Show Up

You know, for a brief moment in my life, I wanted to study journalism. I was down at the J School in Bloomington, Indiana, and I was sitting in an Intro to Journalism class. And I was surrounded by excited people. This kid who sat next me was jazzed. Like, chatting up a storm with everyone around. Now I don’t remember specifics, but I do remember we had to do a quick activity with a partner. My only take away? Everyone else, especially my partner, chatty-mcchatterson, was excited about this. I was absolutely not.

I had zero interest in reporting anything, let alone whatever was happening to anyone else in the world right now. I wanted to write about Jesus and glory and His transformative power. I still do. But parts of me ache when the world seems to be falling into deeper, darker places, and all I can churn out are narratives about Jesus working in my life. It feels menial to discuss my life when people all over the world are dying because of hate and evil.

And yet, here we are. The morning after another attack. The morning after another ruthless murder of dozens. The morning after pain, fear, and terror wreaked havoc. I close my eyes to pray, but only shake my head. All that comes to mind is this: Jesus, what do you need from me here? What can I do?

And it’s this. Right here. It’s showing up. It’s standing up in our places wherever we are and walking in step with where Jesus has called us. It’s being present and prayerful from wherever we stand. Guilt isn’t welcome. Feeling guilt for being here and not there rids me of any wholehearted prayer I can muster.

And what’s more, it’s important to shut down fear before it grows.

It’s easy to say that when what happened last night happened across an ocean. But I mean it for everything. For the presidential election. For the candidate you so want to hate or the one you think needs to be our Commander in Chief. For the politics you think will save or derail us. For the choices your children make. For the day after tomorrow when you don’t know what will happen. For the unknowns. For the opinions you harbor. And especially for the lies you take for truth. Fear camouflages itself so well, in so many forms.

I justify not going somewhere because it’s not somewhere I’ve ever been, I don’t know where it is, I don’t know who will be there. But that’s all fear. I’m scared of being alone.

I justify not speaking up when I know it’s my voice that needs to be heard because I don’t want to be the person who speaks up. But I’m only scared that people will scorn me. Truth is, my voice almost always has a purpose when I have a prompting.

I justify heated debates over politics, policies, candidates, taxes, social and economic issues because they need to be discussed. And they do. But opinion is only opinion. God reigns as the King, and I know Him well enough to know that whomever leads our country is not put there by accident. Fear leads us to cripple our leaders with demeaning words and scorn those who lead us in ways we don’t appreciate. Fear is like a fertilizer for hate.

I justify not addressing the problems and chaos of each day by pretending as though it doesn’t affect me. And in Nice? I wasn’t there. Like I said, an ocean away. But I would be a fool to think it doesn’t. I’m just afraid it will come to my doorstep too. I’m afraid that I might die because people are hateful, people have their own fear, and people don’t know what else to do.

The answer is Jesus. The resolution is in Him. He takes my fear and smashes it into pieces I cannot pick back up. That doesn’t mean I don’t try. But He brings me peace. He buries fear because He is the author of hope.

Stand up where you are. Step into your role that Christ so intricately made just for you, and be present. Keep your eyes on Him, and keep your prayers full. Do your work, do your part. This isn’t all about you, but this isn’t above you. This isn’t apart from you. We can defeat fear. We can smash hate. We really can, because Jesus did it already.

Gather Me Up

Today, I feel like I’m not enough for the Lord. As though I dragged my feet before His and just fell into the dirt. My hair is a mess. My legs are tired from chasing kids. My mind is elsewhere. I made it here, but I don’t feel like I’m really here.

I get huffy when Evan and I argue. We always miscommunicate, and I almost always give up talking and look away because I have pride that I want to keep. So I huff. I get irritated. Angry. Emotional. Because I don’t want to listen. I think my opinion is better. I think my own voice would sound better.

Sometimes that’s how I get with Jesus. Huffy. Irrationally impatient. As though my fingernails hold all the answers to the world, I look down and pick at them when I’m sitting at His feet. Ignoring His gaze. Wanting to hear my own voice over any one else’s.

