Two Statements for 2018

Friends, I am really excited for this year. You are too? Yeah? No? I’m excited for reasons you might not expect.

Last year, I tried serious goal setting for the first time. I was ready to make things happen in my life that I had pushed to the wayside for too long. And I totally. bombed.

To be fair, I got pregnant early in the year. So giving up was, frankly, easy. My ultimate goal for 2017? Give birth and sleep when possible. Good news: smashed it. All the other goals I had set didn’t matter, and I was happy with that.

I’m excited for this year because for the first time in a long time, I really feel happy with the idea of simply taking first steps. Not achieving perfection or better-anything. Just small steps to a life better lived with eyes on the Kingdom.

Changes don’t matter if God isn’t getting glory, know what I’m saying?

Here are the phrases I’m using to take small steps, keep my focus, and remind me of why we change in the first place:

1. “This is God’s kindness to me.”

A slow start to 2018? That’s God’s kindness to me. A two-hour-delay on my son’s first day back at school after two weeks off? (Even though I could not WAIT for him to get on that bus.) God’s kindness. A baby who wants to be in my arms while she naps as I stare at the dirty dishes? His kindness.

There’s a whole lot of times in my life when I am ticked about something. Or things don’t go as planned. Or I’m angry because of whatever.

God is a kind God, even when things seem to be against me. So this, viewing the moment as His kindness to me rather than a hindrance to my plan, gives me a chance to align my mind with His vision.

2. “Do you hear yourself?”

My four-year-old often gets dramatic when things are difficult. He melts into tears and whining, and I ask him, “Do you hear yourself?” because he doesn’t always understand that his behavior is too much for the situation.

He is too much like me.

Sometimes I just have to step back. Hear my own thoughts and self-doubt, and ask if it’s really what I want to hear. Or if it’s even true.

I tend to bring myself and all my frustrations, fears, and doubts with me to the table. That’s not bad. What’s bad is letting them do all the talking.

So I have to hear myself, quit the self-talk that isn’t from God, and let what is true be true.

Having goals is fun and challenging, but they don’t make a hair of difference if God isn’t getting glory. And that feels like the ultimate goal for this year: God just getting the best-I-can-offer glory. In the small steps, in the big leaps, in a life with eyes fixed on the prize.

What are you saying to yourself this year? What keeps you moving in the right direction?

The Welcome Spaces of My Life

“Oh Lord Jesus.”

I rubbed my forehead as the words came out. How many times have I raised my voice today? How often do I have to correct them before they finally get it?

Sometimes the best I can do is saying those three words. Sometimes prayer doesn’t come naturally, and all I really want is to feel less alone. So I say His name, and I welcome His presence in the ugly, frustrating parts of my life.

He’s here. He’s here like the air I gulp in, and He doesn’t take a break from me. It feels that way, doesn’t it? We get sucked into trying on our own, forsaking our needs, ignoring our constant Companion, and we assume He’s rolling His eyes at our stupidity. Oh, Lord Jesus. Are You ever embarrassed of me?

Sometimes His name is the best I can do. I imagine He hears it and simply scoots closer, like a Daddy sitting next to His kid on a bench. His little girl is working ever-unsuccessfully on a puzzle she can’t get right. He’s been watching the whole time, always available. The quiet calm of His instructions become like background noise as she hears her own voice, narrating her every step and the steps to come. Her voice only gets louder as the puzzle gets harder, more complex, drowning Him out.

I am her. I get so loud. I get so frustrated. And finally, when I can’t listen to myself anymore, or my voice dries up from the rage, I hear Him again. And it’s all I can do to say His name, as He’s sitting next to me, telling me again and again the next step in this puzzle. “Come on, baby girl. Try again. We can do this together.” He’s smiling at me. Always kindness in His eyes.

It is not easy welcoming God in. I want to do it all, and I want to do it all well, and I want someone to tell me what a good job I have done. Come on, I want to be impressive. I want the world to remember me for being a ground shaker.

But the ground I walk was made by Him. It was crafted in His creativity, made to fulfill His purposes. And if I forsake this call, He will surely find a way to complete it whether I partake or whether I do not.

He is not a God who neglects; He is a God who coaches and instructs and has an eternal amount of time for me. He isn’t rolling His eyes. So I say His name. I say it again and again, and I stop toiling. I quit worrying. I ignore the desire for perfection and adoration, and I see Him, next to me on this bench, with kindness in His eyes.

Oh, Lord Jesus. You are here for my best, for my worst. You are here for my loud voice talking over Your own; You are here for when I remember I don’t have the next steps. You do. And with kindness in Your eyes, You scoot closer when I call, saying what is true: “Come on, baby girl. Try again. We can do this together.”

