Bigger Picture Moments: I See You

Yesterday, in a fit of frustration, I called out to God, asked Him where the heck He's been lately.

I've been feeling a little invisible. A little forgotten. A little frustrated lately.

With not being pregnant anymore.
With hearing repeatedly to be still.
With trying to be patient.
With feeling like I'm literally standing on a boat in gentle waters most of the day and some days rendered unable to walk without holding onto the wall or a hand for support because I feel so off balance. 

It's all things I don't often wear out on my sleeve.

All things I can keep circulating in my brain, quiet prayers constantly being uttered in a persistent, humble bringing to God and asking Him if He could just

Heal me of the grief from losing the babies.
Give me a direction in which to move.
Give me patience if I can't have that direction yet.
Restore the life balance and with it my physical balance. 

Please God. Please.

Maybe I'm greedy. Maybe I'm needy. Maybe I'm feeling a little like desperation looks.

I know I have much for which to be thankful. I know He's answered many prayers these past few months.

But still I plead for restoration and direction

and to just know that He hasn't left me here alone in this place of frustration.

Sometimes I forget and I mistake God's silence for stillness. 

Sometimes He has to remind me clearly that the two are not the same. And in that sometimes He breaks His silence.

Like yesterday.

Our senior pastor and I record a weekly video called Joe on the Go. And in it he spoke about how that morning he was reminded of the story of Hagar when she's out in the wilderness and she called God "the God who sees me."



I didn't give it a second thought.

Until I came across that very same story of Hagar again on Facebook.

And then

again in a book I was reading.

I closed the book, taken aback, and heard a whisper in my heart that said, "I see you."

As I journaled the day, I realized, too, that on a day when I had an explosion of frustration from feeling so invisible from what I was truly wearing on my heart, God sent others to really see me, too.

My husband saw I needed more sleep yesterday and wanted to make sure the kids slept until a decent hour before leaving for work.

My almost six year old noticed that morning that I was rushed and encouraged me to relax and slow down. {He's not even six! He rarely notices more than light sabers and play forts let alone the way I'm feeling!}

A friend messaged me during the day to say that she knew how I was feeling and could she come over tomorrow?

Another friend shared that she felt like our friendship made worthwhile the hardship of having moved to the suburbs.

Simple conversations that seemed to sing, "You know, I see you. I really, really see you."

And on a day when I had an explosion of frustration from feeling so invisible from what I was truly wearing on my heart, God broke silence to say, "I see you. I really, really see you, too."

And in being seen, I feel like today my eyes are open to what's really going on these days -- I'm not wandering alone, off map in unchartered territory.

I'm under the careful watch of the Shepherd who knows where we're going ... even when I don't.

Everyday Life: The Whispers that Get You Through

He's a wildcard.

Sneaky, charming and cute, determined -- that's our spunky 3 year old.

I can barely take my eyes away from him before he's off and into something new, and every time we think he's grown just a little bit out of his wily ways, he brings us back into the moment, the reality in which we live.

And that reality is that he is predictably unpredictable, a wildcard in the truest sense.

Saturday afternoon, my boys were outside clearing out the garage with John, and I was running out the door, bordering on being late to an appointment.

Bordering on being rushed but not yet frazzled.

Bordering on making a quick, hurried exit.

But Saturday was my sabbath rest day, so I resisted the urge to jet out the door, jump into the car and take off, waving to my boys.

I climbed into the driver's seat as I was saying goodbye to John, put my keys in the ignition when a small whisper prompted me to ask, "Honey, where's E?"

We looked around, and he was nowhere in easy sight.

I almost shut the car door and left, hand on the key, ready to turn when another whisper said, "Find him first."

We began walking past the cars toward the edge of the driveway when my friend, who was leaving at the same time, said to us just as we reached the back of my Highlander and looked down, "There's a baby under your car."

And there he was -- our youngest, our baby -- hands under his grinning chin nestled under my car, body pressed against the driveway.

Heart pounding, I scooped him from beneath the car and scolded him for playing somewhere so dangerous before refocusing and audibly giving praise.

Audibly thanking God, dozens and dozens and dozens of times, for that small, soft Voice in my brain.

And for the ears to hear.

And for answering the heart cry I pleaded Friday, totally not knowing what I was actually praying for but somehow knew was needed.

And for allowing this lesson about how rushing never makes life better to sink into my thick, hard head.

And for the Whispers quietly spoken that graciously get us through.

Bigger Picture Moments: Pushing Away from the Table {I Lost It}

In the early-morning rush of getting the boys out the door, I lost it over cinnamon apple oatmeal.

I lost it amid the heat rising from the hot bowl of breakfast he irritably pushed away from his place setting at the table, amid the heat rising from my own flushed and rushed body, fluttering about in a hurried shuffle to get in the car and begin an over-scheduled day.

From the moment I pressed my feet on the ground beside my bed, I felt a like a whirlwind of movement and thought, and despite trying to order my day by sinking myself into the the Word in the morning, I could not quiet myself enough to stand still let along sink and soak.

