My Address.

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.

Even writing that sounds dumb.

Because I feel more of a mess than ever.

It's a good thing.

 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.

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.

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.

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.

Which requires honesty.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

And that, my friends, is how it is supposed to be.

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.

Harvest.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.  

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.

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.   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.   

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.

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.

 Faithfulness springs up from the ground, and righteousness looks down from the sky.  Yes,the LORD will give what is good, and our land will yield its increase. Righteousness will go before him and make his footsteps a way.

Psalms 85:11-13

My right now thing.

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.

This might seem like an obvious charge.  For me it wasn't.  Because I am a person of chaos.

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. 

 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.

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.

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 just being a stay at home mom.

And then He was like: cool. Then you should be a stay at home mom.

Because this is your right now thing.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This is my right now thing.

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.

But right now, this is where He has me.  And right now, this is where I find Him.

Responding to Love

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.

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!"

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."

Because all my make believe ping pong matches are outside.  With airplanes.

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.

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.

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 who needs another white privileged girl telling the rest of the Church that they are white and privileged?  No.  No.

What good things do I have to say outside of Him?

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.

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.

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:

God.  Do your thing.

A love letter to my kindergartener.

Dearest Darling Madeline,

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.  

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?  

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.

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.

But 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.

If we kept you home, the world would be missing out.

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.

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.  

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.  

I love you darling.

Momma

Because I'm taking my summer back.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And it karate kicked me 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.

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  Hart of Dixie?  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.

You don't even want to know what my laundry room looks like right now.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Because that sounds like a perfect summer to me.

I don't know about you, but I'm feeling 32.

Which makes me a decade older than Taylor Swift, but who is counting?  Bless it all, I am.  

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.  Thank God 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.

It was allowing who He has made me to be to settle in.  All of me.

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.

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.

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.

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.  

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.