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Surprising joy when you feel you’ve lost your life -(words for Holy Week – Repost!)

April 10, 2017April 9, 2017Leave a comment

As I reflect on the meaning of the week ahead- this Holy Week- I am struck by the abundance that can only be found in letting go. The filling that we only receive when we’re first emptied out. The power that can only be found in weakness. The righteousness that can only be found in knowing our brokenness. The resurrection that we never would have known without the crucifixion.

Reposting this one because I needed to be reminded to go ahead and die the million deaths to myself on purpose – to find joy on the other side of surrender…
A seed falls, and we do not weep for the death…but rejoice for the promise of life to come.

There’s a beauty and a trust as we witness a dying that brings life. This is, perhaps, one of those sweet hints in nature that points to a deep truth that echoes throughout the earth and reverberates in our very souls. Nature gives way and, each year as the winter chill sets in, the death holds a promise. We wait. We eagerly expect. We anticipate with full confidence that new life will spring forth in due time. And we know that without the death, the life would be cut short, cheapened, lost. As nature sways with the secret winds of the One who made it, we watch and celebrate it’s majestic beauty.

Life from death.

In the same way, I walk in the hope that Jesus not only died to pay the penalty for my sin, but that he rose and is alive. And because he died, I have life. He came to serve and not to be served, and He leaves an example of a life of sacrifice that brings life.

Research has shown time and time again that the happiest people are the ones giving their lives and resources away to serve others.

But if I’m honest, I think I have had an idealized sense of what a life of service looks like. I’ve imagined that the kind of dying to self that makes us feel like we’re really living can only happen in the big things.

I’ve dreamed of missions and living among the poor. I’ve partnered with beautiful organizations doing beautiful world-changing things. I’ve grieved that I don’t have more capacity to serve now that I’m home with young kids. I still deeply treasure these opportunities to serve the poor and needy, and celebrate all those doing this significant work.

But I have thought less of life as a mom. It often feels small and insignificant. I have fought against the way it shrinks and simplifies my life, and I have sometimes been frustrated by the way it fills all of the spaces and leaves no room. As we fight against it, and wish for bigger better things, we allow seeds of resentment and bitterness to be sown.

But, in the last couple years, the truth of the life I’m living as a mom has slapped me right across the face. Sometimes, quite literally. The truth is that mamas die a million small deaths all day long. Perhaps the life of service and sacrifice that I’ve dreamed about is right in front of my face. Perhaps leaning in and reconciling with the dying that fills my days could be the key to unlock the life I sometimes feel I’m missing.

Friends, we mamas might have all the worldly comforts that make us feel like our days should be easy. We might enjoy the comforts of beautiful homes, and minivans, and organic meals, and Starbucks stops. But, there is no peace for the mama who won’t die a thousand times, on a thousand days.

As we are willing to die in every corner of ourselves, we open ourselves up to new and better and fuller life.

Perhaps not whipping my body into shape after giving birth is not a failure, but an opportunity to discover life and joy in the death of my vanity. Dying to self is giving your very body to be stretched and scarred and changed. I give my body.

Perhaps I’m not less-than because motherhood has killed brain cells. I have frantically looked for a child who I’m holding on my hip. True story. But perhaps my distraction and preoccupation is not a sign that I’m now less worthy. Dying to self is giving your mind to organize and facilitate seeing that the needs of everyone else in your home are met before your own. I give my mind.

Dying to self is cleaning the messes that threaten your basic human dignity – the ones that leave you looking for the emergency biohazard hotline. I give my dignity.

A place in me that once cared about some respectable thing now holds the lyrics to the Wild Kratts theme song. Dying to self is giving yourself to care about the little things…the names of all the dinosaurs, the microscopic boo-boos, the math homework. I give my interest.

I can feel embarrassed by my swift tears or sudden panic when it comes to my children. But dying to self is giving your heart to care about the big things…the illnesses and injuries that make our heart stop, the heartbreak and the grief of watching your children suffer or be in danger. It’s the giving of your heart in a way that you can never take back. The giving to a love that makes your heart beat right out of your chest, and makes you feel wildly alive and wildly in danger of being crushed. I give my heart.

The daily grind of chores doesn’t make my life small. Dying to self is giving all of the in-between moments to launder and clean and feed. I give my hands.

Dying to self is letting your family change and shape your goals and dreams, whether you are working tirelessly juggling work and home, or you’ve given up a hard-earned career to stay home. I give my dreams.

Dying to self is being the rock against which my children can crash the wild waves of growing up. Dying to self is keeping steady for their uninhabited and unfiltered and underdeveloped BIG feelings to find their boundaries in the safety of my arms. I give my comfort.

Dying to self is looking with grace-filled eyes after being slapped across the face by a tiny person. It’s shepherding in love after being yelled at for some horror like offering the wrong lollipop color. I give my pride.

Only as I lean in and give myself away can I find peace and freedom. If God sees me, and I’m within his call to the life of sacrifice, I don’t need to fight to be seen. I don’t need to resent my husband for his freedom to leave the house, or my children for their ingratitude. There is a harmony in the song I’m singing.

And it all feels like worship.

My spirit gives a resounding “Yes!” to overseas missions and living among the poor. But I long to see us mamas shout a similar “Yes!” over the life of sacrifice that lies before us as we simply open our eyes in the morning (or in the night), with a willingness to do another day.

Nature points to this deep truth that we only find our life by giving it up. I long to see us fall each day like the seed, treasuring the promise that our death will bring new life.

As I talk with my mom friends, we still find ourselves feeling like being a mom is supposed to be easy and fun. The words of little old ladies who tell us with screaming toddler in grocery store line to “cherish every minute” echo in our heads. But I’ve watched my friends give up careers, and hobbies, and personal space, and clean shirts, and the last brownie. I’ve seen them die a million deaths. We get dirty with it.

And yet, somehow the world has us convinced that we’re doing it all wrong. Somehow we feel it doesn’t matter. We feel we need to do more, and better. And get out and serve in a way that counts.

Stepping into motherhood is risky in a ultimate sense. We allow the Lord to rip our heart out and give it legs. Ladies, this thing requires faith! I don’t say any of this out of pride, but to proclaim out loud that the devil, the Enemy of our hearts, has no right to steal the joy that comes from motherhood being a service unto the Lord.

If we are willing to lean into the life of self-sacrifice that is laid out before us, mamas, we can spend our lives in the sweetness of those feet-washing moments. You have an opportunity at every moment of the day to give your life away. And sister, your Father in heaven sees you!

The world fights against this motherhood thing with a force of self-indulgence and self- advancement. While some positions come with power, influence, lofty titles, impressive salaries, something to say at a cocktail party. Motherhood comes mostly with messes, failures and invisibleness. I think this is no surprise to God.

So, let’s let the seed fall. Let’s die the million deaths, on purpose. And let’s watch and wait as new life and joy spring up in your days.

fullsizerender-6 — My dining room table is under there somewhere.

Backyard camping

My happy little blogging buddy

Amazing Grace when you fear you’re a “Bad Mom”

March 6, 2017March 6, 20174 Comments

The baby’s crying and the tot needs to go potty, and someone asks that question again. The same question I already answered four times, that we are waiting to have dessert when daddy gets home. She hadn’t heard me those first four times, and she’s distracted, and chewing with her mouth open, and just got up on top of the table to grab food off of her brother’s plate while he was in the bathroom, and she thought I wasn’t looking.

You know the moments…when it feels like you have a big red button on you and everyone is pushing it. Something in me snapped.

I launch into lectures about how she needs to use her table manners and, by the way, I’m not answering the same question a fifth time and, by the way, she can’t have dessert anymore because she refuses to listen to me and, by the way, her chewing is driving me crazy. That line that I held onto all (or most of the) day – I lose my grip on it and come tumbling down with a terrible crash. I grab at everything in my path to take down with me.

Ugly harshness spews. I’m disgusted by the sound of my own voice, but can’t seem to harness it.

Failure and self-loathing blow in like a hurricane, and my mind swirls with the therapy it will take for my daughter to recover from my verbal battering, and how her self-esteem is shot and her identity will be all wrapped up with never being enough for her short-fused mother. And while the torrent of shame sweeps me up and away from reality, another sweet one innocently prances back into the room and asks for dessert.
Does it make you feel crazy just thinking about it? Me too.

Baby is still crying and toddler is still holding herself saying she’s about to pee, and rather than responding to the question, I react and spout more ruthlessness about how no one is getting dessert anymore because it’s all anyone can talk about all day. I’m swept away. The more ashamed I am of myself, the more I can’t say anything nice.

Friend, have you felt that shame that takes you over, when the sound of your own voice makes your stomach twist up in knots?

The shame says this moment provides overwhelming evidence that I am officially and hopelessly a “bad mom.”

As the stormy moment settles in silence, I look at my little flock and feel this crushing inadequacy and utter failure.

By grace, I manage a long enough breath to jump off the lecture track, and I ask the kids if I can pray. I murmur this feeble prayer about needing God to come in and bring peace and joy and hope and redemption… How we need him to rewrite the story of our night. They all sweetly say “Amen” and look to me for what’s next.

