Answered Prayers

It finally happened.  Something I have been praying for for years was answered.  The answer came quietly, not with the fanfare, the earth-shaking I expected.  One day I woke up and this prayer was answered.  I still brushed my teeth.  I still got dressed for the day.  I still went to work.  I didn't feel different, but some really big things had changed. 

In the spirit of full disclosure the day our answered prayer found us was a bit different.  It was last Tuesday night, and we were at the funeral home in Scottsville, KY, there for Ma's visitation.  Tim's grandmother had passed away the weekend before; family and friends gathered together to remember and celebrate a life well lived.   That afternoon Tim had been offered the job as an assistant principal at an elementary school in a town not too far from where we live.  That evening he accepted it.  The juxtaposition of it all does not escape me:  As we were saying goodbye to one life, a new life for us was just beginning.  The sentimental side of me wants to believe that Ma had something to do with God's timing, that she talked Him into a parting gift, letting her sweet grandson know that as she passed through Heaven's open doors God was opening a few on earth as well.

I've been praying for God to do something wonderful for my husband for a long time.   We have both sensed that there was more for him for a while.  That he was made for more than the life he was living, that God had given him gifts, insights, abilities that were not being used.  That he had passion and excellence within him that needed to be given expression.  Tim is a natural born leader.  We've been asking relentlessly for years for God to give him a place to lead.  And now that door has opened.

Have you ever noticed that God's answers to long held prayers feel as if they've been answered all along?  Certainly in putting the question to Him, we wonder if He hears, if we've asked the right way, did we hold our mouth right.  But I've noticed the feeling that comes after the answer arrives is so closely akin to recognition.  It's as if the answer has always existed as such and just our noticing it has changed.  Like walking into a familiar room and saying, "Did someone put that lamp there?"  Then you realize it had been there all along.

A part of me feels that way.  That this is such a natural step for Tim, that he was made for this experience and that it has been waiting for him, with his name on it for a long time.  From the first time I prayed a heartfelt prayer on his behalf, asking, begging, beseeching God to do something wonderful for him, God knew this position was his.  And for all those tenuous moments when discouragement and disappointment threatened to eat away at our hearts, God was preparing him for this moment.  In those painful times, God was power-packing my husband with everything he would need for such a time . . .  as this. 

I love seeing Tim walk into this answered prayer with confidence.  I wonder if he would have been able to if God had answered us immediately, if He had not withheld the disclosure of the plan until now.  Because the truth is that the confidence came with the waiting.  Ironic isn't it?  The waiting is the very thing that made him the man he is today.  One would think that waiting, being told "no" time after time would dry up one's confidence, make one want to give up and give in, to go home and quit dreaming, quit trying.  Instead the very opposite happened.  I know now that without Tim's waiting there would have been no strength of heart, no depth of understanding, no clarifying of purpose, no purifying of passion, no honing of instinct.  It's kind of like cooking.  It is the rendering down, the waiting, that intensifies the flavors. 

When our third son was born, I named him Jeremiah Allen:  Jeremiah, for the verse I had been holding onto for Tim for so long--"For I know the plans I have for you says the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, to give you a future with hope" (Jeremiah 29:11); Allen, after Tim whose middle name is the same.  I wanted Tim to be able to look at our son and know that God had not forgotten him.  That God did indeed have good plans for his life.  The thing that has always amazed me about this Bible passage is that God's good plans for us are born while we are in exile, away from the home our hearts are longing for.  And it is that very separation that gives us everything we need to walk into the hope God has for us. 

I'm so glad, so thankful, that part of our long wait is over.  Thank You sweet Lord, for answers that have been there all along.  And thank You for revealing them.  It helps me hope that my own heart longings will also be answered.  It helps me remember that You have plans for me too.

Transitions

This was the sunset we saw coming home.  It took my breath away.  In the car with three boys, Noah saying, "Mama you need to take a picture!"  And that's what I did.  I believe it was worth turning around for.  How many things in life are like that?

