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When you feel like a hot mess and it’s hard to fight for friendship

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Dear friend,

I’m not a good friend. I’m not. Perhaps there was a time when I was. But the truth is that being my friend today requires a good portion of patience and heaps of grace. Being a mama to my little flock requires much of me. Sometimes, it feels like all of me. And, though I’m eager to connect, and I love you from my depths, friendship feels hard.

I desperately want to be there for you when you need me. I want to be dependable. Consistent. Punctual. I want to be truly present. I want to remember your birthday, and all the days that matter to you. I want to be distracted by nothing when your heart is hurting and you need my listening ears. That’s my heart, as it always has been.

I want to be the best of friends to you.

But these little people who need me, and this other side of my heart where the light began to shine eight years ago…it steals me away. And the scary truth of my beautiful, messy life now…is that I never, ever stop being mama.

I forget to call. I forget to respond to emails and texts. I sometimes forget to follow up after an important conversation.

My thoughts are muddled. I cannot remember how to speak in full sentences, because it has been eight years since I finished one.

When the school called while we’re out to coffee, I answered. When I heard a crash in the next room, I sprang to my feet in the middle of your sentence. When one of my people got hurt or sick, I canceled our time together. I backed out of commitments when I saw things get unbalanced in my home. I never wanted to do that to you.

I have packed up lunches and children and arrived at a playground picnic only to leave 45 seconds later with a handful of bee stings to tend to, and a van load of tantrums. I once left your tender moment when a child of mine mistook a playhouse chair for a potty. Yup, that happened.

I grow frustrated that even your tears or deep pain can’t find the shelter of my uninterrupted focus.

I have arrived without someone’s shoes. Without enough snacks or Band-Aids. We have been overtaken by whining, and potty breaks, and questions. We have been defeated by the shear noise.

I know you understand.

It’s not convenient to be friends. And it’s not safe. We could start to think that friendship needs to just be put on a shelf until our children are older. But some deep down place in us knows better.  Doing it alone is not the answer.

Despite the best of intentions and sometimes what feels like monumental efforts, I fail you. And I recognize that I really can’t make you any promises. The truth is my promises were always weak – my dependability was always reliant on the grace of God. But I really know it now. I know it in the flesh because I have failed you time and again.

It was not always a crisis that stood in our way, friend. It’s just that my little flock took all of me. My heart’s eye zoomed in a bit, and my other loves fell out of focus for a moment. But I need you to know that your friendship – right there in the mess – it keeps me going.

We must fight to believe that it is so very worth it. As we balance the needs of these precious little people, we must offer one another grace upon grace to believe that our love for one another remains.

I want to say “I’m sorry” for not being a good friend, but I can’t say it in good conscience. I see that God made you and me with one fleshy body and 24 hours in a day, and a mind and a heart that can’t keep all the things in focus, the way that He can. And I see that He gave us these little flocks and a job to do. So, I really can’t say “I’m sorry,” because I will fail you the same way again. And please don’t say “sorry” either, because I want the same for you.

I need you to know that I am trusting a gracious God who can keep your heart in focus all day and night – that He will tend to your heart when I can’t.

I need you to know that even though I fail to be there, that I am with you. I see you. And I believe in you.

I’ve never gone to war, but I imagine that the dearest soldier friends are comforted by one another’s presence on a battlefield. You and me are like that. The soldiers are unable to keep an eye on one another as they fight, but their hearts belong to one another. They are empowered by fighting as one. And, as soon as the dust begins to settle, their eyes dart around looking for one another. They are prepared to tend to one another’s wounds, and carry one another out of harm’s way, if they need to. I’m fighting alongside of you, friend. And I will always come looking for you.

I never stop being a mama…but I need you right next to me. Will you stay?

I know you will.

I want to ask you to trust that I treasure your presence in the middle of it all. You help keep the beat – the rhythm of my life. And your partnership makes me strong.

The inconvenience, the risk, the interruptions, the mess, the utter failure to connect when distractions mount – I wouldn’t trade it for doing this without you. To keep fighting for friendship feels dangerous, but doing it alone is far more so.

We must keep fighting.

Motherhood brings these unique challenges to walking in community. There is no water cooler or office party, where we share our successes and grievances. There is no performance review that helps us feel confident that we’re on the right track. Our “direct reports” are not likely to offer any helpful feedback or thanks for many, many years…if ever. And the only job description is an unwritten “Do All The Things.”

We are often hungry, worn down by sibling squabbles, messes, and discipline challenges. And we are oh, so very tired. In the long days full of little people who don’t speak in logical sentences, with carpool and nap schedules, with frequent interruptions, doing it alone can feel easier. But the more alone we are, the heavier this thing of motherhood feels.

Alone, we start to think we’re the only one. The only one struggling. The only one who yells at her kids. The only one who locks herself in the bathroom for a break. The only one who can’t stop nagging and criticizing.  The only one who finds it so difficult to try to switch from Spit-up Covered Mama to Sexy Wife.

Alone, we might believe that lie that every one else is doing it better.

Alone, our hopelessness might get the best of us.

Alone, our shame has no accountability. The darkness of isolation hides and feeds it. Shame can hold us down in those dark spots where we believe we’re the wrong one for the job, and our children are doomed.

Alone, we forget to pray.

Alone, we forget to laugh.

Let’s not do it alone.

This is why I’m so grateful for the understanding we have between us. When it comes to those social graces we learned in elementary school, about eye contact and not interrupting. We’ve let those go. We know a million times over that it’s not personal.

We both know the struggle of a heart that is always, always divided. That never stops being a mama. Our hearts are one, yours and mine. We’re fighting on the same battlefield, and we’ll come looking when the dust settles.

