Tag: faith

The heartbreaking thing every mom is ashamed to admit

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Not quite the photo I envisioned. 🙂

The painful honest shameful truth is that I was disappointed in motherhood from the moment I saw that second little pink line.  When I expected a rush of pure joy and excitement, what I got was a sloppy mix of fear and unworthiness, speckled with elation. I didn’t feel the way I expected to, or felt I should. Many of even the sweetest moments of parenting have been mixed with something sour and strange.

I felt disappointed when I didn’t have the clarity of mind to soak in my first moments with each new baby.  I felt disappointed that I cared about things that don’t matter – like what someone else thinks about my parenting or the way pregnancy and breastfeeding would effect my body.

I felt disappointed in myself for not cherishing my swelling belly, and instead worrying about how I would look after giving birth. I was disappointed in myself for stepping on the scale too often.  I hated that I cared…but I did.

Warring thoughts collided:  the blessing and the cost, the privilege and the sacrifice.

Even as I type, I fend off the thought that my words appear selfish, ugly, harsh to your eyes.  I write in faith that you might need to know you’re not the only one.

There have been moments when I felt I should be relishing in ecstatic bliss over my children, and instead I felt empty, lonely, lost.  There were postpartum days when I felt crazy and feared I would never feel like myself again. There were days when I looked upon a child I birthed, and they felt like a stranger.  There are days I feel like it’s barely worth it to try to have fun together, because we’re so likely to end in tears.

I’ve felt disappointed each time the idyllic scene I pictured when I planned an activity for my children was lost to a scene of whines and wet pants and bloody knees.

I felt disappointed the first time it didn’t come naturally to throw my arms around my child – the first time I had to choose to be affectionate towards them because some distaste for their behavior had crept into my spirit. And I think the heaviness that can rest on our shoulders as mamas so often comes because we thought it was supposed to look some other way.  We thought we would burst with fondness for them every minute. We thought we would remember every minute what a gift our children are. We thought we would stop caring about trivial things when they stood against the immense value of raising up the next generation. We thought we would never yell, or even feel inclined to. We thought we would have more patience and grace. We thought we would look different, feel different, be different as a mother.

The weight of it can ravage our souls.

No space exists for these feelings when mamas fight for years just to get one of those second pink lines.  No space exists for these thoughts when we know so profoundly that children are a gift, a heritage, a treasure.  And so, rather than give these thoughts and feelings any space, they silently breed shame, and wreak havoc on our sense of self-worth.  They discreetly curse us and tell us we’re unworthy of the children we’re given, convince us we’re the worst mom.

We need to hold fast to gratitude.  But not as a bandaid…

And friend, there’s no denying, I brought a lifetime of expectations into this motherhood thing, and face a million little heartbreaks over the ways I don’t live up, or the ways my life doesn’t look like I thought it should. A million moments of envy of the mom who seems to be doing it better.  We need to never lose sight of the blessing, but in order to thrive as mamas, I think we also need to validate the pain and disillusionment of this journey looking so exceedingly different than we thought it should.

Only as I recognize, grieve, and release my expectations… Only as I make peace with my actual life… am I beginning to taste freedom and experience the fullness of joy in the reality of my days as a mom.  

I know some of you have faced the deepest pain and tragedy on your parenting journey.  If you have lost a child, faced infertility, or have a child with special needs and face the ongoing grief of missed milestones and experiences, I see you… our Father God sees you.  My heart breaks with yours, and I know God’s does too.  I know that your fractured hopes and expectations and dreams are a present reality in each day of your life this side of heaven.  There are real pains that leave real holes.

But there are these other pains that just come, just blow in with the wind, idealistic expectations simply a result of not knowing better.

I think many of us just thought this road would be easier, that we would be stronger.

Though I’m sure everything looks reasonably close to perfect from the outside, in my motherhood journey, I have often flip-flopped between bliss and angst.  One moment, I feel the abundance of blessing and joy.  The next moment I feel overwhelmed and ill-equipped and beaten down.

