Post Category → faith

november: snow, apples, thanks, books

from yesterday:

The snow flew today. It didn’t land, but it will, soon. I thought I wasn’t ready for winter, for cold, for the longness of it all, but when I woke this morning to hues of periwinkle and silver and rose — where yesterday it was all kelly and brown — I was smitten all over again.

*****

I happily drove home with butter in my van — butter that started as grass growing in a field 20 miles away, eaten by cows well-cared for, faithfully milked, never chemically assaulted or added to. I mixed in flour and sugar. Jameson and I cut locally-grown apples, he clumsily but determinedly mimicking my actions, proud as his hands learned the movements. We’ll eat pie tonight. It may be all we eat, at this rate, but it’ll be good.

*****

We listen to this play list as we slice. William colors a portrait of George Washington, and we talk about “those days” and all together — this November sky, these apples, that flute — it makes me breathe slow and deep and smile.

*****

Last week I took out the remaining fall decorations: pilgrim figurines and their stories. We recited Psalm 100 this week, remembering those familiar paths of praise and thanksgiving. And we recounted the story of the people — people like us, with natures like ours, whose bodies felt hunger and cold and loneliness and despair just like ours — who persevered through great difficulty and at the end gave thanks. Homes burned, men imprisoned, fleeing to a strange nation, selling all to travel a harrowing ocean-journey, braving shadowy fears and very-real impossibilities, watching half their numbers breathe their last, and then waving bravely as their last chance to just give up sailed back across wide waters. And through it all, thankful. Because God. They were not perfect, but neither am I. In this is the greatest challenge to me. In their raw humanity, they could have grumbled (example: Jamestown), but no. Instead, they gave thanks.

Pause.

I think it’s safe to say, I tell the children, that we can probably be thankful on our bad days. Because God. Isn’t that what makes knowing Jesus miraculous? That we are set free from the slavery of reaction, and grace is poured into our hearts that we might live by faith?

*****

I have some favorite Thanksgiving books that I thought I’d share. I like the content — some simple, some bursting with interesting facts. I like the drawings. It’s a story worth knowing by heart and setting as an example. Principle, faith, gratitude: I want to be like them when I grow up.

finding life in the Vine

There are just way too many nights that find me fried, frustrated, and happy to just hurry up and end the day. Usually that frazzled state of soul takes me by surprise — a quiet, peaceful, well-paced morning somehow just spirals slowly but surely, and suddenly I’m Mean Mama. Anybody? Just me?

It happens way too often. I’d reached Frazzled Status last night on our way out the door, and when I landed with three kids at church, I was strung tighter than a piano string. (I always think of that metaphor, because I can only imagine the damage one of those HUGE bass strings could inflict if it suddenly snapped. Not that me snapping ever does any damage. *wink*) Somehow, somewhere, my soul had a chance to take a deep breath, and the idea of joy came to mind. Joy. I want to be joyful. I have the best job in the world, you know? Why do I sometimes so lack joy?

Left to myself, I would rectify this situation in one of two ways:

— Berate myself for my lack of joy. Look at the three beautiful faces of my children, faces so quick to smile at me with twinkling eyes full of love, and say to myself, “What’s wrong with you? Get joy!” Wonder if they think I lack joy. Wonder if my husband thinks I lack joy. Wonder how terrible I am. Yup, I’m terrible. (Is this approach getting me any closer to joy?)

— Decide to be joyful. That’s it — from now on, I will be joyful. I will look for joy in my every day, because I know it’s there — it is! (Really! It is!) I just have to snap out of my Frazzled Status and see it, live in it, take it in, pour it out.

But there’s another conclusion. A better one. The error in my first approach is obvious. The error in the second is more subtle. See, joy is a fruit. Fruit is the result of the life of the Spirit. (We all know this, right? But maybe you have as much trouble living it as I often do.) I cannot bear fruit on my own. And when I get sidetracked with pursuing fruit, I end up frustrated and empty handed.

The answer is Jesus.

Instead of just looking for joy in my every day, I need to look for chances to say YES to the Holy Spirit. Yes, Holy Spirit, fill me, change me, be my source. Yes, I’ll meditate on Your Word, listen for Your voice, respond to Your guidance. Yes, I’ll sing a song of praise, put off heaviness, exalt You above this moment.

I want to be continually filled with the Spirit, continually looking at Jesus, continually experiencing the power of His salvation. Then there is joy. (And love, peace, patience, kindness…)


[from the archives]

epiphanies

“It’s not about you.”

(Name that book.)

How simple is that? And how profound? And how daily, momently, do I hit my head right up against that truth?

I’m leaving behind the “Mom of Littles” years. The growing pains of bursting through that old skin have certainly been there in the last year, as Jameson stretches, William close behind, me last to the party, still trying to cram them into a pre-school sized compartment. I was kind of comfortable with babies and toddlers and managing little people. Sure, it was hard work, but it was familiar. Couldn’t we just hang out there for awhile? Maybe forever?

No.

Part of the shifting has been seeing these boys grow and realizing this is their real life. Like, what they’re doing right now. It’s their life. (I know. Genius revelations happening over here.) But really. This isn’t just My Life: The Little Kid Years. They are real people thinking real thoughts having real struggles and you don’t just shut the bedroom door at night and sigh deep and crash on the couch and that’s that. No, they’re on their beds thinking their own thoughts. Thoughts about life and God and how the day went and what they’re feeling and why did Mom talk to me that way and is evil real and how come I always mess up and I hope I get that Lego set.

There was some summer day, as I watched lanky boy walking along in front of me, laughing at jokes with growing-taller brother, that I realized deep in my soul, “They are not a chapter of my life. I am a part of theirs.”

