The Heart of a Mother

Motherhood will always hold a special place in my heart as the event that changed everything.  Somehow, I didn’t see it coming.  In my pre-children state of naivete, I assumed that motherhood would simply enrich my already rosy world.  Instead, it hit me like a train wreck.

Before I became a mother, I was completely blind to the tangled roots of pride, selfishness, impatience and complacency which crouched hidden in the depths of my heart—faults which were suddenly laid out, bare and ugly, in the sharp light of motherhood.

I’m quite convinced that these four children, whom I cherish so dearly, have changed me just as much as I’ve shaped them.  Perhaps, even more.  It’s through the entanglement of their lives with my own that I’ve learned, again and again, that love equals sacrifice.  Love demands that I die to myself and live for another.

It’s been a messy process (as it turns out, my Self doesn’t really intend to lay down and die without a fight), but it’s been so worth it.  God has used these children to make me more like Himself.  He’s also used them to teach me that I’m not anywhere near as in control of things as I’d like to be.

The more I lay myself down as a living sacrifice for these four children, the more tightly my heart becomes wrapped up in their stories.  Like every mother, I find myself desperate to know that they’re going to be OK; that they’ll grow up safe, whole, and madly in love with Jesus.

Ironically, the more doggedly I strive to achieve these goals for my children, the more I realize that they’re largely outside of my grasp.  It’s a disturbing realization, until I remember the strength of the grasp that God’s grace has had upon my own life.

I couldn’t have run away from God if I had tried.  I did try, in my own way.  It’s almost comical to me the lengths that God stretched to keep me tethered to Himself.  As wonderful as my parents were and still are, they couldn’t have guaranteed the outcome of my life.  They simply introduced me to the Savior, taught me His ways, and He took it from there.

These days, I find myself frequently lifting my children up with trembling hands, and placing them into Jesus’ steady hands of grace. I pray desperately for them every day with tears streaming down my cheeks.  I pray for safety from harm and for peace in the midst of sibling strife.  I pray for purity of body and spirit and for good scores on math tests.  I pray for hearts that love justice and mercy and for courage against playground bullies; I pray for truthfulness, holiness, future spouses, and the patience needed to make it through homework time.

These kids of mine, they’re on my heart all the time.  My prayers for them are frequent; my thoughts never leave them.  These little people are woven into the fabric of who I am, and that’s as it should be.  Every child should have a mother who is obsessed with them.

But some don’t.

Several of their faces adorn my refrigerator, actually.  They are precious children whom we sponsor—sending money across oceans to pay for their food, shelter and education; sending occasional notes or gifts to make them feel special; sending a quick prayer heavenward for them at bedtime.

I have no idea why it never struck me before, but they need so much more than that.  These particular children that we sponsor, they’re orphans.  And one day, several months ago as I prayed for my own kids, their sweet, brown faces floated across my mind.  My heart jumped in my chest as I suddenly wondered, who prays for these children?  I mean, really prays—not these quick prayers we throw heavenward at bedtime.  Who prays for them every single day, with burdened heart, fervent words, and tears on cheeks?  Who obsessively prays for them like a mother would?

Being a mother equals love.  Love equals sacrifice—the laying down of one life for the good of another.  Some beautiful families lay down their entire lives for orphaned children such as these through the incredible gift of adoption.  God hasn’t called our family there…yet.  But surely I can lay down more than just my checkbook for these lovely faces that wallpaper my fridge.  How much would it really cost me to pray for these children the way I pray for the four who came from my own body?  Nothing more than another little piece of my selfishness.

You know these children, too.  Their faces hang on your fridge.  Their feet walk the school halls alongside your own children.  Their hands play at the park down your street.  They may not be physical orphans, but many of them are spiritual orphans.  Who is praying for these children?  Who is hugging them?  Who is telling them that they're incredibly special?  Can our mothers' hearts make room for one more?