We know and believe that it’s worth the struggle. That we need each other.

This kind of friendship is something magical. Sister, our hands are full, but our spirits are walking hand-in-hand.

And I couldn’t do it without you.

With Love,

Your Not-So-Awesome Friend, Who Will Always Come Looking

How to keep being mama when you are paralyzed by fear

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I saw her daddy’s bike pulling down the driveway and, from kitchen window, caught a glimpse of his tears. No one behind him. My heart sunk deep down, and my body and soul sprung into action with that thing that only a mama knows. My blood pumped hard and I was washed over with it. That gut-deep truth that I would do anything for this child. There’s a truth of a mama’s heart that comes to the light when your child needs you. Not a skinned-knee kind of need. But those moments when terror sets in and the weight of your desperation to see your child safe, it falls right down on your shoulders, and there is no rest until you know.

It had felt like any other morning. A little “big-kid time” – a little extra freedom – for our Girl with too much love, and a heart full of wonder.

A cheerful “goodbye,’ and a reminder of boundaries, as she ventured off for a little walk with the neighbor friend.

Like any other morning, with middle ones in the backyard, and baby nursing long.  As a few small waves of “it’s been a while” worry came, I let them wash right off of me, and I took my time getting up the street to take a peek.

The eerie emptiness of the street felt a bit like someone had poked a hole in my heart.  And my spirit leaked a little with the uncertainty.

But I returned home with a calm confidence that all that lay ahead was a quick reunion and a casual chat about some minor breach of boundaries. That’s when I sent her daddy out on his bike.

My pulse had quickened, but I assured siblings that daddy would be right back with their sister. When he returned alone, too many minutes later, the tone shifted and a battle began…

Suddenly all the things were possible. All the horrors.

The thought of a long search, and a fight to get her back – they pale in comparison to the need to hold her again. We would fight to the death if we had to. Suddenly I’m the shepherd with the lost sheep, and that thing about leaving the ninety-nine for the one takes over me fast. In that instant, her siblings’ comfort fades out of my vision. I grab a friend to stay as I fly out the door to find my precious lost one.

Few words exchanged, I take the car and her daddy takes off running through the woods. Both determined not to return without her.

I’m counting up the minutes, and I think it’s already been well over an hour since she left the house for her “little walk.” Lord only knows how far she could be if that dreaded thing happened, and someone had taken her away.

Most mamas reading this have felt the terror of losing sight of a child, be it for a moment, for minutes, hours or days… I can’t save my heart from knowing the depth of my love, and the terror of loss.

And I’m reminded of other times this mother’s heart of mine came into the light. When the depth of love for which the world has no words – it came right out of me and spilled all over the place.

I think of the newborn with the fever, with the long hospital stay and no answers. The nights down begging on my knees.

I think of the day in the ER when my head failed to convince my heart that a pinky finger is a little thing.  How, in my mama’s heart, the shattered dreams of a perfect daughter with her perfect hand holding junior prom corsage or engagement ring…felt like everything. And how the hopes and dreams fell in a heap along with my massive failure to protect my Girl with the pocket full of sunshine.

I think of nights watching a little one struggle to breathe, and numbers on monitors rising and falling, with finger hovering over the nurse call button.

I think of the scary sonogram and the solemn look on the doctor’s face when they thought something was wrong with my baby boy.

I think of all of my mama friends who didn’t get the good news that everything would be ok.

I think of the hundreds of “close calls,” and the images that flash of how life could have changed in an instant if I had been looking the other way.

That day their daddy came home on the bike alone…it did have a happy ending. Some 30 minutes later, there was a joyful (be it tearful) reunion. And, aside from some difficult lessons, and a visit with a kindly police officer, all was well and returned to normal minutes later.

And yet, my mama’s heart feels and knows as deeply and truly as ever, that it is not always so. It’s all too real that the story could have gone another way, and there is another mama out there who has lived the other scenario.

The moments I’ve lived the trauma – or my friends have – they sit down heavy on me. When you heard a crash and they were not fine. When they got sick or something went wrong, and you lived out your fear. Times like this, the burden of being a mother can feel so very heavy. We mamas can be faced not only with a painful memory, but also a new sense of reality. Our carnality, our children’s fragility – they are in-your-face real.

The things you feel for your child when the danger is real, or when you watch them really hurt…these are the raw things of being alive.

I don’t know about you, but I get to where I don’t think I can do it tomorrow. I get confused about my responsibility to protect my children, and my utter inability to succeed. I know that God is the only one who can truly protect them, but I wonder about the moments when He seemed to be asleep at the wheel for my children, or for the children of dear friends.

The fear can be paralyzing.  But somehow we have to go on.

I have five extensions of my heart running around raw and vulnerable to all the dangers of the world. Statistics are against me on avoiding the ER for the next 18 or so years. And yet, somehow I have to let them run and jump and climb and be alive, and in being alive, be at risk of injury and death. And to try to stop them from this living would be to steal life from them in advance. So, what to do about this mother’s heart of mine?

I think the kind of love that I have felt for my children in the most terrible moments is perhaps –in some strange way – a place to live from. To hover over the crib and feel the weighty rawness of how much I love my baby. To face the fear that tragedy could strike, but determine it’s worth staying in this moment, in it’s fullness.  To just receive today – this moment – as a gift.  To cast off the hustle of the morning and greet my children with the joyful side of the same intense love that I would feel if they didn’t get out of bed to greet me. To let it scare me how much I love them, and to open my hands to the Almighty with it.

