To Those Who Don’t Feel Ready

I get asked every so often, “So, would you ever get a degree?” To which I promptly say, “No. Probably not.”

When I was 18, I went to college for two weeks, and bailed with tears streaming down my face. I packed up and ran in only a few hours. I was not ready. Not ready in the slightest. I have never regretted it; the only thing I regret is literally fleeing as though someone was chasing me. I probably looked a little crazy.

On the contrary, I got married and had three boys within four years. Apparently I was ready for that. Not necessarily prepared, but ready.

Occasionally I think about what I’ll do when my boys are in school, busy with friends, and I’ll actually have time for myself. Will I have a very clean house? Doubtful. Will I bake all day? Sometimes, but also, rather doubtful. Will I watch TV? Yes. PBS Kids will be gone forever, and when that day comes, I will rejoice. I’d like to think I would fill my time with great, productive things. But if I’m being honest, I really just want to write a book. I look that ideal in the face and think to myself, “I am not ready for that.”

Let me call you up as I call myself up.

Writing, for me, isn’t about money, fame, or notoriety. If one woman reads this post, if one person reads a book a write, and God somehow moves in His mighty way, then I must consider that enough. And ideals? They’re only for an ideal world in an ideal time with ideal people. This world is not that pretty. So ideally? I will play it safe until I can play a little riskier. But I’ve already decided this place isn’t ideal in the least. So let’s make lemonade out of these lemons.

You aren’t ready. I’m not either. I wanted to stop being an adult yesterday because I was overwhelmed with life. Money, preschool, naughty boys, yelling (from me, AND the windows were open again), feeling less than. You know, some days I just want to truly give up and give somebody else this job of being all that I have called myself to be.

What I have called myself to be.

I think I have to keep this house in order, or else the order will collapse. I think I have to be the writer I am not in order to be successful as a writer at all. I think I have to be the nurturing disciplinarian who never raises her voice above a whisper. I think I have to worry deeply about how my family will be provided for. That’s what I’ve called myself to be. And you know what? It’s all for naught. All a bunch of destructive criticisms. All a bunch of lies.

I’m never going to be ready, especially if what I have called myself to be is a bunch of examples of women who look nothing like me. Who don’t have the personality that I do. Who aren’t a mother to my kids. Who don’t have the heart that beats inside my chest. We can’t be ready if we’re waiting to reach expectations of women we were never meant to be.

Who am I? A child of God, ambassador to the Kingdom, co-heir to the throne, one day sitting at the right hand of the father, covered in the blood of a sacrifice, a woman who has the right to be seen as the woman I was created to become. Not the idea of ideal. The idea of perfectly created, intricately woven, identity firmly planted by a mighty Creator. That’s who I am.

We are ready and readied by the knowledge of Christ in us. By the power of His Name. By the righteousness of His blood. By the love of the Father. By the grace extended to us day in and day out. We ready ourselves by arming ourselves with the gospel, grace, mercy, and love. Buckets of love. He’s got a lot to share through you.

Call yourself up. Give yourself your name and know that you already have everything you need to be ready. He’s given it to you.

Ready to make lemonade out of these lemons?

Pep Talk: A Message to Myself

You know what’s really trying, as a parent? Trying to get anything done. Ever.

We’ve been trying to renovate/update our home for the past handful of years, and we’re still inching along, slowly making progress. It drives me absolutely crazy. Half-finished projects make me feel so unproductive and unmotivated, that I find myself only wanting to throw my hands up in the air, because, if we can’t finish this, then why do that?

When my boys get impatient (i.e. every opportunity they can seize), we sing a song called Have Patience. My husband taught us (which, I really have no idea where it came from), and I sing it almost every day. Most of the time my kids hate it (i.e. I sing it even louder) or they giggle and sing with me.

