I couldn't understand at the beginning of the week why I felt out of sorts -- struggling with old problems once resolved both physically and emotionally, fighting against the giants of fear and anxiety that I once slung rocks at and hit square in the forehead, boldly announcing that I would walk in the courage of faith.
I went to bed Tuesday night and slept wild and dreamed wilder, and I woke up the next morning with a sense that all of yesterday's issues had followed me into that very day.
And I was done; I didn't want to bring the hard into the new; I wanted to leave it all where I feel like it belonged -- in the past where I didn't have to look it square in the face again.
I determined that morning that God's mercies are new, and I would see those mercies, a fresh gift whiter than the fresh snow covering the ground. I would not allow yesterday to slow me down because I refused to wallow.
Which all sounds noble and strong and courageous until you are reminded that courage and strong and noble are only born truly out of abiding.
Wouldn't it be simpler had my word for the year just been courageous? Why did I have to have double words this year? Abiding is much harder than being courageous. Abiding is actually harder than most any other things I could "do" or "be."
A friend reminded me that morning after she had read my presumptuous victory march that sometimes we deal with the same things over and over and over again until we truly are healed from the wounds we've suffered.
And sometimes healing doesn't look like we think it will look or should look or does look.
Sometimes healing looks different than what we thought.
It wasn't lost on me when she reminded me that we were standing in the same week this year that we were standing in last year when we found out of Selah had slipped into Heaven after just three short months in my womb.
My body and my mind remembered, but would I slow down enough to remember and honor and turn over the hurts and even the healing that's happened during the past year to my Healer?
And it certainly wasn't lost on me that every single big-ticket meeting I was supposed to be at this week had been cancelled.
It had been brewing for weeks, like tea bags dripping into water beneath a hot summer sun, the whisper I heard the Spirit speaking into my heart to slow down and make room for Him
more of Him.
I finally decided that Wednesday to act on it -- to make room and space for Him
and for what He wanted to do inside my heart.
I'd been asking for healing of the anxieties that swell in my heart at times and asking for healing of the physical annoyances that bother me and asking for healing for the parts of my heart that still feel tender to the touch, though they are not open and gapping and weeping.
And He kept saying to me to believe. And so I believed, and I wondered why the healing didn't come as I expected-- miraculous and instantaneous. I finally cried out Tuesday night and asked what I was doing wrong.
You see the thing about believing is that I'm having a hard time believing without really abiding.
He's been inviting me to abide -- to remove the distractions that stand in the way of truly abiding in Him so that I might believe, perhaps even so that healing might come in the very way I didn't expect it.
So, there is this:
I will not wallow in the grief or in the fear or in the anxiety.
But I will linger for longer than what is comfortable in the discomforts of those parts of life that still hurt.
And I will pick up those pieces that felt like they were sheered right off of my still-beating heart, and instead of ignoring them, I will give them to you, Lord, to do what you will.
And I will ask You to heal those wounds and realize that sometimes healing won't look like that heart being put back together in the same shape that it once was
because it is now a heart that has been broken
by the hurts of this life
... just like yours.
And I will recognize that a heart broken is still one that beats
just differently so.
I will not wallow, but I will linger.
And I will abide.
For the entire span of lent, I'll be posting extremely sporadically. Thanks for being here. Thanks for reading.
Showing posts with label bigger picture moments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bigger picture moments. Show all posts
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Advent: When Something's Gotta Give
When he quietly sneaks down the stairs at quarter 'til nine in the still of evening and crawls into my lap while I'm working away the dark hours and says right before he drifts off to sleep in my arms, "Mommy, I miss you," I know that something's gotta give.
When I ask my oldest son how his day is going, and he asks me if I'm done working for the day so I can really listen, my stomach jumps into my throat and sits there choking me up, and I pray that something's gonna give.
When the conversation turns from what we can do to make the load lighter {jobs and businesses and work} to who put the final straw on the camel's aching back, I find myself staring at the man with whom I yoked wondering what the difference is anyway, since we're both under the same weight and what's ultimately gonna give isn't going to be what we want to give if we just wait for something to break.
A few weeks back, a wise woman told me that sheep were never meant to bear loads.
They weren't made for it.
And neither were we.
I understand this now like I wouldn't have before.
And so we cry out --
we wait for the Shepherd to hear our cries
because something's gotta give.
****
Busy days turn into heavy weeks, and we pass into the season of Advent as easily as the days sneak into nights and back into days again. I am the spinning hand on the clock, and I go until one day when I come home from church and retire to my bedroom because I'm suddenly not feeling well, the third in my family to be out for the count in less than 24 hours.
I sleep the morning into afternoon and wake only to pull my weary body from bed and join the family on the couch for a few brief hours.
I have plans. There are things to do, action items screaming for my attention during the three days I'm down and out myself and the span during which my boys are all suffering, too. There are staff meetings and business meetings and preparations to make before our host child arrives in just mere days and business to manage and posts to tend to and people to feed and bodies to bathe and clothes to launder and food to prepare.
But it all halts on a Sunday, the second Sunday of Advent, where we talk in church that morning about the surprising way Love came down to meet us here on Earth in a nowhere town, inside a nowhere stable, through a bunch of nobody people after 400 years of everyone thinking, you know, something's gotta give.
My husband picks up the food ropes and the rest of what isn't urgent all sits dormant while the urgent keeps on spinning with the rest of the world … without me.
The boys and I exist in spaces between the bed and the couch for two whole days.
On the third day, I find myself trapped beneath a four year old's body nearly every hour of day, and I start giving some serious thought to what it means to break and what it means to give.
At first it doesn't seem like catching the flu is anything akin to catching a break but when you're at the point where you feel like you can't bend with the pressure anymore, it suddenly and surprisingly. It's the break you knew you needed but never expected.
The give isn't what we wanted or planned, but when I look and I really see, I see that the give wasn't the ability to bend a little more without snapping, the give was a gift unexpected of slowing down enough to remember that the sun rises and sets each day without our help, without my help.
And isn't that the break I've been begging for and the give I've been praying to see?
He gives me a break, He slows me steady into the season of Advent, the season of preparing my heart for what's been given
again, in the most surprising of ways.
When the conversation turns from what we can do to make the load lighter {jobs and businesses and work} to who put the final straw on the camel's aching back, I find myself staring at the man with whom I yoked wondering what the difference is anyway, since we're both under the same weight and what's ultimately gonna give isn't going to be what we want to give if we just wait for something to break.
A few weeks back, a wise woman told me that sheep were never meant to bear loads.
They weren't made for it.
And neither were we.
I understand this now like I wouldn't have before.
And so we cry out --
we wait for the Shepherd to hear our cries
because something's gotta give.
****
Busy days turn into heavy weeks, and we pass into the season of Advent as easily as the days sneak into nights and back into days again. I am the spinning hand on the clock, and I go until one day when I come home from church and retire to my bedroom because I'm suddenly not feeling well, the third in my family to be out for the count in less than 24 hours.
I sleep the morning into afternoon and wake only to pull my weary body from bed and join the family on the couch for a few brief hours.