Tomorrow, our families will honor us as mothers.  But, really, the honor is all ours.  Motherhood is a gift.  It’s a chance to get over ourselves and get down to the business of really loving like Jesus.  And Jesus’ heart always has room for one or two more.  Why shouldn’t ours?

Happy Mother’s Day!

A Perfectionist Surrenders (Part 3)

(Continued from this post)

We had our second child just 15½ months after our first.  Our third child followed 18 months later.  Then, we wrapped up the whole deal with our fourth and final child, born a few months shy of five years after the first.  Four kids in five years.  Well, you’re thinking, she sure must have gotten over that feeling of helplessness!  Nope.  Not even a little.  I continued to battle post-partum depression following my pregnancies.  Feelings of inadequacy and failure haunted me every step of the way.  You’d think that having four kids would make a person a bit of an expert by the fourth, but it just doesn’t work that way.  First of all, each child is entirely different than the last. In addition, as soon as you think you’ve started to get a handle on one issue, they leave that one in the dust and dream up three more!  I constantly felt in over my head.

But something else was happening in the midst of that helpless place:  I was getting to know my Savior.  Oh, I had known Him for 20 some years to a certain extent, but this…this was different.  Before, I knew God like a neighbor at a barbecue.  Now, I knew God like a soldier in a foxhole.  For years I prayed that God would take away my inadequacy as a parent.  He refused.  He still refuses.  Instead, He whispered to my heart, Without Me, you can do nothing.  I AM who you are not; I can do what you cannot.  I am enough.  Rest in Me.  Walk with Me.

I have, and I have found Him to be sufficient beyond my wildest dreams.

I accepted Jesus as my Savior when I was just 4 years old.  As I grew older, I read my Bible, prayed and went to church because I wanted to know Him, please Him and, also, simply because I knew that I should.  Through years of teaching me about my utter dependence upon Himself, however, Jesus became not only my Savior but also my Lord.  Now, I read my Bible because I have a burning desire to hear from Him—I need His words like I need my next meal.  I pray because I can’t survive without Him—I need His Spirit like I need the air I pull into my lungs with every breath.  I worship because He didn’t just save me once, He saves me still—every moment of every day.

I’m still in over my head.  Parenting still frequently overwhelms me.  There are problems all over the place.  There are things that need to be tweaked over here, and things that need a downright overhaul over there.  There are loose ends everywhere, and some days I worry that if just one of them gets tugged, the whole darn thing will unravel.  But then I remember that our lives are firmly attached to His grand weaving loom; the loose ends aren’t a mistake or an oversight, they’re just opportunities waiting to be woven together into another part of His masterpiece.

I still struggle with perfectionism, but now I recognize it for what it is:  pride.  It is a presumptuous attempt to take back the life that I have surrendered to Him—a life that I have no capability to live on my own.

Occasionally, someone will tell me what great kids I have and what a great mom they think I am.  I do have great kids, but I respond that it’s God’s grace that has made them that way.  Usually, I receive a blank stare or even a well-intentioned argument in return.  But it’s true.  If you could see inside the depths of my heart, if you could really understand the whole story that I’ve lived, you would know it to be so.

How does God rescue a perfectionist?  By plunging her into an ocean that’s way over her head and keeping her there for a very long time.  It is there, as she comes to grips with the maddening fact that she can’t swim, can’t tread water, can’t even float, that she finally stops her incessant thrashing.  And then, in a stunning act of incredible grace, He reaches down to take her hand and lifts her up to walk on water.

“I am the vine, you are the branches.  He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; for without Me, you can do nothing.”

~John 15:5

“But He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”

~2 Corinthians 12:9

A Perfectionist Surrenders (Part 2)

(Continued from this post)

Within the first few weeks of parenting, I found myself completely overwhelmed.  Most parents do, I suppose.  Unfortunately, for me it wasn’t temporary.  I sank into post-partum depression and could barely see through the fog.  It’s difficult to put into words the depth of the despair that I felt.  Being a mom had been my life-long dream.  Armed with a bachelors degree in nursing, I had already decided that I was going to stay at home with my future kids; the degree was simply a back-up plan.  My family was going to be my life.  And somehow, terribly, I now found myself not up to the task.  How could a high-achieving, grab-the-world-by-the-tail girl who had put herself through college, pulled a 4.0 GPA in nursing school, and never failed at anything in her life, possibly not be able to handle a 7-pound little squirt?!

