Last night was our first night where we didn't go outside to play. One of the things I have learned about boys is that they need time to run around, breathe fresh air, have freedom of movement and the space to let their imaginations become bigger than life. But yesterday it rained. And so we stayed inside. But it was hardly wasted time. I decided to go through my oldest son's clothes to see what he needed as cold weather approaches.
I never would have guessed that clothing boys could be such a delicate process. Yet boys can be very particular about what they wear. When there is disagreement my oldest has learned to protest, "Mom! That makes me look like a dork!" Since when do seven year olds care about being dorks?
It was such a relief to me as we began the process of going through Noah's clothes. Instead of complaining, Noah was actually excited. As we started trying on each pair of pants, it became apparent that last year's favorites were too small. I held my breath as we got to the ones that used to be over-sized; he had complained so much about them last fall, refusing to wear pants that had to be rolled up. Each pair slipped on easily, and fit perfectly. "Mom, these are so cool! I'm going to show Daddy!" I could hardly believe my ears as Noah said the words. Pair after pair he would go back and forth through the house, showing off his "new" wardrobe to his father. When we got to long sleeve shirts, it was the same story. What wasn't worth his time last year, last night he was excited to discover. Thus the fashion show continued until every piece had been tried on.
At the end of it all it turns out that we will probably only have to buy a couple of pairs of pants. I am immensely grateful. It may not seem like a big deal, but to me, it is a huge deal. I've been so lonely for a word of hope from the Lord. Here it shows up through the excitement of a seven year old boy who is glad to rediscover clothes in his closet. They fit: miracle! And he likes them: bigger miracle!!! I started to explain to him how wonderful it was when my voice caught. He looks at me and says, "Mommy are you going to cry again?!"
Well, yes. Probably. I feel like the weary wilderness sojourner who discovers Manna in the desert. In fact, the whole experience last night brought to mind a passage from Dueteronomy:
Remember the long way that the Lord your God has led you these forty years in the wilderness, in order to humble you, testing you to know what is in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commandments. He humbled you by letting you hunger, then by feeding you with manna, with which neither you nor your ancestors were acquainted, in order to make you understand that one does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord. The clothes on your back did not wear out and your feet did not swell these forty years (8:2-4).
I love that line that speaks of God providing clothes for His children that don't wear out, and non-swelling feet for them to walk on. What a tender picture of care, with patient attention to the details that could easily escape notice. But He notices. I am struck by the realization that He arranged it so that we bought more than we needed last year, when it was no big deal. I was aggravated at the time that the clothes were made far larger than the sizes indicated. It irked me that my son refused to wear the clothes I picked out for him; even though the shirts were a little baggy I thought they looked fine. I could not have imagined then what God had planned for those simple pants and shirts, that He was saving them for just the right time when my sweet boy would thank me for finding such "cool" clothes for him to wear. God is full of wonder.
I am heartened. While I know with my head that God never leaves us nor forsakes us, sometimes it's hard to feel that way. Sometimes I feel all alone, forgotten and forsaken. So I am very thankful for this practical reminder, a beautiful picture of God's grace. And I am eternally grateful that God cares enough to bring miracles from the closet that keep my sweet boy from looking like a dork! Wonders never cease.
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
Thursday, September 01, 2011
Inspiration
It may seem like an inconsequential thing, this statement in the first chapter of Luke: "Both of them were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord" (1:6). But truly it is a powerful piece of insight, one that touches me deeply. Luke has just introduced the reader to Zechariah and Elizabeth, the parents of John the Baptist, the one chosen to prepare God's people to receive Jesus. And then he tells us they were righteous.
Of course they were righteous, right? I mean, they are major players in the birth narrative of our Savior. And what Biblical heroes aren't righteous? (Okay, so there are a few.) But there is something huge hidden in the matter of fact introduction of John's parents. Between the time that the last prophet to Israel had prophesied and the birth of John, 400 years had lapsed since God had spoken to His people. God was silent for all that time. Zechariah and Elizabeth were living in a time where no one was saying, "Thus says the Lord." Their obedience and love for God humbles me, and it inspires me.
I am inspired because their story shows me what is possible. It's possible to live in right relationship with God and others, even when God is quiet. I am tickled by the ways I am learning this. Since the middle of August I have been working Tuesday's and Thursday's as pre-school teacher for four year olds. Our whole day revolves around helping our sweet boys and girls learn how to take responsibility for themselves and make good choices without us telling them what to do each time. The goal is to help them become mature and independent, to learn to function with greater responsibility so that they are ready for kindergarden next fall. Ultimately they will be able to come into the classroom, hang up their own backpack, get out their folder and put it in their cubby, write their names in their composition books, and find a quiet game to play all on their own, without having to be reminded of the process each time. There comes a time when constant coaching is no longer helpful. It teaches them to remain dependent upon us when they have the ability within to do some things for themselves. We want them to be successful in this exercise because it will help them down the road.
I am beginning to think the same thing is true about God. I think we reach a place in our relationship with Him that He begins to draw back so that we can see what we have learned, how much we have grown, the strength that He has diligently nurtured within us. The greatest loss comes when we remain immature in our faith and are never able to grow into God's purpose for us! Or we simply refuse to exercise the faith that His grace has instilled within us, demanding to remain spiritual infants who refuse to be weened into the next step of growth. It is like Paul lamenting about the Corinthians, "I gave you milk, not solid food, for you were not ready for it. Indeed you are still not ready" (I Corinthians 3:2). If God is constantly having to hold our hand so that we can have faith in Him, we will never be able to serve or teach or encourage anyone else in the body of Christ since our own faith is so flimsy. The silence shows us the content of our hearts, and just how deeply the love and knowledge of God is rooted there.
There is something else that humbles and inspires me. It comes from the very next verse in Luke: "But they were childless because Elizabeth was not able to conceive, and they were both very old" (Luke 1:7). I remember what it was like to be childless, to look with longing at mothers with babies, to hope and pray every night that God would give us a child of our own. Tim and I prayed prayers like that for three years. Just when I had given up hope that I would ever be a mother, God stepped in and changed everything for us in a dramatic way. Just a couple of weeks ago we celebrated our oldest son's seventh birthday. Praise God for so many blessings! Tim and I joke that our offspring certainly showcase God's sense of humor; we have one son for each year of trying. So I know that kind of longing, but not to the degree that Elizabeth and Zechariah knew it. They spent their whole lives, all the way to old age, longing for something that was never granted, until the idea of fulfillment was long dead. And yet they are still described as righteous, known as people who lived rightly.
That one verse shows it is possible to live in right relationship with God when disappointment seems to great to bear. I wonder at what point Zechariah and Elizabeth made peace with their personal anguish? When were they able to say, "So life has marked me irrevocably in this way, there is nothing I can do to change it, and yet I will serve the Lord"? Perhaps they never did make peace with their anguish. It's interesting to me that we have no way of knowing. What we do know is that they lived long lives in righteousness, even when life didn't turn out the way they thought it would.
