As I reflect upon "gratitude," and the times in my life that I have been overwhelmed by gratefulness, what strikes me is how those profound moments--the sacred ones that have really stuck with me, are not these extravagant, mind-blowing moments; but instead, are quiet and simple and often arrive not when I feel that I am in a "comfortable" place in life, but rather when I am in the dark.
One of these moments that I will forever treasure as long as I live is the way that my firstborn looked into my eyes when he was brought up to my chest at his birth. The first words I heard the Doctor say after delivering him was "this baby has a little cleft lip!" Those were shocking, unexpected words to hear, but then there he was--this perfect, beautiful baby boy in my arms, with these piercing big blue eyes with a trusting love that looked straight into my soul. I don't even remember his lip, just those eyes, and the way he stared into me filled my heart to overflowing with gratitude for the privilege to be on the receiving end of something words cannot even give justice to.
I feel that gratitude when my hardworking husband says "I got her," when our baby chirps early in the morning and we are both tired and groggy and not ready to start the day.
I find gratitude when I stop and marvel at the intricate, delicate beauty in the smallest of creatures that Kai drags into the house from the garden--often in my favorite coffee cup or wine glass.
I hear kindness in the voices of my children as they play when I'm still enough to listen. When I look beyond the mess, I can hear the laughter and feel the joy with which they create and imagine and play and it gives me immediate perspective.
I am often filled with gratitude when I watch the sun rise after a long night up with a sick or teething child. When I choose to open my eyes to the vibrant colors that streak across the sky and marvel at the greatness of the God who painted that sky for me, on that morning, I am grateful for another day to see, to rock, to love.
When I get outside for a hike or a run under the warm winter afternoon sunlight and listen to the birdsong singing praises of joy to the author of life and beauty in the midst of any circumstance, I am filled with gratefulness that I really do have everything that I need; and like the birds, have plenty of things to sing about.
Gratitude is often uncovered by a little voice saying "I love you, Mommy" in the middle of a mess or hectic morning.
It is found while singing to a sink full of dishes.
I see it in my weathered, strong, hands that cook, scrub, hold tiny fingers and fold in prayer.
I hear it in the whir of my washer and dryer that does loads and loads and loads of laundry.
And it was embraced by the light of a battery operated bulb, beneath a cave of worn, cozy quilts with warm little bodies reading book after book when many of our everyday luxuries were suddenly stripped away by a violent wind storm. During those cold, dark days I felt warmth in togetherness, I could hear beauty in the quiet, I saw hope in the kindness of others and stumbled upon gratitude in the dark.
On this Thanksgiving eve, I reflect upon that gratitude that comes to us in the dark. On that light that slices through our deep valleys and illuminates the goodness and beauty that are actually right in front of us--just brought into focus by our will, determination and desire to see it.
May your Thanksgiving be filled with reflection for the simple joys that we often rob ourselves of in our own busyness, and may your hope be found in the unseen--like gratitude in the dark.
She occupies the "calm down" chair more than her siblings, that is for sure; so she knows the feeling of being there well. The "chair" is located out of kid-friendly territory in the corner of our guest bedroom, so it has a remote feel to it--but it has provided adequate "thinking" time to our sweet but fiery and frequently disgruntled preschooler.
What I love most about my strong willed three year old's words is how she says "it feels better" when she gets a "hug from brother." She knows the drill--after having some quality contemplation in the silence of the cold and lonely fourth bedroom, either me or G goes in and gets down on eye level with her to make sure that: 1) she understands why she's there, and 2) she is calm and hopefully, sorry.
Once we have assessed the situation and have determined that she is no longer a physical or emotional hazard to her siblings or cousins or friends, we walk her out of the room and straight to the individual whom she has hurt (usually physical but sometimes emotional). We then encourage her to look the victim in the eyes (that it key) and offer a genuine apology and then a hug. SHE is the one who then hugs her brother or sister--but notice what she said...what makes her feel better is that her brother (or sister) HUGS HER BACK.
Forgiveness is not something that is said, it is something that is felt.
Sunny may not completely comprehend the idea of "forgiveness" in her young developing brain, but she certainly identifies that she is receiving something kind from the person she just, moments ago, kicked in the head.
When we get love or forgiveness or a second chance that we feel undeserving of, it feels just like that.
Like your arms reaching out, hesitantly at first, to a dear friend or sister or child or husband that you have hurt, and then the warmth of their arms wrapping right back around you.
When was the last time you felt grace with words?
We receive grace when we feel accepted, received, hugged back.
And we give grace when we lift our arms and just hold on.
but it feels good to get back into the new, warm, water after it's all clean!"
(Sunny Boo, 3)
Thankfully, those bathtub accidents aren't a regular occurrence around here; but when they DO happen, it's not just one isolated incident. I mean, I put guilty child onto the toilet to "finish" while I fish the "job" they already did out of the draining tub but said child NEVER "finishes;" which leads me to falsely believe they are done. So, after pulling unspeakable material out of the tub with my bare hands and wipes and whatever else I can desperately think to grab with and scrubbing and bleaching and rinsing, I put my shivering kiddos back into the warm soapy water only FOR IT TO HAPPEN AGAIN. Fun times.
I think it's been a bit traumatic on the older two, because sometimes there will be a dark colored toy lurking under the bubbles around Gracie and I have a quick freak-out moment which sends both Kai and Sunny flailing out of the tub like their life depended on it. 99% of the time it's just Sunny's little toy horse or this creepy looking giraffe head which I should really just throw away, but when it's not, well, it's just yucky.