I have plans. There are things to do, action items screaming for my attention during the three days I'm down and out myself and the span during which my boys are all suffering, too. There are staff meetings and business meetings and preparations to make before our host child arrives in just mere days and business to manage and posts to tend to and people to feed and bodies to bathe and clothes to launder and food to prepare.
But it all halts on a Sunday, the second Sunday of Advent, where we talk in church that morning about the surprising way Love came down to meet us here on Earth in a nowhere town, inside a nowhere stable, through a bunch of nobody people after 400 years of everyone thinking, you know, something's gotta give.
My husband picks up the food ropes and the rest of what isn't urgent all sits dormant while the urgent keeps on spinning with the rest of the world … without me.
The boys and I exist in spaces between the bed and the couch for two whole days.
On the third day, I find myself trapped beneath a four year old's body nearly every hour of day, and I start giving some serious thought to what it means to break and what it means to give.
At first it doesn't seem like catching the flu is anything akin to catching a break but when you're at the point where you feel like you can't bend with the pressure anymore, it suddenly and surprisingly. It's the break you knew you needed but never expected.
The give isn't what we wanted or planned, but when I look and I really see, I see that the give wasn't the ability to bend a little more without snapping, the give was a gift unexpected of slowing down enough to remember that the sun rises and sets each day without our help, without my help.
And isn't that the break I've been begging for and the give I've been praying to see?
He gives me a break, He slows me steady into the season of Advent, the season of preparing my heart for what's been given
again, in the most surprising of ways.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Bigger Picture Moments: Broken
I answered the phone early this morning, way earlier than what I normally ever do because I never seem to remember to flip the switch from silent to ringer, and I couldn't exactly hear through the broken signal what was happening, but I knew something wasn't right.
My husband said accident and at first my mind went to mentally collecting a new pair of pants for my oldest son, but then I realized when he asked me to come quickly that it had nothing to do with a bathroom miss and everything to do with the collision of cars crunching beneath the early morning November sun.
Amid broken conversation and wind whipping into the phone, crackling in my ear, I gathered my courage and our youngest son, stepped out the door, stepped out in faith and drove four blocks to where metal met metal and lives met with out of control.
There are moments that seemingly stand still, and as I stopped my own car I took in the views of the ones before me: the driver's side of our car completely smashed into the frame of our car and her car, hood crunched and down an entire front bumper.
I wondered at how husband even managed to get out of the driver's seat, his car door was so smashed. I watched as my oldest son climbed through the backseat to the other side to exit, his door too mangled to even open.
I gasped as I looked at the brokenness -- the metal and plastic -- spread out before me
and I almost cried in the face of it
until
I looked at the faces of my husband and son, stunned and upset,
and the woman driving the other car and the two kids in her backseat, also shaken,
but very clearly not broken.
Everyone walked away from the scene of the crash without major injury.
I thought for a fleeting moment what broken really could have looked like for three different families
before I realized fully and intimately
that the only broken before us was
that of metal and plastic.
I thanked God in that moment that the metal and plastic absorbed so much of the force, protected the people inside them, but I didn't want to think anymore about the brokenness because it almost seemed too heavy to let it linger too long in my mind.
Not long after that, we were sitting in the hospital, my boys getting checked out, when I posted a call for prayer on Facebook.
A friend tagged me in an update soon after I posted saying that the post immediately following my request was from Psalm 30:5:
" … His favor lasts a lifetime …"
She encouraged me to ask in His name that His favor would surround me like a shield. And as we prayed those words, I thought that perhaps His favor surrounding us like a shield today looked a lot like the brokenness of plastic and metal … just like the favor that surrounds me like a shield for a lifetime and eternity looks a lot like the brokenness of Jesus on the cross.
But brokenness isn't the end of the story; no, there's life beyond the scattered plastic and metal, just like there's life beyond the cross.
And that makes me able to look brokenness in the eye
and
walk in the courage of faith over the scattered pieces.
Thanks for praying with us today. We are thanking God that the only real brokenness that occurred today was plastic and metal. John is sore tonight and has a slight headache and G is a little sore, too, but they are on the mend. We praise God for his shield of protection today.
My husband said accident and at first my mind went to mentally collecting a new pair of pants for my oldest son, but then I realized when he asked me to come quickly that it had nothing to do with a bathroom miss and everything to do with the collision of cars crunching beneath the early morning November sun.
Amid broken conversation and wind whipping into the phone, crackling in my ear, I gathered my courage and our youngest son, stepped out the door, stepped out in faith and drove four blocks to where metal met metal and lives met with out of control.
There are moments that seemingly stand still, and as I stopped my own car I took in the views of the ones before me: the driver's side of our car completely smashed into the frame of our car and her car, hood crunched and down an entire front bumper.
I wondered at how husband even managed to get out of the driver's seat, his car door was so smashed. I watched as my oldest son climbed through the backseat to the other side to exit, his door too mangled to even open.
I gasped as I looked at the brokenness -- the metal and plastic -- spread out before me
and I almost cried in the face of it
until
I looked at the faces of my husband and son, stunned and upset,
and the woman driving the other car and the two kids in her backseat, also shaken,
but very clearly not broken.
Everyone walked away from the scene of the crash without major injury.
I thought for a fleeting moment what broken really could have looked like for three different families
before I realized fully and intimately
that the only broken before us was
that of metal and plastic.
I thanked God in that moment that the metal and plastic absorbed so much of the force, protected the people inside them, but I didn't want to think anymore about the brokenness because it almost seemed too heavy to let it linger too long in my mind.
Not long after that, we were sitting in the hospital, my boys getting checked out, when I posted a call for prayer on Facebook.
A friend tagged me in an update soon after I posted saying that the post immediately following my request was from Psalm 30:5:
" … His favor lasts a lifetime …"
She encouraged me to ask in His name that His favor would surround me like a shield. And as we prayed those words, I thought that perhaps His favor surrounding us like a shield today looked a lot like the brokenness of plastic and metal … just like the favor that surrounds me like a shield for a lifetime and eternity looks a lot like the brokenness of Jesus on the cross.
But brokenness isn't the end of the story; no, there's life beyond the scattered plastic and metal, just like there's life beyond the cross.
And that makes me able to look brokenness in the eye
and
walk in the courage of faith over the scattered pieces.
Thanks for praying with us today. We are thanking God that the only real brokenness that occurred today was plastic and metal. John is sore tonight and has a slight headache and G is a little sore, too, but they are on the mend. We praise God for his shield of protection today.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Bigger Picture Moments: On Generosity
"It seemed like they brought everything but the kitchen sink.
One by one, bag by bag, tool by tool, my mom, step dad and step brothers carried everything we’d need for a weekend of replacing our kitchen and laundry room floors into our home late Friday evening.
No detail was spared in the project — from the perfect-colored matching grout to the precisely placed porcelain tiles that took hours lay out. Nor was anything overlooked for the caring of the people — my mother came prepared with enough food to feed an army via crockpot and skillet, disposable plates and buckets for washing utensils.
And all of it — the materials for the floor, the time and talent of laying the floor, the food — gifted to us in a loving act of generosity.
