How He Loves

"And we know that all things work together for the good of those who love God, and are called according to His purpose for them." Romans 8:28 NLT

We all know this verse. Its one of the most popular scriptures for people to quote, usually in an attempt to help someone feel better about a particular trial they are facing.

"It's going to be okay! All things work together for good!"

"Just remember, all things work for good."

"He's working it all out for good."

Can we have a moment of brutal honesty here?

I. Hate. It. When. People. Say. That.

I know its supposed to be helpful, but, honest to God, I have to control the urge to punch the person in their nose.

Because it doesn't help. If that's all you can think of to say...I recommend silence instead.

Knowing the verse doesn't magically make trials go away. Neither does hearing it.

Understanding the promise in the verse does not, in any way, make the THING we are facing any more GOOD. It really only makes the hearer feel like they have been chastised for finding their particular trial difficult. Like we should all just KNOW that our hard times are really good, and that's all there is to it.

It's a stupid thing to say, and just in case you ever think to say that to me in the future...I will most likely control myself and NOT punch you in the nose...but you can never really be certain of that, can you?

Okay, moment of brutal honesty adjourned.

I've heard this verse my whole life. We all have.

But we are missing the point. We can't really understand the point until we have lived it.

Yesterday I was talking to my husband, telling him about my day, filling him in with a moment-by-moment play-by-play, (because what man doesn't want to hear every single thing their wife did all day, right?) and suddenly, in the middle of my recounting, I had to pause, and blink, and gasp.

My husband was looking at me strangely, his glazed-over-eyes clearing as he realized I had stopped jabbering incessantly.

"It was really good, wasn't it?" I stated, more to myself than to him. "Never in a million years would I have thought it could be better this way, but it really is for our good."

He smiled at me, as if he had known all along what I had, only that moment, figured out.

Perhaps you would like to hear the tale? (name that movie...oops, sorry, that's a game Faith and I play, inserting movie quotes into our everyday conversations and quizzing each other...)

The tale goes back almost four years, to the death of my sister, Joy. Most people know that story. I won't retell it. Here are the facts.

She was a missionary in Malaysia.
She died due to complications of a congenital brain defect.
We didn't know she had it.
No one in our family was able to get to Malaysia in time to say goodbye to her.
It was a terrible, tragic, horrible shock.

After she died came even more shocks. It would cost $13,000 to have her body shipped back to the states for burial. None of us could afford that.

And so her body was cremated. And the US Embassy in Kuala Lumpur shipped an urn, filled with her ashes, to my house.

It was just a box wrapped in purple cloth, and it arrived like any other package.

But it was awful.
I sat in the entryway of my house, with my husband and kids surrounding me, and I wept.

And for many months after that, I dreamed that she wasn't really dead. In my dreams she had been taken prisoner and I had to go rescue her, or she had gotten lost and couldn't get word out.

Because I never saw her body. I never held her hand as it grew cold. I never heard her stop breathing.

So my mind had trouble making it real. Sometimes I still have trouble believing it is real.

Fast-forward a bit.

As a family, we decided to bury the urn containing her ashes, and mark it with a headstone, because it would hopefully help us all start to accept what had happened in a country on the other side of the world but had changed us all forever.

So, we found a spot on my sister, Sarah's, property, and we had a graveside service, just our family.

And it was so sad and so terrible, the tiny hole we had to dig to put the box in, and how it didn't take us but a few minutes to cover it over with dirt.

How I ached to kiss her cheek, or stroke the back of her hand, or lay beside her on her hospital bed.

I didn't want the box.

I couldn't imagine there would ever be anything I would feel thankful about with regard to her ashes.

But...

Yesterday I was showing a picture to some friends. It was a picture of Joy's grave, and what it looks like now.

We have created a garden, the Joyful Garden, in the nearly four years since she died. Every year around her birthday, my sisters and I buy and plant something new at the grave, and expand it, and weed it, and put down landscaping mulch. It's really starting to look beautiful.

This year we enlisted a few of our cousins to help us build a stone wall to enclose it.

That's the picture I was showing my friends, a picture of the wall, and how truly spectacular it turned out.

And as I was telling my husband about how impressed my friends were with our endeavor over the past weekend...that is when it really hit me.

