How to Hear God

As a 15 year old Christian teenager, I listened to the band Barlow Girl on the regular. I downloaded all their music, burned it to CDs and listened to it almost everyday.

I loved the song “She Walked Away”. It kind of tells the story of the lost son in Luke 15. It quoted a few verses from the chapter at the end of the song, so naturally, I had that part memorized too.

And one day, something came up with a friend of mine where those verses were needed. They were verses I had unknowingly hidden in my heart, and I spewed them out to my friend because they overwhelmed my mind. I knew they were what was needed. And someone said to me, “How old are you? You are wise beyond your years.”

Looking back on my life, I feel as though for most of it, I didn’t know how to hear God. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I thought there would be a miraculous sign, or that I would just know what to do.

A few months ago, I felt like I learned. It seemed that for the first time in my life, I was hearing God.

And then He fell silent. He felt like a way off voice, silent and ambiguous among the stars.

That night when verses from Luke 15 came to my mind (also while I was singing Barlow Girl in my head), God was speaking to me. It’s funny; I think we often assume that God speaks only in words, through our own thoughts. But I think He speaks in a multitude of ways, saying what He wants us to hear in a way that is unique to us.

It takes more than just listening to hear Him.

Hearing God is easier when I look back at what He has done in my life.

When we lost a baby in 2013, it felt like a blow I wouldn’t quite recover from. And only a month after I had surgery from an ectopic pregnancy, we found out I was so blessedly pregnant again. God is a God of second chances.

The fall of 2009, I was a free agent. I had no agenda, plan, or idea what I was going to do with my life. Within weeks of returning home from college, doors were flying open left and right. If I hadn’t returned, if I hadn’t decided I was scared out of my mind and that home sounded better, I wouldn’t have the family I do now.

In May of 2003, I remember the way the stage looked at the church I was at. The lights were hitting it just so, and I was standing next to a friend as a girl walked up to me and smiled. She asked me if I wanted to know Jesus. If I think about it long enough, I can still feel the dozens of hands covering my back and shoulders as they prayed with me in hallelujahs over deciding Jesus was my Savior.

I hear Him best when I have remembered just how good He has been to me.

Hearing God gets easier as I read His Word more and without agenda.

I used to need a devotional to get my mind moving. I would read a paragraph in a book of the Bible and would wonder why it was important. I would read expecting whatever passage was before me to speak to me loudly, be applicable to my life, and encourage me. I often only read seeking to gain.

I hear Him best when I’m just reading to listen. Something that changed my view of the Bible before me was this idea: The Bible is the telling of His people’s obedience. It’s true. All that happens in the Bible is because His people decide to be obedient to Him. Reading about it, soaking in their stories, makes me see that I’m not so different. I can be just like the greatest of those in the Bible simply by being obedient.

I hear Him best when reading the Bible is a get to, never a have to.

Hearing God is easier when I’m in an ongoing conversation with Him.

The summer of 2014 sticks out greatly. It was a summer of fear, anguish, and distraught all wrapped up in a lot of giant leaps of faith. My conversations with God were continuous chatter. I never stopped talking to Him because I didn’t want Him to leave us. I was scared. So I talked all the time. I prayed with my husband all the time. I cried. I hugged my kids. And I prayed without ceasing.

I have a tendency to talk His ear off. I tell Him all about what I need, what I want, what would be nice. Sometimes I forget that He and I are in a conversation, not just a confessional of me saying every thought that comes to mind.

It’s truly difficult and occasionally uncomfortable to just sit in silence with Him. He doesn’t always say something to me. Most times it isn’t in the form of audible words. It’s like the Spirit takes hold of my heart, and He brings stories of my past to mind, or visions of what is possible.

I hear Him best when I’m always connected to Him.

Sometimes hearing Him means the Word coming alive. Sometimes it means another person saying something that brings us peace, answers prayer, or gives us a sense of guidance. Sometimes it means waiting.

He never leaves us, you know that? He isn’t ambiguous and among the stars. He’s always near, always in our hearts. Don’t stop speaking to Him if He only seems silent. Don’t stop reading His Word. Don’t think He hasn’t had a hand in your life since the beginning.

Converse with Him always. Read the Word everyday. Look back on what He has already done in you.

And you will hear Him.

Second Chances

I’m really thankful that no one can hear the thoughts that bounce around in my head.

Sometimes my face gives me away, but I can act differently than I’m thinking. I can slander someone in my head and say something out loud that only sounds like love.