BUT, I get a clean tub out of the deal, and after I get the kiddos all situated again I see that I've got my cleaning supplies out so I just go ahead and clean the rest of the bathroom and then the other one, while I'm at it. So, I get clean bathrooms out of the deal. Thanks for that, Gracie.
It's not fun to throw up.
But, after you do it, you feel a LOT better.
(Kai, 5)
Kai is our puker. He throws up at the first sign of bodily unrest. I'm actually convinced I could talk him into it. I won't ever try, but I know it would work. Last time he had the stomach flu, his first (and the first is ALWAYS the worst) "spit up" as he calls it, was, of course done leaning over our bed--like, right in that place where my feet hit the carpet when I swing my legs out of bed. Oh, and let me add that this happened the actual moment I drifted into deep sleep after already staying up too late.
So, after he "spit up," he "felt a lot better" and went back to bed and I got to do my favorite clean up job (G was gone out of town for work OF COURSE) by the light of my iPhone at 1:30 in the morning. After scooping the seemingly life-sized puke pile with approximately 30 plastic grocery bags, spraying/soaking and vigorously scrubbing the carpet, I was was pretty wired so I figured why not start some laundry and since I had my special spot/stain spray out, why not go spot clean the couch and then, why not empty the dishwasher and shoot, why not start some crockpot oatmeal for the morning?
I find that I behave that way more often when I'm pregnant, but it was erratic and necessary at the same time. And, of course by the time I finally wound down and crawled back into bed, it was "round 2" on the whole "spit-up" game.
If I was going to write the longest blog post of all time, I'd expand on about 80 of the other "clean up" scenarios that range from a giant glass jar of honey shattered all over the living room floor to a sack of flour that "snowed" all over the whole entire literal house to Gracie ditching her diaper to do her "duty" in every one of our bedrooms.
You know the saying "the quickest way to get a clean house is to have company over last minute?" Well, it also works with sick kids, bath time with a baby, and well, that general toddler tendency toward sensory play.
Bottom line: It is after the biggest mess, that we get the best "clean."
It's one thing to do daily upkeep every day--but it's another thing to get on your hands and knees and scrub sticky honey off of your baseboards and the never-seen hard wood beneath your hutch and couch and chairs. Once you get going, you see all the other crap that needs cleaned down there and since you are there...
Today, I reflect on how grateful I am for the big messes I've lived through--and I'm not talking about the kind caused by my kiddos. I'm talking straight-up LIFE. I'm talking about the kind that leave you crying in the shower or not wanting to get out of bed because you feel so empty kind of messes (although some of the bad kid-caused messes have that effect as well).
I'm talking about the kind of messes that we make ourselves, or the kind of messes that we get into with others. Some of them come from things like death and sickness and others come from selfish living, messed up priorities, an ungrateful greedy spirit and just plain being far, far from God.
None of my messes have been easy "surface clean" type of jobs. They have all required the deep, sweaty, bleach bottle kind of scrubbing.
But it's in the effort of ridding the dirt and grime and grit from those hard to reach crevices in my soul that makes a way for grace; and it's in the surrender and humility to keep dropping to my knees to do the dirty soul-work that is so easy to avoid that I feel like I'm deeply loved and accepted and, well, clean.
"...but THEN you get a "Ninja Turtle" or "Frozen" bandaid! Or, maybe even a cool ice pack."
(Kai, 5)
When we are in pain, we just want relief.
We can't see beyond the bandaid or pain reliever or ice pack.
It's amazing what kind of "healing power" lies in an adhesive bandage bearing Elsa or Michelangelo's face. Other "magical" remedies in our household include the Piggy/Penguin/Froggy faced icepacks in the freezer and kisses from Mommy or Daddy. After one or all of the above responses to a bump or bruise or general overreaction, the injured child is calm, cool, collected and no longer screaming or writhing in pain. It's a miracle.
But often times, after we have treated a wound and the initial pain has subsided, we are left as spectators of the healing--and sometimes, the development of a scar.
A scar that serves as a reminder not only of the pain, but also of the healing.
It's when I'm in the bath tub that I really notice mine.
The two prominent scars on each of my legs--one on my left shin from box jumps to literal failure in my college basketball conditioning class. The other, on my right knee, from a jagged boulder on the banks of the Deschutes river, where I had spent the day riding rapids with my Campus Life group as a teen. I had sea legs and was fatigued from the heat and adrenaline of paddling for my life and slipped on the walk back up to the van (I usually omit that last part and just tell inquirors that I acquired it on a "white water rafting trip"). Looking down at my strong legs and contemplating those scars feels quite similar to flipping through old photo albums. I run my fingers over the scars like an old image, frozen in time, and let my soul drink in the view from the bridge that connects the past to the present.
I don't feel quite the same nostalgia about the scars that line my midsection--stomach and hips. The scars that I wear there tell the story of a belly swollen with life. A belly bursting at the seams that gave way to angry streaks that seem to brag about how my tummy used to be flat with cute little belly button ring on tanned, flawless skin. But you know what's funny? Today, despite the extra baby weight, wider hips and larger sizes, I feel lighter than ever.
And then there's the other scar that changed my life right along with the stretch marks from the little boy it came with. And it happens to be right above the left side of my son's sweet, shy, smile. The scar that is a part of him, but doesn't define him. The scar I prayed and cried over when it was swollen, bloody and stitched up after I brought him home from his cleft lip repair at barely 5 months old. The scar that joins the delicate pale skin that I taped together in prep for the operation from the time he was six weeks old. The scar that he embraces as part of him, his story. A scar that has shaped his smile and my soul.
