If you don't get a single Valentine today ... and even if you do ...

During the past six months, my heart has increasingly been wooed to turn my attention and focus toward our home and the people in it.

This pull toward focusing most of my attention and action toward home and family began this past summer as my heart was breaking over the deep pain of children who were suffering from wounds that were inflicted on their hearts in their own homes or from not having a family and safe place to truly call home. 

In a moment of serendipity at this time, I came across the book, A Life-Giving Home, by Sally and Sarah Clarkson, two of my favorite writers. In the February chapter, the Clarkson ladies talk about creating a culture of love within our homes -- a culture of true, unconditional love where the people in your care are free to be wholly themselves, completely messy and beautiful all at once, and are free to be loved through it all. 

One of the suggestions I liked for February was to focus my attention on loving my kiddos and husband through gifting them with life-giving words. So I set out to create ten days worth of Valentines for all six of the people in my home.  

In true optimistic maximizer fashion, I bit off a little more than I could easily chew with doing 60 valentines, but I set to work on praying over the Valentines for each of them. I cut out hearts in a shade of paper specific to each person, and I began calling out character traits I see strongly in each of them or developing in each person. I wrote scripture to go with each one so as to encourage them to live into the deep love God has for each of them and help them understand that God created them on purpose for a purpose. 

Seven and some hours, yes seven hours, later {over the course of a few days}, I wrote the last one, and I felt excited, admittedly tired, admittedly glad I was finishes and sincerely glad to have spent the time on them. Before I began I dedicated this project to God and expected nothing in return -- I simply gave it to God for His use in the hearts of these people, praying that they would know and understand love differently than before.

So at this point, I have to tell you something important -- I'm not sharing all of this to inspire you to do it in your own home. I also want to be completely transparent and share that because I took this project on I didn't do laundry for quite a few days, and I may have served sandwiches for dinner several times.

And I was a little cranky, especially after one of the kids barely even read her first Valentine and another of the children asked me where the chocolate was to go with the card and ... well, you know the types of things kids say and do in response to our gifts and love, so you can probably imagine.

This is the part I want you to tune into more than the Valentines Day heart idea:

There was a lot of love coming out from me, and I am not a magical supply of love never-ending love all by myself.

If I don't take the time to allow myself to be filled, I get really cranky really fast.

And.

If we're going to create a culture of love within our homes ... first we have to allow a culture of love to be created in our hearts. 

This kind of deep-well filling love doesn't come easy. Oftentimes my husband, my kids, my friends and anyone else around me cannot fill me enough to keep me in a state of overflow because I constantly have so much going out at all times.

Most of the time there are not enough sticky hugs, cute things said, dishes washed and thank yous given to fill up the vast well inside of my heart from which all else -- my words, actions, thoughts and behavior -- flows.

So I was cranky.

And that's when God said -- Hey, Hyacynth, when I pressed this idea onto you heart I did give you the wisdom to know not to expect anything in return from your children and husband. BUT I never asked you to do this all without expecting anything in return FROM ME. Your well is running dry, and you need to be filled so that good things can come out again. Take the time to sit with me. You are my Valentine, and I have something to say.

Admittedly it was difficult to stop what I was doing because, mind you, I was already behind from taking this task on but I managed to convince myself that we could go one more day without laundry being cleaned and I could sit with God and hear what God had to say.

That's when He blew me away, my sweetest Valentine, because as I prayed I felt the sense that God wanted to show me what He sees in me; I got the sense that He wanted to call out in my own life what He created me to be and encourage me to keep living into the me He created me to be.

So, I let God write me a Valentine.

As I sat down with my tea and my Bible and my journal and colorful pens, a song that's been important to me for you years played on the radio and I heard a verse I had never heard before in the way I was hearing it: that His love never fails. And I felt God whispering to my heart that nothing could separate me from His great love. And didn't I know that I'm more than a conqueror in Christ?