My real-life mama story is often a journey of failure and weakness, and strength in Christ alone.  My real-life default is to drown in worry and fear, and I am in continuous battle of surrender, entrusting my children to God’s care, over and over.

In my real story, I am often disappointed, and I have to lay my expectations down each and every day, so God can show me the the gift I was missing.

My real days are full of gathering up grace for each moment, because I’m desperate for it.  And when I let go and see the world through my children’s eyes of wonder, real life moments of magic and euphoria surprise me.

My real story is one of discovering some of the ugliest corners of my soul, and letting God’s light shine on them.  In my real story, I sometimes want to run away, and it is pure sacrifice to enter in.

And in my real story, when the world says I’m trapped because I can’t pee by myself, I say I’ve never been more free.  In my real story, I’m discovering things about myself that make me feel I was absolutely made for this.  In my real actual life, my dreams and goals and ambitions don’t disappear, but grow and morph and bend with each season of my family.

In real life, joy comes in dying to myself, abundance comes in sacrifice, peace comes in surrender, fun comes only when I set aside the relentless pressure to live up to my expectations and the ones I perceive from the world.

In my real story, motherhood has driven me into deeper intimacy with my Father God than I ever could have imagined.  Truthfully, the extraordinary privilege of raising my children pales in comparison to the deep intimacy with my King, the sweetness of dependence, trust, surrender that motherhood has required of me.     The greatest joy has come when I can get over myself and my expectations, and I embrace my imperfect children as their imperfect mama on our imperfect journey together.

And I realize it’s ultimately the same journey for every one of us…whether we have children or not, whether we run a company or a country or a classroom or a home or some tangled mix…it’s the same journey of God winning our hearts.  It’s the same call to lay our life down to find it.  

So mamas, what if we’re not doing it all wrong, and this broken and sloppy road is exactly what God intended for motherhood?  What if He knew in His ultimate sovereignty that the only way we could stop trying to BE the Savior, and start pointing our children to their Savior in Jesus is if we were sickeningly aware of our weakness? What if this is what God meant when He said to Paul “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness”(2 Corinthians 12: 9)? What if our lostness is where we are found? What if our shattered dreams are what drive us to be the mothers that God intended? And what if we release our children to be the miracles God made them to be as we let go and let them be unique and different with desires and dreams and traits way outside of our comfort zones?

I’m not saying that God delights in making our journey difficult.  He is near to our hearts, and leads us tenderly (Isaiah 40: 11).  But I believe that our expectations – the ones that say that motherhood is supposed to be easy, pretty and fun in all the moments – these expectations steal our joy, and rob us of God’s joy and grace in the difficult but immensely beautiful days with young children.
I believe God has a bedraggled and beautiful adventure for you today, sweet friend.  Rather than holding onto the story we thought we were supposed to be living, let’s consider being led on a journey of surprise, adventure, and deep intimacy with our King.

 

More on releasing our children from our unrealistic expectations next week…

 

 

The one word you need to get through your day

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yield

I have a bad habit of pushing myself to the absolute max.  For most of my life, my default answer has been “Yes” and my default custom has been to stay up too late, wake up too early, do too much, and rest too little.  I know I’m not alone and books are being written and we’re all talking about how we need to slow down, and you are right there with me with days too full, nights too short, eyelids too heavy, and schedules bursting at the seams with too much of everything.

 

I push hard knowing that coffee and eye liner will be there for me in the morning.  I push hard because I feel like I’m supposed to for my children, for God, for community.  There is a time to push.  We need each other — and let’s be honest — if we never pushed, we wouldn’t see each other much.  And yet, I also know the truth that we were made for rest…pure and simple and free of agenda.  I know that our bodies were made for sleep, and we were made to believe that the world keeps spinning if we stop for moments in the day, and seven or eight hours at night.  As much as I resist, somewhere deep down, I believe that our need for rest and sleep is a God-given daily source of humility, a life-line to remind us that He’s God and we’re not.

