Pit or Platform? Step up.

      I have to begin with a little story from a few months ago. It's Christmas break, and I am the kind of weary tired that comes from staying up way too late night after night, after days full of activity with children. The Jones's were not getting anything remotely close to adequate sleep.  My children were exhausting me and one another with truly wonderful things, and very challenging things. Sledding!  fighting.  Wrestling!  whining. Ice skating!  (On top of getting three kids bundled up, a process my mom calls the snow dance, let's add knives to the bottom of our feet - they take an additional five minutes to put on PER SKATE and then let's try not to stab one another and stay standing while attempting to move around on a slippery, cold, rock hard surface.  WON'T THAT BE FUN?) It actually was fun. A lot of fun.

    Dustin and I, after a long New Year's weekend of winter fun with the kids and staying up late with all our people, watched some Netflix.  I fell asleep in the first five minutes of the show.  When he turned it off at the end and woke me up, I popped up and was like, "Decided to turn it off in the middle, huh?" He, used to the wiles of Sleeping Becky, took me by the hand and was like, "Come on honey, our room is this way."

    I do not remember getting into bed. I am always ridiculous with sleep. It is one of my gifts.  Yet ten minutes later, my youngest starts calling out in his sleep, from what is obviously a terrifying dream.  I fly out of my bed like I'm a freaking ninja assassin. Alert for danger. Ready to pray off a spiritual attack.  Waking and comforting him, readjusting, tucking him back in to bed. Covers smoothed, drink of water, forehead stroked.  And then I went back to bed...back to my gift... 

     Sometimes the places where we seem the weakest are actually caches of secret weapons and strength.  Especially in places we are tempted to feel like victims. Sometimes middle-of-the-night mommy just gets down about the lack of sleep.  I have a bible study book from the spring of 2011 (brand new baby, 2.5 and 5 year old in the house)  that asks questions like, "What is God bringing you through right now? What is the desire of your heart you need to lay before him?"  And my answers are like: "I need sleep.  I need to rest. I am running on empty. I am dying here. I am so tir...." and then there are just coffee stains all over it. It smells like old spilled coffee and spit-up and tears.

  

      It is easy to feel like a victim when it comes to things that are out of our control. New moms and  multiple little-kid moms are going to have some red in the sleep ledger.  Okay a lot of red. Some nights I think, "Why me?  Why tonight? God don't you know what I have on the calendar for tomorrow? Can a girl get some HELP? Can you make them sleep God? Poppies please? Isn't it something about poppies? I can't remember because I'm so freaking tired. Why is it always me? Why doesn't Daddy ever pop up out of his dead sleep and do it? Why can't I sleep through it? WHY DO MY DESCENDANTS WANT TO STEAL ALL OF THE GOOD THINGS? Like my peace! and my boobs! and my ability to think in complete sentences!" Whether the resulting feelings of self-pity and dismay are from a believer's very real enemy Satan, or just from our own flesh is hard to say.  And honestly, there is no energy left to try and figure that all out. 

    Lack of sleep is just one area where I am tempted to feel like a victim. Other things that do it would include: puke and other sicknesses of my children, weather (specifically and irrationally - wind), car problems, a distracted husband, bad moods that seemingly come out of nowhere, and last but most certainly not least - hormones (why is this happening to me? and why am I SOOOO sad about it?). But I am hearing from God that every time I have an opportunity to play the victim, that HE is extending a hand to me and inviting me onto a platform. 

     My default setting is to slither down into a pit of self pity, but His best is inviting me to step up.  "Why me?" Says the pit. My heels backslide down well-worn ruts.  "Only you can tuck that kid in and get him back to sleep in moments," says my God, who has equipped me for every good work. He beckons to me, to ascend the stairs, to step up, to come up on a sturdy place that is equipped with an eternal well of grace.  "Only you can wake up out of a dead sleep - you, the crazy sleep lady - and defend your child who's heart is gripped with fear. Only you can do it without waking up the rest of the house, even big brother who sleeps two feet away. I've put you HERE and given you everything you need to do it. STEP UP." He says it with a smile, like a welcoming invitation to be really, really good and capable at something, because he will equip  me to be.  

      So a five year old's bad dream, you're thinking....and she thinks she has problems. What about a major hurt? What about a life threatening illness?  What about a life threatening illness inside my child? Then is it okay to slither down into the pity pit? Then can I just collapse?   I truly believe the principal stands, regardless of the circumstance.  If this is starting to sound like "God never gives you anything you can't handle," a sentiment I hate, then please read about that in my post from a few years ago, "You Can't Handle It."  Instead, I believe God's loving voice sounds like this: "Trust me in this, you can't handle this alone, but I can. Give this tough thing to me- let me work through it and I will pour so much light through you that people will come staggering toward you demanding an explanation and you can say: Jesus."

     Recently our church has suffered some major hurt, like a rock slide with a bunch of broken hearts at the bottom kind of hurt.  Our pastor of 31 years was asked to step down.  He and his wife are very hurt.  His son, another pastor at our church, is very hurt.  His family was very hurt. Our head pastor's  reputation is spotless.  He led us well. There were 1,000 conversations to have and 2,000 Why!?s   But yet again, I see the hand of Jesus reaching out and  extending an invitation.  Saying - don't tap dance around the edge of the pit...STEP UP onto my platform of grace.  Every crack in your broken heart will let my light through, if you stick close to me in this.  I will not waste a single fracture.  Every time I want to feel like a victim, God can use me well if I refuse to slither into myself.
   
         I am watching my friend, my pastor's son, do just this.  He is using his gifts- creativity, music, technology, encouragement - to step up and lead well. He is definitely in one of the toughest positions in all this. He will stay with the people who are hurting, and the people he is mad at. He has listened to raw hearts spewing raw materials from just about every point of view, while trying to process his own balance of family loyalty and belonging to a body of believers. My friend isn't just transitioning to a new boss, he is doing that alongside grieving for his dad. His kids' grandpa. His kids' grandma. There are plenty of people who in our church who are stuck down in pits of anger, of sadness, of resentment that this decision was made. Of all the people, my friend deserves to slide into a pit of all those tough feelings. But he is stepping up. He might not be doing it perfectly, but every day he shows up for work. He thinks of ways to lead the people in songs that will lift our collective spirit, and our individual ones. He and his wife are having tough conversations they'd rather avoid. They are facing feelings with courage instead of numbing them with Netflix. Of all people, we would say - yep, you deserve some time in the self-pity pit; just take a little vacation down in there.  But God has better plans. When we think we most deserve something, God invites us to serve Him instead. My friend is stepping up. He's singing praises. He's singing a new song, even if it's in a sad sounding minor key for right now. And it's a beautiful thing to watch.

