see more Christmas lights in Hobby Lobby! Are you ready? Let's go let's go let's go!”

How does one jump from that phone call back into the joy of Christmas shopping? I was startled by the dissonance I felt, the conflict between the joy of Christmas preparation and the pain that cast dark shadows over it all.

I suspect most adults feel this tension during the holidays. We sense the dissonance between the apparent holiday joy and bliss in every store and every Christmas song, and the feelings of fear, grief, or sadness that we wrestle with in our secret hearts. The festivities of this time of year can make the sorrows seem even deeper, the loneliness even more lonely.

Glitter and bells are out of place, and sometimes downright annoying when paraded in front of our pain. How can we be expected to sparkle with JOY when we all we can see is the huge hole where a loved one used to be? How do we hold on to HOPE when we see sickness in the sunken eyes of our own child?

Christians have always been people acquainted with grief, people whose hearts are sometimes torn with this conflict, yet the church has stubbornly and enthusiastically celebrated Christmas in the darkness year after year. God gave us His very own Son, and we see the nearness of God even in this place of pain. Our God does not stand far away, merely cheering us on through the darkness, He comes to dwell with us right in the middle of it.

This time of year, we are surrounded with tangible reminders of the hope we have because God is with us. Candles flicker and we sing praises to the Light that has come into the world. Bells ring with joy as we remember promises made and fulfilled in Jesus. Glitter sparkles on angel wings and we look forward to the blessings to come when our Lord returns.

We dwell in darkness, but the love of Him who sent His Son shines brightly. And so this year, like every other year, God's children gather together in the night, lift up their heads, light candles, and sing songs at the top of their voices, testifying to the world that God is indeed with us, and the darkness is passing away.