I cannot pretend that I am not desperate for my children to be okay. But I can bring my desperation to the throne of grace, before a God who knows how it feels.

I cannot take away the dangers of the world. But I can choose to bring my needs before the Great Protector, and I can make a glorious trade.  I can hand over the images that haunt me and the fears that plague me, and receive the peace that passes understanding, in exchange .

I cannot protect my heart from the devastation that would come if my children were taken from me. And if I try, I might just miss the joy of being their mama. But I can open my hand that was so tightly clenched around the safety of my children, and I can choose to trust the only One with the power to grant me another day with them.

My mother’s heart has been beating inside of me since the day I learned I was pregnant with my first child, roughly 8 years ago. But when our kids hurt, when they are lost or in danger…that mother’s heart beats deep, like the drums of war.   I know actually and fully and in the flesh that I would die for them— that I would do anything for them to be okay.

But there really is only one thing to do.  So I’ll wear down my knees in praying to the only One who is able. To the One who loves them even more than my mother’s heart.

I’ll hand over my fear.  I’ll let them live lives of joy and adventure. I’ll receive His peace.  And I’ll be mama another day.

Freedom for those up close and personal moments

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A sweet little voice from the backseat reaches my ears as we approach a red light. “Mommy, can we help that woman with the sign that says ‘homeless’?” See, I can tell them that we love the poor, but my tenderheart in the backseat doesn’t want to hear about it. She wants to see it, feel it, touch it, taste it. And I’m suddenly in one of those crises of my intention smashing up against my lack of follow-through. My words and the reality of my life collide in a heap, and I realize again that the most important things are not really taught, but caught. I’m in that sloppy space of needing to mean what I say and say only what I’m ready to live out. This kind of discipleship – the kind where our children learn what it means to live and walk in faith by watching – this kind gets right up in your face.

There was a time in my life when loving others, ministry, discipleship – it all felt tidied up. I could go about my life, and use the free spaces to find opportunities to share about my faith in Jesus. Only the safe, pretty and in-control spaces. Without realizing, I was presenting a story of “Once upon a time life was messy, and then I met Jesus and now it’s tidied up and beautiful.” God was gracious to redeem what I offered, but in the quiet, I think something felt disingenuous. You and I both know that life doesn’t get tidy when we follow Jesus. Life is still a sloppy mess with pain and grief and temptation and disease and broken relationship. Even under God’s covering, and in His hope, life and our own weakness this side of heaven, still hurt and confuse us.

It took some up close and personal relationships to show me that I hadn’t been free. The honest truth is that there is no freedom in offering only the pretty spaces to the world. Only the clean house. Only the made-up face. Only the well-prepared bible study lesson. I felt the pressure of keeping it up. I felt the fear of being “found out.” And those with me likely felt the same.

I faced my first crisis of intention versus reality a number of years ago when life got a little intense. My husband was elected to the State Legislature, I was running a small personal training business, I had recently become a mom, and I was involved in a ministry for high school students, which I was striving to do in the in-between spaces. As my life became more demanding, I began to see that if I only invited those around me to see the pretty parts of my life, I would soon run out of parts to offer. I began to see that the margin for loving anyone from the tidied-up spaces was quickly being squeezed out of my life.  I considered cutting things out to make more pretty space, but I felt that God was leading me in a different direction. I felt that I needed to step in faith, rather than rest on my own strength.

I had always thought that loving others could only come from a put-together life. But in that season, God brought into my path an opportunity that began to change my thinking. I met a young woman looking for a home in which to heal from family hurts, to learn what godly marriage, parenting, family looks like. When this opportunity arose, I was days away from the birth of my second child, and my husband a couple months from his second election. I was working, and had stepped into leadership in several places in the church and community. Life was chaotic and messy. But my husband and I felt a nudge to invite this person in. It felt like a giant step of faith to allow someone into the mess or our home and family life, and to believe that she would see God in the midst.

It’s terrifying to let someone see our life when it is not put together. We want to clean up our bodies and our houses and our lives before we invite someone in. But I found myself wondering what I was really afraid of. If I truly believed I was following Christ in the mess, then there should be evidence…right?  If someone watching can’t see God and lives of faith in the messy times, than we must be lying to ourselves.  So, God challenged me to begin to develop a “come and watch me need Jesus” attitude. Watch my husband and I fall towards one another. Watch us ask each other and our children for forgiveness. Watch us get on our knees with our great need.

And guess what, by God’s grace, this young woman saw us forgiving ourselves and each other. She saw us living beyond ourselves and drawing on God’s grace. She saw us failing in ways that made all of us want less of ourselves and more of Jesus, and it changed her life. And ours.

God is still leading me on this journey – the journey of living fearlessly, and letting His power be made perfect in my weakness.  I’m seeing that I still have layers and layers of wanting to keep it all together for everyone watching.

And motherhood gets right up in my face like nothing ever has. I now have little eyes watching to see if my words come alive in my actions, and seeing all the moments – not just the pretty ones. And it forces me to look right at the truth of my life and how it compares to my words and my intention.

I have to be ready to say what I mean and mean what I say. And I have to be ready to need lots of grace.

I have to be ready to point to the Merciful One, and to teach my children not how to stop being weak, but how to lean our weakness right into the strong chest of God.

I have to be ready to teach them not how to fix our hearts up so we want and seek better things, but to go ahead and die to ourselves. We can just lay our will right down, and let God show us how to align with His will instead.

I have to be ready to teach my children not how to get better and stronger, but how to get right down on our knees and let God wash us again and again in grace through Jesus. This is freedom. I can live the life I intend to live, and not just pretend to. I can flounder and fail, and let God’s grace pick me up. And I can let my children and the world watch the whole thing. I can do more than teach them the Bible lessons (those are good too!), but I can also let them catch from me the freedom of walking in grace.

