Phil the Fridge

About a month ago, I decided to undertake a low-scale kitchen renovation. I figured it'd be about $500-1,000. Three weeks and countless hours later, I'm at more than double that budget and am nowhere near completion. Anyone who owns a home knows that's typically how it goes. Yet we still dive headlong into projects every time with the same illogical optimism and then are shocked when our entire world flips like Dorothy over the rainbow.

Despite the chaos and frustrations and setbacks, I've had my eyes opened to a few things. I'll share just one of them here. It has to do with my fridge, whom I'll refer to as Phil.

Phil's whole world is the kitchen. And it's a consistent one, with invariably the same view, people, routines, purposes, etc. But then out of the blue, one day I waltz in and prime over the yellow walls. Now it's ugly. I'm sure he wondered what could have possibly compelled me to walk into a space that was perfectly fine and disrupt the peace?

Then I painted my walls green, which is when I discovered how badly that particular shade clashed with my gungy old brown cabinets. Poor Phil had to be so confused. This is the "improvement"? How is this better?

Oh Phil, it gets worse! Next up was blue painter's tape. The window sills, trim, and railings were primed and eventually painted white, further highlighting the unsightliness of the rest of the room.

Let's sprinkle in the demolition and removal of the chimney, just for kicks.

After that, every door on every dingy cabinet was removed, exposing mismatched dishes, spices, pantry items and other dishevelment previous hidden. And if that wasn't enough, out came the hand sander to make things even weirder-looking and dustier!

Then I bought a cabinet that doesn't even match anything. To top it off, I switched the location of a current cabinet, which damaged it AND left a hole in the floor, beautifully spotlighting the 1969 avocado green laminate underneath.

Phil's world has effectively been dismantled. It is undoubtedly worse: chaotic and messy and broken. The changes are slow moving (it's SO slow, y'all). And the worst part is, Phil had no say in it and no power over it. Why would she do this? How could this be "good"?

But what he doesn't know is that I have plans. I know the cabinets will be restored and the green will be complimentary to them. I know it will all tie in with fresh counter tops and back splash. I know we busted out that cabinet to make space for *drum roll please* a dishwasher! I know there is life and newness and beauty that I am orchestrating and piecing together.

But right now, Phil is stuck right where he's at. No perspective. No ability to understand my plan.

I think about Phil's woes and consider times in my life that God has seemingly pulled the rug out from under my feet-- primed my walls or taken a crowbar and sledgehammer to my chimney. When there's dust everywhere. When all I see is hopeless ruin. When there's not a thing I can do to change it.

He's a creator, an author, an orchestrator, and. . . a carpenter. He measures what He builds into my life. He knows what is good.

Hang in there Phil. And Laura. And all my struggling or suffering brothers and sisters out there. Keep hoping and believing and standing in the mess. He's in there with you. But you know what? He's not standing still; He's making all things new.

Mama mumblings

Editor's Note: I came across this tonight. I don't know when I wrote it, I don't remember writing it, and I don't know where I was going with it. But it was interesting to me, so I'm publishing it untouched. :)

I was chatting with a friend today about parenting. She has a 6-month-old, and I have 3 kiddos who were once 6 months old (not all at the same time). We talked about how we were raised by strict parents. She couldn't say "butt", and I couldn't wear pants. Oh how times have changed. We brushed on the topic of swearing in music and found we weren't in agreement. It wasn't a big deal, because our friendship is awesome that way.

I thought about how many different parenting styles there are. I don't think I'm in complete agreement with any of my friends on all the ways we parent. I have some things in common, of course, but not everything. Because we have different personalities and giftings, and because we have kids with different personalities and giftings. No two families are or can be the same. What a disservice we do when we try to mimic the way another family lives life.

Anyway, I was thinking about levels of strictness and how we choose rules for our kids. Really, most of our rules have come from experiencing things we didn't want to see continue. For instance, when our kids were little and blew bubbles in their milk, they got their straws taken away. Now we have to say things like, "no screen time before bed" and "no media devices in your bedroom behind closed doors." We create rules to protect our kids from themselves in ways they don't otherwise care about.

Parents have the choice to micromanage (which is necessary with a toddler but destructive with a teenager), be entirely hands off (which my social-worker friend can tell you often leads to a termination of parental rights), or fall somewhere in between-- which most of us do.

But no matter how lenient or open we want to be with our kids, we will eventually have to make some kind of rules to keep our kids from hurting themselves-- physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually. Because we have a propensity to wander. A propensity toward self-destruction. 

I got to thinking about that. I remembered being a new mom and having all sorts of ideas about how I would raise my babies. Of course, everyone without a toddler (or teenager) knows how to parent them. I knew I would parent very differently than my parents did. We'd have open conversations, my kids would know that I'm for them, they'd share everything in their world with their awesome parents, and it would be beautiful. They'd experience grace and truth hand-in-hand. They'd love each other. They'd be respectful and mature. We'd build forts and be creative and go on hikes and support each other and do everything together with such closeness and camaraderie.

And there have been moments of that. Snippets. My hope is that as I pray them through their second half of childhood and continue to try shaping them with the time I have left, we will one day have most of those things. But as I sit on my couch typing right now, my husband and son are playing a video game in one room, and my girls are watching a show about an unsolved murder in another. AND there's a dog by my feet. Who dreamed this up? Not me.

I am not the parent I thought I would be. I'm not even the person I imagined I'd be. 

Parenting is not what I expected. And I love it. I have never experienced a fullness, a sense of purpose, or fear like this.

I have learned that I cannot parent much differently than I was.

Actually, while I'm thinking about it, I think "pray and adapt" would really be the best parenting advice I could give anyone. Huh, interesting epiphany. Thanks!

Faking it, hoping to be "making it" soon

I know I told everyone last night not to read my post. But wow is it weird to log in and literally see zero views. Nicely done, internet world. Nicely done. :)

I just finished a great read called Eat That Frog. It's a fairly popular book, so you may already know it's chalked full of tips and tricks to teach yourself not to procrastinate-- transforming regular people into super duper, high-performing mega humans.

Many times throughout, I thought about this blogging journey. So when I finished the book, I set it down and picked up my laptop to write. Nope, that's a total lie. I picked up my phone to play games (hey, that candy ain't gonna crush itself!). #Irony

It's hard to want to do something you aren't good at. And right now, I'm not good at this. Which, oddly enough, is exactly why I need to be doing it. *Insert toddler-like protest*

However. . .