They tell painful stories, but from their imperfection reflect hope and strength and healing.
Our skin is just a canvas.
When I lean in and look closely at the marks that stretch across my stomach or the way Kai's smile pulls a little higher on the left, I feel the hand of The Artist at work.
"...but then, I get my sisters to help me pick it all up since it's mostly their mess anyway and it feels so clean and nice in there and I can spot all of my favorite things again!" (Kai Quincy, 5)
It's nice to have your own space.
I think so often we overlook the importance of a "sacred space." Somewhere we have for just us. To sit and be alone. A space to breathe, to read, to imagine, to cry.
When I think back to my childhood, so many memories of my "sacred space" were outdoors. I was always finding some grassy spot outside and making it my "reading nook," or my space to escape my siblings and sometimes, my parents.
It was important to us that the kids had somewhere that was their space--not just their room, but a special play spot--with the sole purpose for their imaginations and creativity to run wild. I think this day in age, imaginary play has somewhat escaped our children--it has slipped through their fingers while they stare at screens; while they "watch" play. It's not the same. They need to construct cities out of blocks and build blanket tents and play "school" with their stuffed animals. Unstructured play is VITAL for growing little minds--and so many of us have just gotten so, well, busy. Everything is "planned" and structured and if it's not then there is the iPad or Mommy's iPhone to keep them "quiet."
I say, let them be loud. But give them a space to do it.
And you know what? Adults need this as well.
Mommy needs a "space" that is hers--that is quiet and comfortable and that calls me to do what makes my heart come to life. I denied myself that space for so long, you guys. I gave my kids a playroom--I let their little minds be beckoned to a safe, creative space, but failed to allow myself the same. I would "set up shop" on the couch or clear off a spot on the sticky kitchen table or sometimes even my bed. But I can't think clearly in that space. I can't let the words that I read sink in when there is clutter all around me and my pile of notebooks and Bible and books and laptop are falling every which way.
I can't write my heart when I'm crowded.
And then one day I found myself rummaging around in our guest bedroom and needed some more light so I threw the curtains open and just stood and admired the view. It was like I was seeing out that window for the first time. And I thought, WHY is my desk not here? And then I thought WHY am I not using this space that is literally only utilized a couple of weekends a month when we have company?
And then, this happened:
And it's my new favorite spot in the whole house. It will have a hard time beating out my "sun room" this spring/summer, but for now, it's just what I need.
It's where I go to read my Bible, to pray, to write, to read, to think. And I need to be there at least once a day--just like my kiddos need to spend time, each day, in their "rocket ship" or "sail boat" or "teepee."
Don't deny yourself "your" space. That special place that is INTENTIONALLY constructed for you and for your "art," whatever it may be--maybe it's crafting or sewing or painting or baking. Don't let life and structure keep you from doing that which makes your soul say, "YES."
Today, Kai and I say "thank you" to the spaces that fill us.
Let's face it. In our family, we are thankful for ice-cream.
If I could only have one dessert for the rest of my life it would hands-down be ice-cream, and I'm happy to see that my love of the good stuff has been passed down to my children.
Here's the thing about ice-cream though: It's certainly not as fulfilling to indulge in my favorite treat when i'm standing over the carton at my kitchen counter trying to scoop quietly so no one else hears me and wants some or makes some comment about how it's only 9:30 in the morning...(G).
It tastes the best when it's enjoyed around a table with people. When the cold, sweet, creamy, drippy waffle cone is complimented with laughter and little voices and pauses to listen to the birds or the way the breeze is whistling through the tall pines (one of my new favorite sounds!).
I think that is the "healing" power that Sunny has experienced.
It's not the sugar. It's not the way those candy bubblegum bites dissolve in your mouth or the beautifully intricate way those ribbons of caramel weave in and out of brownie and sweet cream.
It's the walk, together, to that ice cream parlor. It's the sacred time spent sitting, smiling, staring at the different way we all "wear" our drippy treat. It's admiring the simplicity of a moment spent around a table with each other, pausing from our busy schedule or normal routine to just be together and take a deep breath. To slow down and savor each lick, each bite, each voice, each sticky face.
The best medicine for a hard day is togetherness: a moment carved out of an otherwise ordinary afternoon or evening to look away from our flashing screens, away from our "to do" lists, away from the clock, and at each other.
The ice cream is optional but most definitely recommended.
Sometimes, a hug, a listening ear, a phone call, a letter, an apology, a smile, or just showing up can usher in something the recipient is desperate for.
I haven't been very public with this, but I had a miscarriage between Kai and Sunny.
I lost the baby at around six weeks and I remember getting angry about the fact that I even knew I had been pregnant--that I'd ever had a "hunch" to even take that test. It felt like a cruel joke someone had played on me.
I will never forget sitting in my car in the parking lot of the ER, knowing in my heart that the baby was gone and dreading the impending confirmation. I texted the few family members and friends who had known about the pregnancy while I sat there, asking them to pray.
G was away for work--hours away--and was unreachable by phone at the time and I had dropped Kai off with my parents. I guess I just wanted to go in and get confirmation of the loss and get on with it. Something like that.
But then, just as I took my seat in the waiting room, around the corner peeks the familiar face of a dear friend. I hadn't asked her to be there with me, she was just responding out of love to my blast prayer request text and knew from her own loss what I might be going through.