Yes, motherhood gets right up in our faces where there is no escaping being seen. And so, I’m forced to ask myself the question “Do I believe that I have the spirit of the Living God in me, or not?”

If I believe it, than I truly have nothing to fear. There is freedom to be seen in my broken and redeemed mess. There is no pretending that because I am a follower of Jesus, I no longer struggle with sin and weakness. In motherhood, and in the hardship of real life, I am led to a place of inviting my children (and others) to walk with me on a broken road of needing Jesus every minute. They see me fail and be forgiven over and over and over.

On the fly, I’m constantly led to face not only my intention, but the reality of my heart.  I’m forced to ask what I want my children to see me doing, and then do it.

In a moment when I could have convinced myself that I do care about the poor, but that there’s nothing I can do right now because I’m in a hurry anyway…my children bring me to the feet of Jesus. I face the truth that my intentions and actions are not lining up.

So, after that sweet cry from the backseat about whether we might do something to help, I try something new with my little disciples. I roll down our windows, we say “hello,” ask her name and say a quick prayer for her. My children join me as we offer this woman the dignity of being seen, and a little snack. A simple thing, but one that challenges the way I’ve lived, and the frequent emptiness of my intention. I can’t for a moment feel proud for the change, as I know I would never have done it without the innocent challenge from little lips. I want it to be real for them. And they make me want it to be real for me. I want to live more than a life of good intention.

Motherhood is teaching me that loving others can’t be tidy. There is a kind of discipleship that lets us reflect the greatness of God, by leaning our weakness into God’s strength. There is a way of loving others that lets us be broken, because we lay down our own greatness and point to God’s greatness instead. And God gets the glory as we let him reflect his great glory on the broken mirror of our lives.

In this life that comes with being covered in spit up, with whining and back-talking, and a million hidden things that make us feel so small… we can just be small, so the bigness of God can be seen through us. I imagine sometimes that this life as mama must be a little bit like trying to live with a TV camera in your face. Someone is always there to catch your weakest, ugliest moments – the moments that basic human dignity tells us should happen in private. But when children bust through the bathroom door, or pull off the nursing cover, or yell at us when we are running on an hour of sleep, the challenge to love and disciple them gets really up close and personal.

But if we let the up close and personal moments push us to laugh at our humanness, and be the empty vessels of God’s love.  If we let the moments when we face our inconsistencies to push us to live out our intention, and to say what we mean and mean what we say, then we spread our wings and soar in new freedom.

The thing our kids do better than their mamas

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You can’t hurry a toddler with eyes full of wonder. You can’t motivate her to rush into the carseat when an anthill has caught her eye. You can’t convince her that clouds taking new shape in the breeze aren’t the most important thing happening right now. Little ones dwell in the places I rarely remember to visit. They dwell in the colors of the butterfly and the feeling of blades of grass under toes. They revel in the magic of sand running between fingers and snowflakes landing on eyelashes.  From a daddy’s tickles to a sibling’s knock-knock jokes, young children can delight in a silly moment and want to recreate and relive it as many times as they can (perhaps until an adult tires of it, and asks them to play a new game). Living in a house full of small people who know how to embrace and enjoy the moments of their days, I realize that I am the only one who doesn’t get it.  So, these days, I am a student of my children, in the school of “Stop and smell the roses.” I long for more of their joy, their calm, their freedom, their humility. They rarely feel that life is too heavy to giggle. They don’t feel too important to slow down. They never feel too busy or stressed to play. In their view, life is play. When something beautiful or interesting or unexpected crosses their path, they are not inclined to view it as trivial or ill-timed. They receive it as gift.

And, marvel of marvels, Jesus instructed us to be like them. What hidden treasures might be found in encountering God’s world through their lens.

Mamas, do most of your arguments with your children begin with being in a hurry? I know mine do.  Children move slowly… they have a natural drive to take in, experience and learn about the world around them. It can be maddening when the rest of the world is moving so quickly. When there is a clock ticking, a place to be, a thing to be done, I can look at my children and think that their slow pace simply reflects a lack of responsibility. But it strikes me, that as children of God, we are given the opportunity to live with the same freedom. If it’s all up to me, and the weight of the world is on my shoulders, than there is simply no time to spare. But if God is on the throne, and I’m just a child in His world, destined to live in this fleshy body and with a limited number of hours in a day, then I am actually and truly free to slow the heck down. It has always amazed me that Jesus never seemed to rush. He was highly demanded of – perhaps more than anyone else who has walked the planet. Crowds by the thousands were desperate for his teaching and his healing touch. They chased him across bodies of water, and interrupted his quiet moments.  He knows how we feel, mamas!  And yet, he never seemed to hurry. Perhaps there is a childlike faith that allows us to believe in our depths that God only intends for us to be in the singular moment that we are in right now. When we feel we need to be in more than one place at a time, we are believing a lie. God can be all the places – we are only meant to be in the one.  Children seem to get it, but as we grow and gain responsibility and start believing that we are desperately needed to keep the world spinning, we forget how to live with this kind of presence.