From Here

I can almost hear the collective sigh of “We made it out alive” as we all finally shut the door to 2017. Maybe it was a great year, maybe it sucked. From here, I’m glad I came out in one piece.

My word for 2017 was “satisfied”. I wanted to live content with what I was given instead of wishing for something else. I cannot say I lived to that standard, but I can say it was a serious push everyday to be grateful. Toward the end it got messy. It got really difficult. But from here, on the other side of it, I can see how good it was for me.

I took the last two months of 2017 off. No writing if I could manage it, and two weeks of serious preparation for Rosie, our baby girl. (By serious preparation, I just mean a lot of napping and enjoying my family. And eating.)

And now we’re a family of six (!!), and we all survived the chaos of adding to a family. It’s like she’s always been with us.

Now I’m here in this new territory. My hands almost ache as the longing to write resurfaces. This body has miraculously brought new life to this side of heaven for the fourth time, and I made it out of that alive (wasn’t sure I would there for a minute). My heart is tender from the changes.

From here, I can see how my tenderness is fertile ground for His will. I’m not tied to the routine of 2017 because we threw it out the window when November rolled around, and with Rosie’s birth came something fresh. An awakening to the birth of a new beginning, in nearly every way.

I don’t know what 2018 holds, but it’s going to be new. A whole lot of new, and “new” that I don’t even know about yet. For now, it means blogging with a baby in my lap or while I’m nursing her. It means allowing my brain to go back to the place that spins out words like a sewing machine, stitching a pattern that God needs out in the world.

We made it out alive. And I’m anticipating I’ll become even more alive as the days go by, awakening to the new, embracing the change, allowing my tender heart to be cultivated by His hand.

From here, I can see that it was good. It was all for my good, for His goodness and kingdom.

I’m looking at you, 2018. I’m ready to savor every minute.

Eleven Days with Rosie

Eleven days ago, my life got sweeter.

Babies change everything. Having babies changes us, our lives, our other kids, our hearts. Eleven days ago I was so tired and physically spent. I struggled for the last few weeks of pregnancy to be optimistic. All I wanted was to eat ice, crawl out of my own skin, and sleep. Pregnancy is hard enough; pregnancy the fourth time felt like a slow battle. Lots of waiting, discomfort, pain, and wondering if my 27 year old body was actually falling apart.

So the day came. One day before my due date. I had been walking around for nearly three weeks at four centimeters dilated and 80% effaced. I walked into my doctors appointment not optimistic and certain I would be pregnant for another five days. I also didn’t want to give birth. I was scared, and the vivid memories of giving birth in the past (all great, uncomplicated, unmedicated births) just plagued me. I spent a lot of time praying through the fear of the pain I remembered far too well.

Fast forward to twelve hours later, I was pacing back and forth in a hospital room, waiting for my midwife to arrive to break my water.

Roselyn Jayne was born at 1:12 AM on November 9, my only child born on their due date. I remember looking at the clock in between contractions trying to predict what time it would all be over. When she finally arrived and the weight of her rested on my chest, I couldn’t believe it. She was real. Not that I didn’t believe in the clear evidence that I was pregnant; it was that somehow I got this gift. We received a baby girl, and I didn’t believe it until that moment.

And now it’s eleven days later. I just said this morning how silly it is that time is cruel and slow when you’re pregnant but quickly speeds up once the baby arrives. She poops and sleeps and eats, and even when I’m so tired in the middle of the night, I still can’t get over her. I stare at her frequently and ask God, “This is still real?”

I don’t think that having a girl has been the best thing to ever happen to us. I think the best thing has been the awakening to God’s kindness to us, specifically me, on this day and in the last nine months. It is hard adding to our already big family. It is a learning curve for each of us. But His kindness in this has been how He so intricately designed even the tiny details of my life. The epitome of His kindness is in how faithful He is, has been, and continues to be in every way our life sways.

Six years ago I had my first baby boy, and I remember how new and unchartered the waters were. God has changed me, grown me, and shifted me. It is all difficult. The seasons of motherhood change and move like waves, but He has always been kind. In these eleven days, I see it even more in the faces of my children.

Slowly we continue on. We adapt to the newness of a baby girl, and we get the great honor of bringing her with us, calling her part of our tribe, and introducing her to all of the loud, funny, and faith-filled quirks in our family. She is so dearly loved that I’m certain she’ll be one sassy, confident girl like her mom, her grandmas, and the multitude of women who surround us.

Rosie, this world is ripe for you to walk in it. Praying for you was surreal for nine months, but praying for you now is straightforward: there’s people who will be changed by you. I have been changed by you. Soon enough, I know I will have taught you as much as I could, and you’ll be teaching me.