We didn't say much, but sat together that summer day as the doctor informed me that there was no baby. I just remember hearing the word "empty" and feeling it literally echo off of the walls in that cold room; and how I'd never felt more hollowed out and lifeless as I had at that moment.
I remember her holding my hand, and walking with me out of the hospital into the seemingly reverent sunlight, and how she hugged me extra tight as we stopped in front of our cars.
I remember that right there in that hospital parking lot, in the midst of the sadness and confusion and anger, God showed up beneath that warm sunshine as I stood, desperate, in the arms of my friend.
When we love each other through the pain of a daddy who has to be away for a long time for work or through the mourning of a child who went to heaven before we did with that tight-embrace, show-up-anyway extravagant kind of love, GOD SHOWS UP.
And from our ashes, comes beauty. {Isaiah 61:3}
Today, Kai and I are thankful for those "extra tight" hugs.
Gratitude surfaces in the midst of fear, and often it's in the form of a quick, simple, but genuine hug or a smile.
Like on the first day of school, when you are in a whole new place in a sea of a bunch of new faces and your Mommy gives you a goodbye kiss and you are scared. And shy.
But then your teacher kneels down and looks you in the eyes with a kind smile and gently pulls you in for a tight hug just long enough to whisper in your ear "I'm SO glad YOU are in our class this year!"
At that moment, my timid son's hazel eyes looked up and met mine with a little nod signaling my permission to turn around and walk down the steps, out of sight, to the car.
I'm so thankful for those "teachers" in my life that come in the forms of moms and sisters and mentors and friends. The ones who pull me in for those hugs and kneel down to look me in the eye and ask me the hard questions and love me anyway. They are the cheerleaders who affirm and encourage and speak life with the kind of love that says "I'm SO glad you are YOU."
There are going to be days when you don't feel like gluing tissue paper squares to your stained glass apple and your "apple window" has the bare minimum effort requirement of five small squares. But that's ok. Your teacher proudly hangs it up anyway.
There are days when you feel tired and like you aren't very good at counting or coloring or, um, housework and cooking. But your cheerleaders see you and say it's ok.You are so special and so beautifully unique and are SO super good and many other things!
I don't think we put enough stock in how some of the most simple things we do can have such a giant impact on another. I know we don't tell each other enough how much we appreciate those small gestures--like encouraging notes sent in the mail or flowers on the doorstep or offers for help with yard work or children or french braiding lessons or that one person who came and talked to you when you walked into a new place and didn't know a soul.
Or a teacher, greeting you each morning with a beaming smile and high-five for her special "Super Kai."
WE have the power to be that light--and today, Kai and I are thankful for the people in our lives that illuminate our dark spaces.
"...but it feels good to wiggle out and be free!" ~Sunny (3)
Thankful, we are, to wiggle out.
To become free of that which crowds us, traps us, suffocates us.
I have often felt "stuck" behind the crowding "couch" situations of life.
Stuck in the cycle of life and the never-ending mundane dishes and laundry and bills and messes. Stuck in relationships that seem to no longer flourish. Stuck at a table with family or friends when there is an argument or huge elephant in the room that is begging to be brought into life but that no one is brave enough to address. Stuck in a job that didn't feed my soul. Stuck in a college major with no real vision for life-work. Stuck in a lonely space with people all around me...
Where does gratitude come from in these "stuck" spaces? Does it come at the end of the chapter, when you have cried and sulked and prayed and screamed and clawed your way to be, at last, "unstuck?"
No.
I have learned, from my "stuckness" that we don't have to wait for that "happy ending" to feel gratitude.
It comes most powerfully in the moments when you feel SO jammed against that wall that you feel like you can't breathe...and you utter a desperate prayer and you suddenly feel not so alone behind that couch. You relax a bit, take a deep breath, feel your insides calm and your soul melt into peace as if someone is whispering "I love you, I've got you" into the depths of your stuck, broken, spirit.
It comes in the form of the random but much needed kind words of a stranger, an unexpected hug and "I love you" from a busy toddler, or warm sunlight streaming in illuminating the precious faces of your sleeping babies. It comes to us in the midst of our stuck situation, whatever it may be.
And we learn, one "stuck" day at a time, to take it slow. To not worry about tomorrow, but to turn our eyes and hearts to heaven for today, and open our clenched fists to receive those small gifts and to just. keep. reaching.
It's in the reach, from our stuck places, that we receive.
Don't stop reaching.
One day, you will find yourself free of that which held you captive, and you will reflect on your time spent "stuck" and realize you were never alone behind that cold couch.
And you will marvel, with tears of joy and awe, at how while you were wedged into that tiny space between the couch and the wall, you traveled so very far.
. . .
So today, I am grateful for the many couches in my life that I have been "stuck" behind, and the freedom that comes not just in the release, but in the "wiggling."
The day that many set out to be extra honed-in on thankfulness and blessings and gratitude for a month in honor of the Thanksgiving holiday. Some find this annoying and redundant in it's repetitiveness on social media feeds but I, personally, LOVE IT. I think there is something so very powerful about being intentionally grateful--especially on those days when you really have to dig for it. How uplifting is it to read all the "I'm thankful for" posts every day and realize that, "hey, I'm really thankful for that too!" If November wasn't such a dreary, chilly month (NW style) I would wish for it to be November year round...
In the past, I have done the daily Facebook "gratitude" post but this year, I'm gonna switch it up a bit.
