The Rooms

I had a vision this morning.

I know, I know, it sounds crazy, or ultra spiritual and hokey. But it isn't the first time its happened to me, or the first time I've blogged about it. And this time...I almost didn't. Because I don't know...I don't think I can really give it the right words.

But I can't stop crying, and shaking, and laughing, and then back to the crying. So I want to share it. Because even if most of the blogging world (and by that I mean the few people who read this particular blog) thinks I've gone off the deep end...if the Lord shows you something, it's never just for you. Right? Eventually everything He reveals is for someone else...because He's just that good.

Okay. It started while I was praying, and mulling over a vision that a pastor shared during his message Sunday. I'll recap that one first, because I was praying about it, and about how it could apply to my life, and then the crying, shaking laughing thing started.

There is a person sitting in a room, on a bed. In front of them, on the floor, are broken shackles. The person isn't attached to the shackles anymore. They are looking down at them, recognizing them, but no longer bound by them. As the rest of the room comes into focus, you can see its a jail cell. The door of the cell is open. But the person is still sitting on the bed.

That was the vision my pastor friend had. And it spoke powerfully to many of us on Sunday. This morning, as I was praying, talking to the Lord about areas of my own life where I had been set free but wasn't walking in that freedom...I saw more of the vision, more of the picture. For the sake of easier writing, I will now refer to the person in the vision as myself. But...it is all of us. Read it like its you.

Suddenly, standing the doorway of the cell, is Jesus. "You are free of this, little one. See the blood on the shackles? Its my blood. I opened them with it. See the key in the door? That's the key of death. I went to hell and got it, and I brought it back to free you. Get up, little one. Leave this room behind you."

And I do. Because He paid dearly to free me, and with Him standing in front of me, how can I do anything but accept His offer?

As I walk forward, He begins to step backward, and, eyes on Him, I move out of that death cell.

We pass through the door and into another room. I stop, and take in the scenery. On these walls, I quickly realize, are a list of my failures, things I'm ashamed of. I don't want to look at it all. I certainly don't want Jesus to see it. In shame, in horror, I collapse on the bed in this room and cover my head. But...He sits beside me, and He speaks. "We aren't staying here. This room isn't a cell for you anymore. Look...look up, my child." 

When I open one eye, just a crack, and glance at the wall, I see the blood again. I don't see my guilt, and my shame. I glance at Jesus, and I see that He is also looking at the wall, but He doesn't see all of the sins recorded there. He sees His blood. And He is smiling as He speaks to me. "Let's keep moving."

And so we do. Each time we pass through a doorway, we pass into another room. But I'm getting used to what will happen, and its becoming less dramatic and horrifying. I see what is written on the walls, I know its meant to imprison me, to crush me, to keep me from being able to keep following Him to the next room...but now, eyes wide open, I get to see my Savior walk over to the wall, and apply His blood to it. White-washing it in red. And I start to get excited, almost, for Him to see more of my heart. "This room too, Lord! Clean this one out too, so I can leave it behind."

A long time passes this way. The process of cleaning out rooms and leaving them behind is hard. Its a lot of work, and it takes a while.

Then, we step into a room that is different from the others.

This one has furniture in it. A chair and a lamp in one corner. A coffee pot and mug on a table in another corner. The bed is there too, with a fluffy comforter and pillows on it. And I think to myself "yeeeeeeesssss. I made it out of the cells. Now I can rest."

Almost as soon as I sit down on the bed, I glance at the wall across from me, expecting to find lovely pictures hung there. But I don't. The words I see written there make me shrink back. I pull the blanket up to my chest and my knees into my stomach. 

"I don't understand," I say out loud. And I look over to see Jesus standing in the doorway, watching me with love in His eyes.

"You've had this room with you a long time, little one. Aren't you ready to let it go?"

I don't want to. I can feel the ache crushing me. I like this room. I can tell. It is part of who I am. Leaving it behind will mean losing a piece of myself. I shake my head at the Lord.

"It's too much, Jesus. We've already stripped so much of me. Anymore...and I won't be able to take it. This is far enough. I am not a prisoner anymore. I am happy here."

Time passes. I grow comfortable in my room. I even look back at the door I came through and praise the Lord for the freedom He's given me from the guilt and shame and addictions and lies. But...I don't look at the other door. Because that's where Jesus is standing. I crawl into my bed. I drink my coffee. I sit in my chair. I am at home here. This room has been with me too long to part with.

But then, something happens. Another person walks into my room. Someone who I just know, without it being explained to me, is also on a journey through rooms. At first, the person looks around, confused. I'm confused too. Why is this person passing through MY room on their journey? I don't speak, though. I just wait, sitting on my bed.

They look all around, blinking, taking in my comfortable existence. Then, they look at me.