 

I’m sometimes inclined to think that my opposition to sleep is a result of being a grown-up with responsibilities, but than I see even the tiniest people resist it.  Every mama knows the maddening vexation of watching an exhausted child scream or wiggle with “I’m not tired!”.  How many times have we seen another question, another book, another kiss, another blanket, another song, another back scratch, another drink, another trip to the potty, another anything to restrain from being overtaken by relaxation?  One of mine will hold an arm in the air or bounce a leg off the side of the bed for minutes on end, unyielding to the calm.  Another child of mine often says she just “can’t” close her eyes – doesn’t know how.

How many times have all the moms said “Just go to sleep!”?

There was the boy on the road trip the other week, who said sleep was impossible, leaving me simultaneously frustrated by his noncompliance and struck with the truth of what he said…  because he was absolutely right.  There is no amount of obedience or work or doing that could render sleep.  It cannot be forced or rushed or demanded.

 

It is pure, unbridled surrender.  It does not come unless we let go. 

Sleep can’t go on your To Do list, because you can’t do it.  You have to let it undo you.

 

Perhaps that’s why it is sometimes so hard for my little man of passion and action and concrete solutions, and why I can’t seem to get myself into bed on time, either.

How curious that sleep never seems like a good idea until it’s too late and we’re left with our heavy bones and sticky eyelids.  And how curious that the same is true of all the things that require our surrender.

Because it’s hard to be told what to do, but it’s even harder to know that there is nothing we can do but “let go.”  I think surrender and letting ourselves be undone might just be the hardest thing.  Waving the white flag feels like defeat in the most miserable of ways.  I think we will always avoid surrender unless we believe there is a greater victory on the other side.

We say “No” to one more thing for the greater “yes” of being refreshed and having new life breathed into our bones. We say “No” to doing all in our own strength for the greater “Yes” to Christ through whom we can do all things.

I’m so painfully aware that all the things I might be inclined to do, to say, to write…that they will be empty unless I simply abide.  Jesus says that apart from him, we can do nothing.  We, the branches, can bear no fruit apart from the vine.  All the things with which I could worry myself to no end… All the things that keep me up at night…  All the things I tell my sweet ones I need to finish before I’m ready to play or snuggle or read or get the snack… there is no lasting fruit apart from Christ.

But abiding in Christ, remaining in him, waiting on him…it requires the deepest and fullest surrender.  As sleep requires our physical surrender, so abiding requires our soul surrender.  We surrender our swarming thoughts, our burgeoning need for productivity and efficiency and impact.  We surrender our agenda, our pride, our worry, our control.

As sleep refreshes our bodies, so stepping into quiet submission to the King of Heaven has the power to refresh and recharge our souls and spirits, the power to change our perspective on our day.  God has the power to change the lens through which we see the circumstances of our day.

If you’ve had to stop reading this post a couple times to wipe spit up off your shoulder, take someone potty, break up an argument, or race to chauffeur your people to the next thing, I am so with you.  If you have to rally three or four people to do your job as mama in order to get away for a couple hours or days, I am so with you.  If you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders, and it feels like your home and everyone in it would crumble if you let yourself breathe, I am so with you.  If you have an incessant list of things running through your head about the medicine you need to remember to give, the food you need to remember to pack, the babysitters you need to remember to find, the ride for your child you need to request, the diaper rash that needs a better cream, the meal plan you haven’t made, the errand you are procrastinating because you remember the chaos of last time, the behavior or ailment that you wonder if you should be concerned about, the sport or class you worry you should be signing your child up for…I am so with you.

But when I sat on a plane with my daughter yesterday afternoon, after a weekend away with sweet friends, and the stewardess reminded me to put my oxygen mask on first, my spirit said “Yes, ma’am and amen.”  I have nothing to give without a source.  I must believe that yielding to the Spirit of God in the middle of the unyielding pace of my day is the only way for my life to yield enduring fruit.

 

Yield… this is the word that has me tied up in knots and spreading my wings.  This is the word I think might just be the answer to everything our souls need and our spirits cry out for today.  