    My Jones sister in Michigan is doing the same thing. She was diagnosed with a really crappy chronic illness that will affect her for the rest of her life. She texted me a month ago: I wouldn't change a thing that I've been through. It feels like an awakening. I have incentive to grow in faith. Wow!! She is stepping up, and God will be glorified.

        And there are greater tragedies than an honorable pastor peacefully leaving a church. Sadder things than watching your parents figure out plan B. There are really tough things, but what I see is this:  people in really tough circumstances have the greatest cavities to fill. And when we choose to fill our crushed up empty places with Jesus, His light is so full and bright that we light up the world, and that was His plan all along. No, he does not want us in pain. No, it is not his perfect will to allow hurt into our lives. But he honors our tough things by using them for good. Hallelujah!

     Every time I feel sorry for myself because 'she' didn't text me in my time of need, is an opportunity to reach out and encourage HER in her battle.  Every time I have road rage because someone is riding my bumper, I can flip them off, or I can be humble.  I can get out of their way, submit, defer, pray for them and give a friendly wave.  Every time my husband is absorbed in his own fight or life or interests, and i want to whine around and feel unloved and unwanted, I can step up and initiate affection, conversation or touch. Or crazy idea!: Clearly and kindly ask for his attention and compassion. He is a good man, I need only ask.

     Do not misunderstand me - there is a grief process.  There is no shame in moving through that process, and you should not feel guilt or shame because you are in a tough place and you are not "doing enough" to step up, or you are "doing it wrong."  That is never, ever the intention of my words - written or spoken.  What I always intend for my words to do is to shift the focus from self (especially MYSELF) - back to Jesus.  When we are wrapped in self, we are helpless. When we let the hurt feelings swirl around and around us, we are right where Satan wants us. Isolated. Cut off from living water. Clogged up. Powerless.  When we are wrapped in Jesus, our eyes are on Him, on His works prepared for us, on His priorities- we are connected to a source that gives us power, healing and purpose. We don't have to do it by our own strength, because He only needs our surrender - and He does the work. It still hurts, but it's not pointless or destructive. Through us - through our surrendered gifts, talents, time, pain, testimonies and empathetic love for others - He builds his kingdom.

     Jesus warned the disciples they would have troubles, that things would go badly for them, and that they would be hated.  He encouraged them to keep going. To shake the dust off their feet, move on and trust him with the judgement and the results. Because their eyes were on Him and not their troubles:  prison became a pulpit; a stoning spurred the spread of the gospel all over the region; chained-in-jail became an opportunity to interact with angels. Paul, shipwrecked and snake bitten, wrote the letters that helped me fall in love with Jesus.  The brave and resilient men who, by the power of the Holy Spirit and the name of Jesus,  'stepped up' after the resurrection guaranteed that the gospel would be alive and well, and growing today.  Their step-up helped ensure your eternity with Jesus, if you've decided that Jesus is for you.  What will our 'steps up' do in other people's eternities? People we do life with now? People we raise? mentor? feed? clothe? Their children? For how many generations?

    Are you stuck in a pit?  Reach your hands to the heavens and pray.  There is a God and a Savior that has a beautiful story to tell through you, and His hands are lovingly extended toward you at all times, waiting to deliver you. Ready to rescue you. He is a good, good God, you need only ask.

The Waiters

      The stoplight is long. I sit on a one lane busy street waiting for the crossing guard. Traffic is backed up for two blocks, like it always is this time of day.  Waiting for the light. Waiting for all the other mothers and dads and daycare providers to cluster and disperse.  They pick up their precious ones, and I pick up mine. Another waiter stands on the corner.  Her charcoal parka hood pulled up around her face, obscuring her demographics.  Slight build, somewhere between a woman and a child, long slender legs clad in dark gray leggings and black suede boots halfway to her knee.  Her boots are coated in the powder snow that fell down all day, light and dry.  Her coat covers her figure, everything about her sleek and dark. Her trendy, colorful backpack is solid and full on her back. She absent-mindedly traces circles with her toe the snow, her phone in hand, her head down, checking and rechecking some communication.  She checks the street, checks the traffic, types on the touch screen.

        An unkempt little person unhurriedly approaches.  He is clad in layers of orange coat and long sleeved t-shirt, his jeans are untidily sticking out of black rubber-soled snow boots. His coat is unzipped, his gloves stick out of the coat pockets. His blonde hair is stuck here and there on his forehead, his cheeks are pink with the cold.  He licks his fingers, eating snow out of the schoolyard.  He smiles at the girl and approaches her, adoring eyes up, hands up, fingers splayed out displaying his frozen prize. He comes up to her waist.

            I expect her to ignore him. I expect her to brush him off. Push him away. Adolescent nonchalance. Scold him for his gloves off.  Instead, he sticks his hands in the pockets of her coat.  She pulls him in close.  He tilts his head way back and grins up at her.  She brushes snow off his cheeks and pulls him in close for a hug.  She leans down; gentle and kind sister reaching down to a wild and rumpled little brother. She puts her face right next to his and says something to him I cannot hear through the car window. He beams and giggles, pulls away and goes back for more snow. Every thing in her body language tells me he is precious. Every thing in her posture tells me she would protect him to the ends of the earth. Legs splayed, he leans down and grabs two more handfuls of snow. She gets what she needs from her phone. She calls to him, he takes her hand. They walk across the street.  

      I have been contemplating this little scene of waiting all afternoon.  Two things I'm thinking: 

1 -there is love in that home. 2- Do my actions and reactions in the absent-minded moments of my day show the love I have for my people? I'll never forget this little scene as long as I live. How lovely is love when it crops up in unexpected places.  What a glowing neon sign for the world it can be when we practice it well. 