I sigh deeply and say that I’m sorry for losing my cool and I assure them that I’m not angry with them, that they deserve to be honored with my tone, that even if they disobey, I am on their side. I remind them that they are accountable for following rules and listening, but that I know they had long days too, and my heart’s desire is for all of us to speak to one another with kindness and gentleness. I ask if they will forgive me for my harshness.

They do so, quickly and easily.

Oh, if only, I could be more like them. I try to let their tender grace wash over me, but it only makes me feel more undeserving of being called their mama.

Then it hits me that when they fail… all I want in the world is for them to recover quickly. I want them to not be discouraged or let the mistake stick to their identity. I want them to know that they remain a son or daughter of the King of kings, and that being unable to do it all right is the reason Jesus came. I want them to know they are simply loved, to grab hold of grace.

Suddenly, it’s painfully obvious that beating myself up is setting the opposite example. What my children need most…in this moment, and in life, is to see me need Jesus. They need to know how to make peace with brokenness and let Jesus rescue them.

They need to see me forgive myself as I accept God’s grace and forgiveness for my mistakes.

If my children are to cast off shame and walk in broken freedom to be nothing except a child of God saved only by grace… then the best I could do is to show them what it looks like to not be surprised that I’m a sinner, to not be surprised that I need a Savior every day.

Frankly, I need to get over myself.

I was never meant to be the perfect example or the perfect mom. I was simply meant to be a big arrow pointing to the perfect Savior. And the same is true for you, Mama.

I’ve done this wrong so many times. I’ve stayed so often in the cycle of shame, and I’ve beat myself up for all the things. Rather than accepting that my debt was paid by Jesus, I have brought my own punishment by lecturing myself about all the things I should have said and done better.

And let’s be honest, my failures are not exclusive to raising my voice or having a snippy tone. My children need to see me forgive myself for locking my keys in the car, for missing my exit on the highway, or for forgetting my wallet in my other purse. They need to see me laugh at myself and order pizza when I drop dinner on the floor, so that they believe me when I tell them I’m not angry that they spilled their water again. They need to see me apologize to their daddy for not greeting him warmly after work. My children need to see me be radically human in order to learn about authentic grace for authentic life.

I’ve often refused to receive the grace of God, leaving me empty of grace to extend to my children.

But God is tenderly leading me to a place that’s more shattered and more liberated, more empty of me and more full of God’s mercy. He is teaching me to receive grace to give it. He is gently bringing me face-to-face with my grand and sweeping weakness every day, so that I never forget to need Jesus’ rescue.

I pause and let my children’s easy forgiveness wash over me, right along with the blood of Jesus. And I’m clean. Perhaps they see that their humanness is okay too.

The tone of our homes can be set by the mostly lighthearted apologies and the way we reset the course. Most of the time, a quick “Oops!” or “So, sorry, let me fix my tone” is enough. We accept forgiveness quickly, and walk right out of the cycle of shame and anger and criticism.

Of course, there are mistakes we make that are not at all light-hearted…that leave deep, soul-crushing wounds, and require the sincerest and most heartfelt apologies, and a journey of rebuilding trust. But most of our weak moments don’t have to be world shattering.

If I insulate my children from their humanness and mine, I lock chains around their ankles, and teach them that we should all be perfect. But when my children see me fail, admit, be washed in grace, they learn that it’s right and good and not-so-scary to take ownership of their own mistakes. They learn to apologize and walk forward in a new freedom and dependence on Jesus.

There’s a truth we get to walk in: that we mess up and our children do too. It’s so simple but so profound in our performance‐based, perfection-worshipping culture, to NOT be perfect. I think being a mama is perhaps the fastest way to a crushing sense of inadequacy, but there’s a sweetness in being beyond ourselves, unable to maintain the perception of perfection.

Freedom comes in owning our humanness and teaching our children to own theirs. Freedom is being weak and then strong with only the salvation Jesus offers. Freedom is bringing nothing to the table, and gathering the gift of God’s grace each morning (or each moment), like manna, without fear that we have enough for tomorrow. Freedom is acknowledging the dirt and letting Jesus’ blood wash us anew each day.

I’m trying to teach my children to get used to making mistakes, and to get used to accepting grace…

Upon grace

Upon grace.

So when you feel like the dreaded Bad Mom, take hold of raw mercy and amazing grace. Take hold of another opportunity to show your kids what it means to be God’s broken beloved child, who needed a rescue, and got one in Jesus.

christian mom blog.jpg — backyard amazing grace

A gift for the mama feeling pressure to do and be everything

February 20, 2017February 20, 20173 Comments

Several days ago, when winter was still heavy on us, before the springtime air rushed in and refreshed every fiber…I had one of those days when everything felt like entirely too much. I scurried in the door on that bitter February morning, and could still feel the wind cutting through me and stinging my nose. But something cut deeper still, swept right through and left a mess of me…

Too many of my things that morning came from a place of “should” or “have to.” Too many of my things came from wanting to be productive, a “good mom,” to have something to show for my day, or to win some imaginary battle for someone’s approval (that was likely never in danger).

There is something in the air that presses on a mother, making her feel that the weight of the world is on her shoulders and like she has to do it all right.

Pressure piles, and says “Do all the things.” Guilt sinks deep, and says “You are never enough.” Sometimes this thing turns my eyes inward and threatens my joy.
Do you feel it, sister?
And no matter what “they” say…the “shoulds” and “have tos” are shifting sand. I don’t know about you, but I need some more solid ground to stand on.

I have to think it’s getting harder to be free in this mom space. Courageous women have fought long and hard to lay claim to the freedom and value and beauty and equality given us by God, from voting rights and sports and career and salary and leadership and in all the ways…

We are equal! And all one in Christ. (Gal 3: 28)

I love how Jesus so beautifully offered equal love and acceptance and value and appreciation and calling to the women he encountered, in a culture that said and did the opposite. Jesus was the first on the battleground of women’s liberation…women’s freedom.

Heaven rejoices as women find their voice…the voice they were always meant to have.

But I’m afraid that somewhere along the way, motherhood shrunk into the shadows a bit. Now that women can do anything, we can too easily feel pressure to do everything.

The world is loud with all we can and should do.

If you listen to the noise, you might feel pressure to have the babies and the perfect body; to be strong but not prickly; to do the house, the laundry, the cooking, the teaching and shepherding; to do the sports, the girl scout troop, the volunteering, the picture-perfect Christmas cards, the leading, the hosting, the crafting, the blogging, the class cupcakes and Valentines; to have the dream career, earn the full-time income and do the full-time mom thing (or one or the other, depending on the day); to be a fun friend and an adoring wife, intelligent and professional, but not too uptight. Also, be a laid-back mom, but not so laid back that your kids get rowdy, or hurt…

And, by the way, the noise says that most of this is just a side note to what you’re really doing with your life.

I’m exhausted just writing it. And, you and I both know that list could be so much longer.

It feels like expectations have been added, but none removed. I’m not talking about working because you love it, or because you’re providing needed income for your family. I’m not talking about making time for the things you love, and how it leaves your schedule a little full. I’m not talking about Saturday mornings full of the joy of watching your little people run their hearts out on the soccer field.

I’m just trying to put a name to whatever it is for each of us that brings that gut-deep hollowness that says “You’re not doing enough.”

One of the things that inspired me to begin writing for mothers is this thing I see happening to our spirits…this pressure to do All The Things.

On days when it feels a small miracle to put on clothes, All The Things still press in on me.

At times in my mom journey, I have found myself in a perpetual cycle of self-criticism. I feel weak if I get help with cleaning, or less-than if I have to say “No” to the baseball league or piano lessons, as it feels that everyone else has their children in sports and lessons of every kind from about age 3.

You might feel inadequate because other moms seem more on top of life, or you think the other moms must never yell at their kids, or because the other moms went organic. Or you haven’t greeted your husband well, or hosted the dinner, or showed up to the party, or returned the phone call…and it all weighs on you.

Maybe you feel guilty for not keeping up with doctor’s appointments or homework or the kids’ dental hygiene. Maybe you showed up at the doctor’s office and fumbled over birthdays, or found out your child had a fever you didn’t know about. Or, like me, you didn’t know the answers to half the questions about whether your child knows his last name or the parts of his body.

Since when is this a milestone? I missed the memo.

We might compare ourselves to the mom who has daily devotions with her children, or the one who wears real clothes and mascara every day. Or we envy the mom whose body snaps right back after having a baby.

Social media can be a flood of perfect pictures and extravagant birthday parties and family outings and magazine-ready living rooms and put-together mamas. As we take in pretty images of other’s lives, we have more material against which to judge ourselves and our families.

And the isolation that often comes with the little years can distance us from other mom’s hearts that say “me too.” When you’re alone, it’s easier to trust your snap judgments that have you convinced you’re the only one falling behind…the only one failing.

I have to believe that our days as mothers are not meant to be shadowed by guilt and regret and self-criticism, by comparison and pressure.