We wouldn't have been able to bury her body there.
We would have had to bury her body in a cemetery.
And then we wouldn't have the Joyful Garden.
We wouldn't be able to visit her grave side, and feel close to her, anytime we wanted to.
We wouldn't be able to spend days surrounded by our cousins, working up a sweat to build something that honors Joy.
We wouldn't be able to see the gladiolas blooming, and smile at their loveliness, and be thrilled by how enchanting the garden becomes as the years pass.

The ashes and the urn, and the closure that was so long in coming because of them...those things turned out to be for our GOOD.

They are a blessing.

And I am nearly choking on the words as I write them, because how can anything that includes the ashes of a person we love ever be considered a blessing?

But...the daffodils are blooming right now in the Joyful Garden.

One of the hardest things about the worst time in my life...turned out to be for my good.

If you want to tell me about the hard thing in your life, or the dark place you are in, or the pain you are facing, or the fear of trials, I can promise you I will NOT tell you that God is working for your good.

Because if someone had said that to me when I was holding that urn...I probably would have punched them in their nose.

It's not good, the pain and trial and darkness and hurt. Its horrible, and gut wrenching, and I will probably tell you that I wish more than anything that you didn't have to go through it.

But...God is still there.

He's working.

He's holding you in His arms, and if you let Him, He will keep you from drowning, He will shelter you as long as the storm rages, He will breathe for you when you don't have the strength to take another breath.

And one day, you will have a moment like I had yesterday, where you can look back at the trail, and the trial you've been walking and living, and you will be shocked and breathless to realize...

He worked for your good, even in the tragedy.

It won't make the tragedy less awful.

But it will be a reminder that you are loved.

Somehow, today, those ashes are a love letter to me from God.

How can that be? It's too hard to fathom. It's too much for my heart to bear.

But...there is a garden. The Joyful Garden.

And its the evidence of His love.

Shadows

I've been thinking about shadows lately. (yes, I know that is a totally random thing to be pondering, but that is the way my weird mind works sometimes.)

There is a dog named Shadow in the kids movie "Homeward Bound. He is loyal and brave and tough.

Peter Pan loses his shadow and has to have it sewed back on. He is lonely without it.

In the Lion King, Simba refers to the hyena's home as "that shadowy place."

...clearly I watch too many kids movies...

Depending on the time of day, my shadow makes me feel skinny...or the opposite of it.

Our house casts a shadow on our front lawn, so much so that there is still a bit of snow surviving in places, despite the fact that it was 70 degrees here yesterday.

For the most part shadows are kind of a pain. They obscure things from view. They are a place where sneaky people notoriously hide. They are home to all the creepy, crawly critters. Most plants can't grow there, because there is no light.

And then their are the metaphorical shadows. The ones that lurk inside us.

They rise up at unexpected times and cast their long dark fingers across our hearts, making it cold and sad and lonely.

Shadows of regret.
Of mistakes.
Of unforgiveness.
Shadows of loneliness. Abandonment. Fear. Doubt. Grief.

I have shadows under my eyes this morning, caused by the shadow of grief that lurks in my heart. When it rears its ugly head and blots out the sun, I feel helpless against it. No amount of light pierces it for very long. I swear, this shadow of mine has claws and teeth and breathes fire.

The worst thing about all these heart shadows is: we never know when they will rise up and blanket us in their darkness. Its totally random, triggered by nothing, or by something that doesn't make any logical sense.

And suddenly we are standing in the grocery store, paralyzed by fear.
We are sitting on the couch, and guilt overwhelms us.
We are on the phone with a friend, and unforgiveness is choking the breath from our lungs.

Yesterday some plans I had been hoping to make with my baby sister fell through. She lives in Hawaii and I don't get to see her very often, and I was pretty determined to make this particular plan work. When I finally realized that it just wasn't feasible...I sat down in my bathroom floor and cried.

And cried. And cried. And cried.

Because a shadow had risen up. And I was reminded of a family dinner at a restaurant 3 1/2 years ago, a dinner I wasn't able to be a part of and a picture taken of everyone but me. I was reminded that it was the last pictures taken of my family with Joy in it...and I wasn't there. And now she's gone. And that is a night I will regret missing out on for the rest of my life.

And fear joined the regret, and irrationally I worried that Rachel would die before I got to see her again, and I had a panic attack, because even though she is still on this planet...it seemed no different than trying to get to heaven to see Joy...I just couldn't reach out and hug either one of them.

