tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23803877106945202942024-02-08T02:07:36.018-08:00Responding to Loveworking out my faith journey with fear, trembling & sometimes a little whiningUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-3879631631457539592014-08-28T12:55:00.003-07:002014-08-28T16:20:15.145-07:00My Time Will Come<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have been writing, folks. Writing and thinking and praying and reading and writing some more. I have about fifteen half-written blogs. So much to be said; so many threads to be pulled. My little tribe has done an immense amount of growing, painfully and tenaciously, during the past few months. I have no words to encapsulate all that has happened in our hearts and our prayers. And we are still very much in the thick of it. Maybe someday, I will be able to slap a theme on it and talk about "lessons learned" all packaged and peaceful and stuff. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> But not today.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And even as I type I feel the need to immediately post a disclaimer on such vulnerability. Because we are healthy. We are so in love with one another and fiercely devoted to the God who is redeeming our very story. We have family and friends who walk beside us and point us towards hope and promise. All the big and important things are in place, safe and secure, thank you Jesus. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, sometimes, being a grown up and making grown up decisions can be enough to put us over the edge. Couple that with a tendency for control and the blurriness of the unknown and watch me go cray. The past six months have kind of been a pot that boileth over. Great things and hard things. Big Decisions made and some big ones to make. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We put our home up for sale in June as my parents graciously offered to let us live with them for a while. It seemed like perfect timing with Greg working full-time and being in graduate school. We were excited about respite from finances, and I was excited to hang out with my mom all day. <i>Anne of Green Gables </i>marathons like whoa. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But. We knew that we needed to trust that God was in the process. Whatever the outcome. And it's a good thing we did. Because the week after we listed, word leaked that developers had bought a plot of land at the end of our street to build a $450 million power plant. Blessedness. We had two showings in 60 days. We prayed and talked and struggled with our decision, but we knew that until this power plant business blew over, we couldn't even pay people to buy our home. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, we are staying. We are trusting that God ordered this process just so and that we are still needed here, in our little yellow home. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And with that commitment to stay came a slew of other decisions. Financial decisions, like our commitment to my pulling an income through in home daycare (side note: little people are just my favorite. If I have to work it will always, <i>always</i> be with them.) Family decisions...like do we want a big family or is that something that I say when I have too much wine? Because hey: big families are fun. I grew up in one. I'm just not sure that I'm meant to parent one. Unless I take up day drinking. Kidding?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So anyways, I have experienced some tension between desire and reality. I have prayed and cried and fought and struggled along this journey over the past year or so. Because, If I had my perfect life, I would wear a Snuggie and eat cheesecake and just write the day away. I just love words. WORDS FOR LIFE. But we gots bills to pay. And a hubby in school chasing so hard and so well after his dreams. And little loves that need my full attention throughout their first days. I know that God has called me to anchor the SS Hamann for this season. And I'm doing it. By God's amazing grace, I'm doing it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But it doesn't always mean that it's peaceful and effortless or at the expense of something else. Sometimes, I feel caught up in a strange borderland where I am jealous of my working friends and jealous of my stay at home mom friends and jealous that my kids get to eat Cheez-its all day. And sometime, I secretly fear that these months might turn into years and my anchor will become barnacled and rusty. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Last week I received an unexpected note of encouragement from someone I don't know all too well. She had been praying for me (so humbling) and had a word to share with me. And you guys. I just cry trying to type this. She said (paraphrased)<i> You are where you are supposed to be. Nothing is in vain. </i> <i>God wants you to know your time will come. Your prayers are heard. Your heart is known. Your gifts will shine for Jesus. </i>I cannot even explain what reading this word did to my heart. But I think it burst and healed at the same time. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And this: </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The LORD will fight for you; you need only to be still. Exodus 14:14</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">Balm to my heart. My time will come. I need to be still and trusting in this season. It is not in vain. There is more to be learned from this. There is more that needs to be loved through this. I love my little tribe</span> and I know that a time will come, all too soon, where no one needs a band-aid for their stuffed elephant and where my incredible husband gets to be home more and the kitchen floor will stay clean for more than an hour. I'm not going to waste these precious and significant moments by coveting my future. We are hunkering down, y'all. In it to win it and such. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know I need to be at the proverbial <i>here</i> before I can get to the proverbial <i>there.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I know, without a doubt, that I will look back on this particular season of my life and eat up every little moment that God allowed me to have. </span><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-39577883783135727932014-05-09T11:57:00.000-07:002014-05-10T12:17:47.699-07:00But Not Us.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Last night I chucked my phone across the basement. I wasn't being vindictive or manipulative. I had just had enough. Greg and I had been sitting within two feet of each other for half an hour without talking. He was checking his laptop for the latest NFL draft news. I was checking out Facebook and Instagram on my phone.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And we weren't talking. But we had every excuse in the book.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was nine o'clock and the girls had just gone to bed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It had been an exhausting week.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He had just finished his last class for the semester.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I had just finished a marathon of a day with the girls. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Work has been really tough for him lately.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Life has been really busy for us lately.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So last night WE JUST NEEDED SOME TIME TO CHECK OUT.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At least that's what we told ourselves.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But at some point in our little inhabiting-the-same-space-but-not-interacting-ness, I looked over at my husband of ten years and I became a little angry and a lot sad. I wasn't angry with him as much as I was with myself. My phone suddenly felt like a hot potato and his laptop, I swear, was growing horns. I was ready to go all Xena warrior princess on our mobile devices. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I said, quietly to myself so Greg wouldn't think I was crazy (a little too late in our marriage for this), "But not us."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, we are tired. We are overdrawn and don't know which way is up. And, yes, something has to give. <i>But not us. It's not going to be us</i>. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We are not going to be what gives in this equation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The easy thing to do is to check out. To run towards something that looks like relief from everyday reality. We can get lost in our laptops, in Sports Center, in Facebook and Etsy and whatever else calls out to us. Also, chocolate. For me. Flaming Hot Cheetos for him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But what we don't realize, in those few short minutes at the end of each night that we have to be husband and wife, is that those tiny moments are all that we may have to be married that day. Things need to be said. Prayers need to be prayed. <b>These lives need to be joined together again. </b>So that we can face tomorrow as one. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm a huge fan of sitting down with a cozy blanket and a book in the evening. I also love me some Richard Castle and Kate Beckett. But when time together is at a premium; and we are tired, anxious, and feeling fragile...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That's when our TV needs to go.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That's when our phones need to go.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That's when our laptops need to go.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That's when our calendars need to be cleared a little.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That's when we put a stake in the ground and say, "But not us."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Because we are not the thing that needs to go</b>. We stay. We need to stay and face each other so that we can walk beside one another. We need to check out of anything distracting and check-in to the Life that God has called us to lead. As one. As a family. As a team. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Go team.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So. I chucked my phone across the basement last night. Greg looked up at me in surprise, saying, "Hey. What's up?" And we talked. And I cried a little bit. Per usual. And we hugged. We made the most of the fifteen minutes we had left before I started falling asleep on the couch. It wasn't anything magical. But it felt as if, just for a little while, we held space for one another and declared, "Not us. Not tonight." And that, in itself, felt like a small victory.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thank you Jesus. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 2em;">Love as distinct from “being in love” is not merely a feeling. It is a deep unity, maintained by the will and deliberately strengthened by habit…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">~ C. S. Lewis ~</span></blockquote>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-50370168287422510662014-04-17T13:06:00.001-07:002014-04-17T20:13:49.228-07:00Put away your sword.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Many of you know that my family is walking through the unknown right now. Let's be honest, anyone within five feet of me (including the poor unsuspecting person behind me in the check out aisle) runs the risk of hearing about it. And while we always are walking through the unknown to some degree, this particular season has been really really hard for me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So here is where I get weird.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have these notebooks, you see. Lots of notebooks. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And when I am feeling overwhelmed by the helplessness of not knowing which direction God may lead us; I write. I write scenarios. I write budgets. I write out pages and pages of outlines for how life could possibly pan out with Plan A, Plan B, and Plans XYZ. I research different career opportunities and what kind of education they might require. I try to calculate how big or little a pot of gold we might have at the end of all these rainbows.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is one of my quirks. I've always been a dreamer and a planner. And usually it's okay. My use of lined paper to dream typically breaths a freshness and an excitement to my every day life. Usually. But lately, with so many things unknown, my doodles and flourishes are turning into frantic chicken scratches that become less and less legible and more and more unreasonable as they progress. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Because I'm just looking for a way. For a Rescue. It is killing me to not have control right now, and I am fighting back with my notebooks and my internet research and obsessive over-thinking. And it's turned my anxiety barometer up to unreasonable decibels. It's all I hear. All I can see. All I think about. Which is why I wrote <a href="http://respondtolove.blogspot.com/2014/04/im-showing-up.html">I'm Showing Up</a>. The tension between my self and my Spirit has never been more palpable to me, and I knew that I needed to try, with His help, to be present in my everyday life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But praise the Lord, He is not done with me yet. There is always more.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So just this week, as God and the Bible and all things holy would have it, I have been studying the arrest and trial of Jesus with my Bible Study Fellowship (holler!) group. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And our boy Peter. I'm really identifying with him these days. He sinks in the water. He cuts a dudes ear off. He denies his best friend. Who IS THE SAVIOR OF EVERYTHING. Peter has knee-jerk-self-preservation reactions to the chaos in his life.<b> He cannot, for the life of him, subject himself to the pain or walk through the fear to get to the other side of redemption. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Peter wanted to fight the process. He wanted to fight the not knowing. He wanted to fight what<i> had </i>to be done in order for the story to be redeemed. He could only see pain and persecution and imprisonment in front of him. He could not see through to the other side.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But Jesus knows this about Peter. Earlier that evening, Jesus had spoken these very words over His beloved friend:</span><br />
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<span class="red" style="background-color: #fdfeff; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;"><i>Put your sword away! Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me? John 18:11</i></span></span><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;">Because Jesus. He knew. Jesus knew that the sword would only get in the way of what had to be done. And Jesus drank that cup, walking through the fear to the Other Side of Redemption. Through death and into life. Bringing the abundant and forever life to all who believe that Jesus is who he says he is. And that Jesus can do what he says he can do. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="red" style="background-color: #fdfeff; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;"><br /></span><span class="red" style="background-color: #fdfeff; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;">But do I?</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;"> Do I believe that Jesus is who he says he is? </span><br />
<span class="red" style="background-color: #fdfeff; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;"> Do I believe Jesus can do what he says he can do? </span><br />
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<span class="red" style="background-color: #fdfeff; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;">Then why the swords? Why the notebooks? Why do I wield my pen like some sort of magic eight ball that will choose the story that is easiest and that looks the prettiest? It really comes down to asking those simple questions of myself. Do I believe Jesus? Do I trust Him to walk us through this? Do I believe in the Upper Story...what is happening in the kingdom of heaven that my eyes cannot see?</span><br />
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<span class="red" style="background-color: #fdfeff; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;">My answer is yes. My answer is yes. </span><br />