Today, I feel like I’ve walked too far to get here, and it’s not what I was expecting. As though the throne was supposed to be all about me.

Getting to the throne isn’t a pilgrimage. Jesus is not someone that is out of reach or somewhere else in the galaxy. He is right here with me. On days when I feel like I have to trek to get to Him, it’s because I’m the one who’s been doing the wandering. He never goes anywhere. He is never moving away from me. In fact, it’s always the opposite. It’s always me.

But where I see my faults, where I know I am the reason for being far away, I also know that it’s okay. It’s okay that I am a woman who falls down a lot and wanders aimlessly because I have this sinful, human nature within me. What makes it okay is the Holy Spirit that makes His home with me, right where that sin hides, right where my humanity resides.

I make my way back. Like the prodigal son. And just like the father in that story, Jesus brings out all the best for me. His daughter who wandered in search of something that would never taste as sweet as this.

Rather than seeing it as a return to His throne, it’s just a return to my home. Where I feel like I’m crumbled at His feet, He is never awaiting a moment to offer His scorn. My humanity thinks He is. I’m waiting for the pity, the look of frustration on a father’s face, that I have fallen short of His feet and ultimately His love.

He doesn’t look down on me. He loves to see me return. He loves to see me at His feet, hair a mess, tired legs, worn out heart. The mere sight of me makes Him glow with joy, because I’m His girl. I’m His daughter. He’s known me since the days of the garden. He’s known me since before there was time.

I gather at His feet because I know what comes next. I feel unworthy for only a moment before He reminds me again and again, for the uncountable time, that I am worth more than jewels and gold. Value unmatched by the stars. I’m gathered up in His arms. I am safe and free. Enough in every sense of the word. Worthy. And home.

Finding the Moment

The home I’ve raised my boys in is only a couple of miles from where I grew up. I know the area like the back of my hand. Our house is only a block away from where my grandma used to live. Sometimes I close my eyes and try my hardest to see if I can remember ever seeing our house as a little girl. There isn’t a memory.

It’s interesting how a home feels and becomes so dear.

Our backyard leads out to a field and cemetery, so we have much more privacy and quiet. The robins love to hop around our grass, and I swear all the neighborhood squirrels find their way here every morning to play tag. I love our little piece of land and our little house with our little bedrooms.

Being here reminds me of all the times I’ve found my moments.

This was where I brought home my first son. This was where I went into labor with his brothers. This is where I wept when I lost our second baby. This is where I wept when my husband lost his job. This is where we’ve had multiple new, glorious beginnings. This is where everything has begun and continues for us.

Home is precious. We have a peony bush in our backyard that appeared out of nothing the first spring we lived here. I remember seeing the pink blossoms and feeling giddy with excitement. It was all new to me; the quirks of our home were something I was only beginning to learn that first year. Every spring that bush comes back, and every spring it makes me smile. A sweet surprise.

There’s other memories that hit me right in the feels. Like whenever I switch on the lamp on my bedside table, I’m immediately taken back to sleepless nights with newborns. The way the light hits the walls. The way the warmth covers my pillow. It transports me back to those moments with babies, crying, and waking & sleeping as the moon kept us company.

I know that our time here is dwindling. Our needs are different, and soon we’ll need to relocate to accommodate them. But until then, I want to relish in this land. In this place. In the memories. In finding the moments that matter most.

Great Because I Am

A couple of weeks ago, I went to Bible study at our church for the summer session. We were looking over Proverbs 31. You know, that passage. The one about the “perfect” woman.

It was such a great discussion. And it was also a hard one. That Proverbs 31 woman! She seems untouchable. And in my mind, if I’m being honest, a little out of touch. My first thought when I hear “Proverbs 31 woman” is a woman that I actually don’t want to be.

But, then I actually read the passage. I know. I shouldn’t have such harsh criticisms of a Proverbs 31 woman when I’m not totally familiar with the passage. But I’ve never been interested. I’ve always been a woman who wants to be wild about the Creator, unchained by one passage in scripture. I wanted the entirety of the Bible to be my cornerstone. And I also have a lot of pride. So really, I should blame myself for being against a Proverbs 31 mindset and no one else.