It happens when I’m scrolling through Facebook. It happens when I go to church on Sundays. It happens when I’m trying to take care of my beloved boys.

Like, hallelujah. You all don’t know how mean my mind is.

Today is Monday, and I want to start new. I want to start rooted. I want to start thankful.

I was reading in Colossians and came upon this in chapter 2:

My counsel for you is simple and straightforward: Just go ahead with what you’ve been given. You received Christ Jesus, the Master; now live him. You’re deeply rooted in him. You’re well constructed upon him. You know your way around the faith. Now do what you’ve been taught. School’s out; quit studying the subject and start living it! And let your living spill over into thanksgiving. [Colossians 2:6-7, The Message]

So, our thoughts are scattered. We may be rejoicing or grieving over what happened this weekend in Washington D.C., both Friday and Saturday. We may be scared. We may be looking at others with thoughts that are running wild, without love.

This is a crazy time.

But we’ve got this. We have Christ. We’re deeply rooted in Him. We’re constructed upon Him. We know the faith. We can live in the freedom we were given.

And we can praise God.

Rooted. Thankful.

I’m thankful today for second chances. I’m thankful that my mean, sometimes ignorant, thoughts only bounce around my head, heard by myself and God. I’m thankful that I’m given a second chance to actually speak in love. I’m thankful God is full of second, third, fourth, fifth, etc. chances for me. His grace is unyielding.

With my own boys, I only give them so many chances to listen to me before I discipline them. I want them to hear me, to obey, and to respect me as their mom.

I have much to learn from my Father.

There’s beauty in how He is so kind to us, how He gives us almost endless chances to do the right thing. To say words in honest love and to be people who actually bring honor to His name. He deserves the honor, doesn’t He? After all, He gave us more chances than we’ve ever given anyone else.

It’s Monday. I’m rising up from my bed, with my feet intricately constructed upon His gifts of grace to me.

Rooted. Thankful.

 

 

Four Pregnancies, Three Kids & Joy Complete

“You have three kids?”

I get this a lot, for a lot of different reasons. It comes less often as I get older, but it slips out of people’s mouthes more often than you’d think.

Yup! Three incredible boys that I would die for.

Four years ago, we took a punch to the gut. Instead of excitedly announcing to our friends and family that I was pregnant, we were grieving the loss of a little babe that never made it.

I was reminded of our loss and triumph today when I reread something I wrote to share our news with our friends. I remember it being one of the hardest times of our lives. Just standing up in church to sing felt like a battle.

But, we made it, and the Lord did something in us that changed everything.

Here’s the post in its entirety:

My son sleeps quietly tonight. He sleeps against his father’s chest, safely and soundly dreaming about wherever his mind takes him.

Within the past two weeks, I have been longing for these moments of my own. A moment to curl up in my Father’s arms, feeling safe and away from any form of fear or harm. A moment to breathe in deeply and rest. But for two weeks, I have been clawing for strength, praying for grace, hoping for truth to overcome doubt. For two weeks, I have been crying out to God for answers to questions that swirl in my soul, hoping for logical answers to overcome my lack of faith. I long for my Jesus to overcome my pain. 

About three weeks ago, God granted us with a new pregnancy. I was very early, hardly detectable by a pregnancy test. At first, I was a little afraid as the doubts creeped in, but joy overflowed and overcame it all. Another baby. Another life to love. Another joy to fill our hearts. But just as quickly as the good news came, so did the bad. My body was reacting differently. Something was wrong.

Two doctor appointments, one ultrasound later, and it was over.

“I am so young. This body is so young,” was all I could think. How could I miscarry at a little over five weeks? How do I explain this? How could a tiny life, a life not yet lived, just be taken from us? A life that to some, wasn’t technically a life. How do I explain this? I don’t know how to talk about it. I don’t know how to grieve the loss of our child when it was hardly formed. I don’t know how to praise an unseen God in this. I don’t know.

But I do know that we grieve. We cry for peace at the knowledge of our loss, and we praise our God. Some days, I don’t know why. Some days, I do. I welcome the joy and relief that comes when I remember my God, my great Almighty holding our dear child in His hands. This baby has known no fear, has known no pain. My Father cradles our baby in His arms today, yesterday, and for all of eternity. I welcome the comfort that His peace brings.

My prayers and pleas are sometimes sorrowful. I have spent time wanting to throw bricks at God because of what happened. I have spent some days angry at everyone and everything, hoping that my anger would be considered righteous enough. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t enough to undo what was already done. Nothing I do will fix this. But each day, I pray for peace, for joy in the hard times, for patience in my anger, for strength in my weakness. I long for Jesus to make me whole once again. 

