All around us is a raging tempest; a current of unrest; a climate of disrepair; a culture of selfishness and idolatry.
Yet, in all of us, is a shining thread of Your glory, Lord! Evidence of Your love abounds. Woven into the very fiber of our flesh is awareness of You, my Lord.
So, as we drift with the culture and drown in the current that sweeps us away, we reach up out of the coursing water to take Your Hand.
You are our Rescuer, our Hope, our Delight. In the shroud of darkness that so easily blinds us, there is Your Presence calling us up out of ourselves.
Our griefs, our fears, our doubts cannot overwhelm as we step up onto Your solid rock.
You awaken me in the night to Your marvelous Light. A song flows over me. My eyes behold Your wonders. I rejoice and sing with a host of angels, walking in holy awe.
My mouth is quieted. Questions flee. Heart rests.
Yes, the world around us is heavy. Concerns want to take over. If we let them, they will knock us down. Yet, in the storm, there is the truth that all is well. We are steadied and secure.
The One who created the heavens and the earth holds it all in His Hands. We wait, with bated breath, for the outcome of an unfinished story. We anticipate the great wedding feast that one day will be celebrated! We fill our lamps with oil, we overflow with this truth for all who will receive it. We wait.
Your song swirls around us now. We take up the dance. We fix our eyes on You, the One who conducts the music; the One who speaks to the waves. The One who stills the storms of our lives.
"You rejoice over me with singing..." Zephaniah 3:17
“But he who listens to Me shall live securely and will be at ease from the dread of evil.” Proverbs 1:27-28
When I was little, I was obsessed with horses. I played ‘horses’ with any friend or brother who would get on board. We made reins out of rope or ribbon or belts, or whatever we could find. When I was fortunate enough to own the coveted Breyer horses, I would create elaborate stables and fields and corrals from grass clippings and branches or Lincoln logs or blocks. This play consumed many days of my young life.
In my imagination I was always a beautiful wild stallion running free and untethered. My long tail and mane drifted back in the wind as I glided over hills and valleys.
I still see myself this way. I have likened myself to this unrestrained freedom most of my life.
The reality, though, is that I am more often a headstrong mule. Standing with feet planted, heels dug in, tugging at my bit, I refuse to take a step in any direction not of my liking or choosing. My agenda is THE agenda.
My Heavenly Father has graciously covered me with such a blanket of grace in all the years of stubbornness. He tenderly chides the missteps and guides me in blindness. I have never felt unloved or rejected by His Eye on me. I actually feel blessed and victorious when I actually learn those difficult truths.
I honestly wonder how I got to be so like Jonah sitting in the belly of a whale, whining and complaining when, surely, if I had listened in the beginning and done what I was told I would have suffered far less. hehehe…
Recently, I injured my neck/shoulder, likely doing the heavy gardening I like to do. I have this daily reminder of pain as soon as I squat down to pull a weed or pick up a shovel or hoe. The problem has been that it is not bad enough to stop me, so I press forward, working long hours doing just what I love.
Really, Betsy?
You would think…a tiny twinge would tell someone to slow down or STOP! Nope. Not me. Not stopping. Not giving up. Must finish job.
So…a tiny voice that has been trying to capture my attention for awhile, speaks. The rein is pulled in. The bit in my mouth quiets me. I stand still.
Okay Lord. What do You want?
“I have something for you to do. It will require you to stay out of the garden. It asks you to be still. It wants you to set aside your plans and listen to Mine.”
Of course, being who I am, I question God, “Why? What is it You want me to do?” ( in my mind, “what is this important and illustrious job You have for me?”)
Silence.
He doesn’t say. But He does say,
“Trust Me, Elizabeth.”
Oh boy…here we go…opening up this layer that refuses to be dealt with. Distrust. Fear. Worry….
Okay Lord, my neck pain has proceeded to a headache. I will sit here with my icepack on and listen.
Open my ears and eyes, sweet Spirit of the Living God, that I may Honor and glorify You and only YOU.
So wild stallion or mule?
Unfettered flesh and bone, but channeled in the right direction. Bridled tongue, free to shout across the hills!
help me, O Lord, to remember who I am whose I am. Your daughter. Your ambassador. Your priest. Your blessed one. Your favorite. i wait, still, feet in the dirt hands in the grass desiring only You.
"For the Lord will be your confidence and will keep your foot from being caught." -Proverbs 3:26
Writing was brought up this morning in my Sunday School class.