This place I'm in is a place I never thought I would be. I savor the parts of it that have surprised me with joy: the warmth of love that greets me when I am with my boys, the relief I feel now that I no longer have to put something else ahead of them. But then there are other parts that give me pause. There are some prayers I've been praying for years, the subject matter so dear to my heart I don't dare stop praying, or hoping. However, my weary heart believes it is about time God answered, especially when we are dependent upon Him like never before. In the wake of disruption, I want to see the unexpected goodness of God burst upon our lives with fresh goodness. I don't understand why He would wait so long in answering. My ears ache with the strain of listening for stirrings of His Word for us.
And so, oddly enough, I am encouraged in the place I never thought I would be. Zechariah and Elizabeth found a way to remain connected to the God, even when their deepest hopes and dreams never materialized after years of faithful waiting. I love that the text does not elaborate on those years of dryness. It simply makes a declaration of the culmination of those years. That at the end of the day, for days and years on end, they decided that belonging to God was the most important thing. Even in the face of unquenched longing. If such an ordinary couple like them could do it, maybe we can to.
Of course they were righteous, right? I mean, they are major players in the birth narrative of our Savior. And what Biblical heroes aren't righteous? (Okay, so there are a few.) But there is something huge hidden in the matter of fact introduction of John's parents. Between the time that the last prophet to Israel had prophesied and the birth of John, 400 years had lapsed since God had spoken to His people. God was silent for all that time. Zechariah and Elizabeth were living in a time where no one was saying, "Thus says the Lord." Their obedience and love for God humbles me, and it inspires me.
I am inspired because their story shows me what is possible. It's possible to live in right relationship with God and others, even when God is quiet. I am tickled by the ways I am learning this. Since the middle of August I have been working Tuesday's and Thursday's as pre-school teacher for four year olds. Our whole day revolves around helping our sweet boys and girls learn how to take responsibility for themselves and make good choices without us telling them what to do each time. The goal is to help them become mature and independent, to learn to function with greater responsibility so that they are ready for kindergarden next fall. Ultimately they will be able to come into the classroom, hang up their own backpack, get out their folder and put it in their cubby, write their names in their composition books, and find a quiet game to play all on their own, without having to be reminded of the process each time. There comes a time when constant coaching is no longer helpful. It teaches them to remain dependent upon us when they have the ability within to do some things for themselves. We want them to be successful in this exercise because it will help them down the road.
I am beginning to think the same thing is true about God. I think we reach a place in our relationship with Him that He begins to draw back so that we can see what we have learned, how much we have grown, the strength that He has diligently nurtured within us. The greatest loss comes when we remain immature in our faith and are never able to grow into God's purpose for us! Or we simply refuse to exercise the faith that His grace has instilled within us, demanding to remain spiritual infants who refuse to be weened into the next step of growth. It is like Paul lamenting about the Corinthians, "I gave you milk, not solid food, for you were not ready for it. Indeed you are still not ready" (I Corinthians 3:2). If God is constantly having to hold our hand so that we can have faith in Him, we will never be able to serve or teach or encourage anyone else in the body of Christ since our own faith is so flimsy. The silence shows us the content of our hearts, and just how deeply the love and knowledge of God is rooted there.
There is something else that humbles and inspires me. It comes from the very next verse in Luke: "But they were childless because Elizabeth was not able to conceive, and they were both very old" (Luke 1:7). I remember what it was like to be childless, to look with longing at mothers with babies, to hope and pray every night that God would give us a child of our own. Tim and I prayed prayers like that for three years. Just when I had given up hope that I would ever be a mother, God stepped in and changed everything for us in a dramatic way. Just a couple of weeks ago we celebrated our oldest son's seventh birthday. Praise God for so many blessings! Tim and I joke that our offspring certainly showcase God's sense of humor; we have one son for each year of trying. So I know that kind of longing, but not to the degree that Elizabeth and Zechariah knew it. They spent their whole lives, all the way to old age, longing for something that was never granted, until the idea of fulfillment was long dead. And yet they are still described as righteous, known as people who lived rightly.
That one verse shows it is possible to live in right relationship with God when disappointment seems to great to bear. I wonder at what point Zechariah and Elizabeth made peace with their personal anguish? When were they able to say, "So life has marked me irrevocably in this way, there is nothing I can do to change it, and yet I will serve the Lord"? Perhaps they never did make peace with their anguish. It's interesting to me that we have no way of knowing. What we do know is that they lived long lives in righteousness, even when life didn't turn out the way they thought it would.
This place I'm in is a place I never thought I would be. I savor the parts of it that have surprised me with joy: the warmth of love that greets me when I am with my boys, the relief I feel now that I no longer have to put something else ahead of them. But then there are other parts that give me pause. There are some prayers I've been praying for years, the subject matter so dear to my heart I don't dare stop praying, or hoping. However, my weary heart believes it is about time God answered, especially when we are dependent upon Him like never before. In the wake of disruption, I want to see the unexpected goodness of God burst upon our lives with fresh goodness. I don't understand why He would wait so long in answering. My ears ache with the strain of listening for stirrings of His Word for us.
And so, oddly enough, I am encouraged in the place I never thought I would be. Zechariah and Elizabeth found a way to remain connected to the God, even when their deepest hopes and dreams never materialized after years of faithful waiting. I love that the text does not elaborate on those years of dryness. It simply makes a declaration of the culmination of those years. That at the end of the day, for days and years on end, they decided that belonging to God was the most important thing. Even in the face of unquenched longing. If such an ordinary couple like them could do it, maybe we can to.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Tell the Truth
I remember a popular song from my childhood called "Killing Me Softly With His Song." It is the story of a girl who hears about a guy who is a good musician and decides to go hear him play his stuff. She discovers that his lyrics speak what is happening within her heart.
I am thinking about that song. I want that experience. I am so hungry for it. Especially on Sunday's. I want to hear my story reflected back to me, to hear that somehow the gospel touches this lonely place, not just with pat answers and platitudes, but with truth and grace. I don't want to hear someone share Jesus out of a place of success or comfort. I want to hear someone speak about Jesus out of their experience of desperation, when their dreams are dying before their eyes, when prayer seems futile, when consolation runs dry.
I am searching for an authentic witness to the truth. But it takes so much courage to pull the veil away and expose the rawness of hurt, anger, disappointment. I have rarely gone to church and heard someone speak of finding God in those places, exposing the difficult places of their heart experience as a fountainhead of hope. The gospel just sounds so much better when we pretend that life is great. If life is great it is easier to believe that God is great. But I am struggling right now. How do I find God in the midst of that struggle? Especially when all the ways I have know God's presence in the past just come up empty?