Many, actually.  But rarely do we take the time to see, much less turn around to get a better, clearer, closer look.  The last couple of days have been like that for me.  My family has drawn close to Ma as she gets closer to death.  Tim's Grandmother is such a sweet, funny lady who welcomes everyone like they are family.  And now she will soon be welcomed Home. 

I sat by her bed tonight, watching her breathe, waiting with her for just a while.  The moments seemed to slow, kind of like her breathing, and I thought of the nearness of new life, brimming and brewing as this life prepares to give itself over.  "Oh we are so close!"  I thought.  So close to the Eternal.  Here is this person I love, soft skin blanketing bones, waiting for the moment of eternity to come to her.  Just being near her makes me feel close to that glorious, eternal life too. 

Oh I long for it.  Not my own death, mind you, but life that is touched by the Hand of God.  I long to see God's Glory revealed.  I long to be ushered into the Next Thing.  I feel in my spirit that I am waiting, have been waiting, that the waiting is full, pregnant, ripe, ready to bust open, and yet I could not even begin to tell you what exactly I'm waiting for.  I just know I'll recognize it when I see it.  It's hard to tell if the waiting is devouring me or expanding me.  Faith says it is growing me in ways I cannot imagine.  My weak flesh says it is the foolishness of unsubstantiated hope.  Today I'm going with the faith side of me.  Ma is not the only one in transition. 

I am thankful for those sweet moments with Ma, watching her breathe, touching my lips gently to her cheek, lifting my youngest son to brush his sweet lips against her cool skin too.  It was a Holy time filled with beauty and God's goodness.

So on the way home we saw this amazing sunset.  It was like God showing off for us, whispering gently, "Glory is closer than you think."

Good Morning Easter

Good morning, Easter.  The house is quiet.  Tim is running.  The boys are asleep.  And here I am with you.  I feel a kinship with the ladies of Easter.  They came to greet you in the early morning, not even knowing you waited for them, not even knowing you were their destination.  They came with  heavy hearts, the burden of grief and loss obscuring their sight, robbing them of vision.  I sense I am like that too.  There is so much on my mind.  It makes me grumpy.  Blind.  I long for much.  I live in the tension of what I long for and what is.  And because my mind is elsewhere I miss seeing you, the wonder of God's Hope and Love, right before me.

What I love about you Easter, is that you do not stop to wait for blurry eyes to recognize you.  You arrive in our midst and set to work, righting wrongs, resurrecting dreams, relieving sorrow with joy.  You are new life springing forth, bringing your gifts before we are aware of them, certainly before we are worthy of them.  How so very much like our Savior you are.  Gentle.  Persistent.  Insistent.  Unstoppable.  Unstaunchable.  Very much alive.  Even today you are very much alive.  Often arriving while we are still asleep, to groggy and incoherent to say our own names. 

So I love it when you call us by name.  The Savior's voice drifts across your morning dew.  In that simple act of love we hear our names spoken where we have no reason to expect it.  Hearing that one familiar word, spoken in such familiar intimacy, by our beloved Lord, at the same time familar and unrecognizable, changes everything.  Hearing our name infused with the promise of new life changes us.  Here we are, blindly longing for something that we don't even need, to complete the rituals of death.  And then you, Easter, step in and change everything, beyond all our imagining. 

I'm so glad it is Easter.  I need Easter in my life.  I need to hear my name spoken in hope, the sound waves penetrating the veil of my tears and unbelief.  I need to be called to newness I have not even imagined.  I need you.  So I welcome you this quiet morning as the rest of the world wakens. 

My sweet husband is back from his run.  Soon sleepy boys will emerge, ready for poptarts and cartoons.  It is time for my own morning run.  To begin setting out Sunday clothes.  To start our journey toward worship so that we may greet you formally.  But I am so grateful for this quiet moment to say good morning and . . . thank you.

New Life

I love Spring.  I love how it brings with it the promise of new life.  Just a few weeks ago these beautiful buttercups announced Spring's arrival in our own front yard.  In our most barren corner.  I love that.  And I love how their hardy tenacity survives from year to year, weathering storms, winter, and little boys who like to dig.  Every time I see them bloom I am reminded of God's unrelenting grace, God's determination to bring beauty to the barren landscapes of our lives.

