Not I

I used to open the phone book and find the phone number to a dance studio. I dreamed of being a ballerina, or a jazz dancer, or something, since it was what all of the girls I knew did. I’d find that number, nearly memorize it, and think over and over on whether I really wanted to sign up for dance.

In the end I chose soccer. A far cry from dance, right? I played for a few years, and I loved it most of the time. I was never an aggressive player. I remember during most games parents would yell, “Be aggressive!” as though the game depended on it. Sometimes it did. But I didn’t like it much. I carry that attitude into my life all the time. I don’t aggressively go after dreams. I don’t aggressively chat with people. I don’t aggressively eat (although, depends on my hunger and hangry status). The last way I would describe myself is aggressive.

It’s why I didn’t score much, if at all, as a soccer player. In middle school, I was almost always a left midfielder. The person who got the ball to the forward so they could score. The person who kicked the ball across the goal so another player could shine. Aggressive only when need be. Hardly ever the person to be in the spotlight. I think I scored maybe a handful of goals in my whole soccer career.

There are some people who were born to be in the spotlight. Whose words seem to permeate boundaries and stereotypes and really hit to the core. I never envisioned that for me. Being the assistant to others is something I love, something I am truly good at. Organization is a forte of mine. Making the behind-the-scenes shine. I am good at that. I know I am good at that.

A few weeks ago I spent some time teaching some 7th & 8th graders about how the body of Christ is not made of people with all the same talents. We all have different spiritual gifts, we all have different roles just as our body parts have different uses to make us whole. We’re not all good at the same things. But together, the church is a great vessel that moves, breathes, and can permeate boundaries and stereotypes.Without all of its units, it doesn’t work to its greatest potential.

Sometimes that isn’t easy for me to agree with. Sometimes I wish I was better at things that other women excel at. Heck, sometimes I just wish I was funnier, wittier, prettier, or cooler. But, I don’t know that those are quite the spiritual gifts God admires.

If at the end of the day the Kingdom is furthered because the only thing I have accomplished is letting another woman do better what I cannot do as well, God would say, “Well done.”

It isn’t that I’m afraid. It isn’t even that I didn’t do anything. It is in me to let other women do what they do best. It is how He created me, to champion women. It is how He made me to make the behind-the-scenes flawless so the forefront is right in His glory.

If at the end of the day He is glorified, then it is a good day. If at the end of the day the people say of me, “Yes, Jesus is good! He is to be praised!” then it is a good day.

Not I but Christ.

Not me, Jesus. Just You. Always You.

Relent

I woke up and made chocolate chip pancakes for my boys this morning. I really wanted nothing more than to sleep, and I truly wasn’t feeling the whole make-breakfast-for-everyone thing. But our weekends (when I prefer to make breakfast) are pretty full, so I make due with weekday breakfasts to satisfy my love of all the gloriousness that is breakfast foods.

Everyday when my feet hit the floor, the devil is working overtime to make me feel it. The weight of my responsibilities. My exhaustion. My draining thoughts. He is working hard to make sure I can’t enjoy doing work for the Kingdom. Especially the work that involves repeatedly picking up the same toys everyday. Especially the work I don’t want to enjoy. He has his own work cut out for him.

Today especially, I feel like his relentless attitude has won. I don’t want to try harder. I’m finding myself longing to fight more with the people I love rather than walk alongside them. It’s as though I’m running out to battle, hoping to win wars, waging wars with myself.

My boys can be relentless. When I say the words “chocolate chip pancakes”, there is no turning back. I can’t change my mind, unless I want to make the world fall apart for them. They spend every minute until those pancakes are done asking me questions, watching what I’m doing, waiting not-so-patiently for breakfast to arrive on the table. They can devote more energy to stupid chocolate chip pancakes than I do to Jesus.

As I have been holding up my weapons, waging wars, running around a battlefield, God is right in the middle of it.

There are too many toys some days, not enough motivation for dinner prep, not enough separation in my house for me to feel remotely close to sane, too many demands, not enough of me for all of these tiny hands.

He grabs me by the shoulders and is looking straight into my eyes.

“Janelle, this is not a battle. This is not a war. There is nothing to win. There is nothing that you can do to make this a prize.”

God is more relentless than the devil. It says that when He triumphed over the grave, He went down to hell and shoved it in the faces of the fallen angels. He reminded them of His power. He made a point to remind them that He has won, not their mistaken folly. That is my God. The same one. And I put Him to the side most days, thinking that I have battles to fight, wars to win, things that take precedence over His love.

The fact is, there is no war. He has already won. He has already defeated the hard stuff, the difficult days, my frustration. I am not enough most days, but He is. I am tired 85% of the time, but He is just getting started. He is relentless. He grabs me by the shoulders and reminds me that I don’t have to run around as though I am some warrior in battle clothes with weapons to yield and people to defeat.