Friends, pray with us. This feels debilitating, yet I know it is not. We will overcome, just as hundreds of families before us. And as you think of us, think of the families before and after us who suffer this great loss. He will rebuild us. We will try again. And we will never lose sight of God.

Thank You Lord for keeping us. You changed our lives forever when we lost something we loved. You didn’t take from us. You didn’t steal any joy.

That little baby only knows Your arms. I don’t think it gets any better.

And then You gave us our own babies to hold, to care for, to disciple. Thank You Lord. You’ve never failed us.

Confessions of a Woman

I gave away my first kiss when I was 16. It was to a boy that I probably should not have kissed. One red flag: he had just had a piece of pizza right before he decided kissing me was a good idea. (Tip: don’t kiss someone after you’ve eaten pizza.) This boy was also younger than me, not that age matters (since I’m older than Evan…by four months), but when you’re in high school…let’s just say it matters.

I valued myself, even when I was giving away a kiss to a pizza-breath freshman. Maybe not as much as I should have in that moment, but I knew. I knew that I was deeply loved by a big God, and I was lucky enough to embrace that before I entered high school. I believed I was worth more than what a guy could tell me.

I was also woefully inconsistent. I would like boys for longer than I should have, spending hours writing about them in my journal and some fabricated future I had come up with. I wanted badly to be loved.

When I began seriously dating my now husband, I stopped investing time with my best friends. I wouldn’t consider it a detrimental sin, but it wasn’t healthy. I made the mistake of replacing some of the best women I knew with a man who I loved incredibly deeply. I love my husband, but my best friends, my women…their companionship is different, and oh so necessary.

As a new wife and mom, I thought my value was found in how clean my house was or how good of a dinner I could come up with. I secluded myself from my friends, and I dove deep into impressing nobody but myself. (I was a tough crowd.)

It’s really true, about everything: nobody actually knows what we’re doing. We’re all just faking it until we feel it, and that’s what motherhood, being a wife, and this new post-pregnancy woman I had become felt like.

Being a woman, being myself, has been like this. There are hundreds of stories between these ones where I feel like I make a fool of myself. I do something stupid. I hurt people. I think less of who I am, as if I am only as good as my mistakes. I can’t imagine what perfection must feel like, because I’ve never been there. I have always been unimpressed with my own lacking.

Sound familiar?

Maybe it’s time that brings it or experience, but there came a point where I stopped believing that I was this woman, this woman full of mistakes and coming up short; the one who quit when it got hard; the woman who was hindered by her children or encumbered by  the duties of being a stay-at-home mom and wife. “This is all I will ever be!” I would say, as if whatever I was at that moment was not living up to a standard no one had set but me.

God is different. He works differently than our minds can fully understand. We know that He sent His only Son to die. We know He didn’t ask us for anything. We know that there is never a thing we can do to repay Him. We know that He doesn’t ever want us to.

My imperfection is perfect for God, for it is the perfect canvas for Him to create His greatest work.

If a stay-at-home mom and wife is all I’ll ever be, then my ministry is full. My work is laid out. “All I’ll ever be” is more than I had hoped for in the beginning.

I am not everything I failed at; I am not a product of my mistakes. Grace is on me, God’s love sustains me, His arms keep me.

Everything I need to be is everything He is.

It is never about perfection. It is always about believing He is perfect, that He is everything I am not, and that I have no weights to carry because of it.

He didn’t have to save us. He didn’t have to redeem us. He didn’t have to give us grace so deep that we cannot escape it. But He did. And confession: getting to bring my baggage, all of my ridiculous stories and mistakes, and dropping them at His feet makes me feel like the woman I always wanted to be. Free.

 

My Country, My Family & My Faith

When I was growing up, we attended a Catholic church close to our house. We occasionally went to mass on Sundays and would go to Hall’s afterward to have breakfast. I went to classes on Tuesday nights so that I could have my first communion, and eventually be confirmed, like my brothers.

My sons are growing up rather differently. Our faith is the most important part of our life, and it isn’t anything like it was when I was a kid. We love to love and serve God. Just the other night my boys were singing a verse out of the Psalms in unison: “Give thanks to the Lord for He is good! His love endures forever!”