I prayed desperately.  I needed God like I had never needed Him before.  Surely, I thought, God is just teaching me a lesson here.  If I pray long and hard enough, He’ll reach down and pull me out of this ditch where I’m lying completely helpless, and then I can give all the glory to Him.  But that was not God’s plan.  God had no intention of eliminating my helplessness, just my hopelessness.

My inadequacies didn’t end as our baby grew older.  It seemed that every new stage she entered brought challenges with it that I had no idea how to handle.  Oh, I read all the books and I followed their advice, but the baby just never seemed to line up with what the books said would be the result of following their wise counsel.  A perfectionist’s nightmare!  What do you mean, the rules don’t work??!!  Parenting was slow, messy and frustrating, and I felt like a failure every single day.  So, you can imagine my husband’s surprise when, at the 6-month mark, I told him that I wanted to have another baby.

WHAT??!!

“Frankly,” he said, “I’m a little surprised that we’ve survived the first one!  Surely, you don’t want to do that all over again?  I’ve just now stopped pulling up the psychiatric department on speed dial every five minutes!”  Mind you, it wasn’t the baby that threw him for a loop—when it came to fatherhood, he was a natural.  It was the deleterious effects of motherhood upon his wife’s sanity that had him shaking in his boots.

I told him that I knew it was crazy, and that I wasn’t at all sure that I could handle it.  And then I looked into his eyes and willed him to understand something that was happening in my heart—something I couldn’t adequately put into words.  “I don’t want to walk away from having another child because I feel like I can’t handle it.  I don’t want to back away from the cliff just because it terrifies me.  I think God means for me to get in even further over my head.”

It made no sense—not to me, and not to him.  But the Holy Spirit must have been leading the conversation because if what I said was crazy, what my husband said next was ludicrous.  He said, “OK.”

(to be continued here)

A Perfectionist Surrenders (Part 1)

Hello.  My name is Elizabeth, and I am a recovering perfectionist.

(Hello, Elizabeth.)

The funny thing is I didn’t even know that about myself until someone pointed it out to me about 10 years ago, during a time when my world failed to make sense.  All I knew was that I was the kind of girl who could get things done and do them well.  Tough class?  Study harder.  Complicated piano piece?  Practice longer.  Nursing degree to earn/night shift job to work/wedding to plan?  Kiss sleep goodbye and spin that hamster wheel, baby!  Spiritual life?  All boxes checked and organized alphabetically, thank you.

I had never encountered an obstacle that I couldn’t overcome simply by working harder.  And not only did I get the job done, I did it with flair.  So help me, my performance was going to be as good as (and hopefully a far sight better) than the people around me!  You see, there was a twisted pay-off for all that hard work:  approval.  The better I was, the more people thought well of me, and I soaked up that approval like a thirsty camel in the desert.  This system worked well for me for many years.  And then I had a baby.

Have you ever noticed that God custom designs a personal boot camp for all of us?  Whatever your particular weakness may be, you can bet that God will design a set of circumstances meant to chip away at it.  So, if you were God, and you had to deal with shaping the character of a perfectionist, into what circumstances would you plunge her?  Hmm…something that’s the very opposite of clean, neat and tidy…something that’s messy, nebulous and difficult for her to get her arms around...the situation should last for a number of years so she can’t just grit her teeth and wait it out…something that’s absolutely impossible to get perfect no matter how hard she tries, but important enough that she feels deeply compelled to try…I’ve got it!  Parenting!

When I was pregnant with our oldest daughter, I had a recurring daydream in which I liked to indulge:  I pictured myself sitting in a comfy rocking chair, positioned just perfectly in front of a south-facing window so as to allow a beam of smooth, buttery sunlight to fall gently on my shoulder.  My beautiful infant is at my breast, snuggled up in a soft, fuzzy blanket, tiny fingers curled around a single finger of my own, gazing into my eyes with utter contentment as she fills her little tummy with milk.