These blossoms particularly hold a special place in my heart.  They were planted several years ago by our neighbor Mr. Lonny.  It's been a little over two years since he passed away, unexpectedly, long before anyone was ready for him to.  By simply coming forth each year, our yellow flowers remind me death never has the last word.  Life continues, showing up when we least expect it.

I've struggled in the past week to remember that new life is always breaking open our normalcy.  Sometimes I get discouraged.  I forget that seasons are just as much a part of our personal existence as they are of nature.  When my heart is in the thick of winter, dormancy, and quiet slumber, it seems the world will continue in just that state forever.  In such a season, waiting is less about watching for the new thing and more like the eternity of being suspended mid-air, never knowing when gravity will actually start working again.  Actually this moment will seem like a split-second from the perspective of eternity.  But living in it feels endless. 

And so I have pondered the beauty of buttercups, even while my heart struggles with a season of undetermined boundaries.  I don't know how long I will have to wait for the new thing.  But my yellow companions remind me that new things are still HIS thing. 

These ponderings have been especially poignant the last couple of weeks.  Just a little over a week ago I "celebrated" the year anniversary of discovering the Bishop was ending my appointment at the Wesley Foundation.  I've spent the past year learning to let go, grieving the loss of a ministry family I loved dearly, and allowing my dreams to be reimagined.  Through it all God's mercy and grace have sustained me.  My spirit has found rest.  I have relished the time spent with my family.  God has been a Good Shepherd to me.  He has restored my soul, in ways that are beautiful.

On the anniversary of the announcement of my move, I was the co-leader of our church's ladies retreat.  The theme selected by our women's ministry team was "Time Out for Restoration."  It was wonderful to spend those two days engaged in the kind of ministry I love.  For those two days I felt like John Wesley when he said, "I set myself on fire, and people come to watch me burn."  It was an amazing weekend.  Honestly, it was not an opportunity I sought out.  It came seeking me.  Only God could have arranged it the way it all played out.  It was an amazing experience. 

In some ways its wonder scares me senseless.  There's nothing else on the horizon.  I left that weekend with words echoing along the walls of my heart, "Oh God, I've still got so much ministry left in me!"  A plea.  A prayer.  A heartfelt cry.  Oh Jesus, please don't let this be it.  

Yet I remember buttercups, the promise of new life springing forth when we least expect it.  The truth is that the Bishop ushered me into God's promise.  Since I was released from my appointment at the Wesley Foundation, I not only have a new life, I experience new life.  Let me explain.  On my fridgerator hangs a wooden cross.  On one side is written:  "I die to control fear worry uncertainty anxiety".  On the other are these words:  "So that I may live to hope peace joy love".   I wrote those words during a devotional I led for a Board of Directors meeting at the Wesley Foundation just a couple of months before I learned I was leaving.  Even though I was in a place of "security" (i.e. I had a full time job, benefits, etc.) I was a walking mess.  Control, fear, worry, uncertainty, and anxiety weighed on me every waking moment.  Yet in the year since then, even in learning to live with less, I have so much more hope, peace, joy, and love.  Even now in my aingst about the unknowns of our future, my heart is at rest.  I know God is good.  I know God will go with us wherever we go.

So I welcome Spring.  I welcome the new life God's goodness brings.  I welcome the possibility of being surprised when I least expect it.  I welcome new things.

The Word Became Bread, and We Ate

I have a new love.  It's pretty amazing really.  It snuck up on me, took me by surprise.  I guess it started as all new loves do:  slowly, growing stronger over time, beginning as a mere acquaintance, deepening into friendship, leaning into longing, finally erupting into a full-blown love.  It's true.  I love . . . .

Cooking!

There.  I said it.  Those who know me well know how astounding this is.  I didn't exactly grow up wanting to be domestic.  I have a little girl in my pre-school class who is absolutely darling.  Each time I ask her what she wants to be when she grows up she says, "a mommy."  This was not me.  I wanted to be a carreer woman, wearing power suits and power hose.  I wanted to be important, to look important, to do important things.  I wanted a Ph.D. and all the accolades that came with it.  And I absolutely hated to cook. 