When tears of outrage came over the cinnamon apples being mixed IN the oatmeal instead of being served one the side

when the refusal to even try this breakfast came

when the thought of him having to sit through two hours of class in the morning and then the dentist, thus likely ensuing a meltdown before we made it to lunch,

steam began rising from my hot-headed rush

and words began firing out of my heated mouth

and I lost it over cinnamon apple oatmeal.

The heat of irritation, fueled by rush and movement, left my body so quickly through raised voice and regretful words that it left me solid frozen in my steps shortly after I huffed out of the dining room while my oldest cried about how it was "just oatmeal, mom."

It took fire burning strong and hot and fast and furious to bring me into stillness, an icicle of realization grounded in my kitchen that though I've long given care to never ever ever feed the bears spaghetti on days the hard days, the tough days

but have never given really thought to not overfilling my own plate

and making those days more likely.

And, so, today, I scoop onto the plate only what is necessary to sustain life

and tonight, we'll all push away from the table for a longer pause, fasting and resting in what is necessary for life only in the moments spread out before us.

{Oh the humbling experiences that parenting brings; shortly after my flames burned out, I got to eat some humble pie, apologize and reinforce that even when we are piping hot, we still treat each other with love and kindness and respect. I call this lessons from the trenches.}

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Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

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Harvest them!

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Five-Minute Friday: Look

I wake slowly from a peaceful slumber

pull myself quietly, softly from between warm sheets and bodies.

It's not often that I can slip out of the room,

leave everyone cuddled snugly in their beds, in their dream lands 

and quietly make my way downstairs that groan beneath my feet. 

I rise before the sun, greet billowing October clouds

and I feel a pull to Words. 

His.

And mine own spilling from my mind and through pen,

a love letter response to the one He wrote me. 

In the quiet lingering darkness of early morning

the cobwebs in the corners 

and dirty dishes piled next to the sink 

don't taunt me, 

don't tempt me, 

don't scream for me to look as I walk past. 

Because in these precious, quiet moments

when I'm the only awake

I'm drawn to a different kind of housekeeping

that of dusting off the soul

cleaning up these thoughts

and polishing this heart. 

Five-Minute Friday: Focus

There is soft gray smoke gently billowing from the chimney of my neighbor's house on a cool September morning, dancing beautifully as it rises.

It presses against blue sky, and I can see it rise amid the shadows of the still-green leaves on tall, thick trees.

But it fades quickly once it hits sunlight, and my focus is no longer on the intricacy of its dance, the gracefulness of its movement, the beauty of its rich color.

Instead my gaze is drawn to the strands of golden autumnal Light

and it rests there

in fullness

in gladness

in peace.



I whisper-pray, too, from behind the foggy window in my dining room

for this moment to spread, seep deep into my bones

so that in the steady movement of my own body

my own mind

my own heart

in the everydayness of life

would focus less on the dance performed in the shadows

and more on the radiant light into which the movement flows.

Bigger Picture Moments: The Question I don't Know How to Answer

Editor's Note November 2012: If you are looking for information on restoring your digestive system, please know that The Body Ecology Diet helped me, but it didn't completely restore my health. My body actually stalled out on the the diet, and I needed to go off it to heal other parts of my body. You can read about my last steps in healing by clicking here. 

It's the question I don't know how to answer.

When we walk into church and we're greeted by faces familiar with the prayer requests.

Or when I workout at my club after a long stretch of vacation.

In responding to emails

texts

phone calls

greetings.

"How are you?"

And the truth is I know.

But I don't know.

I am better, yes.

But I'm not better.

I'm well.

But I'm not totally well -- totally recovered from the monstrosity of a gut flora imbalance that not only wreaked havoc on my digestive tract but also my mind, my emotions, my vitality, my energy and my sense of mental and even physical, yes, physical balance.

I've healed in so many beautiful ways, and I'm better.

But I'm not.

Yet.

And I keep saying yet.

Because, honestly, I'm still waiting for the restoration, for the full healing to sweep over my body.

And that's funny because I haven't exactly known what it is that's still not right other than something is still not right. I've been walking around not completely sure of what's out of balance other than the obvious smattering of seemingly unrelated physical persistence of feeling slightly off kilter in stance coupled with headaches and food sensitivities and other abnormal but mostly boring and mild annoyances.

Until I wasn't.

Monday afternoon, a little call from my primary care physician with the results of an easy saliva hormone test gives name and precise diagnosis to what I've been long been told is a hormone imbalance of some sort.

The call sent me into a tailspin of memories as we talked about this being both the likely cause of the two miscarriages last fall and the likely cause of all my latest ailments, too.

But it's fixable, he said. There are creams, shots.

I don't want that kind of fix.

I'm not a throw-a-patch-over-the-hole-in-the-tire kind of girl; I'm a find-the-stretch-of-road-where-my-car-ran-over-the-nail kind of fixer who wants to clean up the box that spilled so it doesn't keep happening.

