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.

The Big 3-0

Whew, just writing that title in reference to myself is like taking a wrecking ball to the sternum. Ack!

Over the course of the past few years, I have been watching each of my friends tip over the edge of 29 into the world of the age-ed (which sounds a little like "ancient" if you say it out loud). They all have wrestled with and conquered the milestone, some with more grace than others.

I'm not particularly "stoked" to be heading in the direction of arthritis, wheel chairs, and incontinence. But on the other hand, I'm excited to be growing up. I was talking to someone the other day who was 23. I considered my life that age, and came to the conclusion that there isn't compensation enough in this dimension to persuade me to return to 23.

It was where I stepped out of the working world and became a mother (If that landmark sounds rosy and idealistic to you, you either haven't crossed it, or you haven't had a baby like my first). We bought the house we're in now and began sharing our lives with the Schillings. We started our first La Crosse small group (at the pilot event, one of my nephews nearly cut another nephew's finger clean off with an axe, prematurely ending the night with a trip to the ER).

A lot has happened since then. I have watched some friends and relative pass away. But I have also met new friends since then (and held onto some of the old "keepers."), I have become an active member of my church, I have started writing a book, and I have gained an immeasurable amount of experience in the world of mothering and wife-ing. I have watched the baby butts I changed in the nursery walk across the stage and take their diploma. In short, I am enjoying the benefits of getting older.

I thought that since most of my closest friends are either just over 30 or fastly approaching to the mark, I would throw out some things that speak loudest to me about this particular age. Enjoy :)

• A wardrobe consisting of more pajama pants than jeans
• We remember when our mom was our age (although this won't be true for me until I'm *gulp* 40).
• Half-way to 60
• My hair is pulled back into a frantic ponytail most of the time.
• There is an expectation of responsibility; people no longer look at our screw-ups and compassionately toss out the old, "Eh, you're still young."
• I am neither an "old, boring mom," nor a "hip, young teenager." The clothes at the stores I usually shop at don't accommodate my birthed-3-children figure. And every other store is for my mom to shop at (no offense, Mom). Additionally, Maurice's no longer carries anything "cute," but only weird clothes that could only possibly look attractive on super models. I find myself asking "why do they only make clothes for 1% of the population?" And then I realize just how old the premise of that very question makes me sound.
• I chase my 2-year-old until the end of the day, when I hardly even have the energy to get off the couch and pee before going to bed.
• Wondering where my flat belly and smooth thighs (that I thought were fat) went to go multiply themselves into misfit clumps of matter stuffed under my skin-- like a pillow that's been washed too many times.
• On that note, we all know what a "pillow that's been washed too many times" looks like because we've changed too many toddler sheets in the morning (side note: Pull-Ups are a gimmick).
• I've had Spaghettio's, Oreos, hot dogs, and every other "kid" food regurgitated onto myself at some point.
• Any dreams of being a doctor, lawyer, or anything else requiring more than a 2-year degree are pretty much off the table.
• A 9:00 bedtime
• I'm finally used to my new last name.
• I was a teenager half a lifetime ago.
• My bedroom isn't decorated with the latest chic fashion or pictures of my buddies, but with thumb-print flowers and hand-print turkeys and stick people saying, "I love you Mom."
• My evenings aren't spent partying and hanging out with friends, but hoping the kids don't get out of bed AGAIN and mustering enough sanity in the quiet to make it another day without anyone calling up the homicide department on my behalf.
• Crows feet
• I have Goodnight Moon memorized.
• I get to keep the name "Mom" for the rest of my life :)
• I have a 30-year track record of a God who has never left my side-- despite many years of my keeping Him at arm's length.

The earth is full of His glory

"I saw the Lord, high and exalted, seated on a throne; and the train of his robe filled the temple. Above him were seraphim, each with six wings: With two wings they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they were flying. And they were calling to one another:

'Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty;

    the whole earth is full of his glory.' "

Isaiah 6:1-3

This is the anthem of heaven. Day and night, this is happening. It's beautiful and humbling, and many song writers have included words from this passage in their music. I was singing one of these songs a few days ago, when I sensed a twinge of discord with the idea of the whole earth being full of "His glory."

I thought about the slums in Chicago, orphans dying in Haiti, North Koreans starving to death, women being raped for for sport in the Congo. And it seemed to me that the earth is full of suffering, pain, and death more than "His glory."