Here’s my message to myself, my pep talk:

The flooring can wait; your son’s need for your loving arms cannot. The walls can wait; your husband’s undivided attention cannot. The new light fixtures can wait; these moments of chasing after so many boys will be gone far too soon. The updated bathroom can wait; watching your sons bathe together in a tub will become a thing of the past in only a few short years. The smallness of this house can wait; you’ll never be this close again, literally and figuratively.

Have patience.

I want it all done, I want it all to be perfect and spotless and everything that reminds me of HGTV. But I will never get all the chaos of my sons and our life back once it’s gone. There will never be a time like this again, where I am constantly losing my mind and pulling my hair out. There will, however, be a moment when I look back and think, “I only wish I could go back just one more time.” (And I highly, highly doubt I’ll be thinking, MAN, really wish that house would’ve been finished faster so I would’ve missed all the good stuff.)

It’s good now. Not when things are “better”.

It just doesn’t get better than this.

Little Old Me

I wrote an essay my junior year of high school that changed my life. I wouldn’t say it’s the most profound thing I’ve ever written, but the review I got from a college essay critic changed everything about me. They wrote something like, “I have been a teacher for so-and-so years, and I have never read an essay as good as this. Your faith is inspiring!” I have no idea who it was that read my essay. I know my teacher at the time read it too, but she wasn’t the one who wrote that life-changing message.

Whoever it was, they sent me on a journey to change lives with words.

In my head, even if I’ve never said it out loud, I’ve always wanted to be the world-changer. Move mountains. Soften hearts. Find common ground where there seemed to be none, and reach people who needed to be reached. I often find myself ignoring my own field right in front of my eyes, too busy consumed with the idea of what lies far beyond it.

Dreaming big does mean looking ahead, beyond, and sometimes farther than others. But being caught up in the idea of a dream, the magnitude it could become, the what-if’s, and the future of it send our eyes away from the real focus, the real foundation.

Within the past few months, I’ve sought out intention. I’ve sought out God and His life-giving call, gifts, and purpose He’s placed on me. In doing that, I’ve been pulled to the earth, gripped by mission field after mission field of life and purpose right here. Little old me. Just here. Not out there, intertwining words all over the world.

Sometimes we complain about the church we go to, that it’s too this or not enough that. We feel misplaced in life, as though purpose has passed us by, not giving us a second glance. We think that circumstances of life are preventing us from being ourselves. Or that our valleys are too deep for us to really see truth. Or that mountaintops are far too high for us to be brought back to why we’re really here. Clouded perspectives and truths block us from believing that we are actually valuable enough to be called valuable.

Little old me.

It took me a little while to be pulled back to what’s really right here.

I came across a photo over the weekend of someone else’s son being baptized. A six-year-old boy. And it hit me like the world had been shoved into my gut:  this could be one of my boys. They could be baptized, if they choose Jesus. I could be singing Hallelujah! and Amen! soon enough, if I just keep on toward the prize. Mission field after mission field. They’re like fields of wildflowers all around me.

Don’t think that little old you needs a big old world to be something. Sometimes the sky-high dream you have means coming back to earth for a time, seek out God, find Him in what you think is so ordinary about your life. He isn’t going to keep His good work hidden from you. Ask Him to speak. Ask Him to give you the mission fields. Let them spread like wildflowers, and friend, walk in them. Stay low to the ground and let your hands feel the grass as it sways in the wind. Flying high doesn’t always mean watching the world from the sky. You might miss the beauty of the flowers.

Eyes for a King

Before I knew my place in this world, I felt like I didn’t fit. When I was in elementary and middle school, I was teased by boys because of the gap in my front two teeth. I often loathed the way I looked and couldn’t wait for braces to be mine. Soon enough they were, and I realized that one fix wasn’t a fix-all, and I still longed to be better. A better me.

I always thought I seemed too confident when I spoke. Or that I was a bit too quiet when I was around people I didn’t know. In youth group, I felt like I was trying too hard to be holy. With friends, I tried to be funny. With boys, I tried to be witty and cute and enticing. With the world, I only wanted to be part of it.