The pressure to be a certain kind of mom – or all the kinds of moms – leads me to do all kinds of things I don’t need to be doing. I can wander into the dangerous zone of boundary-less-ness, feeling like I should do everything and be everything…

There is this illogical drive to be all the most perfect versions of a mom – to somehow have the best parts of every mom I’ve ever met. I want to be the crafty mom, and the organized mom, the creative mom, the let-your-kids-cook-with-you mom (AHH!), the PTA mom, the easygoing “they’ll be fine” mom, the mom with the color-coded calendar, and the spontaneous road-trip mom, the clean-house mom and the mom who is totally present for the puzzles and dance parties. I want to be the mom who always responds quickly to her friend’s text messages and the mom who is not on her phone when her kids are around.

I want to be the right kind of hostess – the one with the idyllic calm, the homemade snacks and the fresh coffee.

And the right kind of wife – or every kind of wife – the perfect housewife and the wife with exciting dreams, the elegant and fun wife, and the wife unfazed by the undignified nature of days full of spit up and temper tantrums. I want to be the wife who is not caught up in her appearance and also the wife who can walk confidently and feel sexy after five babies.

I can easily fall into a continuous state of failure.

The cards have been dealt on the handful of things I’m good at and all the ones I’m not. I think freedom is just being the one kind of mom and human God made me. The necessities of life go on, and I actually can’t be in all the places at once. I think freedom looks like letting myself just be in the one place doing the one thing.

“Be everything to everyone” makes me bitter. It makes life feel arduous, and I begin to choke on every need or demand anyone has of me.

If I let myself live under this kind of pressure, it leaves me longing for easier days, for affirmation, and frankly, for everyone to leave me alone. This is the pressure that makes me want to run away. Those are the days when the constant comments at the grocery store about how my “hands are full” nearly crush me. Do you have days like that, friend?

Mamas, we must make a strong choice to reject these lies of pressure to do and be All the Things, and we must be washed in a new truth:

We were never meant to be everything.

If the weight of being everything is on our shoulders… If we were meant to fix the world for our children and everyone else… If it was our job to save their hearts, and satisfy them in every way… then Jesus died for nothing.

We were made human and finite and dependent and weak, on purpose. Raising our children to believe that their mamas can do everything and fix everything and be everything is a surefire way to lead them into the heart of disappointment.

But teaching our children how to move slow, how to trust that we were only meant to be in one place at a time, how to be free to be weak and in desperate need of a Savior.

This is a lesson that lasts.

And their Savior Jesus will never disappoint.

We were never meant to be everything. And we cannot write the whole story of the lives of our children. Under the loving care of the Infinite God, we have a specific and limited role.

As mothers, we were given a measure of authority, but God holds their hearts and spirits. As humans, we have an opportunity to partner with God in beautiful works…

but we run ourselves ragged in vain.

God has the role of winning the hearts of our children. Jesus came to save their souls. Our Father in Heaven holds them. He knows where each precious child fits.

The Almighty God has the role of being everywhere at once. We can just be in one place. If we choose the wrong one, He can handle keeping the world spinning another day.

Today, be free to be just the mama you are…good at the things you’re good at and not at the things you’re not.

Today, be free to be in one place at a time.

Today, let your Heavenly Father carry the weight of the safety and future and faith of your children. Let God hold all the people and places that seem to need you.

The pressure is off, sweet friend. Go, enjoy your freedom!

A Reflection On The Strange And Beautiful Mystery Of Wanting A Baby

February 13, 2017February 13, 20174 Comments

I cuddled that sweet six-pound baby boy in a dear friend’s hospital room, and for the first time, the miracle of it all – new life – meant something new. In a landscape of stiff chair cushions and drab white walls, freshly‐mopped tile floors and the aroma of antiseptic, I felt my imagination rest in the stale air, on just one thing:

When might it be my turn?

My heartbeat quickened. I snuggled, and dreamed, and ached with joy-filled wonder, for a child that looks like some beautiful, mysterious mix of my husband and me.

This, the first truly animal-like instinct I could name: I wanted a baby.

It’s so strange, really. To wake up one day and decide we want to give up our full nights of sleep and our freedom to travel lightly or sleep in on Saturday mornings. A desire to go through the pangs of pregnancy and childbirth, and to be needed deeply and desperately and physically, each day in varying degrees for the next six or seven thousand days…

But this beautiful thing lies deep within – in the part of us that reflects the creativity of our Creator…reflected in our longing.

We long to create, to nurture, to teach and leave legacy, to see the next generation do it better. We have eternity written on our hearts, so we have our strand in the great eternal cord hanging down from heaven….

and we want ours to count.

From the first moment of desiring to grow our family, fear crept in. What if I couldn’t get pregnant? What if it took a long time? What if God didn’t intend for me to be a mother at all? What if I’m a terrible mother? What if I miscarry? What if I gain 100 pounds? What if my husband doesn’t like me pregnant?

Even the thought of becoming a mother opens up a world of fear and anxiety, worry and turmoil that I never knew existed.

This fury of unknowns swirled, and some mysterious new beat drummed in me.

A day or two later, without naming my change of heart on our old claim to wait 3-5 years, I looked into my husband’s eyes and talked about the newborn I had snuggled, with a desperation that I couldn’t name, for fear that I couldn’t withstand rejection in it.

Somewhere in the preceding days I had transformed from a halfway reasonable and pretty highly functioning person into a wild, audacious, gratuitous feminine beast, who just…

Wanted. A. Baby. I was scaring myself.

I hoped that my motherly longing would look somehow beautiful to him, and he would melt into a sweet daddy puddle, in which he would surely proclaim that he wanted a baby, too.

But somehow, undaunted by my newly mother‐like eyes, he offered a tender but logical and stoic statement about how fun it would be someday after we got financially stable and had time to “just be married.” His words moistened and hung in the air, and suddenly the room felt all hot and sticky.

For some number of months, my gentle ache sat in silent retreat.

And then one day, my tenderhearted husband declared that he wanted to grow our family. The ever-moving target of 3-5 years suddenly shrunk to “How about today?”

My heart soared, and then immediately sunk into terror of infertility and miscarriage and unfulfilled longings.

One part in me felt like beating my chest and demanding it of the Lord, and another part of me shrunk down in an unworthy heap, believing God would be fully justified to never grant me a pregnancy.

I’ve laughed with friends about this strange maternal thing that comes over some of us – I felt crazy and ashamed and confused by it. But I can’t say I’ve seen it treated as anything more than an extraterrestrial-like phenomenon, for those of us weak enough to succumb to it. But beneath the embarrassed admissions, I’ve wondered if instead it’s all a part of a unique and lovely design of an Almighty God.

I’ve heard the confused ache in the voice of dear friends who have struggled with infertility. They are surprised by their reaction…deep grief and longing. They always assumed, like so many of us, that if they couldn’t get pregnant, they would simply accept it, or “just adopt.” The words feel sharp as I type them, and think of the deep wounds I’ve felt with these friends.

There is so much more than a matter‐of-fact reality that some procreate and some do not. There is an undeniable thing written on our spirits – a longing to join with God in this piece of creation, and a part of our identity is deeply entwined with it.

I know that not every woman feels this way, and that God has clearly and graciously set some apart for an exponential capacity for career, ministry, spiritual mothering, adoption, or another beautiful purpose.

But there is a commonality among so many women, and lies of weakness and shame and smallness have attached to it…that do not belong. Science can call it a “biological clock,” but what if God meant it for beauty and purpose and love? What if the God of the Universe designed for women to share in His image in this particular way? He created us out of the love of the Trinity, in His image. And He granted us with this miraculous ability, biologically or spiritually or both, to do essentially the same thing – to create out of ourselves, in our image, as an overflow of our love for one another as husband and wife, and/or between God and ourselves. Giving life through love – a heavenly notion.

I see women without children birthing spiritual children by the droves, and I am saddened that there is little freedom to call out the beautiful maternal-ness of that, either.

I admit that I’m squirming with political incorrectness. But I can’t ignore the beauty that lies here begging to be uncovered. We might need to sweep away some dust left from seeking equality in all the things that make a woman the same as a man, and call out something that makes us beautifully different.

For our treasure lies substantially in a most certainly equal, but different place.

Women have something unique to offer in every space we fill. Whether a woman ever has a biological child, or ever wants one, there is a thing that makes her a woman that lies far deeper than anatomy. As I sit today, on the other side of five children, I desperately long for the world to give space to this thing, and to attach beauty to it.

I believe we mamas have a battle to fight, a critical duty to live and walk in the beauty and joy of what we are…being a mother is only one part, and one version of a woman, but it is a beautiful one. A child comes from a place of intimacy, vulnerability, and complete dependence on divine intervention. It is raw mercy.

Those of us who have been given the gift of conceiving and giving birth to children may claim no pride or right to have done so. And the same is true for those who have applied and interviewed and prepared and waited and received and loved an adopted child, not of their own blood but allowed to completely intertwine with their hearts and souls and homes.

It is purely and simply miracle.