And it was dark and cold and shadowy in my heart the whole day, despite the fact that it was absolutely perfect outside.

But last night...something else crept in. A whisper. A feeling. A gentle tug.

A song on the radio.
These words: "...find rest in the shadow of the Almighty..." Psalm 91:1

What?

My breath hiccuped in my throat.
My tears tracked silently down my face.
The shadows didn't magically retreat from my heart.

But...

I can find rest in the shadows?
I don't have to fight them off?
I don't have to wait till they retreat?
I don't need the sun to shine?

I can rest in the shadow.

Because its His shadow.

Because all the other ones are totally consumed by His.

Oh. The freedom.

We don't have to wait for our dark places to be filled with light.

We don't have to hang on until the hard times pass.

We don't have to choke back the shadows of past pain that threaten to overwhelm us.

We don't have to pretend the shadows aren't there.

No! Crawl deeper into the Shadow. He is there with us in the dark...and we can rest.

Angels

I believe in angels.

I know this isn't news to most people who know me, but I am a bit of a Charismatic. So it probably isn't a surprise to anyone to hear me admit that I believe there are angels among us.

But I don't just believe because I've read in the Bible that they are real...no, I have seen the evidence of their presence.

My mom says that when I was little, I would ask her questions about the shiny man who lived with me in my room. "He's smiling at me, Mommy," I would tell her. She told me it was my guardian angel.

My youngest son, Gabe, used to smile and wave to what he called "that nice bright guy" in his room. I told him that his angel was with him, to protect him. He would nod his little curly head and grin when I told him that the Lord always had angels protecting him.

I am certain there was an angel present the day Nate burned his arm. He was 7 months old and had just started scooting/crawling, and I had walked out of the room for one minute when I heard him screaming. He had managed to pull my 400 degree hair straightener down from the counter and onto his wrist. When I rounded the corner, he was laying on top of it, face down. For a split second I just KNEW his face was covered in burns, but somehow it was only his arm. There was an angel there, with a hand between my baby's face and that 400 degree device. You'll never convince me otherwise.

Last week came the most dramatic testimony yet of the presence of angels.

We got snow...a lot of snow for North Carolina. Eight inches graced the area, and 25 degree temps insured it would hang around for several days.

We couldn't get out of our driveway, and so the kids wanted to search of an acceptable place in our subdivision to go sledding. I got everyone dressed in their snow clothes and sent them out, telling them I'd be a few minutes behind them. I knew they wouldn't last too long, since it was so bitterly cold, and I also knew I would freeze to the bone in half that time because I don't own snow gear, other than a pair of boots. So, I was stalling, taking my time in an attempt to save my southern bones from frostbite.

Less than ten minutes passed, and then I heard a screaming child coming toward the house.

"Emergency!!!!" Clay was gasping for breath and yelling at the top of his lungs.

"What?!?!" I met him at the door, only mildly worried. My kids can be a bit on the dramatic side, being that they are MY KIDS and all.

"Faith...and Gabe...fell...in the...creek..." He was breathing so hard it took him a few minutes to get the sentence out, and my entire body froze.

"What creek? Where is that?" I asked, slamming my feet into my boots.

"I'll show you," he gasped again, and we took off running.

We had to cross behind our house and down the length of the back yard, across the back of a neighbor's yard, and down the side of another yard to get to the hill they had discovered. It sloped down nicely, and I didn't blame them for thinking it was a good place to sled. But on one side of the hill ran a creek...and on the snowy bank sat my oldest and youngest child, huddled together, crying.

They had ridden down the hill together, and gotten slightly off course, and veered into the creek.

INTO THE CREEK.

IN 25 DEGREE TEMPERATURES.

When Gabe tried to stand up, he slipped on the icy bank and fell in deeper, till he was chest deep in the water, and Faith had to wade in further and pick him up. Then she collapsed because her feet were numb and her boots were full of water, and they fell in again. Finally she managed to drag them out of the water, and she stripped off their boots, soggy socks, and Gabe's drenched snow pants. She sat down on the sled with him, and wrapped her arms around him, and that is the sight I came upon as Clay and I sprinted through the snow.

"It's okay Gabe, Mommy is coming," she was sobbing over and over, rubbing his feet between her hands. When she saw me coming, she called out, "I'm so sorry I couldn't stop the sled. I'm so sorry."