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<span class="red" style="background-color: #fdfeff; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;"><b>Our pain and our trials can be redemptive if we choose to feed our faith instead of our fear. If we choose to walk through the unknown and keep our eyes on Jesus instead of swinging blindly with our swords and writing frantically in our notebooks we will get to where He's called us to. He will show us a way. And He will use it and us to bring glory and honor to Himself. Because that is what it is all about, amen?</b></span></span><br />
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<i style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Peter. Put away your sword.</span></i><br />
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<span class="red" style="background-color: #fdfeff; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;"><i>Rachel. Put away your notebook. </i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="red" style="background-color: #fdfeff; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;"><i><br /></i></span><span class="red" style="background-color: #fdfeff; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;">So I am. No more notebooks. For now. I am trusting that Jesus is who he says he is. I am checking in to my everyday life and investing all my energy into living in the unknown. And wow. It is totally unknown. But I want to draw strength as I wait up on the Lord. I don't want my anxious thoughts, my best laid plans, or my need for control to dry up the joy that the Lord has set before me. </span></span><br />
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<span class="red" style="background-color: #fdfeff; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;">I'm done feeding my fear. </span></span><br />
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<span class="red" style="background-color: #fdfeff; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;">He is risen indeed. </span></span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-42342832199080897662014-04-10T11:07:00.003-07:002014-04-17T14:13:44.601-07:00I'm showing up<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have not written in a really long time. And wow. I'm really feeling it. I have a lot to process. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So many thoughts. I HAVE ALL THE THOUGHTS.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> However. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I repeatedly find myself in a face-off with my laptop every time I sit to write. She stares at me, taunting me with her blank screens and that darn-it-all blinking cursor. Write something. Write something. I am silently praying and willing all the thoughts to run down my arm and move my fingers to type something concrete. Something meaningful. Something beautiful. But even as I try to make these words come to life I am aware that writing is not going to magically just happen to me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because writing. It's a discipline. Because working out. It's a discipline. Because the study and application of the Very Words of God is a discipline. Because loving Greg and loving my girls is a discipline.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because really. All I want to do is eat chocolate chip cookies and sleep all day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Historically discipline and I have had a love/hate relationship. Meaning I will spend three hundred dollars on Paleo foods and buy the latest cookbooks and read all the blogs and then two weeks in Greg will find me in a closet with a loaf of french bread and a stick of butter growling at him to leave me and my friends in peace. Or I will have a vision for chore charts with matching stickers for the girls and after three days their charts are collecting dust under their dirty (and unmade) beds. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When it comes to discipline, I am all bark and no bite. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Woof.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Well. Just recently I hit a breaking point. My body felt broken and tired. My mind was so worn from my discipline plans starting and ending. Starting again and ending again. But the worst. The worst was my spirit. My spirit felt weary and defeated. I was tired of myself. Tired of hot and cold. Tired of dieting or pigging out. Tired of my plans. Tired of feeling like parable of the seed that falls on fertile soil only to pop up for a few days before withering away. I was withering away. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And that is where God always meets me. At the end of myself. Without fail.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My Jesus. He met me. He softly spoke over my heart: <i>I will teach you a better way still.</i></span><br />
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I slowly began to realize, through prayer and Scripture and countless conversations with pillar people in my life that maybe, just maybe, there is a better way still. Maybe it's not about discipline.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Maybe it's just about showing up.</span></b><br />
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Showing up to the gym even if all I can do is walk for ten minutes. Showing up to friendships where I've been a little checked out even if it's over e-mail or text. Showing up before God, even if it isn't a life altering Jesus encounter every time. Showing up for my girls even if it's just reminding myself, over and over, to be present and to look them fully in their little faces when they speak with me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I want to show up to my life. BECAUSE I JUST GET ONE. I want to be as alive as I possibly can be in every moment I can be given. I feel so done with crazy diets, blanket statements and making impossible-to-keep standards for myself. I want to learn to be broken but to be present. To choose progress over perfection. To check out of the ideal and into my imperfect reality. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Showing up. Even if I feel a mess. Showing up broken and vulnerable instead of scheming how put together I will be if I follow steps A, B, C. Showing up and not making it about winning or losing but just about being. Showing up with a patient heart that leans towards understanding that is not my own. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Slowing my step. Deepening my breath. Eyes wide open. Ready to do this. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because, if I'm being honest with myself, I know that is the only way to get to where I want to go. Slow and steady wins this here race, and I am all in. Even if it means crawling at times, this train is moving forward. Inch by inch. Showing up along the way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So. I'm back. I'm showing up on my little corner of the interwebs (as Greg likes to call it) and I am saving this space to not be polished or witty or perfect or even make sense. I'm going to continue to show up, because I know that God wants me to use words for Him. And as I fumble and struggle and mentally flip the bird at my computer screen I know that He is present and He is satisfied.</span><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-56307487999091918342013-12-20T12:41:00.000-08:002013-12-20T19:18:13.928-08:00I loved you in lines.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">To my husband, my person:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Tomorrow we will look deeply into each others eyes across the console of our gold minivan, and wonder aloud, "What the hell just happened?" As we scrape goldfish out of carseats and frantically finish our Christmas shopping, as we sit in the parking lot of the church where we exchanged vows ten years ago because neither of us checked to see if the church would actually be open for us to have a new super meaningful exchange of vows, we will ponder.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">the </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">hell.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ten years is a third grader. Ten years is a decade. Ten years is twice the amount of our oldest child's life. Ten years, if we are blessed, is one-ninth of our ENTIRE existence in this world. Ten years filled with life, death, belly laughter and seasons of darkness. Ten years of prayers spoken and unspoken, needs being met and ideals being readjusted. When we entered this covenant together ten years might as well have been thirty. Cause those couples be OLD. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So much of the marriage that we longed after and prayed hard for has come to us. Praise be to God. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And so much of that has been through forgiving hard and admitting weaknesses and letting things go that we had death grips on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Like super death grips.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At the beginning of marriage I clung tightly to the idea that love was linear. That marriage was to be lived out in a straight line. I thought we would approach an issue, plow through with the help of Jesus, tidy the whole mess up and then climb on top of it to get to whatever our next conquest might be. Money issues? Let's just go ahead and resolve those for life. Then we can tackle spiritual leadership issues. Parenting issues. Let's just stack these lessons on top of each other and climb to the top of Marital Bliss mountain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know. I was 23. As if that weren't excuse enough, try to remember I also got most of my love wisdom from <i>I Kissed Dating Goodbye. </i>Before you start laughing, remember that you are not allowed. You read it too.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And while some of that climbing to the mountaintop idea rang true for us; mostly it didn't. We still had our stuff. Our things. Our patterns. I remember getting so ridiculously frustrated at some of the same conversations and arguments that would cycle in and out of our marriage. I didn't understand why they would surface...didn't we figure this out already? What does it say about us, about our marriage, if we were doubling back to these worn out conversations? Why are we <i>here </i>again? Didn't we resolve this issue circa 2006?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because you see, my darling, I loved you in lines. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I was so busy discovering the moral of each one our tiny stories that I failed to see how our love, our marriage looks more like the scribbly mess that Abby made on the top of our coffee table last week. Our love looks like loops and circles and scratches and claw marks that are real. And our story is deeply etched into grooves and circles with no end in sight. Our love is<i> so </i>not a straight line. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Besides. Lines are so boring and predictable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, I've been thinking lately that maybe this is what life is all about. Maybe this is what God is all about. Maybe it's about revisiting places and conversations and insecurities and hang-ups with one another and an Almighty God so that He can teach us something new each round. Maybe life doesn't look like sparkly gift wrapped "life lessons" but more like a thick fog where we just have to put one step ahead of each other and hold hands and trust God as He beckons. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, sometimes we go back to some of our shiz<i>. </i>But every time we loop back around, we have more years under our belt, more patience in our hearts, and a couple more lines around our eyes. And perhaps we will continue this crazy circular motion forever because you are you. And I am me. But perhaps, just perhaps, one of these days we will walk down our all too familiar roads and realize that our issues no longer live there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And if that day comes we will be ever more thankful to God for it because of all the time we had spent, all the tears shed, and all the shaping that had taken place there. So who cares if it takes seventy nine versions of the same conversation? As long as we are fighting for growth and fighting for holiness and fighting for one another we are making progress. Amen?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So here is my promise to you: These next ten years I will allow God to bring us back, around, and through whatever He chooses to. I will not dig in my heels and shake my fists and use my words to second guess what God is doing. What you are doing. What I am doing. I will celebrate every step he brings us to, even when I feel like we've been there before.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I will release my breath, grab your hand and walk forward. Or backwards. Wherever. As we said to one another on a snowy day ten years ago tomorrow:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Where you go, I will go. Your people will be my people (indeed as our little people are playing Headbandz in the room next to me) and your God will be my God."</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We are blessed because we belong to one another. And we belong to the One who calls us by name. So glad my name is Hamann.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">143 my love. 143. </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-15058253830144240532013-11-21T13:44:00.000-08:002013-11-22T12:11:54.446-08:00My Address.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I turned 33 today. I'm not quite sure what 33 is supposed to feel like, but I definitely thought (way back when 33 sounded just like 60 to me) that I would have my act together by now. That we would be financially secure. That I would have made peace with my body. That marriage would feel effortless because we've done it for so long. That my voice wouldn't ever raise an octave with my obedient, polite, and well manicured children. I thought, by 33, that God and I would be so intimate that we would speak a secret language, and that my life would be so fruitful that I'd need to open up a produce stand.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Even writing that sounds dumb.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because I feel more of a mess than ever. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's a good thing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I don't want to be my 23 year old version of 33. I like this messy and broken version better. And I'm pretty sure God does too. I finally feel the confidence to be honest and truthful about where I stand in life, in love, and in Spirit. God has allowed me, with painful undoing, to learn how to know myself and tell the truth to others. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's hard. It is awkward to look at a friend that I've had for years and talk, for the first time, about money issues. It is difficult to be honest about my struggle with my weight and how I laugh about it often in public, but cry about it behind close doors. It's not easy to talk about a disagreement Greg and I are having. Usually because I'm wrong and he's right. But still. None of it is easy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But you know what? That is where God meets me. In the not easy. He meets when I share a part of my story that feels so ugly, and then I look up to see a dear friends eyes tearing up with love and mercy and nothing even close to silent judgment. That is when. When I step out in fear, trembling, and honesty.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Those moments of honesty with God and others allow me to feel known and understood and LOVED in my state of grossness. And that makes me want to chase after a better version of myself, the one that God has designed and purposed for me. But. I cannot be on my way to her unless I know my address. I cannot get Directions until I am aware of where exactly my heart resides.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Which requires honesty.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm more convinced than ever, at the ripe old age of 33, that the Christian life is not about the appearance of good. It is not about pretense or pomp or reciting blanket christian phrases to convince others what I have is real. It is not about memorizing the Romans road and yelling it over my neighbors just to hear the sound of my own voice. No. It's just not.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh, my sweet Jesus. I believe the Christian life is about looking my neighbor in the eye, and saying, "I don't have it all together. That's actually why I need Him." It's about declaring how broken and messy and complicated I am, and how the only peace and rest I find is under the shadow of His wings. It is about gathering strength in my quiet moments with Him so that there is honesty and peace in my words with others. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My prayer is that others notice Jesus in my mess. Not in the absence of conflict or trials or even self-inflicted troubles. But I want those in my life to see how I confess my imperfections, and I'm honest about my sins, and I cling to Jesus to make me whole again. I don't want to hear, "You are a good person. You make good choices. Also, you are really skinny." But maybe that last part would be nice. Still. I hope someday someone approaches me and says, "You are a hot mess. How do you still hold on?" And then I can raise a fist in the sky, and triumphantly say, "He is not done with me yet!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So that is my address. I am living in this scary place with dirty laundry and unmentionables just hanging out to dry. My struggles are real. But so is my God. And He is right there with me, rejoicing over my mess of a life with song and quieting me with His love. I can be honest in my inadequacies, because that's where He becomes more, and I become less. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And that, my friends, is how it is supposed to be.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So hey to you 33. I am nowhere closer to the American dream than I was at 23. And Greg and I fight. Also I wear yoga pants most of the time but I probably shouldn't. But I know that I will look back at this time in my life and know that God did work on me because I lived at this address. And my prayer is that my home will just keep moving closer and closer to His Kingdom as He makes sense of this beautiful mess.</span><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-23295475501771123462013-11-14T08:26:00.001-08:002013-11-14T14:15:59.278-08:00Harvest.<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">October is by far my favorite month of the year. I love everything about it. Hey. I'll even take the allergies and sinus infections that accompany bonfires, apple cider donuts, and hours breathing in the crisp beauty that is fall in the midwest. I can literally feel my heart filling and my spirit being strengthened with every leaf gathered and pumpkin carved.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And then November comes. November always feels a little ominous to me. The skies are gray, cold, and they carry a message that winter is on the horizon. Said message is usually accompanied by some new strand of strep throat or the stomach flu or itis of one form or another. We gradually stay inside more and more, and by the end of the month we are bracing for a full-blown Midwest winter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But don't you worry November. You're not a lost cause. Your redemption is found in pumpkin pies and mashed potatoes. And in quiet, dark evenings. And Christmas shopping and down blankets and good books and gigantic mugs of coffee. November is a slow, quiet month in our little Hamann world. I so deeply treasure white space on our calendar, so I'm always happy to walk across the chaos of Halloween into the lazy pace of November. I have no shame in wearing my pajamas all day and organizing my spice rack just because I can.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But. I get a little carried away with the whole white space deal at times. I find myself on the computer, pinning things that I will never craft or bake or be able to afford. I sleep in more, missing my chance to meet with God and to get rid of this baby weight that is almost six years old. I become more discontent with my home. Because we are inside more and we have more down time, I begin to nitpick things in my house that I hadn't had time to notice before. Our carpet is stained. We need a fresh coat of paint. Everywhere. The closets aren't organized enough. And so it goes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know that is not how God has asked me to spend my gift of time. Time is the only currency that I have right now. Therefore, time is my main act of worship. It is so easy to exchange the blessing of time for things that do not add. An extra half hour of sleep will not fill my heart like He does. An hour spent on Pinterest will not make me thankful for the things He has blessed me with. Watching a whole season of Fringe in a weekend will probably not produce holy fruit in my life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know that God has gifted me with white space on my calendar so that I can turn inward. So that I can use these moments of peace to sit with Him and gather up strength and wisdom for whatever lies next. To use my November as a threshing ground, reaping the harvest of what He has accomplished in my life. And to account for all that is in my storehouse and sing His praises because of it. I could stop there, with posting what I am thankful for everyday on Facebook. And that would be a good thing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">However, if I am fully living for the God that gave me everything in my storehouse, I will give. I will give without reserve. Being thankful is the first step. But. Being active in our thanksgiving is what really counts. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> To call a friend and pray over her life. To make a meal for a family that is struggling and drop it off just because. To encourage and notice even the tiniest bit of growth in my daughters character. To compliment my husband when he leads our family. And to learn to thank God together for it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh November. You are preparing my heart for the coming of the King. Teaching me to be bowed in gratitude and humility as I enter the holy space of December. Aligning my heart in response to All He Has Done. Trusting that What He Has Yet To Do is better still.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So. While I still will enjoy reading a book from cover to cover in one sitting, I now understand that I am responsible to God for this white space. I'm so confident that He can merge the meaningful with the restful and create some deeper storyline than I could ever write of. So let's be excited when the cold winds of November blow us all indoors and under layers of down comforters. We can invest our time in allowing God to harvest His work in our lives. We will emerge in the spring, better versions of ourselves and triumphant in His accomplishments.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="versetext" id="ps85-11" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> Faithfulness springs up from the ground, and righteousness looks down from the sky. </span><span class="versetext" id="ps85-12" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> Yes,<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2380387710694520294" name="1"></a>the LORD will give what is good, and our land <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2380387710694520294" name="2"></a>will yield its increase. </span><span class="versetext" id="ps85-13" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Righteousness will go before him and make his footsteps a way.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Psalms 85:11-13</span></span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-35391168222778768322013-10-25T15:26:00.000-07:002013-10-26T07:32:07.642-07:00My right now thing.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">God made it clear to me last year that my place, for the next season of life, was to create a home that my little family could thrive in. To come alongside my husband and encourage him in anyway possible (read: sex, food, and taking the garbage out myself). To be available to my girls as they are learning what life is all about (read: my little ponies, time outs and dance parties in the kitchen). I felt a holy charge to make a space where our four little family members felt encouraged, challenged, supported and understood.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This might seem like an obvious charge. For me it wasn't. Because I am a person of chaos.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Don't get me wrong, folks. I LOVE staying at home with my babies and having them crawl into bed with me in the morning and snuggling their faces off. But I also love being involved in ministry, spearheading events, throwing parties, coffee dates and girls nights all day err day. I love having my hands in 473893 proverbial pies. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I am also embarrassed to admit how much time I invest in daydreaming of my life after the girls are in school. AKA Rachel 4.0. She is super skinny and super nice and wears high heels and blazers. Also, she sleeps until 8:30. I can't wait to meet her.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Anyways, I was a chaotic mess of holy servitude, firmly basing my life on the principle that I had to live out of ALL my giftings at ALL times. I feared that if I stepped completely inside the home I would never see the light of day again. And that a part of me would die. The professional part. The creative part. The relational part. So I tried to do it all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I was exhausted. I chased after dream jobs. I researched graduate programs. I led worship, I mentored high school women. All good things. All noble things. But not right now things. One particular morning of exasperation I found myself on my face before God. In a proud and painfully honest moment, I confessed: I feel like I have more to give than <i>just </i>being a stay at home mom. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And then He was like: cool. Then you should be a stay at home mom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Because this is your right now thing.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">God didn't want me to just be at home. He wanted me to make a home. He didn't want me just to survive motherhood and count down the hours until nap time or until Greg walked in the door. He wanted me to thrive as I leaned in HARD on His new mercies every morning. He didn't want me to view my husband as a chamber maid or a babysitter. He wanted me to take care of this little yellow house and everyone in it so that Greg would have the freedom to pursuit God's direction and design for his own life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Most of all, He wanted peace. Peace during my right now thing. I know that God designed me to dream and to have vision and create. But, right now, He has called me to look all of my loves in the face and say, "I got this. I got you. Go and be whatever God wants you to be." I'm holding down this fort for my homies. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And you guys. I am finding myself hidden in making a home. There is so much pleasure and joy in the peace and quiet. In the gift of time. The gift of yoga pants. The gift of allowing Jesus to order our day as we lift it up to Him. The gift of playing Chutes and Ladder with Madeline until the cows come home. The gift of trying new recipes and seeing my husbands face light up when he smells one of his favorite dishes cooking. Well. Sometimes. Okay. Like once a month, but still.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And although I have my chaotic flareups (all apologies to anyone who had to listen to my rant about running an organic home daycare a few weeks ago) I very much feel like the anchor in our little family right now. In the past that could have felt like suffocating pressure to me. Like weight holding me down at sea with scary sharks all around me. And I hate sharks. But now I can see the holy picture that God has intended. I am holding down this sacred vessel, filled with my people. Anchoring them down when the storms of life rock them, leaning in on my God for strength and peace.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is my right now thing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There is going to come a time when I don't have a toddler throwing her diaper in my bed shrieking "I go pee on the floor mommy!" as a wake up call. Our world will change, again, next year when Maddie steps on the bus to spend the majority of her time at school. Wah! I know that my right now thing won't last forever. This season of peace will give way to beautiful chaos and God will meet me in that as well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But right now, this is where He has me. And right now, this is where I find Him.</span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-2786658326335626182013-09-12T08:29:00.000-07:002013-09-12T15:02:51.439-07:00Responding to Love<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have to admit it. I am a blog-link clicker. Be warned. If there is an article or blog that is posted on facebook, chances are I've read it. Partially because I'm a writer. Mostly because I'm a reader. I love hearing others articulate and communicate thoughts in new and fresh ways. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Part of my problem, however, is that I can get caught up in the hype. Most of the time, I'm not sure where I stand until I read an opinion expressed elsewhere. Especially if it is well written. Then I'm like, "Oh yeah! The answer to a revival in the American Church is totally Wednesday morning prayer meetings!" And then I'll read another blog. "Wait a second. Changed my mind. The way to a spiritual revival is definitely marching around with swords!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Clearly the answer to anything holy is simply: Jesus. But at times, I get so caught up in what is being blogged or written or pod-casted that I forget. I forget I need to take my cray cray self to the feet of Jesus. Sometimes it feels as if I'm watching a ping pong match, my head spinning on it's axis as I try to follow the ball. As I try to decide who I want to win. All the while, I'm ignoring the airplane flying overhead with the banner that reads: "Look Up. I am here."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because all my make believe ping pong matches are outside. With airplanes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Look up, beloved one. I am here. Yes. When I do focus and sit deeply in Love, all those opinions and trending issues on Facebook fade. The confusion and fogginess that I feel when I am immersed in social media lifts, and as I look at my Jesus, a blanket of peace and rest settles on my shoulders. Things make sense in the presence of God, people. Or they don't, but it's okay. Because all that matters is that I am with the One that created, crafted, and purposed me out from the beginning of time. Good hands to be in. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Jesus asks all of us to come. And then, as we walk with Him, He commands us to go. I know that when He asks me to go, sometimes it means to write what He has laid upon my heart. That is part of my story. His command to go, for others, may be in penning a song of praise. Creating a sculpture. Painting. Crunching numbers for non-profits. Holding the hand of a widow or orphan. The bottom line is that wherever we go, we are responding to Love. We are reflecting that love. That is a posture that should not be taken lightly or sanctimoniously. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It would be easy to sound off on Miley Cyrus and Syria and Proposition 48390483 and that crazy Weiner guy who clearly lives up to his namesake. (sorry. had to.) However, as I abide in Him and step out of that never-ending ping pong match, it becomes clear to me that it is not up to me to sound off on anything. It is not my calling to respond to the world. And w</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">ho needs another white privileged girl telling the rest of the Church that they are white and privileged? No. No.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What good things do I have to say outside of Him?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For it is my calling to respond to the Love that is inside of me. The end. As God grows me, and I as I seriously cling-to-Him-for-breath-and-life-and-sanity, He will make the going part known to me. And sometimes He'll send me with words. Sometimes with pondering. Lots of times with silence. All the times with stuff to work on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So. I'm writing this for my own purposes of declaration. Not to rake anyone over the coals for writing popular opinion pieces or for posting favorite recipes. That is between those writers and their God. But I am setting aside this white space on the internet. This little corner of blogdom is for my heart to respond to the One who has made it. This space is to work out my faith in fear and trembling and a little self-deprecating humor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If this was a house, I would put oil over the doorways or spray it with holy water and invite all my friends over to pray or something. But since Greg wouldn't appreciate canola oil all over the keyboard of his laptop, I will just declare this:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">God. Do your thing.