Even in the longing to have a child, there is a beauty and a joy to be found in the way that we reflect the Creator, in the way we long to grow and multiply, and love new loves.

Motherhood – from dream to empty‐nest and beyond – has been draped with shadows, and I want to cast them off.

There are shadows of fear…of failing or being small, of losing a career or body or freedom, of wasting our lives.

There are shadows of insecurity…about how our bodies and babies and honor students compare, about their behavior and performance, about what kind of mom we are or are not.

There are shadows of shame….around our bodies, our failure to get our baby to breastfeed or sleep, our toddler to potty train or stop biting, our school-aged child to read or to stop wetting the bed. And the stakes just get higher as they grow. I see shame around working or not working, having children too early or too late, too few or too many, too close together or too far apart, too “on purpose,” or too “by accident.”

Let’s not let these things cast a shadow on the radiance of being a co-creator of human life.

If we are given an opportunity to mother, and we believe it is for our blessing and the blessing of our children, than it ought to be a journey of joy.

So, today, I’m celebrating the strange and beautiful mystery inside of me that led me to this place of motherhood. I’m choosing to believe that it was put there on purpose to reflect the incredible, abundant love that drove the Almighty God – Father, Son and Holy Spirit –to create us, his children.

Ecclesiastes 3: 11, Galatians 5: 1, Genesis 1: 27

A simple mantra to make your failed attempts a victory and not a defeat

January 30, 2017February 13, 201717 Comments

This was one of those mornings when the beauty of the sunrise, the snowflakes decorating the bare branches in our front yard, and the excitement of a first school delay….none of it seemed quite enough to save us from a mess of ugly words and sharp tones and time outs. None of it seemed to save me from waves of that gut-deep ick of not feeling especially tender or affectionate towards my children. None of it saved me from the sinking shame of not being able to make myself like them as they screamed accusations at me about how I must have moved their boots or forgotten to wash the shirt they put back in the wrong drawer, or how I didn’t pour enough milk, or how it was All My Fault.

God must have sent his angels to my aide because my words caught on my tongue, and there was a spark of grace. In the midst of wanting to make sure everyone knew that I actually was not guilty of the things they accused, a greater truth set in that I am guilty of so much more than not keeping up with laundry. There’s this deeper and more beautiful truth that in our guilt, Jesus took on all of the accusation meant for us, and didn’t fight back. He gets it, and he took it all straight to the cross for us. Jesus calls me his sister and co-heir, so I don’t have to fight back either.

The flash of grace almost kept me from saying anything snippy…but not quite. And the rest of the story is that Christ covers my present failures, too.

And then…the snow boots and gloves are all located and tightened to an acceptable fit, and these little ones swarm me with hugs and charge out the door to spin with arms spread wide, and tongues held out to catch snow flakes. They yell through the door how they love me and sorry for yelling. And it’s all worth it for ten minutes of magic before school. And I breathe and die to my convenience and comfort and dignity, and realize that this ten minutes is better than nothing.

And most likely all they will remember is the magic.

Is it not such grace that children never seem to remember all the other moments in between the magical ones? They don’t remember the snacks and diapers and potty trips and wrestling in between the magic of seeing animals at the zoo. They don’t remember the waiting and whining in between the moments of magic at Disney World. They don’t remember the bedtime arguments in between the magic of snuggling up to a good book. And they don’t remember the trauma of unmatched boots and gloves, and missing clothing items in between the magic of playing in the snow.

Those in-between moments fade away in light of the moments that are really something. And this one was.

Would I have preferred to have our stuff together to get out 30 minutes earlier to make it feel more enjoyable and less rushed and more worth it? Absolutely. But their ten minutes of bliss was so much better than nothing.

Better Than Nothing.

So much in this life as a mom of tiny people feels like settling for the real-life, less-than version of what I thought the thing was supposed to look like. When I picture obedient happy children prancing through my tightly controlled plan, the real-life, less-than version always involves far more cost to me and far less ease of enjoyment.

But, I’m trying….Sisters, I am just trying to let “Better than nothing” be ok.

I’m trying to embrace freedom to just do what we can, and accept the limits that God knows about, and that I can’t do anything to change. And truly, every time I take the road of celebrating the moments we get instead of mourning the moments we don’t, this flood of grace follows…

I realize now that I’ve had this constant scale running in my head, weighing the cost and the gain of everything in my day. Is it really worth it to try to get up early to have a quiet time, if I know for almost certain that I will be interrupted? Is it really worth it to go through all the hassle of hats and gloves and coats and shoes and potty breaks and snacks and water bottles and ‘oh, I forgot to feed the baby’ for a little park time? Is the aftermath of never-the-same laundry really worth their joy for splashing in the mud puddles? Is a kitchen covered in flour worth their thrill of their “helping” me make cookies? Is it worth it for me to try to keep a commitment to daily-ish exercise when I’m so dang tired, and can’t seem to ever get more than 20 minutes?

Undoubtedly, yes – with heaps of grace when I can’t – it is worth it. It is worth it to lean in the direction of moments of life-giving joy. I heard this quote from G.K. Chesterton on God Centered Mom (one of my favorite podcasts!)…

“If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly.”

Funny as it sounds, I am finding it to be so true. Many of the things in our days that are worth doing, we will never be able to do perfectly, or even well. But our efforts towards life-giving joy are worth it for our sake and for the sake of our children.

So lately, “Better than nothing” has become a bit of a mantra for me.

I finish a 15-minute workout in our basement gym with the sound of baby cries through a monitor, and I say to myself “Well…that was better than nothing.”

I give the floor a quick once-over before running out the door for carpool, and I think “Better than nothing!”

Their daddy and I lead 47 seconds of an intentional conversation with our children at the breakfast table…Better than nothing!

A friend and I each squeeze in a few broken sentences at a park play date, and part ways with a hug and a look that says “Just being together in our mess… it’s so much better than nothing.”

My husband and I grab a quick chat in front of the fireplace between the last child getting to bed and our faces flopping into pillows…As far as a date is concerned, it’s better than nothing.

Some days “Better than nothing” seems to be my anthem. And you know what? On all accounts, it actually is Better. Than. Nothing. A ten-minute workout or an attempt to connect with my husband, or a moment to listen for the voice of God in the quiet of the morning…

these are a victory, not a defeat.

I believe God blesses and multiples these choices we make…not just our success to do them well every time. I believe God sees the inclination of our heart, and the direction we are leaning, not just how effective we are at changing course.

There was a time, not so long ago, when I wasted sweet moments beating myself up over each and every one of these things. I wondered why I couldn’t get my children to sit still to finish a devotional. Or why I couldn’t get up early enough to have a good workout or quiet time. I was burdened by the steady decline of the cleanliness of my house. I would beat myself for not being a better friend, or wife, or church member. But I’m beginning to realize that the decreasing size of my offering due to the increasing amount of capacity taken by life’s necessities…it actually does not decrease the worth.

My Better Than Nothing is the two copper coins from the poor widow, worth far more than what I brought from my excess of time and energy when I was younger.

My Better Than Nothing is the five loaves and two fish from a little boy with faith to give it away and see what Jesus would do to feed the 5,000.

Without our measly offering, we don’t get to see the miracle.

So, sisters, when we’re tired, and it all seems like too much of a hassle, let’s bring our Better than Nothing to the feet of Jesus and watch him do the miracle of joy, the miracle of peace, the miracle of moments of magic multiplying in the lives of our children.

How to find your pace, when you’re an Oh-So-Tired Mama

January 26, 2017February 13, 20176 Comments

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On Saturday mornings, I like to take my two eldest daughters for a short run. Typically, the outing transforms into some sort of game or adventure, as it never occurs to them that the magic of moving their bodies should feel like work. They run hard, with reckless abandon.

And so, I breathe and soak up their joy. I breathe and allow my bent view of exercise to be straightened and redeemed by the light of God in these tiny faces.

Almost without fail, at some point, my four-year-old will ask if I will carry her. This comes without warning, as she never slows down, but simply runs her heart out until she can no longer. And when her legs give way, she innocently and joyfully lifts her arms to me. She collapses into the rest of my arms, as if to recharge in my strength, as if to relearn her identity as my daughter, as if to reclaim the security of not being alone.

Then back to a sprint. There is no fear of tiring, because she has the assurance that I will not. Her hope is in my presence.

Though I attempt to explain that finding a steady pace will help my girls to run farther, they prefer their way. After all, their reckless abandon is what makes their youth so beautiful, so free. And for these sweet minutes, my spirit rejoices to join them in their freedom.

But I also know the truth that, perhaps unlike a small child, I need to bring a different wisdom and regulation to my running…knowing that my own legs will need to carry me home. And to some extent the same seems true in life, as we grow up and responsibilities pile…

Something in my spirit wrestles with wanting to run each day with reckless abandon, but knowing that I cannot exhaust myself, that I will need to keep going, that my children could wake in the night, that the alarm clock will buzz in the morning, that the work of the day will be repeated, that I will need rejuvenation to be a gracious mama. Truths about how God never tires, and can renew our strength beat against truths that Jesus himself drew away to be alone with the Father, and that God grants rest to those He loves. I find myself unsure about whether I should be forcing more rest into my days, or pushing harder to collapse at the end of every day, having given it all.