Here’s what I want to describe me: a woman after God. A woman who knows she is great because she knows who is the Greatest. A woman who has the characteristics of a Proverbs 31 woman but isn’t bound by them. A woman who knows God is limitless, even when it comes to His word. 

It’s easy to feel less than when you read the chapter. The enemy works hard to make me feel that way. But here’s what I know is truth:  I already am a Proverbs 31 woman. I already am the good and worthy things described because the same God who made that woman made me. The same Jesus died for me. The same power of Christ is in me just as it is in her.

So maybe I’ll stop thinking of it as a list of requirements to be holy. I already am, because He says I am, His blood covers me. I’ll consider myself equal to her. I’ll consider that I have all the qualities of that woman within me, even if they are displayed differently. I can’t be the same as all women who ever were, are, or will be. I am me. Great because I am.

In the Trenches

It was a rainy day. I watched over the balcony as the rain fell over the mountains, and I looked down at the exact door I walked through over five years ago on our honeymoon. We had a perfect view of the room we stayed in. It felt a little surreal to see it from up high as my three boys ran around the room behind me, my brother and his children doing the same.

Last week, we vacationed in Gatlinburg, TN with my family. We go every other year, and each time our family has grown. Each time we have had an additional boy. (That’s not a clue, in case you were wondering.) Each time we arrive differently than the last.

I’ve been watching my boys differently in this past week. I’ve been praying to keep my eyes unclouded, available to see what could be and what I cannot change. Everyone who is anyone tells you it happens too quickly, they’re grown before you know it. And each day, I see it. I’m looking at them now, thinking of how soon they will be men and if I will be that mom who just wants to snuggle her teenagers. (Probably.) The point is, our children are not keen on staying close to us forever. They were never meant to.

And within the past week, while I was resting and relaxing, enjoying time to do as we pleased, a lot of chaos was happening elsewhere in the world. It’s nearly impossible to escape reality when social media is awake at all hours. So I watched from afar as African American men were shot, police officers were killed, and my Facebook friends, people I follow on Instagram and Twitter, took to their platforms and went on their rants, tangents, and opinions. Some touting Bible verses. Some begging Jesus to return. Some mourning. Some hash tagging. Some mixing truth with opinion. Some just saying whatever they could because there was no other way to be of use. Sometimes just saying “I stand with you” was all that could be said.

I watched my children. I watched them, thinking of this earth they will inherit, and felt heavy. I think it is my duty to acknowledge that I must trust them with their own future. I think it’s my duty to pray for my own heart, to give up my fear, and to believe that whatever I do to raise them is enough. I think it’s my duty to let them go when the time is right.

I hate the violence. I hate the racism. I hate the privileges that I will always have because of the color of my skin and the color of my sons’ skin. I hate that the world is a dark, hard, sick place, and that my sons will inherit it when I’m gone.

But there is hope.

The challenge is in me. The challenge is in raising children who are not afraid because I lived that way first: unafraid of other races or religions or sexualities. The challenge is this: Be who you want your children to be.

I watch my boys, and they learn their behaviors from me and my husband and the family and friends that surround us. And I want them to be strong men. Not strong men who exhibit force; rather, men who stand strong in their knowledge of truth, love, mercy, compassion, respect. Less privilege, opinion, prejudice, fear. I want them to be men who know who they are because they know Who bought their life. I want them to be men who lay down their opinions so they can walk alongside those who live in fear. I want them to be men who are unafraid to get in the middle of the issues and find ways to love those who need it, to serve those who just want to rest, to give strength to those who have fear.

So that means I have to be in those trenches too. I can preach all day on what I hope they become. It’s only worth it when my actions match my words.