This just days after John’s dad and our contractor friend offered to take out a wall to help the floor-laying process go more smoothly.
By Sunday morning before I left for church, I looked around my house ..."
To read the rest of this story, head over to the Immanuel Church blog.
One by one, bag by bag, tool by tool, my mom, step dad and step brothers carried everything we’d need for a weekend of replacing our kitchen and laundry room floors into our home late Friday evening.
No detail was spared in the project — from the perfect-colored matching grout to the precisely placed porcelain tiles that took hours lay out. Nor was anything overlooked for the caring of the people — my mother came prepared with enough food to feed an army via crockpot and skillet, disposable plates and buckets for washing utensils.
And all of it — the materials for the floor, the time and talent of laying the floor, the food — gifted to us in a loving act of generosity.
This just days after John’s dad and our contractor friend offered to take out a wall to help the floor-laying process go more smoothly.
By Sunday morning before I left for church, I looked around my house ..."
To read the rest of this story, head over to the Immanuel Church blog.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
BTSBTW - Confession: The Spin-Cycle I Accidentally Perpetuated with My Life
During the past several years, other women often asked how on Earth I did everything I did:
Care for two kids./Nurture a marriage/Cook from scratch,/Garden and preserve./Write for blogs and websites./Own a business./Work part-time for a church./Volunteer./Keep a clean house./Engage in friendships./And take care of myself.
I've stood there uncomfortably as others have remarked such things, hearing not only disbelief in their voice but also a sort of self-depreciation at the admission of not being able to do it all. My response used to be something along the lines of not really doing as much as they thought I did.
But I wish I would have answered differently because this issue goes way deeper than my reply; that little sentence speaks worlds about the intersection of perfectionism and busyness and comparing and success and embracing ourselves. And it has much to do with perpetuating cycles of shame and feelings of failure and not loving ourselves and others.
I wish, instead, I would have said:
1. "We can have it all -- but we can't have it all at the same time without something suffering. I may do a lot of things, but I don't do anything well. "
Don't miss it: anything and well are the key words in that sentence. But being a perfectionist {recovering now, thank you}, I had given it my best shot for too many years.
Now that I've cleared many responsibilities from my plate that just made me entirely too busy, I can tell you that doing all of that, even while not doing any all of it well, didn't come without a price.
Often times my family suffered -- namely my marriage because while you can't just leave two small children unattended, you can, indeed, leave a grown man alone after a long day so you can crash face first into bed.
Also, my health has suffered. I spent way too many years burning the candle at both ends and creating stress responses in my body and mind that have had lasting effects I hadn't totally started identifying until two summers ago when my body started crying out for some serious TLC. Thankfully, my husband and I recognized its cries before serious disease states set in and began diligently working to lighten each of our stress loads.
And also, our small business, some of my friendships and even at times my kids have suffered from having an owner/friend/mom who simply had too much to juggle to invest a good chunk of time into any one thing.
So while it looked like I was doing it all, and maybe it even looked like I was doing it all well, I really wasn't.
I didn't understand that busyness was actually eating away at the parts of life I want to do really, really well -- build a strong marriage, nurture the two small souls with who we've been entrusted and be in community with others.
2. And then there's the bigger issue -- the comparisons we make when measuring ourselves against others help us form terribly imperfect definitions of success and also degrade the beauty of being created as individuals.
What I wish I would have said more often during these conversations was that while I can write an article or blog post or poem in 15 minutes or so, I simply could not balance my check book in that amount of time. Or fix a broken anything in our home with ease. Or sew anything relatively straight.
Because none of those things come naturally to me and none of those things naturally interest me enough to want to invest time into learning about them.
And that's ok. Because that's not me. And just because I can't do those things or you can't write a blog post with ease doesn't mean we are failing at anything other than trying to be someone else. I wish I would have realized long ago how demeaning it is when I compare myself to others. By doing what we were created to do and what we love, we are actually far more successful at being ourselves. And I think who we are and how that influences us to live is far more important than what we accomplish purely out of skill or muscle power.
I guess that would have been awkward to have said all of that during those exchanges, but I often wish for redos on those conversations -- a chance to stop the spin cycle I was accidentally perpetuating by living that kind of life coupled with relative silence.
A chance to honestly dialogue about these issues that keep us stuck on the spin cycles of guilt and shame and self-deprication and instead hang all of the truth out to dry ... hooked up to the clothesline, dancing in the wind for everyone to see.
Care for two kids./Nurture a marriage/Cook from scratch,/Garden and preserve./Write for blogs and websites./Own a business./Work part-time for a church./Volunteer./Keep a clean house./Engage in friendships./And take care of myself.
I've stood there uncomfortably as others have remarked such things, hearing not only disbelief in their voice but also a sort of self-depreciation at the admission of not being able to do it all. My response used to be something along the lines of not really doing as much as they thought I did.
But I wish I would have answered differently because this issue goes way deeper than my reply; that little sentence speaks worlds about the intersection of perfectionism and busyness and comparing and success and embracing ourselves. And it has much to do with perpetuating cycles of shame and feelings of failure and not loving ourselves and others.
I wish, instead, I would have said:
1. "We can have it all -- but we can't have it all at the same time without something suffering. I may do a lot of things, but I don't do anything well. "
Don't miss it: anything and well are the key words in that sentence. But being a perfectionist {recovering now, thank you}, I had given it my best shot for too many years.
Now that I've cleared many responsibilities from my plate that just made me entirely too busy, I can tell you that doing all of that, even while not doing any all of it well, didn't come without a price.
Often times my family suffered -- namely my marriage because while you can't just leave two small children unattended, you can, indeed, leave a grown man alone after a long day so you can crash face first into bed.
Also, my health has suffered. I spent way too many years burning the candle at both ends and creating stress responses in my body and mind that have had lasting effects I hadn't totally started identifying until two summers ago when my body started crying out for some serious TLC. Thankfully, my husband and I recognized its cries before serious disease states set in and began diligently working to lighten each of our stress loads.
And also, our small business, some of my friendships and even at times my kids have suffered from having an owner/friend/mom who simply had too much to juggle to invest a good chunk of time into any one thing.
So while it looked like I was doing it all, and maybe it even looked like I was doing it all well, I really wasn't.
I didn't understand that busyness was actually eating away at the parts of life I want to do really, really well -- build a strong marriage, nurture the two small souls with who we've been entrusted and be in community with others.
2. And then there's the bigger issue -- the comparisons we make when measuring ourselves against others help us form terribly imperfect definitions of success and also degrade the beauty of being created as individuals.
What I wish I would have said more often during these conversations was that while I can write an article or blog post or poem in 15 minutes or so, I simply could not balance my check book in that amount of time. Or fix a broken anything in our home with ease. Or sew anything relatively straight.
Because none of those things come naturally to me and none of those things naturally interest me enough to want to invest time into learning about them.
And that's ok. Because that's not me. And just because I can't do those things or you can't write a blog post with ease doesn't mean we are failing at anything other than trying to be someone else. I wish I would have realized long ago how demeaning it is when I compare myself to others. By doing what we were created to do and what we love, we are actually far more successful at being ourselves. And I think who we are and how that influences us to live is far more important than what we accomplish purely out of skill or muscle power.