I am watching my children, and trying to do everything in my power to NOT RUSH. I am vowing to never try to squeeze in a grocery store run on our way to another appointment. I will always build in time for someone to need to poop. I will expect the unexpected and stop viewing it as an inconvenience. I’m learning that life is sweeter when I spend more time observing and learning from my children, and less time trying to make them like me. If we play by their rules a little more, maybe I will spend a bit less time making the perfect birthday cake, and a lot more time enjoying the rolly polly on the sidewalk.  Friend, I’m finding this sweetness in building in “kid time.” Let the 8 yard walk to the car take 18 minutes so they (and you) can smell every flower and throw 47 helicopter maple seeds and pick up a caterpillar or two. Of course, many many mornings in my home still begin with my barking orders to put on shoes, or buckle up seat belts. Many times, we simply run out of time, and I grow quickly impatient. But, I am trying to shift my view and change my goals – delight versus efficiency.

I want to stop and smell the roses with my children, even if it means it’s going to take a little longer to get to where we’re going.  After at least a million failed attempts, I now know fully and officially that I cannot muster up patience, especially when every moment that I try has been preceded by all of the things that make me want to pull my hair out one strand at a time. No, I can’t muster up patience. But I can choose to stop and delight. I can choose a gratitude that slooows the mind and body. I can soak the laughter, and the long silly stories from the lips of my children. I can ask them why they think that beetle is so amazing, or to teach me how to turn a cardboard box into an amazing day of adventure. I can laugh as they eat an ice cream cone upside down, praising Jesus for washing machines.

The real deal on abundant life

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John 10: 10b

…I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full. (NIV)

…I have come that they may have life, and have it abundantly. (NASB)

…I came so they can have real and eternal life, more and better life than they ever dreamed of. (MSG)

Full. Abundant.  More and better than we could dream of.  I have read or heard this verse probably a thousand times, in all of it’s versions, about how Jesus came to give us full and abundant life.  Beautiful.  But rarely have I stopped to consider what this kind of fullness and abundance looks and feels like in the reality of my days.  In any version, with any number of interpretations, this verse draws our spirits to the kind of life that we long for – a life that is more and better and fuller than the one we would otherwise know.  Our souls long for the kind of fullness and meaning and satisfaction offered in knowing Jesus as the hero of the story…that we are part of something bigger than ourselves. So, why does life sometimes continue to feel empty and meaningless? Or just busy? Why do we get to the end of the day and wonder what it all was for?  Or lay our tired bodies down and wonder why we’re here?

I’ve been pondering these things in days that seem to be bursting with fullness of every kind. My days right now, with a newborn and four other children under 8 years old, are full in every imaginable way.  FULL of joy.  Full of tears.  Full of noise.  Full of laughter.  Full of boo-boos.  Full of kisses.  Full of love.  Full of hurt.  Full of mistakes.  Full of apologies…Just so full. Life is literally bursting at the seems. I am abundantly blessed. I know that this kind of fullness can’t really be what Jesus means when he says he came to give us full life, but I have a sense that there is something to learn from this place. I think what I am beginning to see is that, although grace though Christ Jesus is absolutely and completely free, the abundant living we are offered comes at a great cost to us. If we cling to our own abundance (of to-do’s, of worry, of fear, of busyness, of control), we miss the abundance that God offers us, and life begins to feel like too much in all the wrong ways.  For me, there are many moments when the fullness of my day does not feel like a gift, when the weight of it feels unbearable, when I don’t have enough hands to help, or eyes to keep watch, or ears to hear stories and questions, or food – never enough food…and I know there must be more to it.  There must be a way that I choose to either step forward into the abundant blessing offered to me through Jesus, or to just sit under an abundant pile of “too much.”  Whether you have a houseful of children, or one child whose needs and future weighs heavy on your heart, or a desk full of work, or an abundance of grief and loss or difficult diagnoses, or you just read the news this morning, the weight of the world can be crushing…abundantly so. So how can we step into a different kind of abundance? An abundance that frees our souls and makes our spirits soar? A fullness that makes us feel untouchable, because our spirits are secure and our feet are firmly planted in love and blessing? An abundance that makes us unable to keep our lips from singing God’s praise because it is just bubbling out of us?

I see that I can receive this kind of abundance only when I make a difficult trade. It costs me everything. I have to trade in the too-muchness of my life that I desperately feel cannot go on without me. I have to let it go…into the hands of God. I must make a choice to relinquish my control and admit that I am not and never will be enough. And only when I bring my brokenness and never-enough to the Lord can I receive the abundance that lets me live through too-full days with a sense of enough! I have to trade in an abundance of worry, submit to the sovereignty of God, and receive an abundance of peace that surpasses my understanding (Philippians 4: 6-7). I have to trade in an abundance of insecurity and self-doubt and let God wash me in an abundance of promises and sweet truths about how he knit me together in my mother’s womb and knew each of my days before I lived even one of them (Psalm 139). I have to trade in the tension and stress that builds with an abundance of fast-pace and noise and needs, and allow God to bring a slowness and rest to my spirit in the midst of it.  Rather than placing my hope in another cup of coffee, I have to lay down my broken, tired body, and allow God to use my emptiness as a vessel for the God who IS love, and the God who never sleeps to pour out his love and grace and energy. Don’t get me wrong, I still love my coffee. But there is a striving of the soul that exhausts beyond sleep deprivation. And there is a freedom of the soul that comes when we allow ourselves to live from inside of the weak and limited fleshy vessels God gave us.

All of this trading requires a difficult trust. It costs me everything that feels like it makes my life work. But I think I’m seeing that the truly abundant life that is offered to us in Christ, is found on the other side of letting go.

Life feels abundant in all new ways lately.  I feel beyond myself in almost every minute of my day, and as I am emptied out, God’s abundance is all I can live on…I need his filling every minute.  And to live in that place of constant dependence on Him is sweet blessing. The abundance that Jesus offers us cannot be “icing on the cake.” We can’t add it on top of our self-sufficiency.  In order to receive the fullness of the grace and peace and joy and love that He offers us, we have to first be empty.