I was wrong to think that as I would get older, my insecurities would fall away. They don’t fully; most times they morph into a more adult version of zits (which, are still an occasional problem, one that I had hoped would end with my teenage years, but sadly didn’t). I doubt myself in more ways than one: my mothering, my friendships, my marriage, my habits, the cleanliness of my home, the looks of my home, my home in general, my kids’ behavior, my haircut, my postpartum weight, my faith. It just seems easier to brush them under a rug and call them duties.

I love what Paul says about God in Romans 12: God brings the best out of you, develops well-formed maturity in you. (The Message)

I have a hankering to develop doubt, to believe my insecurities are my underlying definers, and that I am not enough, too much, or anything else in between that keeps me from being me.

It isn’t that I want to be the best woman on this planet, shattering doubts and glass ceilings.

I want to hand all of my junk, all of my mucky doubt, my fear, and my insecurity, and hand it to a loving God, knowing He can make it right. Paul says in Romans 12, “Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. Don’t become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God. You’ll be changed from the inside out.” (The Message) Changed from the inside out. Relying on my ability to change is like hoping I will just speak Spanish fluently in five minutes. Not going to happen. Relying on Christ’s ability to change me is a sure-fire way to be transformed. To shatter doubt. To give insecurities a run for their money.

Jesus can and does bring out the best in me. Over and over, everyday, I return to Him so He can refine me. Not to sand away all of these imperfections or insecurities, but so they can be morphed into tools for the Kingdom. What is different, maybe even irksome, in me could be just the right thing for the work He calls me to. The too much. The not enough. The questioning. He changes the duty into a get-to. Not just a have-to.

It’s still true: I don’t quite fit into this world. But that’s because an eternity so good is waiting for me. I cannot wait for faith to become sight, for every doubt to fall to the ground into a million pieces.

Bring out the best in me, Father. I’m fixing my eyes on You.

 

Dust to Dust

It kind of feels like for the first time in five years, the dust has settled in our life.

For so long, it’s all I’ve ever known: the hustle and bustle of birthing babies and leaps of faith and raising boys. Something was always changing, whether it was the size of my belly or the clients my husband worked for. Now those things have almost stayed the same.

I feel anxious in this, as though now is the time where I can wipe off the dust after letting it accumulate and take a good, long look at this place we have here. At this woman in the mirror. At the boys I have around my feet who don’t resemble toddlers much anymore. At my husband’s work that has grown and changed exponentially in the past year. At my writing. At God’s workmanship.

Over the weekend was Mother’s Day, and I got to celebrate it fully with our family and with so much gratefulness in my heart. I find myself thinking quite often, “How in the world did I get this lucky?” as though luck had anything to do with it.

Motherhood is challenging all day, every day, and sometimes it feels like a joke to say that I was chosen for these kids. These kids, the ones who poop their pants, spill three cups of water on the floor a day, make me cry, and give me a run for my money all the time. But God hasn’t ever made a mistake, not once in history. I cannot question Him now.

Here we are, in this moment where I can look around and feel like the ground isn’t so far away anymore. As though the sky has a brighter sun or the dust isn’t so clouding, I can see a glimpse of eternity here on earth. Every time my son grabs my hand, gives me a kiss, makes a silly face, or cries in my arms, it’s as though heaven is opening up just a little bit more.

Motherhood is hard, in that some days, my humanness, my weaknesses, and my sin destroy the purity in my love for them. But God meets me there. I couldn’t see Him so well when the dust was thick and moving in the wind. Like on the days of a newborn baby with new needs, a teething baby, or a defiant two-year-old. The days when I sink low to my knees and feel the weight of this all being too much, the dust was thick. I couldn’t find God. I couldn’t hear Him or feel Him near. But just because I couldn’t see Him doesn’t mean He didn’t lift me up and carry me the rest of the way. If anything, I know there have been days where it was only by His strength that I was a mother at all.