(Cue record needle scratch…)

My little 6 pound 12 ounce baby was absolutely beautiful, and we did own more than one soft, fuzzy blanket, but that’s precisely where the daydream ended.  For the record, there is no beam of smooth, buttery sunlight coming through the window at 2:00 in the morning.  Duh.  And my child did not serenely dine at the breast.  She guzzled like a sailor in a bar for about three minutes flat, refused to drink one drop more, and then spewed that precious milk at high velocity toward the carpet.  Bless her heart.

A lactation consultant at the hospital (Lord, forgive her, for she kneweth not what she was doing) determined that my baby was not eating for a long enough duration of time.  I was too naïve to know that I could have, and should have, pushed back.  She put us on a handy-dandy feeding schedule that looked like this:  wake the baby up every three hours to breastfeed for as long as we could manage (this involved at least 45 minutes of hopelessly prodding our infant to eat when she had fallen deeply and utterly asleep after the first 3 minutes of drunken guzzling); then, use a breast pump to extract the remaining milk; finally, attempt once again to interrupt the unconscious slumber of the infant and finger feed her (with a syringe and tiny tube) the remaining milk.  The lactation consultant forgot to mention the step where the baby throws up all the milk you just spent an hour and a half cramming into her stomach.

This was an around-the-clock schedule.  By the time I had accomplished all the steps, cleaned myself up, and lied awake in bed convincing myself that I was surely going to be the cause of our precious baby’s starvation, I only had about 30 minutes to sleep before getting up and doing it all over again.  I was exhausted, I was scared, and I was slipping.

(to be continued here)

Fear Turned to Faith

Yesterday, I was challenged by this question:  How much do we leave on the table with God simply because of our lack of faith?  The inquiry resonated deep within me because God has already been busy shaping my heart in this area. 

Several times in the past month, as I’ve worried myself silly about my own lack of ability, energy, time, etc., I’ve been stopped short by the Holy Spirit who quietly whispers in my ear, “Just ask, sweetie.  Simply ask Me for what you need.”  And I have had my socks blown off by His rapid and overwhelming response to my pleas.  Even more surprisingly, I’ve asked with such small and shaky faith.  How patient He is with me!  Why do I so easily forget how big my God is?  How does it slip my mind that He loves to give extravagantly good gifts to His precious children?  Where is the boldness of my faith?

In the same breath, there is a balance that is absolutely essential to this boldness:  a deep and abiding reverence for the sovereign will of God.  A knee that quickly bows in submission to the inevitable “no” that will occasionally come from His throne room.  I refuse to ever ascribe to the “name it and claim it” brand of religion that cheapens the amazing grace of God and completely ignores the Biblical theology of suffering.  I cannot possibly comprehend His master plan.  His authority is absolute.  And sometimes my requests will be to Him like a child’s plea for candy ten minutes before dinner, or the cries of a little girl who cannot understand why she can’t play at the park that backs up to a busy road.

All the same, I would rather hear a thousand “no”s from God than to miss even one “yes.”  I would rather burst through the gates of heaven to hear, “Well done, My good and feisty servant,” than to enter paradise only to find that I’ve left a world of possibilities on His table.

God seems to be determined to expand my vision of His power and intimate care lately, and it’s starting to settle into my heart.  It’s making me bolder…and more humble.  It fills me with a frequent desire to lift my hands to the sky and tell Him how amazed I am by Him.  And isn’t that the essence of knowing Him?  We bring to Him the little bit that we have, He breathes His presence into it until it throbs with life, and we lift our hands in worship.

“Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”  ~Hebrews 4:16

Eyes Up Here

My quiet time this morning was centered around John chapter 21.  It tells the story of the reconciliation between Peter and Jesus, following  Peter’s denial and Jesus’ resurrection.  The devotional I was using pointed out a lesson on friendship. God chose to speak something entirely different to my heart.  God gave me a lesson on comparison.