Some parts of my life are deeply satisfying. Those places are balms to my spirit. I am so thankful for them. Then there are other parts that hurt so much. I want to know, and need to know, that the loss I feel is still blessed. That hope lives in there. That I can expect God to show up, maybe not in a way that I currently recognize, but in a way that lets me know I'm not God-forsaken.
The thing is, without a real expression of someone's struggle, it's hard to believe their assurances. The grace offered seems cheap and flimsy, unsubstantial. I need to know there is more. I need to know grace is deeper, stronger, fuller. And I need someone to show me where that kind of grace is. Because right now I can't see it.
What I can say about Sunday mornings is that I love the music. It washes over me. It challenges me, because I can't just sing words I don't believe. Sometimes I sing with tears streaming down my face. But I still sing. My favorite song this morning at church was "How He Loves Us" by John Mark McMillan. The lyrics speak of the radical and deep love of God, so powerful we would be swept away in it if we could only see it for what it is. I so need to know God loves me that much right now. It's hard to feel it, but I tend to believe the words of the song more than the sermon. McMillan wrote it after his friend Steven was killed. He found a way to believe in God's love in the midst of his anguish. Maybe there is hope for me too.
I don't understand this season I'm in. It is a delirious mix of gratitude and angst. I catapult between the two extremes so often it leaves my head, and especially my heart, spinning. But I have to believe this is not the end of my story. I have to believe that I will look back on this time and be able to find His hand at work, resolving what is broken in my heart, healing what I cannot mend. I have to believe that grace is real, even when I can't see it. I have to believe that grace is truth, even when it feels false.
I am thinking about that song. I want that experience. I am so hungry for it. Especially on Sunday's. I want to hear my story reflected back to me, to hear that somehow the gospel touches this lonely place, not just with pat answers and platitudes, but with truth and grace. I don't want to hear someone share Jesus out of a place of success or comfort. I want to hear someone speak about Jesus out of their experience of desperation, when their dreams are dying before their eyes, when prayer seems futile, when consolation runs dry.
I am searching for an authentic witness to the truth. But it takes so much courage to pull the veil away and expose the rawness of hurt, anger, disappointment. I have rarely gone to church and heard someone speak of finding God in those places, exposing the difficult places of their heart experience as a fountainhead of hope. The gospel just sounds so much better when we pretend that life is great. If life is great it is easier to believe that God is great. But I am struggling right now. How do I find God in the midst of that struggle? Especially when all the ways I have know God's presence in the past just come up empty?
Some parts of my life are deeply satisfying. Those places are balms to my spirit. I am so thankful for them. Then there are other parts that hurt so much. I want to know, and need to know, that the loss I feel is still blessed. That hope lives in there. That I can expect God to show up, maybe not in a way that I currently recognize, but in a way that lets me know I'm not God-forsaken.
The thing is, without a real expression of someone's struggle, it's hard to believe their assurances. The grace offered seems cheap and flimsy, unsubstantial. I need to know there is more. I need to know grace is deeper, stronger, fuller. And I need someone to show me where that kind of grace is. Because right now I can't see it.
What I can say about Sunday mornings is that I love the music. It washes over me. It challenges me, because I can't just sing words I don't believe. Sometimes I sing with tears streaming down my face. But I still sing. My favorite song this morning at church was "How He Loves Us" by John Mark McMillan. The lyrics speak of the radical and deep love of God, so powerful we would be swept away in it if we could only see it for what it is. I so need to know God loves me that much right now. It's hard to feel it, but I tend to believe the words of the song more than the sermon. McMillan wrote it after his friend Steven was killed. He found a way to believe in God's love in the midst of his anguish. Maybe there is hope for me too.
I don't understand this season I'm in. It is a delirious mix of gratitude and angst. I catapult between the two extremes so often it leaves my head, and especially my heart, spinning. But I have to believe this is not the end of my story. I have to believe that I will look back on this time and be able to find His hand at work, resolving what is broken in my heart, healing what I cannot mend. I have to believe that grace is real, even when I can't see it. I have to believe that grace is truth, even when it feels false.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Conversations
I got to visit with one of my dear friends today. We spoke of where we are in our lives. The last time we saw each other I was cleaning out my office at the Wesley Foundation. I remember her words to me then, "It doesn't look right, but it doesn't look wrong." Today she said to me, "You look years younger than you did this time last year." I see myself in the mirror every day. I wasn't aware of how outwardly noticeable the changes in my spirit have been.
I remain wonder struck. This weekend will be my oldest son's seventh birthday. It is the first time in his life that I can enjoy his special day without being weighed down with concerns and worries about the beginning of fall semester. For the first time I don't have to rush off to another back to campus event. For the first time, planning my little boy's birthday party can be the most important thing in my life during the weekend that freshmen move in to campus. It is wonderful to me.
This morning I sat beside my sweet boy on the floor as he ate dry Trix cereal before going to school. I looked at his feet, noticing how they look more like my husband's feet than mine. I had never noticed before. It was a quiet, beautiful moment. I noticed because there is room inside of me for such observations. There didn't quite seem to be that kind of room several months ago.
It is almost as if whole parts of my being went to sleep in the pressure cooker I was living in. I didn't even recognize my own diminished capacity for joy; who knows when it quietly slipped away. Well, actually I am very aware of Who knows. I believe it is why He did for me what I could not do for myself: give me freedom. At the time, I was devastated. Today I can see God's goodness in it. He is so good.
My friend spoke wistfully of cup filling. She had attended a women's group at church one time where each participant was asked to fill a clear plastic cup with water and set it where it would be visible. Each week she was to mark the water line. Of course as time passed less and less water remained in the cup. What was there became stagnant. The point was that no one else fills our cups for us. When we always pour into every one else, ignoring the condition of our own hearts, eventually we have nothing left to give, and what is there to give isn't worth having. As she explained the dynamic to me, I began to sense that God used the events of the last few months show me how empty my own cup had become.
It's hard talking about the oppression I used to live in. It seems like talking about it brings the feelings of suffocation back. But at the same time I know that I must articulate the differences, simply so I can
recognize them and fully own the the changes that have come forth. I know that if I fall asleep again I can walk right back into the same kind of prison I was in, simply with different wall paper. Really I want to be free. This is a season for learning to walk tall in this God gifted freedom.
I remain wonder struck. This weekend will be my oldest son's seventh birthday. It is the first time in his life that I can enjoy his special day without being weighed down with concerns and worries about the beginning of fall semester. For the first time I don't have to rush off to another back to campus event. For the first time, planning my little boy's birthday party can be the most important thing in my life during the weekend that freshmen move in to campus. It is wonderful to me.