Right before our class started, we were chatting. A woman read a beautiful excerpt from the writing of C. S. Lewis that was profound. She mentioned that she wished she could write like that and loved to write poetry. She shared that at one time, she had presented a piece to an English professor for critique. She desired the feedback, but then felt deflated when the comments were less than complimentary; or at least, not the raving review that she was expecting. She thought the writing was good. It was a disappointment.
Let it be said, I ‘paraphrase’ the feeling that I ‘saw’ cross her face as she shared this bit of personal experience. I don’t really KNOW how she felt in that moment; and perhaps I am simply projecting my own feelings on her, but…
Immediately, I felt her heart, and went back in time to similar experiences that I had had with regards to my own writing. I wondered if these put me off so much that I did not pursue this art. I wondered if her experience stopped her, too, from pressing forward.
The thoughts meandered on.
Do we miss a directive that is God-given? Do we shy away out of fear of rejection? Do we stop the forward momentum because we are hidden away in shame in our failings? Do we outright refuse an assignment for worry of disappointment?
I must have loved to express myself in words and storytelling from a young age because I cannot remember a time that I didn’t write or talk.
I started kindergarten at age four. I was kind of small for my age but that did not stop me from thinking I was amazing. I could read when I started and I could spin tales. I vividly remember my kindergarten teacher calling me out on a sharing. It must have marked me because I can’t seem to shake that memory.
I was up in front of my fellow kindergarteners telling about something fantastic that surely must have gotten more and more far-fetched the longer I went on and on. I was driven by the enthralled looks on the kids’ faces and could not stop. Finally, as I recall it now, the teacher stopped me saying, “Now Elizabeth, that isn’t really true is it?”
I was mortified. My audience’s faces fell and I slunk to my place on the floor for the next sharing to take over. That ended my public speaking confidence…at least for kindergarten, that day.
Surely, in her defense, Mrs. Poland was trying to train good little students who followed the rules. She may not have known what to do with a precocious curly-headed girl who was older than her years and full up with the stories her daddy used to tell.
I was pretty sensitive to my mama’s criticism of anything I did. She held her daughter to a pretty high standard and it did not matter that I was eight years old. I presented a poem I had written about ‘boys’. I had two annoying little brothers and was likely venting or mad at one of the neighbors because… it wasn’t a nice poem. (Reading it recently, I have to laugh. It was pretty bad.)
I liked to write stories and poems, and mostly they were an avenue of expression and creativity for the well of words inside of me. Her words and her facial response seemed disapproving and negative. I took the poem and ran away, devastated at her critique. I think I abandoned the desire to be a writer in those bitter moments.
A teacher in English 101, in college, encouraged free journal writing and pulled out the creative desire within me. He then assigned us a piece of writing which I took on with gusto, whipping it out in a few hours and turning it in in its raw form. That teacher added his critique, which was fair and well stated, but I could not receive it. It rankled me deep inside. I did NOT like to be corrected. AND! It was written in RED!!! How could he not like it?! Instead of trying to improve the work, or asking for help, or pursuing this thing that I loved, I treated it with disdain and as an unnecessary requirement for my degree. I ‘mediocred’ my way through the class and again, ignored a call that was prodding at me.
Were these early stumbling blocks perhaps part of my journey to excellence? Were they tailored for humility and trust, BEFORE, I could go higher?
Back to Sunday School… Our class this morning, highlighted an interaction between John Mark and Paul. Paul had sent Mark, who had been working closely with him, packing, refusing to take him along on their next missionary journey. Paul said, in a nutshell, that Mark had failed to do his part on their last endeavor and he did not want to deal with it again. Now, we don’t know all the details of how this went down but my imagination starts to pursue it in relation to my own struggles.
Did John Mark get called out for his laziness? Was his writing just okay? Did he use the wrong punctuation or sentence structure in his preaching? Did he oversleep and fail to show up to for a class or a church meeting? Did he not take the work seriously? Did he hightail it home to mama in shame and defeat? Did he stubbornly stick his lower lip out and refuse to participate in the work of the Kingdom because of Paul’s ‘harsh’ decision? (Acts 13:13)
Further along in the story, in Colosians 4:10, Paul and John Mark were reunited. He wrote the Book of Mark. He wasn’t utterly destroyed by insecurity! He went on to serve the Kingdom!