Comparison is a beast that we all battle.  We know we shouldn’t mess with it, we know it’s destructive, but it rears its ugly head and we engage it all the same.  This beast is the illegitimate progeny of a twisted relationship – a child sired by Insecurity and born to a seductive mother named Fear.  In my life, its favorite battleground is my life’s calling, and it is a skilled warrior.

There are so many Godly women that I greatly respect in this life.  Each unique in her own calling; each beautiful to watch serve the Savior.  My admiration so easily warps, however, as I hold my own life and calling up to theirs.  Well, if she’s doing that with her life and I’m not, then who’s right and who’s wrong?  (Did I mention that I become quite narrow-minded when Comparison beats up on me?)  What if I’m on the wrong path?  What if I’ve missed the proverbial boat?

It seems that Peter, too, fought this same beast on this same ancient battlefield.  From a human perspective, he had every right to feel insecure.  He knew he had screwed up big time.  And although he had just been graciously forgiven, embraced by Jesus, and had his life's calling clearly spelled out for him,  he was still feeling a little shaky.  I can empathize.  So, you know what he did?

He turned around.

Like Lot’s wife…

Like the Israelites freed from Egypt…

He looked back.

And he saw John.

I have to believe that John had the “it” factor.  Of all of His hundreds of disciples, Jesus chose 12 who would be His close companions.  And of those 12, it seems that Peter, James and John were particularly close to Him.  And of those 3 intimate relationships, John was considered the beloved one.  John had a good thing going on.  He was a Godly man – someone to be respected and admired – and he surely had Jesus’ favor.  When Peter felt unsure of himself, it made perfect human sense for him to sneak a glance at John.  Surely, if John was on the same path, then Peter was good to go.

But John wasn’t on the same path.

Scripture doesn’t go into a lot of detail, and the wording is difficult to understand, but one thing seems clear:  Peter was trying to gauge his next move by what John was up to, and he saw some sort of discrepancy between their callings that gave him pause.  And do you know what Jesus said to Peter, while Peter was craning his neck around behind him trying to check out what John was up to?

“What is that to you?”

This is not Jesus at His most polite, soft-spoken moment.  This is Jesus getting all up under Peter’s grill.  What does it matter what John’s doing?  If I have a different plan for his life, what is that to you?  Eyes up here, Peter.  You follow Me.

And I hear the voice of the Ancient of Days echo throughout the centuries into my small, quiet reality.  I feel His hand on my cheek, gently turning my face back toward His.  If I choose to lead that servant of Mine down a path that looks different than yours, what is that to you?  Eyes up here, Elizabeth.  You follow Me.

I’ve been quietly digesting the lives of the people around me for quite some time now, trying to make sense of what I see.  Watching the people I know, watching people from a distance, pondering people's lives I read about in compelling books – all of whom I admire.  The truth is, I know my calling.  But I doubt it from time to time.  And God alters our callings over time, have you ever noticed?  He launches us into new spheres, stretches us, redirects us, uses the gifts He's given us in new ways that we hadn’t imagined yet.  I know this, and I try so hard to listen…to follow.  But when I see someone else on a different path, I start to feel shaky.  Did I miss something, Lord?  Did I not hear You right?  Did I not hear You at all?  Are you sure this is where I’m supposed to be?

There is only one Sword to wield on this battlefield - The Word of God.

Eyes up here, Elizabeth.  What is that to you?  You follow Me.

The other night, I laid in bed with these questions bouncing around in my head.  Eventually, I came to my senses, admitted that fretting is just plain crazy when the God of the universe is on your side, and started talking to Him about how I was feeling.  I asked my questions, I left it in His hands, and I went to sleep.

It’s amazing to me how unbound by time Jesus is.  For my morning quiet time, I use a devotional guide that was written years ago.  The passage I was going to read this morning was already determined.  And yet God used it to answer a prayer that I brought before Him just 2 days ago.