My how things change. 

Last night I received one of the most wonderful compliments my family could give me.  At the dinner table one of my boys accidently called me Nanny.  They enjoyed dinner so much they thought their grandmother had made it.  My husband's mother has been a great cook longer than I've been alive.  She is one of the best cooks around.  And I promise my chicken tenders were no where close to hers.  But it sure did make me feel good to have my culinary skills included with hers by the men in my life who mean the most to me.  Those are some pretty amazing accolades in my book. 

I'm not ever going to pretend that I'm a great cook, but I have learned to love cooking.  Preparing the evening meal for my family feels like prayer to me.  I love the simplicity of bringing a meal together from beginning to end.  I love the mystery of turning the words-on-paper recipe into something I can actually taste, savor, enjoy.  I even love the simple rythm of chopping vegetables and preparing ingredients for the actual act of cooking.  It builds anticipation within me, a sense of belonging to something bigger than myself, of contributing something real and needed to those I love.  And the end product just always tastes so darn good!  (Well, except for that upside down shepherd's pie with the dill and parsley in it.  GROSS!)

Here's the deeper truth.  When I am in the kitchen I remember that God is also all about rendering simple ingredients into something singular, exquisite, beautiful.  God makes us all so different, and then sprinkles us all around until the world bursts with flavor.  I love how He does that.  I love how God arranges us throughout life with purpose and forethought.  Sometimes our purpose is to add spice.  Sometimes we are to contrast nicely with the dominant flavor.  Sometimes we are placed as a compliment to others.  Sometimes we are to be the main course, providing simple sustainance.  But never are we wasted.  Our lives are meant to make others hungry and thirsty for more of Him, to give a taste of His goodness, His fullness, His grace, His abundance, His bounty.


Cooking has become a place of worship for me.  Each day I am reminded of the incarnation, Word becoming flesh, as the words on the back of the box actually turn into something I can digest.  I am reminded that God's Word sent forth into my life is just as real.  The Jesus I read about each night as I tuck my boys into bed is the same Lord and Savior that sends His Holy Spirit to guide me through each day.  And the place where I prepare the nourishment for my family has become Holy Ground for me.  My new favorite quiet space is at the kitchen table, complete with Bible, journal and hot tea in hand.  In my gut it feels completely natural that the place I feed my physical body is also the place I feed the spiritual one.

I guess I keep coming back to the realization that the most Holy moments of life are actually the most ordinary ones.  In this particular season, my life is so full of ordinary.  That's not a bad thing.  It's really a restful, restorative, beautiful, kind of ordinary.  The kind of ordinary I am completely thankful for.  And I am so grateful that God's Word still accomplishes His purposes even through the most humble and ordinary "bread for the eater" kinds of ways.



For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do no return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it.  Isaiah 55:10-11

Confession

I hear confession is good for the soul.  Well, I have something to confess.  I have not been writing.  That's pretty obvious.  It's been a good three months since I visited my own blog.  But I have something else to confess.  The reason is fear.  I've been afraid.  I've been afraid of what others might think.  Not others as in people I know.  But others who work at the place where I've applied for a new job.  I was afraid that my writing could keep me from getting a position that I wanted and my family needed.  But that's not the worst of it.  I've not been writing because I was afraid that my writing didn't matter anymore.  I've not been writing because I was afraid that I didn't matter anymore.  That the place from which I write is no longer valid because it comes from a place of ministry in me, and it sure looks like ministry is over in my life.  And it is so hard to believe that God can open up doors for me to live out of that sacred place that He put in me, in just the way I need to live out of it.  Oh Lord Jesus!  Why did you make me sucn and odd person?  Why am I the way I am?  Why can't I just go pastor some church and be done with it?  Why couldn't you have made me a wonderfully round peg that matches all the round ministry holes?