My memories, and the one my friend shared, sparked that internal lamp to probe my own motives and journey in this world of communicating with pen and paper.
God has repeatedly prompted the writing that flows so easily, or as my dad used to quote Shakespeare, from Hamlet, “Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounce it to you, trippingly on the tongue.”
I back away for fear of criticism, for fear of rejection, for fear of failure, for fear.
BAM!
Fear. That is the wicked root that slays me in my steps, mid-sentence. I will not go forward because I am assailed on every side with the enemies’ barbs.
The criticism, the praise, the persecution…What are these in light of God’s power and majesty? They are mere whispers in the wind.
How have I missed this? This is TRUTH!
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.”
2 Timothy 1:7
God is encouraging each of us to walk out the gifting, the pure desires, the glorious life that dwells in us.
Will we look up and step out? Will we take the hand so freely offered us, and go?
Press forward dear friends, into ALL that God is doing!
We have all heard that phrase, “Keeping it real here” uttered or declared in the everyday messiness of living. Often it is attached to a photo of something that doesn’t represent our own expectations of what is lovely or organized or even perfect.
When I hear this spoken, I feel a great sense of relief on many levels. The freedom to be who I am, the reminder that I don’t have to hide my imperfections, the recognition that I am not alone in the struggle to ‘appear’ okay; all of these, the reality of the day to day.
I have a beautiful family. I have really beautiful children.They all have beautiful spouses. I have adorable grandchildren. I have a handsome husband. I brush my hair occasionally and wash my face on the regular. I am healthy and fit. All of my family are well. I look so good on the surface.
This ‘looking good’ is wonderful and blessed and that is all the gifting of God, but the truth is, there is more than meets the eye.
My babies brought pain at their birth, tears at their growth and aches at their independence. Their babies brought lines of worry, hair of gray, stretching of already stretchy patience, learning to keep arms open and tongue stilled.
The years were made up of spilled drinks, broken heirlooms, torn books, stained clothing, lost glasses, shattered windows, unhappy family photographs, pouty lips and sassy backtalk, stubborn refusals and impatient demands. And then there were wrecked cars, broken bones, lost friends, long silences, separation, and sorrow.
Life.
But in the weaving of such dark colored fibers, and snarled knots of frustration was woven such a richness and depth of colorful contrasts and breadth that I am brought to tears, even in the musings over it. How could I ever appreciate the work of the Weaver without having watched as each moment was added to the masterpieces of our lives?
So yes…being real here, there is more than the well ordered photo of the moment. It is but a glimpse in time of our lives. A beautiful glimpse. A colorful and refreshing glimpse.
And surely that is as it should be! We humans desire to keep our chins up in difficulty and to persevere in the valleys of our lives. Some would even force themselves to wear a smile in spite of tragedy and calamity consuming them… ( honestly… I am not that brave to wear that smile.)
We are made of some powerful stuff. We are, after all, created in the image of God! He gave us that ability to rise above, overcome, defend and pursue. So, like many of my friends and family, I live. When things are amazing and breathtaking, I talk about it, show it off, go on and on…(i.e. grand babies…ahem)
When the yarn is dull and gray and has giant knots…well… I just let those moments float on by without mention; unless I am whining about them, then they come out in the ‘getting real’ sagas.
I will contest the hiding of the ugly though! They make us who we are, they are battle scars and stories of triumph. They are the things learned and grown from. They are the special richness contained in us that declare who God is and the Grace that surrounds our lives! These are the not-perfect moments that speak greater volumes to the fellow warriors around us.
Those events and thoughts remind us that we are indeed all learning and walking a perilous but adventurous trail that leads us home.
Absolutely take the pictures. I want to see mountaintops and castles! I also don’t mind seeing the moats with the alligators and the holes where you twisted your ankle.
My skin is thick, though my heart is on my sleeve. I cry ALOT. Anybody who has any dealing with me knows that my eyes tear up at the very mention of the hard times…I also know exactly what to do with all those, maybe not recorded, aches and pains…I take them right to the throne of my Savior and present them there for Him to take care of. He catches every tear and holds them dear.
“And the smoke of the incense with the prayers of the saints, rose before God.”
-Revelation 8:4
I believe that every single moment of our lives is such an incredible gift. We may not know what to do with the hard ones and be baffled as to their value, but we are better for them.
So…friends, talk about the beautifuls, share the uglies. You are covered by Grace and carry a precious story meant to be shared.