Truly, there is no one like our God.

A Sinner's Plea

Precious Lord~

I have discovered time and again
That there is truly nothing good in me.
And not only the lack of good,
But the presence of every kind of evil.
I desperately need You today,
And every day:
Within me, creating Spirit-fruit;
Beside me, setting the steps;
Before me, guiding the way;
Behind me, posting the guard.
For this day, without You,
Is lost.
May it be all You today,
O Prince of Peace,
And none of me.

Slow Thanksgiving

Remember the story of the tortoise and the hare? Slow and steady wins the race. Some people are naturally tortoise-like: purposeful, rarely in a rush, consistent, persistent and wise. I respect people like that. Then there are those of us who are...well...rather hare-y. Over-exuberant, over-achieving, let's-get-this show-on-the-road, get 'er done kind of people. I fall headlong into that category - a little too task-oriented for my own good. I have a hard time doing anything slowly. If I remember yesterday correctly, that's precisely one of the reasons that I wanted to start this list of gifts from God. It was supposed to make me s-l-o-w d-o-w-n, take notice, and be grateful.

It didn't work.

I went to bed with ideas bouncing around in my head last night, took forever to fall asleep, and started madly scrawling on a piece of paper as soon as my feet hit the floor this morning. Have I ever mentioned that I love making lists? Make a list of one thousand things to thank God for? Whew! That's a lot! I'd better get a move on.

Honestly, it stole my joy for a little while there. I was grasping at anything and everything that came to mind, and wondering how many things I would have to come up with each day in order to finish it off by Thanksgiving Day...wouldn't that be cool?! *pant, pant, pant*

Then I took hold of my own shoulders and gave myself a good shake. "Delilah," I said (well, not really, because when I talk to myself I use my real name, not my fake bloggy one...but you get the point.) "Delilah, you are missing the whole point. This is not another goal to accomplish, another check mark to make, another project to attack with vigor. This is about your heart."

Eyes that are open to truly see

A heart that notices what is given by grace

A soul that responds in worship

I really can't worship at 100 miles an hour. I doubt anyone can. And so, I started over...slowly. I have no idea how long this list will take me to complete. Maybe years. Not because God's blessings flow slowly - there are one thousand each second, I'm sure - but because I want this to be a journey of discovery. A quest for true gratitude...

Prayerlessness

It's a sin. And in my life, it's a doozey. God only had to use 3 words in Scripture to make it a black-and-white sin issue for me...

"Pray without ceasing."

Ouch! Can't really sidestep that one! To be perfectly honest, it's one of those sins in my life that's recurring. We all have them. This is one of mine. I've always been a little on the bookworm/nerdy side. (OK, maybe more than a little.) I love to read, to study, to pick things apart and learn. I thrive on Bible study, and it's not that hard for me to get up each morning and read God's word. But it's just way too easy for me to close that Book and not spend much time talking to God about what He just had to say to me. It's far too easy for me to get ticking along in my day (or my life...) and not be in conversation with the Lord. The really sad thing is, that is such a relationship killer! How can I claim to have a relationship with Someone that I only talk to in short little snippets? Or sometimes, not at all. How am I supposed to understand His heart, or hear His leading, or express my love to Him? How in heaven's name am I supposed to walk in His Spirit when I exist in that condition? It's simple...I can't.

My most recent bout of prayerlessness has been quietly nagging my conscience lately. I've effectively been ignoring it. Sad, scary...but true. Then the Holy Spirit decided to smack me upside the head. (I hate that, but I really did deserve it.)

I'm not a worrier by nature, but there are a select few things that can really get to me if I let them. One of those things is the possibility of having to move away - a prospect I'm not at all fond of. There is nothing particularly imminent about that threat right now, but it's something that just constantly hangs over my head like a black cloud. And every once in awhile that cloud starts to rain worry down on my head. Today was one of those days. My husband was home over lunch and I commented to him that this fear was dogging me today. He asked me point-blank, "Have you prayed about it?" (Ya gotta love being married to a Godly man!) To which I responded, "Well, yeah, like a million times before!" At which point, he looked me straight in the eyes and said, "And we're still here, aren't we?"