He has already won.

Did you hear that?

HE. HAS. WON.

He’s reminding me:  Stop fighting to win. Stop waging wars. Stop taking matters into your own hands. Stop running around as though this is all a big fight. Christ is the victor. I don’t have to live as though I’m waiting to be holy. He already has made me so. I am allowed to live on in it. I am allowed to be righteous because He has made me righteous. He has done it!

Tomorrow I’ll go through it again. The waking up, feet hitting the floor, the devil waiting for every chance to pounce and steal my day. But I can call on His Name. He’s already won. So I’m letting the Victor parade His triumph.

Soul Strings: When Everything Points to Christ

If you’ve been here before, or long enough, you’ve read why I call this blog Soul Strings. And if you don’t know, I’ll fill you in.

When I first named this site Soul Strings, I didn’t have much of an inspiration or reason. It was just a string (play on words intended!) of words I put together that sounded fitting. I didn’t put much thought into it. Quite honestly, it’s how I love to write the most. I love writing about my life, how-to’s, lists. I like blogging new stuff. But I really love writing when it’s like a fluid movement, a dance. I don’t put much thought to the words, I just let them escape me as they come to mind. Most of these blog titles you’ll see come from that space within me; in most cases, I do make sure they make sense. But I love to title my work after the inner workings, the parts of me that move like water in a river.

After thinking about it more, I realized just how perfect the name Soul Strings is. How it encompasses a lot of my heart in ways I wasn’t sure I could put into words. The point of me being here is to find ways to direct every aspect of my little life to my Creator. To His purpose for me. To His good and holy ways. I envision a horizon with ropes going straight up to the heavens.

In light of that, yesterday we bought a mini van.

I’ve never been so excited to have such a big vehicle with so.much.space, and simultaneously go into debt. I know Dave Ramsey would tell me there is another way! Maybe some day I will follow it. Today isn’t that day. We’re gonna pay the crap out of that loan.

I wish there was an easier way for us. Or an easy-to-read map that showed us the best way to do everything, because I sure could use it. God is gracious in that He gives us options and choices, but we don’t really know the best one sometimes. We hope for the best. We rely on His faithfulness and our trust in Him that things will be okay. I hate the feeling of needing to explain myself to the world. It haunts me sometimes. Like, why are you writing about your mini van woes, Janelle? 

I want to remember Who loves me most. I want to remember that He pardoned me. I want to remember that because of Him, I can walk in holiness. I can trust Him. I can believe that He will do what He promises. I want to remember that what haunts me is a cheap example of attention, whereas there is nothing unseen by Him. I want to remember that everything should be about Him, not about me.

Finn is currently in the stage of fearlessly taking steps in the hope of walking. He only gets 4-5 steps in before he plops on his bottom. And then he tries again. His failure does not hinder him. And someday far too soon, he will take off with his feet flying beneath him. A subtle and poignant reminder of what it looks like to believe Jesus when He says He isn’t leaving us. It takes a few tries. It takes a few falls. But once we know it, cemented in our souls, the footwork becomes more like flying.

Another string to plant in the ground and shoot toward the sky.

Resurrection Monday

When I was a little girl, my parents would leave a trail of jelly beans from my bedroom door to the Easter basket on the fire place. It was magical to me; the idea of surprises after a night of sleep, wonderful goodies to bring me joy. Although the jelly bean trails ended after a certain age, my love for Easter didn’t really waver. The magic did change over time.

Yesterday morning after we picked up our kids from Sunday school, we stood in the gathering space at our church. Normally when I ask me oldest, who is four, what he learned in Sunday school, he doesn’t offer up much. “I don’t remember,” is the most common answer. But yesterday, Resurrection Sunday, my son told me the story of Jesus leaving behind an empty grave.

I almost started crying right there. I had spent that morning during breakfast reminding him of the importance of this holiday, why it is glorious that Jesus lives, and what matters above all else. To hear my son recite a story from the Bible, the truth of our King….that was magic.

I’m taking it with me today. The last thing I want is to confuse the Greatest Gift with one that is replaceable, and hearing my son whisper the story of our risen King….I only hope it gets more magical for him every day. I only hope it’s a path that leads him to our God. I hope it’s a gift that surpasses all of his expectations. Because that’s what Christ’s love does for me. It puts everything else on this earth to shame.

I prayed yesterday during worship at church, that, as I feel vulnerable, emotional, and especially tender with the Lord on this weekend, that raw faith would bleed out into the next day. And the next. And the next. That resurrection Sunday truly become everyday. Because everyday, He lives! His glory only gets sweeter with time! Jesus, help me to shed what keeps me from you so I can be only closer to your side.

Yesterday we celebrated a risen Lord. Now, what about today?

Hope you’re seeing the glory.