Yoga & You! This post is not really about Yoga...

     Sometimes when I'm angry I will slam cupboard doors and get in bed and feel sorry for myself.(I'm too mature to slam regular doors now that I'm months away from my 30th birthday.)   Sometimes I do this with the intention of going to sleep, like I will pout my way out of this day and really show 'em.  This happened recently and I laid in bed and wondered why I couldn't just go to sleep and forget about the world and the marriage and the family and the house and all of the things.

      While laying there seething and justifying and calming down because the tantrum train was running low on reason and steam, I realized that my anger had jumped out of my brain and nestled right into the place where my neck meets my shoulders.  I was so tense that I was holding my head off the pillow with the muscles that live in the neck-meets-the-shoulders place, and it turns out that a big stubborn head is very heavy to hold up.  I've recently  discovered there are a lot of heavy parts of me. I discovered this by exercising.

    I write about this, not to impress you with the gentleness of my spirit, but once again to tell my story.  My story, I hope, is always about my God who teaches me stuff, and then I try my best to use the English language to translate the lessons to my tiny group of people who might read my blog.  Right now, in this season of my life - you are my people, and this is the place where I get to use my gifts. Gifts - the way I'm wired - like my temper, and what I hope is a teachable spirit, and words that help me sort it all out.

     My wise and caring mother taught me a trick long ago about relaxing when I was very upset or tense. If you were raised by a wise and caring mother, you have her little voice in the back of your head all the time. She's terribly helpful, always reminding me to unplug my curling iron and wear my seatbelt; to switch the laundry so it doesn't get smelly and to pick the important battles with my children, and leave the lesser ones alone. And so it was this very helpful voice who came to me in the middle of the anger and I remembered a little of her story.

    When she was a ten, she used to watch a TV show called Lillias Yoga & You.  Lillias wore a pink leotard and leggings (you see why I love this story), and at the beginning of each program, she would instruct her pupils to lay down on the floor. Then she would tell them to relax every muscle, beginning with the tips of their toes all the way to the top of their heads.  Ten-year-old Helen would relax every one of those muscles, and then go to bed fully relaxed, skipping the rest of the yoga. This approach to exercise she apparently passed on to me, which is why I pay $15 a month to go to Pilates and lay in child's pose.  (Child's pose is called that because the people who lay in it have a child, but they are just trying to have a quiet moment of pretending to exercise while their precious and very intense preschooler is in the child center. Some people do...I've heard.)

   So I laid in bed, and let go of all the stress and striving and effort that was trying to hold all the heaviest parts of me. My head is heavy. My anger is heavy. My expectations of myself are heaviest, heaviest of all.  But intentionally and slowly and methodically, I can relax every single muscle and lay all those heavy things down.

     A few days later, I reread the story about Joshua and the Battle of Jericho, Jericho, Jericho. When the walls came a tumblin' down.  I reread this story because our church family is going through "The Story" in which you read the Bible in narrative form. And during a few quiet moments with God, in my guest room, I listened quietly to the Lover of my soul. If you are a Jesus follower, and you have taken time to just be quiet and listen, maybe you have experienced that what doesn't come in words, comes in pictures and ideas, or very clear convictions. He echoes through various sources and experiences, and draws memories from your brain to teach you about Himself.  This particular day he clearly showed me that he wants me to relax everything and give it to Him. He wants me to intentionally lay down every wall and relax every muscle inside my heart, until He can move around freely in there.  It wasn't a demand, but an assurance of what He is already doing. A statement about His character and how He is relentlessly pursuing me, and changing me into someone like Himself.  Gently. Patiently. Lovingly. He is like that.

     Surrender can be like that.  The beginning of surrender can be like finding a rock-hard muscle in a neck-and-shoulder place.   I don't even know how tightly I'm holding onto something until it starts to ache and I start losing sleep.  I don't even know how big and important and scary something is to me until it wakes me up in the middle of the night and tries to run a quick 5k in the hamster brain wheel.  And these are the warning signs...the growing pains before the growth.

    Surrender can feel dramatic like Jericho. Sometimes it has to be a big march around, a determined trust and prayer and obedience process, and a big shout and trumpet blast and God just crushes that thing that I was so afraid of.  I've had a few big surrenders - like at high school FCA camp when the music and the speakers and the puberty and the Spirit of the Living God all had me in tears and I went home different. Changed. Or like lying flat on my back when a pregnancy test had me scared senseless and I didn't really have any other ideas, so I told God he could just take it from here. The walls of this temple have sometimes been taken down by sledgehammer, and eventually by the Consuming Fire Himself...Sometimes He just starts over with ashes, just because He can.
   

     But most surrender is slower, and calmer, and quieter.  It's like Lillias and Helen, in routine, regular moments. It's more like Jesus just stretching me a little bit at a time out of my preconceived notions of Him and out of my little bitty comfort zone.  Little by little, Yahweh told the Israelites,(Ex. 23) He would deliver them from their enemies and help them come home into Promised Land.  Little by little, he is remodeling my heart.  Little by little, I relax the muscles that are holding up all the things I think I need to control, and just rest in Him.  Little by little I can say no to food choices, or gossip or slander or embellishing a story to make it better.  Little by little, I can say yes to unexpected house guests (without FREAKING OUT!), feeding another family or babysitting for a mom who needs a little help from time to time, or subbing in 1st grade Sunday school. These things might seem mundane, but look closely- they are loosening chains of injustice, feeding orphans and widows, clothing those that need clothes and sheltering those who need shelter.

    There will be seasons of Jericho surrender, and seasons of Yoga surrender. I trust Him with both. He might ask me to do some big time surrenders and give up some big things. Like maybe my house. Or maybe my favorite piece of Nebraska that I live and breathe and walk on. Right now, though, He is letting me hang out in child's pose, which literally is how I pray many mornings, forehead to the floor; and figuratively - being in the season of raising boys. Mostly, He is asking me to have an open-concept floor plan when it comes to my heart, and with moment-to-moment, little-by-little yes's and no's, follow and emulate His heart.