I guess that would have been awkward to have said all of that during those exchanges, but I often wish for redos on those conversations -- a chance to stop the spin cycle I was accidentally perpetuating by living that kind of life coupled with relative silence.
A chance to honestly dialogue about these issues that keep us stuck on the spin cycles of guilt and shame and self-deprication and instead hang all of the truth out to dry ... hooked up to the clothesline, dancing in the wind for everyone to see.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Bigger Picture Moments: When God Won't Help Us Find Our Toys
"I know why some people don't like God, mommy," my six year old says as we discuss life over Legos.
"Really? Why?" I ask, baffled at the change in a conversation that began about lunch.
"Because sometimes when they ask him for things, he doesn't give them to you ... I ask God for help finding my stuff sometimes and he never helps me find it. I think that's why some people don't like God."
Oh.
What do you say to that? I mean, the kid's right. That is why some people don't like God. Or why they don't think he's real. Or why they think He's mean so never even bother with a mean God.
I ask my oldest son, who is searching my face for clues on where this conversation is going, "Have you ever heard of a genie in a bottle?"
"Yup ..." He says. "Well, sorta. Tell me again?"
"In stories and movies sometimes people find a bottle; they rub it and then a genie comes out and says 'master, I'll grant you three wishes,', I explain. "Sometimes I think we treat God like a genie in a bottle. We ask for something thinking we are the master and then get angry when God doesn't give us what we want."
He nods slowly, zooming Lego motorcycles around his legs.
"Sometimes I get angry and frustrated when I don't get what I'm asking for," I tell him.
"Like when the baby died," he says.
I pause, totally vulnerable.
"Yes, like when our baby died."
We linger in our thoughts, bathe in a moment of silence.
"Do you think God is like a genie in the bottle and we are the masters?" I ask.
"No!" He exclaims. Then he sighs. "God is the master ... God's way is always perfect."
I'm blown away.
My six year old is discussing theological questions with me and them applying his church memory verse appropriately in discussion and life application.
I agree with him.
"God's way is always perfect. We don't always understand it, but it is perfect."
I have so much I want to say
to him
to myself.
to God
So much I want to know -- like, God, what do you want from me right now and where should we go from here and how should we get there?
I am much like my six year old looking for my toys and demanding God help me find them.
He sighs again, this time contentedly, at the same time I exhale deeply.
I've asked the questions; I have bared my heart to Him who sees me.
So I breathe and take my son's lead, sit with him in contented stillness for a few lingering moments -- wild thoughts abandoned--
and offer the words
these questions
this heart
to Him again even now in these moments where it feels like I'm asking Him to help me find what I'm looking for and He doesn't seem to be helping me find it at all.
My oldest continues the Lego race around my feet.
And I think maybe
He's not showing me where I put my toys because He's been showing me something much bigger;
Maybe ... He's been revealing His very heart for me instead.
Monday, June 24, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
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.
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
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Bigger Picture Moments: The Small Storms
It's not the biggest storm we've ever had, but he's completely overtaken by it.
We've been trying to go to sleep for about 20 minutes, snuggled together in his bed, but he can't relax enough to take his eyes off of the storm. He's wholly intent on watching the lightening flashes jet across the sky just outside his window, and he nervously asks about each loud rumble of thunder that meanders in through the open window of his darkened room.
I open my arms for him, but he's too preoccupied with the storm ... until he grows tired and cannot keep his eyes open.
Finally, he tucks himself into the crook of my arm. The thunder roars a bit louder ... and he sandwiches me into a headlock between his 3-year-old arms, drapes his legs over my body as while the tree branches dance wildly in the wind just outside his window.
I try to slowly slide myself from his grip after I think he's drifted to sleep, but he whimpers about loud booms and holds on for dear life.
There's surrender tonight, heaping high in the midst of the storm.
Him, drifting to sleep.
Me, sinking into the bed until deep slumber takes over his body. And while I'm lying next to him, I know I've had trouble averting my eyes from the storm.
It's not the biggest storm I've ever known, but my eyes are glued to the window, worried about what's coming next ... when exhaustion sets in
and I, too, have to choose
to fight
or throw my weary arms around my Father's neck
and surrender to the Rest that only surrender brings
when there's storm thundering outside.
We've been trying to go to sleep for about 20 minutes, snuggled together in his bed, but he can't relax enough to take his eyes off of the storm. He's wholly intent on watching the lightening flashes jet across the sky just outside his window, and he nervously asks about each loud rumble of thunder that meanders in through the open window of his darkened room.
I open my arms for him, but he's too preoccupied with the storm ... until he grows tired and cannot keep his eyes open.
Finally, he tucks himself into the crook of my arm. The thunder roars a bit louder ... and he sandwiches me into a headlock between his 3-year-old arms, drapes his legs over my body as while the tree branches dance wildly in the wind just outside his window.
I try to slowly slide myself from his grip after I think he's drifted to sleep, but he whimpers about loud booms and holds on for dear life.
There's surrender tonight, heaping high in the midst of the storm.
Him, drifting to sleep.
Me, sinking into the bed until deep slumber takes over his body. And while I'm lying next to him, I know I've had trouble averting my eyes from the storm.
It's not the biggest storm I've ever known, but my eyes are glued to the window, worried about what's coming next ... when exhaustion sets in
and I, too, have to choose
to fight
or throw my weary arms around my Father's neck
and surrender to the Rest that only surrender brings
when there's storm thundering outside.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Bigger Picture Moments: Seasons
The days grow longer and the sun burns brighter each day it seems now that May has finally forced spring to step on stage and take front and center.
I am ready, and I am not.
The boys, too, grow longer and burn brighter daily it seems as they play and talk, interact and sort through life's beautiful and sticky messes.
I am ready, and, samely, I am not.
A collaboration labored out of love that has boasted the most beautiful blooms and friendships and has brought me here to this space weekly for almost three years to reflect on life's Bigger Picture Moments draws to a close.
I am ready, and, really, I am not.
Day by day, I grow a little bit stronger and learn a little bit more about who I am {and who I am not} and who God is {and who He is not}.
And I am ready, but, also, I am just not.
These seasons, they saunter in and out to the beat of their own drummers and they leave me still singing the chorus of the last song while also setting a new rhythm in my heart, head, foot.
So I linger in the reality of spring and dance in the promise of summer and I cry at baby pictures and hang onto still-chubby hands while excitedly exploring emerging personalities. I mourn the end of goodness, but also celebrate the beginning of newness, and I find hope in Strength and knowing but also remember what it is to not understand, to fall.
I am ready. And I am not.
But the seasons change regardless, so I remind myself
to stand tall, open in the moment
while each one lingers before it comes to pass.
Note: Today is the last day we're officially collaborating over at Bigger Picture Blogs, the community some friends and I began almost three years ago dedicated to creativity and community. On this day, I find, really, that I am ready. And I am not. It's been an amazing three years of finding the bigger picture in the everyday moments of life and celebrating everyday creativity and community.