As I began to write and draw, I knew from the next song that followed, too, that this was exactly what God wanted me to know about myself -- that I did not have to fear anything because nothing can separate me from His love. That I am strong and I am brave and I am not just a conqueror, but that I am MORE than a conqueror in Christ.

As I reflected on these truths and in soaked in the music, I could feel my heart fill to a state of overflow. And as I went about my day and fears or lies would sneak in, I could easily push them away with the truth. And the truth is that I am a conqueror, an overcomer.

God had written me a Valentine much in the way I had written my children and husband Valentines and those words of encouragement and strength began to carry me.

I sat down again with Him for another time another day, and again, He wrote me another Valentine. This time that I am growing in grace and wisdom. And how perfectly those affirmations were a salve over hurting parts of my heart. How this encouragement gave my heart hope to carry on and carry out love from the overflow, I'll never be able to explain fully.

Today I'll sit with Him again, on Valentines Day, and today, my heart longs anticipates and longs to know what my Valentine will say.

And I pray that you, too, will tune into the Valentine that not only knows your soul but created it so that the wellsprings in your heart, too, may overflow with the kind of love that quenches the thirst of the many in your presence ... and the thirst of your own dear heart. Because you matter, too, even when it doesn't feel like it.

You'll always be God's loved and chosen Valentine. Let this love first overflow your hearts because it will then overflow into your homes. 

{For what it's worth, creating a culture of love has been quite sticky among my family members. Several Valentines wishes and greetings have circulated today. I'm deeply grateful for the Clarkson ladies giving words to how they created a culture of love in their home because it has inspired me to think of what would create one in our family.}

The Best Call I Never Would Have Made

My family and a team of six others from our home church recently returned from several weeks spent in Latvia. During our time there we served at a local church's Kids' Camp. Here is a story from the last day of Kids Camp in Karaosta at Light of the Gospel church, one that's actually really humbling to share, but alas. 

I couldn't understand it at first.

What would draw a teen boy to attend a church's Kids' Camp?

Was it the guaranteed two meals a day?

A friend?

A girl?

It just seemed so odd to me that he would come day after day and engage in the stuff of smaller children.

Even so, it was a joy to get to slowly know him and the other few teens who attended the children's camp through Light of the Gospel and HIM in Karaosta, Latvia.

It was a joy to be with him and sit next to him day after day and together explore the word of God through creativity.

My disappointment ran deep Friday morning when I didn't see his face at morning exercise and breakfast; maybe he'd had enough of the activities.

Around 10:15, though, he came into worship late and promptly gave me a high five as he walked toward his friends. Jelena, the youth pastor's wife, noticed he came in late and served him breakfast.

I went over to sit by him as the others sang morning worship songs. 

He scarfed his breakfast and then suddenly he cupped his hand over his mouth and ran out the door.

What on earth?

I went to check on him and realized he had gotten sick to his stomach and breakfast didn't stay put.

For anyone who knows me well, you know my kryptonite is puke. I'm a sympathy puker who gets taken out of the game by anyone around falling victim. This also means I am not the puke parent in our home. The mere mention of it normally sends me into waves of nausea.

Thankfully Jelena helped him and got the bathroom cleaned and I thought for sure he'd be on his way back home.

But he just went over to worship with the others.

That was about the point where I realized the deep need camp was meeting for him, and this was also the point I suddenly felt the need to sanitize my whole body. 

Seriously, puke is just the worst for me, and I began being consumed by a deep fear of puking kids on the plane ride home as as virus slowly spread through our team of 13.

I could not even.

Judge me if you will because I know.

I know it doesn't make sense, and it's really dumb and ridiculous.

Aren't all of our fears when they stand next to Jesus?

I found myself praying for supernatural stomach strength when I worked with him during craft time. 

At lunch, he sat down and chowed on his food so maybe, I'd reasoned, it was a fluke.

But then almost immediately he rushed back to the bathroom.

No such fluke.

I made my way over to let Jelena know; certainly she'd have to gently suggest that he head home if he already didn't have that idea. Who would want to risk getting an entire group of campers sick, I'd rationalized.