      Turns out the things that I wanted to control were really heavy, and I'm so much happier and healthier when I let God heft the heavy for me.  He knows what I need before I ask, yet I spend more time than I'd like to admit slamming cupboard doors and lying in bed worrying problems to death.

      Tenderly, though, gently, lovingly - He stretches me and relaxes all the neck-and-shoulder places. He takes it on His own neck and shoulders. He already carried it all to Calvary, and best news - He won.

Matthew 11:28-30
Come to me all you weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

1 Peter 5:6-7
Humble yourselves, therefore, under God's mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time.  Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.

Stop slamming cupboards and holding heavy things, and come.

Three Gifts

    It's December 3rd, 2015 and the crazy has already begun. Because I'm a stubborn and unorganized nonconformist, I refused to buy anything on black Friday or cyber Monday that would save me money,  but I have bought a few gifts online here and there for my people.  I have mental lists that fly around my brain like the golden snitch and good intentions chasing them around…they will make it to a piece of paper eventually. Might be Christmas Eve, but they will be written down, and then the triage will begin and I will remember that I'm not superwoman, and no one really cares if there are random socks and dust bunnies under the beds, and that the junk drawer isn't cleaned out in case Santa looks in there.

    It's December 3rd, and the crazy has begun.  My husband's job is to the keep track of every dollar that goes in and out of our family business, and so December and January means month-end, quarter-end and year-end tasks that all come at once. The only kind of comparison I can make is from my college and limited teaching experience - it is kind of like having to read the syllabus, write all the papers and take all the midterms & finals all in one month. Or like the two weeks leading up to parent teacher conferences, but it lasts eight weeks instead of two. He goes to work every morning thinking about the mountain of work ahead of him. He comes home thinking about the mountain tomorrow.  He spends all day every day working through meals trying to stay ahead of the avalanche of work behind him, and the one that's coming.  As he says, these are the two months he makes up for all the Wednesday and Friday afternoons in the summer he plays golf. He is overwhelmed, but managing it. He is drained in the evenings. He is on a weird meal schedule. He is trying to also cram in Christmas shopping, school programs, shoveling snow & every other December-y thing. His 30th birthday is on the 21st.  I wonder if he will notice.

    It's December 3rd, and the crazy has begun.  This week is mild, but starting next week, the madness ensues.  There are three field trips of caroling at nursing homes, a preschool gift exchange, a PTO meeting, Luke's special day at school, his actual birthday, and his birthday party (which deserves all the fanfare that the August & May birthdays get!), two after school clubs, two Christmas music programs, three classroom parties, our office Christmas party, one hair appointment for me, and finally - nearly the most exciting thing for the boys - the Star Wars movie is coming out and we get to go to a special screening thanks to some generous friends.  (Do not look back at that run-on sentence, and do not call Mrs. Mensing or Mrs. Bolzer, because they would surely shake their heads and feel like they'd wasted their lives trying and failing to teach grammar to children.) Those are just the things that I remembered to write on my calendar! and I cannot escape a creeping self-awareness that I have missed a few notes home and forgotten a few conversations and I'm going to miss some stuff. If I flip through my contacts, and think about my friends and their kids and the activities they've mentioned, we are the least busy of all of them.

      It's December 3rd. And while December is special, it's also just full of Mondays and Thursdays and mundane routines.  The dog still needs to be walked and fed and loved. The kids still need clean clothes and meals around the table and help with homework and reading. My husband still needs to unwind watching "Oak Island," or have popcorn and movie with his lady. Luke still needs to crank up music and have regular dance parties to be happy. So I have to step up my game a little bit to keep everything from falling apart.

   A season that should be full of quiet moments of reflection, thanksgiving, worship, and awe has morphed into a season we all just have to survive without screaming or pulling our hair out. And on social media, we must maintain the illusion that we are really good at doubling our commitments and maintaining a calm and smiling and magical home where cookies are baked, presents are wrapped and trees are glistening.

    Well I quit. Not doing it. Not holding myself to Pinterest-sized standards. Do you know what happens when I bake cookies? Oven fires.  Do you know what happens when I decorate cookies?  Frosting and food coloring stain the countertop. Do you know what happens when we get a Christmas tree before December 10th?  I forget to water it, and it dies. Because I'm me.  I'm not whining, not shame spiraling, not even disappointed in myself.  I'm not worrying about outfits, or photos or the perfect plate of cookies for the class parties because I REFUSE TO BE DISAPPOINTED IN A PART OF ME THAT DOESN'T EXIST. I could be a mom that purchased coordinating Christmas outfits, but I know myself - I'm cheap and I'm practical.  I go to Herbergers, look at the prices and think - why would I spend that much money on one outfit? They'll just outgrow it or wreck it. Hand me downs will work just fine for us.  And then I've wasted another precious afternoon just remembering who I am and how I feel about things.  If my boys' jeans don't have holes in the knees, and they've showered in the last 48 hours, that's good enough for me.

     As I prepare an advent basket for my kids to dig into the Bible in the coming days, I have read the Christmas story about 37 times in three different resources, trying to pull out special lessons and qualities of God as they open a manger scene piece by piece. What I didn't find in the Christmas story  was worry, or rushing, or clearance shopping, or a picturesque tree surrounded by perfection and gifts containing the fulfillment of all hopes and dreams.

    What I do find is this:  a couple being obedient to a big God at great personal cost, and in truly bizarre circumstances. I find an event on earth that completely disrupted everything in heaven because it was the most exciting beginning of anything that ever happened-something worth stopping and celebrating!  I find some older men who dropped every important commitment, defied cultural norms and risking their lives, lied to a powerful king just so they could kneel at the chubby toddler feet of Jesus and bring him three gifts.

    Gold, a gift fit for a King.  Frankincense, an incense used by priests.  Myrrh because it was used to prepare a body for death.   Three quiet, prophetic gifts for a child who they believed with all their heart was the Messiah High Priest King who came to die.