At this point, I've waited too long, and I'm sleepy. Tomorrow's alarm is set for 5:15 (check out our church live-stream-style at 10:30), so I should head off to bed. I'll return later. . . I'm sure. :)

P.S. I'm not sure I want to be a super duper, high-performing mega human. I enjoy the thought of slowing down. Savoring. Being productive? Managing time well? Yes. But maybe not going 300 mph faster and more efficiently than everyone else. Maybe God wants more for me than speediness. Right now, I think He wants me to sleep, lol. G'night, friends.

Disorganized Snippets

Hello! If you're seeing this, it means you signed up to follow me. . . literally years ago. I was stunned tonight to log in and see how much time had passed since I first started and last wrote in this blog. Stunned. Time is truly a thief.

Anyway, welcome back. :) You have my full, complete, and total permission to stop reading right this very minute. I despise I'm-going-to-be-a-blogger posts. I have no such illusions. I understand it is a long haul. That there are ups and downs. That sometimes 2-1/2 years can pass before the next post, lol.

However, I have an old friend who has asked me to write for him, because he wants his content to be "great" (Is it silly that I'm completely intimidated by those 5 letters?). So I'm writing. Because the more I write, the better I get. This is a proven, identifiable fact in my life.

Also, this is a gifting. I know that. One I've allowed to rust. Why hasn't God closed the door on the "ark" of publication for my book? I don't know. I'm not even in the same stage of life I was when I finished it. So much would need to change. I think that experience has hurt my willingness to write. I need purpose, even if it's small. I don't have to reach thousands of women (though I so very badly wish that book would have accomplished that), but I do need purpose.

Honestly, I'm in this weird cross-roads-y part of my life. I'm not a stay-at-home mom anymore (insert absolute heartbreak), but I'm not really a working woman. Busyness interrupts my ability to be great as a mom, while wistfulness interferes with being great at my job. I have a foot on each side of the fence, and I'm discontent.

What I long to do is sit at the feet of Jesus and hold fast while the world whisks around me. I want Him to fix things while I rest with Him. But He doesn't work that way. I'm pushed from my comfort zone into the mix-up of life. And I need to live in the tension.

Be a wife.
Be a mom.
Be a friend.
Be a boss.
Be a sister and daughter.
Learn what it means to be the masterpiece of God.

How? How can He take pride in a canvas so very blemished with insecurities and sinful choices? How am I am called "holy" and "righteous" while holding this propensity to return to my "vomit"? How can He willingly sign His precious, powerful, beautiful name across my life? Why would He do that?

Grace. *sigh* Beautiful, beyond-logic grace.

Father, I'm glad we had this chat. :) Please help me as I learn to write again. You are great, and Your greatness is the strength within my weakness. I love You. Thank You for Your nearness.

The power of joy

" I'm in such a good mood that nothing could bring me down today."

Have you ever said something like that? Exuding joy is like walking around as Mario with star power. There are no circumstances, thoughts, or temptations you cannot conquer. Empowering others even becomes effortless when you're owning the real estate of joy.

But we have an enemy, and he wants to strip us of our power. All power. If he can steal away our joy, we're left susceptible to innumerable attacks. In fact, when I get to heaven, I'd like to [respectfully] call the apostle Paul out on excluding this critical piece of spiritual armor from the list in Ephesians 6.

When we feel defeated or anxious or overwhelmed, the chances are low that we will make the call to go volunteer in the soup kitchen or cook up a meal for another family. We aren't going to offer to mow our neighbor's yard or take a friend's kiddos so they can enjoy a date night. When we are not joyful, we are not generous.

Unfortunately, joy is not a thing that can be conjured up-- especially the kind that brims over and leaves us feeling invincible. But there are things we can do to cultivate it.

The first strategy is simple: prayer. The Lord promises to grant us things we ask in His will. Being joyful is within that will. So asking to be filled with joy seems like a good place to start. :)

The Bible uses the words "joy", "glad", and "happy" a total of 370 times throughout and the word "sad" 6. I thought those were interesting factoids. That was free.

Moving on, it is helpful to identify joy-robbers in your life. Maybe it's a task, a person, an activity, or your in-laws' Christmas party. If you can't avoid the situation, try gaining a new perspective by injecting positivity into it. If you start to sweat every time you encounter your boss, see if you can learn something about him or her. What is their hobby? Is there a gift or an act of service you could give as a way to connect and brighten the relationship?

A third way to add joy to your life is to just smile. Slap on a big, cheek-squishing, eye-squinting smile for no reason at all. It triggers happy things in your brain AND it's contagious! Google it.

Here's a personal illustration. Just today I was working with my 10-year-old on math homework. After an hour transpired without completing even one problem, she stormed off to her room. By that point, I was ready to slam some doors myself. But since I'm writing about joy, I thought it wise to sample my own advice. So there I stood, angrily scrubbing dishes, wearing a phony, stupid smile. Through the plastic grin, I complained to God about how annoying and fake it felt, which actually made me laugh. So "point" for God. Bring on the authentic smile.

As a parent, I have a responsibility to lead my daughter and set a good example of how to handle difficulty. If I can't go into things with a good attitude, I certainly can't expect her to. I'd love to report that we reunited over bowls of chocolate chip cookie dough and the math homework solved itself. It didn't. There was still a lot of hard work ahead. On our second go-around, however, I was calmer, and she was naturally more receptive. There were no more tears, and I'm pleased to announce that homework is completed for the whole weekend. *fist pump*

Finally, like I said before, there is an enemy who is after every one of us-- believer or not. He'll rob us of joy and laugh at the ensuing domino effect. Because unfortunately, joylessness is also contagious. So kick that guy to the curb, and smile-- even at complete strangers.They may think there's something up your sleeve or you've missed today's dose of meds. That's okay; smile anyway.

I find it interesting that in 1 Thessalonians 5, the words "rejoice always" are followed up with "pray continually" and "give thanks in all circumstances". Based on this, I don't think it's possible to maintain a joyful spirit without prayer and thanksgiving. Fight the enemy, and choose joy.


*******Side note********
If you're wanting to ignite heat seeking missiles against the joy-robbers in your life, I recommend reading the book Boundaries. It is useful for identifying how we allow people or situations to wear on us, slowly eroding our ability to recognize where we aren't protecting our time. We find too many things to say "yes" to and then find ourselves at an emotional deficit-- confused and frustrated. The book is instrumental in helping to understand ourselves and our limitations so we can remain in a healthy state of mind, giving joy the freedom to resurface.