This morning I sat beside my sweet boy on the floor as he ate dry Trix cereal before going to school. I looked at his feet, noticing how they look more like my husband's feet than mine. I had never noticed before. It was a quiet, beautiful moment. I noticed because there is room inside of me for such observations. There didn't quite seem to be that kind of room several months ago.
It is almost as if whole parts of my being went to sleep in the pressure cooker I was living in. I didn't even recognize my own diminished capacity for joy; who knows when it quietly slipped away. Well, actually I am very aware of Who knows. I believe it is why He did for me what I could not do for myself: give me freedom. At the time, I was devastated. Today I can see God's goodness in it. He is so good.
My friend spoke wistfully of cup filling. She had attended a women's group at church one time where each participant was asked to fill a clear plastic cup with water and set it where it would be visible. Each week she was to mark the water line. Of course as time passed less and less water remained in the cup. What was there became stagnant. The point was that no one else fills our cups for us. When we always pour into every one else, ignoring the condition of our own hearts, eventually we have nothing left to give, and what is there to give isn't worth having. As she explained the dynamic to me, I began to sense that God used the events of the last few months show me how empty my own cup had become.
It's hard talking about the oppression I used to live in. It seems like talking about it brings the feelings of suffocation back. But at the same time I know that I must articulate the differences, simply so I can
recognize them and fully own the the changes that have come forth. I know that if I fall asleep again I can walk right back into the same kind of prison I was in, simply with different wall paper. Really I want to be free. This is a season for learning to walk tall in this God gifted freedom.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Hidden Treasure
The silence seems so loud. I feel like God hasn't left His calling card in a while. As a pastor I respond to comments like this with encouragement. I understand the spiritual dimensions of dessert experiences, some from theological training, mostly from my own past history. Often God will withdraw His felt presence as a way of drawing us closer, deeper to an experience with His otherness. It becomes an invitation to play hide and seek with the Divine. As God hides, bidding us come and find Him, we follow to places we never would have ventured otherwise; we discover treasures in the most obscure places. I have never been sorry for those times of dryness, for the seeking and finding. But it can be so hard to be in the middle of that place. It doesn't feel like child's play; it feels like being lost.
Understanding rarely incubates us from the fullness of life experiences. Being a professionally trained theologian doesn't make the God questions any easier to answer, or searching for Him any less frustrating when He chooses to hide. Here I am, wrestling with questions that don't have easy answers and playing hide and seek with the only One who isn't bound by human limitations. Finding always happens on God's terms. Never on mine. I hate that.
But I am a very firm believer that all things work together for good. I know God is around here somewhere. Though I cannot see Him or feel His presence or hear His voice in the once familiar ways, His goodness does cast a long shadow. I notice it when I look into the faces of my children. I sense His blessing when my baby boy puckers up for mommy kisses. It embraces me when my "too cool for school" seven year old throws his arms around me for a quick hug. And I hear it in the sweet declaration of love from my 4 year old: "Mommy, I love you."
My husband and I have never been closer. Getting to this place has been painful, but I've never understood so clearly how much my presence is cherished by the person who means the most to me. Sharing my vulnerability so deeply is somewhat new to me. Yet I feel completely safe and cared for as I let him see into the deep places of my hopes and fears, faith and doubts. In the past I often felt responsible for holding the whole world upon my shoulders of faith. In discovering how weak my own shoulders actually are, I have also found a strength in him that I didn't know was there. It comforts me. I feel less lost when we are together, especially when we talk about what is really going on beneath the surface.
All of these gifts are truly good gifts. Sometimes I think we get so comfortable that it's easy to not see the blessings we already have, to not live deeply in the moment that holds us. Losing a full-time job brings a lot of uncertainty. As things have changed so much for our family over the past few months, I am keenly aware that this moment is all we have. I want to make the most of all the moments I am given, to cherish each one and live them all fully. These awareness, brought close by the discomfort of uncertain circumstances, is beautiful. I wouldn't have chosen it, but I am glad it chose me.
God's treasures are often buried under the debris of our Americanized expectations. We think happiness resides only on easy street. I am finding that happiness really lives in those places where the heart learns the value of what has already been given. As I mother three mischievous and lively boys, as I hold hands with the man who still makes my heart sing after 15 years of marriage, I realize my deepest prayers have been answered. I can rest here. I can make my home here. Even though so many things are uncomfortable right now, this is treasure enough. And I am profoundly grateful.
Understanding rarely incubates us from the fullness of life experiences. Being a professionally trained theologian doesn't make the God questions any easier to answer, or searching for Him any less frustrating when He chooses to hide. Here I am, wrestling with questions that don't have easy answers and playing hide and seek with the only One who isn't bound by human limitations. Finding always happens on God's terms. Never on mine. I hate that.
But I am a very firm believer that all things work together for good. I know God is around here somewhere. Though I cannot see Him or feel His presence or hear His voice in the once familiar ways, His goodness does cast a long shadow. I notice it when I look into the faces of my children. I sense His blessing when my baby boy puckers up for mommy kisses. It embraces me when my "too cool for school" seven year old throws his arms around me for a quick hug. And I hear it in the sweet declaration of love from my 4 year old: "Mommy, I love you."
My husband and I have never been closer. Getting to this place has been painful, but I've never understood so clearly how much my presence is cherished by the person who means the most to me. Sharing my vulnerability so deeply is somewhat new to me. Yet I feel completely safe and cared for as I let him see into the deep places of my hopes and fears, faith and doubts. In the past I often felt responsible for holding the whole world upon my shoulders of faith. In discovering how weak my own shoulders actually are, I have also found a strength in him that I didn't know was there. It comforts me. I feel less lost when we are together, especially when we talk about what is really going on beneath the surface.
All of these gifts are truly good gifts. Sometimes I think we get so comfortable that it's easy to not see the blessings we already have, to not live deeply in the moment that holds us. Losing a full-time job brings a lot of uncertainty. As things have changed so much for our family over the past few months, I am keenly aware that this moment is all we have. I want to make the most of all the moments I am given, to cherish each one and live them all fully. These awareness, brought close by the discomfort of uncertain circumstances, is beautiful. I wouldn't have chosen it, but I am glad it chose me.
God's treasures are often buried under the debris of our Americanized expectations. We think happiness resides only on easy street. I am finding that happiness really lives in those places where the heart learns the value of what has already been given. As I mother three mischievous and lively boys, as I hold hands with the man who still makes my heart sing after 15 years of marriage, I realize my deepest prayers have been answered. I can rest here. I can make my home here. Even though so many things are uncomfortable right now, this is treasure enough. And I am profoundly grateful.
Monday, August 08, 2011
Transitions
It's the middle of transition time again. Tomorrow Noah starts second grade, and I have a teacher work day for my new job. It's one of those times when I feel unsteady, like walking into a dark room and needing time for my eyes to adjust. It will take a while to get my bearings, to feel comfortable with the new rhythm of my life.
