Blogging to Bless

Yesterday was just one of those days.  I haven’t had one in awhile, so I suppose I was due.  Matthew didn’t nap, and every time there was a hint of hope that I might get a moment’s peace, one of the girls would get rowdy and wake him before I could even get him in bed.  I was frustrated and tired and not in the right mood to head to Family Adventure Camp at Heart of the Shepherd.

It was day 3 of our church’s form of Vacation Bible School, a highly anticipated event for my children. It is fun for them, but it can be exhausting for me and the kids, so it was no surprise that they were bickering over crayons by the end of the night.  All of the nudging that I felt to turn the moment into a teaching moment and to meet their crankiness with opportunity to show love and service to one another, I simply ignored.  I was just. too. tired.

I excused myself from the table, letting my husband take the lead.  Matthew and I slipped away to a quiet room where I plotted my retaliation.  Should I tell them we are not going to tomorrow’s activities? Should I make them give up the privilege of “buying” trinkets with the tickets they were earning throughout the day?  All seemed fair enough.  After all, we were supposed to be learning how to serve others with good attitudes and they certainly weren’t bringing their part of the bargain to the table.

Neither are you.  God spoke softly to my heart.

I tried to ignore it and indulge my sorrows some more. This summer has been ridiculously busy.  I haven’t had a moment to myself.  The days are a whirlwind of activity and the nights never hold the rest I am promised.  I was tired.  Tired of serving, and coaching, and cheerleading, and disciplining, and thinking of ways to turn disastrous meltdowns into “teaching moments.”  I was tired of pulling out the good attitude when the bad one beckoned.  So I grumbled to myself that if my children weren’t learning the lesson of serving each other, we had no business being here.  I certainly didn’t need to be here to learn how to serve others.  I do it enough.  All. day.  So forgive me, God, but I just want to sit hear and rest for a minute and not do my job.  Don’t You get that?!

I sent my husband home with all four of the children, swallowing down some guilt that he would likely have a baby crying for his Mama the whole time while he tried to get the additional three Cranky Pants in bed.  “I’m going to help clean up,” I said.  It was a guise of needing to serve others so I could indulge in a different venue where kids weren’t the background noise.  

I don’t think I was really needed there, but I needed to be there, because God reached out to me, like he often does when I’m throwing one of my temper tantrums.  I had only been free of children for a few minutes, when Kelly (the wife of one of our pastors) told me her 2 year old daughter had something to tell me.  I looked down at her sweet little cherub-like face and she proclaimed, “I said a prayer for you today!”  It blessed me to no end.

And it convicted me.  Why did little Vera pray for me?  Certainly, she didn’t sense that I needed it.  If I had asked her, she probably could not have articulated any particular reason.  But I know why she did, because the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to little ones such as her.  Because she was an open vessel for God’s love and when He pressed on her heart to pray for me, she didn’t make excuses like, “I hardly know her,” or, “She might think that’s a little weird,” or, “She doesn’t really deserve it, because she’s never really ever done anything for me.”  She just followed in child-like trust and obedience, because God had a purpose for her prayer.

As we grow older, we find all sorts of excuses not to do the things that God asks of us.  We mistakenly call them “reasons.”  Last night I saw in a little child’s simple demonstration, how following God’s leading can greatly impact another, beyond what we may even be able to comprehend as we follow through with His request.

When we act in obedience and offer with the right attitude, it is then that God’s love is revealed.  Though my “offerings” this week may have appeared sacrificial and even obedient, my attitude was something entirely different.  I harbored in my heart stress, selfish ambition, greed, and anger, but somehow expected it to breed love. I had prefaced each day with a warning that if my kids weren’t willing to show me that they deserved to go to Family Adventure Camp, I wouldn’t be taking them.  I made it clear that it wasn’t necessarily a priority on my list, but it was a service to them, and I expected them to show me how grateful they were for all the additional stress and work each day provided.  I was pouring out an attitude that didn’t speak of love and service.  From where did I expect my kids to get the right attitude?

I keep thinking of little Vera, holding her mommy’s hand, saying those sweet words to me, and I am humbled by God’s grace to reach out to me through this little vessel filled with His love.  I admire the work He can do with a willing attitude.  I had accomplished little the entire week, but in a brief moment, God lifted my spirits and renewed my heart and attitude.