“He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young.” – Isaiah 40:11

When I first read this verse, I saw myself in the lamb, and the thought of being carried close to the heart of God was salve to my soul. Since becoming a mama, this verse has changed for me, and I have been washed in the pleasantness of God’s gentle heart towards mamas.

But today, an interesting distinction jumps from the page and impresses on my heart. Those who have young, the mamas, are no longer carried, but led… The Shepherd leads, and we follow with our little lambs in our care.

And so, I wonder if wisdom would lead us to a change the way we run our race in such a season.

One thing I know we mamas have in common is that we are so unavoidably tired. The constant demands on a parent are unrelenting. And yet, the more I examine my days, the more I see how very many opportunities there are for me to choose the pace I’m running. I choose whether or not to mop the floor, to answer the phone, to say “yes” to host the thing, or join the committee. I choose whether to scramble or to let the toys remain in disarray when leaving the house in the morning. I choose to make the sauce from scratch, or find a jar with decent ingredients. I choose to promise homemade cupcakes for the preschool class. I choose to set the pace on responding to texts and emails. The work is never done, and so each time I stop to read a book with my child, or build the Legos, or sit still while a couple children nap, is simply a choice. Though there is much out of my control, I am responsible for the pace I run.

There is much to make us tired, but I believe we find hope, and the strength to keep taking the next step when we choose to keep pace with the Shepherd – to be led in his grace and wisdom. Perhaps the goal is no longer to live in a carefree sprint until we wear out and need to be carried. Perhaps the goal is simply to keep pace with the Shepherd. We look for where He’s moving, and allow ourselves to be interrupted. And our confidence, our hope, as we run, must be in His infinite wisdom and absolute goodness.

If God leads at a pace that feels too fast, we must hope in his provision of strength in the midst, and of rest in the miles ahead. If He leads us at a pace that feels too slow, we must trust that the slow miles are a gift to recover and prepare for the hills ahead that we cannot see.

In these days with tiny ones, I am keenly aware of the Biblical charge to run our race to win (1 Cor 9:24). I often wonder if that’s what I’m doing when I feel completely emptied out at the end of the day, as if life is made up of a few tens of thousands of sprints. But it doesn’t feel so.

My children can sprint in reckless abandon, if they choose. And they go straight from running, spinning, wrestling craziness to snoring in about 8 seconds. By grace, their bodies and souls recover quickly, and by grace, they have their parents to help when their joyful unrestraint leaves them exhausted.

But for me, running a day at sprinting pace sometimes feels in vain. It feels like I have something to prove. It feels like I get ahead of the Shepherd and look around and wonder where He is. I am beginning to find freedom in running my days more like a small part of a long, long race.

I sometimes flip-flop between sprinting and feeling like I deserve to be carried. I feel a pressure that if wear out, than everything will crumble. So I react with a creeping sense of entitlement that says…. I deserve a break, deserve another coffee, deserve a night out, deserve a Netflix binge, deserve for my children to leave me alone while I finish my quiet time.

Hope is not found in grasping for these things to numb us or treat us or make up for a lack. Hope is not found in running every day at a sprint pace. I believe hope is found in keeping pace with the Shepherd. I try to create quiet moments to listen to His voice. I make space for gratitude in the real life moments. I look for the things that make my spirit come alive, even if they are not on my To Do list. I look for opportunities to connect with my children, and sometimes choose to walk away from unfinished work. I try to give myself permission to take two hours to fold the laundry with my preschoolers, instead of trying to get them to leave me alone so I can do it in twenty minutes.

And I try to remember to choose rest…

Not as a reaction to exhaustion because I sprinted too hard, but as an intentional part of keeping pace with the Shepherd. I can take the “flat road” to grab a quick nap, a babysitter, 10 extra minutes before my children rise in the morning – as a crucial part of the race. Settling my pace to recover and prepare for the hills ahead is not giving up or failing; it’s a part of the plan.

In physical races that I have run, I have often regretted not collapsing across the finish line, having given it all. I’ve never had the faith in my body and strength to persevere at top speed. I have always been afraid of burning out before the finish line. So I reserve and reserve and reserve.

Those who win…they leave everything on the course. That is how I want to finish my life on earth.

But in the race of our lives, running hard after God, we ought not to collapse across the finish line at the end of each day. We can trust our “pacer,” our Shepherd, to lead us through hard miles, and easy ones, fast minutes, hours, days, years…and slow ones.

As we keep pace with God, our Shepherd, we can trust that he will lead us well, given all our human and earthly limitations. And as we keep pace with Him, he will lead us to collapse across the finish line at the end of our earthly lives, to be greeted with “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”

Rest was God’s idea, as were our fleshy bodies and the cycle of night and day. It was God’s idea that we could not maintain a sprinting pace for all of our days. It was God’s idea that we would have to keep our eyes fixed on Him to know our pace, despite days when fog settles in around us and clouds our vision. It was God’s idea that we would be drawn into deep intimacy with him, and dependence on him, in days with young children.

To run my best race, I must let the wind carry me when it is at my back. I must let a slight downhill in the course – the easier days – gently elevate my pace. The significant declines, when things feel swift and easy, I might be inclined towards self-sufficiency. But these require caution, remembering my frailty and my need for God’s leadership. And when I reach a hill to climb – the hard times – I must tune in, fix my gaze, shorten and quicken my steps, and run with exceptional hope that I will come up and over in the strength of my God.

We mamas must resist the pressure to sprint.

Perhaps when I was young, I could stay up all night, or book my schedule every night, or say “yes” to all the things. When I overdid it, I would be scooped up, carried close to God’s chest (i.e. and sleep until noon on a Saturday). But now, I must keep pace, on my own feet, as God gently leads me with my little flock.

When He quickens his pace, we can as well, in faith. Our Shepherd knows our needs, our strength and limitations. We need not fear that we will become exhausted. Our God can breathe new breath into our lungs, and soften our pounding hearts. He can lift us up to our feet when we fall, and his touch infuses us with new strength. But we are not carried as we once were…we are gently led.

We run hard in response to the love of the One who gave it all for us. But sometimes the seasons shift and, when winter comes, we are running our race with some bruises and stress fractures. Children are a tremendous blessing, and a constant source of laughter and profound joy. But sometimes days with little ones can grow dark and wintry. While we once ran with the winds at our back, making us feel like our feet had wings, we now must tuck our chin and run straight into the wind, face stung by the blustery air.

And in this state, the goal is not record-breaking pace. The goal is to Just. Keep. Going. When we are weary, we just keep making the choice to take the next step…and the next…and the next. We squint to look through the wind and fog to our Shepherd, always just ahead.

If we find we have run ahead of our Shepherd, we must slow our pace and fall behind His leadership. If we find we can’t make our feet to move, we must invite His healing touch to restore us.

Joy comes in staying the course. Joy comes in running in step with the Shepherd. And when we run in step with the Shepherd, we can know confidently that we are set to win.

Biblical references: Isaiah 40: 28-31, Luke 5: 16, Psalm 127: 2, 1 Corinthians 9: 24

How to move your “heart mountains” when unbelief has you stuck

January 16, 2017February 13, 20171 Comment

Friends, this motherhood thing…it stretches every part of you. Your very skin stretches over this tiny person growing from within. Your heart stretches to the new heights of love. Your strength stretches when you have to smile through deep pain or worry. Your mind stretches to hold all the things at once, because every mama knows that your people never really leave your mind, you just stretch to fit them all. You stretch with wider boundaries and new trust as your child grows. And your faith…

Mamas, this thing requires the stretchiest kind of faith.

That’s the stretching I never knew to expect. It’s the kind that breaks chains and let’s me run free through these days that press in on me from every side. This stretching of my faith is what is making me nimble…my soul bending with the winds but never breaking, my spirit twisting with the million things but never left in a knot. I feel the heat turning ever hotter in motherhood, but my faith is stretching as armor over the whole of me. On the good days, anyway…er, the good hours…er, minutes…

On the other days, those in-your-face hard days, I usually find that this one thing keeps me stuck. The thing that makes me believe it’s all on my shoulders. There is this thing that makes me feel like God chose wrong when He made me their mama. This thing convinces me that if I don’t do it ALL right, my children are doomed. This thing ties me up in knots about all the decisions – how far to let them explore, how many cookies, which babysitters, whether they need more time with me, need a bottle, need a diaper change, need a doctor, need a counselor, need a vacation, need a tutor, need a nap.

This thing: Unbelief.

As I reflect back on my years being a mama, there have been seasons when I feel like my boots are stuck in the mud. My steps are labored, and no matter how hard I work, at the end of the day, I’m still in the mud puddle. You know the days when you wake up determined to do it differently, but it just feels like the same old battles, the same old things that push your buttons, the same cycles of spewing ugly words or facial expressions at your children when you hit the same old wall you hit yesterday.