They were both shaking violently, and so was I by this point. Yoga pants and a t-shirt aren't exactly snow gear, just FYI.

I grabbed Gabe up in my arms and yelled, "Clay, help your sister."

Sprinting up a hill through the snow is not really an easy thing to do, and its even worse when you're carrying a 40 pound child who is shaking uncontrollably and unable to hold onto you.

I was praying out loud.

Behind me, Faith kept saying how sorry she was, and then she said she couldn't feel her feet and didn't think she could walk.

"Get on the sled, I'll pull you," Clay offered.

"You can't pull me Clay, I'm too heavy. Just help me," she sobbed back. So with one hand Clay pulled the sled, loaded down with the soaked boots and snow pants, and with the other he dragged Faith by the arm.

I had stared coughing pretty hard by this point, and gasping for breath only made me cough harder. I was wet, too, from the water that was dripping from Gabe's coat, and he kept screaming "My feet have needles, my feet have needles."

"Jesus, help me." It's all I could say, over and over, as I coughed and gasped and stumbled to the house.

I don't really remember making into to the house, or getting to my bathroom, or stripping Gabe of his clothes and tossing him into a lukewarm shower, but I do remember that as soon as I put him in the water, he screamed louder, and I collapsed.

Nate was standing beside me, rubbing my back, saying "Mommy, don't go back out without your coat. Mommy do you want a blanket? Are you okay, Mommy?"

"Watch Gabe," I wheezed to him. "I have to go help your sister."

Faith and Clay had almost made it to our yard by the time I got back outside. She was still crying, but she was shaking so bad that she didn't have much energy for sobs, so it was silent tears.

"Is he okay?" was her first question. "I tried to stop the sled, Mom. I'm so sorry."

Telling Clay to get the rest of  the stuff inside, I took over hauling her to the house, and had to strip her clothes off her because she was shaking so badly.

Black spots danced in front of my eyes.

"Get in the shower, NOW!" I told her, and then I collapsed again.

I don't know how long it was before I managed to stop coughing. I thought I was going to die. If you've ever experienced nearly frozen lungs, you know what I'm saying when I say I've never felt that kind of pain in my life.

Hours passed before any of us felt like talking about what had happened. I was still coughing and wheezing, and Gabe and Faith were still shivering and sniffling. We were all somber.

Faith kept saying she was sorry.

Gabe kept saying he was scared.

I kept kissing them, and kissing them, and kissing them.

"Faith, how did you know to take off the wet stuff right away?" I finally asked her. "That was pretty quick thinking."

She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. Something inside me just said to get the wet stuff off and then snuggle up to stay warm. I knew Clay went to get help, so I just waited, and I just knew I needed to keep Gabe as warm as I could."

Hours later, I called my mom, who was out of town, to tell her about the incident. After I had finished recounting the tale, she asked me a strange question.

"What time did this happen?"

I told her.

"Oh my gosh, that's exactly the time we were praying with some people here, and the lady prayed for protection for my family."

I looked at my kids, Faith and Gabe snuggled up together under blankets, and tears started falling again.

After I hung up the phone, I asked Faith again how she had known what to do. She shook her head.

"I just had this feeling inside that I needed to get us dry and warm. I don't know Mom. I don't know how I knew what to do."

"I do," I responded. I told her of the prayers, prayed by a stranger from 2 states away. "An angel was standing beside you, Faith. An angel was whispering to your heart, telling you to take off the wet clothes and snuggle up to stay warm. The Lord sent an angel to help you."

Every day, every moment, every accident, every close call, every regular uneventful second of our lives we are held in His hands. We never slip through the cracks, we never escape His notice, we are never left to our own strength.

I sprinted up a hill carrying a 40 pound child through the snow. An angel was pushing me, his wings spread around us to take some of the bite out of the wind.

Clay dragged his older, heavier sister up the same hill, pulling a laden down sled behind him, after having already sprinted the hill twice. Angels surrounded him, urging him on, lending their strength.

Faith saved her little brother's life by pulling him out of that water and stripping him of the sodden clothes and wrapping him up in her arms. An angel stood beside her, helping her, guiding her.

Prayers are heard in the heavens. Angels do the bidding of God Almighty, in response to the prayers of the saints.