Lately it seems I have been having more and more conversations with my preschool-aged kiddos about how good comes from "bad." About how happy comes from sad and beauty from the ugly. I know it seems like something that has more depth than a three or five year old mind can comprehend, but, you guys, they get it. The don't always get it when it's their own life (I still struggle with finding good in some of the hard days) but they get the concept. I don't give them enough credit.
So, what we have done for this month is come up with a "bad" thing for each day of November up until Thanksgiving. Sounds fun, right?! I can only imagine your anticipation for the daily post.
But wait, there's more.
Together, as a collaborative blogging team, we (me, Kai & Sunny) have brainstormed the "good" that shows up after--and sometimes during, the "bad."
Because throughout the month of November we are so very good at being thankful for all the good and all the beautiful and all the happy. But we often overlook the trials and tears and sometimes raw heartache that transforms us. We forget those hard parts, they are often too painful to revisit.
But we miss something when we shove those moments deep into our archives. We miss the story. We miss the journey. We miss how our Great Author walked with us--or is there walking WITH us through the dark valley and is guiding or has guided us to the light. Back into His light.
Over the next several days you will have not only my stories and words, but also the preschool version of the daily dark that scares and frustrates and hurts--and how it gives way to light.
Even when it's something like a puddle under your favorite swing or your ice-cream cone on the sidewalk.
It doesn't matter how early we wake up or how much night-before planning I do:
Every single Sunday, we barely make it to church.
You guys, our church is literally less than two miles away from us. I'm talking two turns and two stop lights. We literally only need to leave about 10 minutes before it starts--and get this--there are THREE service options. But it's never easy. As a family of five with three members under age five, I count it a small victory when I slam the car door behind me and glance back to see all of their faces--semi-clean, dressed and buckled in (probably with breakfast in hand or in my lap ready to be thrown back at them to gobble down over the long 5 minute commute).
It's really different every week, but let me paint a brief picture of what the process of leaving for church looked like just yesterday:
8:20am
G and I realize that all the kids are up (weird) and we could actually make it to the 9am service. G likes this idea because it interferes with the least amount of football. He says, "you better get going if you want to do this" so I literally drink the rest of my cereal down in a gulp and shuffle-run down the hall to start collecting church clothes (this is not a job that I prefer G to do--he would try, bless his heart, but something about his choices tells me he just opens a drawer and grabs the first item that touches his hand). My theory on getting out the door in a time-crunch with kids is dressing/cleaning them off/doing their hair first and then taking care of myself (which I can do in record time, I assure you--I have it down to a low-maintenence science).
8:30am
Begin the dressing process which includes chasing down three wild things, trying to wrangle them out of their PJs, and convincing them (older two) to slide their church clothes on (they hate jeans and buttons and anything stiff or formal looking. Well, clothes in general. Don't judge.) On any given day, this includes a screaming fit from Sunny about an clothing item with ruffles or lace or a passive-agressive Kai sneaking off to his closet to change into "something cozier." Today we were lucky, and averted the clothes catastrophe. What has turned into our "routine" is me throwing their clothes onto the couch and then G dressing the older two while I literally pin Gracie down to change her diaper and then chase her down and wrestle her into her dress and then shoes. It's a workout and part of the reason I wait to dress myself.
8:45am
As I stare into my closet and simultaneously sniff the shirt I want to wear that I found in a corner of my bedroom I hear G unwrapping granola bars for Kai and Sunny. Love him. He actually acknowledges that they haven't broken fast yet. Have I? Who knows. Oh yeah, I finished Gracie's left over cereal. That should suffice.
8:50am
I'm dressed and have Sunny and Gracie up on the counter and am trying to do something with Sunny's matted, curly mess. I will be honest, I have no clue what I'm doing when it comes to hair. If you know me, you know that the messy top-bun is my thang. Outside of that and the quick post-shower "scrunch" I'm so out of my element it's not even funny. Only a God with a sense of humor would give me two daughters that I literally am responsible for brushing and braiding and curling(?). Scary. Anyway, I get their hair "did" the best I know how and hurry them along to get in the car with Daddy and glance at the messy bun that I woke up with (ha!) and just spray some hair spray to tame my fly-aways. I open my make-up bag and see my like-new cover up and mascara and reach under them for my perfume and spray that because maybe if I smell super good people won't notice how tired I look? Whatever, dude.
8:53am
I throw my Bible and Nalgene bottle in my diaper back-pack and snag a banana as I run out the door to the running car. I shut the door behind me and see all my loves buckled in and fully dressed and if fortune is in my favor (yesterday it was!), smiling.
8:59am
Check kids into nursery/sunday school and go get a full cup of delicious, strong, piping hot coffee in the lobby while G goes and "gets our seats" because heaven forbid he not have an aisle seat not by the a/c.
9:10am
Worship starts and I feel God wrap His arms around me, greeting me--acknowledging the struggle it was to get there, and the tears fall. I'm not much of a dramatic or obvious type of "crier," I just stand and sing and let the tears roll down my face with a nonchalant swipe every so often. Friends, this happens just about every Sunday. Once I finally find myself seated in the sanctuary I'm exhausted and sweaty and usually notice that my clothes aren't clean but I'm there, sitting before my Jesus saying to Him with every word I can manage in song, "here I am, Lord. I'm so tired but I came here to be with you and to hear from you and to tell you that I love you and I so desperately need you and that you are a good, good Father..."
It feels like one big, heavenly exhale and the faithfulness and goodness of the God who meets me there is overwhelming. It is truly one of the most sacred, meaningful, beautiful, rejuvenating and uplifting 90 minutes of my week.