A couple years ago, I found myself in one of these stuck places. I woke up in a cycle of criticizing and lecturing and nagging my eldest daughter. It’s not that I was criticizing her character or person, but a growing number of my words were corrections…about chewing with her mouth closed and being nicer to her siblings and remembering her homework and wearing clothes that match and acting her age and cleaning up after herself and sitting up straight and holding still while I brush her hair and paying attention when I speak to her and using her table manners and setting a good example for her siblings and doing what she’s supposed to without being asked, and being the BIG KID that I expected her to be.

Meanwhile, I could have burst with pride over her. I knew how amazing she was – what a blessing she was. I was just so dang stuck in the pattern.

My heart wrenched at the thought that I was overly critical of her – of that ugly spirit shaping our relationship. So every time the words came out, I would beat myself up. The thoughts would roll over and over in my head. I’m too hard on her. What’s wrong with me? And when did this small person stop being allowed to be a child? Where’s the grace for this one? And when did she gain a responsibility for helping me raise my other children and setting our family culture? The more siblings we give her, the faster I expect her to grow up. She’s going to hate me. And her story will be one of “I was never good enough for my mom.” And it’s all over.

Then I would remember that she was 6 years old, and Lord-willing, we had some time to work it out.

And then a week would go by without breaking the cycle, and the thoughts would storm, and perpetuate the cycle.

I’d love to tell you that I figured out a way to stop my buttons from being pushed. I’d love to tell you I have a system for changing the feelings that creep up on me, and make me feel the crazies about to spew out of me. I didn’t. But I did uncover a great mystery about where all of this criticism and anxiety was rooted.

That’s right…Unbelief.

Underneath my desperate need to control my daughter was the fear that I was going to fail as a mom by not holding her accountable. Or a fear that she would be teased at school like I was. Or that she wouldn’t turn out right. Or that if even my oldest wasn’t “under control,” then my house would spin out of control. And though I needed practical things like learning how to breathe in the moments, the real solution was to let my faith stretch to allow my home to be shared by an independent, unpredictable, mysterious human being – ever changing and never what I plan or expect.

Because it all comes down to this…

If God is who he says he is, I can handle some unpredictability and lack of control since all the days ordained for us were written in his book before one of them came to be (Psalm 139).

If God is who he says he is, we ought to be anxious for nothing (Philippians 4), but bring everything to his feet.

If God is who he says he is, the pressure is off, because He is writing the stories of my children, and he chose me to be their mama.

If He is who he says he is, I didn’t do anything to earn my place in His family, and my children won’t have to either (Ephesians 1).

If God is who He says he is, he made you and me, and called us very good (Genesis 1). He planted us here on earth simply to show the world how awesome He is (Isaiah 61). And when Jesus went to the cross, He said “It is finished,” so all the work I think is so critical, just isn’t (John 19).

If I believe that God is who He says He is, then the earth will keep spinning when I stop scrambling and striving, and there IS time for the one thing that is needed, for sitting at the feet of Jesus. And it will not be taken away from me (Luke 10).

The road of letting my eldest daughter be her mysteriously unique self was the far more terrifying than trying to mold her into who I wanted her to be. It was a frightening step of faith – but even from the start, I knew it was also far more joy-filled. Rather than bringing a spirit of “here’s what I need you to be,” I can bring a spirit of “tell me about wonderful you!” I can bring a spirit of joyful exploration and discovery of God’s creativity on her. I can believe that God sees us, and has good plans for us, and will cover us in our mess.

And the strange, beautiful thing is: when I believe God’s goodness over us, the shame and fear dissipate, and the critical spirit goes right along with it.

As I allowed my faith to stretch, my spirit burned with the hope of no longer seeking to mold my daughter into my comfortable liking, and rather starting the scary, exciting journey of figuring out how to love her, with her unique spirit and character. I didn’t have to be afraid of volatility or unpredictability in my children. If I could, in faith, remain unshaken as they bounced and stumbled and slopped through these years, our home maintained peace. In faith, I could be, by God’s grace, a boundary line for them and for our home, rather than another pinball. They had a culture to join, rather than a mess to try to sort through, or a moving target to try to hit. I believe we hold this boundary line not by doing it all right, but simply by believing God is who he says he is. We find stability by falling into the arms of God, and letting him hold us.

We move mountains of anger by believing that our children’s behavior and performance does not determine our worth. We can believe that we are offered grace, so that we have grace to offer to our children.

We move mountains of guilt and shame by believing that God knew we would fail, and Jesus finished the work on the cross.

We move mountains of fear by believing that God holds the future. He’s not blind to all of the things that threaten our children and families. He sees. He knows. He is not afraid.

We move mountains of too-much-ness by believing that God is bigger than our pile of laundry, our ‘to do’ list, our fatigue – by believing that he made us limited beings, on purpose.

Sister, when we feel stuck, let’s work the muscles of our spirits into that deep stretch of faith. We can sit in the discomfort of believing what we cannot see. We can develop an elasticity that allows us to move and flex with the wacky, unpredictability of these days with littles because God is stable, faithful, unchanging. We can choose to believe God is who he says he is.

And the mountains of our hearts are thrown into the sea…

How to love the Messy and Crazy that crushed your Christmas dreams

January 2, 2017February 13, 20176 Comments

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This one comes with the sounds of tearing paper and children’s delighted squeals still ringing in my ears. This one comes with sweet flavors of Christmas treats still lingering on my tongue. This one comes with bits of paper and ribbon still on the floor.

This one comes with a heart full of family and laughter and the joy of giving and receiving. This one comes with Christmas carols still hummed under my breath. And children in new clothes. And new treasured toys resting in their new spaces in our home. This one comes with heart still pumping the magic of Christmas through my veins.

This one comes with Christmas lights still twinkling in the corner of my eye, and sparks of anxiety and too-much-ness of the season still trying to make a mess of me. We made it through Christmas day. We made sweet memories and everyone had something to open, and our bodies and home survived the chaos.

But the photos that tell a story of how we lived the idyllic front of a Christmas card – they don’t tell the whole story…

Because Christmas in real life means your Advent devotional comes with potty breaks and baby’s cries.

Christmas in real life means your two-year-old thinks that baby Jesus is just “really cute” and that must be why we can’t stop talking about him.

Christmas in real life means that you spend the morning preparing for the perfect Christmas-y outing only to realize that you drove away from the house with that perfectly packed bag sitting on the counter.

Christmas in real life means that any attempts to simplify or buy less leave us feeling like the salmon swimming upstream, getting bloodied with all the “What is Santa bringing YOU?” and “What’s on your Christmas list?” and “What do you WANT for Christmas?”

And Christmas in real life means wrestling with wanting all the magic for your children but wondering when Christmas became all about ME and all the stuff I want? Wondering how to teach them to be grateful…to be givers.

Christmas in real life means that all the magic comes alongside head and heart swirling with friends grieving lost ones and a divided nation and Syrian mamas just like me, desperate to cover their precious ones under their wings.

Christmas in real life means that the good news of Christ’s coming hasn’t quite reached the spaces in your soul where there is pain and loss, loneliness, heartbreak, or broken dreams.

This one comes with a heaviness that even the magic of Christmas is hard to embrace as the world spins another day with all it’s heaviness and weariness. And I sometimes find myself envying the innocence of my children, and the purity of their joy and delight.

This one comes with waves of sinking condemnation wondering if my children missed the point – if we did it all wrong. If we gave too many gifts, or the wrong ones. If we did enough to help the poor. If we spent too much money. If we did too much Santa. If they saw too much of my stress and not enough of my presence through the season of Advent. If they would have been happier just to have me, and not so much of the cookies and the crafts and the gifts and the decorations and the perfect photos.

Christmas in real life means you sometimes question the things you’re teaching your children, about how Jesus came to bring peace and freedom, light and love, grace and truth. And most of the gift of teaching them is in allowing them to teach it back to you.

And the lie of the camera and trying to live out the idyllic, tidied-up front of the Christmas card is not so much that it is too good, it’s that it’s not good enough. That picturesque scene doesn’t reach down to the broken parts of my soul – truthfully, it either makes me feel like a failure or makes me feel like a fraud. The perfect Christmas doesn’t capture the story of our real God who cares about our real lives and came down into the mess to shine light into our darkness and speak life into our dead places.

Jesus didn’t come to speak into the picturesque Christmas. The truth of the nativity is that it was dirty and smelly and uncomfortable. And I think the truth of God’s Christmas story is that that’s the point. He gets it. He sees us. He’s not fooled by our perfect Instagram post. He knows that our hearts need more answers than how many “likes” we get. He knows that being loved for our tidied up best doesn’t heal our wounds of rejection, and questions of our worth.

We need to be known in our mess and loved in our mess to know love at all.

And our God knows that our deepest desire is not for a perfect Christmas tree, but for a perfect Savior…who died messy on a tree so that we could live. He knows that our heart’s cry is not for a perfect family photo, but for a perfect love that covers over all of our ugliness.