Cheers!

"Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the Lord your God is giving you." Exodus 20:12

Today I'd like to take a few minutes to bring honor to my parents. They celebrated their 45th wedding anniversary this week, and I think that's worthy of public acknowledgment.

Earlier this week, I popped onto my phone to send a quick "congrats and happy day" text to them, and I was blindsided with a sense of gratitude.

Through the years, I've watched my dad grow in the ability to keep his head in difficult situations and walk away with the positives in hand. I know that hasn't always come naturally for him, so I really appreciate seeing it.

In contrast, my mom can be a little high strung (just a little, Mom. ;) ). I have countless memories of sitting in the back seat, observing her spaz about xyz while Dad continued to eye the road, sometimes sporting his weird little mustache-y smirk. Occasionally she'd catch him and reach over to whack him on the shoulder with an annoyed but playful, "Da-vid".

They make it look easy. I've never witnessed a blow-out fight. Nor have I heard either of them hurl insults or attack the other's character. Knowing myself (and, good gracious, my siblings), I'm sure there were plenty of "discussions" behind closed doors. We were not the easiest bunch to parent.

I can imagine there have been rough patches through the years. Times they felt strained to the max with outside stressors and then came home to join moody teenagers around a table in a shoe-box-sized kitchen piled up with papers, dishes, and Little Debbie's wrappers.

But they did it. They came home from work every night, not stopping at bars or keeping long hours at work. They came home. To us. To each other.

In lieu of our culture's growing weariness with commitment, I am proud to spotlight a couple who has persevered. My own marriage has not been without trials and difficult times. But thanks to their example, I have a clear understanding of what my expectation is to be in this union.

Additionally, my parents were not believers when they got married. They came to know Jesus and took that faith seriously enough to drag our family to church three times a week and sacrificially pay for us kids to attend a school that supported those believes. While I do not agree with everything I was taught (does anyone?), there's no way to know who I would be without that kind of bedrock foundation in my life. And I'm eternally grateful for that springboard into my own relationship with Jesus.

Because of their commitment to God and to each other, Rodney and I are able to raise children saturated in these same truths. Their influence didn't stop when I moved out of the house. They are impacting my children and, Lord willing, the generations after them.

So Mom and Dad, congratulations. And thanks. I love you.

I don't want to be a good mom.

This afternoon I had to apologize to one of my kids for losing my temper and yelling. Agian. This same apology was made just yesterday. And three days before that. What a humbling example children are of granting unconditional forgiveness.

This particular morning started off too quickly-paced. As a result, I skipped over investing that first sacred slice of morning with my Creator. So after a day of craziness and then my selfish uncorking, I decided it was time.

Down to my room I went. I apologized to the Lover of my child's soul and asked Him to make me a good mom. Almost before my sentence was out, I sensed Him silencing me with the words, "You are a good mom."

Ugh, He didn't even let me finish. But I knew it was appropriate, because I was praying in a direction I shouldn't have been going. So He shut me down-- with affirmation. Because He's cool that way. :)

For years, I've been trying to avoid that prayer altogether. Being a "good mom" is easy to say and want, but it can only be measured from one comparison to the next. Am I a better mom than she is? Am I too protective like that mom? At least my kids don't do _______.

Additionally, I have no control over whether my parenting style is ultimately resented or appreciated. So what use is it trying to be a "good mom"? Really?

Instead, I ask to be shaped into the image of Jesus. As I draw closer to the light of His face, I will reflexively mirror His attributes onto those around me-- inclusive of the three precious tinies I've been entrusted with. I will see them as He sees them. I will be gentle, patient, and kind. I will love them as they are, because Jesus loves me as I am.

As I am.

The conversation in my bedroom continued, and I considered the paradoxical truth that the Father cherishes me exactly as I am-- faults and all-- yet calls me to change.

What does that look like? How do I rest in confident contentment, knowing the eyes of the Father see perfection in me, and yet acknowledge the invitation to be sculpted by the Master Whittler? And if I accept this prompting, how do I resist the temptation to strive for achieving a better to-do list? How do I escape the performance roller coaster of feeling loved for good deeds and shamed by mistakes?

The answer is to hover in a perpetual tension. To "keep in step with the Spirit" (Galatians 5:16)  and be guided by His voice. I must remember that although I inadvertently slip back on the handcuffs of Sin, I cannot forfeit the grace He's poured over me. I am broken and messy. Thankfully, this isn't about who I am; it's about who I'm becoming.

I can let go of who I've been. Tripping over what's behind me is not only lunacy, but it's devoid of value.

I can rest in who I am-- a redeemed daughter of the King, a princess, an heiress, a saint.

I can choose to see myself as God does, from my victorious future and not from my blunderous past.

So I will make the choice to get up, brush off the proverbial dust, and ignore the screaming accusations from my enemy that I will never be "enough". Most importantly, I will continue to climb into the lap of my Father every day to renew my mind and be transformed into so much more than a "good mom".

A Casual Letter

Hello internet world! It's been over two months since I started my Facebook hiatus, and tonight I'm just feeling the itch to share life digitally.

I'm not sure I want to thrust myself back into the blogging world with heavy thoughts, so I figured maybe I could just write a letter, of sorts. The goings-on of the Holum world, if you will. It's a little raw and simple (and lengthy), but it ends with pictures. High five for pictures!

Overall, things have been good. Our kids started their first year at a private school. I attended a private school myself, growing up. I'm thankful for MANY things about the experience, but I did get expelled. *Gasp!* In the end, it was of my own free will that I walked away (sort of). But it didn't leave a savory taste in my mouth for putting my own kids into the system.

This is different though, on a few levels. Here we learn about saints and rosaries. We whisper in church, talk to Mary, and chime bells with communion [we aren't allowed to take]. It's been a learning curve. But it's opened many doors to talk about what it is we do believe and why. I've also learned a lot about Catholicism for myself-- things I would've never delved into otherwise.

Anyway, Aspen (my fifth-grader) dove right in, joining the volleyball team and picking up the violin. Now she hates both. :) We have a tournament tomorrow that we have to leave at 7 am for, and she hates mornings more than she hates volleyball. So Lord help us. She also had strep throat, stitches, and an endoscopy all within the first month of school. Sprinkle in a pinch of learning disability, and you've got yourself a stew!

The other kids are doing alright, but none of them is convinced they like this gig better than the public school one. We've also talked a lot about homeschooling (yikes!). Time will just have to tell.