"Why are you still here?" they ask. I shrug.

"Because its mine. It's part of me."

"But its a cell," they say, and point to the window. 

And for the first time, I see the bars on it. I lash out at the person."You don't know anything."

Nothing more is said to me as I lay down and pull the covers up to my chin. I shut my eyes and cover my ears with pillows.

But the person is talking. Not to me. To the other doorway, the one where Jesus was standing the last time I looked.

"Help her, Lord. Show her. She wants to be free, I know it. Cause her to remember all you have freed her from so far. Calm her fear of leaving this behind. Remind her that following You is worth more than anything else she would ever hold dear."

I can't take it anymore, and I start to yell, to drown out what the person is saying...and then my yell turns to a wail. I am gripping the blankets on my bed tightly, and I am curling myself around them. 

The weight shifts on the bed, and a strong, warm hand touches the top of my head. I don't move. I know Who it is, and I cannot make eye contact with Him.

But my heart is aching with thoughts. "I DO want to be free, Jesus. I DO want you more. But I'm afraid. I don't know how to leave this behind. Help me. Please, please help me."

He reaches down and scoops me up into His arms. I feel like my skin is being ripped away from my bones as He does it. I cry louder, in pain. 

He whispers. "Sssshhhh. I'm here. It's okay. I'm here." I manage to glance back at the bed, at the place I have been living comfortably, expecting to see chunks of myself there. Instead, I see words, written in blood. "Her healing from this has always hers. She is now choosing to walk in it."

I cry harder, and I bury my head on the chest of my Liberator. I am so ashamed that I have stayed so long in this place. I ask Him to forgive me. "I didn't know it was a cell. I didn't see it. I'm sorry. Forgive me, Lord. Help me let it go. I want to. But I need you to help me."

We stand that way for a long time, me crying, Jesus holding me. Finally the pain begins to become bearable, and I realzie that He isn't going to leave the room until I say I am ready.

"Okay, Jesus. You're here. I can do it. I can leave this behind. I want to be free of this place. If there is still more...I'm ready for it."

Only as we are about to leave the room do I remember the person that came in and called me out, pointing out my actual situation, and then praying for me until I was willing to see it for myself. I look back, wanting to thank them, but they are gone.

Jesus speaks. "I am always with you, little one. And sometimes, the way I am speaking to you is through others. Your journey is meant to intersect the journey of others. But...you have to keep moving in order for that to happen." 

As we leave my most recent jail cell behind, my Companion sets me down on my feet, and we resume our previous posture, where He is leading me, walking backward, and I am following Him.

More rooms, more freedom...it passes in a blur. I'm so excited to be moving again, and I keep praising the Lord for liberating me from all the things I thought I needed to hold on to.

And then I come into a room I don't recognize. With a chair in a corner, a coffee pot, a comfy bed. At first, I wonder if this is another room I am going to end up staying in for a while. But then...I see a person on the bed, looking at me in confusion. And I realize...I've entered someone else's journey. 

I'm so excited. "Get up!" I exclaim. "Don't stay here! It is a cell!"

They scowl at me. "Leave me alone. You don't know anything."

In sorrow, I beging to pray, and suddenly I realize exactly how the person who prayed for me must've felt. "Deliver them, Lord. Reveal the truth to them. Give them courage. Soothe their hearts in the process. So they can call others into more freedom too."

And then...then we move on, Jesus and I. 

Do you see it? Do you see the walk? Do you understand? The rooms...they are our lives. They are the journey with Him, they are the path. Sometimes we build new rooms, places to commemorate all God has done in us, a memorial of our freedom. But we don't stay there. We are on the move. We pass through each other's rooms sometimes. Sometimes we walk through the same rooms at the same times our brothers and sisters, working together to know Him more, to leave behind words of encouragement and prayers for anyone who may pass through later. Sometimes we are hurt again, and we crawl into bed and cover ourselves and sit...and Jesus is kind. He is patient. He is gentle. He will sit with us, and soothe our hurts, and hold us while we bleed out pain. 

But. If we stay too long...the pain becomes hardness, bitterness, un-forgiveness. And we can't feel Him at work anymore, because we are enveloped by this room and all it means.

He will send us people...people who have been here before, to remind us, to call us, to challenge us. And it will hurt. But, oh, He's faithful to use it all to guide us into more freedom.

To scoop us into His arms, even though it rips off chunks of flesh as He picks us up. 

He whispers to us, calming our fears with His Word. And then...when we are ready, He leads us forward again. 

We can decide to return to any room. Leave the light on so we can make it back if we want to, refuse to leave it behind altogether. But...why? Why do we do that? Is that sin, that hurt, that memory, that way we identify ourselves...is any of it REALLY worth it? If we are dragging remnants of our past rooms along behind us...it makes it so much harder to go new places. 