*SMACK!* (That would be the holy 2x4, hitting me upside the head.)

Two things immediately struck me...

One: I have prayed about this particular fear countless times over the past few years, as has my husband. There have been many times that an opportunity to move has presented itself, and we thought we were going, and then, through various means, God has always shut the door and kept us here. The timing hasn't been right. He has been faithful, and He hasn't called me to do something that isn't necessary yet. I'm worrying about something that is not today's reality. He is sovereign, He knows what He's doing, and He won't ask me for something unless He gives me the grace to do it. My husband is right - we're still here.

Two: That fear had been consuming my conscious thought all morning, and I had not prayed about it at all today. Not. at. all. The thought hadn't even occurred to me. How spiritually out-of-whack do I have to get for that to be true?! There is something very wrong with that picture!

After my husband returned to work, I took God's conviction to heart. My children were all occupied, so I went up to my bedroom and I poured out my heart to God. About where I live...about a lot of things. Then this funny thing happened...peace. Go figure.

"Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." ~Philippians 4:6-7

Lord, forgive me for becoming disconnected from Your heart. Keep me close to You, when my heart would prefer to be faithless.

So...how's your prayer life?

God at work

I had a *Wow* moment as a Mom today. They don't happen real often - just often enough, I think, to keep us pressing on. My son came home today in his typical "goofy" mood, acting silly and making both of us laugh. I finally convinced him to settle down enough to do his reading with me. One of the first words in the book stumped him and he said, "I tried to figure this out earlier today with my friend, so-and-so , and neither one of us could figure it out. Before I could start to help him with the tough word, he went on to tell me a little bit more about this buddy of his. He said, "He's really nice, but there's 2 bad things about him. The first one is really bad - the worst thing that a person could do - and the second one is just kinda bad. The second one is that he listens to a song with bad words in it." (We talked about that for a minute.) Then he went on, "The first one that's really bad is that he doesn't believe in God." I asked, "Are you sure he doesn't believe in God, did you ask him?" He said "Yeah, I asked him and he said he didn't. So then I told him all about God, and he still doesn't believe in Him." Then, all of the sudden, my son burst into tears. Deep, heart-wrenching sobs. When I could finally get him to talk again, he choked out, "I don't want my best friend to go to hell." Then we were both in tears. He was absolutely, completely heart-broken over the spiritual condition of his friend. We talked about it for a long time together - how he has an opportunity now to keep talking to his friend about Jesus and to share with him how he can go to heaven; how God created this friend and loves him even more than my son does, and cries even harder about the fact that he doesn't believe; how God will do everything possible in this friend's life to lead him to Himself, and that bringing my son into his life is one of those things. Finally, we prayed together for his buddy.

What touches my heart about this so much is that I've been a parent long enough to know that there's nothing a parent can do to "teach" what happened in his heart today. We can teach him God's ways, discipline him when he does unGodly things, even encourage him in his relationship with God. But the heart? That's God's domain. Someone's heart doesn't break over the spiritual condition of a friend like that unless the Holy Spirit is at work. God is already molding that sweet, 7-year-old, tender heart. And I'm so very glad that my son is in His grip.

With every breath

One of the things I've been praying for the last several months is more intimacy in my relationship with Jesus. That when I read His Word, I would see HIM, not just be storing various Biblical facts in my head. That when I pray, it would be a conversation. That in every area of my life, I would truly look like His child.

God always answers prayer. It's amazing sometimes how quickly He answers it. I wrote in an earlier post that I'm reading through the Bible cover to cover this year. I'm a little over half-way through Exodus right now, and it seems like God is showing me more facets of Himself on every page. None of it is really new information - I've read these passages before. But my eyes just seem to be more open this time.