So, how about those Bears, huh? Yeah, there's not a lot to say there. #SoDisappointing

As you may or may not know, I started the year out on a sugar fast/contest with my girl Sara in Kentucky. We put money on the line, adding to the kitty each month with the agreement that if we could make it to October, we'd use the money to meet half-way in Illinois and spend a weekend together. I think we endured until mid-August before calling a truce. I won't share who it was that cracked, but her name ends with "air-uh". :)

So we got together earlier this month. Rodney hooked us up with his free hotel points so we could party it up in the booming metropolis of Normal, IL. Literally. That's it's name. Off.The.Hook. Not really. But we did go to the mall, eat at a hole-in-the-wall diner, drink fake champaign, and start reading "Raising Kingdom Kids" together in our hotel room, which was beautiful. We talked about how little we are truly present with people in our lives-- especially our babies. It's something I'd shared with my Rice-Lake-Lisa earlier, too. I know few people who can be in the moment with others instead of moving on to their own agenda. Being there but not really there.

Maybe that will be my "deep thoughts" post next. I think about it a lot these days. I want to be better, and public accountability helps with that.

At the end of August, Rodney and I celebrated our 14th wedding anniversary. We went to "the cities" and hit up a movie theater that had leather recliners for seating. *first bump* It was amazing. Seriously simple, but amazing. What's more, I realized that in five years, I'll have been a Holum as long as I was an Ivey. Hot dog! I look forward to the day when I've been "mom" longer than I was just Laura. *happy sigh* Life is good.

Last weekend I went to two weddings in one day. Two. Across the state from each other. With all the kids in tow. And no husband. Wow. But worth it! Congrats to Sara & Derek AND to Aaron and Erin. No joke. A&E. :)

I have a sister-in-law who's going to Uganda in a few weeks. She's going to teach women there to sew with a treadle machine so they can make feminine supplies for themselves AND to sell. How awesome is that? Through this, I've learned that my SIL's mom is a world renowned treadle-sewer. I didn't even know that was a thing. But it is, and she's going on the trip too. I'm totes excited for them and more than a little nervous for her husband who will be left behind with four kids-- inclusive of  1-year-old twins. It'll be good. :) I have a feeling that the stories she brings home will be mega encouraging to my soul. I'm so dang excited for her.

Has anyone else's families started the discussion of Christmas parties and the like? My family literally group texted my phone battery to death. Dead. And when the phone came back on, there were 86 missed messages. And by the time I finally scrolled through to find where I'd left off, Mom posted a text about her miniature version of a real dog, which immediately transported me back to the bottom of the messages again. Oh.My.Lanta. #HolidayWoes

Three of my friends (that I know of) are pregnant right now. Three. It's nuts. That's like half of my social pool. Okay, not really. I've actually been quite surprised at how full my social calendar has been with the kids in school all day. And switching schools has opened many doors for fresh networking opportunities. If I was an extrovert, that would sound AMAZING! But alas, I am not. So I'm learning to protect my time and heart while still investing in the relationships God has set on my path.

Believe it or not, there's still more I could say, but this is getting out of hand. :) I'll throw some pictures up. People usually like that kind of thing. :)

Thanks for hanging with me tonight. Hopefully I'll be inspired to write meaningful stuff again soon.

Sara and I posed with our mini golf clubs in front of a cute little fountain for this shot. Not that you can tell any of that though. :)

Rodney and I celebrating the Libners' wedding at their reception.

Sorry if you're squeamish. Here are the stitches on Aspen's arm. And yes, we sang the song a lot that week.

Ezra being "fancy" at Miss Erin's wedding shower. #PinkyUp

The kids (and Daddy) all pitched in money so Mommy would make monster cookies. Jer also offered to be my muscle. Although he dropped out when the oatmeal was added and I needed him most. :)

Aspen at her first volleyball game.

Ezra at her apple orchard field trip.

Rodney helped coach Jer's football team this fall, which has been really fun. :) Jer is #8.

Here's Ezra crossing a bucket list item off, riding a mechanical animal at the mall on our date night.

Is it well?

Sleep evades me tonight.

I was lying alone in my bed, thinking of how many others are doing the same tonight. Except they're grieving loss. Whether in Nice, Dallas, Baton Rouge, Minneapolis, or elsewhere.

Unjust loss.

I am unaccustomed to this weight in my chest, pressing down like an asthma attack that won't take my breath.

For weeks now, I've been watching people I love utilize social media to smear one another with memes, articles, videos and the like-- standing behind beliefs in causes that are bigger than any one of us. Choosing to die on these hills. As if tainted, biased public posts are helping to bring change.

(Also, I decided that I'm bringing homemade cookies to my police department tomorrow. With my kids. We're going to take action to do something positive and encouraging, by jove.)

Then I thought about the phrase "it is well with my soul" and how untrue it is right now. And it made me wonder. If we could get away from the media, the noise, the "information", what would we would hear?

For me, it would be the gentle, familiar voice of the Creator.

He isn't pacing around, wringing His hands, trying to figure out what to do with "us" now that things are so badly botched up. No, He's seated. On a throne. Inviting us to His embrace of protection. Of peace. Of finding "wellness" in our souls.

So that's where I'm going to rest tonight, choosing to believe that He sees every empty bed, every missing plate at dinner tables-- every broken heart-- and He's calling us to Him. The waves and wind still know His name, and so do I. It is well, because He is good.


Side note: this is the song that inspired the post. :) Give it a listen.

Change of Plans

Today, my husband Rodney took off for Chicago to attend some kind of robot convention. This trip was somehow miscommunicated, and I only learned of it 3 hours before he left.

Mind blown.

Anyway, with Daddy gone, the kids and I ditched our conventional dinner plans in favor of a Redbox and some Chinese take-out.

Once the babies were all tucked in, I went to work picking up the remains of a weekend which consisted of bathroom renovations, two kids with respiratory infections, many guests, several outings, and two sleep-over nights including three 8-year-old girls. #SoMuchGiggling #SoLittleSleep

While cleaning my wonderfully quiet house, I began to pray out loud. I thanked God for my kitchen and dining room. Powerful ministry has been done because of those rooms. Beautiful things have transpired in my home-- and much of it over or around sharing food. Breaking bread, pouring out, doing life alongside people.

I thought about the fullness of our lives and the abundance of love and relationships we have. I thought about how we'd have none of that without small groups-- without God using Rodney to constantly inch me further from my very introverted comfort zone.