” Bear one another’s burdens.Thereby fulfill the law of Christ.”
-Galations 6:2
Who knows who will be influenced by your suffering? Who knows what mighty stronghold may topple because you shared how a pit tripped you up?
Our lives on the Loom of heaven bear a marvelous weaving that God is not finished with until we run into His Arms!
Much Love, Perfectly Imperfect Woman, Wife, Mama, Mimi, Sister, Friend
The sting has subsided; the disappointment of loss, the sorting of feelings. It’s been two years since my brother left his earth bonds. That doesn’t mean I have forgotten the pain; the memories; the years. They are there, buried in the recesses of my heart and mind.
It would seem that there wasn’t much to his life. When I retrieved belongings and after I have sorted through all that my mother and father kept of Robert, there wasn’t much left. A small shoe box held the entirety of his existence. A broken football trophy, a Calvin and Hobbes book, the writings of a tortured, young mind from a Rehab program he was once in…all that was salvageable, beside his birth and death certificates.
This alone makes me mad. That my precious little brother that I had the secret language with, whom I competed with, whom I fought and wrestled with, whom I had adventures with, who understood me as his sister…that guy was more than that stupid box of junk!
How do you equate a human with the things they choose to do or collect or save or give away?
They are these amazing receptacles of life and deep spiritual beings who have a relationship with their Creator that goes farther than we can see or understand. We who look on at others, cast furtive glances, make quiet appraisals, categorize, plan and decide how we will deal with one another. ‘Living and let living’ is easier said than done when it is someone we love and care about and think we know. Trusting and honoring is even harder.
No one knows the wounds of mental illness like a family that has endured its ravages. My parents bore a lifelong grief that marked their faces and wearied their walk.
My brother was labeled ‘mentally ill’. He was tagged with ‘paranoid schizophrenia’ when he was thirteen years old.
My other brother, David, and I have often talked about the amazingness of our own families, counted our blessings and then looked at each other, asking the same question, “What happened to Robert?”
We have never found the answer to bring peace to that question. We could blame our parents collectively, or our mother, or our absent military father, or a third grade teacher, or drugs, or alcohol, or bad friends, or some hidden abuse, or something we did, or didn’t do… but at the end of the day…there is no blame. It was, it is, it hurt, it’s done.
My brother was lost most of his life. He was locked up in some hidden prison in his mind. When he would reach out a hand to catch someone else’s it would be rudely slapped away and he would just stop trying. That resulted in years of attempts to draw him back out, usually in one mental hospital or another. I suppose it was easier to be kept away; but easier for who?
The last time I actually lived with him was when he was fifteen. That is too young to be torn from your family. That splintered our home into a thousand pieces.
Rob spent the rest of his life trying to ‘find’ home. To my knowledge, he did not find that until he took his last breath, in a hospital, by himself.
Coming to grips with this was the hardest thing I think I have ever felt. I knew he was dying. I spoke life to him. I told him he could finally ‘go home’, that he could rest and be welcomed with open arms by his Savior Jesus. That his Father God SAW him and LOVED him and was waiting for him.
Before he was unresponsive, he had told me he was just tired. I asked him if he was ready and he agreed he was.The weariness of life and struggling to live and breathe was done for him.
Even now…this recollection brings tears and ‘shoulda, woulda, couldas…’ These thoughts fade and thankfully give way to better ones…
Through the years, the little glimmer of his humor, and our ‘secret language’ would resurface, reminding me of a relationship that was one of my first. He called me ‘Butsoy”, I called him ‘Robort’, with apropriate accents. The memories of spun tales and invented games would bring a quiet chuckle and a sparkle to his dull eyes. Then I knew that Robert was still my little brother…
So today…
I heard my ‘name’…He was calling out ‘Butsoy!’ That made me smile.
Oh Lord!! Thank you for the years with my brother. Thank you that you handpicked Robbie for me… You knew I would need him. I am glad You have him now…
Some days…I find myself chasing my tail. Some days…I get dizzy. Some days…I forget to smile. Some days… the spinning has become a dark habit that I fall into. Some days…like today…I look at myself and realize that my dancing isn’t really dancing at all, but has been demoted to drudgery.
That is when I sigh. That is when a complaint slips between my lips. That is when I can’t hear the music. That is when my feet are heavy and simple tasks push me over.
I have never cared for naps. I have never liked to slow down. I set out on a race to win and no amount of distraction will pull me from the course. I often look upon others and cannot fathom the slow pace of their actions or the lack of ambition in their choices. Again…I realize I am judging and uttering complaints.