</span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-58049271348660502482013-08-14T12:39:00.001-07:002013-08-14T18:24:48.234-07:00A love letter to my kindergartener.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dearest Darling Madeline,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I cannot believe that, in a few short days, you will be taking a deep breath and walking your My Little Pony backpack into kindergarten. I just cannot. I cannot imagine you looking around the room for who you will eat lunch with. Raising your hand to go potty. Laughing and giggling when Miss Meghan sings a silly song. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's hard for me, as your mom, to imagine another grown up influencing you and teaching you. What if she teaches you something different from what mommy and daddy have taught you? What if your little kindergarten buddies teach you how to swear in sign language? What if you accidentally pee your pants and kids laugh at you? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And also, if I'm being completely honest, I feel like you are the first representative from our weird little family to go public. What if your dad and I haven't adequately prepared you for your introduction to society? Like, is there a song or dance or some kind of secret handshake that all the other kids will know and you won't? Should we have worked on your Spanish or something this summer? I don't know, kid. I just don't know.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Please know that every part of my mommy being wants to go all Rapunzel on you and stick you in this house for the next thirteen years. I really do. Because you are my babycakes, my darling, and this home is all you've ever known. I want to wrap my life around your heart so that you don't get hurt, discouraged, or hardened to the beautiful things in life.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>But </i>when I lift these concerns to God, I am reminded. You, darling girl, are not mine. Your dad and I have said all along that you belong to the One who made you and has called you by name. And He will be going before you in that classroom, shining forth from your heart, and blessing others through your sparkly blue eyes, your sharing hands, and the kind words you speak so effortlessly. I know that Jesus will become more and more at home in your heart when you are brave for Him in that classroom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If we kept you home, the world would be missing out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If we kept you home, we, as your mom and dad, would be missing out on the chance to see what God can do outside of us. We would be missing out on the opportunity to talk about hard things and hold you when you cry because you weren't invited to that one girls birthday party and remind you gently that God works everything out for your good and His purpose.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, this will be hard for you, and it will be hard for me. But it will be good for you, and it will be good for me. Just remember that, when you walk into that classroom on the first day, the God who holds us together will be in your heart. And mine. And He will love you and teach you in your kindergarten classroom, and He will love me and teach me in our little yellow house. And when you come home, we can love each other and teach each other about Love and life and glue sticks and story times. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Just tell your teacher not to scream if she sees a strange blonde lady peering through the window with binoculars. It's just your mom. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I love you darling.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Momma</span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-57718028673237077252013-07-20T07:08:00.000-07:002013-07-22T05:20:14.524-07:00Because I'm taking my summer back.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There's something so fantastic about summer. I love the absence of routine, and the endless options of outdoor events. Everyone seems to have a spring in their Sperry's, and I totally get it. Summer brings us all back to our good old school days....when that last bell rang and we flew out of those front double doors, anticipating what the next twelve weeks of freedom held.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I fully embraced the beginning of summer. Like, with both arms and my legs. I was ready for a change of pace. I was also ready to karate kick our schedule in the face. Sometime around May I started loathing all of our commitments. Things like the fact that I had to take my daughter to school and that my kids had to brush their teeth. I was annoyed that my children couldn't just run around in diapers and eat Cheetos all day. The nerve.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, when the beaches opened and the outdoor movie theaters lit up again, I was the first in line. Road trips? Four down, four to go. I've made approximately 5934893 jello, potato and broccoli salads to accompany us to BBQ's. My two year old makes a beeline at the farmers market to the tent that has the lollipops. She knows the guys name. My five year old wakes up asking, "Can I just get in the car in my pajamas this time?" Our summer has been a blur of sand in our suits, freeze pops, and belly laughter with those whom our hearts love. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Summer is magic. For our family, the magic is in not keeping a schedule. My girls roll out of bed, usually breathe on me and stare at me until I wake up (startled. every. time), and we snuggle, eat cereal out of the box while we watch Littlest Pet Shop and then try and decide what we'd like to conquer that day. Greg takes the girls to the beach after dinner at least twice a week, and sometime during the day, every day, we all end up on the couch, reading together. It is lovely.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But somewhere between the fireworks and my tenth serving of beef brisket, I began to feel homesick. At first I thought it was my sunburn talking. But I also noticed the fine layer of dust collecting on my Bible. Then my scale chimed in. And by chimed in I mean almost broke. And when I looked at our calendar, I realized it had been WEEKS since we had worshiped with our church family. I realized that I hadn't had my weekly check-ins with women who were so life-giving to me. I felt tired, anxious, and untethered.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And it karate kicked<i> me</i> in the face: Oh my word. I want a schedule again. All this Yolo stuff is for the birds. I MISS MY GOOGLE CALENDAR APP. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Some people can thrive when the confines of a schedule are lifted. My husband is one of them. I, however, am just not that great at saying no to myself. I am really, really good at saying yes. Yes to fun. Yes to elephant ears. Yes to Facebook. Yes to cheesy television series on Netflix (Has anyone else ever been sucked into the vortex that is <i> Hart of Dixie? </i> No?) There really isn't such a thing as moderation for me. My emotions be damned...they are my trump card. So whatever I feel like doing is what gets done. In the name of lazy summer-ness, I have lost sight of intentional living.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You don't even want to know what my laundry room looks like right now.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've slowly come to realize that the things I value, the Things that God has placed on my heart, will not just happen to me. I cannot just sit in my Snuggie with my eyeballs glued to the saga that is Dr. Zoe Hart's life and expect God to transform me. These are gifts and revelations that will take work, will take discipline, will take me saying no to myself more and yes to hard and holy things. Even things I love, like writing, require that I sit my sunburned bottom in a chair and do work, son. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So. I'm taking my summer back. I kind of feel like the throne room of heaven is a good place to start. You know. I'm cracking open my Bible, laying my precious summer minutes and hours at the feet of Jesus and going from there. I'm going to say no to every other fun thing so that I can do more right and holy things. Greg and I are committed to praying together every night, even if we have toothpicks in our eyelids and our retainers in. So far we are 3 for 7, but that's a start.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I am abiding in His steadfast love for me, I feel like I can take on the world. And I can. Cause it's not me. And it's not about me. Halleluyer. I can get up at 4:45 to exercise. I can sneak my oldest out of her "rest time" so that we can bake cookies, play My Little Ponies, and color until the cows come home. I can check in with dear friends to know that they are loved and valued. All things. Through Him. His strength. Amen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">While my love affair with summer is so not over, I am approaching the rest of my summer with both feet on the ground. I'm not going to stop building sandcastles with my girls at our beach. I will still be first in line for the double feature at our drive-in theater. I will still sit outside with my love, a glass of Moscato in hand with our bonfire flames reaching the summer sky. But I will also be giving my days over to Jesus more, and allowing Him to make them even more magical than I could ever imagine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because that sounds like a perfect summer to me.</span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-53563349956958357802013-06-01T07:21:00.000-07:002013-06-12T20:59:32.799-07:00I don't know about you, but I'm feeling 32.<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Which makes me a decade older than Taylor Swift, but who is counting? Bless it all, I am. </span><br />
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Some pretty remarkable things have happened for me since 22. College graduation. A job. Marriage. Then the baby carriages. So many breath-taking things in such a short time span. And too many mistakes, fumbles and learning curves to count. </span><br />
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One of the ways I responded to all these beautiful milestones was trying to be a grown up. Or my version of a grown up. Grown ups did the right thing. Always. Grown ups were strong and didn't ask for help. Grown ups made meatballs from scratch, even when babies were crying and sleep was a distant memory. They dusted their baseboards at ten pm when company was coming the next morning. They wore sweatpants and took showers every third day. </span><br />
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And the kicker: grown ups didn't chase dreams. They just didn't. They needed to be fully invested in the reality of jobs, children, and keeping up on laundry. There was no time for dreaming, unless it involved the American dream of picket fences and 3.2 kids.</span><br />
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There were parts of me that I kept stuffing down into my shoes every time they surfaced. My creative person. My spontaneous person. My funny person. They would well up, at times, and yell, "remember me?" I'd be like, "no habla ingles," and promptly drown out their sound with my vacuuming. They were all too much for me in my twenties. I was too overwhelmed with keeping it all together to let them come out and play.</span><br />
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But God. My whole life story can be summarized in this magical phrase. I am a wiener, but God. I try to be perfect, but God. <i>Thank God</i> for the but God's. Jesus, in His originality, began to transform my ideas of what being a grown up looked like. It was not running after the ideal grown up that I had frantically painted in my head. </span><br />
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<i>It was allowing who He has made me to be to settle in. All of me. </i></span><br />
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When God purposed my little life out, He didn't include the long legs I have wished for. He didn't make me as tall as I'd like. He threw in a mind that races like a hamster in a wheel, a disposition that makes me slightly awkward in large group settings, and hair that will just not stay straight. For the love.</span><br />
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And while I know the list of all the things I have not, He has opened my 32 year old heart to notice the things I am. Work with what the good Lord gave you, and so forth. I am realizing, more and more, that being a grown up is the greatest balancing act of all. It's the act of reconciling all the parts of myself to one another and fitting them together in a way that says: I don't care. I love it. I love this. I love me. Thank you God.</span><br />
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It feels like, finally, I've gathered all the little versions of myself and have told them to get in my belly. I'm no longer putting my pre-teen awkward self in a time out. I'm calling the part of me that needs more sleep up out of the basement and back into my bed. I need eight hours folks. I just do. The attention seeking part of me is okay too. I've learned how to work with her. Wow. So many parts and persons in this shell of a body. We'll need a special handshake or something.</span><br />
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I needed to walk through my twenties to get to this grand place of 32. I feel settled into myself, finally at peace with who God has crafted me to be. I also know that it's not over. I know that decade from now, I will feel even more resolved to live my one and only precious life with this stretch marked body, this quirky mind, and the genuine spirit God has given me. </span><br />
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So, to all of my twenty something friends who are dreading the big 3-0: Run towards the light that is your thirties. You are getting older. There is absolutely nothing on God's green/polluted earth you can do about it. But, along with those fine wrinkles forming at the corners of your horrified eyes comes an understanding of yourself and your God that only time can bring. Hug it.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-64354759853301190052013-05-09T05:32:00.000-07:002013-05-10T06:33:06.350-07:00Arrival.<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Ten years into marriage and I am still buying the whole love language thing. Time after time our marital tension boils down to one simple indiscretion: I am not loving him the way God designed him to be loved. And he is not sitting down on the couch and processing/analyzing/discussing every nuance of our life with me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My poor husband. Especially on road trips. I look at him, after the car is packed and the girls are strapped in and stuffed with goldfish, and say: You are MINE. Then I promptly pull out my mental list of all the things I'd like to discuss with him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">By the second hour, Greg is usually like, "Are you tired? You look tired. You should totally take a nap."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Gah. I don't know what it is about me, but I don't understand myself until all streams of consciousness have left my brain via my mouth. I need my words and thoughts free, so I can run after them with a net and keep the ones that make sense. It's kind of like elementary school, where the teacher would scramble a sentence on the chalkboard and we would take turns writing it out correctly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I need the time and space to think aloud until I arrive. It's how I roll.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I understand, that for most men, pointless talking is like a form of Chinese torture. Men are designed to have conversations that are efficient. You know. With conclusions, game-plans, and bullet points. Greg, bless his heart, is forever trying to meet me where I'm at in my thought process. Most of the time, however, he gets off the hook. He is a lucky man.