How much can He use me if I refuse to empty myself of sin?  What partnership can His love have with a poor attitude?  How easily I forget. How needful that I be reminded.  How humbling that my messenger was two.  How grateful I am to be emptied and filled all at once.

When my brother signed up for the service in the midst of his senior year, I had mixed emotions of dread and annoyance.  I was twenty years old and engulfed in my own selfish pursuits and couldn’t quite wrap my head around my little brother’s decision.  Foreign affairs were growing tense at the time, though I gave little attention to it, but in the air, even the apathetic could feel that war was coming.

Being only two years apart (to the day as we share the same birthday), it is likely I couldn’t have persuaded my brother had I tried.  I feared for him, but it was more of a selfish fear of having to dedicate my mind and thoughts to deeper things than my romantic ponderings.  So I largely ignored the sacrifice that he faced as he went off to boot camp and then on to Germany, and after 9/11, Iraq.  I was managing a shoe store, bought a new car, was getting married.  It didn’t mesh with my mentality- to think about what he was doing “over there” while I was here, obliging the pursuit of happiness.

So when Memorial Day and Fourth of July come around, I feel unworthy to hold in honor men I don’t know, when one that I do know received very little support from me during his time of sacrifice.  But now I understand it is my duty.  They are men and women who are taken for granted, misunderstood, and neglected.  The bravery and the sacrifice they offer is beyond what I can comprehend.

Last year I took my children to a Memorial Day Parade.  We clapped for the service men and women and the parade was over in no more than five minutes.  We had enticed the kids along through their morning routine with the dangling of excitement over a parade, and lips started to tremble when we told them it was over and time to go home.  Nobody tossed any candy.  There weren’t any marching bands or floats.  It wasn’t the parade they were promised.  As I tried to ward off their tears, I began explaining that “this parade was never about us,” and I found myself grasping that truth for the first time.  It was never about me, or my kids.  It’s always been about something much bigger.  What they- those service men and women- stand for is something much bigger.  It’s freedom, it’s country, it’s sacrifice.

My job is gratitude.

With Memorial Day approaching, I found myself asking which parade would be best to attend this year, recalling the disappointment from the past year.  It became very clear to me where we belonged.  Not at some big extravaganza, but the same parade that will likely draw even less of an audience this year.  This year, as a family we have been working on tokens of appreciation to hand to the soldiers, because I don’t want my kids to be confused about why we came.  We aren’t coming for entertainment or to get candy, but to give thanks, small as it may seem in light of what we received in return.

On Monday, take the time to go to a parade or a Memorial service.  When those men and women march by, clap for them.  When your hands get tired, keep clapping, because when they were tired they didn’t have a choice to stop.  And when your hands hurt from clapping, push yourselves to clap a little louder, because many of them pressed on in pain.  And it’s okay to tear up when you think about the ones that never got the opportunity to march.  That is what you are supposed to do.  

I always called her “Mom,” but I never fully understood what that word embodied.  I’ve wished her many a Happy Mother’s Day without the capacity to appreciate.

She used to say, “I’m so tired, I could cry!”  Or, “I’m dead on my feet.”  Or, “I’ve spent all day in this kitchen!”  I chalked it up to the melodrama of adulthood.  After all, I knew what it was like to be tired after staying up late to chat on the phone and then getting up at 5:45am to start my school routine and I had never been so tired I could cry.  Dead on my feet had to be an exaggeration.

I get it now.  Tired is no longer fit to describe it.  Try exhausted and we might be getting somewhere.

I remember her splaying her hands out before me, in an attempt to draw some sympathies for the cracked knuckles and nails from all of the scrubbing of laundry and dishes and bathrooms.  I wondered what the fuss was about a few surface cuts.  I understand now how it is to face down that steaming sink of dishes after every meal and the wounds that don’t heal.  How can your hands be wet all day and lack any moisture of their own at the day’s end?  How is it possible that just holding something can cause your knuckles to bleed?  I hold my own hands out to my children and plead, “Mommy can’t bear to wash her hands one more time today!” and know that the only other person who can understand is the one I never afforded any sympathy.