Sometimes others will point that out too. "Do you know that you're walking forward, but you've got a rope around your waist, tied to a bunch of junk from past rooms? Don't you think it would be easier to move without it? Also...you're kind of causing chaos with that junk. It's banging around everywhere you go. How can you not see that?"

Oh, brothers and sisters. Can you see it? I pray that this will begin to resonate with you the way it has settled so deeply into me that I cannot stop gasping for air. 

"Don't let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust also in me...I am the way, the truth, and the life..." John 14:1, 6

Stranglehold vs. Spirithold

Have you ever been strangled nearly to death?

Obviously, the majority of us haven't been. It happens a lot on Law and Order, and other crime dramas. But in real, every day, middle America, most of us don't meet up with a crazy killer who tries to choke the very breath out of us for whatever evil reason. 

It takes a long time for someone to die of strangulation, if the above mentioned crime dramas can be believed. And it must be truly terrifying to have hands gripping your neck hard enough to leave bruises, knowing that they plan to maintain that grip until blood vessels pop in your eyes and your lips turn blue and your nails can no longer dig into their hands and your legs don't have any oxygen to use for kicking...

Someone who is being strangled KNOWS they are dying, and that its only a matter of moments before they no longer have breath to get free. Time is of the essence. If you want to live, you have to fight back fast, and smart, and forcefully.

I have watched my daughter in her self-defense class, standing still while a grown, tall, strong man grabbed her around the neck with both hands, simulating strangulation, so that she could learn how to fight back. I've watched her get loose, time and again, and I always let out a sigh of relief, not even knowing I was holding my breath until she was free of the choke hold.

I've been thinking about this particularly morbid topic for a while now, mulling over something I wanted to share but unsure I had to right words to explain it. Finally, I decided just to go for it.

No, I have never been nearly strangled to death, physically. 

But I have absolutely been strangled. Spiritually, emotionally, I have experienced the soul sapping realization that I can't breathe, I can't get away, I am going to die.

As clearly as if it were physical, I have felt the choke hold.

Have you?

Maybe not in quite such a dramatic way as feeling certain you are going to die from the stranglehold. But you have felt it...you just don't know it yet.

So...answer a few questions for me, if you will.

Have you ever said the sentence "This is something I've always struggled with" ?

Have you ever known there was an unhealthy pattern in your life, but chosen not to make a change because it would be too hard?

Have you ever come face to face with truth, recognized it AS truth, and still continued in a pattern that was opposite of that truth?

If you answered yes to any of these questions...

I would argue that you have, in fact, experienced strangulation...as surely as if the Devil himself were standing in front of you, physically choking the life out of you.

Did you know that the word 'strangle' doesn't just mean 'to kill by squeezing the throat and preventing the intake of air' ? That's the first definition. But listen to this one...

"To prevent the continuance, growth, rise, or action...to suppress, to stifle..."

Have you ever said the sentence "I've always struggled with...?"(fill in the blank with whatever you've said. Don't lie and pretend you've never said it. You've at LEAST thought it.) Well then, your spirit, you soul, your very life has been stifled in that area.

Sound harsh? Extreme? Like I took it a little too far?

I have, in the very recent past, been in situations where I knew...I KNEW, something was not right. I knew I should say so. I had all the words inside me...but I pressed my lips together and said nothing.

Why did I do that? 

Because not long before that, there had been another situation where what I had said hadn't been well received. And as I pondered it, I said to myself, "I must've made a mistake. I don't want to make mistakes. So I should probably stop saying things that could possibly be taken the wrong way." The next time the opportunity came to open my mouth and speak truth, I reminded myself "You could make a wrong step here. Better to take no step at all." The next time..."That is too hard. Don't say that. Don't do that. It will be a mistake."

Until one day, a very short time ago, I was sitting at my kitchen table, my Bible open in front of me, wondering why I felt so isolated, out of breath, unsettled, weakened, and afraid.

"Lord...help me to see what is wrong." That was my prayer, and as I prayed it, I was rubbing my tired throat muscles. (Church the day before had left my singing muscles all tuckered out.)

It was as if the Lord shined a giant spotlight on my hands on my throat. And He said, "You are being strangled by a lie."

Spiritually, I was stifled. Emotionally, I was suppressed. 

Not to the point of death...but certainly to the point of suffering. 

Another thing to note about strangulation is that the victims are silent...because they can't get enough breath to scream. 

That was me. Silent. With a lie gripping my throat just enough so I couldn't make sound, but not enough that I went into the panic of fighting for my life. 

THIS is where our sly adversary, the evil one lurking in the darkness, that vile deceiver...this is where he gets his wins.

Not from actually killing us. Not from walking up to us and announcing he is after our very lives. NO. He gains a victory in our lives every time we believe a lie.

