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the prayer of the every day
It’s not just a phrase or something to say. I say these literal words nearly every morning and almost every evening, lying in my bed before my feet hit the cold painted wooden floor and after I’ve reached up and turned out the lamp. “God, please rescue me from me.” That’s what I say. And this is what I mean: Rescue me from the knee jerk foolish decisions I make. Rescue me from the long pondered lists of pros and cons decisions I make. Rescue me from every time I’m convinced I know best and every time I’m certain I’ve made regrettable choices. Rescue me from me. There’s always…
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parenting.
Maybe it’s been my attempts at doing nightly Advent readings during the month of December. Or the conversations that sneak up on me with my teenagers at bedtime. The way one of my kids looked at me with genuine surprise when I said I enjoyed the singing of all the songs at church each week – the part of the service which he happens to like least. The conversations about what makes us do what we do with my ten year old. The continual lessons in opportunities to serve someone other than yourself that parenting is always presenting. Whatever it is, I have been feeling the weight of the…
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The God Who Sees
El Roi. It means The God Who Sees. A few years ago the kids and I read a book about the different names of God. I’ve particularly remembered this name. There are moments I feel seen. Moments I can sense the “being known”. Through conversation divinely orchestrated. In a situation so obviously brought about by a grand master plan. In a secret tiny care being met even though I never spoke it aloud. At those times it’s as if God is speaking in an audible voice and saying, “There you are. I see you.” And then there are moments I feel unseen. Moments I force myself to repeat the…
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switching words; seeing light
Sinking ship. Wheels falling off the cart. These are the words I have used to describe my life. My heart. My story. Sometimes they are the words I feel are true. Sometimes they are the words I assume other people feel are true when they look at me. They’re definitely the words I have felt have been chosen for me. I am beginning to see how they are also the words that I have chosen to sit under. The words I have circled in red. Underlined. Used a highlighter to accentuate. The words I might as well have tattooed on my body. (Don’t worry Dad – it’s just a…
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it’s not a new year’s resolution kind of fix.
I don’t really feel like writing. I didn’t really feel like celebrating this Christmas or this New Year’s. There’s an awful lot I don’t really feel like doing. It’s kind of stacking up around me just as I am inundated with new calendars and fresh resolutions and shared quotes about potential and a clean slate. My toilet is overflowing with – well, toilet water – and that’s no metaphor although it absolutely could be. My sink is overflowing with dirty dishes because the dishwasher is broken and that’s alright of course as people have washed dishes for – like, centuries – without the aid of a square water machine. But…
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make my heart believe
Singing with hundreds of others lined up in red-seated rows on an early Sunday morning. A song I’ve certainly heard before but I’ve never listened like this. In all my sorrows Jesus is better. Make my heart believe. And I felt like it was the gospel for me in three lines of music. In all my victories Jesus is better. Make my heart believe. There’s the knowledge – the truth. Jesus is better. And then there’s the rub. The struggle. Make my heart believe. I can know something but I need reminding. I can believe a truth even while I’m questioning it. I don’t know how this is possible. I…
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Bedtime Questions
The blanket was pulled up over both of our heads. My seven year old and I stared at one another in the nearly dark in the makeshift privacy of her battered hand-me-down quilt. “Does Satan make you do the bad things Mommy?” This child. Where does her miniature mind travel? “Does he make you bad?” Bedtime theology. The little questions that are the big questions. I let my forehead bump against hers. “Oh Willow. We choose bad. God lets us choose. You know how you can love Jesus but still tell a lie?” “Yes,” she nods her golden head. “It’s like that. God says you can pick – you can…
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it’s inescapable really.
Sigh. Yes. I am beginning a post with a sigh. A written sigh. A written sigh that implies a verbal sigh. The deep-chest-breath-in-hold-the-air-as-long-as-you-possibly-can-until-you-breathe-the-sigh-out-between-pursed-lips kind of sigh. And you know what? I’m not entirely sure why. It’s just the kind of day I had. Or chose to have. Or narrowly escaped from having. Here’s the thing. Yesterday, I lost. I lost the battle most of the day. I let everything around me dictate my attitude. I let the heat in our home make me irritable. (And I mean irritable.) I let the list of trying-to-understand-and-adequately-prepare-for-the-onslaught-of-paperwork-that-is-homeschooling-a-daughter-through-her-senior-year weigh me down and push me into the dirt. I let the children tugging on…
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down for the count
Thursday Piper Finn got sick. In her bunk bed. In the middle of the night. Which is never good. Hair. Bedsheets. Eagle. All altered. The sound of bath water running at two a.m. has never been a welcomed sound. Friday morning Riley had all four of her wisdom teeth removed. She came home looking swollen and feeling dazed and in pain. Friday afternoon I started sharing Piper’s illness. It was a long weekend. (Understatement intended.) Kevin was stellar. I was unendingly grateful for his care and provision the past several days. This ship would have undoubtedly sunk without the careful navigating of Kevin as captain this weekend. I also realized…
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reminded. again.
Some days I feel as if I am just about two steps away from some sort of mental breakdown. (Oh, and some days I kind of exaggerate.) I’m not exactly sure which is more true today though – the breakdown or the exaggeration. Our green car, a gem of a vehicle made in the memorable year 1993 and featuring both a dented side door and bullet hole stickers placed on said damaged door by my husband, is currently in the shop. And has been for over a week now. Which makes us a one car family with three drivers needing to be at distinctly separate locations at least three days…
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is it not this?
What causes quarrels and what causes fights among you? Is it not this, that your passions are at war within you? (James 4:1) Dude! (I need a new phrase. How outdated and non-adult-female is that one? Any suggestions? What are all the cool thirty-somethings saying these days as way of an exclamation?) Well. Until I (and by that, I mean you) come up with something better . . . Dude! This verse in James is sort of wrecking some comfortable places in my life right now. At church Peter has been preaching through James and that book is so full of conviction and revelation right now for me. I don’t…
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once upon a Sunday morning
The Sunday mornings of our present look nothing like the Sunday mornings of our past. It’s just a church. I know that. Broken people. Imperfect leaders. You know all the phrases. So do I. But every time I am there I cry. I connect. I get a glimpse of what I think church can look like. And she is beautiful. My past experiences with other churches have not been great. Little within the walls of those buildings to motivate me to haul multiple children out of a lazy morning. More dead than alive. And me too. But this place is not the same. And neither am I. Example One of…
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another still, small voice.
Does anyone else ever do this? Does anyone else ever battle that still, small voice? No, I don’t mean the still small voice of God. Not that one. (That voice is for embracing, not for battling.) I mean the other voice. The exact opposite, actually. That one that sounds more like, I don’t know, more like myself I guess. Just a really rotten myself. It’s the voice that speaks to you at all the worst moments. At the last minute a friend changes plans the two of you had made. Her reason is completely logical. Her kids are sick or her car is making a weird noise or an unexpected…