I am ready, and I am not.
The boys, too, grow longer and burn brighter daily it seems as they play and talk, interact and sort through life's beautiful and sticky messes.
I am ready, and, samely, I am not.
A collaboration labored out of love that has boasted the most beautiful blooms and friendships and has brought me here to this space weekly for almost three years to reflect on life's Bigger Picture Moments draws to a close.
I am ready, and, really, I am not.
Day by day, I grow a little bit stronger and learn a little bit more about who I am {and who I am not} and who God is {and who He is not}.
And I am ready, but, also, I am just not.
These seasons, they saunter in and out to the beat of their own drummers and they leave me still singing the chorus of the last song while also setting a new rhythm in my heart, head, foot.
So I linger in the reality of spring and dance in the promise of summer and I cry at baby pictures and hang onto still-chubby hands while excitedly exploring emerging personalities. I mourn the end of goodness, but also celebrate the beginning of newness, and I find hope in Strength and knowing but also remember what it is to not understand, to fall.
I am ready. And I am not.
But the seasons change regardless, so I remind myself
to stand tall, open in the moment
while each one lingers before it comes to pass.
Note: Today is the last day we're officially collaborating over at Bigger Picture Blogs, the community some friends and I began almost three years ago dedicated to creativity and community. On this day, I find, really, that I am ready. And I am not. It's been an amazing three years of finding the bigger picture in the everyday moments of life and celebrating everyday creativity and community.
Friday, April 19, 2013
Bigger Picture Moment: Change Course
We wake up in the morning to gray clouds and more precipitation dripping from the sky like someone forgot to turn off the faucet.
My oldest peers out the back door and exclaims that it looks like there's a swimming pond in the park behind our house.
The ground is sopping wet, saturated and flooded; I see it spread out before me and feel the waters creeping up in my heart, too.
While the boys excitedly peer out the window, wishing aloud and to each other about how they hope we let them go back there and muck around in the waters, I look up at the sky and whisper-pray
"Don't forget us. Please, oh God, please, turn off the faucet soon. There's only so much flooding we can take."
I lure the boys away from their viewings of a water wonderland, ask them to get dressed for the day.
"Where are we going today, mom?" the oldest asks.
"We're going to the farm, to the store, to school, " I say as I peer out at the flooded wetlands creeping into our yard.
That's truth, yes, we're going all of those places but, it's not everything because honestly I've already started driving today and I can tell you I'm heading nowhere good.
All morning, I've been staring out the door at the flood waters and staring at unfolding news brandished across screens and staring at genetic testing results just in, and where I'm going is beyond the farm and store and school. Where I'm going is straight into the murkiness of flood waters, and I just know I've got to change the course before I'm in over my head.
The little one takes my hand and we head up the stairs to dress as I call for my oldest to do the same; he's not excited about where we're going today either.
"And maybe on the way we should keep our eyes peeled for rainbows and songbirds and buds. We can count how many we find."
He smiles, and the three of us, we alter where the direction we're heading, eyes lifted to the skies.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Bigger Picture Moments: On Asking God Hard Questions
Three miscarriages in a row.
The last one thisclose to the second trimester.
There's been so much heartache in the losses of these babies, these dreams and these hopes that it's left me questioning God:
I've asked all of these questions, sobbing in the arms of my husband, or while sitting with friends over coffee or scribbling notes into my journal.
Why?
But I was scared to ask them to God. I didn't want to give these questions voice in prayer; I'd chided myself over my lack of faith until a colleague pointed out during a staff meeting right after this last miscarriage that Jesus welcomed questions.
It doesn't scare God or make Him angry when I ask questions, really tough and messy questions that showcase my messy, heavy heart
My colleague even went so far as to say that God cares less about the questions I'm asking and more about the fact that I'm simply coming to Him, seeking Him.
So I began asking. And He began answering, that following Sunday, in fact, during a sermon our pastor was sharing from Isaiah 51: 12-13:
"I, even I, am He who comforts you. Who are you that you fear mere mortals, human beings who are but grass, that you forget the Lord your Maker, who stretches out the heavens and who lays the foundations of the earth ..."
But in God saying that, He doesn't point His finger at me, shaming me, saying: "Who are you to question me?!"
Rather, He says to me, Who am I that you can trust me? If I stretched out the heavens and lay the foundation of the Earth, how much more am I able to care for you?
The same God who put those stars in the sky is the same God who knows what never has happened but what could have happened and what won't ever happen as well as what has happened and what is happening now and what will happen -- that God.
I don't know any of that, and I'm not sure I want to know. I don't know God's reasons, and I'm not sure I want to know them.
But I know who God is.
And knowing who He is has answered the questions raging in my mind -- just not in the ways I expected.
But in ways that give me rest and peace and hope.
The last one thisclose to the second trimester.
There's been so much heartache in the losses of these babies, these dreams and these hopes that it's left me questioning God:
Where are you, God, while I'm grieving our sweet baby?
Where were you when my baby stopped growing inside me at nearly eleven weeks?
Why didn't you stop the baby from dying?
Or, God, why let me be pregnant for so long with so many good signs of healthy pregnancy only to birth my baby at 12 weeks and some days?
Why even let me get pregnant at all? Why not just keep us from getting pregnant if our baby was going to die?
Why give me a desire for more children if we can't have more children?
I've asked all of these questions, sobbing in the arms of my husband, or while sitting with friends over coffee or scribbling notes into my journal.
Why?
But I was scared to ask them to God. I didn't want to give these questions voice in prayer; I'd chided myself over my lack of faith until a colleague pointed out during a staff meeting right after this last miscarriage that Jesus welcomed questions.
It doesn't scare God or make Him angry when I ask questions, really tough and messy questions that showcase my messy, heavy heart
My colleague even went so far as to say that God cares less about the questions I'm asking and more about the fact that I'm simply coming to Him, seeking Him.
So I began asking. And He began answering, that following Sunday, in fact, during a sermon our pastor was sharing from Isaiah 51: 12-13:
"I, even I, am He who comforts you. Who are you that you fear mere mortals, human beings who are but grass, that you forget the Lord your Maker, who stretches out the heavens and who lays the foundations of the earth ..."
But in God saying that, He doesn't point His finger at me, shaming me, saying: "Who are you to question me?!"
Rather, He says to me, Who am I that you can trust me? If I stretched out the heavens and lay the foundation of the Earth, how much more am I able to care for you?
The same God who put those stars in the sky is the same God who knows what never has happened but what could have happened and what won't ever happen as well as what has happened and what is happening now and what will happen -- that God.
I don't know any of that, and I'm not sure I want to know. I don't know God's reasons, and I'm not sure I want to know them.
But I know who God is.
He's the God who loves us so much He sent a piece of Himself wrapped in flesh to an imperfect world.
He's the God who doesn't give his children snakes when they ask for bread.
He's the God who sends His Word to speak into my hurting heart.
He's the God who sends His Church to love and comfort and walk with the hurting.
He's the God who hears even the deepest groans of our hearts and sends us a counsellor who intercedes for us.
He's the God who made a way for selfish me to be with perfect Him forever.