As surely as if he had his hand around our throats, pressing down just enough to make us work harder, or stop working altogether, or adjust how we live, or concede in an area we wouldn't have before, or shy away from something hard, or accept something we wouldn't have tolerated before.

He is the most subtle of stranglers. So much so that all of us, ALL OF US, answered that first question "have you ever been strangled?" with a resounding "NO."

I'm going to pause right now and pray. Because my hands are trembling. And that means the Spirit is speaking.

"Oh kind, faithful, merciful Father...shine light where You want to move within us. Show us the enemy at work. Reveal him to us. Cause us to yearn for intimacy with You...and let that desire outweigh the hard things we have to look at within ourselves."

Our God wants us breathing, living, and testifying of that life. And He wants it for us in abundance. No stifling or suppressing. 

The enemy of God, and of our souls, wants the opposite. And he's crafty in how he assaults us.

"The thief comes to steal, kill, and destroy. I have come that you might have life, and life abundant." John 10:10

The devil comes to kill you. But not just kill you. Destroy you. Not just destroy you. STEAL from you. 

Killing is very overt. Destroying is too. But stealing...its subtle. It's quiet. It's covert. It can go unnoticed for a long time.

And one small theft at a time, the enemy WILL DESTROY you. He will kill that abundant life that Jesus came to give you.

Until the day you are sitting at your table, massaging your throat, asking God why its so hard to get a good, deep, spiritual breath, and He tells you "You're letting yourself be strangled by a lie."

How I pray that I don't ever again have to arrive at painful, spiritual suppression before I see the lies for what they are: theft of my abundant life.

Do you know the truth? You can. It's His Word. And its available to you. If you know it...apply it to your current set of life issues.

You know how to get out of the choke hold, as surely as if you were in self-defense class with my daughter. 

ASK HIM, the One who came to give you abundant life, to show you the lies, and remind you of the truth that prove them as lies. And then...renounce them.

I did it out loud, almost wailing in my horror that I had allowed it to go so far, had been suffocated and stifled so completely that I was physically gasping for air.

"Oh God, forgive me for believing a lie and rejecting You, the Truth. (John 14:6) I declare, aloud so my enemy can hear it, that I see that lie, and I will no longer be strangled by it. I have authority over it because the Spirit of the Living God, who raised Christ Jesus from the dead, is IN ME. (Romans 8:11) And all authority in heaven and on earth is HIS. (Matthew 28:18) I am free from this choke hold in the mighty name of Jesus. Amen."

Two things: First, I used the TRUTH to fight the lies. You have to know it. You have to know it FOR YOURSELF, not just because someone else told it to you. Otherwise the devil doesn't even have to try and kill you or destroy you. He's already strangling you with the lie that its okay not to read the Word daily and let it sink into your very soul. Second, you have to continually identify the lie as it continues to ping around inside you, and declare truth to it over and over.

Like a blocked artery, once cleared, has to be maintained by correct diet and exercise, so too a spiritual bondage (which is what a lie, believed and accepted, becomes. Because the father of all lies is the devil. (John 8:44) If you believe a lie...you are in bondage to it. Its simple. And its absolutely possible to be free) must be broken, renounced, and then actively walked out of. 

I won't try and list all the lies we believe that become bondage in our lives. That would take too long. But I pray that by now the Spirit of God has already begun to point them out in your life. 

Have you ever been strangled? Yes.
Will you continue to stand there and let it happen?
Or will you fight back?

That first deep breath of free, SPIRIT saturated air...oh, it feels so good. How could we have ever thought we were breathing before?

Be brave enough to fight back and get loose from the grip of the lies...and then gulp in that freedom, for it is your very LIFE.

Believe the TRUTH, and let Him set you free.

English Lesson

Confession (that will not come as a shock to anyone): I love English, and am a fan of strong words choices.

As a writer, nothing makes me happier than reading, or hearing, words that perfectly paint the intended picture in my mind.

I frown upon (and by that I mean, rant excessively about) weak words, or fake words, or words that don't give nearly enough information.

For example, my kids say "that's lit," all the time. I hate it. 

"What does that even mean?" I always question.

"You know...awesome...cool," they respond.

"That still doesn't really tell me anything."

"Mom...the song is just lit. That is all. It's lit."

Irritation abounds. 

Is the tune catchy? Does it have a beat that is fun to drum along to? Are the lyrics deep and exciting? Sad? Funny?

WHAT DOES LIT MEAN?

I frequently require them to give me at least one additional adjective to describe whatever is currently being discussed, and I am almost always referred to as the"grammar police" for it.

But words are supposed to resonate. We should understand the intention, or situation, or required response, or desired feedback, simply by listening to the words being said.