Again, though, she just cleaned up the mess and he went back for final group time and worship and to wrap up the camp week with his group.

This was about the point I was so perplexed as to what I was missing that I went to one of the camp co-coordinators and asked her to please please please please help me understand why this is so different than how we do things at home? What about the potential for a rapid spread of stomach bug among the campers? 

She must have seen the desperation and the fear in my eyes because she took the time to reply in depth: What he's going home to would probably not be a great situation and at least here he is taken care of and fed not only physically but also spiritually.

Oh, I thought as the shear understanding of "what would make a teenage boy come repeatedly to a kids' camp?" came crashing down on me. Stronger than any allure of a girl, any pressure from friends, any thought of "this is for children" to a teenage mind, Jesus' love was bringing him back day after day after day.

He wasn't just being fed physical food; he was being fed the very Bread of Life. And he wanted more.

Plus, the camp co-coordinator said, Latvians have strong immune systems. It's not like in America when a whole class goes down from one virus. 

Oh, I said, rendered sorta speechless.

Having a better understanding of the situation, I shut my mouth ... but still prayed the virus wouldn't spread to the rest of the kids and our team.

God took care of even that part of my heart that was still seeking selfish thoughts when about two minutes later Pastor asked any kids to come up front so we could pray for them if they wanted to start a relationship with Jesus.

The kids began pouring into the aisle and walking toward the front ... And there he went.

At that point, I began crying the kind of hot tears that were a complicated mix of extreme gratitude and extreme sadness and embarrassment over the state of my heart.

Whereas I judged the decision not to send him home and selfishly hoped someone would so no one else would get sick, I was instead overcome with gratitude for Jelena's decision to welcome him to stay, her better decision.

Jelena saw what was better. It was better to care for his soul than get stuck on the hangups of the flesh. If he felt well enough to go back to worship, who in her right mind should stop him? 

As I thanked God for her better decision, I thought about how often I let not as important things take precedence over the more important things of life.

Everything from finances to relationships to life decisions have been influenced by pervasive popular thought of choosing what makes sense instead of what is right, what is bigger-picture better. I'm so tempted to let my fears determine my faith instead of my faith determining my fears. 

While we walked to the bus after camp ended, again I cried as I thought about my selfish heart and I repented of my fear of something so petty as puke. Stomach bugs come and go, and I want to love like nothing would stop me from helping others know the great love of our Creator.

As I've thought of this experience with my teenage friend over and over again, God has used something so vile to me as puke to remind me of His great love and challenge me into a new way of thinking: never forsake the eternal for the temporary.

I'm so thankful to have witnessed someone else make the best call I never would have made.

For those kinds of days {the hards ones especially}

It was that kind of morning -- hard.

Probably, you know the kind — the one where everyone wakes up grumpy and out of sorts. 

The smallest child grabs things from her brothers’ hands, sending them both into fits of irritation and her into fits of giggles. The oldest boy-child wakes confused and a little irate while the oldest girl is largely annoyed. My youngest boy is on day three of illness, and yesterday my balance went way out of whack. As my husband tries to go through with his preconceived plans for the morning, I boil over in the midst of frustration and physical struggle and throw two toys onto the living room floor while refereeing a dispute between the youngest three and then cry. And then the three youngest children, all baffled, surround me and hug me while trying to make sense of it all. 

So that kind of morning. 

During the day, it’s no wonder that I find myself struggling against the way of panic and anxiety about everything within our four walls and, well, heck, about terrorism and orphans and all the tragedy that goes on around the outside of our four walls. The whole gamut. Because in my head, at least, when it rains it pours.

As I tuck the two littles in for a nap, I pray with them, and I pray aloud a very heartfelt, honest prayer, one that’s a plea for help and one that’s a certain cry of surrender. 

Because every now and then, more frequently this past year, I find myself keenly aware that what I’m trying to carry is too heavy to shoulder. 

I am reminded of this in increasing frequency. 