And knowing who He is has answered the questions raging in my mind -- just not in the ways I expected.
But in ways that give me rest and peace and hope.
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Thursday, March 28, 2013
Bigger Picture Moments: The Sacred Ground
Gay marriage and circumcision and GMO foods and gun control.
All of these issues have been exploding all around me via social media and news and in-person conversation this week.
And I've been very quiet in the actual conversations mostly because I've been wrestling on the inside, crying out to God, asking him how to respond thoughtfully and lovingly to these ongoing debates as someone who proclaims to love Jesus, as someone who really loves people.
John and I have long dialogued about these issues and these types of issues and we're often on different pages or even chapters regarding the actual issues. And we still share an intimate life together, abiding in family and love under the same roof and even the same blankets.
With our different perspectives and experiences and thoughts, we often have to meet on the sacred ground of Jesus while abiding in the living Word He's given us.
And remember how He loved. How He interacted with sinners like us.
How He lived in the world but was not of the world. How He left us with His Spirit and His truth-filled Word.
Wednesday morning, a night after a long discussion ensued, I felt myself needing to just soak and saturate in the Word.
I read through 1 Corinthians and was struck by this one especially during this Holy Week.
"I do want to point out, friends, that time is of the essence. There is not time to waste, so don't complicate your lives unnecessarily. Keep it simple -- in marriage, grief, joy, whatever. Even in ordinary things -- your daily routines of shopping and so on. Deal as sparingly as possible with the things the world thrusts on you. This world as you see it is on its way out." {The Message, 1 Corinthians 7: 29-31}
Simply, life is about a reconciliation of our hearts to our Creator, and during this Holy Week especially, I think my own mind and heart need to take a step back from the issues of this world
and focus on the Savior of this world.
All of these issues have been exploding all around me via social media and news and in-person conversation this week.
And I've been very quiet in the actual conversations mostly because I've been wrestling on the inside, crying out to God, asking him how to respond thoughtfully and lovingly to these ongoing debates as someone who proclaims to love Jesus, as someone who really loves people.
John and I have long dialogued about these issues and these types of issues and we're often on different pages or even chapters regarding the actual issues. And we still share an intimate life together, abiding in family and love under the same roof and even the same blankets.
With our different perspectives and experiences and thoughts, we often have to meet on the sacred ground of Jesus while abiding in the living Word He's given us.
And remember how He loved. How He interacted with sinners like us.
How He lived in the world but was not of the world. How He left us with His Spirit and His truth-filled Word.
Wednesday morning, a night after a long discussion ensued, I felt myself needing to just soak and saturate in the Word.
I read through 1 Corinthians and was struck by this one especially during this Holy Week.
"I do want to point out, friends, that time is of the essence. There is not time to waste, so don't complicate your lives unnecessarily. Keep it simple -- in marriage, grief, joy, whatever. Even in ordinary things -- your daily routines of shopping and so on. Deal as sparingly as possible with the things the world thrusts on you. This world as you see it is on its way out." {The Message, 1 Corinthians 7: 29-31}
Simply, life is about a reconciliation of our hearts to our Creator, and during this Holy Week especially, I think my own mind and heart need to take a step back from the issues of this world
and focus on the Savior of this world.
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Thursday, March 21, 2013
Bigger Picture Moments: When Nothing Fits
Nothing fits right now.
The maternity pants are too big.
And my regular jeans too snug.
There's still a swell of belly that forces my every-day shirts to stretch and cling to the slight roundness that lingers after pregnancy ends {even with no baby in arms}.
Every day this week now, I've bucked up and buckled down our two boys into their carseats, and we've ventured out into life, schedules looser than normal but still too tight for where I am
when nothing fits right now.
The God we trust sends friends and family to love on us up and down and my gratitude spills over from welling eyes onto red cheeks the same way the tears of grief do and both grief and gratitude feel so uncomfortable when they are wrestling for space in the space in my heart
where nothing fits right now.
This morning we bundled up, ready to brave the 20-degree weather as we ventured out to register G, my oldest, for kindergarten this fall
but the early spring sun was so warm we ended up roasting a few minutes into our drive
and when I pulled into the parking lot, we each ripped all of our jackets and hats and gloves off
sat long, leaned bare skin into sun streaming through glass windows
and it doesn't fit right now
for winter to be hanging on so tightly while spring is fighting so hard to burst through.
There is a break in the silence when my oldest asks why we are sitting still for so long when we have so many places to be.
I didn't have an answer so I said just that and
when I caught his eyes in the mirror and heard him say
"it's ok."
I couldn't help but think that yes.
Yes, it is.
It's all ok that nothing fits
right now.
The maternity pants are too big.
And my regular jeans too snug.
There's still a swell of belly that forces my every-day shirts to stretch and cling to the slight roundness that lingers after pregnancy ends {even with no baby in arms}.
Every day this week now, I've bucked up and buckled down our two boys into their carseats, and we've ventured out into life, schedules looser than normal but still too tight for where I am
when nothing fits right now.
The God we trust sends friends and family to love on us up and down and my gratitude spills over from welling eyes onto red cheeks the same way the tears of grief do and both grief and gratitude feel so uncomfortable when they are wrestling for space in the space in my heart
where nothing fits right now.
This morning we bundled up, ready to brave the 20-degree weather as we ventured out to register G, my oldest, for kindergarten this fall
but the early spring sun was so warm we ended up roasting a few minutes into our drive
and when I pulled into the parking lot, we each ripped all of our jackets and hats and gloves off
sat long, leaned bare skin into sun streaming through glass windows
and it doesn't fit right now
for winter to be hanging on so tightly while spring is fighting so hard to burst through.
There is a break in the silence when my oldest asks why we are sitting still for so long when we have so many places to be.
I didn't have an answer so I said just that and
when I caught his eyes in the mirror and heard him say
"it's ok."
I couldn't help but think that yes.
Yes, it is.
It's all ok that nothing fits
right now.
Share your Bigger Picture Moment HERE!http://biggerpictureblogs.wordpress.com/2013/03/21/rejuvenation-bigger-picture-moments-featuring-stephanie/
Friday, March 15, 2013
Bigger Picture Moments: In the Rain
It seems I've been praying for spring for weeks now.
Spring with all of its glorious, healing sun and warmer weather and green buds.
But when I look out the window, all I see are piles of snow and gray skies and long bare branches and rainy sleet dripping from clouds, beading and sliding down the window panes in the middle of March.
I feel like those rain drops.
Slowly sliding down down down into a never-ending pile of winter.
I wake up to more gray skies, and my prayers feel like they've been pleaded in vain.
Same as the ones I've cried and then finally laid at His feet while anxiety swelled in my heart the very first day we found out we were pregnant
Only to lose our baby just before the second trimester began.
Just like the night I begged God to allow our midwife to find baby's heartbeat.
Only to find ourselves weeping over the loss in a hospital waiting room in the length of after hours.
Same as the ones where I cried out for Him to send my body into labor and save me from surgery.
Only to find myself in an operating room late last Tuesday night.
I see a lot of prayers, seemingly unanswered.