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Because I have my sisters. Oh, those saintly psychos that I am blessed enough to call friends. With these women I have room to ponder, reflect, and whine until I make sense. There is time for the arrival. They understand that getting <i>there</i> is just as important as the conclusion. They are able to speak truth into the process, and patiently hold my hand so I don't trip on myself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Which is why I value coffee and dinner dates just as much (ok, a lot more) as the play date. I love doing life with my friends who have young kids, but conversation at it's best is choppy and unfinished. There's always a nose or bottom to wipe. That's the reality of most of our lives right now. And it's beautiful. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But there is something to be said about stepping outside of our fruit-snack realities and into deep and messy conversations with one another. It is so worth it. It is worth the shots of double espresso or the cheese fries or whatever it takes to stay awake enough to have meaningful and intentional time together. I meet one of my dearest sisters at six in the morning and we pound french toast like you wouldn't believe. It's the only time that works for us. Therefore we make it work.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I feel like this is one of the good and perfect gifts that God has given us. Untangling life through conversation and prayer with a sister. It could also be so the men in our lives don't go insane from non-stop dialogue. Greg loves when I share insight garnered from a heart to heart with a friend. Probably because it saved him four hours of his life. But still. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Long live the girlfriend. </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-69937814645457069302013-04-16T13:31:00.000-07:002013-04-18T07:40:49.248-07:00Outsourced.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm a little hesitant to even try and camp on such huge grounds with my tiny vocabulary, but the wrestling in my heart won't give my fingers peace until I try. So darn it all, here I go.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Outsourcing. Tiny pet peeve of mine. When I call a customer service number and end up speaking with a very nice (albeit hard to understand) person in Pakistan; I usually end up getting off the phone because:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A. I feel rude after asking them to repeat themselves and I don't want to hurt feelings</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">B. My kids are punching each other in the eyeballs with crayons</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">C. I just want to talk to the source. Just please. Put me on the phone with whoever </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> created this cell-phone, this credit card, or this dishwasher.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You guys. The abiding life in Christ Jesus is being outsourced. We are exchanging His words for blogs (oh the irony), sermons, podcasts and relevant Christian magazines. We are devouring books on Christian living, fist pounding at the Toby Mac concerts, and aligning ourselves with politicians who believe as we do. We chase after whatever is trending. I hear this year it's riding Schwinn bicycles and composting. So there's that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We are creating a sub-culture where the middle man becomes more important than the Man. We flock to our spiritual heroes in times of crisis, despair, and political brouhaha. We beg them: tell us your thoughts! How should we feel about Boston? Where should we align ourselves on marriage equality? We chase down our Pastors and Christian radio-talk hosts to help us crawl out of spiritual valleys, relational mire, and financial bogs. We scream for steps, diagrams, and plans. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Someone just give us a freaking plan. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> One of my dear friends likened it to a sugar addiction. We need our fix. Our spirits have become accustomed to tidbits of holiness, packaged and presented in other peoples words and revelations. We want to Cliff's notes version on Christianity, thank you very much. Trudging through the Word of God on our own and sitting in a dark closet waiting for Him to speak is just far too laborious. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If someone could just chew up my food and spit it into my mouth, that'd be cool too.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For, if we substitute these <i>good things</i> for the Best Thing, then no wonder the world is confused by us. If, when people come to us, asking about our Jesus and Who He is, and we bring them to church, point them towards a Francis Chan book, or tell them to listen to K-Love...aren't we just like those difficult to understand Pakistani phone calls? Are we always ready to give an answer for the hope that is within us, or are we ready for Shane Claiborne to do it for us? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">People are asking US for a reason.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Are we daily searching the Word of God, hiding it in our heart? Do we even realize that is is living and active? That it will cut some of the holy tension and confusion we feel while wandering this planet? That, even the stories we swear that we could recite from memory or Mrs. Andersons 2nd grade Sunday school class can still breath God's promises to us in new ways? And prayer. Oh, the power of hitting our knees, crying out to the Source of everything. Lifting up our voices on the behalf of the week, needy, and lonely ones. Waiting in silence, allowing God the space to do as He may. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text 1Pet-2-2" id="en-NIV-30402" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;">Like newborn babies, crave pure spiritual milk,<span style="font-size: 0.65em;"><sup class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-30402C" title="See cross-reference C">C</a>)"></sup></span> so that by it you may grow up<span style="font-size: 0.65em;"><sup class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-30402D" title="See cross-reference D">D</a>)"></sup></span> in your salvation,</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span class="text 1Pet-2-3" id="en-NIV-30403" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;">now that you have tasted that the Lord is good. 1 peter 2:2-3</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> We need to grow up into our salvation. We have tasted that the Lord is good. Now it's time. Time to hit it hard. He has given us his Holy Words, you guys. No middle man needed. Let's take full advantage of our royal priesthood status, and enter the holiest space of all...a life in community with God. A life lived to know Him and make Him known. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Please understand. This is coming from an area of personal conviction. I love reading others stories and how God has inspired them. But those stories are not my own. And the Author of my story is waiting, patiently and long-sufferingly (it's a word now) for me to live out my own. I am ever learning.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-32037739633496197062013-03-29T08:14:00.002-07:002013-03-29T10:50:08.864-07:00Remind me.<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I thank you, Lord Jesus.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For when you descended to the depths of Sheol </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">you brought
my junk with you</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You brought with you the part of me that wants to promote
myself through my parenting<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You took with you the way I count beans with my husband<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You went down with my trappings of appearance<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You lugged my endless battle of idealism<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You sank under my wasted time on social media<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You descended with my tendency to find flaws in everything and everyone</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You carried my pride. My doubt. My jealous heart<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The weight of my filth crushed you, like an anchor</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Dropping
you into the deepest grave of all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The effortless way that I give into myself over and over
again<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Pushed you down further, deeper, and held you there<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And you left it there <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You did battle for me<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Because you went, I will never have to<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Please. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Remind me, that when you rose, I rose<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I stepped out of that grave with you. Unblemished<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Clothed in white, no longer sitting in my own filth<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Clean because you did my laundry<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Remind me, it's already done</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Let my little life exhaust itself in gratitude</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My hands become calloused in thankfulness</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Not because I need to prove myself to you</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But because it is finished.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Thank you Jesus. </span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-51897018744257290292013-03-14T11:57:00.000-07:002013-03-14T12:03:01.133-07:00The List.<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"This isn't going to happen."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
Rachel Baker. Circa 2000. On a grassy knoll in between my freshman dorm and his. Breaking his heart. Without a candlestick.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
"We'll see about that."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
Greg Hamann. Circa bleach-blonde-hair-sticking-out-of-a-visor-era. Calling my bluff. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
I can pretty much boil down our entire pre-dating relationship to this single conversation. We hashed out this talk many ways, in many settings, with various hairdos for well over a year. Greg, with a resolve only God knew, pursued me in a way that was unparalleled. I couldn't figure out why. I was a hot mess of contradictions, pimples, and holy determination. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />The first time Greg and I took the obligatory walk around Judson's loop he tackled me to the ground somewhere around the sand volleyball courts. I didn't know whether to scream, laugh, or pee my pants. I think I did a little of each. I was thrown off by how forward he was. I kind of liked it. We sat in the cold sand, looked up at the stars, and talked about things I didn't usually talk about. He wanted to know about my family. It was refreshing. Greg was very honest about where He was at. With God, with himself, and with me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
Somewhere between the sand volleyball courts, the late night walks, the rocks he threw at my dorm window just for me to open up so he could tell me he was thinking of me, the notes I'd find in my campus mailbox, and the way he unabashedly declared his intentions of winning my heart...I realized....he already had it. I was slowly giving myself over to the notion of a future with one Mr. Greg Hamann. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
Just one thing. There was The List. </span><br />
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Somewhere, in my infinite youth group teenage wisdom, I had created The List. The List was a detailed account of character qualities and physical qualities that I wanted in a future husband. You guys. Don't judge. It was the thing back in 1998. Also, my best friend came to college with a plastic Cinderella slipper on a necklace. Waiting for her prince charming. So there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
The List. My future husband must have brown hair. Blue eyes. Working towards full time ministry. Guitar skills and vocal talent preferable. Willingness to move across the country, across the world for the Kingdom. Must outfit himself entirely from American Eagle (stop it. I know.). He must be able to sit down with my dad and have heavy theological conversations. He probably shouldn't be too attached to family. He must not weigh less than me. Ha. He needs to lead me spiritually. He needs to be intense. Fit in with my ministry minded friends.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
Greg. Blonde hair. Bleached blonde, in fact. Blue eyes. Marketing major. Was still figuring out the Jesus thing. Athlete extraordinaire. Had never held a guitar in his life. Wore a thrift store bowling jacket with Otis on the nametag. Told me on our first date that he would never move away from his family. Skinny as a rail. Had never prayed with a girl before me. Greg was not complex. Sure of himself, yet humble in a way I had not yet known. We also ran in, er, different social circles at Judson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
So why, for the love, was I falling in love with him? On paper, literally, we didn't make sense. Many of my ministry minded friends didn't understand our connection. I know many of his teammates didn't really grasp how we made sense. I went back and forth. Greg remained steady in his feelings for me. To this day, neither of us really know how or why he did. But God.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
But God. I remember, methodically and painfully, God undid some of the benchmarks I had set for the future Mr. Rachel Baker. He replaced them with His truths, His standards, and His ideal for me. I am a little slow on the uptake, but I began to realize how Greg Hamann was my new List. Best. Decision. Ever.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
Fast forward twelve years later. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
Greg and I served dinner with our small group at a local PADS shelter. It was my first time serving, but Greg has regularly helped out with the homeless in our community. I was absolutely floored by how many of the homeless knew my husband, shook hands with him, asked him to pray, and asked him about his family. I stood in a stupor as my husband rallied forty plus of the marginalized population to pray over our meal, and how he quietly and calmly diffused tense situations, broke up fights, and gave to whomever had need.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
My husband had never looked so hot to me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
Um, and I was an awkward fool. I stammered around the homeless, nervous about saying the wrong things or making too much eye contact. I was super uncomfortable when a teenage mom-to-be was crying on my shoulder about her place in life. I was like...do you want a kleenex? I'm sorry that you are homeless, pregnant, and that your husband doesn't want to be with you anymore. Want a brownie? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
Here I am. I am most comfortable within the four walls of a church. I speak fluent Christianese. I know how to lead worship, prayer meetings, small groups and I can change a nursery diaper like no other. Doing life with other believers is my first language. I am so confident of myself, and of God when I am inside a church building. I know, like three people, who aren't Christians. Take me outside those four walls, and my confidence is shaken. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm so humbled. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And ever-learning. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
And my husband. Who didn't meet The List. Who shakes hands and shares prayers with the least of these. Who serves and doesn't need a soul to know about it. Who quietly shares his faith with those in his workplace. Who just does. Outside the four walls of the church. He doesn't know Christianese. Or if he does, he doesn't use it. Greg has a simple, active faith. While I am talking about what God is teaching me in a coffee shop, he is handing a coffee to the homeless man outside my window. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
I came home that night earlier than Greg. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I sunk to my knees, crying and thanking God for my husband. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And feeling a fool.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have so much to learn from this man.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