But there is a bigger fear.  It's the fear that if I don't write that sacred place within me will die.  I don't know if I can live with myself if I allow that to happen.  And so I'm stuck in this hard, hard place.  I so want to connect to the deeply passionate, spiritual, and pastoral places within.  But to do that I have to also live in the frustration of not knowing if there will ever be a place of ministry that I can fill. 

Not everything has been out of the book of mid-life crisis 101.  In many ways I have a deep and profound joy.  I feel like I've found myself.  I love being home.  I love being more present and available to my family.  I love being a mommy and not having to choose between my own children and the needs of a flock in my pastoral care. I love being a wife and blessing my husband.  I love being home.  I love it.  It is where I feel most alive and most at peace.  I believe I have found there my most important work, my most important legacy.  When I die I will be so thankful for this time, this opportunity, this availability, this vocation.  In many ways this time is the ministry that means the most to me, even though it is so very costly.

So this is the day I face my fears.  I don't know what the future holds.  I just know that I not done yet.  I still have words left in me that I need to express.  Mostly so I can find my way through this hard time.  I need to know that the minister within is still alive.  I need her.  And I believe my children and husband need her too.  And maybe, just maybe, someday she will be needed in the Body of Christ again too.

Wow, I get it--

It's hard being a parent.  Here is the part I struggle with:  setting limits, allowing consequences to in fact follow from poor choices, and not allowing the frustration of the moment to cloud vision of my heart.  Sometimes I wonder if God struggles too as He relates to us.  As I read the stories from the Bible, especially in the Old Testament, I see God continually showing His people the right way to live.  And then I see them continually making poor choices.  The one that gets me is the story of Amaziah, a king of Judah who scripture says, "He did what was right in the sight of the Lord, yet not with a true heart" (II Chronicles 25:2).  God helped him gain an amazing victory over his enemies in battle.  But instead of turning to God with a heart full of reverence and gratitude, he falls away, way far away!  Scripture records just how badly Amaziah responded to God's help:

Now after Amaziah came from the slaughter of the Edomites, he brought the gods of the people of Seir, set them up as his gods, and worshiped them, making offerings to them.  The LORD was angry with Amaziah and sent to him a prophet, who said to him, "Why have you resorted to a people's gods who could not deliver their own people from your hand?"  But as he was speaking the king said to him, "Have we made you a royal counselor?  Stop!  Why should you be put to death?"  So the prophet stopped, but said, "I know that God has determined to destroy you, because you have done this and have not listened to my advice."  II Chronicles 25:14-16

Now that is definitely a parental low moment.  When I take the time to read how blatantly the people of God acted like anything but the people of God, I understand why God had to take such drastic measures to get their attention.  The Exile makes perfect sense in that context.  It was a particularly long (70 years worth) time out.  God removed His people to Babylon, taking them away from their beloved Promised Land so that they could understand the heart of the Promiser better.  I get it.

It's still hard to live it.  As a parent there are times when I have to do the hard thing.  Sometimes the only way to a child's heart is to remove the promised land so that he can truly see the heart of the promiser.  Last night we had one such moment.  Our middle son, who is usually the one who is quickest to obey, has been having some issues lately.  Instead of doing what we ask, he has been responding with an adamant "No!"  Then he tells us how he is going to do things instead.  We have struggled with how to respond.  But we know that if we don't respond we do him a greater disservice in the long run.  Last night we were going to see a Christmas program that Tim's sister and brother-in-law were performing in at their church.  We asked Isaiah several times to put on his church clothes from the morning.  The tee-shirt and shorts he had on were hardly appropriate for a rainy December night.  Each time his response was "No!"  Finally Tim said, "We'll have to let him think he's gonna have to stay here."  (Please note, we knew all along he wouldn't stay at home.  He just needed time to understand that his choices have consequences.)  So we all got into the car while Tim explained to Isaiah that he was going to have to stay at home since he wouldn't get ready to go.  There were many tears and protests.  Tim went in to talk to Isaiah while I got into the car.  What awaited me there took my breath away.