I look outside, and I see snow.
I look outside, and winter still seems spread out thick over the land.
But I know better.
I know better than to stop looking after first or second glance. And I know we often see only what we look for.
I know better than to get so stuck on those barren branches that I miss the spring birds that briefly land on them.
So I look closer for spring, and I find it in lengthening days.
I look for spring and see the promise of green just barely poking through dark, wet soil.
I look for spring, and I see beneath the snow, in the rain
where love is showered over our hearts in the midst of grief
and mercy is born in delivering my sweet baby at home
and grace is granted in the OR
and hope is replanted in my heart after a conversation in the recovery room
and Words black on the white page of what Stands Forever.
And I see it all in the rain.
Spring with all of its glorious, healing sun and warmer weather and green buds.
But when I look out the window, all I see are piles of snow and gray skies and long bare branches and rainy sleet dripping from clouds, beading and sliding down the window panes in the middle of March.
I feel like those rain drops.
Slowly sliding down down down into a never-ending pile of winter.
I wake up to more gray skies, and my prayers feel like they've been pleaded in vain.
Same as the ones I've cried and then finally laid at His feet while anxiety swelled in my heart the very first day we found out we were pregnant
Only to lose our baby just before the second trimester began.
Just like the night I begged God to allow our midwife to find baby's heartbeat.
Only to find ourselves weeping over the loss in a hospital waiting room in the length of after hours.
Same as the ones where I cried out for Him to send my body into labor and save me from surgery.
Only to find myself in an operating room late last Tuesday night.
I see a lot of prayers, seemingly unanswered.
I look outside, and I see snow.
I look outside, and winter still seems spread out thick over the land.
But I know better.
I know better than to stop looking after first or second glance. And I know we often see only what we look for.
I know better than to get so stuck on those barren branches that I miss the spring birds that briefly land on them.
So I look closer for spring, and I find it in lengthening days.
I look for spring and see the promise of green just barely poking through dark, wet soil.
I look for spring, and I see beneath the snow, in the rain
where love is showered over our hearts in the midst of grief
and mercy is born in delivering my sweet baby at home
and grace is granted in the OR
and hope is replanted in my heart after a conversation in the recovery room
and Words black on the white page of what Stands Forever.
And I see it all in the rain.
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Friday, February 15, 2013
Bigger Picture Moments: I See it in His Face
When we first were married, no one ever asked him for his ID when he'd order a beer.
But they always asked for mine.
At freshly 22, I'd tease him that I was his young wife, gladly wearing smooth skin and pre-baby curves as I joked.
And he'd look at me adoringly, smile a wide grin, and agree even though I'm actually only two months and some change younger.
It's been seven and a half years, one mortgage, one business, two little boys, two angel babies and now another baby on the way since we said I do, and when we go out now and order a drink neither of us are asked to prove we're of legal age ...
That's what living long days and learning hard into what life gives and clinging fiercely to God while together weathering storms does to our bodies -- it ages us in ways we've not only felt but in ways we can see.
Gray hairs bright and shiny amid my copper-brown locks and small smile lines surrounding eyes and body swelled and stretched in motherly ways.
But John -- he's only a little grayer in the hair and it blends seamlessly in with his short, blonde hair and the smile lines around his eyes are barely noticeable and he's seven pounds lighter and leaner.
It's when I take this good look at my own reflection and then his that I see it in his face.
There is love spread over it in ways I didn't before know or see or recognize.
And I'm thankful for the way we wear our age
reminders of the love we've sown and grown and harvested along the way.
But they always asked for mine.
At freshly 22, I'd tease him that I was his young wife, gladly wearing smooth skin and pre-baby curves as I joked.
And he'd look at me adoringly, smile a wide grin, and agree even though I'm actually only two months and some change younger.
It's been seven and a half years, one mortgage, one business, two little boys, two angel babies and now another baby on the way since we said I do, and when we go out now and order a drink neither of us are asked to prove we're of legal age ...
That's what living long days and learning hard into what life gives and clinging fiercely to God while together weathering storms does to our bodies -- it ages us in ways we've not only felt but in ways we can see.
Gray hairs bright and shiny amid my copper-brown locks and small smile lines surrounding eyes and body swelled and stretched in motherly ways.
But John -- he's only a little grayer in the hair and it blends seamlessly in with his short, blonde hair and the smile lines around his eyes are barely noticeable and he's seven pounds lighter and leaner.
It's when I take this good look at my own reflection and then his that I see it in his face.
There is love spread over it in ways I didn't before know or see or recognize.
And I'm thankful for the way we wear our age
reminders of the love we've sown and grown and harvested along the way.
 |
| Link your moment at Brook's |
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Bigger Picture Moment: Like Me
I barely recognize his face uninterrupted these days.
He's letting his hair grow God knows how long, and his thick dark brown bangs sweep over his forehead and brush his eyelashes and cover his eyebrows.
Also, he's five, and he's intent on making decisions, and who am I to tell him his hair will never look like the curly mop Anniken sports no matter how long it grows?
So I don't.
I do instead what my heart says mothers should do, ignoring what my head insists:
I brush his bangs to the side of his face, I kiss slight the soft skin beneath and I ask him to tell me again about what he's thinking as we venture off to Mommy Night at school.
To my surprise, he wants to snap pictures of us together, and to my surprise, he won't sing the Mom song this year because it's too silly; he says he just wants to snuggle me instead.
He is so himself and so like me altogether that sometimes I cannot see where I start and he begins and how we ever merged from two in one to two in two.
Because it still seems we are very much one in the same.
He's letting his hair grow God knows how long, and his thick dark brown bangs sweep over his forehead and brush his eyelashes and cover his eyebrows.
Also, he's five, and he's intent on making decisions, and who am I to tell him his hair will never look like the curly mop Anniken sports no matter how long it grows?
So I don't.
I do instead what my heart says mothers should do, ignoring what my head insists:
I brush his bangs to the side of his face, I kiss slight the soft skin beneath and I ask him to tell me again about what he's thinking as we venture off to Mommy Night at school.
To my surprise, he wants to snap pictures of us together, and to my surprise, he won't sing the Mom song this year because it's too silly; he says he just wants to snuggle me instead.
He is so himself and so like me altogether that sometimes I cannot see where I start and he begins and how we ever merged from two in one to two in two.
Because it still seems we are very much one in the same.
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| Link at Jade's today! |
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Bigger Picture Moments: Christmas Present
We slept until about 8:15 and lounged in our pajamas longer than normal Christmas Day because we could.
Only casual plans sprawled out before us for the entire day.
Unlike most Christmas Days of the past that were filled with travel or spent inside my mom's home, this one seemed fully our own even with one must-stop at church that actually felt more like pleasure than work.
And it moved slowly. The entire day, hours spread out wide and open like prairie stretches for miles under the cover of snow.
We lingered in small moments of joy, watching two still-small boys play with a pirate ship that was still in its box.
We marveled as we read the Christmas story again {and again and again}
Smiled while E sang his own lyrics of "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel."