Yield   | yēld | verb
1. to produce, provide, deliver
2. to relinquish, surrender, relent

 

How tremendously lovely and rich and mysterious that the same word means both surrender and productivity, both to admit defeat and to deliver results, both achievement and relinquishing control.  How beautifully ironic and perfect.

As we lose our lives, we find them.  As we yield ourselves, we yield beauty in our lives.

Whether or not you can get a good night’s sleep tonight, you can choose to yield to the Spirit of God in the midst of your crazy day.  You can yield to the belief that drawing away with God is the one decision that yields the most fruit.

Today, I’m not going to resist the moments of my day that make me feel small.  I’m surrendering my pride and laying my life down a million times over, in faith that God will give me His.

Today, even as I work, on laundry and food prep and shepherding and emails, I’m choosing to relinquish my hyper efficiency and drive for productivity, in faith that the Spirit of God will enter into my openness and deliver moments of beauty and grace.  I am letting go of the unrelenting push, and choosing to be interruptible. ”For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake and the gospel’s will save it.” (Mark 8: 35)

How to make a difference when your hands are full

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christian mom blog
The privilege of my life to be this little guy’s mom.
“We loved you so much that we were delighted to share with you not only the gospel of God, but our lives as well, because you had become so dear to us.”
1 Thessalonians 2: 8

My eyelids were heavy on this Monday that came around a bit too quickly, with it’s dimly lit sky and it’s drizzly rain that says “Stay under the covers.”  Sweet ones were unready for the hurry of the morning, drowsy bodies in slow motion.  But the clock doesn’t wait, and time just keeps ticking on tempo with deadlines of school bells and appointments and naps and To Do lists.

On the days when I’m just muscling through to get to the end of it, I’m a smidge desperate for my life to mean something.  I think we all are.  We’re made with a longing for the things that endure.  We yearn to do something that will be remembered.  We long to be exceptional, to make someone’s day, week, life a little better, to grow God’s kingdom, to offer the world a unique idea or message or mission, to run a family, a non-profit, a school, a company, a church, a country, a home…in a way that’s never been done before.

I want to make an impact on the world, but some days I can barely get my weary body out of bed.  You too, mama?

I was squarely in the Monday grind, and thinking about what it looks like to be a disciple and make disciples when you are so dang tired, and your hands are so dang full.  It is the privilege of my life to be called “Mama” by my little ones, but I wonder how to bring an energy to it that bears fruit?  How do we live a life of purpose, and not just survive our days?

I write today (and most always) about things of which I claim no particular expertise.  I’m humbled and often hesitant, as I have little in regards to earthly credentials.  I am simply compelled to share a thing that God has granted me the great privilege to do, and a work he is doing in my heart.

There is this one thing that I believe is making my life and love bigger than the walls of my skin, and it has nothing to do with expertise or high capacity or doing it all right.  There is one thing that is encouraging my heart to believe that I have a God-given unique and valuable role to play in the body of Christ and on planet Earth.  And you do, too.
A key that God is giving me to unlock purpose in my life is letting go of perfection, control, striving…and stepping into the light, to let the light of the Lord in me be seen.  I’m letting go of trying to make my life look put-together and pretty enough to be worthy of making a difference and I’m giving away the sloppy, messy, sleepy, and redeemed life I’m living.  I’m giving it to my children.  I’m giving it to those who might want to enter in.  And I’m giving it to you in the ashes of a mess of words, in faith that God just might make them into something mysteriously beautiful in you, as he is in me.  What if we don’t hide in shame over all that we cannot do, but give away what we have…a broken and sanctified life, hidden in Christ.   

About six years ago, at the very time logic said I was too busy and too exhausted to have anything to offer — with a fitness business to run, a ministry in Young Life, a husband running for public office, and a toddler and a newborn at home (seriously)— God offered me an opportunity to invite someone in.

A recent college grad was looking for a family to live with.  In the middle of our crazy, we simply said “Yes.”  We gave a whole pile of qualifications about how we were in a wild season, and it’ll be messy, and I have nothing to offer, and I’m not sure how it will go, but she could come in and be a part of it, if she wanted to, and we could just see what God would do.