Of course, I knew all this. I mean, if this was just about my life, I would probably ask to rewrite the chapter — add a bit more sleep, a bit less puke, maybe scratch out the part about stretch marks. I knew as I stared at my brand new baby the first moment I was suddenly a mother that I held a person in my arms — but watching him stretch into tall boy, hearing him process his life… He is a person.

So, it’s not about me on this theoretical level.

But it’s also not about me on a practical level: I would rather be managing toddlers. Drink more juice, go to bed, pick up the blocks, time for a puzzle, Mama said no… I like order, and while having toddlers may seem like an insane definition of “order”, I really do call the shots for those first several years.

Then there’s this new creature who suddenly appears, and he’s baring his heart to me in the middle of vacuuming, and next thing I know we’re sitting on the kitchen floor for 45 minutes talking. Suddenly, listening can’t be done with 15% of my attention, because he’s a person and that’s not how people should be treated by their own mothers. And those arguing brothers are suddenly begging for me to sit down with them and let them spill tears and voice hurts and let me teach them to repent and forgive and to treat hearts with deepest care.

Growing. Stretching.

And knowing that all of these eurekas don’t require that I run out and buy a new slew of books on “loving the middle years”, subscribe to a whole new set of blogs, or throw out all previous methods to learn new big kids tricks.

Nope. All I really need to do is realize It’s not about me. I must decrease. He must increase. My ear needs to hear the whisper of the Holy Spirit more than ever. My eyes need to see the way He sees. My heart needs to overflow with prayer and compassion and truth and love, ready to pour out in nurturing word and deed. My time needs to be purged of all selfish claims, available to invest energy and service into other people.

This isn’t about me living out my story. Oh, no! What a small, sad story that would be. But how amazing that if this small seed of me is allowed to fall into the ground and die, life could spring forth! How amazing that here, in this very house, real people are being raised up, and God takes the seed of my life and allows it to bear fruit in theirs.

10
Lilias Trotter

all in a week.

What a week!

One week ago, these fine young gents were trying out the window seating at the Canton Bagelry, which was then open only to adorable children related by blood to Mr. Dunphey or Ockrin.

At 2:30am Monday morning, the Mister and I turned off the lights and locked the door behind us, completing a grueling summer of preparation by Ryan and Gabe and so many others. Done, ready. Launch.

(Another tractor pic? Oh yes. You have no idea.)

Cue the next four days: sick babies and mama.


Yes, I cut flowers for the sake of sanity.


Sometimes she would sleep for 15 minutes. Pretty girl.


Sometimes she didn’t sleep. But then I could just eat this.


One of my kids has a sense of humor, apparently.

Then we started to feel better. We even did our Friday errands, which included peaches!

And I’m not big into the ombre trend, but when I cut into this tomato, I repented of my ways and declared it the most beautiful thing in the world.

Just in case I thought this week was going to end with quiet and calm, Beatrice had an accident that had me driving her to the ER for stitches this morning.

Whew. I’m not a whirlwind kind of girl. But apparently this isn’t my universe, so things don’t always cater to my temperament. I am going to go out on a limb, though, and say that I’m hoping to slowly start school on Monday. A fresh set of colored pencils, brand new composition books, and Mama creating a little semblance of order-on-a-page (hoping to make up for the tangled-mess-in-my-brain) is all that these great kids need to get excited about a new school year.

After the last few weeks, I’ll hold my hopes for Monday loosely. Better to hold tight to the right things: Jesus.

where did it go?

And by “it”, I mean summer.

It is, you know, almost a week into September, and I’m still just sort of standing here clueless, saying, “Wha–?”

A strange summer. Even my photos reflect the helter-skelter life lived these last few months: uploaded in bizarre and random fashion, almost impossible to sort.

Tonight I just browse through. Smile. Laugh. Cry a little because you know? It was a blur. But it was full of joy.


My dad rescued me when I was having tractor troubles — over and over. And over.


Matching dresses. And a little too much love.


“Take our picture, Mom, can you?”


Two sleepy-head girls after several nights of being out late while I helped Ryan.

Just a smidgen of the abundant joy I have.

(Not pictured: the redeeming work of Jesus in my heart every day, and the presence of the Holy Spirit indwelling this frail, undeserving soul every moment. Joy unspeakable.)

on work

This morning came early. It’s Sunday, though, and a shower isn’t optional. Neither is a bath for a baby who spent several hours crawling around a new restaurant floor last night.

So I’m up. Coffee brewed. Two little girls chatting and cooing and just sitting. Bethel worship playing softly on this rainy morning.

Sunday is our pause. There are mountains to move and heaps of work seem to bury us, but we stop and rest and remember that He is our provider and source and everything. Our bodies need a slow morning, but our souls do, too.

He is our rest in the midst, though, too. We are called to work, I tell my boys. Our strength and creativity and intellect were given so we could build. The What is up to Him, and we joyfully serve as foundation layers, wall erectors, finished carpenters — joyful and faithful is our job, the grand plan is His.

Dad’s sermon last Sunday (8/24, keep your eye out for it on cfconline.org) was fabulous. Jesus declared the gospel — the good news of God reconciling men to Himself — and then He healed their bodies and minds. He didn’t say, “See ya in heaven.” He said, through word and deed, “I came to restore your life.” And so we experience the restoration ourselves, but then we live it to the world. We care for people, we give our lives to seeing souls and minds and bodies redeemed. Living the gospel is incredibly holistic and we are all called to say, through word and deed, Jesus can restore.

And so our work is not just work. It is laying life down to see the Kingdom of heaven come.

*****

I don’t know exactly what God is building through our little contribution at this time in history, in this spot on the globe. But I am incredibly blessed to work hard in the family field, alongside my husband, knowing that my work is helping to build him. I love this guy.