Noah, our oldest, sat in the back seat, his hands folded in supplication, tears streaming down his face.  He looked at me with pleading eyes and begged, "Please don't make Isaiah stay home by himself, please don't make Isaiah stay home."  My heart melted at the sight of my oldest son pleading for his brother; this child, who would at any given moment torment his younger brother for whatever small infraction, was begging me to extend mercy.  As I took Noah in my arms, I explained that we would not leave Isaiah, but that he needed to learn there are consequences to the choices he makes.  Noah settled down, and we had a little talk about wise choices and poor choices.  Pretty soon Isaiah joined us, dressed and ready to go.

The whole episode moved me in ways that are hard to articulate.  I just know that Noah's pleas for Isaiah touched something deep within me.  It made me think of the miracle of Christmas, a Savior's heart, and a Father's mercy.  The words to the second stanza of the beloved carol "What Child Is This" say it best:

Why lies he in such mean estate, where ox and ass are feeding?
Good Christian, fear:  For sinners here, the silent Word is pleading:
Nails, spear, shall pierce Him through, the Cross be borne, for me for you:
Hail, hail the Word made flesh, the Babe, the Son of Mary!


This is Christ the King, the One whom shepherds guarded and about whom the angels would sing.  This is the One who left the splendor of heaven to join us in our broken, imperfect world so that He could show us a better way, so that He could put Himself in our place, doing for us what we could never do for ourselves.  Jesus pleaded with His Father for us.  From the heart.  With His whole self.  Joining us in our humanity, bearing in His broken body the full consequence of our sin, and ultimately rising again so that His power could be made perfect in our weakness. When it was impossible for us to overcome sin on our own, He overcame it for us, and extends to us the gift of living in His love and victory if we will only accept it.

No wonder God loves Jesus so much.  I can't imagine what it was like for God watching Jesus willingly enter into the dregs of human sin and suffering for us, so that we could be free and forgiven.  I just know what it did to my heart to see Noah intercede for his brother.  The sweetness of that gift is so beautiful.  I am grateful for it.  It shows me how beautiful is the gift of Christmas, how astonishing the gift of Easter, how amazing God's gift of redeeming Grace.

Operation Christmas Child

This is a picture of my family while we were at church packing our two shoe boxes for Operation Christmas Child.  It was a powerful day for me.  We spent time as a family going to different stations where we focused on a separate theme.  At the first station we learned how a child receiving a shoebox might live.  Our boys got to go inside a grass hut that the youth had made.  Our youth director encouraged them to find a place to lay down inside the small dwelling, along with the ten other children inside.  They got to see how vastly different living conditions are from our own.  We also learned how these simple boxes filled with small gifts for a boy or girl can have a big impact.  The stories our youth pastor told showed how God connected the right box with the right child.  Of course God would know which box held what.  Of course God would know which child would desperately need the contents of a particular box for reasons that are singular and unique only to him or her.  Like the boy who loved to garden and received a box with gardening gloves inside.  Or the girl who had to walk several miles to school barefoot, who received a box with shoes, the exact size that she needed. 

At the second station we actually got to pack our boxes.  The boys loved doing this.  While our little one ran around the room, the other two carefully placed our items in the boxes provided. All I could think of as we put those boxes together was, "Oh God, please let our boxes be the miracle some child needs."  I wanted to be able to do so much more.  But it touched me to know that the little we are able to do could be such a big deal to a child I've never met.

At the third station we made an Advent wreath.  After attaching and fluffing the greenery, all our little wreath needed were the candles.  My favorite part of Christmas is the lighting of the Advent wreath.  That night when we went to bed I told the boys about celebrating Advent when I was a campus minister.  Since the semester would end before Advent had even really started, we would do all the readings, all the songs, all the candle lightings in one night.  It was my favorite service of the whole school year.  I'm looking forward to sharing this special tradition with my sons, creating anticipation as Christmas grows nearer, deepening our understanding of what it means to wait for the Savior to come.