If you don't believe me, come over to my house and I will walk with you down to where this happened, and you will see what it would have taken for any of us to do any of what we did that day on our own...and you will know what I know, with every breath, with every kiss on my baby boy's rosy cheek, with every moment of quiet snuggled up with my daughter and my sons.

Angels are real. I believe it.

"The angel of the Lord camps around those that fear Him, and delivers them." Psalm 34:7

Pressure cooker

If there is one feeling in my life that stays with me no matter how I try to shrug it off, its the feeling of immense pressure.

Part of it comes from being firstborn. There is a natural pressing forward and striving for better and better that comes with being the first child. Parents can't help it, and mostly don't even know that they are doing it...but they push their firstborn more than anyone else.

I did it with my kids too. I began encouraging my daughter to try to walk when she was 8 months old. A month later, she did. I coached her to say words very early as well, and taught her Bible verses and songs before she could even form all the syllables she needed to recite them.

And then I had the boys...

I taught Clay sign language because he hadn't started talking yet and I was tired of hearing him grunting when he wanted something. But I didn't pressure him to talk. No sir. I had all the talking I could handle coming from his big sister.

While I weaned Faith early from nursing, convinced that it was time for her to move onto more grown up pursuits, I was slow to let go of Nate...he nursed longer than any of my other kids, and I didn't pressure him at all. He was ready when he was ready.

When Gabe started acting like he might want to walk, I had a panic attack. "Push him down," my husband advised, only half joking. There was no pressure on him to achieve that milestone. Quite the opposite, in fact. We were pressuring him NOT to walk.

My daughter still feels that firstborn pressure, and I try to lighten it some by reminding her that she doesn't have to be perfect, she only has to do her best.

This week she bombed a spelling test. It was a list of really tricky words, all of which require simple memorization, because there is no logical reason for their spelling. When I had finished grading the test, I turned the paper over and said simply, "We're going to have to retake this one, Faith."

She began to cry. She asked how many she had missed. She wanted to know her percentage score. I told her it didn't matter, that we just needed to spend more time on the words. Her response? "I can never look at myself in the mirror again."

The pressure of being perfect is ingrained in the firstborn.

It isn't just birth order, though, at least not for me. I am also "Dan and Patty Bausum's daughter." There is a whole separate level of expectation to go along with that.

If you know my parents, you know what I mean. Their stats speak for themselves.

They have been married for 35 years.
They raised 5 children.
Mama home schooled those 5 children for a total of 21 years.
Daddy has been a pastor for around 20 years.
They are marriage counselors.
They are both gifted speakers and Bible scholars.
They both sing and dance and cook.
Everyone who gets to know them loves them tremendously.

That. Is. Too. Much. Pressure.

I can't live up to that! People look at me and, after knowing who's daughter I am, automatically expect me to be a clone of them.

Ha!

I home school my kids too, sure, but every day carries with it the weight of knowing that if they don't turn out as brain surgeons...its my fault and I've scarred the family name forever.

I have been married for nearly 15 years, and most of that time has been happy. But when we have a fight, I do NOT tell my parents about it. Because I need to be perfect in their eyes.

And even though I know I'm not, and even though they have never looked at me and said "Be perfect..." I feel the need to strive for perfection anyway. I am constantly under the pressure of their legacy to me.

I work hard to keep my house clean, because if anyone ever stopped by and saw it as it would be if I didn't work hard...I would be horrified that I had marred my family name forever.

I cook supper every night (well, almost) because that's what my mom did my whole life and there is an expectation that I will be just like her.



Here is the flaw with all this striving for perfection: Its unachievable. Its a facade. We cannot do it, regardless of the pressure we or others put on us.

My kids work hard in school. But sometimes they bomb tests. Or forget the name of the letter 'U.' Or have to count on their fingers to answer an addition problem.

I spend more time cleaning up my house than is really good for me, probably, and still its dirty. At this very moment there is a pair of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle underwear in the middle of my living room floor...and no, it is not a clean pair.

Not even the Gold Medal Olympic athletes are perfect in their winning performances.

Perfection is impossible.

So why put all the pressure on myself to be so?

My mom would probably not be shocked to see the underwear in the middle of my living room floor.
My dad would certainly not be surprised to learn that my husband and I have arguments on occasion.
They would most assuredly still love me, and, I daresay, still be proud of me.

