Pep Talks: Speak Up or Shut Up

Quiet, girl. No one is waiting to hear from you.

I look down to welcome the comfort of stress-related nail biting. You’re right. I should keep quiet. Quiet is good.

I am a contemplative person. When the weight of a conversation rests upon a room, I willingly stay quiet so I can process. I don’t like speaking out of turn. I don’t even like speaking without letting my thoughts go for a bit. I want the words that come out of my mouth to have more poise than I might feel.

But ask my husband, Evan, how quiet I am. Heck, ask my kids. When I’m frustrated, I yell. When I get angry, I let the words spill like a cup tipped over. I’m sure not contemplative with my family, a blessing and a curse.

You aren’t asking for my honesty, but I’m begging to get it out. Because honestly, I feel silenced. I feel like my voice doesn’t always matter. I feel like I have a bucket of good words that most often go unused because I am scared to speak them, for fear of what you might think. I have willingly set myself aside for six months because I wanted to be contemplative about this time we’re in. It didn’t seem right to go crazy with my words, spewing them here or elsewhere, and hoping for a boost to my ego (because that’s what it would ultimately be).

But it’s been a minute. And I’m praying for God to do with these words what they were meant for.

As a young Christian teenager, I held my mentors and adult leaders to a very high standard. I thought of them as the role models I needed in order to become the woman I wanted to be. My ultimate goal was to be a woman of character and integrity, someone who stood on truth and compassion, a person who stood with arms open and eyes fixed on a God who loves immeasurably.

Those people did me well. I entered adulthood with their encouragement in my ears, as well as the long-instilled wisdom from my parents to be a human who changed the world. The possibilities were endless. I wasn’t aiming for the moon. I wanted the galaxies beyond and all the stars surrounding them.

But, things don’t always happen how we think or plan. I got married, had lots of kids, and here I sit, surrounded by toys, diapers, a cup of cold coffee, and the ever-burning fire in my bones with no place to spread it but here. I love this place I’m in so much that the fire doesn’t mind the containment.

However, as I am not so much out changing things, I am here sitting and watching. Contemplating. Wondering how this all must look.

We don’t watch the news around here anymore. If I turned it on, I’d have to turn it back off because of what my children might hear about our president. It’s horrifying and embarrassing, and I’m not okay with it. So I protect my children.

And I have remained silent on this. I will probably remain silent on the internet after this. But I sit here and realize, day after day, that I am not capable of being a woman who believes in Christ Almighty and keep silent about politics these days. You want to know why? Because I am appalled by the Christianity on display these days. It’s not of Christ. It’s just a bunch of opinions and fear.

Quiet, girl.

That’s what I hear from the looks of the people who are older than me. Whenever I feel the need to speak against anything that is of the “Christian” values, I see it in the eyes of many: shut up. But why? Why should I? We’re all in love with Jesus, aren’t we? Or are you in love with policies, being against/for something, and being right?

It is to no one’s fault of my own that I realize: I can hold no one up on a pedestal. Not even the ones I admired so greatly. We’re all so messed up, sin-laden, and imperfect that it is bound to backfire every time. The only one I uphold and look up to these days is a perfect God. Besides, if I’m going to claim His name on my life, I have to meet His standards above all else, don’t I?

And then I see how equal the ground is. How at the foot of the cross, the ground is level, and we’re all down here looking up at a slain Savior with no pedestals bringing anyone closer than another. It shuts my mouth. It makes me put my opinions to rest, reeling in the flame, and reminding me of His words to us hundreds of years ago: love.

Quiet is good. My contemplative nature has shown itself valuable in these days. But some days, God is not interested in quiet women who succumb to the looks of “Shut up, girl. Quiet, girl.” He wants me, loudmouth and all, as long as the words spilling over are from Him. Never from me.

Who are you talking to? And what are you saying? Often, our words are of our own creation, out of our own minds, echoing our confining opinions. Sometimes He wants us to shut up. Listening isn’t possible when we’re shouting. And sometimes He wants us to speak up, because sometimes people are too busy shouting and reposting and demeaning that they can’t hear anything but their own high and mighty voice.

May you be quiet. May you be loud. May you know the difference. May I know the difference.

Swaying in the Dark

I realized the other night that it’s been nearly 15 years. I remember the night like it was yesterday. The memory of it is sweet and breathtaking. I thought of it again this evening while I swayed back and forth with my baby girl in my arms. Will a day like that come upon you, dear girl? Will the earth shake and shift like it did for me?

I was twelve years old when I saw God for who He was. I struggled for years to fully understand what it meant to be a Christian, and I still struggle now, sometimes in the same ways. Sometimes in ways I wasn’t expecting.

Here’s the thing: the faithfulness of God has nothing to do with my life. It has nothing to do with my mistakes. It has nothing to do with me at all.

As I swayed back and forth in the shadows of my room, waiting for Rosie to fall into deeper sleep, I prayed for her. My arms and hands upon her, pouring out whatever faith God has built in me over this little girl’s life. It feels like a natural step when my hands are resting on my children. Whether it’s on their shoulder, scooped in my arms, riding on my back, or holding my hand, whenever my hands graze their warm souls, the prayers pour like water.

This most recent evening while I held my girl, the thought of discipleship occurred to me. I want to disciple her well. I want to teach her what I’m learning, and I want to walk with her. Even more, I realized how much I wanted her to have other women, women who know better than me, to disciple my girl. I want her soul to be wrapped in prayerful hands, as though she’s still my baby girl swaying with me in the dark, except there’s a whole village of us reaching out to push her onward.

I think this of my kids. And yet I think this of my people. My women. My husband. My family. My church. The strangers and the familiar. I’ve always wondered if maybe I am just a little quirky, but maybe it isn’t so crazy to be the one placing a hand on a shoulder, praying for more than I can do, and sending onward with love and strength.

Sometimes we forget, don’t we, the great deed we’ve been given. We give up our honorary duties as saints of a holy King because we’ve…got opinions to defend? People to correct? Work to do? Money to make? A legacy to leave?

“Go and make disciples.”

Your only legacy is His legacy. Your work is His work. Those people are His people. Your opinions are welcome, but remember to Whom you belong. Someone discipled me when I was young and changed my life forever. Don’t underestimate whoever you’re underestimating. Walk with them for a minute. Hands on shoulders, wrapping souls in prayers that push them onwards.

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.