And that's a lot harder because it's not just a matter of finding someone who understands my body in that kind of detail; it's money, time, energy and effort {on repeat}, all of which are resources that have dwindled significantly during these past nine months of focused healing.

I tossed myself into bed Monday evening completely overwhelmed at the thought of starting fresh with this new but actually old health issue and resigned to prayer and reading my Bible when Jesus seemed to ask me the question I've kind of come to dread: the old "how are you?" but in Jesus speak.

"Are you tired? Worn out? Burnt out on religion?"

Except, in that moment, I didn't hesitate like I normally do when asked, filtering through what I want to say and what I ought to say and what would be short but complete enough to be honest and genuine.

Instead I just breathed out what I really felt, what I've really been feeling.

Yes.

Yes. Yes. And yes.

"Come to me, and I will give you rest." {Matthew 11:28}

Haven't I come so many times already? I asked.

My morning devotion came to my mind immediately, a barely audible whisper reminder.

"You have not because you ask not." {James 4:2} ... which was followed by "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find." {Matthew 7:7}

And in the stillness of confession, of answering the question to which I'm always struggling to find the perfect reply, I realized that maybe it's not so much about finding the right answer but finding the rest that allows me to say no matter the circumstance

that even though I'm well

but not totally well

 it is well

so very well

with my soul.


Each Thursday we come together to share the harvest of intentional living through sharing a piece of life gleaned: a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week. Link up your gleaned moment this week at Jade's!

Link your moment at Jade's this week!

Just Write: More

I know.

I know that when little ones act up and out that they need more --

More love

More attention

More patience

More time --

More.

More from me.

But I've been driving around this block for weeks on end, and the gas light is on and the kids are still screaming in the background and the radio is blaring and there's so much noise in this proverbial car and in my not-so proverbial head that I just can't isolate anything to turn it off for long enough to realize

that I've got to stop for gas, like, ten miles ago.

Because that last fill up for how long I've been driving

can't last for as long as I've been going.

I need an off ramp

with an Oasis

to refuel so much more often

now that the load is filled with

growing boy bodies

growing hearts

growing lessons

and growing miles to trek.

And sometimes, I guess, we just have to put it in park

and watch the sun rise and set*

remembering we didn't have to push the pedal a little further to the metal

for either to happen.




*Super huge thanks to Corinne for reminding me of this awesome truth. 

Bigger Picture Moments: Flood Waters

My mind has been absolutely drenched this week with a torrential downpour of thoughts. 

And I'm left struggling to remember what to do with all this water after such a long drought. 


We had a relatively quiet winter and spring event-wise and decision-wise, which was good because so much of our energy had to go into simply just parenting and connecting with each other and making it through each day while I was entrenched in such intense healing. 

A drought of major life events and a break from heavy decision-making was needed for sure.

But it feels like during the past month, the clouds have rushed forth, broken open and begun pouring on us; it's not necessarily bad, because you know, rain is needed -- both in gardens and in life. 


It's just, well, heavy and saturating.


Earlier this week, on what was my anticipated due date prior to miscarrying last fall a sweet little love, I realized I'm not just dripping wet and soaked with thoughts about, well, everything but that I've actually been caught up and washed away in the flood.

I've been short in patience, fast to sleep, slow to rise and quick to get all wires of communication crossed, my overworked brain unable to transmit correctly all of the information floating around in my head.

Classic over-saturation.

The beauty of this is that I now realize when I've hit that point of feeling like I'm floating away on all the rainwater of thoughts before I'm tumbling over waterfalls.

But I'm still further downstream than I'd like, flailing and kicking and grabbing onto tree branches, attempting to pull myself out.

Yesterday, as I grasped at leaves, God in all His goodness threw me a line first thing in the morning in my devotions. And then again -- just to make sure I didn't miss it -- while I was at our last Bible study session of the summer.

"My sheep listen to my voice; I know them and they follow me." Jesus in John 10:27

A call to quiet the downpour of thoughts. A whisper to stop fighting against the current and let the Good Sheperd pull me out and carry me against His chest.

Because, I remember in the midst,


sheep were meant for still waters


not deep, rushing, rolling floods. 

Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week.. 

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week at Alita's. Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.

Five-Minute Friday: Risk

I think you say jump.

And instead of asking how high

I find myself frozen 

instead 

asking for a fiery bush 

or billboard

or email 

with those simple words 

burning 

or bolded

or line-addressed 

to my name:

Jump. 

But in the quiet recesses of my heart

when I still myself from thought-questions 

and thought-distractions

I hear you loud and clear. 

I hear you in the details you've already taken care of

in the affirmations

in the revelations of grace-mercy you've given

in the very word you spoke centuries ago

"Then I said, “Ah, Lord God! Behold, I do not know how to speak, for I am only a youth.” But the Lord said to me, “Do not say, ‘I am only a youth’; for to all to whom I send you, you shall go, and whatever I command you, you shall speak. Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you, declares the Lord.” - Jeremiah 1

I'm no prophet.

But you've given me the same promise.

That if I jump

when you say

trust replaces risk

and there will be cushion in the landing.