They are proud of me because I am their daughter, not because I have pressured myself into some fake perfection mask that's impossible anyway.

Ha!

I can't be anything but who/what I am. And all my striving and working and faking aren't making me a gold medal winning Olympian. They are just wearing me out and beating me up with failure.

"It's okay." The Lord whispers to me when I cry to Him about my failings. "I have done all the work you could not do. My Son walked perfectly so that you don't have to. I see you through the filter of The Blood. Give me your burdens. Sit down and rest beside me, little girl. You don't have to strive so hard."

So I will curl up beside Him today, and lay my head in His lap, and just BE there.

No pressure.
No striving.
No failing.

He is proud of me because I am His child. And His grace is the same for me whether I only make a few technical mistakes in my Olympic performance, or whether I fall on my face. He still wants me to carry the flag that identifies me with Him.

His great grace.
Such grace.
It finds me.
It wraps me in it's perfection.
I breathe in His grace.
I breathe out His praise.
Forever.
Perfect.
All. Consuming. Grace.

"For by that one offering He forever made perfect those who are being made holy." Hebrews 10:14

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=hmFJkGEv3Lw

Throw pressure to the wind today. Lay your head in His lap and breathe in His grace.

There is no pressure. You've already won.

The Word

I'm a word person.

I enjoy learning new words and inserting them into my daily life.

I teach a creative writing class to a group of home school kids, and I truly love reading the words they put into their papers for extra credit.

Lately, I've had this one word circling around in my heart. It keeps coming back to the surface, and playing like a recording in my head...and then it will get quiet, lost in the commotion and cacophony of my every day life...and then, it will spring back to my mind again, begging to be thought on.

And because I'm such a word person, when a single word won't leave me alone, I know it's the voice of the Lord. He, being so clever, knows exactly how I am (duh, He is my Creator) and speaks to me exactly the way I need to hear Him.

And so I've been pondering this word, knowing it is coming from Him, and just waiting, marinating, wondering what He is trying to say to me.

It's been almost two weeks, and the word remains in my spirit. I've spent a lot of time letting it roll around inside me, and listening for the whispers of what He is saying.

And now, I feel pressed, by that same Spirit, to write the word down, and to try and put a voice to all the echoes it is making in my heart. Maybe as I put words down, this one will start to take root.

It isn't a new word.

You've heard it before.

I've spoken it dozens of times.

I'm sure it's even been said to you by the Lord, the same way He's been saying it to me for the last 13 days.

But...try something for me...

Try and keep yourself from hearing it the way you've heard it before.

Approach this word as if it's new to your vocabulary, because that's how I feel like He is asking me to see it. There's something new here. Let's stop and see if we can find it.

Faithful.

Faithful.

Faithful.

Faithful.

Faithful.

I do a lot of things in my life faithfully. I make coffee every morning, without fail. I put on deodorant. I brush my teeth. I bite my fingernails. I snort when I laugh. I make inappropriate remarks. I talk about poop at the dinner table. I am faithful in these things.

Reading my Bible, feeding my kids breakfast, exercising, talking to people on the phone, dusting, cleaning my shower...I don't do them with a regularity that earns confidence. I am not faithful in these things.

Faithful.

I am faithful in my desire to be a good friend, but I am not always faithful in carrying out my desire.
I am faithful in my longing to be a good wife and mother, but I am often a failure in my execution of it.

Over and over I prove that if there is one thing I am faithful to do, its fall short of being faithful.

As the word pings around inside me, I am constantly reminded of my inability to master it, and I have cried, and I have thrown up my hands in frustration, and I have sighed in despair, and I have grumbled at the unfairness of this one word that won't leave me alone and constantly sheds light on my faults.

Faithful.
Faithful.
Faithful.
Faithful.
Faithful.

And each time I think I want to fill my head with as many other words as possible in an attempt to drown out this one that won't be silent, and each time I cry and ask the Lord to forgive my failures, and each time I stomp my foot and say "Just tell me what You are trying to tell me. I can't take this anymore..." Every time, it comes again...

FAITHFUL.

It echoes, it resonates, it moves through me like a tidal wave.

FAITHFUL.

It's Him. It's His voice, His presence, His strength, His Word, His character, His love.

HIM.
FAITHFUL.

Over and over He resounds in my soul.

I forget. And He is faithful.