Most lately, I’m reminded of it when I’m outside walking with my oldest boy-child as he memorizes a verse he wants to learn. 

“Do not worry about anything; instead pray about everything. Tell God what you need and thank Him for what He has already done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which is far more wonderful than the human mind can understand.” Philippians 4:6-7

Today I’m at the end of my rope. Today I take seriously this invitation to tell God what I need and thank Him for what He’s already done. 

I muster all my tiny faith, and I pray bold prayers and ask for miracles, small and big and in between because with God nothing is impossible or too little or too big. It all matters to Him because everything is within his matters. 

And then I come downstairs to make some medicine out of lemons and garlic and ginger -- when I hear something. 

A voice. 

A man's voice.

And his voice is saying, "we learn how to pray in our family. We know that God hears and cares. We ask Him for wisdom and help from above and thank Him for answered prayers."

For a moment, I think maybe I'm going crazy. 

Maybe I’m losing my mind. Maybe God is literally talking to me -- and then I remember the book a friend bought us in honor of our forever family celebration, and I'm certain one of the kids has sneaked this beautiful narrated, talk-aloud book into this room during nap time.

I head toward the stairs to get the book from my youngest son, because I’m certain he has it and that’s why it’s talking, but there it is, sitting closed on the front bench in the foyer. 

Normally it only talks when it's open. 

But there it is -- closed.

I open it to the first page thinking it was the words from there that maybe could have been triggered and stuck.

But nope. Not page one or two or three but page four.

Specifically page four.

And at the bottom of the page, this verse-- "Your father knows what you need before you ask Him." Matthew 6:8

God's literal voice. 

I'm taken aback, but I'm not shocked. 

God shows up in our mess, and our mess is often so often He shows. 

It’s like a companion verse to the honest prayers I just prayed.  And following is the loud and startling reminder that God already knows. 

He already knows. 

I have prayed for what He already knows, and He has acknowledge my prayer. 

And so what follows the sharing of what’s on our hearts, according to Paul in his letter to the Philippians?

Thanksgiving. 

My heart, in the midst of chaos that is my own and chaos that I cannot claim, lands there figuratively just a few days before we land on there on the calendar. 

And I’m reminded anew that we can always be in a state of thanksgiving because God ever exists in a state of giving us something for which we can give thanks. 

He is a God who already knows. 

A God who cares. 

A God who keeps giving so we too can keep giving thanks. 

Because His love for us never changes. 

Even on the hard days. 

Especially on the hard days. 

God-Sized Dream: What They Don't Tell You About Hosting

They told us this would be exhausting.

They said that blending a family with a child from half a world away who doesn't speak the same language and doesn't have a family to call keeps forever would be challenging and rewarding

and that our hearts would be full.

They cautioned us to set boundaries, guidelines and stick to the many, many rules put in place to protect the children and the families.

The shared statistics, helped us understand what happens to these children, many of whom have found themselves in situations that bad dreams are made of and helped us see what the love of a family does to turn around a life -- what being chosen and Chosen does for a hurting heart.

They said to keep it simple, show love and limit sweets.

They promised our sentences would become broken fragments of two different languages and that laughter would become our universal language.

They warned time would swoosh by too fast, that our hearts would be forever changed, that we'd suffer the kind of whiplash that only occurs when you've been swept off your feet by God's amazing goodness on display.

And all of that has been true.

They even told us we couldn't possibly fit everything we wanted to send back with her into a suitcase and adhere to the 50-pound weight limit … and they were right about that, too; there was no way our family would fit in it even if we tried.

I helped her pack yesterday, the afternoon before she was set to return home to Eastern Europe. I've never wanted to crawl inside a suitcase the way I did then, 50-pound weight limit be darned.

As she placed item after item into her suitcase, I thought about how much stuff accumulates in one month … and I thought about how it doesn't even compare to the amount of love; I found myself grateful that love doesn't pack into a suitcase, or we'd surely have blown through that limit like you wouldn't believe and like I could never explain.

No one told us that.