And you know what?  He did a miracle.  He changed a life.  Several, actually:  ours and hers.  And I began to catch a vision for how God could use my brokenness to pour out his strength. When I give my empty, He gives his fullness.  When I give my weak, He gives his strength.  When I give my story, He gives his healing and redemption.  When I die to my comfort, he gives true, abundant life.  When I give my mustard seed of faith that I truly am an ambassador of Christ, He moves mountains.

I spent too much of my life trying to make the tree of my life look prettier, and more worthy of bearing fruit.  I wanted my impact to come from the tidy and beautiful corners of life.  We can decorate the tree of our lives with twinkling lights and ornaments, trying to impress each other, or volunteering for things we don’t want to do.  We can live ashamed of the behind-closed-doors truth of our lives while we offer a tidy and beautiful corner to the rest of the world, but we’ll end up feeling like a fraud and we’ll mostly leave others feeling jealous and insecure.  

I’m beginning to see that true enduring fruit only comes if we are willing to live authentically, planted and rooted where God puts us, when our roots lie deep in the secret places of intimacy with our King, who gently prunes our branches and refreshes us with the rains of his daily mercy and provision.  His delight shines down like the sun to revive our spirits, and we surrender to being used by him, given away just as we are, believing that Christ’s work on the cross was enough to cover all our splintered places.

Purpose is unfolding in the middle of overfull days when I swing my doors open and let a few come in and watch God at work in my mess – let them watch me apologize to my loves, watch me sweep the same floor and fold the same clothes again and again, watch me fail and be washed anew in God’s grace, watch me hope only in the Lord and soar on wings as God renews my strength, watch me need Jesus every hour.

Friends, though we struggle, God calls us pure and blameless and white as snow, in Christ.  We are free to claim that, as we follow Jesus, we are worth following.

If the Spirit of God resides in us, than we ought to confidently proclaim, as Paul did, “Watch me and do what I do!” (paraphrase).  When we know we’re the worst of sinners, and we boast only in Christ, we have nothing to fear in giving our lives away.  We have nothing to fear in opening our doors.  We have nothing to fear in letting someone walk alongside, and believing we will have something to offer.  We have nothing to fear in letting our light shine.

If we believe the light is in us, as the Bible says it is, then we ought not hide in the shadows.

When your life is messy and your hands are full, you serve as a perfect backdrop for the vibrant and striking life of Christ to be made known.  When you feel emptied out with nothing to offer, you might just have made room for the Spirit of God to pour through you and do something groundbreaking.

I’m beginning to see that as I come out of the shadows, and invite a young professional to spend the day with us or another mama to come and do the real life bedraggled and beautiful mom thing side-by-side or a 20-something to come live with us, we create space to encounter a God who left heaven and put skin on.  Humbly…I’m watching God change lives when I give away my mess of brokenness, and trust in a Jesus who made us his hands and feet.

Friends, I have sat to write this post a dozen times, and stopped short the last eleven because I’m on my face over the thought that you would feel for one minute like there is one more thing you need to do.  Mama, if you are in over your head and dragging your weary, unshowered body to the coffee pot in the morning, I am right. there. with. you.

But even more, I can’t bear the thought that you would miss out on this miracle that I believe happens when we shake off the shame, and share our lives with whoever might want to come along.  It’s a precious treasure, burning a hole in my pocket, and I don’t want even one of you to miss it.

My encouragement is not for you to take on commitments that you don’t have time for.  My encouragement is that you open your door and let someone come in to see exactly what you are already doing, to believe that God could do something miraculous.  And if this is already your habit, then carry on sister!  And never let shame tell you that you’re not enough.

When Jesus invited men to be his disciples, he never stopped his what he had set out to do , he simply said Come along.  Be with me.  Walk with me.  Watch what I do, then do it.  Our example for making disciples is one that says “Come along.”