From the Sidelines

This morning I sat down to eat my second Lunchable of the week after hearing the healthy heartbeat of our baby girl. Our baby girl. I don’t know if that’s going to get old anytime soon.

But yeah, you read that right. I’m eating Lunchables, because somehow I’ve found myself at 36 weeks pregnant and managing to keep the pace I’ve been at for the last couple of months. The lunch meant for my son sounded delicious. So I ate it instead.

The world (my world) will be turning upside down in a few weeks, and it just hasn’t hit me quite yet. It’s as though I’m in a little bit of denial. “Yes we’re having a girl…but I’ll see it when I believe it.” “I’ll be pregnant forever probably.” “Four kids is probably going to just be an insane asylum, but maybe my life already is? We could probably add a few and not notice the difference!”

But that stuff is neither here nor there. I am going into forced sabbatical for the next three months. Pregnancy is sidelining, and the days afterward are better and harder and holy and refining. It’s as if time and space don’t hold much weight for a while. And I’m not in the game. I’m not dressed for going out into the Kingdom and doing much other than waddling through my house, unsure if my water is slowly breaking or if I just need to go to the bathroom again. (It’s the latter.)

Being sidelined is not so easy. God, when are you going to ramp it up? I’m right here. Send me out. Give me the task. I’m right here.

You know what I want to do? I want to be able to vacuum and shampoo the carpet in my boys’ room. My oldest has been wiping his boogers on those lovely fibers, leaving me to step in it with my bare feet. But I can’t do it. I can’t lug the carpet shampooer down the hallway. I can’t bend over frequently enough to clean it thoroughly. My body is on a “Heck NO are you doing that” spree right now, and not listening leaves me stuck horizontal on my bed.

So I shelf my pride and ask my husband to do it. I recognize that I can’t do what I want to do because it’s in my best interest not to, and I pass it on. I do what I can. I sit on the bench and wait for a day when I’m not so limited, knowing that effectiveness is not based on me. My effectiveness is based on my obedience.

Obedience for me is shutting my mouth. Getting quiet. Sitting down and taking a break before I start stepping out in something no one but my brain told me to do. Right now, it’s sitting on the bench. Praying heavy, effective, and wrung-out prayers for the people who need them. It’s passing on the things I think are mine and giving them to someone else. It’s hands high, heart light, eyes up.

Every season has a purpose in this life. The one I’m in feels too kind. As I was driving just the other day and praying over my sons and my husband, I just kept saying it over and over: Father, You have been so kind to us. You are more attentive to my needs than anyone ever will be. Even if I can’t see it today, I will see it soon. That’s what this has felt like. A difficult kindness that I’m uncomfortable sitting in, but when I let the holy peace of it wash over me, I cry. He is kind. He knows me and my heart better than anyone.

You are only effective when you are obedient. Even if it’s sitting on the sidelines, your obedience is effectiveness. You might not see the fruit of your season today, but soon, you will.

I’m 36 weeks today, anticipating a day soon when I can share my sweet girl with you. Until then, you’ll see me on the sidelines. Hands high. Heart light. Eyes up.

The Fleeting Pain of Motherhood

They say that a mother forgets the true pain of labor, thus the reason she does it again and again. I think the opposite is true. The more children you have, the more you remember.

I’m almost a “pro” at having kids (if there ever were such a thing). I’ve done this a few times, and it feels familiar. I’ve spent around three out of the last six years pregnant, literally. By the time baby girl arrives, I’ll be looking for a trophy with the title “Most Deserving of an Award for Enduring 36 Months of Pregnancy”.

I have friends who long for this and struggle, and I am not deaf to how I sound. I get to do this. I get to carry children and birth them, and I don’t know how I’m so lucky. And I see you, friends. Your names are often in my prayer journals.

This has felt like the hardest pregnancy yet, in different ways than the past three. The last two weeks alone I wish to forget sooner rather than later. My own body has forced me to lay in bed for most of the last week. I’ve been crying out of frustration, but also trying to hold back tears because crying makes the pain of a migraine even worse. I’ve been confined to my thoughts as I rest, thinking of how much of an incredible blessing and burden it is to carry a child, one that we do out of pure love and most often with steadfast strength and dignity.

Those of us who get to be mothers, be it by birth, by adoption, by foster care, by a distance: this is the bittersweet work we get to do.

It is bitter and harsh and painful. Getting these children in our arms can feel like a battle. Loving them is easy, but keeping them isn’t always so. Some days we wake up and wonder why God chose us or sometimes, why He didn’t. Why we lost when we fought so hard to win. They don’t always love us back in the ways we want, and we don’t always love them in the way we planned. We say things we regret, we cringe over the bad habits they pick up, and we wonder where we failed so miserably when all we wanted was to love them in the first place.