So, today, as the noise builds and the pace quickens, I am abundantly empty of my own ability…and abundantly full of His. Praise be to God.

Waiting in wonder…

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whitney-Simon

Waiting is hard. And I think it’s getting harder these days. I remember being a little nine-year-old girl, bursting with curiosity, and going to a shelf that held our well-loved encyclopedia set. I remember singing my ABC’s to find the book with the right portion of the alphabet, and flipping through the pages to find the tiny paragraph and blurry picture representing the subject about which I wanted to learn. I remember that little teaser of information making way for my imagination, and I remember looking forward to going to the library to find a whole book about the subject of interest. I remember feeling fueled and driven, even empowered, by the waiting…and the wonder.

These days look different. Wonder only sits for a moment, while we wait for Google hits to load, and are flooded with endless information…more than we can process. And so, we take in a few dozen bits of information, and we move on to the next thing. The world seems to spin a little faster these days. I find that this pace makes it difficult to sit, to silence my head and my heart, and to wait to hear that “still small voice” of the Spirit of God. I find it hard to sit in wonder and mystery, when facing something that is truly unknown. This process of waiting feels poignant as I reflect on my recent season of waiting to meet our son, Simon, who arrived on July 9th.  Waiting in the unknown of the day and time labor would begin. Waiting in the mystery of how the birth would go…the pain, the length, how I would cope, whether my body would recover well. Waiting to see what state my other children would be in when I left for the hospital, and when I returned. Waiting to see if my son would be healthy.  Waiting to see what he would look like. Waiting to see how my other children would handle the transition. Waiting in a body that seemed to be screaming for the wait to end. The physical and mental discomfort of those days and weeks felt embarrassingly difficult.

Times of waiting like this, when I have no control, and zero knowing, I find myself frustrated that I can’t search Google for an answer.  As the world seems to spin faster, I find these seasons of waiting to be increasingly trying. But I am also struck by the unique opportunity to sit in the unknown mysteries with a God who promises that His presence alone is enough. The days and weeks approaching my due date held countless contractions and “false alarms.” Early labor stretched over the better part of a month. And so, each day felt strangely shadowed by feeling like a “ticking time bomb.” My patience and my body grew weary, and the last days dragged on. I knew that what I was waiting for was a gift, and tried desperately to sit in the sweetness of waiting to “open” it. And yet, despite my best efforts, most days I just felt weary and frustrated – physically uncomfortable, and emotionally and spiritually emptied out. I would try to sit in God’s presence early each morning, begging for a “fresh word” to help me through the day, and each morning it seemed that my hand remained tightly clenched around a demand that God bring this baby as soon as possible.  Each day felt like another failure – another short-tempered moment with my children. Another day my weary body failed to get the house clean. Another day thinking of almost nothing except whether I might be going into labor. On the morning of July 9th – the day we met Simon – I sat my aching body and soul down with my bible and journal, and I heard the Lord whisper tenderly to my impatient heart…

“Dear One, it’s a great gift that you await. And I’ll give it to you at the perfect time. Think of your children as they await Christmas morning. Don’t miss the sweetness of this longing.”

I sat in the thought for a few moments and was flooded with images of the desperation and longing in the eyes of my children on the days and weeks before Christmas. When they desire from the depths of them for that day to come, and can’t quite understand the waiting.  As their mama, I know that the waiting and the anticipation is what will make the day so sweet. I know that Christmas morning comes in it’s fullness when it has been infused with the preparing and the counting down, the meditating and the leaning in, the wrapping and dwelling in the goodness that’s to come. And I long for them to trust me in the process. As I think of the way they struggle to rest and trust in the waiting, I see the truth of my own heart. And I see that my Father already knows what’s inside of this mysterious gift that I’m waiting to unwrap. On that morning, I finally released my grip and submitted to a Loving Father who already knew my son, and knew what day his birthday was going to be, and who knows all the birthdays of his life. God already knows the hairs on my son’s head and the gifts and desires set in his little spirit. God already knows Simon’s story, and has already planned how it will be woven into the great Story of redemption. As I rested into God’s presence, the waiting transformed from frustration to an opening of my hands to receive a gift that I could not yet unwrap. A great joy and deep peace settled in.  And, wouldn’t you know, in God’s tender kindness, labor started a few short hours later.

I gain insight about my own impatience by watching my children. I see myself in their demands that everything happen right now. I may not be as quick to say it out loud, but my heart can be just as demanding.  There is a longing set deep in all of our hearts. We were meant for a fullness, a satisfaction, a “home” where all is made right, and all is completed and has been made new by our Loving Father. But this side of heaven, we wait.  We long.  Our souls cry out. Let’s be honest, my children’s souls usually cry out for…well, sugar.  Most of their longing is zeroed in on the next treat.  If I tell them they will have a lollipop after lunch, they whine that it’s not RIGHT NOW.  Long drives are filled with endless “Are we there yet’s?”. On the days approaching Christmas, they are fully convinced that it would be better to get their presents today. They long for things and struggle to submit to the process of waiting. I may long for different things, but my struggle and my unwillingness to submit are the same.  Life holds much longing. We long for things to be set right. We long to know who we are and the purpose for things. We long to fully know the truth. We long for no more pain and sadness. We long for the fullness of God’s presence.