Raising Men: 3 Reminders

“You are outnumbered!”

Yes, that’s me. I am far outnumbered by all the boys in my house. It’s just me and our dog Daisy: the reigning females.

Being a mom of boys means a lot more to me than just the idea of dancing with them on their wedding day (commence the bucket of tears because you know I’ll be a hot mess). It’s more than putting up with the stereotypical mess, smell, or quantity of food that disappears on a daily basis (it starts early). I am their first interaction with the opposite sex, after all. It’s more than just being a mom.

Set great expectations.

I am spoiled by my husband. He opens doors for me, hugs me often, tells me he loves me multiple times a day, takes care of my dirty dishes. He serves me endlessly. I give most of the credit, if not all, to his parents.

It’s not that I expect my boys to serve me. I don’t even expect them to bring me breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day, or even a dandelion from our yard in the summertime. But I do have great expectations, expectations that are realistic and learned. Things like good manners and respectful attitudes. Kind words. Listening ears and obedient hearts. Expectations that I hope will lead to men who serve just like their daddy served me.

My boys are 4, 2, and nearly 1. These are expectations they struggle to meet because, hello, they are little. They need corrected and encouraged often. They throw tantrums and cry over missing toys. They sure as heck do not have respectful attitudes and kind words when I tell them to clean their room. But I still set great expectations for them. Because in the days to come, I expect them to meet them over time.

Check your heart.

What is your motivation for discipline? What is your aim in your corrections? For a long time, my aim in discipline was so I didn’t look bad as a mom. I wanted perfection. I wanted well-behaved, respectful boys. And I expected it because I didn’t want to be embarrassed.

Check in with what’s going on in your own heart before you make a decision you regret.

Often times, when I go into a situation to correct a boy’s behavior, I am going in emotionally. I have anger. I have frustration. I have irritation. And it ruins it, completely. All they see is my crazy eyes (because for real, I can get crazy eyes). I need to check in with my heart. When I’m in the right place, I can be rational. When I’m not in the right place…crazy eyes. . And probably more yelling than I will openly admit.

Challenge yourself.

I hope in the future, when my boys are men, they think of me fondly. I hope that I was a great example of what a woman after God looks like. And I hope that I played even just a small role in their Christian lives because I longed for Christ when they were young.

Motherhood is a humongous challenge in itself, so you may think I’m slightly delusional when I say that you need to challenge yourself even more. But I mean it. Do the things that you are scared to do, even the things that you think you need to wait to do when your kids are older. Do not be afraid to be yourself, the you that is enthralled with the Most High. If that means working while your kids are little, do it. If it means staying at home, do it. If it means starting a business, do it. If it means finishing your degree, do it. Whatever you do, do it for the Kingdom. Make your life more than the growing of your boys. They will become men regardless of how much you hover over them. It’s the kind of men you want them to become that matters.

Raising boys is a lot of work. And I think it’s made easier when we put our confidence in what the Lord does, not what we do. My love for them is priceless; my hopes for them, endless. It becomes even more valuable when all that I have and do for them is wrapped in the love of Jesus. I’ll be praying for you, just as I hope you’ll pray for me too. These soon-to-be-men need us to need each other.

The Wreckage

Today, I was legitimately discouraged. It took something so small, something that wasn’t truly that meaningful, to derail my thoughts. You know how that is? I felt like I was standing off to the side as I watched a train fall off the tracks, saying, “Wait! What! No! Cut it out!” I was helpless.

It only takes a moment, friends, for doubt to captivate you.

Don’t let it.

I know, you want someone to feel sorry for you. You want someone to comfort you and tell you that, “It’s okay, next time will be better.” I do it too. I want to tattle on the devil and hope someone will lift me back up again. Like a cowering puppy. Remind me I’m worthy! Remind me that I am allowed to be derailed!

I almost threw in the towel. I began to type things in my google search like, How to make my blog better, How to be a better writer, How to be… I began looking for answers amongst people’s thoughts and opinions, proven techniques!, thought processes, classes. Swirling and sinking, thoughts continued to derail down paths I hardly ever go down.

Thoughts like, This is useless. I will never be better. I am not better. I cannot be great at this.

Of all parts of my life, this one feels the most vulnerable, the part of me that wants to be a writer, an author, a word weaver. I’m scared to be the best in this, because I hardly ever believe that I am. I don’t doubt myself much when it comes to everything else, for most everything else I have the opinions of others to rely on. But here, when it’s just me and my thoughts, me and you, me and woven strings of myself…I get cowardly. I doubt myself. I watch trains derail, and I am not so certain that I was ever cut out for such a vigorous course as this.

I wanted someone to feel sorry for me. I wanted comfort, and a “It’s okay, someday you will be great” pep talk. I wanted to tattle to someone about how the devil hounds me. Like a little puppy, hoping for a snuggle and maybe a treat.