When my husband responds "interesting" to anything I say...I want to pull out my hair. "Funny interesting? Boring interesting? I'm-not-really-listening interesting? Which is it?" 

Perhaps my particular bent toward flowery words is why I love reading the Psalms so much. The verses paint vivid pictures in my mind's eye, and I so appreciate that. I am never at a loss for how I am supposed to respond, emotionally and sometimes even physically, to a particular passage. The direction is found within the words themselves. 

There are, however, passages that cause a struggle sometimes.

"Be still and know..."

"Be patient..."

"Be strong and courageous..."

If I was grading a paper which included the words, I would have nothing bad to say. Ask any of my former writing students. The problem I have is with the verb BE.

I don't like state-of-being verbs. I like ACTION verbs. 

Colorful images fill my mind if I say "Grasp patience" or "Practice strength and courage" or "Settle into stillness and knowledge." 

I can get behind those verbs. They require an action from me, and I am quick to respond accordingly. 

But...BE STILL. What does that mean? Sit still? Stand still? Lay still? Remain still? Return to stillness? WHAT AM I DOING?

I shared this particular dissatisfaction with the Lord this morning, during my Bible reading time. (Because what Author doesn't like to have their word choices critiqued?)(eye roll(at myself)) 

"I don't like this verse, Lord. Wait on You? What am I supposed to do? I clearly AM waiting...because I'm not doing anything. But I don't like it. It doesn't give me enough direction. I'll sit here, still and waiting, as long as you tell me to...but I need something to do while I'm here. I need more words..."

I'm giggling about it right now, because as I sat...I'm pretty sure an angel came into my sitting room. Why do I think that?

Because I had my worship songs play-list playing, on shuffle, (and it's over 11 hours long) and one song after another...the music, the words, spoke directly to what I had just been discussing with the Lord. I have basically decided an angel was choosing the music for me. Not every song in that 11.75 hours of music would be a direct answer to my prayer...but 5 songs in a row were. And I cried, and I laughed, and I was still before Him, and He spoke sweetly.

I don't think He minds that I need strong word pictures. He created me the way I am, after all. I don't even think He minds when I wish for a stronger synonym for a particular word. 

Because He always drops the synonyms into my spirit exactly when I need them.

"You remain IN me. And I am all things. I am Healing and Hope and Strength and Mercy and Knowledge and Faithfulness and Courage and Power and Understanding and Wisdom and Peace and Kindness and Rest...All the words you could ever need, you can find them IN ME."

And so, to wrap up this little English lesson...

I am CHOOSING to obey Him. Because that is an action word. And it actually takes quite a bit of exertion on my part. The grasping-with-my-nails, eyes-shut-tight, energy-depleting CHOOSING to be still, to wait, to just BE.

But y'all...I find Him there. I find all the things I wish He would direct me to do and seek and learn and become...I find them all IN HIM. 

And I find rest in the process. Which is good, because its exhausting to set aside all the synonyms I would choose for a word...

You want to know one more word with such depth of meaning that it could be endlessly expounded upon, but it doesn't need that? A word that paints so many pictures inside me that it really is the whole story, all wrapped up in 5 letters?

J.E.S.U.S.

A whisper. A wail. A shout. A laugh. A battle cry. A dying breath.

 

Every fear, hope, praise, request...every heartbeat. Right there within His name.

Isn't He an exceptional Author? All His heart toward us, painted across that one syllable word, echoing endlessly across our lives.

And He says "English class dismissed."

Inside and Out

I'm an extroverted person. I always have been. I talked very early, my parents tell me, and I haven't stopped talking since. I never run out of words I could say.

So, it may be a surprise to learn that I also truly, deeply, enjoy alone time. Quiet. Cozy. Settled. With blankets and slippers and coffee and candles. And NO speaking. 

I'm doing it right now, in fact. Curled up in my sitting room, with only one lamp, two candles, and a half cup of coffee as companions. Oh, and my laptop.

Because clearly I need to talk even during silence. 

I can hear better in the still moments. That's the thing. I hear the Lord differently in these spaces.

Not that I don't hear Him in the chaos. I do. He speaks to me of His love for me every time my kids smile. I hear the Father reminding me of His goodness every time my husband tells me he loves me.

He testifies of His faithfulness toward me in the LOUD.
 He whispers of His presence WITH ME in the silence.

And so I am both. An extrovert and an introvert.

Sometimes He speaks to me in the transition from one to the other. Like this morning. As the dogs and the boys descended on the family room, turning on cartoons and cuddling with each other (rowdy cuddling, because that's the only kind dogs and boys know) I grabbed my laptop, my coffee, and the lighter, and retreated to the front room. 