If you’re like me, it’s hard to imagine that anyone on earth would be interested in spending time with you and watching you change diapers and fold shirts and send small people to Time Out.  This is a step of faith.  It’s a choice to believe that there is something going on in the heavenlies as we serve our families unto the Lord.  It’s a step of faith to believe that, as we trust God with our muck and invite God’s grace into our homes, it is a precious sight to behold.  It’s a step of faith to believe that we are chosen, redeemed, ambassadors of Christ, royal daughters of the King of Heaven.

Maybe there is another mama for whom you’ve been mopping your floor and saying you are loving every minute of being a mom….stop doing that.  Just let her in.  Maybe it’s a colleague, a neighbor, your kids’ friends, a high school or college student (try connecting through your local church or ministries).  Step out of shame, and consider sharing the life you are already living before the throne of grace, not leading from your strength but from Christ’s strength in your weakness.

If you follow Christ, you are worth following.  You’re a world changer.

 

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A rainy day at the zoo with my loves.

Mama, this is how you know God is after your heart… (And a GIFT!)

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This morning I woke swimming in the mystery of life and motherhood…so heavy with burden and responsibility, so light with games of peek-a-boo and spontaneous dancing.  So emptied out of energy and time and space and refreshment, so full of laughter and wonder and silly conversation.  Despite the palpable beauty and the irrefutable blessing, there is a darkness that can cast shadows on a mama’s joy, and that leads us to live a shadow of the blessing intended for us.

There is the feeling of invisibility and having no visible achievement to show for the mothering of the day. There are sleepless nights and impossible pressures.  There are fits and messes, and the hurry of the world clashing with the maddening sloooow of children who don’t see the big deal about putting on shoes. There is the crushing inadequacy, the fear of the dangers and hardships our children could face. There is the tension of being a mom, with enormous influence and utter lack of control over future and faith and safety.

There are the yoga pants and minivans, the feelings of smallness and un-chicness. There is the lack of understanding from the boss or the dinner party host. There is the impossible-to-explain importance of a naptime. There is the intense grind of chores and meals and sports schedules, and endless driving. There is the hopelessness of keeping up, the discouragement of failure, the laying down your life in the most imperceptible ways. There is the absence of instruction or feedback. There are the postpartum hormones and breastfeeding struggles that everyone has but no one likes to admit, and everyone seems to forget by the time their youngest is out of diapers.

Something in me cries out for someone to see, for someone to understand the chaotic mystery I’m trying to live, somehow with intention and purpose.  Maybe like me, you yearn for someone to understand the strangeness of stumbling for coffee and trying to piece together a seemingly sloppy mess of moments into a story leading little souls to the feet of Jesus…shaping the next generation with the same handful of moments that can so easily be shaped by prolonged fatigue, grumpiness, and the inexplicable experience of “mommy brain.” All we’ve learned about life and faith and work seems to short-circuit in days of pure survival with tiny people.

And yet, our lives will be made up of a series of these mostly ordinary moments.  What might it look like to live these moments fully alive?  What might it mean to find God in the mess, instead of waiting for the mountaintop?

 

The days of a mother are full of things to distract us or keep us from the gift… I have to think that the secret to joy is not in pretending they aren’t there.  I have to believe that a feeling of purpose and fulfillment is not in finding enough affirmation.   I think the joy and peace and purpose we long for are just on the other side of surrender.

The key to unlocking joy and abundance in the midst of this motherhood thing – it lies hidden within our deepest cries and our desperate longings.

 

I believe God whispers to our hearts in the places that cry out the loudest.

 

As I open my ears to hear, I begin to notice God’s gentle whisper beckoning me to his heart – into deeper intimacy with Him – through the very things I thought were there to steal my joy.  I invite you to tune in and listen to how God is calling to your heart right in the middle of your mess…

As your human limits slap you right across the face…when two eyes, two ears, two hands are never enough to meet all of the needs… When you crash into bed like a force of nature despite the mound of things you “should” be doing…  When fatigue, lack of control, the inability to “fix it” for your kids overwhelm you… May these things drive you to submit to God’s infinite wisdom and sovereignty.  Through our fleshy and finite humanness, God calls us to know his omnipotent kingship.  God beckons our hearts through our weakness.