    As I check and double check the calendar, the wish lists and take stock in how much milk we have, the age-old, Sunday school question keeps nagging at the edge of my Spirit: "What will you bring the King?"  When I give gifts, I want them to be an overflow of something that gave me joy, that I know will also bring the recipient joy- something that connects us. Something that says, "I know you, I've been listening - and if you really know me, then this will mean something to you too." This doesn't happen for every person I buy for on every holiday, but I like to send that message as often as I can.   And especially, as I approach the manger, the cross & the throne at the right hand of God - I want Jesus to know: "I know you! I've been listening! and because you know me better than anyone, this will be a very meaningful and precious gift that I lay at your feet."

    When I let the Holy Spirit lead me, His wish list looks much different than the one I've been working on.  It looks a lot like Galatians 5 and the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, and self-control.  It looks like Micah 6:8- To act justly, and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God. It doesn't look anything like perfection, but a lot like grace.  All of it is very simple, but also will require work and discipline and will not happen by accident. I want to be specific & intentional about my three gifts this year,  and make the 21 days left until Christmas about giving them away again and again.

     I want to be a calm & considerate wife. I want to wake up every day making a decision to filter stress through love and take responsibility for how that stress affects my family, and especially my husband. I want to own and unleash the power my attitude and mood has over my family.  I want to be a good listener, a back rubber, to be available for his whimsy without any ugly backlash from my EVERYTHING-MUST-BE-PLANNED-IN-ADVANCE-OR-THE-END-OF-THE-WORLD-WILL-BEGIN mentality.  I want to very intentionally encourage him every day so he knows how truly amazing I think he is. I want to be in his corner when he comes home, ready to help him knock out the things coming at him, instead of having a selfish pity party in my own corner that he doesn't have time or energy for me and my stuff.

       I want to be available for my kids.  While Pinterest wants this to look like smiling-baking-crafting-wrapping-mommy, this really looks like sprawling-on-the-living-room-floor-playing-cribbage-with-boys-in-their-underwear mommy. It looks like reading Magic Treehouse for the 3rd time, and remembering to pause at the end of the page so my first grader can read the last paragraph. And it means that instead of hitting the treadmill or a nice quiet walk in the pasture, that my exercise this month will be dancing around to Daya and Pharrel Williams & Maroon 5, because, yes Luke, I do want to have a special dancing date with you again.

   And finally, my third gift - has to be faithfulness. I have realized, about myself, especially this last week - that without a daily, quiet time that smells like coffee, and feels like a deep peace settling down into my soul, I am a selfish, crazy wreck of a person.  Without reading God's word, even if it isn't flashy or some big revelation, I cannot give the first two gifts.  The deeper I go into the heart of Jesus, the more desperately I need Him. And it has to be mornings, at least for me. There is no other time when I can be alone with Him in the quiet so He can pour out His love on me, and I can open up my heart and receive it.

    Preparing and giving these gifts will wear me out this December, and I cannot escape the crazy.  But I'd rather spend myself for the right reasons instead of the wrong ones. Help and encourage one another to give gifts that matter, and that bring a smile to the face of the King.

Merry Crazy December!

Becky

Charlie Girl

November 4, 2015

Sunlight poured in through the crack in the curtains in Miles’s room this morning. Daylight savings time depresses me at dusk, but thrills me at dawn. Morning people who love coffee and sunrises are happier for earlier light. I just stared at him, all snuggled up in the morning light. I couldn’t wake him, yet.  I climbed under the covers with him and he woke up slow.  His long fingers snatched out at the sunlight, and we spent a few morning minutes catching dust particles in the sunlight like we were snatching secrets right out of the air.  It was well past the time I usually wake him for school, but I had news heavy on my heart, and I didn’t want to ruin his day, just yet.

Miles is my deep, deep soul.  Those eyelashes are long because they cover over windows that stretch back for miles. You need tough security on a heart like that.  He feels things harder than the other two, but he is gentle and kind. And there is something quiet and trustworthy down deep inside of him that animals just cannot resist.  Hence the tough news. The day had come. Charlie wasn’t fit for this world anymore. 

Yesterday was a beautiful warm fall day, with wind and rain on the forecast for the weekend; it was a great day to winterize. To dump pots, and haul dirt, and rake pine needles.  I took all the flowerpots in the back of the gator to the back of my horse barn, and while I worked, Charlie followed me around as usual.  Finding a warm place to lay, underfoot usually, just wanting to be near me. Always in my shadow. I don’t know how many times I’ve cursed and scolded that dog for laying right down where I am working, but she never took offense. She’d move over a little, and look at me, like “you know you love me.” While I was unloading flower pots, she tried to follow me down to the horse barn. It was her last walk. That night her gait was off, like she’d really hurt something. Her one remaining front leg that hadn’t been crippled by arthritis couldn’t bear the weight anymore...not that she weighed much lately. Dustin carried her to the bedroom for bed, and I carried her out in the morning to pee, and I knew…this wasn’t a good life anymore.

But I couldn’t tell Miles yet, and rush him out the door to school with a hasty goodbye. So I did what any mother would do, and emailed his teachers to say we’d be late. And we laid around and petted her and gave our time and our back rubs. When I told Isaiah, I was in tears, and he said, at ten years old, “Come  here mom, I want to hug you.” Isn’t that just like him? To be the responsible adult in the household?  Miles just took the news in stride, quiet as usual, and immediately went to lay by her side, and wouldn’t move until we made him. 

After the kids went to school, the vet came out and gave her two injections.  Those thirty minutes are not a block of time I want to remember.  I hated it. Phrases keep chasing each other around in my brain.  “Barbituate overdose.”  And “tourniquet.” “She may take an agonizing breath.” She didn’t, it was slow and peaceful, and quiet.  “You’d be surprised how many dogs get a second wind on the day of their scheduled euthanasia.”  Just one last burst of energy motivated by fear or pain; just enough energy so that I could second-guess the decision or battle regret.   The visuals just stick in my brain.  The things I don’t want to remember, but they are too fresh to file away yet. 

     A smarter person would not talk about the details. They would try to put up secure walls around those memories, walk away and forget. A more practical person would enjoy the weekend with family and laugh about the good times. But my spirit says…write it down.  Don’t forget. Use it. Make it count. Learn something and record it.  