When you first light a candle, it burns bright, doesn't it? For several long beats its a high flame, and it throws sparks and sputtering sounds before it settles into the simmer. The it flickers, and gives off a lovely fragrance, and casts a glow across the room. But if you blew it out and lit it again, it would flame high again before settling.

The candle is me, people. Loud and bright, slow and quiet. Both at once. The way I was meant to be. Speaking loudly of His glory. sinking quietly into His lap. 

One without the other...just wouldn't be complete.

But, (and here is the part that has me going "hmmmm" into the stillness of my solitude) candles spend way more time being the simmering, scent-dispersing, flickering, peaceful glow than they do burning high and bright and throwing off sound. And their best work is done in the low burn. 

Oh Lord, let that be true of me too. In the silence, in the moments alone with You, let that be where the best work of my life is done.

I love it when the Holy Spirit shows up in a big way, and I get to testify of His goodness and faithfulness and glory. I love it.

But I CRAVE the silent moments with Him. Its where I am renewed, and soothed, and warmed. If it weren't for the intimacy of the quiet times with Him...the loud times would have no purpose.

Because what good is a candle that is lit, and then as soon as the bright light slows and the sputtering stops, its blown out? Then there's no lovely smell, and no flickering, perpetual glow.

The same is true of us. We can sing loud, and testify long, and holler about seeing His glory in our lives...

But do we sit, alone and silent, in the glow of His fellowship, and just soak it in? Listen to the whispers? Enjoy the solitude that never really IS because He's with us?

Oh, its the sweetest thing. Its LIFE to me.

I'm not really sure how a candle became a metaphor for my walk with God...but there it is.

"Lord...today, in each moment, will You be the light within me? Burn brightly if You want to, for Your glory. But the slow simmer, the continual glow, of Your presence...that is my truest desire. And when I forget...when I neglect the quiet and instead choose the outside things...draw me inward, toward You, once again.

I see you, Lord. Inside and out. Cause me to see You more. Amen."

To do or not to do...

I wonder sometimes why I even bother to sit down with this laptop and try to string words together into anything resembling coherent thoughts. 

It seems so easy for all the movie bloggers. They write, people read, they get famous, life is grand. And their hair and eyebrows and thighs and wardrobes are perfect in the process. 

Why is it that whenever I have a "hmm, that would make a good blog post" thought, it is almost immediately followed by one of my children breaking a toe? Or using the bathroom outside? (not #1, by the way, and he's also WAY too old for that to be an honest potty training mistake) Or being so hungry that death is imminent if I don't get up RIGHT THEN and fix food? Or having an essay writing brain block that requires me to sit and brainstorm for an hour? 

After all of those things...who can even remember what the heck I was planning to say in that blog post?

Its a little bit comical to me, right now, that the sentence I almost wrote was "WHY do I bother doing it at all?"

Why is that so comical? 

Well, I have kids, that's why. 

Just last week, during a discussion about an upcoming geography quiz, I informed the boys that I wanted them to be able to name at least 10 countries per continent on a blank map. I even offered them cash for each right answer. (within reason, clearly. I'm not paying them a dollar if they can find Russia on a map. But for Uzbekistan I would totally pay that amount) Anyway, the horrified look on my 14-year-old's face...it was something to behold. "WHY do I have to do that?" (please read this with a) all the love I have for him and b) a total awareness of the tone of voice that gets under a mom's skin like nothing else in the world) 

"Because its part of your school," I responded calmly.

"BUT WHY?" he pushed.

And here is where the calm ceased. Why is it that only a teenager can push the buttons that lead to moms losing their cool?

As he stomped down the hall, my voice carried behind him. "Because I am the mom, I know what is best for you, and also I SAID SO."

Sigh...I could edit this story to make myself sound like a better mom, or my kids like the perfect kids, but honestly I'm way too tired to be that dishonest. And it wouldn't make anyone feel better anyway, so I'm really just hoping for some extra grace on this story.

I tell it for a reason. I tell it because, as mad as I was at him for pitching a fit about what I had asked of him...I literally almost typed that exact same sentence a few minutes ago. "WHY do I even bother? What is the point? Why do I have to do that?"

The truth is...I don't have to write. And I don't always. Because I'm busy cleaning up backyard bathroom incidents and bandaging toes that may or may not be broken, and cooking for three man-children on a near-constant basis.

And my son doesn't HAVE to know geography. It isn't a life requirement, or even a skill that will be particularly useful in any job he pursues.

So really...WHY DO WE HAVE TO?

And my answer to him is the Lord's answer to me. "Because I know what is best for you..." And, even though He isn't yelling at me when He says it, my good, good Father has absolutely said "Because I'm your Father and I SAID SO," to me before.

Obedience. That is the real rub, isn't it? Doing something because it is asked of you, even if it makes no sense, and doesn't fit within what you can understand or figure out.