But I’m calling the bluff.

Sure, this is tough. I am not so sure that I will ever be the writer and author I dream of, but who says that the numbers, the quantity, or the infamy matters?

I will be derailed, probably sooner than I want to be. The doubt will always be waiting at my back door, searching for a moment to sneak in. And someone will let it in; someone always does. But I welcome the challenge.

It isn’t about waiting for the doubt to pass, insisting on another open door to jump off of your daunting cliff. I watched as the train derailed, and I lost my thoughts to lies that wanted to dock in my soul. They didn’t know they aren’t allowed here. So I seized this moment as the train ran it’s course, and I took the chance to jump. To find another place to land where I wasn’t planning to go. I stopped waiting for someone to hold my hand and give me a warm reminder of someday’s. I took His hand instead, and His promises clutched my today’s and tomorrow’s and gave me meaning where I had none. Meaning where I was only waiting for a someday. He gave me wings to fly, hope to rest on, joy to warm me.

I called the bluff.

And now my own wreckage is His masterpiece.

The Truth of My Parenting

When I look at pictures from a few years ago when we had one baby, I cringe a little bit. Not because we were bad at being parents, but because we were incredibly naive about a lot of it. I will openly admit that I have a pride issue when it comes to parenting. I don’t read parenting books because I like to think I have a better understanding of my kid than some author somewhere. I google things that only end up scaring me (such as, reasons my son was born with a birth mark on his tongue). I ignore advice that is unsolicited, whereas if it’s from a woman I’m related to, I take it rather seriously. All in all, I went into this whole deal thinking I would be enough, I would have strong enough instincts to do everything right, I wouldn’t need a parenting book.

Pregnant with my oldest, I refused every birth class. I thought it seemed useless, especially since I was planning a natural birth. My idea of preparation was eating a lot of Peanut Butter Snickers. I had a birth plan, at least. I do remember, though, a vivd moment in the middle of intense contractions, thinking, “I have no %&$*ing idea how to breathe through this @(*#.” Because, confident me, didn’t take a lamaze breathing course.

I also thought breastfeeding would be a piece of cake, until I realized Liam was a floppy blob of a human, I was sore from pushing said blob out of my body, and I literally had no idea how any of it was supposed to look/feel like. I nursed him until I gave up after three weeks. When I was pregnant with Asa, I studied and researched like I was taking the GRE. Still, gave up after three weeks because that crap was hard. I stuck it out when Finn was born, and I have nursed him since day one. Lesson learned: research can actually be helpful.

These are all logistics, though. Things that matter a minuscule amount of time in the grand scheme of your kid’s lives.

I executed a lot of parenting in the early days with a lot of mistakes. I learned more than I thought was possible, sometimes in the most ungraceful ways.

And here’s the kicker, the thing that flipped everything in my stubborn parenting mind:

Nothing about this is about me.

Which doesn’t seem to make sense, you know? Parenting is me parenting my boys.

Everything about this is about Christ.

That is what matters the most in the big picture of parenting. On days when I am thinking of myself, I spend more time on my phone, more time ignoring my boys, more time being frustrated that I have to wipe a runny nose for the 456th time that day. On days when I am thinking only of them, I spend more time worrying, fearing, wishing they would always be little and fit in the crook of my arm or on my lap. It is a delicate balance that I cannot master on my own. I want them to be healthy, I want them to learn, I want them to have a clean nose. And I also want a minute of silence to think, I want to be uninterrupted when I’m typing out a blog post for this little space, I want to eat my lunch without someone trying to steal a bite.

However, when it is a day I have handed to the Lord, things change. Circumstances do not. Still lots of runny noses, interruptions, stolen bites of food, Facebook browsing on my phone, frustrations, joys of watching them learn. The balance is easier to determine. It is no longer a battle between feeling validated as a mother and longing for a moment to sit untouched and uninterrupted. It is an understanding that I can always do my best, and it’s because of Christ in me that sometimes trying is enough. It is a peace that reminds me that when I seem to be failing them, I am not, because Christ never fails. When I am frustrated and worn, He is solid. When I sit in the bathroom for undetermined amounts of time just for the “solitude”, He restores me.

From the minute each of my boys breathed their first breath, I was their first glimpse into eternity. And that isn’t because “Hey ho, look at me, Mrs. Holy and righteous, pure and blameless, perfect and joyful!” It’s because Christ is in me. It’s because of Him, what He has done in the past, and what He will do in the future. And that means laying down my pride, ridding myself of the thought that being a parent means it’s all about me.

Take a deep breath. The days are long and grueling, sometimes every day is the hardest. Jesus has got you, sister. He sustains you. He restores you. He isn’t going to fail even if you feel like a constant failure. You are a great mother because of the mightiness He places in you. His mercies are new every morning. Amen? Amen.