     By the grace of God, putting the family dog to sleep is the worst thing I’ve had to decide to do. And it was completely Charlie’s time. She’d had a great life.  By the grace of God, this grief is the worst thing since my Grandpa died in 2009.  By the grace and protection of God, we have had nothing but favor and good things pour into our life, like sweet sap from a spile.  And I try to thank him, and not too feel guilty that I cannot relate to my friends’ and families’ grief and tribulations. There is no need to compare my sad to someone else’s.  They are just different cups to drink in different years. My time to mourn the big things will come. I won’t be ready for those either, and they will hit harder and hurt longer than this.

     I keep downplaying everything and feeling like a fool for the tears and all the sad.  But grace again arrives, and my friend, my person, Maranda says – “This is a big thing that happened today.” And I realize she is right.  I need to let myself mourn, and not worry about foolishness. I need to give myself the day off from downplaying the sad, even if just for a sweet old arthritic black lab. I need to practice for the bigger tidal waves that surely will come because death is a part of life.  And I need to show my kids that mourning is nothing to be ashamed of.

    So I’m writing down what I learned.  Dustin didn’t think he wanted to be there for the euthanasia, but because Charlie had a burst of energy on the first attempt, I called him and he came home immediately while the vet went back to the clinic for a sedative.  So for the second time around, my husband and I were side by side.  I wanted to carry it alone, so he wouldn’t have to.  I thought I’d be okay, I prefer to grieve inside my own mind.  When I talk to others or share it, I cry like a baby, and then I feel like a fool.  But he came, and I couldn’t have done it without him.  And how fitting – she was our first responsibility at 17 and 18 years old. Why did I think I should do this alone when she had been with us from before “us” got covenant-serious.  Lesson learned - when hard things happen, I want Dustin there with me. He is my family. Not my foundation, but definitely a load-bearing wall I don’t ever want to be without.

      The tough thoughts – the weighty thoughts – are also the thoughts that flood me with gratitude and remind me of my Sovereign, generous, providing, shepherding Father God.   Like how we’ve never been married without Charlie before.  We’ve never been parents without Charlie before. We’ve never been a family without Charlie before.  She’s been in the house or right outside, and frequently underfoot for every major portion of life that Dustin and I have done together.  Unplanned pregnancy.  Working nights to pay for unplanned pregnancy.  Engagement.  Fighting.  Babies coming home from the hospital.  She was always curious and protective from the beginning.  (By the third one, I think she was thinking – really guys? We’re doing this again?)  Newlyweds.  New parents.  Sleepless nights.  Babies who pulled hair and ears, and she never even got up or away from them; she just wanted to be in the mix.  For awhile when Isaiah was 2 or so, and a bit of a ball-kicking cupboard slammer, she found safe haven under the dining room table when she needed a break.  Even when we were buying 10 for $10 Hamburger Helper at Albertsons, which we could only eat with free hamburger from my parents, we were still buying her dog food.

Never bit a single person. 

Never growled at a child. 

Never did anything worse than running off and rolling in something foul. 

Always came home. 

Always wagged her tail and was mostly obedient, without much training from two busy, overwhelmed and unmotivated kids. 

She was never really our top priority.  She was always second (or third or fourth) to a job, a second job, a college course load, a baby, a toddler, the first day of school.  She never really enjoyed the life of dogs who belong to young twenty-somethings who are better at birth control than we were; dogs that get loved like children. But every time I needed a walk to just get away from it all and get out in the quiet, she came too.  Every time I sat on the living room floor, she would do her weird wiggle-into-spooning-position for some love and attention. And there was never a sweeter girl. And we loved her.

            I’m thankful to God for the companions we have in our animals. I’m thankful for this Charlie season that’s over - the 12 years so far that my Father God has never forgotten or forsaken us, and for the assurance that He never will.  I’m especially thankful for the company we had in Charlie for the years when many doubted we would make it as a family.  In our family, she will always be considered a cornerstone member. 

Memorandum to self:  Lean on your husband; he needs you too. Thank God for all the places He has brought you out of, and all the things He brings you through, and for His constant company and steady peace every day of your life. Every time you invite the joy of a puppy into your life, you also invite some death and some grief, for yourself and for your family. And it's worth it.  Love your kids and walk your dogs. When they’re underfoot, pet their ears instead of cussing them out. You’ll miss them when they’re gone.

The Grace Period

     My clumsy hands trying to make straight lines while painting around the edge of a ceiling.  Cursing. Inwardly calling myself names and condemning myself for not being able to do anything right.  "You're just not precise. You have no idea where you are in space.  You have never been good at anything aesthetic." And partly it's true. I think it's wise to get to know yourself, and know what your strengths and weaknesses are.  I am not a precise person. I prefer not to measure, adjust and perfect.  I prefer to throw all those ingredients in a pot and see what happens, or to just go for it and not worry about the details.  I'm a strange mix of being paralyzed by perfectionism and reckless because I hate precision. So usually the beginning of a project is not a great time for my ego.

   

    But…my husband asked if I would please paint the edge of the ceiling before he got home so he could prime and be ready for the real painters. So I did it. Because I love him. And I wanted to help him.  And pretty soon…I learned. I figured out that if I got just the right amount of paint, and if I held the brush at a certain angle, and if I adjusted how tall I was standing on the ladder - pretty soon I was painting like a champ.  My inward dialogue changed. I was like, "Damn girl.  You should hire yourself out." 

     And as I'm up on the ladder alternately berating and applauding myself, in a very quiet room, I hear  my very tender, very Holy Spirit God whispering to me.  It's not actually words. It's not audible sound.  It's just a very profound truth all of a sudden that couldn't possibly come from me, and I know it's Him. And on this painting day the profound truth was this: grace period.

     Every time I try something new, or do something I haven't done in awhile, I need a grace period.  I need to do it badly first. And I need to learn. And I need to do it a little better, and a little better, and pretty soon, I'm going to be good at it. And usually it's the failure, the poor result or performance that makes me doggone determined to get it right the next time. But that first time, when the failure is blatantly obvious, I have to give that grace to myself - my most ruthless critic.  