And not just obedience when you know it will be hard but you can see that it will be worth it one day. No. I'm talking about being willing to do TODAY obedience, when tomorrow could have no payoff whatsoever. 

Because I don't think the Lord gives out dollars for correct answers to geography questions. Nor does He often show us all of a picture when He asks us to walk in obedience to Him.

Sometimes He just says, "Because I said so."

And you know what? I don't like it when He says that to me. Just like my kids don't like it when I say it to them.

I am still giggling a little bit. And also, I'm apologizing to my Father for all the times I stomped down the hall, mad about what He was asking me to do. Because even though I know He doesn't have skin for me to get under, or buttons for me to push...if He did, I would TOTALLY be the rage-inducing teenager.

This blog post has gone nowhere conclusive Further evidence that sometimes things don't make sense. 

But...He says for me to put my fingers on these keys and say words. (err...type words...whatever) So, I do it because He says so. And even if it makes me sound crazy or like a terrible mother or in need of a waste management team in my backyard...He knows what's best for me. 

Because He says so.

"You go before me, and You follow me. You place Your hand of blessing on my head. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too great for me to understand." Psalm 139:5-6

Milan

Every city is different, and its markedly true of European cities. They have an internal culture all their own, which I find fascinating, but also difficult to acclimate to. Just as I think I'm getting the hang of a city, we are off to a new one, and I have to adjust again.

Milan is a BIG city, with lots of modern aspects because of all the high fashion and expensive shops. We were nearly murdered by taxis (ones we were IN and ones surrounding us) and buses and motorcycles seemed to appear out of nowhere right as we were attempting to cross streets.

We did manage to wander through the oldest mall in Italy, taking in the array of high end store fronts, and then leaving to hunt for a bargain shop. We ended up buying nothing...because we are weighed down with extra things already. Wait...I take it back, we bought things...we bought food, and we are absolutely weighed down by that. (insert frowning face here)

We've come to expect the soaring beauty of the buildings and churches and plazas in Italy, and we were not disappointed in Milan. There is so much history here. I swear, it speaks to me, even over the roar of traffic and throngs of people.

The Manza race track was a surprise. The oldest Formula One track in the world, and the second oldest race track in the world...I guess made me anticipate buildings and established borders. Instead...it seemed the entire village was constructed the day before, amid trees in a park outside town. Tents were randomly spread over miles of forest, with dirt paths navigating between them. And because it had rained the day before, the dirt had become mud. The seats were all bleachers, crammed together tightly. The toilets were all portable as well, and when we arrived in the complex (5 hours before the race) they were already out of toilet paper. Ashley and I finally found a couple stalls with partial rolls, and we took advantage of our chance to stash extra in our purses. Which was lucky, because we never saw another stitch of TP the whole day. The boys had it way easier, as in Europe its totally acceptable to urinate in the woods, against the side of a building, in the middle of the wide open...wherever. This phenomenon had me wrinkling my nose in horror at the multiple, visible, peeing men everywhere I looked...all day long. It also added to the adventure of navigating the mud, which may or may not have been combined with random strangers' urine.

My favorite part of the culture of Milan is that everyone, EVERYONE, sits down at a curbside cafe for appetizers and drinks, conversation and relaxation, beginning at the 5 o'clock hour and continuing until supper time, around 8. We found a lovely spot on the main square, with a perfect view of the Milan Cathedral, and we slipped right into that particular cultural experience. People watching is always one of my favorite things, and its even better in other countries.

It's early in the morning now, and we are sitting in the airport, bags checked, extra bags (loaded with souvenirs) sitting beside us, extra pounds from all the pasta and bread we've eaten sitting ON us, waiting to board our flight. A brief layover in Madrid, and then we will cross the ocean, heading home. We have had a fantastic adventure, mouth watering food, beautiful views at every turn, and lots of bonding time in tiny taxis. We are glad to be returning to our world. Not because the countries of the world aren't wonderful. They are. But our sweet little babies await us, and we can barely contain our excitement to hold them and kiss them and hug them and inhale their scent.

Ashley and I finally, finally, ate a croissant and marked it off our list of things to experience in Europe. The boys say it was at least our 50th croissant...but we don't remember it that way...

I'm thankful that Italy and France welcomed us with warmth and excitement.

I'm MORE thankful that our people await us on the other side of the ocean.

Florence

My first thought about Florence, after we exited our train and maneuvered through the masses of people and luggage and made our way out onto the taxi platform...was "Dear Lord, its humid here. My hair is going to be gigantic."

Situated in a valley between two mountainous areas, the atmosphere holds a great deal of moisture. Up to 85% humidity is not uncommon. I am pleased to report that my hair soaked up at least 15% of it while we toured the city. You're welcome, Florence.