In this, I know that even as the dust settles a little today, a new wind storm will come through soon enough to shake up my vision. It may not be the same as in the days of the past, but it will bring with it the new trials of visored eyes and reaching for something within arms reach, even if I can’t see it.

This is faith:  being a mother on the hardest days, and believing that the next day will still come. A new beginning will arise. The dust will not define my endurance. Only a gracious God will.

I’m letting this be enough:  I do not need to know in order to be enough.

To be enough is to let the Father meet me wherever I cannot seem to go on. To be enough is to believe He is what makes me whole, enough, and qualified. All I need is the Knower of all things. Dust or storms, nothing is out of reach when He is near.

Notes from the Week

I’ve had some writer’s block this week, which is frustrating when you’re a writer and write on a weekly basis for a self-titled blog. I realized, quickly, that God was sheltering my words for something else. I used to think it was me when writer’s block would hit. Sometimes, it is; sometimes it’s because my nose has been sticking straight up instead of down into the Word. But most times it’s because He wants to use those words for another purpose, whether it be for someone in particular, for my own processing, for prayer. So I gave them to Him. And use them He did.

It’s also been a refreshing week of lots of people in and out of our home. I normally have a maximum of a few days before the constant need and touching from my kids drives me crazy. By Wednesday night this week, I felt talked out. I had seen and talked with more people than I normally see in a week within a few days. Introversion thrives when you’re a stay-at-home mom. I count myself blessed. Beyond belief. So many people coming through our home who we get to walk life with, talk life with, and enjoy life with. That is good and holy and life-giving.

My boys didn’t drive me out of the house this week, and I got to enjoy their crazy antics, thoroughly. If it weren’t already overdone, I could write every single day about the struggles of being a mom to my boys. It’s easy to be in the struggle, to let it consume my thoughts, and to be bogged down by it. Maybe it’s the warmer weather and the return of my sanity, but I feel like I’m enjoying them better. Not worrying so much about the little struggles, but nestling into the idea that I get to struggle with them at all. Knowing their little souls just want a lot of a love and lot of guidance to Jesus and His love. I see it in my boys’ eyes some days, the reminders that in days too soon I will watch them become men, and they won’t need me like they do now. So I savor the simplicity of their need for me, and I let myself be needed.

Evan’s sister and her husband are leaving for Vancouver at the beginning of June, and we are feeling all the feels over here. God has called them to Bible translation with Wycliffe Bible Translators, and what a great and mighty call it is! We’re savoring every single bit of their presence here with us before they go, and I wanted to make sure you all knew about their upcoming journey in the months and years ahead. Prayers and support are always a help. Here is their website, with links to sign up for newsletters outlining their journey with Wycliffe, how to support them financially, and more about their hearts for this mission field: The Workman Word.

Finally, and I’m not quite sure how to lead up to this, but the other night, I totally dominated a headstand during my yoga practice. Away from the wall, didn’t waver, and held the balance like a freakin yogi, because I am one. Maybe most of you don’t care, but if you do, let me leave you with this: If you think you can’t, girlfriend, you absolutely can. It took me around five months to nail that handstand because it took me five months to build up that muscle to do it. Give it time. And practice everyday. And you will! I did. (Also, did it really happen even though I didn’t Instagram about it? I say yes. PS, I deleted Instagram off of my phone and feeling pretty rad about it. Too much perfection and preaching all up on there for me right now.)

Hope your week was solid, filled with reminders of God’s goodness in the little things. I don’t have a deep, spiritual message for you, but I do have the evidence of grace all over in the little things. He is good. Thanks for being a good, good Father, Daddy.