Actually, I trust the process. When routine returns and the long, lazy days of summer are over, somehow life finds a natural ebb and flow. I tend to be more productive because the things I need to do have nice confined spaces to fit in within my day. Everything organizes itself into blocks of time where I can focus on specific things during specific hours. The closet OCD part of me likes this. It reminds me of the unspoken mantra that lives in my head when I am trying to restore order to my house, to my life: "A place for everything; everything in its place." This particular moment is just that fuzzy time when I try to figure out where everything fits, often by trial and error.
In my University Experience class I have my students construct a grid that represents a week in their lives, spread across an 8" x 10" piece of paper with hours labeled down one side and days ordered on top. I ask them to color code each block of time according to their activities, making sure they clearly show class time, study time, work time, and free time. Each year I also participate in this activity. It helps me understand how my life fits together. The gift of the exercise is that occasionally I discover a block of time I didn't realize was there, something I can consciously dedicate to an activity I enjoy. I realize how anxious I am to see my life in neat blocks --I would know what parts of myself fit where and when.
For now I wait in the craziness of new schedules, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the newness. It's all good. Eventually life finds a comfortable pace, and the whole family finds a way to settle in. I'm looking forward to my new ordinary to reveal itself.
Actually, I trust the process. When routine returns and the long, lazy days of summer are over, somehow life finds a natural ebb and flow. I tend to be more productive because the things I need to do have nice confined spaces to fit in within my day. Everything organizes itself into blocks of time where I can focus on specific things during specific hours. The closet OCD part of me likes this. It reminds me of the unspoken mantra that lives in my head when I am trying to restore order to my house, to my life: "A place for everything; everything in its place." This particular moment is just that fuzzy time when I try to figure out where everything fits, often by trial and error.
In my University Experience class I have my students construct a grid that represents a week in their lives, spread across an 8" x 10" piece of paper with hours labeled down one side and days ordered on top. I ask them to color code each block of time according to their activities, making sure they clearly show class time, study time, work time, and free time. Each year I also participate in this activity. It helps me understand how my life fits together. The gift of the exercise is that occasionally I discover a block of time I didn't realize was there, something I can consciously dedicate to an activity I enjoy. I realize how anxious I am to see my life in neat blocks --I would know what parts of myself fit where and when.
For now I wait in the craziness of new schedules, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the newness. It's all good. Eventually life finds a comfortable pace, and the whole family finds a way to settle in. I'm looking forward to my new ordinary to reveal itself.
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
Until Then
One of the craziest things has happened to me this summer. Scripture looks completely different to me. Like, I know how to read it as the campus minister who carries great burdens, and struggles alone, and tries to juggle being a mother with taking care of a whole ministry that nurtures students. Reading scripture while bending beneath the weight of that life is familiar. I can feel the oppression of the expectations I was living under even as I write those words. But things are different now. Today I am a woman who has been set free from a prison I didn't even know I was in until God led me out. What is clear is that I am a vastly different person that I once was.
I don't know if I will ever get over being surprised at how differently scripture speaks to me now. I once heard that you can never step into the same river twice. Reading scripture is the same way. As life moves us to different places, the old familiar story speaks a new message. All of the allusions and references change. My bearings have shifted.
It could just be that my whole person has shifted, and I never noticed because God did the transforming quietly, slowly over time. It's like one day I woke up and I was a completely different person than I was fifteen years ago. If I were to travel back in time to say hi to the girl that I was, I would barely recognize myself. And I definitely know that different people never hear scripture in the same way; their hearing is shaped by everything that has made them who they are.
The last few days I have been pondering a familiar scripture that speaks to me in a new way: Romans 8:18-30. It begins with Paul's encouragement, "I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us." It ends with Paul's firm declaration concerning God's children: "And those whom he predestined he also called; and those whom he called he also justified; and those whom he justified he also glorified." The old me would read this passage and imagine how God was going to jump into the circumstances of my life and bring forth a glorious reversal of all things painful and unjust. Today I read it and recognize a quieter truth, deeper than my earlier reckoning.
Before I thought that God was like Bette Midler's song "From a Distance" watching over us from a perch in heaven and swooping in to save the day when things had gotten sufficiently out of hand. (On some days that is what my life is like as a mother. Swooping is a good skill to have as a mother of three small boys.) All of my prayers and longings were directed toward that end, seeking God's intervention to accomplish the good I desired but was unable to bring forth. After all God is big, and God is good. Of course He wants to help. The events of the last few months have shifted my assumptions somewhat.
It's not that God is no longer Big and Good. He is. But I am recognizing that His purposes are not always (rarely?) my own. Let me explain. The Romans passage quickly admits that all of creation is "subjected to futility." But then the passage intimates that God is the one who did this! What the hay?! Why in the world would God do this? What could He possibly accomplish by putting us and the whole world in a scenario where we are groaning and straining toward a better good that seems to always be out of our grasp? I love how verse 26 puts it this way: "For we do not know how to pray as we ought." Of course we don't. Of course I don't! In the middle of suffering my prayers are like this: "God, get me out of here!!!!" I love what the scripture says next. God puts His own Spirit within us to pray on our behalf: "because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God." Since I don't know how to pray according to God's will, God prays it for me, within me even.
I'm thinking that God's prayers within us are the very thing that transforms us, from the inside out. I'm thinking that this is how God slowly transformed me. I believe the key to unlocking this mystery of why God does what He does and not what we want comes from verse 29. I believe it is the heart of God's will for us and the whole creation: "For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, in order that he might be the firstborn within a large family." While I'm begging God to rescue me from my troubles, God is working through them to recreate me in His Son's likeness. The Greek word for conform is "summorphos" which means "properly, conformed, by sharing the same inner essence-identity (form); showing similar behavior from having the same essential nature" (See www.biblos.com, HELPS Word Studies). It is our suffering that God works through to implant the likeness of Jesus within us.
And so through it all, God is not some distant overseeing Divine figure who waits to come in and save the day. Instead God is with us through every moment, experiencing the depths of our heartaches, disappointments, and pain. He translates our hurt into "sighs too deep for words." And as Romans 8:28 says, He translates those sighs into our good, and ultimately our glory. Again returning to the original meaning of Paul's use of the word "glorified" or doxazo in verse 30: "glorify; properly, to ascribe weight by recognizing real substance (value)" (again, see www.biblos.com, HELPS Word Studies). It's as if the difficulties we go through whittle away the parts of our lives that are not really us, not our heart's desires, not our true nature or character so that what remains is the essential self God had in mind at our beginning. It is a process of becoming the person God created us to be, full of the beauty and substance that only we can bring to the world. That end is truly joyful and genuinely good.