I am so thankful that God doesn't keep lists for us. I am so glad he shook my silly nineteen year old self into realizing His Word is actually true. He has plans to prosper us. If only I could learn to let go more, of my check-lists, and my ideals, and my hopes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
I know, that offered up to God, in fear and trembling, He will take my check-lists and transform them into something so so so so beyond what I could try to imagine. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">“Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.” </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1069006.C_S_Lewis" style="background-color: white; color: #666600; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-decoration: none;">C.S. Lewis</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">, </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/801500" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;">Mere Christianity</a></i></span><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-56952092976723423202013-02-20T13:29:00.001-08:002013-02-21T07:05:38.660-08:00I got 99 problems, but Seven is not one.<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had one of those talks with my sister, Adrienne, that only sisters can have. We were discussing a book I've been asked to review, <i>Seven: An Experiential Mutiny against Excess</i>, by Jen Hatmaker. I LOVE me some Jen Hatmaker. Like, let-me-inhale-everything-she's-ever-written-or-spoken LOVE HER. I was so excited to write a review on <i>Seven</i> because I deeply admire her ability to convict others towards active holiness through her honesty, humility, and ridiculous sense of humor. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ok, backdrop. <i>Seven</i> is about taking a month at a time to root out the excess in our Christian lives. Month one begins with food, where Hatmaker committed to only eating seven foods for 31 days. From there, she reduced her wardrobe to seven articles of clothing for one month. Then possessions. Social media. Waste. Spending. The intense <i>Seven</i> experience was end-capped with month seven: a fast from the busy life. During this month, Jen and her family practiced <i>Seven Sacred Pauses</i> (Macrina Wiederkehr), where they made space for prayer and meditation seven times a day. Just wow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ok, personal reaction. Um, the book made me feel like crap. I felt like I had just finished reading the account of a saint. Seriously. I read about how she drove her family downtown monthly to barbecue for the homeless of Austin, and how she took part in a community gardening initiative that benefited the marginalized. Bought organic. Had a compost. Created a storage room with her friends in the off chance a refugee might need some bed sheets or a night stand. Girlfriend does all the fasting. Feeds all the people. Prays all the prayers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Book review nothing. Life review: ugh.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This overwhelming feeling of inadequacy is so not new for me. I wish. I felt it when reading <i>Crazy</i> <i>Love</i> by Francis Chan. <i>Kisses from Katie</i> by Katie Davis. Pretty much any book chronicling a life chasing Jesus. It's a familiar feeling; this holy despair. An unparalleled tension. I feel ready to have a full blown panic attack, worried that I am not living a life set apart enough for Jesus. I look at these authors and how the Spirit has led them on these insane journeys, and has also gifted them with the use of words. I feel so small.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, my normal reaction to these convictions? Do I pray more? No. Do I take out my Bible and study it, waiting for the Spirit to lead me on my own journey? Do I ask Jesus to lead me into what He has for my little piece of His story? Not so much.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Instead...I get all cray cray.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After reading <i>Seven</i>, I partook in recycling freakishness. I started interrogating the nutrition labels at Trader Joe's. I went cold turkey with Facebook for a few weeks. It's cool. I only missed out on three Christmas parties. I would almost smirk as I drove straight past my old shopping grounds and straight into the parking lot of our local thrift store. Stupid people who shop at Gap. Darn the man. I sat my four year old down and explained how we wouldn't buy chocolate from Hershey anymore because they bought cocoa from farms in Africa that enforced child labor. She just stared at me blankly and asked, "So can I have my M&M's now?" I maniacally demanded my family rest during the Sabbath. My one year old would be throwing her pootie pie diapers down the stairs at the end of a Sunday because she was so bored.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I did it. I went all commando on saintly. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For like three weeks. Slowly, my former life crept back in. I (gasp!) threw a plastic water bottle away. I caved in and ate a whole row of Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. I drove by a homeless person without a ready-made lunch in my backseat. I bought a shirt at the Gap. On clearance. But still. I felt like a failure. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is where a moment of clarity came through a discussion with my little sis. I was explaining how I become three parts convicted and one part annoyed after reading books like <i>Seven</i>. How I feel like I get wrapped up in other peoples stories and convictions, and I can't separate who God's called me to be from whom God has called these authors to be. Adrienne, in her wisdom that still sometimes sidelines me, reminded me that the spirit of religion resides in both sides of the Christian spectrum. Then came this beauty:</span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span class="text 1Sam-15-22" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">Does the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text 1Sam-15-22" style="position: relative;">as much as in obeying the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span>?</span></span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="text 1Sam-15-22" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">To obey is better than sacrifice,<sup class="crossreference" style="vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-7583A" title="See cross-reference A">A</a>)"></sup></span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text 1Sam-15-22" style="position: relative;">and to heed is better than the fat of rams</span></span></b></span><br />
<span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="text 1Sam-15-22" style="position: relative;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span>
<span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="text 1Sam-15-22" style="position: relative;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b> 1 Sam 15:22</b></span></span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="text 1Sam-15-22" style="position: relative;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span>
<span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="text 1Sam-15-22" style="position: relative;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Boom. Thank you Samuel, prophet of old. Sometimes, I get all caught up in the doing. In what others are doing. I see God moving in their lives and I want to join, so I can be a part of His story. What I forget is that I NEED to be obedient to the life God has called me to. That I might have another plot in His story.<i> Sacrifice for the sake of sacrifice isn't what most delights my Savior. It's obedience to what He has made known to me.</i></span></span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="text 1Sam-15-22" style="position: relative;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="text 1Sam-15-22" style="position: relative;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm not quite sure what that is yet. I do know this: while many convictions posed by Hatmaker in <i>Seven</i> have taken residence in my heart, her story is not my story. I know that God wants to make my story known to me. To all of us. He is so capable. Capable of sweeping us into one massive holy story. Braided together, overlapping, back and forth, all the while creating something strong, something unique, something beautiful. Something that points ALL of our spheres of influence back towards the Creator. God. Who does all the braiding. Yes.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Please understand that I am not advocating being motionless for the Kingdom. There are mandates set forth by God that cannot be ignored. The Bible is so clear that we are to be actively pursuing justice, mercy, and holiness. That we are to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and live outside of ourselves until we breathe our last. However, God's Word (holler at your Samuel) also clearly says that we are to be on our faces before our Living God, asking what He has for us at this very moment, this very day, this very year that is before us. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What a remarkable posture. One of moving forward, eyes lifted upward. Love.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's cool. Once I strike that balance, I'll let you know. But for now, I am going to rest in knowing that God is moving in Austin, Texas, and (believe it or not) the greater Chicago-land area. I will do that next right thing in front of me, but I will also pause during this insane life and continue to ask my Creator to make my story known to me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>"It's good to struggle and let the spirit and word convict in matters of truth. He gives us awesome mandates, and then there are the different ways God is original and unique with each of us."</b></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>-Adrienne Baker Bley the first. Whom I love. </b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-25872392075878280012012-11-13T06:34:00.003-08:002012-11-13T07:18:29.113-08:00On letting Christmas happen to you.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";">New
Years Day 2012. I found myself standing
the wake of Christmas 2011. I had left a
trail of wrapping paper, bank statements, and chocolate fondue pots all through
the month of December. And I was exhausted.
All I had to show for the Advent season were bags under my eyes, a new
bathrobe, and a husband that knew better than to talk to me until I had my
first three cups of coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";">Hindsight
can be hard on a girl. I should have smelled Christmas coming around the bend
in November. I should have forecasted it
as I swallowed my last bite of pumpkin pie. I should have noticed how the month
of December in our calendar was blacked out by office parties, church gatherings,
and family celebrations. It was disguised in the taste of Starbucks peppermint
mochas and shopping lists, but I should have known. Christmas was coming like a
big, fat, overwhelming tidal wave…and I would be swept away. Christmas 2011 was going to wash over me,
knock me around a few times and leave me on the shores of 2012, wondering what had
just occurred. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";"> Christmas was going to
happen to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";">In
November everything it made sense. This
is what the Advent season is about. Tradition.
Family. Community. Schedule all
these things for optimum Christmas experience.
Check. Then there are pancakes
with Santa. Wait. Also, let’s not forget
about the annual Christmas cookie exchange. The craft fair. Choir rehearsals. Grab
bags. White elephants. Then December hit.
I burned out the first week. As
we walked through all that we had previously scheduled, I realized it was too
much. My Batmobile had lost a few
wheels, but I kept moving. For the sake
of face-saving, for good will towards all and all that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";">All
these well intentioned things left us in a candy cane induced stupor, stumbling
into church Christmas morning. I was
wound tightly, after cooking our traditional breakfast, opening gifts, packing
our Jeep full of more yuletide goodness for another family celebration, and
outfitting my children in their matching Christmas attire. I recall feeling inconvenienced that
Christmas was on a Sunday. Seriously, I had so much to do. Celebrating the birth of Christ didn’t really
keep with our schedule.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";">And
there it was. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";">Laid bare, like an ugly sore airing itself out. As I sat for the first time in days, I was
overwhelmed by a holy sadness. I had
missed it. In all my fa-la-la’ing, in
all my egg nog drinking and outfit coordinating, I had missed Him. My Jesus, born to a teenage girl without an
epidural in a dirty stable two thousand years ago. The birth that changed the History of
Everything. In my frenzied state of
chaos, I had dropped my gaze from Jesus and fixed my eyes on whatever was
before me. Prone to wander, Lord I feel
it. Especially at Christmastime.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";">I am
ever learning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";">I know
that Christmas time calls for a posture of holiness. A time that is set apart from all other
times. A time to remember our Infinite
God contained in a swaddling babe. Let’s
not pretend like we have wrapped our minds around that last sentence. FULLY
GOD. FULLY DIAPERED. Should all things Christmas point towards
this Miracle? Um, yes. We, as believers that this Event did indeed change the
History of Everything, should face our Advent Season head on. Eyes fixed.
Hearts set. But what does that look like? When we are standing in November, red
sharpies poised towards December, how do we keep our gaze fixed on Jesus?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";">One of
my favorite passages in Scripture is Luke 2:19 </span><b><sup><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Arial Narrow', sans-serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span></sup></b><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Arial Narrow', sans-serif;">But Mary treasured up all these things and
pondered them in her heart.” She had just given birth, for the first time, in a
barn-like atmosphere. She was unwed.
Mary was a baby herself. She had
strange visitors in the stable, shepherds and men of nobility who confirmed
what Gabriel had told her months before. This child she had just birthed was
indeed the Messiah her people had been waiting for. What a rush! Mary’s response? She treasured up all these things and
pondered them in her heart. She didn’t
tweet about it. She didn’t make birth
announcements on Snapfish. She treasured
her good news. She pondered that this
little baby, borne of her own body, was going to Save her world. And the rest of mankind. No big deal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";">I want
to be like Mary. I want to create space
in my life to ponder. I want the opportunity
to treasure the Good News that I have been given. I want to stay calm in the flurry of the
Advent season, eyes fixed on Jesus. For
me, that will take the form of more white spaces on our December calendar. I am committed to protecting set times for
reflection and restoration. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";">I am
going to have to learn to be okay with disappointing people, with breaking
tradition so that my heart can be aligned with the One who made it. I am going to plan meaningful moments and
conversations with my children and husband that point towards our Jesus. I am not going to rush through gatherings,
mind already on the next event. I am
going to take those opportunities to look my family members in the eyes and
encourage their hearts when we speak. My
husband and I are going to be purposeful with our gifts this year, knowing that
all things Christmas should point towards the miracle that is Christ Jesus.<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Arial Narrow', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Arial Narrow', sans-serif;">Let the Redeemed of the Lord say so. Let us treasure what we Know. Let us ponder how to make this Advent season
one in which all things point towards the Promise we hold. The Promise delivered in baby form. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";">Let’s not just let Christmas
just happen to us this year. Let us not get so caught up in all the good things
that our Perfect Thing gets lost in eggnog frenzy. Face it head on, full of intention and
celebration. Let us choose what to
celebrate wisely. Let us not get tangled
up in the garland of “should do’s.”