YET every single Sunday, it is that much harder to get everybody up, ready, fed, clean, dressed and out the door. There is almost always that moment, in the process of it all, where I think "is this even worth it?" Like when Gracie has a diaper blowout that I notice on the way out to the car that also leaks onto my shirt or like when Sunny spills juice all over herself and we are already late or that one time where Kai was just trying to be helpful and not slow us down but decided to blow his nose in his shirt as we back out of the driveway.
But when we push through and fight off all of the distractions this amazing thing happens once we sit down to worship--with hundreds of other tired, hurried, messy people. This morning I felt it before the music even started:
It was grace. It was love. It was community.
I may have had to run a steeplechase through my house and out my door to get there, but God met me there and hasn't failed to show up no matter how rushed or tired or late we were.
Church is worth it, you guys.
It may seem daunting or impossible or at the time, like it's not worth the hassle. But once you get yourself there and allow yourself to receive from the reaches of His grace within a community of believers who, like you, struggled to find their way into their seat, you will be filled.
We can't do this life on our own. We need each other. We need community. We need church.
And speaking from someone who is running on "E" upon arrival, it is overwhelming and worth far beyond whatever chaos had to ensue to get us there.
The enemy doesn't want you in that seat at church. He wants you to throw in the towel and to just stay home in your sweats and will put a million different temptations in your way to get you to do so (diapers, time, football, to-do lists, tantrums, nap time, wardrobe, etc.) Ephesians 6:12 reminds us that our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the unseen world, the dark forces...which sometimes come in the form of, well, spilled chocolate milk or a leaky diaper.
Power through, dear Mama.
Get yourself in that chair. And bring it every single week. Marvel at the strength and stamina God has given you as you sit there basking in the glow of His love. No matter how crazy my morning has been, I have never regretted showing up. In fact, I have found that forcing myself to make it happen is actually the best thing I can do to get my week started off on the right note.
Upon moving to a new city our church has been my saving grace. The community and fellowship, opportunities to volunteer and pour into others and of course the chance to receive God's love through His word and through His people are invaluable.
Those reasons that keep you home--or that tempt you to stay home will pale in comparison to the way that God wants to pour into you as you sit in a community of believers before him.
That couple of hours may be hard to give on a Sunday morning. But perhaps we should stop seeing it as our time to "put in" or to "give."
Our Father God wants to meet us there so HE can give to us.
Our job is to show up and to be loved.
...
[Our pastor featured this verse below in His sermon last week, and it has stuck with me in such a big way pertaining to God's love and faithfulness and our surrender...and the song was played a few weeks ago at the end of the service during a time of prayer and reflection and YOU GUYS, it's just beautiful. Listen to it loud with your eyes closed and enjoy!]
PSALM 18: 16-21 (MSG)
16But me he caught - reached all the way from sky to sea; he pulled me out of
17that enemy chaos, the void in which I was drowning.
18They hit me when I was down, but God stuck by me.
19He stood me up on a wide-open field; I stood there saved - surprised to be loved!
20God made my life complete when I placed all the pieces before him. When I got my act together, he gave me a fresh start. (emphasis mine)
Just to be honest, there are days that all I feel that I ever do is pick up toys and wipe bums. And make food. And clean up the crumbs and sticky left behind. With a lot of play and reading and more mess making in between and if I'm lucky 2 out of 3 might nap at the same time and I can squeeze in a quick workout or reading/zone out session in peace on the couch.
This full-time Mommy biz is hard, you guys.
There are days that I pine for a nice quiet counseling office to retreat to at a school where I don't have to wipe bums and make food and snacks and beverages for needy children ALL DAY LONG.
I traded my workin' Mama status for the SAHM status last January. It's been EIGHT months.
Eight hard, growth-filled, beautiful months. Don't get me wrong, there is nothing in this world I love more than being a wife to my husband and a mommy to my babies. And I have a LOT of fun doing it. We have had the best eight months making memories, not having to be up and out of the house by 6:45am, and getting to explore our beautiful new city--AND have Daddy around a lot more.
But it has still taken some adjustment on my part, and some days my soul gets restless.
This last leg of summer has found me dreamily perusing local school counseling job listings. And, well, applying for some. But something funny happens when I get a call about scheduling an interview. I back out. I calmly and professionally give my regrets but in my mind body and soul I am running for the hills with everything that I have, leaving me in a face-in-palm cold sweat wondering WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!
It's taken some soul reflecting to sort it all out. I'm not all the way there yet, but I want to share with you, dear reader, the craziness that I am sorting through because I think it is something many Mommies (the honest ones, anyway) face on the daily. And I want you to know that you are NOT ALONE in the mess that is babies and toddlers and preschoolers and diapers and dishes and laundry.
You see, at the core of my issue, when I get real about it, is not my desire for a break or a vacation or even a dang nap (although THAT would be incredible). It is a desire to have more of myself for everything else. There are days that my children feel like all-consuming super bugs that leave me with little time/energy/availability to put time into anyone or anything else. Which in essence, is where the real struggle stems.
This summer has been a season of spiritual growth and nourishment and refreshment for me. I have read loads of amazing books and have journaled and studied the Bible like never before. And as I am being fed and encouraged and challenged, I often felt myself feel chained to my messy kitchen with kids crawling and clinging to my legs. I have these desires to DO--to help and be used by God to uplift and speak life and to GO and love and be Jesus to those who so desperately need him. Things about my career in serving students as a counselor that I very much miss.