The temptation then, is not to believe the worst about God (God is certainly Big enough to handle our poor opinion of Him; I imagine He's been doing it for years. As Solomon says, "There is nothing new under the sun."). Our biggest temptation is to bug out of the process, to end the relationship and give ourselves over to our own appetites, or even worse, the enemy's lies. God's victory is when we stay connected despite our confusion, even anger, and continue to stretch ourselves towards Him. God never tires of hearing our groans. For Him they are the vessels of His transformation remaking our lives. For us they are the birth pains of the essential self being born, that person we have always longed to be but never thought we would or could.
There are so many things I do not understand. So many ways I would staunch the suffering and heartache of others if I could. I hate that I am unable to make life different for those I love, especially when my own soul leaps within me for the freedom and release I have found. All I can do is add my groans to theirs, to join in their longing for a better experience, for a more hopeful and satisfying end. It is my act of love to gather them into my own heart and offer them to the heart of God, asking for His glory to be revealed in them. But until then . . . .
"But until then my heart will go on singing,
Until then with joy I'll carry on;
Until the day my eyes behold the city,
Until the day God calls me home."
Lyrics to "Until Then"
Words and music by Stuart Hamblen
I don't know if I will ever get over being surprised at how differently scripture speaks to me now. I once heard that you can never step into the same river twice. Reading scripture is the same way. As life moves us to different places, the old familiar story speaks a new message. All of the allusions and references change. My bearings have shifted.
It could just be that my whole person has shifted, and I never noticed because God did the transforming quietly, slowly over time. It's like one day I woke up and I was a completely different person than I was fifteen years ago. If I were to travel back in time to say hi to the girl that I was, I would barely recognize myself. And I definitely know that different people never hear scripture in the same way; their hearing is shaped by everything that has made them who they are.
The last few days I have been pondering a familiar scripture that speaks to me in a new way: Romans 8:18-30. It begins with Paul's encouragement, "I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us." It ends with Paul's firm declaration concerning God's children: "And those whom he predestined he also called; and those whom he called he also justified; and those whom he justified he also glorified." The old me would read this passage and imagine how God was going to jump into the circumstances of my life and bring forth a glorious reversal of all things painful and unjust. Today I read it and recognize a quieter truth, deeper than my earlier reckoning.
Before I thought that God was like Bette Midler's song "From a Distance" watching over us from a perch in heaven and swooping in to save the day when things had gotten sufficiently out of hand. (On some days that is what my life is like as a mother. Swooping is a good skill to have as a mother of three small boys.) All of my prayers and longings were directed toward that end, seeking God's intervention to accomplish the good I desired but was unable to bring forth. After all God is big, and God is good. Of course He wants to help. The events of the last few months have shifted my assumptions somewhat.
It's not that God is no longer Big and Good. He is. But I am recognizing that His purposes are not always (rarely?) my own. Let me explain. The Romans passage quickly admits that all of creation is "subjected to futility." But then the passage intimates that God is the one who did this! What the hay?! Why in the world would God do this? What could He possibly accomplish by putting us and the whole world in a scenario where we are groaning and straining toward a better good that seems to always be out of our grasp? I love how verse 26 puts it this way: "For we do not know how to pray as we ought." Of course we don't. Of course I don't! In the middle of suffering my prayers are like this: "God, get me out of here!!!!" I love what the scripture says next. God puts His own Spirit within us to pray on our behalf: "because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God." Since I don't know how to pray according to God's will, God prays it for me, within me even.
I'm thinking that God's prayers within us are the very thing that transforms us, from the inside out. I'm thinking that this is how God slowly transformed me. I believe the key to unlocking this mystery of why God does what He does and not what we want comes from verse 29. I believe it is the heart of God's will for us and the whole creation: "For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, in order that he might be the firstborn within a large family." While I'm begging God to rescue me from my troubles, God is working through them to recreate me in His Son's likeness. The Greek word for conform is "summorphos" which means "properly, conformed, by sharing the same inner essence-identity (form); showing similar behavior from having the same essential nature" (See www.biblos.com, HELPS Word Studies). It is our suffering that God works through to implant the likeness of Jesus within us.
And so through it all, God is not some distant overseeing Divine figure who waits to come in and save the day. Instead God is with us through every moment, experiencing the depths of our heartaches, disappointments, and pain. He translates our hurt into "sighs too deep for words." And as Romans 8:28 says, He translates those sighs into our good, and ultimately our glory. Again returning to the original meaning of Paul's use of the word "glorified" or doxazo in verse 30: "glorify; properly, to ascribe weight by recognizing real substance (value)" (again, see www.biblos.com, HELPS Word Studies). It's as if the difficulties we go through whittle away the parts of our lives that are not really us, not our heart's desires, not our true nature or character so that what remains is the essential self God had in mind at our beginning. It is a process of becoming the person God created us to be, full of the beauty and substance that only we can bring to the world. That end is truly joyful and genuinely good.
The temptation then, is not to believe the worst about God (God is certainly Big enough to handle our poor opinion of Him; I imagine He's been doing it for years. As Solomon says, "There is nothing new under the sun."). Our biggest temptation is to bug out of the process, to end the relationship and give ourselves over to our own appetites, or even worse, the enemy's lies. God's victory is when we stay connected despite our confusion, even anger, and continue to stretch ourselves towards Him. God never tires of hearing our groans. For Him they are the vessels of His transformation remaking our lives. For us they are the birth pains of the essential self being born, that person we have always longed to be but never thought we would or could.
There are so many things I do not understand. So many ways I would staunch the suffering and heartache of others if I could. I hate that I am unable to make life different for those I love, especially when my own soul leaps within me for the freedom and release I have found. All I can do is add my groans to theirs, to join in their longing for a better experience, for a more hopeful and satisfying end. It is my act of love to gather them into my own heart and offer them to the heart of God, asking for His glory to be revealed in them. But until then . . . .
"But until then my heart will go on singing,
Until then with joy I'll carry on;
Until the day my eyes behold the city,
Until the day God calls me home."
Lyrics to "Until Then"
Words and music by Stuart Hamblen
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
A Tale of Two Summers
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only."
--From A Tale of Two Cities
When I was in seminary one of my professor's favorite sayings was "Can you feel the tension?" We learned what it meant to be immersed in paradox, on the one hand learning so much about the building blocks of our faith while at the same time sometimes losing it. I remember it being one of the most challenging times of my life. And yet is was key in giving me a faith I could stand on, as all of the flimsy stuff fell away. It was there I learned to look beyond the feeling of God's presence to God Who is always Present. As difficult as that time was, I am profoundly grateful for it now. I am still standing.