Tears came as I wiped down my table, realizing that the Father has straight-up used my discomfort and reluctance to bring about this fullness and joy. What a trade! In fact, my three closest friends all came into my life through small groups or through something outrageous that Rodney manifested for people to attend together.

I felt grateful for my crazy husband and for the realization that the Kingdom of heaven is relationships. Ultimately, it reminded me that if God can use a misfit hermit of a small group leader like me, He really can do anything through anyone, if we let Him.

So to anyone I've ever shared a small group with, thank you. Thank you for stretching me, for encouraging me, and for being a part of God doing His work in my heart.

Burn the Box

My pastor has recently taken on the task of preaching through the book of Revelation (no, there is not an "s" on the end of the word, thank you very much). If you've ever read it, then you already know that some of the text is straight-forward, while other parts of it are steeped in seemingly cryptic symbols.

One of the undeniable truths is that Jesus is coming for His bride. To rescue, redeem, and cleanse her. This time He isn't coming as a gentle, smiling, humble carpenter-- approachable by all. The book describes Him riding in on a white horse, wearing a coat dipped in blood, with fire in His eyes and a sword in His mouth. I don't even know what that would look like, but it sounds pretty hard core (and I'm grateful that He's on my side!).

Typically, I try to kick off my morning quiet time with some form of adoration or praise. It's how Jesus taught us to pray, and I figure it's a good way to make sure my heart is focused less on myself (because that's where it invariably wanders every time, which is a different post for a different day).

The other morning, I began by thanking Him for being so eternally gentle with me. I was appreciating His compassion and tenderness despite my constant state of rebellion and self-indulgence. Then I thought about this second Jesus-- the Braveheart-style one. And the contrast silenced me.

Too often, I'm guilty of making Him my own personal slot machine. I pull the handle of prayer, hoping that the outcome will result in my favor, my comfort, my happiness. It's like Jesus is my on-call safety net. It's so humanly one-sided and small.

He is infinitely patient and gentle, yet He comes with a sword IN HIS MOUTH.
He is a still, small voice, yet He conquered Death.

In light of that, I have nothing to give. My only response is reverent worship.

The thing that makes this even more beautiful is that He loves it. In chapters 5 and 8 of Revelation, we learn that our prayers are the incense that God uses to fill heaven's throne room. I am in awe of Him, and He is grateful for me.

The fierce warrior King is grateful for me. For you. So unpack everything from the box of what you think know about Him. Don't just upsize the box, either; He is limitless. Burn the thing to ashes, so you can pray bigger, expect more, and let Him flex. He's stronger, vaster, more colossal, beautiful, boundless, glorious, dazzling, and holy than we can comprehend.

What are you called to?

"I am anointed to accomplish my assignment."

Steven Furtick

I'm a good mom. An awesome wife. An okay daughter. A great friend.

I'm also a disappointment and source of pain.

I can be kind and sensitive to my friend on the phone, but then turn around to snap at my 3-year-old who just wants "sum-fin to schwink, Mom-eeeee" (for the twelfth time in a row).

Our bedtime routine can be an open time of conversation, truth, love, and acceptance. It can also be a harsh, hurried cycle of shouting, frustration, and anger.

James 3:9-11 reads, "With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God’s likeness. Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be. Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? My brothers and sisters, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water."

So which is it? Who am I? How can I live out my calling to love others?

Well I listened to this sermon this week, which tweaked my perspective of that calling, just a bit. And it forced me to ask "What exactly am I called to?" So Saturday during church (naughty kid) I sat down and scrawled out a few missions I believe I am called by God in my life to fulfill.

• Daughter of the King: I am to love others, speak the truth in love, deepen my relationship with Him, and become holy.
• Wife: This begs that I be faithful, supportive, and respectful to my husband.
• Mother: I'm a woman who has been entrusted with three precious and malleable people. They need to know Jesus & His peace, they need to love others, and in order to do so, they also must understand their own value.
• Sister
• Daughter
• Small group leader: God has allowed me to do this in my home for over 10 years. That is not a position I take lightly.
• Worship Leader: The gift of music has been given to me, and I use it almost weekly alongside others to lead God's people into His presence. And through it, He exposes and changes my own heart.
• Friendship: The Lord has been pretty deliberate about who comes into and goes out of my line of vision. I am called to be a friend but also to protect my own heart. What a fine line that can be!

Now, if all I had to do was be a mom, I'm pretty sure I'd be the best dang mom there's ever been. Every sandwich would be heart- or dinosaur-shaped and there would be chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven every day for when they got off the bus (and they'd somehow be super healthy). Their toenails would never get too long. Love, peace, and joy would abound at all times in our home.

If all I had to do was play music, boy, I'd beat out any concert pianist. My oboe would soothe snakes, and the music wafting from my guitar strings would be known world-wide as the beauty of the mid-west.

But the truth is that I'm not called to just one thing; if all I did was cater to my babies, for instance, I'd miss out on a whole lot of friendship, ministry, and marriage.

So there's this tension I have to live in. You do too. We are not just one thing. God doesn't want us to be just one thing. He formed us each as uniquely complex, intelligent, and relational individuals. It's borderless. It's undefined. It's messy.

And it's beautiful.

And you know what? We'll never get it all right. Not all the time. This is an imperfect world, and we are imperfect people living in it. I think our Father smiles when He sees we're succeeding at doing our best. And I think His smile broadens when we realize that we aren't-- and that we can't, without Him.

Maybe I'm beginning to learn what the apostle Paul meant when he said, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me" (2 Corinthians 12:9).

Surrender

At church last night, we sang an oldie that's simply titled Surrender. It isn't one of my favorite songs by any means. When we sing those, I usually try to think more about the actual lyrics and what it means when I voice them. Sometimes I scrap the words altogether and just pray in song. Maybe that freaks some of you out. That's okay with me. :) We can go out to coffee and chat about our differences. I'll even buy!

Anyway, I was singing this song and asking God what things I needed to surrender to Him. Sometimes when I do this, He reveals things I hadn't even realized I was gripping so tightly. Last night, however, was not an elusive search for the unknown. Straight up, no doubt, it was my book.

If you know me at all, you know I'm a little (okay, maybe a lot) OCD. Once I get a project started, one of two things happens. Either things get intense and it gets d-o-n-e, or I let it completely fall to the side (somehow I reason that not touching the thing means not failing. It's odd). Well this book has fallen to the side a few times, but God was pretty persistent. I guess He has a worse case of OCD than I do. :)

Well now the thing's finally done. I know that the next two steps to tackle are writing a query (a concise, hooking, 3-paragraph synopsis of my 100-some page book and why everyone will want to read it) and then finding an agent who is interested in Christian adult nonfiction and who doesn't care about my inexperience or lack of platform (people "following" my writing).