I'm so amazed...truly, deeply amazed at His grace. Grace is so, so, so much more than just the forgiveness of my sins. It's God showing up...which none of us deserves. Every small piece of God that I am able to see and grasp is a gift of His grace. That He would bother to reveal Himself at all is grace. My prayers are heard, my heart is convicted, repentance granted, my life is changed, I have strength to obey, I am protected, blessed beyond my understanding, I can serve, love, empathize, experience peace and joy, be used by Him...GRACE, all of it. Amazing, wonderful grace.

I really can't put into words everything that God has been speaking to my heart lately, but all of it drives me to worship Him more deeply. I want my life to be a never ending song of worship to Him. I want to adore Him with every heartbeat; praise Him with every breath.

A Christmas prayer

Jesus, what was that first Christmas like for You? What did the court of heaven behold in the moments before You became a man? Were the angels silent as You rose from your throne and let your kingly robe fall from Your shoulders? Did any of them try to stop You? Try to convince You that we weren’t worth it, and that we didn’t deserve it? Did You and the Father exchange one last knowing look, filled with both sorrow and joy?

What was it like for You, the Almighty Creator, to suddenly contain Your divine essence to a microscopic clump of cells within the womb of a young girl? To trade the endless praise of seraphim for the soft, steady beat of her heart and the muffled sound of her voice? What was it like to wait there…to just wait…for nine long months until Your appointed time?

How did it feel to enter the world that You spoke into existence? To experience the sharp chill of the night air, the roughness of the straw, the ache of hunger? What was it like, as the Most High God, to suddenly have the need to breathe, and blink, and sleep? What happened in the Father’s heart just then – when He looked down and saw You helpless in Mary’s arms, and knew what was yet to come?

Jesus, what was it like to willingly become the sacrificial Lamb of God in order to save us…to save me? What did it feel like to hear the Father say, “No,” when You knelt in the garden and asked to be saved from the cross? What passed through Your mind when You thought the anguish was at it’s worst, and then Your Father began to turn His face? What took more strength – the struggle to breathe, or the gut-wrenching determination to complete what You had started? Did my face flash through Your mind as You suffered? Did my sin?

What did it look like, sound like, feel like on the day that Heaven’s Treasure returned home? How loud was the deafening roar of “Worthy”? When You sat down at the right hand of the Father, did His eyes drift to the scars on Your hands? Did He echo Your cry of, “It is finished”?

I can’t begin to comprehend what happened from Your vantage point, and I can’t begin to express what happened from mine. There are no words in all the languages of the earth to adequately praise You. I can only hope that heaven’s native tongue will someday suffice. You are the Joy in my heart, the Hope in my eyes, the Life in my soul. Thank You…forever thank You…for Christmas.

Funny story

We've been having a little trouble around here lately with bathroom attendance. My kindergartener does not make time to go to the bathroom at school during the day. So, by the time she gets off the bus at noon, she has to go so bad that she ends up going potty on our front step right outside the door instead of making it to the bathroom. Yesterday, I tried to address this problem. I said, "Honey, you have GOT to go to the bathroom at school BEFORE you get on the bus to come home. You can't keep trying to hold it that long." She said, "Mom, I'll forget!" So, we talked about what a good time would be to go within their schedule, and she decided that during her center-time would be the best. She was still worried that she would forget, and we were just sitting down to lunch, so as we prayed, I asked that God would help her to remember to go to the bathroom during center-time the next day. (We pray about everything around here.) When we ended our prayer, she got a little teary-eyed and said, "But Mom, I don't hear God talk, so how is He going to tell me?" I said, "Don't worry honey, God can remind you quietly in your mind so that all of the sudden you will just remember to go to the bathroom."

Today, when she got home from school, she did make it to the bathroom (barely), but it was clear she hadn't gone before she came home. I said, "Honey, we talked about this, why didn't you go during center time?" She said, (in a rather irritated fashion) "I forgot again. God didn't remind me!" After I stopped laughing, I thought YIKES!! Someone PLEASE tell me I haven't forever damaged the faith of a 5 year old!
I told her we'd keep praying about it. :-)