Riches: Looking Back

I remember a day not too long ago when I felt like the world was falling all around us. We were in the beginning days of my husband working for himself, and I was skating on thin ice when it came to emotion and faith. I doubted a lot, and I was fearful most times. We added to our credit card debt ever slowly because there wasn’t any money; we felt like caged animals, for there was no where to go when we couldn’t afford to go to any stores, let alone keep putting gas in the car. We stayed put, finding ways to keep busy in 1000 square feet.

We still don’t go out much. We have zillions of home projects that are half-finished as of today, because money is limited, and we only do what we can when we can. I find myself giving away more things, getting rid of stuff that hasn’t served us in any way within the past few months. It’s weird how being poor awakened the purging in me, but I don’t want a lot of stuff anymore. I realized we don’t need it.

I have hated this season more than anything most days. I don’t know how many times I’ve said to Evan, “I just hate being poor. I hate that it limits us.” It felt like a chain that restrained me from grabbing happiness thoroughly.

But it’s funny:  I know that having little has actually been the most freeing time of my life.

We accepted a challenge from our pastor last summer to tithe regularly to our church. Those who don’t go to church may think that sounds like a scheme to steal from us, but frankly, we don’t give to feel good about ourselves or because someone said we should. We give because God is so good, and we know our money is ultimately His. We have been giving faithfully, and more than usual, for almost a year, and it has absolutely changed us. Some days, it frankly doesn’t make sense that we can give what we do. The Lord has blessed us tenfold.

In a world where having more, spending more, getting, taking, and receiving is the normal, it is not easy to be restricted by having the least. It’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t realize just how good our Father is, but I have begun to realize just how invaluable my money is when it’s wrapped up in my palms, dictating happiness, or leading me by the nose. I could have millions, but it would never make me any happier than the minuscule amount we have now.

If He ever blesses us immensely, I know it is solely because He trusts us with it. And He trusts us to use it all for His glory. Not just for my retirement. Or just my dream vacation. Or even my new wardrobe. It’s not for me. Whatever He gives me is His. For His glory. For His Kingdom.

 

Bloody Sunday

Sunday morning, I woke up, fed my kids, turned on the TV. Wild Kratts was on PBS Kids, and I left it on for them so I could get ready for church. Evan eventually turned on the news, and I was stopped by the breaking news report. I watched for 15 minutes, hearing the news of a mass shooting. Again. My heart didn’t break enough. I got up, finished getting ready, we left the house with minutes to spare. TV off. I had already forgotten.

Sundays are always busy. The boys didn’t lay down for naps until 2:30, and I had my mind on clearance shoes at Kohl’s. I scrolled through Facebook for a brief moment to see the many posts on Orlando, on the shooting, on all the victims. But I felt desensitized to it, as though I couldn’t quite feel the degree of sadness I should when so many people were ruthlessly murdered.

It wasn’t until I sat here on my couch, only minutes ago, to find my hands clutching my phone, eyes glued to the screen as I read story after story.

I write a lot on here about being women who are after a mighty God, who live to bring glory to His name, who love people fiercely, and who allow dreams to grow like ivy on a brick wall. I had forgotten a trait that I often stifle, one that I don’t always enjoy, something that makes me nervous. Uncomfortable. Scared. An important trait that a mighty woman of God should have. And it’s being a woman who is willing to do the uncomfortable, scary, brave things. The one who sometimes has to stand alone.

On Sunday, I got to move on with my life while people’s lives were shattered. Souls were taken from this earth that didn’t deserve such a horrific death, and I can’t stand the thought of ignoring them. Tears fill my eyes. Christians can be known for being hypocritical, bigots, homophobic. At the end of this day, we’re all loved by God. He loves us. In mighty ways. And His love for those people who were killed is the same for me. He doesn’t love me more. He died for them just as equally for me. That’s what makes this important.