      I needed about 5 months of grace to settle into a teaching job.  My husband needed an entire year of month-end and quarter-end and year-end to figure out how to do his job well.  A few years ago, I nearly failed one online class before I figured out how to be the independent learner that online classes require you to be.  I needed a grace period to figure out how to go out to dinner with a toddler without completely losing my sanity. I needed to be horrendously and embarrassingly late picking up my kid from school due to a diaper-change-gone-wrong or waking-up -little-brother-fail so that I could adjust my expectations and time management.  

   Perhaps you've found yourself struggling with something new. If you are blessed with a new job, a promotion, a new kid, a new hat to wear or schedule to juggle, or just entering a different season of your life, give yourself a grace period.  Give yourself time to flail around like an idiot until you get it right. 

     I think this is good advice for everyone, but if we are in Christ, we need to take it a little further.    Romans 8:1 says There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.  When everyone else has gathered up their stones to throw, when I'm clenching my own stones tight, He kneels in the sand to defend me. Sometimes even from myself. 

     Isn't He good?  Isn't he tender?  Isn't he loving that He would whisper truth to me in a hateful mundane task like painting around a ceiling? Isn't He kind that He would give us an entire lifetime on this earth as our grace period?  So very many chances to choose Him and follow Him and learn and get better at it? 

     Unfortunately, some of us stay right where we are.  We never change anything.  We stay on the same rung of the same ladder and we berate ourselves for the people we are, and the Christians we are, and the places we are stuck. And the fruit of that life is complaining, and self-pity, insecurity and self-hatred.  

    

    But hear me, there is NO CONDEMNATION for those in Christ.  None.  Not from God. And there shouldn't be any condemnation to: me, from: me either.  And we can actually look forward to that period where we suck, because it's actually a very safe place overflowing with grace from our Father in Heaven, who is full of compassion, slow to anger, abounding in love, and so, so near. Where we are weak, He is strong. This is why we learn to anticipate and to endure and even to be grateful for  the trials of many kinds.  Because it's nothing but grace transforming us from flailing idiots into people more like Him.  And the fruit of this life is gratitude for how far we've come, and humility because we remember who we are without Him, and overflowing love and encouragement to others who might be where we used to be. 

Please, please choose Him.  Please put down your stones, and climb out of that pit and into His grace period for you.

You Can't Handle It

    I am finding, as I grow older, that I am hungry, no STARVING for authenticity in my pursuit of Jesus, and to fellowship (talk, eat, pray, laugh, cry) with other people who are starving for the same menu. I have found that too often, I settle for junk food in my faith when I should be eating healthier.

   God's people have settled for junk food platitudes that subtly alter God's truth, and our perception of Who He Is. I see it all the time.  The fast-food drive-thru windows are often the same repeat diet:  the Facebook meme, the ladies circle of gossip-disguised-as-prayer-requests, the typography beautifully spilled across a photograph loaded with meaning - you know the one, you and I felt really good about it when we pinned it to our Faith boards last week-...the things we say to one another meaning to comfort, meaning to calm, meaning to strengthen and carry one another's burdens…meaning well.

But sometimes, they are JUST NOT TRUE.

One particular NOT-TRUTH that I have tasted, tried, puckered at, and downright chewed the cud on is this:  God never gives you more than you can handle.  

    This one.  This one really strokes the human ego. This one is not nutritious.  This one is like junk food advertising itself as organic and low-cal.  This one limits the Almighty God.  It piles me with pride, or insecurity, depending on which way the wind is blowing on that particular day.  But ultimately, it's just discouraging. A small lie that erodes my view of my God and myself.

    As for my own life, this NOT TRUTH has bounced along the pathway of my life for a good long time.  Countless people encouraged me with this phrase when I was expecting my first child, working multiple jobs and trying to figure out how to finish college and get married.  I heard it again as a brand new wife and mom, having petty fights with my new husband and suffering from lack of sleep and hormone overload.  I heard it again when the second and third children came along; when the toddlers starting painting on the walls with bodily fluids, flushing entire rolls of toilet paper down the toilet, and threw tantrums that involved running into the neighborhood street, and breaking two closet doors. With his heels. And his fists.  I heard it when potty training meant my second son triumphantly grinned at me from the kitchen counter after pooping in the kitchen sink, and my third son changed his own diaper using his bed sheets, beanbag chair and carpet for wipes. My husband actually got to 'handle' that one, bless his heart and clorox-ed hands.
     It doesn't matter what season of life you're in.  Single, married, widowed, a house full of children or dogs or if it's just you. Taking care of parents, grandparents, dogs, cats or fetuses; trying to appease bosses, teachers, professors or parents...we all have moments when we come around the corner, our jaws drop to the floor and we think, "THIS IS JUST MORE THAN I CAN HANDLE RIGHT NOW!!!"

(Perspective check:  married to a very, very good man, three healthy children, college education, roof over my head, well-fed, clothed, and always provided for.) I'm not whining about my wonderful life.  I am just highlighting the more stressful times when people came alongside me, and meaning well, reminded me that God was in charge up there somewhere.
 
Looking Up
      The first problem with the phrase, "God never gives you more than you can handle," is it skews my perception of God.  I begin to view God sitting above the circle of the earth (this part is Biblical Isaiah 40:22),  looking down on me and measuring me for capacity-for-stress like a seamstress measures me for an alteration (not in the Bible).  I begin to see God as a distant test administrator who just wants to see what I'm made of.  When I do well, I assign him the human characteristics of a proud parent.  When I fail, I assume he must just be so disappointed in me.

Looking in the Mirror
      The second problem with the phrase is that it skews my perception of myself. "...more than I can handle."  Webster says this of "Handle" - it's a verb - means to manage, be in charge of, deal with. When I think of myself as a manager, I think of a hierarchy of labor division where the highest up, in this case God, has delegated work or stress, and has left the building! We are now just to carry out tasks and report back later.
    And while I do agree that God calls me to stewardship, to the management of the gifts He has given me (material, spiritual, relational, ability)  He promises that He will never leave me, He will never forsake me.(Joshua 1:5, Hebrews 13:5)  I'm engraved on the palms of His hands (Isaiah 49:16), which smarty pants Beth Moore pointed out to me: he's holding me so tight that it cuts Him…maybe it looks like a hole from a nail.
 
