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.