Women of God, Church. Stand up. Don’t ignore your neighbors who feel immense pain, who feel fear because of this incident, who mourn because their loved ones were killed. Be women who stand with them. Who love them. Who meet people where their need is. Who step up and step out and love hard. Who aren’t afraid to be with people you normally wouldn’t associate with. We follow a God who came to this earth and walked in the flesh with those who didn’t have a friend. We follow Jesus, who got down on the level of people other believers were afraid of. These people are people. Rally for them. Love them. Be brave.

I don’t want to ignore the pain, pretend as though this crime doesn’t affect me. It does. The human lives taken were just that: human lives. With souls. And smiles that show in their eyes. I mourn with you, my friends. You don’t deserve to be persecuted. You don’t deserve to be hated. You don’t deserve this. You deserve to be loved, just like the rest of us.

Some Days

Okay, today: rough. I’m talking, I-might-be-throwing-tantrums-with-my-kids rough, because goodness. It is hard to love your kids when they want to defy your authority, begin climbing on top of everything (FINN), talk back, ask the question “Why?” 50+ times a day, or just want a whole lot of energy from me. Some days I just long for peace. Three boys do not merit that very often (if ever).

I didn’t have a moment. I wasn’t profoundly moved by the gospel alive in me while I was trying to keep a sliver of patience because I just wasn’t. I was exhausted from being a mom. From meeting needs. From getting a pair of shorts in the mail that were too small, even though I know they were my size. (Small case of denial.)

Some days are just like this, where everything feels like walking through molasses, no real “The gospel, everyone! Isn’t it so good?!?” moments. Just a whole lot of tired and the hope that bedtime will give me the peace I hoped for.

And then bedtime does come. This evening, my oldest had a meltdown. He had just slipped and bumped his leg on the ladder leading up to his bed. He got scolded by me when I thought he was picking his nose. And he was exhausted. He lost it, succumbed to his tears, and I just felt like I was watching myself. I felt like that. On our drive home from the store only 20 minutes earlier, I angrily said, “They just make me feel like a freakin’ terrible mom,” because I had, for the zillionth time today, corrected my son, who immediately started to throw a fit and cry. Some days, you guys. I just wish I could throw those fits too.

I climbed up into my son’s bed to hold him, because I needed it just like he did. It was a hard today; we were constantly butting our heads over silly things, and it was as though we both reached a ceasefire. I couldn’t fight him anymore. I just wanted to love him hard, and remind him that at the end of the day, especially this day, it didn’t matter. I loved him too much to care that he picks his nose sometimes. I love him regardless. I snuggled him up, and I knew that even if I can’t carry the weight of the world for him, at least I could hold him in my arms for now. Someday when bedtime comes, he won’t care for it.

Despite this day and the uneventful struggle of it, I can picture these moments I have with my son and know that I am guaranteed the same comfort from God. It is marvelous to me how I can hold my boys close, and it is enough to give them peace, for it seems that as a adults, we lose the ability to trust others enough to comfort us in such a profound way. I have to remind myself that the Lord loves me in a grander way than I love my sons. It puts it into perspective, it gives me room to sit back and watch Him love me, instead of thinking that His love is a limited thing, something I can fully perceive, or something that I can measure. Every expectation I have of Him, He shatters and surpasses. He holds me, and just like that, the comfort overwhelms my soul.

He gives me the peace I hope for. It’s miraculous, but He also gives me peace when I am in the midst of this chaos of mothering. I love that about the Lord. Shattering expectations and making room for higher ones. He is beyond me. I like that about Him. It gives me comfort, knowing I can give Him all the room He needs to love me.

The Birds

I like to think of her as a bird. Not like The Notebook portrays it. (“If you’re a bird, I’m a bird!”) A bird that floats with the wind, wings spread, strong in her wingspan, but graceful as the wind lashes across her face. She flies with intention, flaps when the time is right, glides when the wind blows just so. She knows what she’s made for. She’s comfortable in the air, where no other creature can touch her, because no other creature can fly like she can.

She can come back to the earth, she can survey the scene below from up in the sky. She rests. She goes where she is needed, or sometimes just where she wants to be. She doesn’t have to answer to anyone but a God who created her, who gave her the instinct to be herself. Not anyone else. And certainly not some other kind of animal.