I grew up differently than my husband, than my best friend, than my own children. It wasn’t, by any means, a bad childhood. I loved everything about it. I loved working on the car with my dad and pretending I was just like my brothers. I remember fondly all the times I would drive with my dad to his work and go so fast up and down hilly roads that my stomach would do somersaults. I remember watching CSI and Survivor every week with my mom, snacking on cheese and crackers and reading books.

I was well loved. I was always provided for. I was shown by my parents how to take care of myself.

Somewhere between the day I took a government class in high school and the day I witnessed a woman running for president, politics became important. I started to care about what my president had to say. I started to care about international relations, social and economic policies, and the history of my country.

I used to hate everything about politics. I hated disagreeing with people I cared about. I hated the rage that people had. I hated news shows that ripped politicians to shreds. I wanted nothing to do with it.

But then I had children.

Everything changes when tiny people of your own blood start running around your house. The innate desire to protect them kicks in. The fury over giving your children what you were so lucky (or not so lucky) to have is a battle parents run into daily. We want to rescue our children from the depravity of a world full of hate, and we want to give them everything we loved, or never got the chance to love, when we were their age.

I didn’t grow up like a lot of Christians. I didn’t wake up every Sunday excited to go to church, I didn’t learn about how to read my Bible or use devotionals. Nobody showed me how to have my own faith. And that’s okay. My parents did show me how to believe in something. How to be confident in myself. They showed me how to have compassion, have opinions, and be someone who gives selflessly.

We talked about race. We talked about homosexuality. We talked about abortion. We talked about social and economic divides, and whether I liked it or not, my mom talked about politics and politicians, who she liked and who she didn’t.

I was often a student of my parents. Even if I disagreed with what they said, I listened in silence. Disagreeing makes me uncomfortable. That doesn’t mean we didn’t argue, but we lived together. They were my parents. I loved them more than I cared to be right.

My parents taught me how to have a passion for the things I believed in, because I saw it in their own lives.

My parents taught me how to be a woman of integrity and character; they taught me things that transcend faith and humanity.

In this political climate, truthfully, since the day I voted in the presidential election of 2008, I have stood in a tense place of being a Christian who was raised on liberal values.

It feels important–no, necessary–to enlighten those who disagree with other people vehemently. Especially those who will read this, feel the need to correct me, or feel a rise because I said “Christian” and “liberal” in harmony.

My actions speak louder than my words. I am not a result of a failed upbringing, lest you think my family are a bunch of “libtards” (Can that word be banished?) or just plain evil.

To put it simply, they are some of the most generous, caring people I have the opportunity to love.

They never failed me. They raised me better than for me to think that; they equipped me with the ability to see beyond differences and to love people.

I remember the day I drove home from college and cried into my mom’s arms because I felt like I had failed everyone in every way. I couldn’t last even a month in a new place. And my family did just as families should do: they loved me anyways.

It almost sounds like the Gospel, doesn’t it?

Nobody is perfect. No family is without fault. But I would not be half the woman I am if I hadn’t been given a family like mine.

What Freedom Feels Like

A few months ago, my friend & I started a women’s group called Rally. I saw it clearly in my head: the group of women gathered to connect, be seen, and find friendship with other women all for God’s glory.

As I drove to Rally last night, I started praying some fierce prayers. We hadn’t met in about three weeks, and I was praying for the Lord to revive me and to revive all of us. I even dared Him to stir His Spirit in the women I knew and to bring them to Rally.

But…there wasn’t a crowd. In fact, we had one woman show up.

Before this week had even started, I felt like I was behind. There’s been laundry to put away for a few days now. I had to throw away some fresh chicken because I forgot it was in the fridge, and it was rancid. I never opened my Bible until 6 PM. Thank goodness there’s tomorrow, right? Tomorrow will be better.

Maybe tomorrow or maybe next week is something that rolls off my tongue quicker than my yes’s. I feel the Holy Spirit tell me to do something, and I push Him away because maybe tomorrow or later or never (which is what I really mean by later) is easier, more comfortable to say. I would bet it’s true for you, too.

With Rally, I decided to listen. I decided to give the Holy Spirit space to be my guide, and I agreed to jump into something that felt difficult, foreign, and uncomfortable for me. It felt like magic, seeing how God could bring together a group of women, almost out of nothing. It was good and holy and glorious.

I’ve learned a few things over the years, and one of them? My soul is lighter when I am in a room with women who I know will pray with me. My soul does not ache when I discuss with other women the works of the Father in my life. My soul finds rest with other souls like that are like mine: needy of a Savior.