When we packed our shoe boxes, we got to include a coloring sheet that shared information about us with the child who will receive the box.  Noah worked diligently to complete each page front and back.  Later my husband asked if I had seen what he wrote about Jesus.  I said no.  He told me that Noah wrote "Jesus helps us through hard times."  I got choked up.  Yes, Jesus does help us through hard times.  And this season has had its challenges.  I just so thankful that my son is learning what a difference God's Son makes in our lives. 

On Friday we spent time as a family making a list of what we are thankful for.  The boys did so good naming things that are significant to them. What was particularly poignant to me was how well Noah remembered what we learned about children who live in grass huts.  When we finished the list as a family, he took the paper and pen and went through our house by himself, writing down the things he was thankful for, noticing the blessings we have as Americans like running water, electricity, and beds to sleep on.

We learned at church yesterday that 93 shoe boxes were filled and sent out.  It seems that Operation Christmas Child was a success.  That's 93 more children in the world who will receive a tangible sign of God's love, 93 more children who will hear the Gospel of Jesus Christ, 93 more children who will get a chance to learn that Jesus helps us through hard times.  And I am grateful for the small way that my family got to participate in this ministry.  Yet I am also aware that there is another divinely inspired operation happening right under my nose.  In the ordinary course of our lives, the daily stuff that doesn't seem important or noteworthy, we have the opportunity to teach our boys what it means to be a Christmas child each day.  My prayer is that Tim and I will have the wisdom, the guts, and the insight to be able to do that.  I'm thankful God is already working on that too.

Thankful

Every Thanksgiving my Mom's side of the family gathers in Texas for a reunion.  I try to go every year that I can.  Usually the only thing that prevents me is having a baby.  Our baby having days are behind us now.  Yet for some reason I had the strongest sense that we were supposed to stay home this year.  I don't understand why.  The last time I had this strong of a feeling was the last Thanksgiving my Grandfather was alive.  And I missed it.  But it was also the season that God answered our prayers and allowed us to conceive Noah, our oldest son.  We had been unable to have children for three years.  And then God blessed us. 

So here I am in Kentucky, praying for safe travel for my parents as they go West.  I am puzzled, yet peaceful.  I know this is where we are supposed to be. 

I love how traditions weave memory and personal history into our lives, reminding us who we are, the stuff we are made of, the places we come from.  I don't necessarily have a bunch of traditions, but I do have stories, and they do the same thing for me.  One of my favorite Thanksgiving stories is from the first Thanksgiving Tim and I spent in Fort Myers, Florida when I was working as an Associate Pastor at a church down there.  I was heartsick for Kentucky and Tennessee.  For the life of me I couldn't figure out why God would bring me to a place without hills, trees (sorry my Florida friends; I didn't think palm trees counted at the time), and seasons.  We were alone on the holiday dedicated especially to family.  We were still growing into the understanding that we could be enough family with only the two of us.  Homesick and hot, we decided to go to the beach, just because we could.  As Tim and I walked on the sand, listening to the gentle splash of waves, the wind blowing in our hair, I told him I needed to start a new tradition just for us.  Something I could hold onto that would make Thanksgiving special again, and make my heart a little less lonely.  I told him about an elderly neighbor from my childhood who would fry refrigerated biscuits in oil, drain them and cover them with sugar.  By the time we dusted the sand off our bare feet and loaded towels and sunscreen back in the car I had him convinced.  We stopped at the 7-11 on the way home and bought refrigerated biscuits dough.

Of course reality rarely matches memory.  Especially for someone who knows nothing about frying anything in oil.  I got the oil too hot.  While the doughnuts looked nice and evenly brown on the outside, they weren't so done on the inside.  The first bite Tim took was the last as our new tradition went in the trash as quickly as the raw biscuit dough did.  Fourteen years later Tim still likes to have a little fun reminding me.

Tonight I'm thinking of that memory fondly.  Because I find myself in the same place again.  I am here, home,  wistful for the company of family there.  I trust God has His reasons. And I feel oddly at peace about being here.  Like this is the right place for us.  I also feel contently nestled in the family that feeds my soul each day--three sweet boys that keep me smiling and a husband who is truly my beloved. 