I fail. And He is faithful.

I am ashamed. He is faithful.

I am angry. He is faithful.

I am afraid. He is faithful.

He SEES all the times I am faithless.

AND. HE. IS. STILL. FAITHFUL.

And now I am breathless, as a sound joins the word.

Its the sound of a hammer.

It's striking metal.

The metal is piercing flesh and wood.

Blood is flowing down.

The pain is unbearable.

And each strike echoes across the landscape.

It sounds like a word.

Faithful.
Faithful.
Faithful.
Faithful.

And each strike pounds through me.

And the blood flows over me.

And the fear is no match for the sound.

And the shame is not able to stand against the flow.

And anything I could ever do or think or feel or say cannot measure up to the hammer striking metal and resonating through all of time and space.

FAITHFUL.

"The Word became flesh, and dwelt among us..." (John 1:14)

Faithfulness became flesh. And He fills my heart with who He is. Over and over. One word. The only thing I need Him to say.

Faithful.
Faithful.
Faithful.

"I will proclaim it to the world. I will declare it to my heart. I'll sing it when the sun is shining. I will scream it in the dark. YOU ARE FAITHFUL." (lyrics from "Faithful" by Steven Curtis Chapman.)

The Good, the Grumpy, and the God of it all

I haven't blogged much since the start of the new year.

Why?

Because I'm grumpy.

Because the level of grumpy I'm experiencing rivals that of the dwarf who bears the name.

Because all the things I can think of to blog about will either a) get me in big trouble with my husband b) get me a phone call and/or house visit from Social Services c) get me a horrified/disappointed look from one or both of my parents or d) all of the above.

It has NOT been a happy new year thus far in the Martin household.

It's mostly my fault, obviously, because grouchiness breeds grouchiness and BOY have I been grouchy. The kids are struggling getting back into their school routine, and I am struggling getting my head on straight and gearing up for another semester of teaching them. Every day is a bit of a battle, and inevitably someone ends up in tears. More than once that someone has been me.

Plus I'm constantly sore because my New Year's resolution workout is kicking my butt...
And there is a weird smell in my kitchen which I cannot find the cause of...
And the overhead light in my bathroom randomly stopped working. (no, its not a bulb issue, I checked)
And...

Sigh.

Insert my Uncle Paul's voice and face here(with eyebrows raised and no-nonsense look on his face) "Suck it up and go, kid."

I do not have a hard life. I have a BUSY, FULL, sometimes CRAZY life. But not a hard life. And despite my best intentions and all my rememberings of January 2nd...I have forgotten, or, more accurately, re-forgotten, to focus on the good.

And there is so much good.

I have a mom who will make a trip to the library for me, to check out school books for my kids when I can't, and then bring them to my house and sit down to discuss them with me.

I have a dad who doesn't mind that I still call him "Daddy," or that it earns both of us some pretty serious ribbing from the people in our lives.

I have siblings who know the ugliest things about me and still choose to be on my side, who understand all the crazy things I do and would pretend to understand even if they didn't.

I have friends...lots of friends...who love me, who laugh in all the right places, who don't judge my grouchiness, even when they are the recipients of it, who stand beside me, and stand up for me, and stand in the gap for me, and stand in front of me to block me from stupidity...

I have kids who make me crazy, who make my house a disaster, who make my hair turn gray, who make me laugh and cry, who nearly burst my heart with their hugs and kisses, who nearly make me lose my voice intervening in their arguments, who fill my life to the fullness of all insanity and joy.

I have a husband who forgives me when I spend money despite the mandatory spending freeze he orders, who doesn't wrinkle up his nose if supper is barely edible, who tells me I'm beautiful even when I have a bandaid on my face, who still goes with me to the movie theatre despite his knowledge that I will embarrass him there, and who calms me down just with the sound of his voice or the touch of his hand on my hair.

I have a good life.

And sometimes I need to list out the good in order to remember it. This is that kind of day for me.

The God who remembers all, who holds my every moment and breath and worry and failure and pain, He also reminds me of all, and HE is the ultimate GOOD in my life.

And even if He was the ONLY good...my life would still be good.

Thank you, Lord, for the good things. Thank you for the hard things. Thank you for everything...everything that comes from Your hand. May all my moments make me more like you, so that I can further Your Kingdom, for Your glory, until the whole world hears.