You know what’s difficult about this? We don’t believe it. Us women, we are stubborn creatures. We allocate our time to duties, work, children, and everyone else, and we forget ourselves. We forget our most basic need to connect. We forget that our phones are not replacement friendships and that our typed out words do not replace coffee shop conversations. We consider church on Sundays and the occasional Bible story with our children “good enough” for the week, or we excuse our lack of spiritual depth with a solemn, “Well this is life right now.”

And it is! This is life, right now. I cannot bear to let you miss it.

Sister, friend, woman. This is my call to your revival.

I don’t care where you go, I don’t care if you decide to never come to Rally. I care that you find your women. I care that you get with your sisters in Christ, and you dare to be needy of a Savior, together.

We had Rally, we had one woman join us, and I don’t regret it for a minute. I loved spending an evening laughing about things of my womanhood with my women, because you guys. It feels like freedom. I don’t have to perform for these people. I don’t have to put on a brave face, pretend I am chipper, or be some kind of woman I am not. I get to be me.

Revive your real friendships. Be in sisterhood with women. Get off your phone, get out of your house, and get with women who want to pray for you, love you, and encourage you.

Rest assured, I’m here praying for you, too.

 

 

The Art of Motherhood

A little over a year ago, I started taking picture of my son’s art.

In case you didn’t know, or if you needed a warning, having children means you receive pounds of artwork. From everywhere.

Go to Sunday school? Here’s the craft. Stay for two church services on a Sunday morning? Double that. Your kid is in school? Monday: five papers in the take home folder. Wednesday: twenty. Friday: one thousand (at least).

Now, with my oldest, he doesn’t just do crafts. He does above and beyond. He draws on every piece of paper he gets, therefore, I also receive every paper he uses.

It’s not bad, but we could probably save a forest if he didn’t draw so much.

So, after hearing about an idea shared by other people on the Internet, I decided to start taking pictures of “every” drawing Liam did. (“Every” being most, because if it was truly every, then I would have thousands of pictures.) I put my favorite ones aside, and then I throw away the ones that I’ve photographed. Sometimes I cringe because the art! I cannot throw it all away! And then I remember the growing pile of crafts, paper, scrap pieces of paper, and also more paper that accumulates in my house.

I did not think for a moment that I would have a child who would become an artist. I don’t like making art. Making things with my own ideas and creativity feels a little bit painful to me. Give me directions and a plan (or paint by numbers), and I will love every minute. Ask me to draw a picture of a dog with his owner on a piece of paper, and I want to shrivel up and die because I hate drawing.

But my sweet son. He is an artist.

Lucky for him, and lucky for me, we’re surrounded by people who love art.

In October, Evan and I took a solo trip to Chicago for my birthday. My brother, an artist and an art teacher, took us to The Art Institute of Chicago. It was the best thing I’ve done in years. The last time I willingly went to learn about art was years ago, probably as a teenager. We spent hours and hours looking at the paintings as my brother told us stories about the artist and the techniques they used and their influence. I felt like I saw something in the world I had never really seen before.

My grandma told my brother, “I have always hidden my talent. I don’t want you to do that. Take your art to the world.” I think about this often because of my son. I think about this often because of who I am, too. This right here is art, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.

Maybe one day I’ll pick up a paintbrush and create art to learn to let go and create something without a plan. I think that would be good for me. It’s something that I want to nurture slowly: the ability to create simply because I can. Not because I have to be good at it. It feels easy here as I write, but I think there’s always room to learn and grow.

My son does it well. He teaches me what it’s like to dream and create with abandon. I watch him draw the world around him, and the tears that well up in my eyes are significant. He’s already learning to do what he loves. I can’t believe I get to watch him.

I think of the crowd that day at the museum in Chicago. We were lucky to have my brother with us because he told us things that the little plaques on the wall couldn’t. I don’t think I’ll ever go to a museum without him. (Hope that’s okay with you, Josh.) The people, regardless of race, gender, nationality, whatever, they flocked to see the art. It transcends the limits of humanity. There is so much beauty in that.

I hope one day there’s artwork on those walls that originated right here in my home.

Anything is possible when we take our art to the world.

If you’d like to read more about my grandma, the book Dead Rita’s Wisdom by my aunt, Vicky Trabosh, is one that I cannot recommend highly enough. I come from women of great wisdom, and I couldn’t be more proud of the work my aunt has done through this book. There’s also a picture of me when I was seven, so if anything, buy it for that. (But mostly for the wisdom.)