Rodney is out of town on a business trip. So once my kids are in bed, I have the time all to myself. And I tell you what-- I have attacked this like a mama on her kid's bully. I have researched and taken notes and learned and researched (took a break for some chips) and burned my retinas researching some more. Part of me is certain that I can educate away my fears. That if I can just get all the pieces lined up to see (or at least all in the same basket), that things will be fine.

But I'm still scared to death.

I'm scared that it will never be published. I'm scared that God won't come through. I'm scared that someone else is going to write the same basic book (because at LEAST 50% of women have had my experience) and get it out there before I do. I'm scared that the heart I have poured into this work will be wasted.

The only logical thing to do with this urgency is to work harder and faster and accomplish more and and and. . .

Breathe.

Surrender.

It is unquestioned that I have been called to this. God has walked me through so much of my writing, my research, my resources, my experiences. He has given Rodney the grace to send me out on writing weekends and support me wholly.

I know this project belongs to God, yet I'm busy ripping the reigns out of His capable hands as if my hurry and fear is going to work better than His timing and planning.

There is an uncomfortable tension that I need to walk in. God doesn't call people to tasks that doesn't require action of some sort. Nor will He call us to something He will not also equip us to do.

Noah & the boys had to pick up a hammer and nails. The Israelites had to get up each morning and circle Jericho. Moses had to face some nasty confrontations with Pharaoh and raise his staff to the Red Sea. David had to look up into the face of Goliath and start slinging that stone.

There is always action tied to God's calling. But because of that action, the ark's door shut and it floated, the walls of Jericho fell, the Israelites were freed & the Red Sea parted, and Goliath died from one stone. That was God. Each of those men did their part while surrendering the outcome of their calling.

But I am still scared. And this part is where I choose to unclench my fists and allow faith to do its thing. God has never proven Himself untrustworthy in my life. And Philippians 1:6 says that if He started a good work in me, He will carry it through to completion. What "completion" looks like to Him may not be what it looks like to me. And I have to be okay with that.

Tomorrow is "media free Monday" in our house, and it's never been more timely. :)

Query, you can wait.

The Mom Eats Alone

I've said for years that I'm going to write a book with the title of this posting. I don't really know what it will be about. But there are certain things that are true about moms and particularly about moms who are full-time homemakers. One of those truths is that at meal times, we are so busy topping off apple juice, replacing dropped spoons, blowing tiny noses, and snatching fresh napkins, that by the time we sit down to eat, everyone else is finished and gone.

A few months ago, I had a photographer (who also happens to be my sister-in-law. Bonus!) come to my home and photograph our family in the mundane. We didn't do anything special. I intentionally left our house un-vacuumed and un-swept, as it would generally be on that day. I wanted her to capture us as we were. To seal up a capsule of our family in the "now."

When I got the pictures back from her, I was surprised about three different things.

1. I found that I didn't remember much of anything about that day, except that she had come. I didn't remember that it was light at bedtime or that we ate s'mores or that my friend Sara sent us a box FULL of candy from Germany to open that day or even that my brother-in-law and his posse stopped by to drop off hand-me-downs from my aunt.

Part of that is beautiful, because our lives were legitimately captured in the raw. Nothing stuck out to me because none of it was abnormal. But that same beauty holds somber undertones; I know the sun's rising and setting is out of my control, and it's leaving things in an indiscernible blur.

2. I don't smile nearly enough in my daily routine. That needs to change.

3. I was shocked to see how many of the pictures were of myself or of my "office."

Side note: I spend a LOT of time standing in front of the sink or stove. That's where I tape up notes of encouragement so that I see them as much as possible. This helps to remind me of the value of my position, and it safeguards against Routine swallowing me whole. I call this area my office. :)

At first I was annoyed that so many of the photos featured me in some way, because I wanted the shoot to be about our life as a family. But as I continued to scan through them time and again (you know you do it too), my mother-heart awakened to an interesting truth.

The home is like a piece of art. From a distance, people think it's effortless, aesthetically pleasing, and quaint. But if they stepped into it, they would understand that it is crafted from wild vines. Moment by moment, pieces are changing, jutting here or there. The artist's job is to take the mayhem and weave it together into a functional, healthy organism (with minimal shouting). If said artist stepped away for a day or two, she would have a lot of repairing and resetting to do upon her return. Because it's life. And it's live. And it's hard. And it's beautiful.

The pictures depict me cooking dinner, cleaning dinner, helping with homework (which is actually usually Dad's job around here), sweeping floors, managing candy intake, and more. Many of the pictures where I don't physically appear, you can still find remnants of what I've done. Examples of this include ice packs on wounds, water for the toddler's paint, billions of pictures tacked to the walls of my fledgling artist's bedroom, and a basket stocked with fruit that was budgeted and planned to purchase for the family.

Fellow mom, you are vitally important. If someone came to your house to still-shot your day, you would be in half the pictures, and that's a good thing. :)

In my "office," I have a now-dish-water-flecked, dusty card that my church handed out on Mother's Day nearly a decade ago, and I'll end with its message.

"God has called you and gifted you to be the wonderful mother you are. In a special way today may you sense His nearness, rejoice in His love for you, and know the joy you bring to others."

More pictures are coming soon to a Facebook near you!

Eleven

My kids usually sleep with a box fan running to mute outside noise. Yesterday, one of our two fans mysteriously kamikazed a blade. Now when it's switched on, it walks (er, hops) across the room-- loudly.

We're at the tail end of a humidity streak which has blanketed our area with 90+ degree weather for two weeks. Really, we shouldn't have been shocked when our trusty Walmart was sold out of box fans.

So last night, we made the only logical decision. All three of our kids would sleep together in one room. Our room.

Shortly after being tucked in, the oldest came to us, complaining that her 2-year-old sister was babbling on and on, and that "I can't understand anything she's saying." We assured her that this was normal behavior and sent her back to bed.

By the time we got to bed ourselves, one of them had already had "an accident" in his resting place on the floor. So we cleaned him up, laid down a towel, and went to sleep.

Little did we know that those first few hours would be our only hours of rest.