As I have come to expect from Italian cities (and cities of the world in general) Florence had a very distinct atmosphere. It had a big city vibe in some ways, with lots of traffic and throngs of people. But also, in the old, historical section of the city, where we were staying and spent almost all of our time, there are so many old buildings and marble statues that they start to all look the same. Art and architecture are the things this city is famous for. And, of course, food and wine, as it is the capital of the Tuscany region.

As we wandered, I would say "What is THIS amazing building?" (expecting it to be something famous and unlike anything else...) And then we would discover it was a museum, and we would take in its lovely renaissance architecture, and move on. After the 3rd of 4th time this exact same thing happened...I changed my approach. I began, instead, to count how many different museums we passed as we explored the old city. I am pleased to tell all of you that we laid eyes on 12 museums in the 2.5 days we were in Florence. I feel that keeping track of it was brain power well spent.

In addition to soaking up some of the humid air, my hair also received an original Florentine treatment, designed to instantly moisturize and perfume the strands...and by that, I mean...a bird pooped in my hair while we were exploring the old, original bridge crossing the river.

Not just a little bit of poop, either. It was a giant PLOP that soaked into my hair and onto my shoulder. Of course, we hadn't yet checked into our hotel room, so I had nowhere to go to wash it out. Instead, we stole some napkins from a street cafe, and I handed them to Heath to clean me up.

He barely kept from throwing up (eye roll) so Ashley took over picking the pellets out of my rapidly growing mane.

I have now developed a fear of birds.

Nature has been toying with us this trip, for sure. Ashley got stung by a bee in France, I got pooped on by a bird in Italy...and we were rained on in Cinque Terre.

But, oh my, how different that part of the Italian landscape was from the bustling cities we have stayed in.

It took 2 hours to drive from Florence to the coast, and as we went, we passed through several different regions of the country. Each one is known for a different specialty of food or wine or natural materials. For miles and miles we drove past nurseries, with rows upon rows of different trees, grown there due to the high volume of rainfall and then shipped all over Italy. Then, almost as soon as we entered a new region, the fields changed, housing grapes or olives. And then again, a new region, with many textile factories. Then we entered a mountainous region, and our guide pointed out a set of tall, white peaks nearby.

"This is not snow," he told us, then asked if we knew what it was. We were stunned, because anyone would immediately consider them snow capped mountains.

"The town is the town of Carrera," he hinted...and we blinked, not understanding. "The white you see is Carrera marble. It is only found here."

You've never seen anything like it. Actually, that's not true. If you've seen snowy mountains, you have seen something like it. But this was MARBLE. An entire mountain range of marble. Unbelievable.

The 5 tiny towns that make up the Cinque Terre region were charming, picturesque, adorable. We were amazed by the fact that they terraced gardens and buildings were built into the side of sheer rock mountains. And all of the planting and harvesting and working was done by hands and feet and backs, no matter how young or old. It had to be grueling work. And after everything was built, the grueling work continued. The people who live in that area work from morning till night, just to sustain their way of life. They produce wine and olive oil, they grow lemons and figs and prickly pears, and they fish, pushing their boats by hand down and up the precarious dock, and through the winding, steep streets, every time they want to use them. With such small space, and so much work that is required for everything they do, they don't have enough of the wine or olive oil or lemons available to sell it outside the region. If you want to taste it, you have to visit the towns and eat at the cafes. And so we did.

I can't describe how charming we found it, to sit down to a meal made entirely of things grown on the surrounding hills. It was my favorite Italian experience so far. And I've seen and done a LOT of really cool things here.

We climbed more stairs here, because we are eating so much pasta and bread that we keep looking for things to do to burn them off. (That last part is a lie. We ARE eating all the carbs, but we are only burning them off because their are very few elevators, and none of them were installed in the old structures we are touring.) Another 400+ steps to look out over Florence from the top of the Duomo (dome). It was oppressively hot. As in, Ashley and I are considering burning the undergarments we wore that day. My hair did its part to soak up the moisture...but we still sweat puddles onto the stone steps. The view from the top was magic, as all the elevated views have been.

The statue of David did not disappoint either. People with any artistic ability amaze me, as I have NONE. Seeing the famous art of the world makes me feel a lot more cultured, even if I know deep down I'm just a little old country girl who gets a daily hankering for sweet tea and bare feet.

Now, we can say were are country folk who have laid eyes, in person, on a few of the art world's masterpieces.

It's off to Milan now, but only for a short bit of touring. Tomorrow is the Manza Formula One race, so this evening will be our only chance to look for discount shopping. "Is there a Ross, dress for less, in Milan?" Ashley asked. And there is, in fact, a discount store. I'm not sure that the retailers of Milan have the same idea as us about what price is considered a discount...I'll keep you posted.

Arrivederci for now!