Jesus didn’t come to be born in a stable so that the nativity scene would make the perfect Christmas card, he came small and messy to be the answer to our real, messy, smelly and sometimes tragic lives.

On my real life Christmas morning, there were moments of pure joy and delight. And moments when someone peed on the floor.

On my real life Christmas morning, children squealed and ran to give hugs of gratitude upon opening a gift. And children fought and cried over liking each other’s gifts better than their own.

On my real life Christmas morning, we all got dressed in our best red and green. And the baby spit up all over my first two outfits.

On my real life Christmas morning, the big kids enjoyed a lip-smacking batch of French toast while the toddler got ahold of a pack of gum, from which she ate several pieces with the wrapper on, choked, and threw up all over my purse and a pile of clean laundry. You won’t see that one on a Christmas card…

I could so easily let the messy moments disappoint me or take away from what Christmas is “supposed to be.” Or I can let the messy moments shift my focus to see that Christmas was never supposed to just be pretty.

Don’t get me wrong…I love the beauty of white lights lining a home, or the gold and red ornaments on a tree. I love the elegance of a poinsettia, and the way a Christmas carol warms my soul. These are sweet gifts of beauty that symbolize the true and deep beauty of the season. But the truth is our lives don’t tidy up for a perfect Christmas Day. We still get stomach aches, and we grieve lost loved ones, and we change diapers, and kids throw tantrums. And the real beauty of Christmas is that is the world that Jesus chose to enter into with us.

The sweetness of the messy moments is that God spoke straight to them by leaving his throne to sleep in a manger surrounded by smelly animals.

The magic of Christmas is not that it’s pretty, but that it lets us be ugly. It’s not that it’s tidy, but that it lets us be messy. The magic is that God took on flesh and chose to live our real life alongside of us to become our perfect rescuer, who knows and understands our weakness and our struggle and our mess. This is the true magic of Christmas.

^“Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” (Hebrews 4: 16)

Freedom to be invisible when you’re screaming to be seen

December 10, 2016February 13, 20172 Comments

Friend, you know those deep down places of your soul where the light doesn’t dare shine? Do you ever find yourself screaming from those places just for someone to see you? I know I do. I drive myself crazy with it.

I sometimes wonder if I’m the only one, but I have this feeling that you’ve felt it too.

I find these odd boasts or complaints coming out of my mouth. Boasts about things that didn’t make me proud. Or complaints about things that didn’t actually feel difficult. I make excuses or justifications for things I chose not to prioritize. I become shameful about decisions I made on purpose and with confidence. These things come out of my mouth, and leave a strange taste behind. I find myself wondering what I’m trying to prove, and to whom.
I have shamefully murmured to my husband that I actually swept 12 times today, even though the floor is covered with crumbs.

I have found myself inadvertently landing in the middle of a one-upping match with a mom friend, over who got less sleep or who has the more “spirited” child. I actually feel greatly blessed and deeply privileged to be chosen to shepherd my little flock. And in truth, I do not feel sorry for myself in the least. So I find myself wondering why I would make it sound like I do.

I’ve been known to compare horrors of labor and birth that I actually count as the most miraculous and magical experiences of my life.

I have complained about being up all night with a sick child when, in the moment, I actually treasured the opportunity to hold her.

When I’m out with a couple children, I find myself wanting to tell everyone that I actually have five, just so they know how hard I’m working.

I see a hunger in the dark, ugly places in me for everyone to see and praise me for all the things I do or all the things I am sorting out in my head.

I have asked a guest to please excuse the full hampers. I do laundry every day, it’s just that the baby has been spitting up a lot, and we’ve both been wearing three or four outfits a day.

I’m pretty sure I’ve never met someone who cared about my full hampers, and yet I keep explaining them away.

I have blamed things on my children, saying that I cleaned the basement, but they wrecked it again and we had to run out the door to do carpool before we had a chance to clean it up.

I have heard myself say that I just got behind. But don’t be fooled, my friend. The truth is that I live in those “behind” places.

And the really strange thing is that I don’t think I ever needed you to think I had the perfect house, or that I was the perfect housekeeper. Something else in me – something deeper – cries out with these excuses and justifications.

There are layers and layers of things that mamas do, think, juggle, pray that leave a part of us invisible to the world.

Deep down in the hidden places, there is the web of thoughts that organize and balance and coordinate all of the schedules and needs, all the appetites and nutrition, all the connecting and reconciling, all the papers and treasures, all the preferences and feelings, all the tending to ailments of body and soul, all the education, the driving, the coaching, the shepherding, the guiding. This is the part of us we grow to hold so dear, the part of us that is most refined by the flames, and holds us closest to the heart of God. This is the part that could scream our worth out loud to the world. But the world around can’t see it, or understand it.
And so we try to explain our worth in simpler terms – with things like cleanliness and good behavior and punctuality and beautiful family portraits and school or sport success.

But every time we let the excuses and justifications grab at something visible to show for being a mama, we cheapen this most precious part of it all…the most precious invisible part. Every time we try to scream how much we do, we miss the joy of doing the invisible thing before a God who delights in invisible work.

This part where we know the heart of motherhood rests, is the most invisible, most quiet, most meek, and most exquisitely beautiful.

The world doesn’t have eyes, or even language, for this job. Often the world around us is blind to the unique thing that we Do, Think, Are as mothers…the care and attention, stability and guidance, perception and intuition about each one’s needs.

I’ve begged with my excuses and justifications for someone to know what it’s like to have my mind, body, soul. Sometimes I want to explain that I swept while I held a child on my hip, and consoled another about a playground tussle, and quizzed another on spelling words, and kept an eye on the dinner on the stove, and kept my phone close by in case the doctor called back. I want to explain that I may not have much to show for the work of today, but being mama all day made me tired and also made me feel so very alive.

At the end of the day, you can’t see how I stopped folding the laundry to read a book to a child bidding for my attention. Or how I walked the siblings down the road to forgiveness and peace instead of sending them to their rooms. You can’t see how I patiently persuaded the baby with a cold to keep trying for milk. Or how I remade the lunch that had a cup full of water and fiery boundary-testing will poured all over it. You can’t see that I got up and did the work of holding them accountable for their actions (almost) every one of the 200 times someone made a wrong choice. You can’t see the soul bruises I sustained today as I let them throw the punches of their big feelings that had nowhere else to go.

But that’s the good stuff of parenting. We talk all about the diapers and the laundry and the Cheerios that end up everywhere. But you can’t quantify the work of being mom any more than you can catch the wind.

That deep down part of me that carries the weight of the world on behalf of my children – with joy and on purpose – it sometimes screams to be seen. At times, I have tried to quantify and be appreciated for it, but it only causes me to feel less known and understood.

And it feels so silly that I’ve tried to explain the work of the day because, the truth is, I didn’t question for an instant that the invisible things were worth it. Connection after a day of bickering felt like victory on the battlefield. Hearing the prayers of my children for a hurting friend at school felt like changing the world.

The good stuff. I know it matters.

That sweet invisible part of being a mother can truly only be seen by God Himself. And perhaps allowing it to be so would give us the opportunity to experience communion with an invisible God who knows how it feels.

Being a mama is not having a clean floor or a well-organized schedule. Being a mother is not making gourmet meals or serving on the PTA. Being a mom is not keeping up with all the activities and all the sports, or all the play dates, or all the birthday parties. Yes, we do many of these things, but we know it doesn’t sum it up.

Being a mama is providing the invisible nest from which our children can fly.

Being a mama is lifting up the invisible prayers to an invisible God who does invisible things in their hearts, and sends invisible angels to protect them from invisible dangers.

Being a mama is being the invisible rock on which your children stand, and slowly moving out of the way so that they can stand on the Invisible Rock of Christ alone.

Being a mama is getting out of the way for God to move before the eyes of our children. It’s getting out of the way for our children to grow. Or getting out of the way for our children to fall, and being ready to scoop them up when they do. (And being a mama is making sure our “I told you so’s” remain invisible, too.)

Being a mama is providing the invisible safety that allows for a sense of belonging, and a confidence in becoming.

There is enough to do in my home and family – and yours – to keep at least two or three people busy all day. And whether you are spending your days at home, or trying to squeeze all of the mom things in around another full-time job, or something in between…the truth is we will never be done with All. The. Things, so we will always have choices to make.

I know we have to figure out a way to do the laundry and the dishes and the cooking and the driving and the soccer practice and the homework. But when it’s time to choose the truly invisible things, choose them with the confidence that you are seen by God. Cast off the shame that says it’s not worth doing if the world can’t see or applaud it. All the hidden things that happen in your mind and heart because God made you mama – hold onto those like a precious jewel that only you and the Almighty can enjoy. And the light of God’s love that sees and knows you in all the invisible places– it shines the brightest through that most hidden jewel , onto your family, and out to the world.

Mama, you’re a hero. Chosen. Equipped. Fully known. And deeply loved.