Let’s be okay breaking tradition for the promise of what is sacred and
good. <span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif";">Christmas
2012. I can smell it coming. But I am so ready for this. I have my red Sharpie, ready to do some
damage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-40148192164329901922012-10-08T13:57:00.000-07:002012-10-09T11:29:06.373-07:00Lazy Days.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's been that kind of day. The kind of day where I haven't brushed my teeth and my darlings are still in their pajamas. They have watched more TV than usual. I haven't done a ton of cleaning, and I've spent a lot of time researching various matters on the internet. Important matters. Such as what all my friends are up to on facebook. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />If I'm being honest, I'm feeling guilty about my day. I should be doing pumpkin-themed crafts with my four year old and posting it on facebook for the world to see. I should be making some sort of comfort food dish for my husband when he walks in the door. I should be working on projects that I've left unfinished, and I should probably do something about that massive pile of laundry that's hissing at me in the corner. And, according to Madeline, I should take a shower. Should. Should. Should.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
Sometimes I operate as if there is some sort of invisible "should do" social audience that I am catering to. I don't know who they are, or what they look like, but they have managed to influence many of my choices throughout the day. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Darn the man. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Darn my make believe people. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There they are, these invisible people, all up in my head space, telling me what I should and shouldn't be doing. And a</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">pparently today is a five-alarm day because I've felt nothing but guilt for not visiting farmers markets or taking my girls on a stroll to talk about deciduous vs. coniferous trees. Maddie is even calling today Christopher Robin day. Without correction.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />It's strange dressing this feeling with words, because I've tolerated it for such a long time...but I'm constantly feeling the pressure to always be on, always produce, and always impress. Must.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> not. deviate. from. this. plan. Must. b</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">e. efficient. at. all. times. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />For some reason, today it makes me angry. Today I'm flipping the proverbial bird to my "should do'" invisible friends. Also, it's not really swearing when it involves make believe people.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm taking my day back. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Free of judgement and condemnation and made-from-scratch feelings. Who would view this day as a waste? I'm alive, I'm learning, my children are playing together and are hanging out with Bubble Guppies and Octonauts. I need today to be like this. And God knows that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
I know Who holds my day. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know who my invisible Audience is. He is the One that I'm aiming to please. And since my God made His Rachel this Way, He knows that I need some time to lay low, rest my heart, brain, and body. I need this lazy day in order to fully face the days ahead of me this week. My children and husband need rest. And what I am (not) doing today holds importance of Kingdom proportions. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So my invisible friends can take up residence in someone else's conscience. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Seat taken. </span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-18090217036267875982012-09-13T08:31:00.000-07:002012-10-09T11:29:54.563-07:00two rachels<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My story really started the day I was born, but for your sake, I will start with a few years ago. You're welcome. I was twenty seven when I became a mom. I thought I was pretty well acquainted with myself. In my own frenzied ducks-in-a-row way I figured that I had lived enough life, worked enough of my kinks out that my kids wouldn't be irreparably scarred , and had had "enough fun" to settle down and build a family. I just decided that the door to anything pre-kids would be shut, locked, and that key would be tossed. I mean, I was almost thirty. Seriously. That's so old.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, at the beginning, during the late night feedings and the body change and the hour that it took me to pack a diaper bag just to go to Target I really really really decided that I was right. I would look at married couples without kids, I would look at PK's (Pre-kidders) at the beach in their bikinis and I would mourn this part of my life that passed. I seriously must have freaked out the high school girls that I met with, as I would go on verbal rampages about how lucky they were to have french fries for lunch in the cafeteria, and how I would give my left eyeball to sleep in until noon. I figured I might as well put on the denim jumper, get the mom haircut, and let my three month old finger paint the walls. If you stuck a fork in my flabby post-baby arm, you would have known. I was done. I felt done.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Don't get me wrong. I LOVED (as I still do) being a new mom. I drank in every moment as a stay at home mom, stealing sweet kisses from my baby whenever I could. I think I cried every night as I rocked Madeline and prayed over her life. It was a feeling like no other. I loved the rhythm of life. I cherished the play dates, the coffee runs, the lazy days at the park and at the beach. It was so beautiful. Yet I began to feel a little unsettled. My pre-mom Rachel was knocking on my hearts door. She wanted to play.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I sought God out, I began to realize that my perspective had been pretty skewed. I fully believed that I had to lay down who God made me to be in order to embrace the kind of mom He wanted me to be. I was ready to do it. But, slowly and brilliantly, God unraveled this untruth in me. He allowed me to see that He had created me on purpose. And that those dreams, passions, and yearnings were from Him, and would be accomplished thru Him. And that my family was part of that equation of becoming whole. That everything I'd gleaned from marriage and motherhood was being added unto me, and it was all put back into a better version of myself. There were not two Rachels. There was just one kind of confused one. Rachel 2.0.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And some time passed. I slept more. Some stretch marks faded (note: the some. Hey. I'll take it). And I began to realize that I was still myself. Just a little older, wiser, and slightly chubbier. My passions did not fade. My convictions and career aspirations were not under lock and key. And, although I did have a moment of insanity where I bought fleece-lined Crocs, my fashion senses were somewhat in tact. Most of all, as these two perspectives merged, I felt a beautiful peace taking over. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Although being a mother of Godly proportions requires much sacrifice and teaches much wisdom, patience, and perseverance, I <i>now </i>know that it does not requires death to self. It requires just the opposite. Being much alive in the One who holds everything together, and reconciles the old with the new. Now I can bravely face whatever my God has set before me because I get it. I may or may not have to go back to this blog and eat my own words a few times, but I'm grasping it. Stay tuned world: Rachel 3.0 in the making:)</span><br />
<br />
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-8997288935986616122012-08-03T13:36:00.001-07:002012-08-11T16:37:05.209-07:00Sit in it.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's been a while. I feel like it's been a lifetime since I've last written, and I can feel it starting to boil in my bones. Like if I don't write this here post I might explode. Even worse, what I am learning might fade into oblivion as this life rushes on, up and over me. These words need to be written. For my souls sake. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For my God has been doing a Number on me. It has been a mother of a number. I have been attempting to outrun, out-talk, and out resource this Number for some time, and God has finally sat on me. Like glued-me-to-my-chair sat on me. Sat on me in a way where I couldn't turn my head to the left or right or even cross my legs or anything comfortable because of the weight of this Number. I guess my God knows this girl pretty well. It takes nothing short of horse-blinders, duct tape, and a holy megaphone booming in my face for me to allow this Number to sink in. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because, since the day I made my two minute entrance into this world (a story my mom is <i>still</i> telling), I have been what some might call "head-in-the-clouds-ish". I prefer the term "thoughtful." I am seriously always daydreaming, scheming, and thinking. I wish it were more like Brother Lawrence where I am in constant prayer and practicing the presence of God. Not so much. Instead it's usually an insanely long stream of consciousness that may or may not exit my mouth at all times. Poor Greg. His simple, "how was your day?" will turn into a monologue about how I've decided we should adopt a child, open an orphanage, or get my bangs cut. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Being head in the clouds-ish is not really a bad thing. But at times, I check into my head so much that I check out of my reality. Such a tiny, fine line. When I cross that line, my present life kind of becomes foggy. It's like I'm sedated, slumbering through each day as I dream about what the next one holds. It's not just my head I check into. It's Facebook. Pinterest. Gmail. Texting. Words with Friends. The Bachelorette (which, by the way, yay for Jeff!). Sometimes I'm amazed at how checked out I have been in my day. Checked out of fully loving on my girls, checked out of quality, <i>quiet</i> times with my Jesus, and checked out of supporting and encouraging my husband. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I know this is not how my God has designed this present life to be. Consecrate yourselves. For the Lord will do wonders among you <i>tomorrow</i>.<i> </i>Loose translation: be fully HERE today so that I can work wonders with your tomorrow. I'm going to take a wild guess that consecrating myself today doesn't involve watching Teen Mom or spending hours reading Facebook statuses. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Consecration:</b> (1)<span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">a solemn commitment of your life or your time to some cherished </span><span style="background-color: white;"> purpose </span><span style="background-color: white;">(2) sanctification of something by setting it apart (usually with </span><span style="background-color: white;">religious </span><span style="background-color: white;">rites) as dedicated</span><span style="background-color: white;"> to God</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What is my cherished purpose? How have I set apart my day to dedicate it to the God who has given me this very day? This breath? This moment? Moment by moment I make a decision: Check out or Consecrate. And I know that if I choose to (with a little holy duct tape and horse blinders) commit each day to my Cherished Purpose that God will build upon those moments to do wonders with my tomorrow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And the mother of a Number that God has been working on my heart is simply this: Sit in it. This is your life. Sit down deeply in your beautiful mess. Don't try to get up. Don't strain your eyes to look forward or turn your chair around to see what is behind you. Have purpose in your gaze. See what I see. Thank me for what is before you. Set apart this present life, this moment I have given you, and fully drink of the cup I have given you. For it is not until you do this that I will do wonders with your tomorrow. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-61980009091243994452012-01-11T13:27:00.000-08:002012-08-03T21:01:49.468-07:00Idealotry<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There are many things I like about myself and who God has made me to be. I am an honest person. I have good hair. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">However, somewhere along the way in my thirty-one years I have picked up some unfortunate habits/thought patterns that have woven themselves tightly into who I am. I call them my uglies. Occassionally they surface like a nasty pimple. I usually pop them and then get on with my day. Fortunately for me, and for those around me, God is calling me up and out of my uglies and towards him. This blog is partially to document that and partially to make sure that I am not that crazy. That others share in some of my struggles.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">One of the many uglies that rears it's head every now and then in my life is a little something I like to call idealotry. Besides, this is my blog and I can make up words if I want to! Idealotry is the worship of the ideal life. It's the running standard in my head of what life should look like pitted against what real life looks like. The two are usually so far apart that it's not even funny.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And it's not. It's not funny. Because what usually happens is that I do not allow myself to be happy unless my ideal life matches my real life. And seriously, when does that happen? I want to look like a super model. I want my children to be scrubbed and brushed and clipped and have halos over their heads. I want my meals to look like the cover of a Racheal Ray cookbook. I want my home to look like a Restoration Hardware magazine. I want my bank account to look like...well, look like somethings in it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And where it really hits a nerve is with the holy life. I have this ideal of what a life lived for Jesus looks like. It's radical. Like, sell my house, move to a third world country, and start an orphanage with my family. I have an ideal of what the Church should look like. This glossy picture of open homes, open checkbooks, open hearts, provision and forgiveness. I have an ideal of just leaving reality behind and just wearing burlap or whatever the saints of old did and just proclaiming Jesus Christ to whoever doesn't run away from me when they see my fleas. It sounds pretty, minus the fleas. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And I'm not even sure that my ideals are mistaken. My mistake is the amount of control I relinquish to them on a daily basis. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So, often times I spend my reality; this present life; unhappy. My reality is not even close to my idealotry. I am no supermodel. That's so far from the truth that I laughed out loud as I typed it. Madeline has been in a time out three times today. We eat frozen pizzas a lot. As I survey my present life and the ideal life it breeds discontentment. A dangerous thing. Because I get so stuck on the picture in my head that I begin to think that I will only be fully happy if the two match up. And it sucks the joy right out of my reality. Thievery. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And I know that I'm not alone in this. Daily I listen to loved ones who struggle to find happiness with where they live, what they look like, the amount of money they have and the circumstances that they are living in. If only we could win the lottery. If only I could lose these last 20 pounds. If only I could move back to be closer to my family. If only...then. I am in no way diminishing the hardships of anyones life...but where it becomes dangerous is when we refuse to live fully in our present lives because we are so wrapped up in what "should be." Idealotry is debilitating. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I also realize that there are times where God is calling us up and out of the way we do life into a higher standard of living. But I don't believe that God is honored by our daydreaming of the ideal life. I believe He is honored by us pulling up our bootstraps, with His help, and tackling our days with passion and fervor, even if they are not what we want them to be. I believe that God is glorified when we hand over our ideals, and instead of living to the impossible standards in our head, we allow Him to guide us and move us into a life more fulfilling, rewarding, and exciting than we could even imagine!