When Christ made His home in me, it cancelled out the challenge to become successful, to have everything together, to be like those around me, etc. Before Him, I wanted to be what every other girl in the world was like. I wanted to live in a world where whatever everyone else had, that’s what I needed too. After Him, I became like a bird; knowing the value of His creation, including myself.

Look at the birds, free and unfettered, not tied down to a job description, careless in the care of God. And you count far more to him than birds.
Matthew 6:26, The Message

Just think:  careless in the care of God. Free. Unfettered. Not tied down.

I’m exhausted from chasing after an ideal that I cannot reach. I let my mind tell me lies, with questions that start with How or Why. I tie myself to insecurities like I need them, give myself passes when uncomfortable situations feel too icky, mistake strength for outspoken criticism, and get bogged down by fear. Fear. There seems to be a lot I would actually do if I wasn’t letting fear live in the next room.

Jesus believes that I count more to him than those free, beautiful birds. He said that himself in Matthew. And it makes me think–why do we choose, most times, to live a careful, limited, tethered life, as though our anchor is “reality” and God is only working so much in us that being a little “crazier” would just be, well, too crazy?

I count more. And I can live freer than a bird, untethered. Free. Unfettered. Not tied down.

I don’t see any birds thinking their thighs are too fat, their abilities not enough, their situation too meager to allow them to fly.

Let’s be her. Like the birds: graceful, strong, careless in the care of God. We can’t fly out of His palm. So why not fly knowing there’s no escaping Him?

Girl, Listen

The past couple of months have been real. Not that my life is make-believe, but my days have felt meaningful. Sometimes I get sidetracked by my kids or whatever spot on my carpet I need to clean, but recently, I feel the sparks of purpose and value. It’s been wholesome. Enlightening.

I think back on the me of 2013-2014, and I sigh a little. She didn’t have much interest in making friends. In being with other women, if only to be amongst other women. I had friends. But I didn’t have the people I really needed to spur growth. To challenge me. To be vulnerable with. It doesn’t matter who you are, you need people. People give you a chance to find yourself.

So recently, that has felt easier. I feel less afraid. And I like that I’ve found that in me. But look, I want to talk about you. Not for the sake of talking “about” you, or even for the sake of pointing out “you”. I want to talk to you, for you, because girl, you gotta listen. You gotta see it too.

It isn’t that I know fully who I am. It really isn’t that I know exactly what I am supposed to do with my years on this earth. It isn’t that I have a perfect plan, an idea to follow, or even the perfect sound advice that will give you “sparks of purpose and value…wholesome…enlightening.” (Refer to my first paragraph.) What is for me, it isn’t for you. What IS for you? Good things. Glorious things. Whatever your thing is, God created you just for it. Whether you know your purpose, your next 20 years, or even the next 5 minutes, whatever it is, it is good because God has said so Himself. He says that about you. He said it when He made you. He said it this morning when your eyes opened at the sound of your alarm clock or your kids rummaging through the pantry for breakfast. He smiled upon you, loved/s you, and thinks you are a good thing. You are good.

And quit this whole second-guessing thing. I’m guilty too. I’m often second-guessing the food I bought for my family at the grocery store. (My kids just love chicken nuggets the most.) But God doesn’t second-guess me. He looks at me, and He, in all of His perfection, thinks I am worthy of His love. So living confident in it? I have to. Living confident in His good, perfect, encompassing love can mean making a choice and being confident in it too. It doesn’t mean I am the smartest, the best at making decisions, confident because I look good, worthy of happiness. It means He is good, the best, and my joy. I can confidently walk the earth because I have a God who created a universe, came to the earth for me, and gave up everything to make sure I could have an eternity with Him. Why the lack of confidence? Because the world is mean, I don’t look good enough, I’m the wrong kind of Christian, I said something stupid, someone might think I meant this when I actually meant that…? Quit it. Know your King. Know you’re worth it. And know that pleasing the world isn’t worth it.