But there are days. Again I find myself in the middle of a paradox. On the one hand this has been (as my son Isaiah would put it) "the best summer ever!" Just last night we enjoyed a game of kickball in the front yard during the semi-cool of the evening. It was a lovely moment of family fun, all of us playing together. Even my 19 month old was there, except he preferred digging in the dirt on third base. At one point I paused and looked at my life, filled with wonder and joy, grateful to be there with all my boys. There have been many moments like that this summer, more than in the past. Moments full of laughter and love and togetherness. Sweet moments blessing me with hope and humor.
And then there other kinds of moments, other kinds of days. My heart feels raw with the pleading for God to answer one simple prayer, prayed with every inch of my being, all of my molecules straining toward Heaven with longing. There were times like these in seminary when I decided God wasn't there, or that God must be disabled. I've lived enough since then to know better. God hides for reasons that are beyond my understanding, yet His hiding always initiates my deeper seeking, yielding treasures that are worth it in the end. They are just not so worth it in the middle.
I catapult between the extremes: Gratitude that takes my breath away, and helpless yearning aching for God's intervention in deeply held need. Sometimes I feel so full, so joyous. Other times I feel stripped to the bones of faith, empty of all assurances that my prayers matter. Those are the times I'm no fun to be around.
As much as I long for sight, this is not the time for seeing. (I hate this!) I believe it is the time for being present. It is the only thing of value I have to offer Him right now. "I'm still here," I tell Him. "That has to count for something." So far I haven't heard His answer. But I'm guessing that if being Present is one of His best gifts to me, then He can be pleased that I'm present with Him, especially when it hurts so much.
This is me trusting,
Sami
--From A Tale of Two Cities
When I was in seminary one of my professor's favorite sayings was "Can you feel the tension?" We learned what it meant to be immersed in paradox, on the one hand learning so much about the building blocks of our faith while at the same time sometimes losing it. I remember it being one of the most challenging times of my life. And yet is was key in giving me a faith I could stand on, as all of the flimsy stuff fell away. It was there I learned to look beyond the feeling of God's presence to God Who is always Present. As difficult as that time was, I am profoundly grateful for it now. I am still standing.
But there are days. Again I find myself in the middle of a paradox. On the one hand this has been (as my son Isaiah would put it) "the best summer ever!" Just last night we enjoyed a game of kickball in the front yard during the semi-cool of the evening. It was a lovely moment of family fun, all of us playing together. Even my 19 month old was there, except he preferred digging in the dirt on third base. At one point I paused and looked at my life, filled with wonder and joy, grateful to be there with all my boys. There have been many moments like that this summer, more than in the past. Moments full of laughter and love and togetherness. Sweet moments blessing me with hope and humor.
And then there other kinds of moments, other kinds of days. My heart feels raw with the pleading for God to answer one simple prayer, prayed with every inch of my being, all of my molecules straining toward Heaven with longing. There were times like these in seminary when I decided God wasn't there, or that God must be disabled. I've lived enough since then to know better. God hides for reasons that are beyond my understanding, yet His hiding always initiates my deeper seeking, yielding treasures that are worth it in the end. They are just not so worth it in the middle.
I catapult between the extremes: Gratitude that takes my breath away, and helpless yearning aching for God's intervention in deeply held need. Sometimes I feel so full, so joyous. Other times I feel stripped to the bones of faith, empty of all assurances that my prayers matter. Those are the times I'm no fun to be around.
As much as I long for sight, this is not the time for seeing. (I hate this!) I believe it is the time for being present. It is the only thing of value I have to offer Him right now. "I'm still here," I tell Him. "That has to count for something." So far I haven't heard His answer. But I'm guessing that if being Present is one of His best gifts to me, then He can be pleased that I'm present with Him, especially when it hurts so much.
This is me trusting,
Sami
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
One Day at a Time
I remember watching infomercials as a kid. Back then it was never so much about kitchen gadgets as it was about music. I used to think about how only old people would know the songs from the advertised albums. Then there came the day when Time Life was selling 80's anthologies. I knew then, I'm old. The last couple of days I have been remembering one infomercial in particular. It was a commercial selling music performed by Christy Lane, the headlining song named "One Day at a Time." The chorus goes like this:
It's been playing in my head the last couple of days. It is a summons, an invitation, a beacon, a hint. So easy to hear, so hard to do. Mostly because I am a planner. I like to anticipate what is coming so I can be fully prepared. I hate to be taken by surprise. I guess I live by a secret belief that if I can wisely use the resources of today, tomorrow won't be so bad. But in this moment, it is impossible to see that far ahead. As much as I have an inner resistance to it, I have to live into this season one day at a time.
On topic, Jesus says this:
“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?. . . But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own" (Matthew 6:25-34).
Of course I want to say to Jesus, "I know worrying won't help, but planning ahead is worth a lot of hours." In all of this, the heavens have been strangely quiet.
It's as if I am left with the words themselves. No warm fuzzies. No angel messengers. No mysterious signs. Just my Bible and the familiar faith that says the words found there are worth something. Familiar faith has to work right now; my feelings are mute. I can hear the childhood whine in the bottom of my gut, "But I don't feel like it!" I feel like taking charge. I feel like manipulating my circumstances to give me and my family an acceptable outcome. I feel like leveraging all that I am for a future that is out of my grasp. It's hard to let all that I care about rest in God's hands. Mine are so much more accessible. Harder still to rest my self there as well, when God seems so silent.
Seasons of honing our faith are like that I think. If it were easy it wouldn't be called faith. It would be called sight. In my blindness I am learning to live into this day, one day at a time.
This is me trusting,
Sami
One day at a time sweet Jesus
That's all I'm asking from you.
Just give me the strength
To do everyday what I have to do.
Yesterday's gone sweet Jesus
And tomorrow may never be mine.
Lord help me today, show me the way
One day at a time.
It's been playing in my head the last couple of days. It is a summons, an invitation, a beacon, a hint. So easy to hear, so hard to do. Mostly because I am a planner. I like to anticipate what is coming so I can be fully prepared. I hate to be taken by surprise. I guess I live by a secret belief that if I can wisely use the resources of today, tomorrow won't be so bad. But in this moment, it is impossible to see that far ahead. As much as I have an inner resistance to it, I have to live into this season one day at a time.
On topic, Jesus says this:
“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?. . . But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own" (Matthew 6:25-34).
Of course I want to say to Jesus, "I know worrying won't help, but planning ahead is worth a lot of hours." In all of this, the heavens have been strangely quiet.
It's as if I am left with the words themselves. No warm fuzzies. No angel messengers. No mysterious signs. Just my Bible and the familiar faith that says the words found there are worth something. Familiar faith has to work right now; my feelings are mute. I can hear the childhood whine in the bottom of my gut, "But I don't feel like it!" I feel like taking charge. I feel like manipulating my circumstances to give me and my family an acceptable outcome. I feel like leveraging all that I am for a future that is out of my grasp. It's hard to let all that I care about rest in God's hands. Mine are so much more accessible. Harder still to rest my self there as well, when God seems so silent.