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> My God is a God who calls out to the deep. Who is willing to get dirty with me and sift through the mess that is me...keeping the good, adding more goodness, and throwing my uglies as far as the east is from the west.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-46152858116958141022011-12-04T13:59:00.000-08:002011-12-07T20:07:57.434-08:00The Next Thing<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Tis the season for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The good stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The good will towards all, and the cookies. The parties, the presents, and the cookies. The worship and reflection. And the cookies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So much goodness and happiness and calories squeezed into such a short amount of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me this translates into eight separate to do lists bouncing simultaneously around in my brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a ping pong machine. Seriously. Don’t be surprised if you find me wandering aimlessly in the aisles of Walmart in my bathrobe with a glazed look in my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fa la la la la la la la la.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can tend to get paralyzed by my “to do” lists up in my head sometimes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s all swirling around in there, like a tornado.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get sucked into the vortex, and all I want to do is (figuratively and literally) rock back and forth in the fetal position for a minute or two. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> There is what I refer to as my A list...standard every day protocol. Laundry, bathing, reading Disney Princess story books with Madeline, etcetera, etcetera. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">But what really debilitates me is my B list. That is the list that I never get around to. That's the "if I get done with my A list" list. It's also the important list. It's the people I need to be praying for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's losing the rest of this baby weight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Raising daughters who know and love and follow God. Reaching out into my neighborhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Getting ahead financially. Being available for friends who need an encouraging word or someone to cry with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keeping my house presentable for company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of all, I get overwhelmed with the holy life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I living a life worthy of the Name to which I am called?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is there anything remarkably<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jesus-ish about me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">How.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Will I ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Do this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So usually what happens is this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I throw in the towel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I eat half a dozen donuts, swipe the credit card, watch the Kardashians instead of sweet prayer time with Jesus, and I leave my girls in their pajamas all day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pull my car into the garage and don’t take the time to say hello to the several neighbors that are raking their leaves or putting up Christmas lights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see friends and church or at the store and have casual conversations with them, our mouths saying one thing, but our hearts and eyes speaking a language of disappointment, longing, and failure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The heaviness of the failure literally makes my shoulders sag .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel like I’ve disappointed myself, my family, my friends, and most of all, my God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I know that being overwhelmed and feeling like a failure is self-inflicted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know, I so deeply know, that God did not design life to be like this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One of my favorite movies from the nineties is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">About Bob</i>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a comedy about a doctor-patient relationship that goes awry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this film, Dr. Leo Marvin (Richard Dreyfuss) aides Bob Wiley (Bill Murray) in overcoming his phobias with “baby steps.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These steps involved taking small measures towards a greater goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For whatever reason, it makes me think of cooked spinach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I am strange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyways, back to the spinach. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t like the way it tastes, but I know it’s good for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So sometimes I want to just eat it in one bite so it’s over with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then it slides down my throat and my gag reflexes kick in and it’s not a really pretty situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me or anyone sitting within three feet of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, if I were to take small bites, and chew on them for a while, it would be a little more manageable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then it would be gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Baby steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oswald Chambers has been quoted as saying, “Trust God and do the next thing.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bite of spinach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Baby steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me, the next thing would be what is set before me at any given moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would be the tree for the forest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if, instead of allowing my guilt to weigh me down <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>for not praying for my children enough, I stopped for a few moments and lifted them up to Jesus? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if I chose a banana over a donut? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I chose to take five minutes to call a friend that I hadn’t connected with a while?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What, just what if, I decided to park my car in the driveway and run over with my girls and say a quick hello to a neighbor?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the mother of what if’s…what if I trusted GOD while I did all this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I know that being debilitated by my goals is not how God has called me to live. I’m learning that the process of becoming holy as He is holy is a moment by moment process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is choosing Him over the Kardashians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is choosing to roll over to my husband and ask him to pray over our family instead of both falling asleep the second our heads hit the pillows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is deciding to do the next thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And all of those next things will dramatically shift the direction of my life, of my character, and of my holiness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like shifting the tracks of a railroad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They will point me along the path of righteousness, baby step by baby step.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-51072605082625272632011-11-06T07:05:00.000-08:002011-11-06T07:05:12.248-08:00Beautiful BurpsI was trying to express to Greg how I feel when I write, and the best I could come up with was that it felt like burping. Like everything I digest in life has spent a little time jostling around in my heart and mind until pressure builds, and I burp. And feel a whole lot better. It's not the prettiest comparison, but it sounds better than what happens on the other end...if you smell my drift.<br />
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I spend so much of life just absorbing, taking in, and swallowing whatever life has to offer. I've had meaningful moments with loved ones and interactions with not-so-much loved ones. As I move through life, I feel like I only have a second or two to respond to each significant moment before the next one hits. This includes some of my most precious moments with God. It's like I feel this cloud of holiness descend on me, and then my three year old yells through the fog, "I need to go a lot of poops!" Onward Christian soldier.<br />
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But when I write, life makes sense. There is something about pausing to make sentences out of all the jumbled thoughts and words in my mind. To pull something concrete out of what otherwise seems like wet cement. It really allows me to reflect in a way that is good for me...to realize how God is weaving His story in me and throughout me and the ones I love. It gives me lessons, purpose and direction. Writing, for me, feels like burping...the pressures of the absorbed life built up and released. And I feel a sense of relief every time I pull something significant (to me) from the the fray.<br />
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For others (like my husband), writing feels like a form of Chinese torture. And that's okay. But I do feel that everyone needs to burp. It may not be writing. For some, it may be cooking. It may be running. It may be coloring in a princess coloring book. Perhaps singing. Making bracelets. Painting nails. There are treasures that God has given each one of us to allow us to pause and make sense out of the life that He's called us to. Something life-giving, that we all walk away from feeling refreshed and renewed. <br />
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Our God is a God who loves us and sings over us with great delight. He has not only given us deep joy in knowing Life through His Son, but He has chosen to give us treasures along the way. Treasures and talents, to make sense of the Life He's given us. And to know Him more. I know that my God is honored when I sit down to write. I know that He is blessed when I pause and let out a beautiful burp. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380387710694520294.post-64854109777478209992011-10-19T19:12:00.000-07:002011-10-20T12:26:36.792-07:00What I'm Not.There are many words I would use to describe myself. I feel that I am genuine, a tad gossipy, funny, intuitive, and prideful. I am an idealist to the nth degree. I thrive on relationships, and my world is not right when there is a rift between a loved one and myself. I could make conversation with a wall. I have, in fact, made conversation with a wall. I count beans. I have a proactive personality. I know that Jesus loves me regardless of what I say or do, but I am forever, FOREVER trying to be good enough for Him. I am a quality time kind of gal. I can be passive aggressive. Just ask my poor husband how many times a day I let out the dramatic sigh. Hey. I didn't say it was all pretty, but I'm a work in holy progress. Amen and amen. <br />
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But my list of what I am not is a lot more difficult for me. Especially when it comes to serving God. There are so many wonderful opportunities to advance the Truth inside and outside my church community. And I want to do every single one of them. Bake sale? Sign me up. Worship team? Got it. Youth Mentor? Totally. Childcare? Love kids. Neighborhood outreach? Yes and yes. <br />
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What happens in all my yessing is that I run from activitiy to activity, with a hallelujah thrown up in between my driving and painting and baking and reading. My mind is running faster than my poor body, like an obese person with a personal trainer yelling for them to catch up. I feel panic welling up in my throat, not wanting to let anyone down, feeling like I'm doing a half-butt job of everything. I secretly (or not so secretly) am crabby with everyone who is not volunteering as much as my saintly self. I cringe as Madeline asks where I'm off to next as soon as Greg walks in the door. And, inevitably, I crash. and burn.<br />
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One of those committments is a community Bible study I'm in. We are taking the year to go through the book of Acts, and it is a-may-yay-zing! One of my favorite passages is in Acts 6, where the early church was thriving and growing. They were selling their possesions, giving to the needy, and constantly breaking bread and praying prayers together. Love. The distribution of the daily food was getting a little unorganized and tricky, and the twelve apostles gathered the believers together and said:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">"It is not right that we should give up preaching the word of God to serve tables. Therefore brothers, pick out from among you seven men of good repute, full of the Spirit and of wisdom, whom we will appoint to this duty. But we will devote ourselves to prayer and to the ministry of the word." Acts 6:2b-4</span><br />
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I know that it sounds like Peter and his homies were cocky, but my understanding of the text is quite the opposite. Peter was crystal clear about his purpose and calling. He had walked with Jesus, he had waited upon Jesus, and he was being obedient to Jesus. He didn't waste his time running around and "yessing" everything that the early church threw his way. The apostles knew what they were. And knew what they were not. Because of thier obedience, the church grew by the thousands. <br />
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Although my intentions are to honor God with all of my yessings, I end up losing sight of God in the flurry of servitude. It's like a bad romantic comedy, where the starlet spends half the movie primping, tanning, dry-cleaning and outfit shopping in order to impress her love interest, and it turns out he prefers sweats and no makeup. We run around like chickens with our heads cut off, shouting, "Praise the Lord!" while we run into walls and ditches and all sorts of trouble. Meanwhile, God wants our sweats. He wants to direct us towards purpose and promise in our quietest moments. Like he did with Peter and the early church. <br />
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I need to have more quiet moments with God. To know what He asks of me before I go yes crazy. I need to know myself through His eyes. I need to learn how He has crafted me so perfectly to fit into His body. I believe our God is a personal God, one who has made us to serve in a unique capacity. For me to say "no" to an opportunity to serve means that opportunity is open for someone else to fill it as God calls them to. It all works together like a holy orchestra, each of us picking up an instrument as God calls us to play; the music reaching and blessing His heavenly ears. <br />
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So. I am learning. I am ever learning. I am learning to say "maybe" instead of yes to service opportunities. To get in my sweats and pray about it. And then to feel confident in saying no, just as Peter did, if God is leading me elsewhere. Therefore, my list of what I am not is growing. I am not an artist. I am not a Sunday school teacher. I am not an encouragment card writer. I am not a "techie". I am not a grounds crew type of gal. I'm not a speaker. I am not a bake sale participant. I am not a preacher. I am not good at sending care packages. I am not a greeter. Maybe that will clear some space inside my head and my heart for God to whisper gently to me what I am.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1