This sour drink I drink in these times only serves to drunken me with the weight of despair. It fills me up only to drag me down, as if I were walking into the sea wearing an overcoat.
Exhaustion overtakes me and I refuse to look at my part in this stumbling.
A sweet encouragement, despite its misplaced effort pointing out my age, actually draws me to a stopping point. Not a nap, as I probably would need without that third cup of tea; not a solace, reading a book; no, it’s my keyboard summoning me to pour out the tangled mass of emotion and overly labored thinking and certainly overtired yard-working muscles.
You see, this malady that consumes me, the ‘never being able to slow down and stop’ disease, allows for the writing. It is ‘doing’ something. It is forward motion.
“Unless the Lord builds the house, they labor in vain who build it.” (Psalms 127:1-2) crosses my mind in this moment.
Is this effort to construct guided by God’s Spirit, or is this just more ‘Betsy on a race track’?
Being corralled and bridled and taught and trained involves sweet discipline. It requires a waiting and willing heart. It has asked me to be still and allow God to move and shape and shake me. I am impatient at best. I stop and wait…for ten seconds…and then I am off again.
How beautiful is our Lord that He allows me to run wildly, tossing my head about and choosing my own paths throughout the day.
I know He wants me to write these things and still I wrestle with the words. My impetuous running about and spinning leaves me tired and spent with no sentences, no thoughts, no song to sing.
He holds me to His heart so that the beat gets louder in my ears. The physical aches and pains that would slow a normal person down do not have that effect on me. I simply jump up and try to outrun them. Again He draws me back to His arms, or shows me a little nugget along the trail.
Hahaha! It isn’t until I am stopped dead in my tracks that my spirit and mind engage together. Why must I always wait until I have come to that point to be able to listen to what God is saying, or to see where He is leading?
It is a silly repetitive conundrum. It is more than roller coaster-ish. It is a spinning top that flings itself around and around in all sorts of directions, hitting table legs and feet and flying off to be lost somewhere under a dresser.
He draws us to Himself so that His creative energy can flow through us to touch the world around us. He speaks to us to speak to the broken hearts. He beckons us and shows us a place that needs His love. He allows a song to flow off our tongue to gentle a sad child or to bring a smile to a widow’s face.
Oh Father, thank You for the reminder!
My Jesus! The spinning that has made me dizzy only detracts from the dance that You have given me. Show me how to keep my eyes fixed on You. Show me how to walk with eyes uplifted.
The waves around my feet, the dust that covers my day, the list that is never done..these are a part of the dance and I need to know how to keep gracefully placing my feet for Your glory!
Each piece of glass has a place. I don’t know what the big picture is. I don’t know which piece goes where. I pick up the tiny pieces and begin to fit them like a puzzle, plotting a design, seeing a picture here and there…I begin to think I should plan it all out before I glue them down, shouldn’t I? That way they will fit, and I will have no empty or mismatched places.
The thought occurs to me, wildly, that NO! I should just pick up what I love; the color or the shape or the one that fits just right in that space, then glue it without concern for what comes next! It does not matter that I might search and search for just the right piece or that perhaps I may not even find the proper pieces at all and the final outcome will not be complete.
The ‘what comes next’ part is my hangup. I don’t want to take a chance of messing up. I don’t want to start without knowing the plan will succeed.
This has been the point of this exercise, this project, this outlet…
ohhhh…….
Father God has brought me to this place of SEEING that the seeing is piece by piece. It is not my job to know the whole outcome, the picture, the results. It is only my call to place each piece down on the board with total commitment; no hedging of bets, no back up plan. I must jump in ‘full-tilt boogey’.
“For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now, I know in part, but then I will know fully just as I have been fully known.”
I can’t help it…I love wild, disorganized, beautiful gardens and lives. I really do try to be orderly and linear in design when I lay out my garden. I start off with lovely little rows and beds with labels and stakes and all the things. Somehow, in the course of the growing season, the plants develop a mind of their own and go exactly where they want to go. And I let them. If they decide to invade their neighbor’s plot, well, I consider the risk, appreciate the creativity, and then let them do just as they are doing.
This ‘predisposition’ to disorder allows me a great deal of freedom in the gardening department. The garden paths become meandering trails though groups of friends cohabitating on the land. It also allows for the daily surprise, which I love the best!