Waiting requires much from us. Doing it well is not a passive exercise. It requires a choice of submission. It requires a relinquishing of understanding and control. It requires a quieting trust. The joy that grows and swells in anxious anticipation can be lost if we fight the process. The child who sneaks through the house to find hidden presents steals from their own delight and wonder when they awake Christmas morning. And the mama who demands of God that her baby comes today misses the sweetness of longing for him, and the experience of allowing her heart to grow in preparation. As we lean into a Father with all understanding, and rest in His knowing all things, we get to receive more of the waiting with joy….like holding a beautifully wrapped gift.

Now that this tangible wait is over and my little Simon has arrived (praise God!), I am noticing that actually much of parenting requires me to wait in unknowns. It requires of my spirit a submission to mystery.  Because despite what I would like to think, there is a lot that I just don’t know.  We don’t know what kind of adults our children will be.  We don’t know which of our habits or words as parents will wound them. At Simon’s first doctor’s appointments, as they ask questions, I feel like saying “You know we just met, right?”  I don’t really know that much about him.   We are learning about our children every day – a great exploration of uncharted territory.  No one on earth knows them better than us, and yet, in the first years of their lives, they are entirely new people to us, who we do not know or understand. No one except the Lord our God has any idea what my children will be like next year, or twenty years after that. No one except the Lord knows what circumstances they will face, and what effect each of my parenting decisions will have on their hearts. I am trailblazing at every moment, in every new developmental stage, as my children change and grow and surprise even themselves. In order to find rest for our souls, amidst all of the unknowns, we have to submit to the process, and to the only One who knows. There is a God who is writing the stories of my children, and yours, and He is weaving the threads of their lives. Today, as I am inclined to look critically on a daughter’s refusal to wear the cute clothes I bought her because she prefers to wear only “interesting” clothes, like tie-dye T-shirts, I feel a truth settle in my spirit that God looks on her and sees a beautiful confidence and creativity that needs my permission to fly. He sees an artist daughter, made in His image, who reflects His own heart for creating beauty. And I get excited that I get a front row seat as she steps into her callings.  As I breathe through another moment of son’s defiance, trying not to lose my patience to an unrelenting steel will, I realize this too is a process of waiting, and trusting and believing in who God is making this child.  With this lens, I see a powerful leader who will fight with fierce passion for what he believes is right.  I can get lost in a journey of fear that we won’t get the behavior “under control.” Or I can be led by God on a road of faithful exploration, believing and discovering God’s good plans for my children, and shepherding them in those good plans. Fear abounds and I lose my cool in moments when I fight for control, and I feel my children are “winning.” But in the moments when I choose to trust that God is writing my their stories, fear falls away, and my heart swells with love and compassion and grace, and patience.   In these moments of submission, I see myself in their tantrums, and I am not a failing authority, but a partner, with equal need for a Savior, who can offer them the grace of the gospel that is offered to me.  I no longer need to carry the burden of getting my children under control. I walk with the freedom that they, like me, will always need Jesus. And so we can practice together the daily redemptive process of seeing our sin, receiving God’s forgiveness, and resting in the finished work of Jesus on the cross.  And life as their mama becomes an adventure of discovering hidden treasure in my children, that the world has never known!

Through each of the long days of these “little years,” I can lean into a God who already knows who my children will be, and how each of the pieces fits. It all feels like mystery to me, who can’t control a single moment of their lives. But my children’s futures are not an uncertain mystery to God. I don’t need to fear that I won’t “raise them right,” and therefore the people they become will be a disappointment. I don’t need to fight to control them and make them who I think they should be. Though I must continue to set boundaries and discipline my children, I can do it with freedom and peace…and wonder.

My children are a gift. And in many ways, they are not yet unwrapped. There is much becoming to look forward to.  And if it’s not up to me to mold the gift inside the box, I can look ahead at the coming seasons and let the waiting and the unknowns excite me, rather than terrify me. As I play my part as mama, I can let God be Creator, Refiner, Redeemer…I can joyfully, hopefully, expectantly unwrap the gift of who my children are becoming, in quiet trust that the mystery revealed will be beautiful.

Oh, the wonder!

Eyes for the Unseen

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I don’t know about you, but some days, there is just too much to look at in my house. Too many toys. Too many dishes. Too many piles of clothes. Too many sibling squabbles. Too many messy diapers. And before I know it, I feel buried under what I can see with these two eyes of mine. And sometimes the “seen” that surrounds me outside the four walls of our home – the terrorism and the pornography, the kidnappings, and the playground bullies – they just pile on top. And the weight of being responsible for my children – the weight of my role to keep them safe and teach them to have a mind of their own, to walk in faith – it all weighs heavy.  With my eyes, I can see that I’m raising my children in a world in which 12-year-old girls are feeling pressured to send nude pictures to boys at school. I can see that the 24/7 connection to social media is putting an incredible pressure on this next generation. I can see that there are real dangers in every adventure my children take. I can look at my child’s behavior and see symptoms of ADHD and learning or personality challenges, and I can project what curses it could mean for their future. I can see how I have wounded them, when I have spoken out of anger or exhaustion. I can see their anxiety when we lead them through a major life change, like a move or a new baby. The “seen” that we walk in day-by-day can weigh so very heavy. And when I walk in these seen places, I can easily become bound up in worry, and forget the joy.

But, when I lift my eyes… Oh, when I lift my eyes. I see that God gave me this job knowing that I couldn’t do it all. He gave it to me knowing that it would lead me into constant dependence on Him, the only One who is able to hem my children in. God gave it to me with 24 hours in a day, and only two eyes, two hands, two feet, one mouth. He gave it to me knowing that He would be weaving together a tapestry of grace and redemption for each of my children, made up partly of the worn and discolored threads that I give them. God gave me this job of mother, and not the job of Savior.  That role has been filled, and the job completed. That Great High Priest has already sat down at the right hand of the Father, after a job well done. Hallelujah.