As you feel claustrophobic with small people hanging on you or talking ceaselessly, may you feel wooed into the safety and quiet of God’s presence. There was a time it was sheer discipline to remember to seek quiet in my day… it now feels like survival. I think of Jesus with the sick and desperate crowding against him as I feel the constant needs of my children assailing me. I think of newlywed days in a crowd and wishing to be alone with my love. God calls to our hearts through the pressure of our days…may you feel the longing ache to draw away and be alone with Him, the Lover of your soul. God beckons our hearts through the relentless pressure. 

As your sense of identity seems to slip through your fingers…  When everyone talks to your baby as if you are merely a backdrop…  When no one notices that you never got to sit down for the meal… When so much of your life, worries and fears, longings and hopes, service and heartbreak – so much is unseen… may you hear God’s whisper that he sees.  We are drawn into a life of self-sacrifice, before one set of eyes, the eyes of Our Heavenly Father. We are invited into a secret romance with him, and it’s all a dance of worship. God beckons our hearts through invisibility.

For this generation, there is a relentless unspoken law of “good mom.”  When the expectations to do everything right are crushing you, and your constant failure bombarding you…  If you fail to be the mom you want to be, and you are haunted by the thought of sweet little eyes seeing you do it all wrong… may you be washed in the truth that our shepherding is about our imperfection pointing to the perfection of Jesus, our weakness pointing to Christ’s strength.  May you be beckoned by the whisper that says it’s all about grace.   God calls us to security and confidence based not in our performance, but in our identity as His daughter. We are transformed by a keen and constant understanding of our need, and an hourly dependence on our Rescuer Jesus.  God beckons our hearts through our failure.

When you are frustrated by your child’s agonizing slowness and distractibility… may you be beckoned by the invitation to wonder and delight.  When you struggle to get them to focus, may you melt into their intoxicating giggles.  Children are Jesus’ example of the liberation intended for our hearts.  We are invited back to the magic of a butterfly.  We are beckoned by an enthusiastic attitude of “Do it again!” We have a picture of the faith Jesus describes, in which our confidence comes from knowing we’re loved, not by our performance. Accepting grace comes easily, love is assumed.  They move slow, are open to interruptions, are infinitely forgiving.  This posture opens up endless possibilities for encountering the Spirit of God, living in gratitude.  Children delight in every little thing of God’s creation.  God beckons our hearts through our child’s eyes of unhurried wonder.

As parents, we have everything to lose.  Fear of real or imagined danger and loss can be debilitating.  Every time we must let our children go to some new adventure or unknown circumstance, it is as if our hearts are ripped right out and given legs.   We are all Abraham laying Isaac on the alter because we believe God keeps his promises, and have nowhere else to turn (Genesis 22).  We are all Jochabed putting Moses in a basket on the Nile because we have no other choice (Exodus 2).  We could let this feeling trap us and paralyze us from joy-filled living, or we can listen for the whisper that gently says “I set the stars in place (Job 9:9, Psalm 8:3).”  We could tune into the voice that says “I know every hair on their heads (Luke 12: 7).”  We could listen for the One who says “They can never leave my presence, and I am the only one able to hem them in (Psalm 139).”  Though we don’t have a promise for perpetual safety and ease, we have a promise that God is near, and God is good.  God beckons us through our desperation for His covering over our children.

Days and nights full of laundry and dishes and lunch boxes and diapers and driving…they have a mind-numbing repetitiveness.  We could spend them waiting bitterly for a better life to begin, but I’m beginning to see that the mindless tasks can become like repeating a worship refrain. As we build up our muscle memory for folding shirts and loading the dishwasher, we can build a spirit memory of openness and adoration.  We can fold a shirt giving thanks for the one who wears it.  We can pack the lunch or scrub the pot giving thanks for strong arms for our task.  God beckons us with the repetitive refrain of our day, inviting us to sing a song of worship with our hands.  

God is after your heart, Mama. I pray for eyes to see the wild pursuit.

 

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

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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 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.

Waiting in wonder…

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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.