In my quiet time this morning, I was hashing this pill of contempt out with God. Instead of planting His heels and defending Himself, it was as if He gently took my face in His big hands and reminded me of just the sliver of His glory I have experienced in my limited lifetime. Things like;

• how a summer night's wind stirs conversation among trees, caressing the evening air with their voices
• the Rocky Mountains in all their splendor (who says the rocks don't cry out in praise?).
• ocean waves' relentless crashing onto the shore, and how something so violent can be so soothing to us.
• the sun and moon never tire of taking their turn in our sky.
• that He has lovingly programmed momma cats and newborn kittens to know what to do at birth.
• crisp moon shadows of craggy trees etched in fresh snow.

I thought about how this beauty, even in all its perfection, is marred. About how Creation is groaning for liberation from its bondage to decay (Romans 8:20). And it occurred to me that His creation is perpetually waving a wand of glory over the earth. But the selfishness and destruction of the human race dulls its roar of grandeur to a whisper-- a steady stream of praise, abuzz with compliments to His mercy, righteousness, sovereignty, and power.

It's not that the earth isn't full of His glory; it's that we're muting it out.

Glad to be where I am

This morning, I was running around vacuuming, sweeping, filling sippie cups, fetching garbage cans from the yard (thanks to last night's storm)-- normal houseworky stuff. In the midst of it all, this angle caught my eye and paused my busy day.

I had set my mop down to check on the banana bread. This particular time, my 2-year-old didn't run off with my mop (to "wash" the windows or toilet or whatever), so it rested beside the stove. And something about this moment made me feel full. It was something of an epiphany for where I have come.

Over 10 years ago, I married Rodney. I had never even browned hamburger. I had no idea how to cook anything other than Easy Mac and Cream of Broccoli Soup and various brands of microwave dinners.

We had the number of our children picked out (as most couples do), but I didn't really want any. I figured that would change some day, but wow, was I not a fan of kids. Truth be told, I'm still not a fan of OTHER PEOPLE's kids much. There's a smack of truth to the phrase "Kids are like farts; you can tolerate your own, but others' are unbearable."

But slowly, my life has morphed, and the nearly-30-year-old-Laura bears little resemblance to the teenager who stepped into her new life in Wisconsin all those years ago.

I don't wake up, scrape the windows on my car, and head to work every morning. I don't go out to eat, almost ever. I don't stay up late or hang out with big groups of friends. Blasting my music and dancing with the cat are a thing of the past. And my calendar never has more than 5 or 6 "blank" dates on it.

No, my days consist of rising early to spend time with my Jesus to give me strength. I lift babies from their beds, bathe them, wrestle with them, dance with them, comfort their "owies," sing to them, snuggle them, chew on them (just a little), and give tons of kisses. Of course I'd be lying if I didn't include the fact that I also yell at them, ignore them, get frustrated with them, and do a lot of apologizing.

With the exception of that beautiful, precious hour in the afternoon called "nap time," my life is not about me anymore. Teenage Laura would not have approved of this plan.

But as I looked around my world this morning, I saw dishes drying, buns rising, clean floors (it's the little things), and happy babies. And it exposed a sense of purpose and belonging and fulfillment.

Today, I loaded up my crib, changing table, and a number of other "baby" things to give away to another mom. My kids are growing up. This chapter of my life will be over sooner than I can possibly fathom. Whether I rush through it or try to hold onto it, I'm grasping at the wind. It will be gone.

I wrote this blog recently about my calling to stay-at-home-momming. I can't imagine ever doing anything else. I have never lived my life this rich, and I don't want to move on. But after today, I won't have a crib in my house-- for the first time in over 6 years. The truth is that I am already moving on. Lord, prepare me for the years to come. Because right now, I don't really like teenagers much :)

Silence in Storms

I listened to a sermon yesterday titled, "Why Does Our Faith Fail?" It was about Peter walking on the water with Jesus. Honestly, even I wasn't very excited to listen to the message, because I kind of felt like I knew all there was to know about that passage. And having been in church nearly 30 years (and having attended a rigorous Christian school for 7 of those years), I was pretty sure that by now, I knew not to "take my eyes off Jesus in the midst of life's storms."

*Yawn*

But I guess I'm not as awesomely smart as I thought I was. Because a few new concepts popped up on my radar. I'll save the best for last :)

The first is something that wasn't necessarily "new" for me, but the way it was presented in the Bible was a twist on my perspective. It's simply that the old adage of "the safest place for you to be is in God's will" is a misnomer. Here are a few examples:

• Prophets like Elijah and John the Baptist resided in deserts, living off of insects and food that birds brought to them.
• The prophet Ezekiel had to lay on the ground on his left side for over a year (Ezekiel 4:5).
• Jesus was in God's will. We all know how that ended for Him.