Seasons of honing our faith are like that I think. If it were easy it wouldn't be called faith. It would be called sight. In my blindness I am learning to live into this day, one day at a time.
This is me trusting,
Sami
Friday, July 22, 2011
Gravity
This morning Big Bird and Mr. Snufalupagus couldn't figure out why they didn't stay in the air after jumping. Gordon explained gravity in its simplest terms: what comes up must come down. Everything falls back to the earth once it is released into the air. Something about the topic spoke to me. The weightiness of it seemed to call out to me.
Gravity is defined by www.thefreedictionary.com as: "The natural force of attraction exerted by a celestial body, such as Earth, upon objects at or near its surface, tending to draw them toward the center of the body." I realized this morning that life has a lot of gravity in it.
Ordinary things fill me with quiet joy. Each day is filled with the surprise of true pleasure coming out of the simplest tasks of domesticity. It is almost as if this is what I have been waiting for my whole life, to be the queen of domestic bliss in my own home. Who would have ever guessed? Twenty years ago my plan was to establish a career, situating my anticipated marriage and family around it. There was no question as to what would come first. Even when I felt called to ministry and decided to follow God into the great unknown of ordination, the work always had priority.
Since then the gravity of God has quietly rearranged my heart, reordering it almost without my knowledge until the day I was courageous enough to embrace my true self. What I have found is that I love being a wife and mother. That is the highest joy in my life. Last night I sat at the table enjoying dinner with all my boys, a simple meal that I had made. Each Sunday I now look forward to cutting coupons. Even restoring order to the house is no longer a chore but a pleasure. I actually like cleaning our bathrooms. Who is this woman that I have become? And where is that other girl who used to be in her place?
The concept of gravity speaks most clearly to me here. In Bible times farmers would harvest grain by first separating the wheat from the chaff. To accomplish this the wheat would be thrown up into the air. The weight of the wheat kernels would send them back to the ground while the wind would blow the chaff away. It seems like this is how God has quietly transformed me, using the circumstances around me to bring me home to my true self. There have been several times when I felt like everything of who I was had been thrown up into the air. Each crisis was a crucial moment when some of my hopes and dreams would die in the moment anguish and disappointment. Ultimately I would discover that I did not miss what had faded away. What remained was more vivid and real, truer and dense. So much more my real self.
In this new airborne time I am finding that not as much of me is going away. I hate everything being up in the air. I hate not knowing where everything will land. But I love the freedom I feel as the untrue parts of myself fall away. The need to fit into an institutional plan is gone. The overwhelming responsibility of keeping of a ministry I love healthy has passed. The burden of believing that Wesley's future depended completely on me has vanished. I love that I am with my boys more. I love that I can rest my heart and head under the strength and love of my sweet husband. Everything about this new path of not working full time just feels so right. Trusting God to work out the details is hard. It's something I've usually always done. But not being the only one to work them out is good too. I feel like I've come home. And it is such a sweet one.
For this season, I am airborne. But I don't think it is a bad thing, as painful as it is. Because the thing that is being blown away is my tendency to do what I think is right because it is sensible, practical, but not at all what is in my heart. The gift of this season is that God has done the hard thing for me, the thing I never would have done because I love my family and my students so much. He removed the burden of trying to do it all, working full-time and being a full-time Mom. And as much as I love my students, they already have mothers. For my boys, I am their only one.
So this is me trusting that following my heart is not a bad thing. It is a risky thing, but what life worth living is ever without true risk? For me, the greatest risk worth taking is to turn my back on everything I once thought I wanted and simply come home.
This is me trusting,
Sami
Gravity is defined by www.thefreedictionary.com as: "The natural force of attraction exerted by a celestial body, such as Earth, upon objects at or near its surface, tending to draw them toward the center of the body." I realized this morning that life has a lot of gravity in it.
Ordinary things fill me with quiet joy. Each day is filled with the surprise of true pleasure coming out of the simplest tasks of domesticity. It is almost as if this is what I have been waiting for my whole life, to be the queen of domestic bliss in my own home. Who would have ever guessed? Twenty years ago my plan was to establish a career, situating my anticipated marriage and family around it. There was no question as to what would come first. Even when I felt called to ministry and decided to follow God into the great unknown of ordination, the work always had priority.
Since then the gravity of God has quietly rearranged my heart, reordering it almost without my knowledge until the day I was courageous enough to embrace my true self. What I have found is that I love being a wife and mother. That is the highest joy in my life. Last night I sat at the table enjoying dinner with all my boys, a simple meal that I had made. Each Sunday I now look forward to cutting coupons. Even restoring order to the house is no longer a chore but a pleasure. I actually like cleaning our bathrooms. Who is this woman that I have become? And where is that other girl who used to be in her place?
The concept of gravity speaks most clearly to me here. In Bible times farmers would harvest grain by first separating the wheat from the chaff. To accomplish this the wheat would be thrown up into the air. The weight of the wheat kernels would send them back to the ground while the wind would blow the chaff away. It seems like this is how God has quietly transformed me, using the circumstances around me to bring me home to my true self. There have been several times when I felt like everything of who I was had been thrown up into the air. Each crisis was a crucial moment when some of my hopes and dreams would die in the moment anguish and disappointment. Ultimately I would discover that I did not miss what had faded away. What remained was more vivid and real, truer and dense. So much more my real self.
In this new airborne time I am finding that not as much of me is going away. I hate everything being up in the air. I hate not knowing where everything will land. But I love the freedom I feel as the untrue parts of myself fall away. The need to fit into an institutional plan is gone. The overwhelming responsibility of keeping of a ministry I love healthy has passed. The burden of believing that Wesley's future depended completely on me has vanished. I love that I am with my boys more. I love that I can rest my heart and head under the strength and love of my sweet husband. Everything about this new path of not working full time just feels so right. Trusting God to work out the details is hard. It's something I've usually always done. But not being the only one to work them out is good too. I feel like I've come home. And it is such a sweet one.
For this season, I am airborne. But I don't think it is a bad thing, as painful as it is. Because the thing that is being blown away is my tendency to do what I think is right because it is sensible, practical, but not at all what is in my heart. The gift of this season is that God has done the hard thing for me, the thing I never would have done because I love my family and my students so much. He removed the burden of trying to do it all, working full-time and being a full-time Mom. And as much as I love my students, they already have mothers. For my boys, I am their only one.
So this is me trusting that following my heart is not a bad thing. It is a risky thing, but what life worth living is ever without true risk? For me, the greatest risk worth taking is to turn my back on everything I once thought I wanted and simply come home.
This is me trusting,
Sami
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