Tonight while Tim went to a men's ministry event at our church, the boys and I stayed home.  Noah asked if we could watch the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving video and eat popcorn.  I gave in.  I thought it would be something special we could do on our Mommy's night in.  I smiled as Snoopy served Peppermint Pattie popcorn for Thanksgiving dinner.  My three stair-step boys sat on a blanket in front of our TV eating their own bowls of popcorn, laughing because Peppermint Pattie kept calling Charlie Brown "Chuck."  I sat there feeling thankful for the peaceful, precious moment, thankful that the popcorn had been cooked just right.  Snatching a piece  from Noah's bowl I told him how special this memory was for me.  He asked me when I had ever done this before.  I said I hadn't ever done it before, that the memory was being made right in that moment.  

Tonight I am thankful. I can't help but compare this Thanksgiving to that other one so long ago.  During that time, and the years that followed, so much within me was just chaos and turmoil.  I just didn't know yet how rich and wonderful the life I was living would turn out to be.  I had no idea the woman I would become or the joy my future children would bring.  I couldn't even imagine how precious and important the relationship with my husband would grow, or how powerfully our bond could sustain me in hard times.  And I had no understanding of the peace God could bring, even in the face of my own unfulfilled wants or desires.  I had no way to know how deep thanksgiving could go.  And now I don't know if popcorn and Charlie Brown will make it to be a Wilson Thanksgiving tradition, but it is a beautiful memory, a sweet reminder to me of how God's love redeems and rewrites our lives for us, bringing us to a place of peace and hope. 

This is me,
thankful.

The Cat in the Hat Says Alot About That

The last time I wrote I was pretty bummed.  I mean, sometimes I just get discouraged.  I find myself like Peter, walking on water in impossible circumstances, and instead of being amazed at my water walking feet, I begin to pay attention to the circumstances I'm in.  Thus the sinking begins.  I believe that is where sinking feelings originate; we take our eyes off of Jesus, and begin to survey our surroundings.  I believe what we are called to is ultimately to be able to view our surroundings through His eyes rather than our own.  But until we are in that place, it's best to just keep our peeps fixed on Him!

So this is how my sweet Jesus calmed the storm inside of me:  I had been worrying about our future, finances, trying to understand how all the mismatched pieces of our lives will finally fit together.  That's where I was last Thursday when I sipped tea.  When my oldest son arrived home, he told me that he wanted to be "The Cat in the Hat" for school the next day.  His teacher had asked the students to come to school dressed as a book character.  And so the hat fixing odyssey began.

At the beginning of the school year someone handed me a red WKU recyclable bag while I was on my way to teach class.  I took it.  Not because I really needed it, but because, like every other member of Western, I like free stuff.  It had been laying in our office at home, empty since then.  Until Thursday night.  Did you know that you can cut up one of those bags and make a "Cat in the Hat" hat?  It's true!  I just used a ton of staples, an old folder, an empty butter tub, and some ribbon to fashion a costume for my son.  We didn't have to buy anything.  Everything we needed was hidden in what we already had. 

As I was working on the project, everything fell easily into place.  Whenever one step was finished, inspiration would hit again and the next part would seamlessly work itself out until the whole thing was done.  It was as if invisible hands were leading me to just the right thing to make it all work together.  Now I know God has all kinds of important things to attend to, you know, hurricanes and all that.  But I swear I felt His Holy Spirit leading me until the project was completed.  And sweetest of all was the quiet, almost shy, I-would-have-missed-it-if-I-hadn't-been-paying-attention, remark of my son, "Thanks Mom for making my costume."

Later on I whispered my own quiet, almost shy words of gratitude to my Heavenly Father.  With all the big stuff going on in the world I am humbled that God would care to provide a costume for my seven year old, that He would allow it to come through my hands and heart, that it would be fashioned with love and stubborn imagination, and that it would make that precious boy grin from ear to ear.  I could almost hear God's own quiet whisper, "If I can take care of the little thing that means so much, don't you think I can take care of the rest?"

Yes Lord, You can.