Clearly, being in God's will isn't any indication of "prosperity" or easy living.

But Mark 6:45 says, "Jesus made his disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of him." Not that He offered them the option, but that He "made" them. He knew that there was a whopper of a storm coming. Yet He sent them out AND left them.

The second thing I learned was shocking to me and blew me away. If we read on in Mark 6. . . well, let me just quote it for you-- with minimal interruption. My words are in brackets.

"Later that night, the boat was in the middle of the lake, and he [Jesus] was alone on land. He saw the disciples straining at the oars, because the wind was against them [He saw them in the midst of their struggle]. Shortly before dawn he went out to them, walking on the lake. He was about to pass by them, but when they saw him walking on the lake, they thought he was a ghost. They cried out, because they all saw him and were terrified."

Wait. . . did you see that? "He was about to pass them by." No way!! Check out a few other translations:

• "He would have passed them by." KJV
• "He meant to pass by them." ESV
• "He intended to go past them." NLT

In each translation, every time, the phrase is followed with "but. . ." And it's beautiful. The reason Jesus stopped to help, the reason Peter got to walk on water, and the reason the whole storm subsided was because they "cried out." And it wasn't a well-worded plea, premised with eloquent, poetic praise. They were scared out of their minds, crying out in fear.

I kind of wish the Bible included what they had said. But the incident was recorded in three books of the Bible, each of which was written either by the hand of a disciple who was there, or by a man who had interviewed a disciple. And I bet they weren't talking :)

Regardless, the fact remains that the sound of His children's cry stopped Him in His tracks and altered His path. I think it's easy to buy into the idea that God has some concrete slab carved out with our exact moves and His exact response. That there's no spontaneity in the Deity. And that concept puts a pretty heavy damper on a person's prayer life. What is the point?

But this passage (along with some Old Testament examples) portrays a God who is sometimes willing to set aside His omniscience, and treat us as if He is on our level. He is powerful enough (and in His own right) to vaporize me, yet He is willing to sit with me on my bed and chat. That is the God I'm excited to know more.

It's Your Call

As Christians, we often get wrapped up in what God may call us to do some day. And our projected dreams are grandiose; we will minister to an indigenous African tribe or start a Panamanian orphanage or rescue all the greyhounds of the world-- in the name of Jesus.

Not many aspiring college students have ambitious goals of applying for a degree in factory work or janitorial services or cashiering or dish washing or farm hand-ing. And yet this is where many of us land, holding to a status of "less than." We believe that, "If only [fill in the blank] then I could be happy and do the Lord's work."

The truth is that whether you're 6 or 106, wherever you are, you are called. You are called to be free (Galatians 5:13), to love (Matthew 22:35-39), and to exude fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22-24). You may argue that these are just general callings to all believers. That you can fulfill these no matter your vocation.

That is my point.

You are called to be where you are. I often listen to a pastor named Steven Furtick. Several weeks ago, he preached a sermon titled "Can't Call It," which has stirred up a fresh outlook for me.

I am a stay-at-home mom, so I spend every day with my kids. On good days, I realize that this is blessing. But most of the time, I'm just trying to make it through the burden of another day. If I can just press on until the next time they're in bed, I'll be able to breathe easy. If they can play by themselves, I can get things done. If I can sit and type up a blog post without pink, little feet on my keyboard or being summoned for more juice, potty help or various sibling injustices, THEN I can be a great writer.

But what if I started viewing their interruptions as invitations instead of irritations?

I have been challenged to start calling my calling what it is. The Bible tells me that my kids are a blessing, and they are! What if I started calling them that? It's possible that by calling them a blessing, I may begin to believe that they are a blessing. And if I treat them like a blessing, they may start acting like a blessing.

Maybe for you, you need to quit griping about your dead-end job and rename it your "temporary assignment" or your "training ground." If you refer to your marriage as "the old ball and chain," it's going to feel like the old ball and chain. If you complain that the demands of life are stressful instead of thanking God that you're able-bodied and busy and not stuck in a hospital bed somewhere, then you're going to feel stressed.

"When you call it like God sees it, God will change it to make it what He knows it truly has the potential to be." -Steven Furtick