Post Category → scripture

bits and pieces

Two days ago, we collected our spades and rakes, hoes and edger, gloves and wheelbarrow, fertilizer and baseball bats, and we headed to the small corner chosen to be the vegetable patch. It’s a beginner’s sized patch — maybe 4×6? — and I’ll confess to a niggling fear that clever deer will outwit me and eat everything I manage to grow, but perhaps there will be a bit of success. Wouldn’t that be nice?

I sat right in the dirt, exhausted after an hour and half, and dug up sod, beat the dirt free of entangling roots, hurled the clump at the wheelbarrow, and dug up more sod. I thought of a dozen summers spent in just such a fashion, only I was but a girl then, in my mother’s garden. And now, now there were two boys playing beside me, and they are my boys. And this is my yard.

I looked up to see expanse of sky, meadows stretching into woods. I heard only wind and the song of birds. All over again, I was blessed. Do you know how many times I timidly hoped for a bit of space where I could grow things and watch my kids climb trees, pack paperbag lunches and send sons out to explore? No, you probably don’t know, but God knew.

*****

Tonight, carmelized onion quiche. Don’t ask me why, but it popped into my head last week, and I haven’t been able to shake it. I haven’t even ever had it, but I want it. So I pull out 3 speckled brown eggs from the fridge, all different sizes, and I crack them into a bowl. Deeply golden. I know they’re just eggs, but it makes me happy.

Today we visited the chickens that lay those eggs, and also the lovely family who owns those chickens. Jameson ran happily out into the field, right into the midst of a herd of goats, never once slowing down or fearing. He climbed happily into the chicken coop, and then pushed his way through a barn of energetic kids — goat kids, that is. Tractors, horses, a pregnant kitty, a dog — he couldn’t get enough. We even spotted him sneaking into the bull’s pen. In a few years, I tell her, I’ll send him down to help out. Perhaps we can get some of that delicious raw goat milk in return?

He declared it to be “an awesome, awesome play time, Mama!”

*****

I’m finding that all quiet moments lead to thoughts of Linda. Linda, the dear woman who lays 10 miles away in a hospital room. A hospital room where she’s dying of starvation and dehydration. I think of Psalm 18 — of a God of power and love who is stirred to action, who comes with clouds of darkness and thunder and who smites His enemies. A God who delivers, because He delights in us. And I ask. I ask Him to come and speak life.

One little word.

That’s all we need.

That’s all she needs.

wait, with strength and courage

For those who come to God must believe that He is, and that He is a rewarder of those who diligently seek Him.

I wait for the LORD, my soul does wait,
And in His word do I hope.
My soul waits for the Lord
More than the watchmen for the morning;
Indeed, more than the watchmen for the morning.

*****

We’re waiting. Not quietly, not silently. We’re persistent. We’re standing at His throne, eyes fixed on Him, saying, “Now, Lord? Now? Now, Lord? We need You, Lord. Lord? We need You.”

He doesn’t get annoyed by that. Rather, that’s the sort of waiting that He’s looking for, that He responds to.

And so:

I would have despaired unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the LORD
In the land of the living.
Wait for the LORD;
Be strong and let your heart take courage;
Yes, wait for the LORD.

*****

Pray for Linda.

fruits

Sometimes I am so struck by the wonderfulness of this walk with Christ. Like, wow, what a great plan!

This past Monday, we got a whole van-load of boxes, and, knowing that was the day’s plans, I mentally rolled up my sleeves and prepared for this task of packing. I reviewed my strategy, but I also gave myself a little pep talk. The house will seem like a disaster, said I to myself. The kids will get cranky at all the wrong moments. They will unpack boxes you just filled, and will rip tape off the boxes you thought were so well sealed. Those amazing little houdinis. Tempers will probably flare, and tensions will run high, and you’ll have to remember that it’s just a season, and soon it will be over. And you’ll have to work hard at kindness and patience — more so than usual.

And that’s when I was struck.

I saw, in vivid color, as though for the first time, that kindness and patience are a fruit of the Spirit — and the Spirit will still be active and moving in our lives, even during this topsy-turvy month!

I literally teared up, and my heart just burst with happiness and relief. I can have love and joy all the time.

Love, joy, peace — they are not fruits of routine, order, and a good night’s sleep.

Against such there is no law — not even the laws of chaos, exhaustion, teething babes, and tight budgets can keep the fruits of the Spirit from growing in a willing life.

Suddenly I’ve found myself murmuring to myself —

— when it’s only 9am, and two kids are crying and whining and I’m just so tired: Joy is not the fruit of rest; it’s a fruit of the Spirit.

— when I trip over the crying baby who’s trying to climb up my [moving] legs: Kindness is not the fruit of tranquility; it’s a fruit of the Spirit.

— when little hands are reaching for me, a boy is getting into trouble, a dear husband calls his need for something, and I can’t do it all at once: Peace and love are not the fruits of manageable moments; they are fruits of the Spirit.

And if that’s true, then there’s nothing about right now that makes those fruits an impossibility. In the middle of these boxes, in the midst of any tears, above and through and in all the pressures and demands, we can experience:

love. joy. peace. patience. kindness. goodness. faithfulness. gentleness. self-control.

See what I mean about the wonderfulness of it all?