Discovering a giant cucumber that has hidden under a tractor part or a gourd high up in a neighboring pine tree are just a couple of delights. I am found laughing and enjoying every little treasure that is unearthed on these daily walks through the jungle of greenery. Of course, quite often, I am also crying over a forgotten strawberry buried amidst crazy zinnias and Thai Basil that has invaded the strawberry patch.
All of this…leads me to my observation.
The traveling Luffa Gourd climbing up and inside the greenhouse lit in me such a sudden appreciation for the wonderful myriad of humans in our Father’s Garden. They come in all shapes and sizes and colors. Some grow in organized and orderly rows while others dance and wander all over creation to their heart’s desires. They decorate their homes with tasteful and modern furnishings or they collect furniture and knick-knacks from a bygone era and find such pleasure in their history and their gathering.
This unique and wondrous variety of the people around me and all over the world just thrills my soul. I am honored to appreciate every little winding turn of the hearts I encounter!
Oh! As we meet one another, along the way, let us listen to the Father’s Heart for these, His loved ones.
We have been created in His image. Where is this unrestrained joy and wandering growth in Father God? Is it, perhaps, in His creativity? Is it in His eyes that see so much more, that see bigger and farther than we can even imagine? Or maybe it is the love that reaches us through the chasm of time, wider, deeper, higher, to encompass every single living thing…that love that transcends our finite understanding.
Indeed, He loves the wild things too. He created them, he calls them to Himself and He delights in their company.
“And you will go free, leaping with joy like calves let out to pasture.”
I had to travel an hour to take my car to its dealer for service. I was a little moany about the early morning drive and having to leave my garden for another cool morning. Realizing I had to get this done, I swallowed my grumpy attitude and pressed on.
During the hour drive, no music filled my car, no conversations with friends…but this sweet interchange with Father God and Holy Spirit occurred as I prayed for the things on my heart. The people I love paraded through my mind as I layed them before the throne of God interceding for the concerns they have in their lives. One person leads to the next, their loved ones follow, our governmental authorities and all their concerns are laid out. The outpouring of Gos’s Presence in my car was a natural walk down to the Potter’s House as I listened and spoke and ‘saw’ and praised and worshipped.
The ‘Potter’ leads me along this winding path down to the place where He does His best work. The forming and shaping of vessels for purposes beyond our imaginations is done there as well as the repair and care of many older pieces of used pottery. He shows me the studio and teaches me how He works. His rhythm and plans for beautiful projects are a mystery but I see how it all flows together and how all the broken pieces seem to be mended flawlessly by His skillful Hands.
He gently guides me in my purposes through each day that I visit with Him. He intercedes with me as I am on my knees. When I put my own plans aside and watch and wait, the lovely things that are produced are a sight to see. I am critical of my abilities and my execution of these things I put my hands to, but He seems to take delight as I work alongside Him. Never is there a critical word or a judgmental eye cast my way. We simply work together quietly, listening to the notes of music that blow through the studio.
I have determined, this last week, to stop my incessant ‘self’ care and let Him take care of me through this season. I am looking intently for what He will show me. I want to stand in awe of WHO He is. I want be able to KNOW His voice as soon as I hear it. I want to obey Him, the minute He gives marching orders. In the mean time, I will walk with Him. I will be still with Him.I will dance with Him. I will wait as He teaches.
This is how I found myself sitting in the lobby of the Toyota Dealer, surrounded by many people also waiting. I opened a precious book given to me by my son. I began to read the verses and felt myself smile at the familiar writing style. Mostly I was dwelling on the fact that my son had selected the book off the shelf without opening the cover to check it out. How beautiful and timely are the words written here. And how perfect in this season I walk through.
I closed my eyes and retreated back to the Potter’s side. Sitting with my head on his knee, covering my loved ones again with prayer, I ‘saw’ a dear friend in her suffering. The tears began to roll down my cheeks. The Father’s love for this person overwhelmed me. Again…my thoughts of God’s restoring power, His care over every detail, His pouring out of protection and direction flooded me.
The tears and the heavy emotion went unnoticed by my ‘wait mates’ and yet I was in this powerful place sitting in their midst. What an incredible gift I was given in these moments, waiting still.
I happened to read this verse in my devotional this morning before I hit the road. Remembering it just put icing on this whole moment of awe.
Thank You God!!