So, just the other day, I started complaining about it to God during my prayer time. In frustration, I asked Him why I felt so unsettled, unfulfilled--like I was just living diaper duty and short-order cook and maid and entertainer extraordinaire on repeat. I told him, "God, you know my desires. You gave me these gifts to use for you--TO POUR INTO OTHERS." And then He got me good. Like a punch in the gut.
They are my "others."
This IS a season for me to serve and love and pour God's goodness into others, and those "others" are the sweet messy faces that are sitting across from me as I furiously scribble angry prayers into my journal about purpose and calling and gifts and service.
The work that this season calls for is not glamourous. It is not highly recognized, publicized, revered or even appreciated. It is not measurable and cannot be checked off of a "to-do" list.
This work is messy. It is exhausting and mundane and tedious.
But like the very best of work that God calls us to, it is selfless.
It is about finding joy and experiencing God at my kitchen sink, and in another sleepless night and bent over the bathtub realizing I should probably just get in with them since I can't remember the last time it was "my turn" for a shower.
God can and is and WILL use me. I don't need a title or an office or a salary to give me worth.
My identity is not wrapped up in a job title.
I am right where I am supposed to me.
And just yesterday, that affirmation was echoed in the tears that snuck down my cheeks behind my sunglasses in the traffic of a busy Spokane intersection where my sweet son randomly piped up with THIS out of the blue:
"Mommy, I really like that Daddy is the only one who has to go to work now. I love you to be home with us all of the days now."
You guys, it was as if he was inside of my mind. He has no idea about any of my pending interviews or applications, nor has he overheard any talk of them. He has also never really acknowledged or thanked me over the course of this last year (and I never would expect him to!) for putting my career on hold to be home with him and his sisters.
And in those few honest, heart-felt words from my five-year-old, I heard Jesus tell me:
You are enough. Right now, today, YOU ARE ENOUGH. You don't have to do something BIG, you don't have to reach the masses, you don't have to put your children on hold in order to pour into others to be loved by me. I LOVE YOU RIGHT NOW, and I see your heart for my people in the way you nurture and care for the children I have entrusted to your care. I am there with you as you dry dishes late into the night after finally getting your last baby to sleep. I am there with you in the laundry piles and the sticky floors and in the books and toys strewn across the floor. I am there in the laughter and even closer in the tears.
And so, the conclusion I have reached is this:
This work that I am immersed in through this season that seems to suffocate me isn't smothering me at all. It is setting me free.
***
You aren't alone Mama.
Working Mom, Single Mom SAHM, Super Mom, Sad Mom, "think-you-are bad" Mom:
You are enough.
You were made for this sacred work--and not just to survive it, but to THRIVE in it!
We are being used by a great and almighty God, who is strengthening us and equipping us with each and every day we show up for Him. Keep showing up. Keep whispering prayers as you rock your babies or pick up the same toys for the eighty-seventh time in a single afternoon.
He is faithful. His plans for us are intricately designed and He has the most beautiful stories to write with the the lives of those who are willing to hand over the pen and let HIM author words of life and purpose and extravagant love into what might otherwise feel, well, like diapers and dishes.
Let's surrender and let HIM strengthen our hands for His work (Nehemiah 6:9).
This picture and story was shared all over social media last weekend:
I'm not one for getting all sappy and weepy over Facebook--but something about this photo brought almost immediate tears to my eyes. As I sat down and went back and forth from the story to the picture, the tears continued to fall. Maybe I was tired and maybe it had been a long afternoon and maybe I was hormonal. Just maybe. BUT, there was just something about that picture that just broke me. What was it?
It is the way that sweet, scared little girl is resting in that officer's arms.
She doesn't know him from the next stranger on the street, but in her moment of terror and pain and unthinkable anxiety he offered his arms to her and, well, look at her. Still scared, still hurting, but not alone. She is lying in his arms, not tense, not looking all around or frantic, but resting.
I can only imagine that after the events that led up to this photo how safe she felt--even for just a moment, against that officers warm body tucked tightly in his arms.
That police officer was Jesus to that scared little girl that night--wrapping her in rest.
I needed that visual of God's love in that moment as I sat hot, sticky, overwhelmed and tired that evening on my couch. Those tears pooling in my eyes were whispers to my soul to get up off of the broken glass beneath my feet and look up, reach up, climb up into His arms and lay my head and my burdens and imperfections down, and rest.
...
Matthew 11:28-30The Message (MSG)
28-30 “Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”
I sing the chorus to her every single night, which is always welcomed because Sunny and I often exist in somewhat of a rocky sea full of unpredictable weather and all that comes along with that.
But singing "waves," as she calls it, and holding her as she holds me, both of us exhausted; has proven to be the very best way to end the day.
Many a mommy tear has been shed to the singing of "waves" while I brush the wild curls away from her soft little forehead.
Typically, when she has bad days, WE have bad days. And those days are seemingly full of time-outs and temper tantrums and power struggles and regrets and lost patience and just, well, the terrible two's toddler type of turmoil.
But then at the end of the day, I hold her tired little body, warm and sweet smelling from her bath, in my arms and I rock and sing:
"I will call upon your name,
keep my eyes above the waves,
when oceans rise my soul will rest in your embrace,
for I am yours and you are mine..."
over and over and over.
And then I lay her sleeping body in her bed, cover her up, give her a kiss and creep out of the room,
with my eyes above the waves.
It's not just a verse to the chorus of a song, it's a plea:
keep my eyes above the waves...