      When I think of God as a stress delegator, and me as a stress manager, the wind of self begins to blow.  It blows from all directions, depending on my circumstances, hormones, emotions, etc.  I'm not crazy (repeat to self, daily), but my brain has conversations with itself. Self speak, the inner dialogue, whatever you want to call it.  You do it too, don't lie. (You're not crazy…repeat to self, daily).   On a good week, when the stars are aligned, and the brothers are playing and solving problems beautifully and none of them are bleeding,  I take myself aside, and admit, "Wow, my children are so well behaved.  I am really a good parent." (pride…snide pride)

Looking Around
     Then a few days later, I begin comparing myself to a mom of a child with (colic, sleeping problems, special needs, difficult or unexplainable behaviors, fill in the blank) and I mutter to myself  "Wow. God must really believe in her, and think she's worthy of raising a child with needs like that.  You must have just patted me on the head, and not thought much of my abilities when you gave me my child who sleeps like a dream, eats green vegetables and mostly does what I tell him." (Self doubt. Insecurity)
      The winds blow, and comparisons, prides and despairs settle on my doorstep like tumbleweeds.  Layer upon tangled layer of self, self, self.  And if you know tumbleweeds like I do, you know that everywhere they rest, they scatter seeds that could survive a nuclear bomb.  Seeds of pride, seeds of self-doubt, ready to sprout up next time a triumphant or challenging circumstance comes along and choke out the truth again.
     Because I want to be someone who can 'handle' a lot of stress, I take on more, striving to earn God's respect.  Or I inwardly scoff at people who have fewer children or seemingly smaller problems. Or inwardly despair that I'm not capable of 'handling' as much as super working mom who makes all her own baby food and has her kids potty trained by age 2.75 because she read the perfect method in that book she read while I was rereading Divergent.

Webster, You Fool
      Honestly, what does 'handling' it really mean?  When I cried on my drive home from my teaching job every day in October two years ago, was I handling it?  When I lose my temper and let all kinds of horrible things come out of my mouth and into the ears and hearts of the people I love most, am I handling it?  When a loved one dies and we scream at the walls and throw things, are we handling it?  When you shut out the world because you cannot stand to answer another sympathetic phone call and say all the same things over and over again, are you handling it?  Does 'handling it' just mean you don't die from it?

    And the Bible is chock full of people who just couldn't handle it. And they knew it!  Moses whined around for an entire chapter about how he couldn't handle it, and that was right after he spoke directly with God through a bush that was aflame with the presence of God.  Gideon tested God multiple times to make sure God was going to handle the Midianites because he knew he sure couldn't.  David repeatedly sang out in the Psalms after countless battles - it's YOU, not me that did this. You deliver me! You fight for me! You draw me out of the pit!  Grab your Bible, close your eyes and open it and point your finger at it, and you will probably find a person who God called into circumstances where they were absolutely powerless without Him.  God never gives us more than we can handle?!  QUITE THE OPPOSITE!! God will repeatedly allow circumstances that we are unequipped to handle alone, because He wants to reveal Himself to us as a God we can cling to, and who is faithful to deliver us every single time. Yet we cling to the untruth that we should be able to handle the hand he dealt us, and if we are failing, it's our fault and we are failures.

     I hate this untruth the very most because I have witnessed people very dear to me go through things that they just cannot handle.  Cancer kills, steals and destroys moments like father-daughter dances, the birth of a grandchild, the ability to call your mom or dad when you need someone to talk to about your baby's digestive issues or a weird sound your car is making.  When parents and grandparents are robbed of their memories and identities. When disease wastes away bodies while loved ones drive frantically to and from appointments, scour the internet for information and ultimately stand helplessly by. When for no apparent reason, babies can't be carried to full term.  When a Mama of two is shattered, mind, body and life, in a senseless car accident.  It is too much to handle, manage, deal with without breaking.  How can they trust a God who allowed these circumstances? and how dare I, or anyone else, offer some platitude that suggests that their circumstances, and God's Sovereignty, and their capacity for stress are some kind of  balanced chemistry equation?

     I don't want to use the Bible like a bandaid, when I need it like oxygen; choosing one little strip out of a box and peeling off the context so I can stick it over an issue in my life and go on my merry way.

    The real truth?  I do my life every day pressing my face, no, plunging my whole head! into the character of God. And on days when I don't, I'm gasping for air.  The only answers and truth I can get about the way the world works, and my true identity, are to wholly lose myself in WHO HE IS.  He Is the God who carries my burdens.  He Is the God who satisfies me in the morning with His unfailing love.  He is the equipper and supplier of all my needs for all my roles.  He Is the advocate who goes before the Father with my wails and with my sin, and says - I've got her; this one is mine.  The One who has whispered truth to me over and over in the strangest of places, but mostly in the pages of His word.
     He is not a respecter of persons or achievements, but a lover and redeemer of souls. He is a God who loves to show me His strength, and His joy in carrying me along, burdens and all.  He is a God who not only is strong, but has begun to show me that my weaknesses and my hurts and my failures are nothing to be ashamed of, but precious tethers from my heart to His.  The dependence-strings that draw us close.  The wounds that keep me seeking a healer brings me to the healer.  The hunger  and thirst that keeps me seeking what this world cannot satisfy brings me to the living water.  The anxiety, complications and grief that bring my knees and forehead to the carpet to beg him for help and direction bring me to the one who is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.

    And so.  the nitty gritty truth - I cannot handle my life.  It's too good. Too big. Too sad. Too scary most of the time. There is too much at stake if I fail, and too much good to lose should anything go wrong.  And so I take a hands off approach.  A surrender approach. And let Him, the Sovereign master weaver of all things for the good of those who love Him (Romans 8:28) - He's the one I want to handle it.
STOP saying it.  Don't say it ever again.  God will often give us more than we can handle, just so we'll take our hands off and get out of His way.  Just ask Gideon. Or Moses.  Or David. He does it, and He does it on purpose and with purpose:  so there can be no other explanation for our deliverance than Him.  Don't deny Him this joy by taking too much on yourself in the name of being a good Christian. Let's be free of it from now on.

Lord Jesus, Light a fire in me.