Amen.

January Remembering

January 2nd, 2014.

Its a bit of a letdown, isn't it?

Every year I feel this way.

Yesterday was still part of the holidays. People were off from work, they were watching movies in the middle of the day, eating sweets and not worrying about how many calories were in them, playing games with family members, the Christmas tree was still an acceptable feature in living rooms, and no mothers were fussing at their kids to put away their toys.

And now its today.

The calories are back in all the food. The employed are back to work. The Christmas tree is mocking us with it's impending hours of packing and storing. The toys that were fun and new and allowed to be strewn everywhere just yesterday are now making us crazy with their presence. And so a new home for new toys must be made and filled before another day passes.

Time marches on.
Life never stops happening.
Blink and you'll miss something.

Its hard to imagine in the middle of the every day, in the monotony of too many toys and too many calories and not enough hours in the day to do what needs to be done...its hard to remember that things change, that your current state won't always be your current state, that one day in the not-to-distant future you will be saying sentences like "Remember back when..." and "Did I ever tell you about the time..." or "When you were little you used to..."

Its hard to recall that the January 2nds will keep on coming faster and faster, and so we should slow down a little and enjoy them, instead of feeling let down by them.

I have had the amazing pleasure/mind-boggling craziness of living with a little boy (and by 'little' I mean a current resident of the "terrible two's" (and by that I mean anywhere from the age of 18 months to 4 years old, which is how long the terrible twos last)) for the better part of a decade. It seems like once I graduate one from that stage, I have another just waiting to take over the madness that accompanies the title.

When Clay was 18 months old, he ate dog poop.

But several January 2nds have come and gone, and thankfully he doesn't do that any more.

When Nate was 3, he used toys as toilet paper.

Three January 2nds have come and gone since then, and THANK THE LORD he quit doing that.

And then there is Gabe. When we found out we were having our third boy in a row, I said to my husband "We are naming him Gabriel, because it means 'God is my strength' and I am going to need to be reminded of that for the next 18 years." And I was SOOOOOO right.

Yesterday he made me a lovely art project. He used an entire tube of yellow craft paint, and a red tube, and an orange, and a green, and a black, to fill my bathroom sink with an abstract painting. And he topped off his masterpiece with a complete tube of Neosporin. Just because it needed it.

After that he emptied a full can of hair mousse in the closet floor, followed by a brand new bottle of hand soap and a half full bottle of lotion. All while chewing an entire pack of his father's gum.

His very life flashed before my eyes, let me tell you.

But as I lay in bed last night, inhaling the paint fumes mixed with the soap and lotion scents, I remembered when Nate used his toys as toilet paper, and when Clay used dog poop as a snack, and how their lives flashed before my eyes in  those moments, and how many Januarys have come and gone since then...and how they are growing up.

And I took a deep, calming, breath.

And maybe it was the high I got from all the fumes, or maybe it was the remnants of the holiday grace and peace and joy still lingering, or maybe it was the 4 blond heads resting as close to my face as they could get...

I remembered. I reminded myself.

This doesn't last. Time marches on. Everything changes, faster than we expect, quicker than we want.

I laugh about the dog-poop-eating incident now. I shake my head and smile about the toys/toilet paper habit. I didn't kill them, and their antics didn't drive me permanently crazy.

Not too many January 2nds from now I am sure I will chuckle about the paint and the soap and the Neosporin.

Because GOD IS MY STRENGTH.

And He never changes, no matter how many New Years we face, no matter how many messes, no matter how many tears, laughs, letdowns, successes, failures, triumphs, loves, losses...

We change. He doesn't.

I remember to rest in Him.
And I forget to take down my tree today.
And I ignore the toys and the calories and the responsibilities.

Not forever. Just for one more day.

I am blessed, overwhelmingly.
I am loved, unconditionally.
I am held, eternally.
I am strengthened, daily.

January 2nd is a new holiday for me. It is "Remembrance Day." The day when I remind myself of the truths that will always be truths, even when the terrible twos finally end, even while they remain, even when I forget all year long...

He remains. He is all we need, all year, all our moments, our whole life long...or short.

I hope you'll take a moment today in the midst of the tree un-decorating, cleaning, working out, crazy letdown of the day AFTER the holidays end...and celebrate.

It's Remembrance Day, after all.

Happy Remembrance Day to you.