“singing to one another…”

I’ve been reminded lately about the importance of the content of our worship music. I remember when I was very young, we sang a song at church that I was especially fond of — it had a really nice melody and appealing chord progression, and my sisters and I liked singing it around the house with all the schmultz we could muster. Anyway, it got pulled from the church repertoire, and when I asked my dad about it, he said that while it was a pretty song, the songwriter took too much poetic license and ended up on the wrong side of the truth.

That totally stuck with me, and it made me incredibly aware of every song we sang at church. It meant that ten years later, when I was in charge of song selection, I quickly overlooked the, umm, dumb songs, and thought carefully about theological implications. It also made me realize how much teaching happens in those 20 minutes of congregational singing. I haven’t memorized very many sermons, but I have hundreds of songs tucked away, shaping the way I think about and experience God.

I’ve thought about all of this again recently. This past summer, my dad sang “Happy Day” during family devotions at Aunt Judy’s house, and for whatever reason, Jameson latched onto that song as his absolute favorite. We have been singing it multiple times a week ever since — I play the piano and sing, and he drums. He doesn’t sing, and I didn’t know how much he was actually catching. Then, at Christmas time, he suddenly started interrupting me as I sang —

“Mom, why ‘happy day’?”
“Mom, what’s ‘wash my sins away’?”
“Mom, what’s ‘rescued me’? ‘Saved me’?”

One day before Christmas, I asked him, “Jameson, do you know why Jesus was born?”

His little face lit up, because he knew he had the right answer (which was totally unprompted by me!): “To wash my sins away!”

I’m suddenly not bored with singing that song anymore. We can sing it a hundred more times, and then some.* I want him to know every single word, every single nuance of meaning. I want that story to be written on his little heart, and if Happy Day is the pen that will write it, then let’s keep singing.

[*side note to worship-leading sisters: Don’t stop singing a song just because you’re sick of it. Chances are, everyone else is just starting to notice the lyrics, and aren’t they the whole point?]

making home.

I’ve been thinking about home. About how my role is to make home. And how I need to know what I’m aiming to make.

Traditions.
Culture.
Values.
Environment.

Things that go into the making of a home (and things that happen one way or the other; our job is to be proactive in shaping and making.)

There is one overarching theme in my heart when I look at that little list:

I want my kids to grow up with daily, weekly, yearly traditions of time with Jesus.
I want our home culture to be one of free expression of love for the Savior.
I want my daily, hourly activities to show that I value the Word of God and the living presence of the Holy Spirit moving in my life.
I want the environment of our home to be the warmth and peace and joy that comes from constant singing and praying and living the gospel.

All of that boils down to this:

I need to make time for the Lord.

And I know how basic that is, and I know that shouldn’t be anything new, but, well, as my dad would say, I leak. I get filled with revelation, and then next thing I know, it’s all leaked out.

So this morning, instead of any cleaning or projects or even playing with the kids, I sat at the piano and worshiped. I practiced stopping. Coming to a dead halt. Saying with my words, my actions, my whole heart that in this moment, nothing matters more than getting God.

I’m pretty sure that’s the first step in wisely building any home.

Here’s to a year of good foundation [again!].

counting joys

When the alarm went off, I was already exhausted. It was one of those days.

Several hours later, several loads of laundry had been cycled, lists of errands and to-dos and must-pack items had been made, the house had been pulled together after a very busy Sunday, the boys were dressed and even looking cute, and I’d found every return and receipt I needed. We all headed out to the van, got buckled in, and — nothing. The car wouldn’t start. As Ryan was discovering this fact, I tripped on an uneven brick and twisted my ankle (but did not drop the baby: points for me.)

I calmly collected the kids and got started on a Christmas craft instead.

Ha! Nope, that’s not true, actually.

I quietly got the kids out of the car and waved to Ryan as he set out (on foot) to work, but inside I was seething. I could tell a volcanic eruption was near. I was thinking something along the lines of, I don’t know WHOSE IDEA OF A JOKE THIS IS, BUT IT’S NOT FUNNY!!

I stood on the stoop with bags in hand, a three year old asking repeatedly, “What are we doing now, Mama?”, and a teething baby crying and clawing at my legs, and I suddenly remembered James 1.

Count it all joy…

And I know that a spoiled morning doesn’t compare with a lot of other trials and tribulations, not even close. But I do know that these everyday furnaces test us and try us and prepare us — if we let them.

Would I let it?

In tears, I managed to say, out loud, “Thank you, Lord, for this opportunity to grow in patience and trust in You.”

(Naturally, Jameson asked who I was talking to, why I was crying, and when lunch would be ready. This is the current soundtrack of my life, and someday I’ll miss it.)

Since that morning crisis, the day has continued in the same pattern. (I was hoping that a quick response to the Holy Spirit’s promptings would usher me into a few hours of ease and happiness, but not this time, I guess.) William has cried all day. He pinches my skin when he nurses, and I’ve almost lost it a couple times. Jameson has been a peach, but an energetic one. None of my lists have been touched, and if that weren’t overwhelming enough, that awful devil has started in with nagging thoughts about how filthy the kitchen floor is and what a lousy housekeeper I am.

It’s that sort of day.

It feels unproductive. No, make that counterproductive.

But that’s not the whole story.

The Bible says that even this sort of day can be hugely productive, if I “let endurance have its perfect result, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.”

And so.

So I repent, repent, repent. I cry out for Jesus over and over and over. And I count even this crisis of the soul as joy, knowing that the testing of my faith produces endurance.

Some things just don’t come easy, but faith that endures is worth the pain.