Stood in awe of our dining room together after lighting the final candle for our Christmas candlelight dinner spread
and giggled as we drank our juice and sparkling kefir water from fancy wine glasses.
As I rocked my small one in my dad's old recliner at the end of the day amid the glow of candles and tree, little twinges of remembers poked at my heart -- of magical Christmas Days past where my sister and I unwrapped traditions more excitedly than we undressed presents stacked beneath the tree
and I smiled.
Last year, I think I would have cried.
But this year
I smiled.
I was thankful instead of wistful for the past.
I don't know when it happened --
when I made the jump from past to present
from being rocked to rocking.
It's almost like being married with two kids and one dog and a house sneaked up on me.
I rocked my small one in the lingering hours of twilight and pondered how on Earth
we are the adults now.
And my thoughts went straight from memories
to future
and how we are now the rockers but one day these boys
they will be the ones rocking babes in their arms as they think back to Christmas Days past and --
I stopped myself from light traveling seasons away
re-centered and focused on the
right now
arms full
heart warm
rocking
grateful for Christmas past
and Christmas future
sitting
rocking
heart swelling
thankful and long
in Christmas present.
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 Brook'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.
Only casual plans sprawled out before us for the entire day.
Unlike most Christmas Days of the past that were filled with travel or spent inside my mom's home, this one seemed fully our own even with one must-stop at church that actually felt more like pleasure than work.
And it moved slowly. The entire day, hours spread out wide and open like prairie stretches for miles under the cover of snow.
We lingered in small moments of joy, watching two still-small boys play with a pirate ship that was still in its box.
We marveled as we read the Christmas story again {and again and again}
Smiled while E sang his own lyrics of "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel."
Stood in awe of our dining room together after lighting the final candle for our Christmas candlelight dinner spread
and giggled as we drank our juice and sparkling kefir water from fancy wine glasses.
As I rocked my small one in my dad's old recliner at the end of the day amid the glow of candles and tree, little twinges of remembers poked at my heart -- of magical Christmas Days past where my sister and I unwrapped traditions more excitedly than we undressed presents stacked beneath the tree
and I smiled.
Last year, I think I would have cried.
But this year
I smiled.
I was thankful instead of wistful for the past.
I don't know when it happened --
when I made the jump from past to present
from being rocked to rocking.
It's almost like being married with two kids and one dog and a house sneaked up on me.
I rocked my small one in the lingering hours of twilight and pondered how on Earth
we are the adults now.
And my thoughts went straight from memories
to future
and how we are now the rockers but one day these boys
they will be the ones rocking babes in their arms as they think back to Christmas Days past and --
I stopped myself from light traveling seasons away
re-centered and focused on the
right now
arms full
heart warm
rocking
grateful for Christmas past
and Christmas future
sitting
rocking
heart swelling
thankful and long
in Christmas present.
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 Brook'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.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Bigger Picture Moments: Peace on Earth
Gently, the baby slumbering in her arms stirs in the sleepy shadows of 2 a.m.
She wonders if he's been stirring for longer than she realized; she'd been in a deep sleep, exhausted from the past few days filled with trudging through crowds, giving birth and meeting her new little one's needs.
Her son nuzzles her arm, his little mouth searching for milk a little more frantically than just a few seconds ago.
She turns his head toward her, sweeps his small body closer to her breast and deftly helps him secure a perfect latch, praying he falls back asleep quickly so she, too, can return to rest.
As he nuzzles his head into her chest, he nurses with intent.
The milk begins flowing, and his small hands relax against her stomach.
His breathing calms.
His legs rest against her body, while he quietly swallows, sucks and sighs in a sweet nursing song.
Her own heartbeat slows, muscles relax, comforted by his comfort.
She sweeps her hand through his thick, dark hair, exhales a soft breath of contentment onto his small head.
The thoughts filled with the past few day's events fade, and she revels in the peace that has swept over her body.
Unimaginable peace brought about by a baby, she muses in her mind, in the midst of a starry night.
Hope unexpected.
Peace on Earth.
Reposted from Dec. 14, 2010
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 HERE! 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.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Bigger Picture Moments: Extending Arms
Tonight I'll fall asleep tucked beneath cozy, warm blankets.
Peaceful slumber indeed.
Some won't.
I can't bear to think of where the women and children who are sold into human trafficking will be this evening as the sun sets and leaves them beneath the terrible covers of darkness.
It seems like a million miles away, and at the same time it seems so close -- a violation of not just bodies but minds and hearts and souls.
When I pray, I want to reach out my arms and scoop up the broken, the hurting, the violated and the sad.
But my arms just can't reach that far, that wide.
The SOLD Project, though, has arms that can. This organization reaches into the trenches of Thai communities, helping children who are risk of being trafficked stay in the arms of love rather than hurt.
My friend Jade works with The SOLD Project, and she's seen first-hand how lives are being changed. So when The Girl Effect Challenge came along offering to help The SOLD Project grow its resources, she knew to reach out to her community to help increase the likelihood of receiving the help from the challenge.
I read an email from Jade before I was about to surrender to bed tonight. She wrote:
We're gathering our harvest of blessings and naming them one by one, sharing the gratitude in our hearts every Thursday through the end of November. Won't you join us? Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with thanksgiving in your heart.
Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.
Capture.
Harvest them!
Share.
This week link up your BPM moment below. 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.
Try to visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.
Peaceful slumber indeed.
Some won't.
I can't bear to think of where the women and children who are sold into human trafficking will be this evening as the sun sets and leaves them beneath the terrible covers of darkness.
It seems like a million miles away, and at the same time it seems so close -- a violation of not just bodies but minds and hearts and souls.
When I pray, I want to reach out my arms and scoop up the broken, the hurting, the violated and the sad.
But my arms just can't reach that far, that wide.
The SOLD Project, though, has arms that can. This organization reaches into the trenches of Thai communities, helping children who are risk of being trafficked stay in the arms of love rather than hurt.
My friend Jade works with The SOLD Project, and she's seen first-hand how lives are being changed. So when The Girl Effect Challenge came along offering to help The SOLD Project grow its resources, she knew to reach out to her community to help increase the likelihood of receiving the help from the challenge.
I read an email from Jade before I was about to surrender to bed tonight. She wrote:
....The Girl Effect Challenge ends Friday and we're just within a breath's reach of winning the challenge. This would be so huge for us, to get so much more visibility and credibility PLUS a potential grant of $30,000. If you were on the fence about giving, now would be the time to do so because your donation really could mean the difference between winning this challenge and not. If you've already given, please consider encouraging your spouses, family, friends to give too.
Remember, it's not the dollar amount but the number of donors that will win this thing for us.
If you'd like to see a snippet of what we're doing, you might like to read this post.
To help us win this challenge, please click here!
Then spread the word! Thanks so much. Your support means so much!And here's the thing: our support doesn't mean so much solely to Jade. But, rather, it means so much, it could mean everything to the lives that are being changed. If you'd like to reach your arms wider and farther than what you thought, please click here to help The SOLD Project win The Girl Effect Challenge.
****
Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.
Capture.
Harvest them!
Share.
This week link up your BPM moment below. 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.
Try to visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.
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