The 2-year-old was awake from roughly 3:30-5:30, playing quietly on her own. During that time, our oldest came to me to complain about her nose hurting (for which I know no remedy) and again later because she had pain in her back (which I'm sure had something to do with sleeping on a concrete basement floor-- just a hunch).

Around six o'clock or so, my son accidentally moved (and unplugged) the beloved, precious, sleep-protecting box fan. Faster than a cat out of water, I shot from my bed to fix it and salvage the rest of my girls' potential sleep. But that was pretty much it.

To frost the cake, I was up three times, myself, to use the restroom (sometimes being a hydrated runner has it's downsides).

It wasn't until the kids were up and Rodney was in the shower that either of us thought to wish a groggy "happy anniversary" to the other.

I thought back to our wedding day. About how his pesky little brothers ran over to wake my maid of honor and myself up at the crack of 7 a.m. and how I wanted to gouge their eyes out for doing so.

Today, 7 a.m. is sleeping in! Boy, how our lives have been taken down a completely (and I do mean completely) different road. We are no longer the kids who exchanged vows on our wedding day. Our perspective has grown, and our life experience has gained value one hundred fold. Our lives are rich and full and significantly less self-focused.

It seems fitting, in a "God has a sense of humor" sort of way that our night went so horrendously. It is a reminder of where we have come in just over a decade. We almost didn't make it to year 2, and here we stand at 11. For that, my hat goes off to God-- the great sustainer.

We've known each other now for a majority of our lives. And my favorite part is that this is still just the beginning.

Finding God at garage sales

This weekend my church is hosting a garage sale, and I volunteered to help "price" items. That's maybe not an ideal job for me, because I really don't have the best sense of value. I would never win on The Price is Right. Ever.

My first assignment was to price about a dozen identical leather arm chairs that were lined up in the hallway. With $10-15 in mind, I asked my leader what she thought they should go for. She said that they were high quality chairs that typically sold factory fresh for about $1,000 each.

That sent my value-ometer a little berserk. I know garage sale items should be significantly less than new ones, but where do I make the jump between $10 and $1,000? I thought maybe I could label them at $50 so it would seem like a sacrifice to buy them, but people would still be getting them at a bargain. Then again, if someone came along who didn't know that chairs were actually that awesome, they would stroll past the 95% off deal and continue browsing elsewhere. And my job was to "price to sell." What a dilemma (insert "first world problems" jab here).

I was finally instructed to mark the chairs at $20, so I got to work writing up stickers. Now I don't know if it's because I'm a woman or because I was born an "Ivey" woman, but knowing the gap between what they were worth versus what they were priced sparked an urgency to get one into my possession. I have no need for a chair. I have no space for a chair.

That was yesterday.

This morning, I was awake early and settling in for my quiet time with God. And yes, I was still thinking about the stupid chairs. I reflected on how I had wanted to mark them for at least $50 but couldn't, knowing that garage-salers wouldn't recognize their worth. And this thought came to me:

"When you understand the value, you're willing to pay the price."

Bing! The connection is that God assigns and therefore grasps our value. He paid the same price for you as He did for Mother Theresa and for Adolph Hitler.

Hebrews 12:2 reads, "For the joy set before Him He endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God."

That "joy set before Him" was the relationship He now gets to have with you and with me. Even just the opportunity-- the hope and chance that we would choose Him back, and He could be close to us. We are His joy. His reason for living and dying. He has always seen value in us. I wanted to encourage you to live in the truth that you were eternally paid for at the highest price. And with Him, there's no buyer's remorse.

Put in my place

Today, I have a hotel room to myself for the entire business day. That may sound boring to some of you (especially if you're an extrovert), but to this introverted mother of 3, it spells glorious reprieve.

This prolonged period of silence lends itself well for me to connect deeply with the Father. It somehow allows my heart to unfold and expose itself with freedom and vulnerability more so than when I'm rushing to squeeze my quiet time in between kids' naps and chopping tomatoes for supper.

There's a particular trial I've been enduring for a little while now that I've just had trouble putting to rest. Every day I seek His power to gain victory over this. I have even pursued counsel on the matter, but it seems like I gain minimal ground before sliding back into this rut. I have no doubt that I will ultimately overcome it; it's just taking longer than I'd like.

Because of my extended time this morning, I felt the courage to address the Lord with my "beef" about Him not coming through and just rescuing me. So I said,

"God, I know You want me to listen to You and fight for You, but sometimes that feels like a one-way road."

I slowed down and stopped at "but" (yes, I pray out loud). I did finish the sentence, but mostly based on principle. I wanted to get the words out-- to dig up and release the feelings I had been sweeping under the rug of avoidance.

However, it was simultaneously humorous to hear how ridiculous the sentence actually sounded, escaping my lips. By the end, I was shaking my head and had a giant smile on my face. I sensed no condemnation, but a humble reminder of my smallness.

How short-sighted I can be, to think that I could possibly be carrying the heavier work load in this relationship.

It was just an interesting moment I thought I would share.

Feeling so small, yet so adored

Disclaimer: The blog post you are about to read is a little heavy on nature and other such Jesus-loving, hippie themes.

We are on our way out to Salem, Oregon for a business trip. Last night, after 2 full days of driving, we were about 3 hours from our final destination. We tossed back and forth the idea of pressing through and arriving at midnight or stopping short and “roughing it” in the kind of motel that's spelled with flashing lights and has bullet-proof glass shielding the check-in counter.

Rodney, being the tough, manly leader that he is made the executive decision to stop-- because he didn't want to miss out on the beautiful scenery by passing it all under the cover of darkness. I love that guy :)

I do have to just interject quickly and say that he was right. I'm typing while we're driving, and this is quite possibly the most beautiful view we've had over the past 1,800 miles. There's a tremendous, white-capped river to our right and mountains engulfing everything around us-- like a bowl. Double-stacked trains chugging out of Portland are slithering by between us and the river basin. The sky is clear, and the sun is bright.

Today was simply birthed as amazing.

That first morning out West is always great because that the 2-hour time difference hasn't set in yet. So I “slept in” until 7:00 my time, but was awake with the morning's first blush here at 5 am. I eagerly threw on my running gear and quietly slipped out the door.

Our hotel was nestled beside a smaller river, which made for nice company while running. I found myself surprised at my own surprise, however, when I lifted my head and noticed that I was surrounded with mountains. I knew they were there, of course, but the darkness from the night's drive and habitual Wisconsin programming in my mind's eye rendered me forgetful and caught me completely unaware of the silent towering giants.