And so, I’m learning that my days are transformed when I take my eyes off of all of the “seen” things there are to fear, and fix my eyes instead on the Deliverer. When I take my eyes off of what I can see with my eyes and I walk instead in the unseen places, I find peace and freedom. I’m trying a little experiment in my days, and I invite you to join me. When you are inclined to worry or fear, about physical harm to your children, about wounding them emotionally, about not living up, or something else…take just a moment, in rhythm with your breath, to ask the Lord to show you what He 
sees. Breathe in the unseen and breathe out the seen. Breathe in the truth about this moment, and breathe out the lies. He doesn’t see a world full of uncontrollable dangers. He sees legions of angels within his grasp, and ready at his beck and call. God doesn’t see a child who can’t control his temper. He sees a little warrior, full of passion, who He intends to use for mighty purposes. God doesn’t see a broken mother doomed to a broken relationship with her children. He sees a daughter of the King, armed with all the power of the heavenlies through Christ, and called uniquely to raise her little army, in full dependence on her Father in heaven. I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a job I want.

An Introduction

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Maybe you are one of the moms I have envied.  Maybe you walk in freedom and are fully confident in your God-given role in the lives of your children.  Maybe it has never occurred to you to waste the precious minutes of your day beating yourself up.  Maybe when you feel you’ve made a mistake as a mother, you just let it roll off your back, and you walk confidently in the assurance that God’s sovereignty will heal and redeem your children from all the broken places you offered them.  Maybe you never worry about how you measure up to the mom who posts all of her brilliant ideas on Pinterest.  And maybe you don’t worry about having your house put-together for guests. Maybe you walk in freedom to let your children explore the world, without carrying worry about harm befalling them, and maybe you never doubt your decisions when they get hurt. Maybe guilt and fear are not driving forces in your life.

Or maybe you are a bit more like I have been as a mom, and the joy that seems like it should so easily partner with having children – this greatest of blessings – actually feels dreadfully elusive most of the time.  Maybe your days sometimes Just. Feel. Long., and you know you will look back and long to do them over, and you’re just trying not to wish them away. Maybe you sometimes feel like guilt and fear is all there is as a mom. Oh, and being so very tired.   There’s a lot of that, too.  And maybe you feel like Paul’s words to the Philippians, “Do not be anxious about anything” (Philippians 4: 6-7) could not possibly have been written for you. After all, when Paul wrote it, he did not have these pieces of his heart running around vulnerable to the world.   Maybe you feel constantly torn between letting your kids explore their world, and holding back because of very real dangers. Maybe you feel a slave to social media, and all the moms who seem to be doing it better than you. Maybe when you see or hear brilliance in another mother of young children, it makes you want to crawl into a hole and die. Maybe you beat yourself up for yelling, or being overly critical of your children. Maybe joy eludes you because you can’t stop thinking about how your children are going to turn out with all of the mistakes you are making. Maybe you beat yourself up at every turn, from a medical diagnosis, to your child biting someone at school.   Or you hate your body, and you feel guilty because you should be more grateful for the miracle it has performed. Maybe you feel completely unworthy of getting pregnant easily, or having lots of children. Or maybe you are blaming yourself for infertility or miscarriage. Perhaps the daily grind of chores steals your joy and makes you feel constantly inadequate, and you feel like you’re dying a slow death by being buried alive under the piles of laundry. And you feel defeated by your inability to stay on top of the cleaning, the dishes, having dinner on the table. Maybe you feel guilty for being away from your kids at work, or for not providing them enough opportunities. Or you feel guilty for not being able to keep up with a career while raising little ones. Maybe your life feels small and insignificant, and you can’t rise above the feeling to find any purpose in the endless diapers, time outs, floor sweeping, or breaking up quarrels. Maybe you feel desperately alone, and can’t seem to have a real conversation with an adult since becoming a mom. And just maybe, like me, you’ve been afraid to be honest about how you feel because these are supposed to be the best days of your life. Maybe you fear you’re the only one who has ever felt this way. And you wonder if maybe you weren’t cut out for this “Mom” thing.

My heart is not to fix all of the parenting challenges.  You won’t find me writing much about how to fix discipline issues, or mixed-up sleep patterns.  My heart, sister, is for you to know that you are not alone… to speak to the places in your heart that make you feel crazy, and to offer an honest voice on the pains and deep fears that we face through the years of having young children.  My heart is to see the heavy burden you carry be lifted -for the weight of being given the responsibility and great privilege of being called “mother” by a child or two or seven to be transformed into wings.  My heart is for you and I to walk with more freedom and feel like a whole person in our days with young children – to stop beating ourselves up about our failures, and to stop comparing ourselves to other mamas, who were made by God uniquely differently from us…on purpose.  My heart is for us to step into the blessing of being chosen as broken vessels who were never meant to be a Savior to our children, and for us to accept our role of teaching them how to need a Savior in Jesus.

I want to reclaim each sacred part of motherhood, from the sweet spaces God knit together in our souls that lead us to first desire a child, to the parenting moments of great difficulty when we need to cast off fear and teach our children how to need a Savior.  I long for us to walk in the authentic, in order to walk in the joy.  I long for our hearts to be refreshed by taking an honest look at our untidy lives as mamas, and to let each other and the Lord into those spaces in our lives and hearts.  On this blog, I’ll share a bit about my story as a mama who is learning how to live in raw mercy. I’m learning to peel back layers of fear and guilt to reveal the great gift that lies beneath. I pray that your spirit is refreshed, and that you, too, can begin to walk in freedom from the fear and guilt that can so easily steal our joy.