I'm not telling Jesus "hey, I got this."
I am asking, begging Him, to KEEP my eyes above the waves.
Maybe today you feel like you are sinking.
Like you can't tread in the thrashing waves any longer.
You feel forgotten and beaten down and hopeless.
Maybe it's a stressful work situation, maybe it's finances, maybe it's a broken relationship, maybe it's motherhood, maybe it's your health or the health of a loved one that you feel is pulling you under.
Whatever waves you feel are enveloping you,
Look up.
He is there, keeping you afloat.
We can't see Him.
Sometimes we can feel Him and other times we can't--and when we can't, we feel alone and scared.
But He is there, IN those waves with us, and if we stop panicking and listen we can hear Him whispering:
"do not be afraid--I am here with you."
It's in those places; in those dark and quiet bedrooms and nurseries where we rock our sleeping children back and forth, back and forth, on the waves of that churning sea with exhausted tears of love of the most unconditional kind rolling down our cheeks, that we find rest.
The tide may toss and turn, but we rock and sing and cry to that unforced rhythm of grace and lift our eyes up, up, up over the waves that we were MADE to rise above.
One of the most sacred things that I get to do as a parent is teach my babies about Jesus.
In partnership with my believing extended family and our church family and things like Christian radio and other media it has been so fun to see their faith develop and begin to unfold.
I love what they are learning and picking up on and even questioning.
When I hear them belting out a worship song that they learned in church or heard on the radio I feel like I can literally feel Jesus smiling down upon them.
Hearing your children pray and sing out to Jesus is one of the most beautiful sounds I've ever heard--even if the words are jumbled and it's completely off-tune and parts of the chorus are skipped or repeated over and over a hundred times.
It is a symphony to heaven.
And as my Mama heart watches from the front row,
it is their worship that teaches me.
...
Kai is currently in a "is Jesus bigger/stronger/taller/deeper/etc." question asking phase.
It's awesome.
Here are a couple of recent examples:
On the ferris wheel with Sunny a few weeks ago as we are stopped at the very top:
"Mommy, is Jesus higher than this ferris wheel?"
At the very top loading dock of the tram at OHSU two weekends ago:
"Mommy, can Jesus stretch higher than this tram?"
Swinging in the "high" swings at one of the parks we frequent:
"is Jesus higher than THIS?"
"Than THIS?!"
In the middle of one of the thunderstorms we've had here lately (that are awesome, by the way):
"Is Jesus bigger than that thunder?" "Is he LOUDER than that thunder?"
He knows the answer to all of these questions. I answer him just about the same every time:
"Yep, buddy, He sure is--isn't that awesome?!"
It's like when his senses are are exhilarated by heights or speed or sound He immediately sizes it up to Jesus. I don't know where he learned how to do this, but he's teaching me so much.
When I'm feeling overwhelmed or like things are sky high and out of my reach, I need to measure whatever problem that I feel is too big up to Jesus.
Because no matter what, Jesus IS always bigger.
...
I die a little bit every night when it's Kai and Sunny's "turn" to talk to Jesus. I don't make them pray, but I always give them the opportunity to talk to Jesus after I have. Most nights, they take it, and I feel like I'm left either holding back tears or holding back laughter. Usually both.
Kai likes routine and often says the same thing:
Jesus help me not have that one bad dream, and that other bad dream and that other bad dream and the rest of those bad dreams. And help me not to drown in Nana's pool. And thank you for [usually something that we did that day like the park or riding bikes with a friend or eating pizza].
Sunny's are adorable. I usually ask her if she wants to "thank Jesus for anything?"
And she thanks Him for things (mostly toys and food) like:
my green turtle in the bathtub and my favorite purple spoon and for Honey and my little red frog that jumps and jumps and jumps...
They also ask for prayer for their "owies."
Just yesterday we were at the park and Kai bonked the back of His head. He wasn't crying but was holding it in and on the verge when he came over to me. I offered to kiss it and after I did he said "now can you pray for Jesus to heal it?" So I did. Right there in the middle of that busy park. And after I said "amen" he just turned around and ran back to his friends. The older couple on the bench right next to me sure got a kick out of the whole thing.
I want faith like that. When something is hurting me--whether it be physical or emotional, I want to run straight to Jesus, confident in His healing peace and love. He should be the first to hear about my worries--but all too often it's everybody else who hears about them and THEN I take them to God.
Kai knows better.
"Phillie (dog) in heaven with Jesus" By: Kai
...
And then there are all of the hundreds of questions about heaven.
The one I get most often is, "but Mommy, how will we get there?" But then there are many other questions like, "In heaven, will we have chocolate?" and "In heaven will there be a swimming pool?" and "Will we have soft beds, in heaven, to sleep on?"
The idea of "Heaven," for most, is hard to grasp.
Kai's eyes light up when we talk about it and he is anticipating getting to spend forever there--with all of his favorite things, of course.
I want to be heavenly minded in the way that my son is.
I want to long to spend eternity there with Jesus, and daydream about how wonderful it will be.
...
Formulating answers to their sometimes non-stop firing of questions about Jesus and heaven and angels and prayer and healing has given me more perspective and depth to my own faith.
I need to "think" less and do more singing with joy at the top of my lungs
(like even in busy shopping mall dressing rooms).
I need to daily, hourly, moment-by-moment acknowledge that Jesus is
ALWAYS BIGGER THAN IT ALL.
I need to lift my eyes, with joy and anticipation, toward heaven