But how could they? How could anyone have put that kind of love to words? How could anyone have said we'd feel like a piece of our heart had stepped out from our chests and boarded a plane to Europe, still tethered to us?

People kept telling us how we were blessing her with this gift of a month in our home … and I know there's truth in that as I recall some of the last words, hugs we shared this morning before she stepped through security.

But that's not the whole of it, and I'd be sorely amiss to end there.

That beautiful girl came bundled with many gifts -- she added to the love, laughter, fun and spirit of our Christmas and New Year Celebrations and our home. She lavished attention on the boys and brought us all lots of smiles and giggles. She was a patient language teacher for me, and she reminded us to slow down and savor life.

Those are all really big, wonderful gifts.

But the real gift? The real gift was simply knowing and loving her, a beautiful blessing from our extraordinarily good God.

There's a lot no one told us about hosting. And there's a lot I never would have understood.

No one told us that we'd be left feeling like the gift we'd given

would feel like it was given 10-fold back to us.

Whatever is good and perfect comes down to us from God our Father, who created all the lights in the heavens. He never changes or casts a shifting shadow. James 1:17

Bigger Picture Moments: A Gift

It didn't seem like a gift.

And it seemed like anything but good timing for John to travel abroad for work, anxiety still trying to take captive my heart and mind on a weekly basis and my physical imbalance throwing me through emotional and actual loops. And, honestly, every day I'm still giving over the inevitable stings of having lost our baby in March.

When John first told me he'd be leaving for Paris, thus, leaving me alone with the boys to parent them solo for five days and night, I wanted to cry.

So I did. I cried. And I asked God how He could be so callous with my tender heart.

How could I parent our boys alone in this season of intense healing all while keeping up with the other responsibilities that come with owning a business and working part time?

But, God, in His goodness, showed me, the very day John left, that I didn't have to do it alone.

I did it with the help offered and given freely by my in-laws, my own mom and my friends and their husbands.

I did it with His provision, and His provision for me in this season included a lot of help.

So much help, it's sort of mind boggling. Normally I try to muscle up and do as much as I possibly can by myself so as not to be a burden to others around me.

God, however, in my brokenness from the loss of our baby back in March, has gently picked up my pieces, softened me and put me back on the Potter's spinning wheel, intent on making me into something new.

During a Guided Prayer session in which my therapist asked the Spirit to reveal what He wanted me to know in this season, God brought to mind the baby we lost and whispered to my heart that He wants and has always wanted all of me so much more than I want and have always wanted all of our babies. And with that whisper, He challenged my deep-rooted thoughts of feeling like I'm a burden when He really created me as a gift.

This realization was the kind of reshaping that takes a cup and turns it into a pitcher, reshaping its very character and growing it in its purpose and its ability to be filled with much more than it was previously capable.

With space to be filled, though, there also comes space to be empty ...

empty from not truly understanding what we've been crafted to be

empty from always trying to pour out blessings

empty from rarely allowing ourselves to receive blessings from others who want to fill our pitchers

empty from keeping our bodies so busy we hardly ever allow our souls to be stilled and filled by His presence.


Burdens are, indeed, heavy with an emptyness.

But we were made to be gifts, overflowing with His very goodness.

We were made to be filled with His love over and over

day in and day out

moment by moment.

I am not a burden, but I carry the burden of heavy lies when I sit empty of the goodness with which He wants to feel me because I feel like I don't need/deserve/crave the fullness of what comes when we open our hands to receive.

In the days leading up to John's departure, I wrestled hard against that heavy lie of being a burden.

I wrestled hard against emptyness.

And I wrestled hard with understanding of the nature of the gifts He gives.

Though John's trip seemed like a burden, it only would have been if it were empty of receiving what He'd intended; his trip was actually a gift.

A gift that taught me much more about gifts

about how God created each of us, about how God created me to be a gift

a pitcher just waiting to be filled by the love He's ready to pour into each of His creations

not at all empty

but filled from receiving His provision of overflow

making us overflowing.