Runner’s High

When I was in 8th grade, I ran cross country in the fall to “stay in shape” for the soccer season in the spring. I mostly hated it, but that’s not really the point. I remember during one race, I was pacing slightly ahead of one of my teammates. Another girl from another school and I kept passing each other, fighting for a spot ahead of the other. We reached the last leg of the race, and my teammate, who was only a few paces behind me, started to yell and cheer me on. I can still hear her voice. “C’mon Janelle! You can beat her! You can do it! C’mon! Let’s go!”

I had never run harder in my life. I felt like I was flying, feet thumping in the grass, tunnel vision to the finish line. And I beat that other girl.

I love thinking of that memory. It invigorates me even now, 10+ years later.

I’m not gonna get all, “Run the race hard, perseverance, Jesus is the prize, marathon mentality” stuff on you. (Although, if you do think of it, that doesn’t hurt either.)

But it got me thinking. About myself, about my posture towards the women in my life, and my attitude, too. We’re all running somewhere, you know? We all have to move in some direction. Some of us aren’t even interested in Jesus. Some of us are. Some of us are trying to be the best at this race, fighting for spots, hoping we can outrun all the other women around us. Some of us are yelling loudly for some to surpass others. Some of us are keeping to ourselves, hoping we just blend into the pack, crossing the finish line without losing our breath or tripping over a stick along the way. Some of us are cheering each other on. Some of us think we’re all on separate teams. Some of us don’t even know why we’re running in the first place.

If Jesus is the prize, if He is the reason you run and to Whom you run, what kind of runner are you? What kind of runner should you be?

There are far too many controversies, issues, and debates to even begin addressing them one by one, but I feel I must say this: if you’re running for the King, what kind of posture are you holding towards the people around you? Are you holding a sign? Are you boycotting the running shoes you loved because they support something you don’t? Are you ignoring everyone around you because it has becoming too terrifying to look at people in the faces, for fear that they are something you are not?

If I’m running for Jesus, if His name is the one I proclaim, I don’t want to hold a sign. I don’t want to be yelling at other people to pass other people, just for the sake of getting ahead. I don’t want to be that runner who decides someone else’s choices affect my belief in Jesus. I don’t want to be that woman who finds fear in the faces of people, in the faces of sin, in the faces of demons. I’m not scared of sin. I’m not scared of people. I’m not scared of demons. You know why? When Jesus died, He went down to Hades and looked at the faces of the fallen angels and said, “SEE! I have won. I am the King. I have overtaken you. I hold the keys. I am all-powerful. I reign supreme.” When Jesus died, He took all the sins. All of them. Even the ones that haven’t been admitted. Or the ones you think are worse than others. Every. Single. One. His blood is not just for show. Don’t think your sins are the only ones He forgives.

We’re not just running to win. We’re not running to show off our talents, our shoes, our running gear, our life. We run because God calls us. He called us up. He gave us life, He gave us talents and useful gifts for a reason, my friends, and if you’re using them to hate other people, then you’re wasting what God has blessed you with. He doesn’t bless us with good things so we can condemn others. He blesses us so we can love the heck out of people we don’t know, the ones we do, and the ones we hope to usher to the King (and, frankly, that should be all of them).

And we run, not just by ourselves, but alongside everyone else. You can’t hide here. This world is a frightening place, but you surely cannot think that you can be hidden behind your holiness. He guards you, Jesus protects you, but He also says you will be hated. And you will. But love the crap out of them anyways. Love them til you die. And don’t stop.

So I’m looking at you. I’m running behind you, and I’m shouting these words: “You can do this! You can! You can run hard, thorough, and fast for the King. Keep going! C’mon! I’m right here with you!” Run for Jesus. Yup, I said it. Don’t trample those in your path. Talk to them. Love them hard. Love yourself too. Believe in the Word solidly. Take it to the world. We aren’t going toe-to-toe here with our fellow runners. If you are, check your motives. There’s no need to act as though the world cannot be saved. We already know it’s full of sin. And we already know Jesus came and died for every one of us. You aren’t the savior. He is.