“…a miracle so complete that even the smell of smoke was not on them…”
Daniel 3:27
Think about that in your moments, in your trials, in your miracles. As you ride them out…on the other side, you won’t even smell like smoke.
The wealth I have is not to be taken lightly. I am a rich woman when I hold a small baby in my arms for long stretches of quiet. I am further enriched by the challenge of stretching out my hand to the unlovely. I am full as I am surrounded by grandchildren that are marked with the faces of my children, my parents my cousins…This inheritance is wide and deep.
This morning, as I prepared to leave my son’s house, I am overwhelmed with mixed emotions. I am sad, joyful, aching and anticipating…My almost seven year old grandson comes in with sleepy face to curl up around me with his blanket. The tears come to my eyes out of nowhere as I realize what this parting means. Feeling his thick curls, reminds me of his daddy, whose curls I fingered so many times. This little boy with his gentle, sensitive spirit reaches out to mine and hugs my heart tight. I think on his standing up next to me, constantly checking his height with mine, and realize he could be many inches higher the next I see him… This is the ache of living far from children who grow so quickly…The inches.
Two tiny women, two and four, come to tell me good morning, their hair in every which direction. They remind me they ‘wuv’ me and tell me they don’t want me to go. Their constant requests, perpetual ‘whys’, and endless story telling confirm that…I could literally sit all day and listen to, and translate, their banter…
Grace. Growing so fast!!! She’s nearly an adult, except she’s ten. She likes her sleep-in…I am honored! It’s before 8 am and she’s up to say goodbye, racing in to throw herself into my arms… Oh Grace. Beautiful, clever, creative, fun, articulate, little mother…Who will you be, young lady?
Torn. These sweet, busy babies
Then there’s the other end of the spectrum…
A college girl traveling the land and her brother, a junior high boy immersed in becoming thirteen. Busy, busy, occupied with becoming…I love to get involved in their busy-ness. It’s so much fun! Next I see them, it will be new adventures.
All of the melancholy calls out a new look at my own journey into independence. I grew up with the mantra…”we are grown up to fly away and begin our families. One should be completely independent.” Leaving, and the pain thereof, was expected. I, somehow, in my growing, learned I could only depend upon myself and I was valued and close to perfect if I could do it all by myself without any help at all, and I certainly, would not cry!
…But really…should we continue teaching such a thing? Is it all true?
When I birthed my children, or suffered illness or broken bones, I could not receive the help and support of family or friends. Even when it came, I was of the mind that it was unnecessary because I should do it myself. If a meal was offered I always turned it away…
How silly. Did I not rob that person of the blessing of serving and loving?
Recently, staying with my son after the birth of the fifth child, I have observed a church family bring an endless supply of meals, daily, to this precious family of now, seven. The power in that, even now, moves me to tears… It is an outpouring of love and honor and service. The beauty in this design is an intricate dance of joy. Those that bring are just as blessed as those receiving the gifts.
Such are the Lessons learned on this side of sixty.
Yes, we raise our little ones to become independent beings. They strike out on their own to grow families and careers and lives that honor God, and serve others. That doesn’t mean that they are not dependent on anyone ever. That does not mean they cannot trust another soul to be there for them. They are independent yet dependent all at once.
I have traveled to my children wherever they have been to encourage and support their lives. It has been my honor to be at just about every one of the grandchildren’s births…to be there to cook and clean and hold tiny hands…to stand in awe of their accomplishment, to rejoice in victory, to grieve in sorrows.
They may need it, but I need it more.
This!
This is the point of my meandering thoughts. It is the emotion of having come and now to be going. This calling to parent, to grandparent, to friend…it is a high calling and I want to walk in it!
It comes with highs and lows; great lofty endeavors, (going to fairs with six small children), and with the recognition of my limitations; I am no longer able to carry forty pound toddlers as easily as I once did. My patience gets stretched and tested and I am reminded, once more that, children are a beautiful lesson in endurance and grace.
This is a part of my journey. I look back. I evaluate. I pick apart. I wax poetic.
The greatest thing I can do, with all my writing, is to encourage you to consider your ways, to make those days count, to walk softly and have a large voice. Do not keep silent when you carry your gifts about…Share them with your tribe, share them on the street, shout them from the mountaintops. You have so much to give.
If, in the giving, you are walking with your children, remember that they love you and want what you have to impart.
Touch their heads, give them the blessing, overwhelm them with kindness, speak life to their families…It is powerful beyond comprehension!