Get real with your friends. Ask for prayer when your day sucks, your kids hate you, or you think you might throw up because you made a stupid decision. Tell your ladies that you need them. Tell them you love them. Ask them how their day was. Skip over the wondering if this all too awkward, if friends are really worth it, if asking for prayer will only make people think you’re needy. Girl. You are needy of God. And if you think that’s worth hiding, you gotta realize that it’s the realest thing you can share with your friends. We need each other. We don’t need to impress each other.

Look fear in the face. And be afraid. And then let God do His thing that He does so well:  Let Him be your courage. Peace. Value. Confidence. Fear will slip through the cracks. You don’t have to live with it; it’s the worst roommate.

Listen, girl. You are good. You can be confident that you are. And find some friends that you can be real and confident and good in the Lord with. Don’t let fear be your closest friend. Know you’re good. He says so.

Open Hands

Two summers ago, I sat at my dining room table with three other women. We met every Sunday night for about a year, discussing life, the Bible, our struggles, whatever had happened that week. I remember my sister-in-law, Stephanie, sharing the call her and her husband felt led to:  Bible translation with Wycliffe Bible Translators. Looking back now, it feels like that was a lifetime ago.

This week, we, along with so many others, send them off as they travel to Vancouver to begin their journey in Bible translation, which will eventually lead them to Tanzania, Africa.

When I married Evan in 2011, I didn’t know his sisters well. I didn’t know anyone all that well. I knew the grandkids on just his dad’s side far outnumbered the whole of my family. I wasn’t fully aware of the blessing that was about to take place, like a field of flowers right before they bloom.

I’ve found myself in tears almost everyday the past week, just at small thoughts and memories of my sister- and brother-in-law and their kids. We have spent every Tuesday night for the last five years sharing dinner. Watching our kids play together. Laughing. Welcoming baby after baby after baby. (After baby.) We’ve babysat for each other. We’ve cooked meals for each other. We’ve loved each other hard in the simplest ways.

The tears come easy, but the love comes easier. We love them deep, and we love with open hands. We send them off with a gentle nudge knowing the words, “Yes! Go!” grind fear to nothing. We thank God over and over and over for obedience and open ears, because this goodbye wouldn’t be possible without it. We praise Him for our tears because it means we are blessed. We give them to God because they were His in the first place.

I never thought I would be this lucky, to have a family like this. To love people, to have anchors, to be surrounded with open hands who all believe the same:  God is good, and He will be glorified.

We love you, Jesse and Stephanie! God is evident in every detail of your journey, and watching you go is sweeter than it could ever be bitter. Steph, I’ll never forget the days when we talked about this on those Sunday nights. He is faithful, isn’t He? And just think, this is just the beginning!

If you would like to support Jesse & Stephanie in their journey, please visit their website, The Workman Word, to learn more. If anything, pray with us!

When Your Son Poops and Other Stories

A few years ago, when I was potty-training my oldest, I left him naked from the waist down so that he could go to the potty on his own. He had his own little potty in the bathroom, and with a 4 month old baby in my arms frequently, it was the best I could do at the time. He did well, with the exception of one afternoon, where he proceeded to poop on my dining room floor while I was exiled to a chair to feed the baby. I remember texting my husband a very exasperated and frustrated message with a lot of choice words. You can imagine what it might’ve said.

One time I ventured to the grocery store alone soon after Finn was born. I have only been to the grocery store a handful of times alone with all three since then. Literally everyone was crying by the end of that short trip.

Another time I was trying to get my son to finish his dinner, while he kept saying, “My tummy hurts!” To which I promptly said, “You’re just saying that!” And then he vomited at Walmart an hour later.

Just this past Sunday, my son Asa pooped in the potty for the second time since we started potty training, and I told him how proud I was of him. He gave me a high five. He then grabbed my face in his hands, pushed my hair out of my face, smiled. And he said, “Mommy, I’m really proud of you.” I cried like a baby.

It isn’t about perfecting our mothering, being flawless. It’s about moments when they love us back with just as much ferocity as we love them.

I’m proud of you, mommas. One day they’ll be proud of you, too.