I rounded a curve in time to see the sun just cresting the tip of one of these majestic beauties. Without hesitation, I turned around and jogged straight back to my hotel room to find my camera.

During this trek, I discovered an awesome little spot to sit and connect with my Jesus. So I ran to snap the picture that you see at the top of this blog, ditched the rest of my run, and showered so I could meet up with my Love. It felt a little like primping for a morning date :)

I snatched my bag of reading and writing supplies and started my little journey to the meeting place. Unfortunately, by then there was a man working to repair a gazebo very near my spot. Who cares about a gazebo at 6 in the morning? Seriously.

Anyway, I detoured around him, hoping to spot a park bench bathed in sunlight to escape the chilly air. No such luck. But I didn't care; my heart was full. So I sat down on a cold, metal seat and allowed time to take in the river against it's tall, rocky backdrop.

I cracked open my Bible (well, Rodney's Bible, but that's a long story) and discovered broken bits of sweet sunshine dancing through the shade trees onto my pages. It felt like a divine, loving, playful "elbowing" gesture, which swept a smile over my face.

My bookmark directed me to 1 Corinthians 12 which is about believers being part of a body-- one working entity, not unlike the river before me. The passage goes on to explain how He gives us each something different to contribute to that body. I thanked Him for the ways that He uses me, despite my constant weakness and occasional rebellion. I reveled in His patience and His heart for me. Me!

By the time I was done reading, the bench I was seated on was still blanketed in shadows, but a familiar, comforting heat rested on my shoulders. I imagined my Father spreading the branches above me just so-- affectionately knowing the depth of my heart and how it connects with the warmth of the sun.

For a long time I gazed at the river and mountains ahead of me. I thought about how the calloused, rugged hands that molded those unfathomable stone fixtures were the same scarred ones that tenderly crafted my heart and lungs, skin and eyes-- all in a mother's womb.

I am ashamed to think of how I limit Him. That I respect Him in the grandeur, but lose Him in the little things. When I can't sleep or when I'm not immediately rescued from a trial or temptation, I forget that He is everlasting-- the Beginning and the End. He is radiant. He is just.

I felt that I could die and be no closer to Him than I was right then. This world really isn't my home. Someday, this morning's moments won't be an excerpt or a memory, but my living, breathing, waking, eternal life. For He makes everything glorious!

The Beautiful Mundane

I have a photographer coming over this afternoon to shoot a "story telling" session in my home. This means that she will be capturing our lives exactly as they are. No posing, no make-up, no matching outfits.

I cringe a little, because my house isn't exactly pristine: stacks of papers are awaiting their home in the filing cabinet, dishes are dirty, and my son needs a haircut. But, well, that's kind of a highlight for this type of thing. This is my life as a mom. Gritty. Messy. Real.

All morning, I've been resisting the urge to "fix" the surface things in my world so that we can look better. But one of the core pillars of my heart is "authenticity." So I can embrace this. Deep breaths. Messy is okay. Imperfection is o--kay.

Actually, the more I think about that, the more excited I feel. I've been looking around my home and falling in love with the ordinary things about my life. There are literally a dozen toothbrushes in my bathroom (if you don't know, we own our home with another family). My daughter has about nine art projects lying on our counter (so they can dry. . . 3 days ago). Naked baby dolls are scattered everywhere. My fridge has a billion kiddish magnets stuck to it.

Today, the usual annoyances are being brought into a new light of appreciation for the speeding moments I'm living in. I can't cook without someone hanging on my leg. I can't go to the bathroom without an audience (or tears behind the closed door). If I want to shower alone, I need to be awake before 6 a.m.

I had a baby just yesterday, and she's turning 7 in August. The cliche is true: "The days are long, but the time is short." That baby brought some looooong days.

Twenty years will go by in the blink of an eye, and this time of toddler, first-grader, and all-boy will be a vague memory. No more catching worms, running in the sprinkler, digging up the yard with toy tractors, riding bikes down the hill, or chubby fistfuls of Play-Doh at my table. Miscellaneous still shots of random moments would be all we had.

But after tonight, I will have a capsule of exactly how things look right now including bed time routines, the faces around our dinner table, and the fights over homework.

This "every day" deal really is a beautiful thing. And it's passing me by like a careless breeze.

Day By Day

I went for a run this morning. The last time I did that, I was in my second trimester, it was after completing a half marathon, and. . . it was nearly 3 years ago. Needless to say, taking the 2-mile loop was biting off a little more than I could chew. Or. . . run?

Anyway, once I was finished and hacked the film from my lungs, I felt great. I was doing the right thing for my body, I could feel that weird mix of pain and awesomeness that only comes from exercising, and it just felt good to be "back in the saddle." But the strangest thing happened.

When I squeezed into my [shrinking] jeans, they were still hard to zip. That can't be right. I worked hard on my run, sweating and burning calories. I ate a healthy breakfast. I drank a glass of water. I should be thinner!!!

Yes, I realize how illogical that argument is. But it doesn't change my feeling that I should see immediate change.

Maybe this is over-thinking things, but I considered how this relates to the Christian life. Sometimes I'll have an awesome time in the presence of God and feel like I can overcome any obstacle. I can be like Jesus. But within hours (or. . . often just minutes) of this motivating time, I am back to yelling at my kids, being short with my husband, and complaining about insignificant things.

I have heard people use the term "exercise" when it comes to using their faith. I'm not sure I had ever thought of it before in the way of using repetition to build one's self up. One of Webster's many definitions for the word exercise is:

"something performed or practiced in order to develop, improve, or display a specific capability or skill."

I think it's just a good reminder that we need to get alone and meet daily with the Lord. We cannot understand & know Him, deepen our faith, or love people better if we aren't breaking away from culture and tapping into His life.

Maybe prayer is awkward for you. Do it anyway. The more you do anything, the more comfortable and efficient you will be. I can't think of anything this doesn't apply to: administering insulin shots, riding a bike, playing an instrument. Geeze, you should see me play the guitar right now. It is awkward, indeed. And in these beginning stages, it is even painful. I do not enjoy the process of learning to play. But I look forward to being able to play.

I dream about the day I can sit down and crank out chords like anyone else. But more than that, I eagerly await the moment when the relationship I'm working toward with Jesus is complete. When I can look Him in the eyes as daughter and Father, closely knit, having been bonded for so many years.

And until then, I want to be so enraptured with Him that it pours into my daily interactions. But that is a process. And I'm working on it. Every day.