But it is sweet. Sweeter than most any other thing in this life. Even when we fail to parent them in the perfect way to produce “perfect” children, we don’t stop trying. We don’t give up. We wake up and know the day might be painful and difficult, but we rise anyways. We kiss them and hug them hard because we remember how hard it was to get them here in the first place. We laugh with them and teach them, and we hear them say, “Mommy, I wuv you,” and it isn’t so bitter. It isn’t about us at all. It’s about pouring out the love we have, the wisdom we know, and teaching them to run. The bittersweet part is letting them go when we fought to get them here.

Often we sacrifice and often we receive nothing in return. We cry. We get angry. We anguish over empty arms or weep over the kids who have left them. But the Lord is kinder to us still, even if we don’t believe it.

Why this pregnancy is so difficult right now: I don’t know. Why our prayers sometimes feel unanswered: I don’t know. Why life and motherhood can feel much more bitter than sweet: I don’t know.

I’ll keeping going back to the Bible and rereading the scriptures until they are what is fresh in my mind. I’ll take it like medicine to ease the pain of what I feel today as I await the moment when it is no more. For this is fleeting. I don’t want to forget what matters.

 

A Worshipful Life

“Look at this!”

“Uh huh, cool.”

“Mom. Mooooom! You didn’t see!”

I look up, because he’s right, I didn’t see. I was just saying something to appease him for a moment while I finished reading an article. My thumb has frozen over the screen, and I put it to the side so I can really see him, not see him secondhand over the illumination of my phone. He does it again: he shows me how he can balance on one foot. It really isn’t amazing, but to him, it absolutely is. And I tell him so.

He’s my son. He wants my approval because he is my son. He wants my praise and attention, and he has been fighting for it his whole life because wherever I am, there my phone is also.

In my pocket lie hundreds of thousands of people and their soapboxes. It’s my contact with the outside world when I feel overwhelmed with pregnancy and motherhood as I send a text out to asking for prayer. It’s my note keeper and calendar, my venture in being a writer. It is my escape, like a numbing lidocaine after a hard day. I seek not to feel, so I scroll and get blasted with the emotions of everyone else. It isn’t an escape at all. It’s only a false sense of relief that my life isn’t as hard as everyone else’s.

Working, mothering, housekeeping, growing a human is all hard enough on it’s own. I am tired. And you know what I can’t bring myself to do on a daily basis? Get on my knees. Put the Word on my lips. Praise the God I love.

You know what I can do, what I do instead? Scroll. Read my newsfeed. Worship the god of information and push away the God of redemption. The reflection in the mirror starts turning somber, disappointed again and again by a world that will never be perfected, and discouraged by our inability to shut up. We become the teachers Paul writes about, spreading some form of our own Gospel and Truth that Jesus doesn’t want the world to hear.

And we yell. We fight. We argue. We see disaster, cringe, then rally, but it’s never enough. We keep reading. We keep being outraged. We keep feeling like the world is an absolute failure, and we’ll never be able to fix it.

We aren’t the hands and feet of Jesus. We’re all just a bunch of mouths, spewing our interpretations of Christ.

Maybe the world would be better if we weren’t so interested in being heard. Maybe the Gospel would really do the work if we stopped trying to argue about it and change it. Maybe if we disconnected from the thousands and thousands in our pocket and started listening to the ones right next to us, we might not be a bunch of mouths. We might start doing the work.

I was driving home the other night while the sun was setting. The word “worship” came to mind, and I started to toss it around in my head. What kind of woman would I be if my knees were perpetually to the earth, doing every action with my hands, feet, and the words of my mouth in constant worship? What would that look like?

I didn’t expect it to rattle me. Thinking about this stuff doesn’t normally bring me to tears, but I felt them hot behind my eyes. It was like God swept up this thought in my head and this simple little word and said, “Sweet girl, you were made for that. This world is awful, terrible, difficult, and grim. You will see strife. Worship still. Get your knees to that earth. Every detail of your life, make it into praise. Imagine the outcome.”

What kind of people would we be?

As I’m typing this, my two youngest are performing a song right in front of me. Loudly and terribly. They want me to stop writing because they want my attention. My praise. They want me to hear them and smile. So I will. I will stop worshiping a god who never loved me back, who produces a somber woman, and who can never free me.

Here’s to being the hands and feet, no longer just mouthpieces. Here’s to being loud when it’s necessary but primarily silent so we can listen. Here’s to disconnecting from what doesn’t serve God and giving the people in front of us the attention they deserve.

Here’s to making every detail a form of praise.