I want to be there. I want to get in the thick of the messes and problems and find out how I can love people better. I want to understand better what it is to be an African American in this world, because I am a white woman. I can’t understand if I don’t ask the people who live it. I want to understand better what it’s like to be a police officer in this country today. I want to understand better why people shoot people, why people hate people, or why people are hurting. I can’t understand unless I get to those people. Unless I get into the trenches, walk through the muck with others, seek out truth in the darkness. I am not above it. I cannot be above it.

There is hope. It starts with you and me. Let’s show, if only for our children’s sake, what it is to have compassion, mercy, and love at a time where hate and fear threatens to overtake.

 

 

Routines and Chaos

My husband, Evan, tends to have a lot more patience than I do when it comes to our kids. Maybe it’s because he works during the day while I spend all my time corralling their tempers and squeals of happiness. Or maybe it’s just because my patience isn’t as thick as his. Regardless, Evan reels me in when I am impatient,  which, in every case, is all the time.

While in New York last week, we spent some time just listening to God. For someone like me, that feels so difficult. Impatient me. I put words in His mouth because I tend to pray fervently without taking a breath.

I don’t lean into Him as much as I should. I often lean on my own understanding, on Evan, on others who just can’t sustain my needs. God projects this visual in my mind: sitting next to each other, me leaning close, letting His arms envelope me. Kind of like the way I lean on my husband’s chest. Except with God, He can wrap me up fully, give me every reminder I need, and swarm me with real peace. Peace that lasts.

Returning from a week away from my boys has brought a lot of frustrations. We were kind of spoiled this past week by being allowed to be less needed. And returning to it is not easy. We fight. I yell. The rhythm of our routine feels foreign, so I’m trying to rest knowing it’ll be fine. Which is like trying to throw a cat into water. Not pretty.

And then God. He knows me, thankfully. He gave me that visual again, the leaning into Him, allowing Him to really be the burden-carrier. But He took it further: Don’t just rest in Me. Fall into Me. Give up your need to be the bearer of duty and importance. Lean so much that you can’t help but be fully encompassed by grace because there is no room or opportunity for you to grab onto anything else. Fall fully. Because I can make you float and fly. 

So routines are hard to find. Feeling like I’m in a chaotic mess is normal. But I can fall into Him because He is willing to make me fly. He is willing to give me so much grace that I’m drowning in it. And isn’t that the greatest way to live? Knowing alone, I have nothing together. And with Him, everything falls into place.

Mission Trip Recap: Return to Reality

Last week Evan and I had the best privilege of serving & leading with a group of 7th & 8th graders. We teach their Sunday school class every week, and getting to spend an entire week with them felt, dare I say, dreamy. 1. Because it has been about 4.5 years since Evan & I have been away from our kids for more than a day or two (aka, first time for us ever). 2. I got to spend a week without 6 tiny hands demanding my every need. 3. Watching students love each other, love people they don’t know, serve, get closer to God…it’s so worth it.

Today is the first real day back to routine and back to reality.

I had one hard day while we were gone where I lost my cool. I ugly cried in front of my teenagers and our site coordinator because I missed my kids, and the reality of where we were serving hit me hard. We were spending our time at the Victim Resource Center, a safe place for victims of domestic violence. Two of the kids we were going to spend our day with had just fled their home the night before, spending the night in a tent somewhere. It’s one of those situations where words seem to fail in every way.

Things got real for me.

Here’s the thing: when my worst day arrives, and my kids are making me crazy, my writing feels like trying to walk through brick walls, everything seems useless, those two little kids who fled their home in the middle of the night would’ve traded anything for my worst day. Their worst day bypass my own by miles. Little kids who deserve the greatest love, care, joy, and the hope for a good day only have a lot of hard, confusing days ahead of them.

It gets real. It brings forth the perspective I should have from day one.

Today I turn back to my reality. My semi-boring life, but how blessed I am that it is so boring. That my worst days surpass the best of those who aren’t so lucky.

So as I’m resisting the urge to shout at my boys who have somehow acquired extra whiny attitudes on this hot and muggy Monday, rest with me in the realization that we are so lucky. We are so privileged. Mission trips have a marvelous way of reminding us of our blessings. Let it be so that we continue to serve in powerful ways right here at our doorsteps.