When you want to put the election to rest but need to help your children do it better

November 22, 2016February 13, 2017

Our home has begun to bustle with that familiar surge of energy and excitement that comes each year as the holidays (and a couple of birthdays) approach. Days before Thanksgiving, and my children are eager for our home to be full of friends and family. For their bellies to be full of those once-a-year kind of treats. For their hearts to be full of the joy and anticipation of the season. For their noses to be full of those smells that seem to make the whole of life make sense.

But for me, the air has another unfamiliar scent this year. No matter how I’ve tried, I struggle to take hold of the holiday cheer with usual ease. I know the holidays are already layered for many of you – with grief and loss, longing or heartache. But this thing in the air right now…it stings the nose and disorients the heart.

There’s a thing I haven’t wanted to write about, but nothing else will come. It’s sticking to me like peanut butter to the roof of my mouth. I’m tired of all the words, but I can’t seem to move forward without adding mine to the story. Maybe you can relate. It’s like the song I can’t get out of my head. Except I’m not sure I want to. There is something happening here that needs our attention. And as I walk into a season marked with giving thanks and preparing our hearts to receive anew the gift of God With Us, I need to link arms with you on something.

Our children feel it too. They have seen and heard all kinds of things these last weeks and months. And just like when they fall down and look at my face before deciding if they are going to cry, they are looking now to see if it’s all ok.

This thing that won’t lift off my heart or get out of my head – I have to think it’s worth my intention to choose what story I’m going to tell on my face, in my spirit, and in where I choose to shine a light for them.

The titles we give to folks are a funny thing. The lofty ones come with a sense of power and greatness, honor and respect. These titles we stick to the front of a name can seem to grow the very size of a person.

I imagine that you, like me, have thought a bit these last two weeks about one such title. You may have taken moments to consider it’s grandeur, and all that rests under it’s authority. Perhaps you’ve allowed yourself to ruminate on the monumental task to direct the future of our country. To mark, or in some cases, dramatically alter the course of history. Maybe you have pondered the enormity of being granted that title by the people, for the people of this nation. Perhaps you’ve wondered how anyone could ever be truly worthy of it.

The President of the United States.

It strikes the ears with a unique magnitude. With authority to appoint leaders and declare war. With a voice to which we have looked to comfort us in the wake of crisis. With opportunity to inspire hope, and encourage endurance amidst uncertainty or catastrophe. With influence to build or destroy our nation’s reputation across the globe. With ability to give us a sense of identity and belonging, to make us proud, or to make us afraid.

In our home, we have worked to learn the names and faces of the past 44 Presidents. We have taught our children that this is a position of greatest honor –a powerful mark in history – worth giving our attention and teachable ear. And that God has a hand – that He ultimately chooses and appoints leaders, and that His plans cannot be thwarted. And friends, I believe this is still true.

The title of Mama is only lofty in our own hearts. We know the weight of it only because it sits down heavy on us when we climb into bed at night. But we mamas can’t turn a blind eye to the world our children walk into. We have to shine a light on ahead so we can be their guide as they encounter it.

In the wake of a harsh campaign full of ugly words and surrounded by a fog of fear, I am saddened. I am saddened that words like “campaign” and “election” feel ugly in themselves, though they might once have been full of promise, hope, and freedom. No matter where your politics rest this November, I hope we can unite in a sense that something is broken. I am saddened by the anger, the confusion, the division, the void left where dignity and pride and respect and heroism once stood.

This last two weeks, I’m considering the title I bear, and the little ones who look to me and their daddy to make sense of it all. Bearing the title of Mama may not gain us a place in the history books, but the history of our own family is being written before our eyes, and under our care.

And my spirit tells me that this is a moment in history through which I want to take great care in leading my children.

This truth gives me peace: “President” is a vast and heavy and awe-striking word to add before a name, but it doesn’t hold a candle to “Almighty God of the Universe,” who set the stars in place. He is the one who knit together the very body and soul of each President and each who cast their vote to elect him (or her, as the case may someday be).

In light of this, I’m looking to Him with the Greater Title to be the voice that comforts. To Him to be the one who shapes history. To Him to give hope and a sense of identity and belonging.

And in this light, I look for how to guide my children through this moment in history.

I want to prepare and equip my children (and myself) to bring a message of love and grace in an environment of hatred and judgment and deep division.

I want to have an answer for their confusion about what they are hearing, and what they have heard about those to whom they might have looked for leadership and example.

I want to have an answer for the deep divisions that seem to leave no space for loving and productive conversation around what I think – I hope – we can all agree is broken.

As I scan the aftermath of November 8^th, and I look to friends, neighbors, and fellow Americans, I see a heavy and dynamic and complicated landscape. I wrestle with wanting to understand and categorize and rationalize what has happened among us, and who plays what role. But when I look in the faces of my children, there is only one thing I want them to see…not parties or movements, races or religions, groups or categories…but individual human hearts. I want them to simply see human hearts the way God sees them, made by Him and in His own image.

I want to teach my children to do it better – to get rid of bitterness and rage, anger and brawling, slander and malice (Ephesians 4), and to use their words to build up, rather than tear down. I want to demonstrate kindness and compassion – not just towards those who agree, but towards all people, regardless of their race, religion, gender, sexual orientation, or voting record.

I want to teach my children that our opinions and feelings ought not divide us, but provide an opportunity to extend compassion and kindness towards one another.

As I look at human hearts, I see hearts that are lonely with their pain, and see no space for it. I see hearts that are grieved and heartbroken. I see hearts that are relieved and hopeful. I see hearts that are offended. I see hearts that feel silenced for fear of offending. I see hearts that are deeply afraid. I see hearts that have been afraid for a long time. I see hearts that long for healing and wholeness in this country and the world, and believe differently how it comes. I see hearts that want to be seen, and didn’t realize who was hurt on their path. I see hearts that have been wounded and have turned on their neighbors because they want someone to blame. I see hearts that feel rejected and cast off. I see hearts that feel misunderstood in all kinds of ways and for all kinds of reasons.

There is a deep pain in some hearts, that we cannot neglect simply because we didn’t mean to hurt each other. It can’t be neglected by those who experienced tragedy and defeat that Tuesday night, or by those who experienced victory and relief. We need to name the broken thing for the sake of equipping our children to do it better.

Regardless of which candidate you believe was the better choice or the lesser of evils this November, the language of this campaign left some hearts feeling that there is no longer a place for them here in the United States. I’m grieved that we have refused to see each other. The election is over, and the voice of democracy has spoken, but friends, we have some cleanup to do. I want to invite our children to be part of the healing.

We need to have an answer for our children about how to love our neighbor who is different from us.

We need to have an answer for our children about the treasure and worth and profound beauty of a woman – that her body is not for the taking, and that her worth lies far deeper than her skin.

We can continue to disagree on all kinds of things, but let’s agree on the value of every human heart and life. Let’s agree that the lessons our children are learning in kindergarten, about not leaving someone out, taking turns speaking, and not using hurtful words…that these still apply when you’re a grown up.

Let’s be willing to see human hearts that are hurting for all kinds of reasons, with all kinds of stories, and voting records, and agree that those hearts are worth our attention and our listening ear. I want to have an answer for our children about loving all of God’s people, despite our differences, or our disagreements.

This title of Mama holds great blessing and tremendous responsibility…and almost no control. But I’m making an intentional choice for my tiny corner of the world. I’m choosing not to be another voice of what’s wrong with the world, and another finger pointed at who caused it all. I’d like to take this title of Mama that I’ve been given and use it to be a voice of hope… a voice of love for all people… a voice for the voiceless… a voice lifting up the only name and title that truly comes with power and authority – Almighty God.

I can’t control much, but I can control which direction I point the light I’m shining ahead for my children. And if I want to raise children who will rise above all of the noise, I need to point that light up into the heart of heaven. I can choose to point a light towards opportunities for unity and connection, rather than places of division. I can choose to point a light towards kindness and compassion, rather than bitterness and judgment. I can choose to point a light towards love rather than hate. I can choose to point a light towards gratitude rather than the bitterness and hopelessness that sometimes steal my heart away.

As we shine a light on the days and years ahead of November 8^th, I want to link arms as champions of love. Let’s agree that we can’t march forward with the banner of love if only one side is held up. We need each other.

This Thanksgiving week, I’m choosing to give thanks that today I have a fuller picture of what is broken, than what I could see two weeks ago. I’m giving thanks for a window into the pain that must grieve the heart of God, because I want to be moved by what moves Him. I’m giving thanks for an opportunity to teach my children that the job of fighting for justice and caring for the marginalized really is our job, as followers of Christ. I’m giving thanks that we have the only hero we will ever need in Jesus, who was friend to the hated, the rejected, the outcast, the brokenhearted. I’m giving thanks that my God and Father is on the throne. And I’m giving thanks for you, whether you celebrated or grieved or a complicated mix of both on that Tuesday night, that we can link arms and teach this next generation to do it better.

I want you – specifically you – to hold your corner of this banner of love with me, and march onward.

Note: Due to the sensitive nature of this topic, I am turning off comments for this post. If you would like to contact me directly, I would love to hear from you! Feel free to send me a message through my “Contact” page.

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