She signed up for it, after all.  That was my reasoning.  All those kids, all those dishes, the never ending circle of meals to make and meals to clean up.  She decided to do things the hard way and preserve peaches and pears and tomatoes and pickles all over a hot stove in the heat of summer.  Why would she choose to do that?!  I groaned about the additional heat in the home, the sour smell of the pickle relish that permeated the air, and the fact that she had tied herself to the home so that she couldn’t chauffeur us to the respite on the shores of the beach.  Only years later can I understand the security behind all of those jars lined up in the basement; the best of the season preserved at a fraction of the price one pays through the winter.  Who knows what “they” put in those jars of Vlasic, but we had pure, premium goodness, because of her sacrifice.  For years, I took it for granted.  I never once paused to understand the sacrifice she packed into those jars until I was dead on my feet and HOT from canning all day long.

I used to hate that she never bought any convenience food at the store.  While other kids had HoHo’s and Twinkies in their lunches, I at times woefully unpacked the fresh baked cookies in my own.  With nine people in our house, she had to make cookies about every 3 to 4 days for years on end.  Now, the cookie tin is one of the first things I hunt out when I come to visit.

I never knew that you really could make someone feel like “dirt” when you messed up the freshly cleaned bathroom with your sloppy toothbrushing habits.  I get now why it made you feel like you “don’t even exist,” because an entire day’s worth of work in waxing the kitchen floor can disappear with a pair of muddy shoes on the feet of the careless.

I didn’t understand why it was such a big deal that I spilled my milk at dinner when you. just. got. to. sit. down.  I never knew that I could actually break your heart with a huff of disrespect or the accusation that “I was probably adopted because you love everybody more than me!”  I couldn’t possibly have known that your blood pressure really did rise at the sight of a messy room that minutes ago had been clean. I didn’t know that hearing the word “Mom!” one more time could really make you crazy.  I never understood why the millions of little squabbles with my siblings ever affected her.  Why did she care that I thought my brother was stupid?

I never knew that I could truly humiliate her with my own actions; that my actions spoke to the world about her parenting and opened her up to the judgements of every onlooker.  I need to find a purse big enough to crawl into, because God knows I have frequently felt the need to find a place to hide when my children have acted up in public.  God knows and she knows.

I never knew what the big deal was that you carried me for nine months after already having done it 3 times before and THEN choosing to do it 3 more times.  How can one really understand until they have offered their body in this way- to host a new life that will be as much a part of your own life as it will take away a part of your own life?

I never knew the fear that can accompany a seemingly small decision- that you can actually feel the burden of your child’s future in the decisions that you make.  It rests on your shoulders, invades your dreams if you’re lucky enough to enter sleep, and haunts you when you make the wrong one.

I never knew that moms actually dread disciplining because it really does hurt her more than it hurts you.  I use to look forward to the day I’d wear the Iron Fist and I silently promised not to rule my own children so sternly.  I never knew that everyday would be a balancing beam of the thin and dangerous line between too much mercy and too much leniency.

I never knew.  I suppose I could not have known until I reached this point in my own life.  And while I want to say I have earned the right to enjoy this coming Mother’s Day, I have not at all.  Six years of it doesn’t hold a candle to the number of years it took for her to see the fruits of her labors.  I have a lot of half-hearted well-wishing to make up for.  Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.  This time I really mean it, because I really get it.  Thank you for never giving up all of those days of tiring and thankless sacrificing.  You have earned the right to sit back and fully enjoy watching your grandkids drive your daughter nuts.  I deserve it.

I’ve never been too daring when it comes to carnival or amusement park rides.  The riskiest of my repertoire at the annual visit to the county fair was the Tilt-O-Whirl (a slightly more exciting version of the tea cups at Disney World).  It was an older sibling that had convinced me I was able to tolerate the ride and I surprised myself in doing just that.

Years later, after finding myself very comfortable with the  ride, I decided to pass the baton of confidence down to my younger siblings, Brad and Melonie, and coaxed them onto the whirling ride.  They were probably around the ages of 6 and 7, although I can’t say for sure.  It was to my complete dismay that seconds into the ride, they both started crying.  I could offer them no comfort and as their hysteria grew, I found fears welling up inside me that I long thought had been conquered.  I’m pretty sure the carnival employee had some sick enjoyment watching the three of us plead to, “STOP the ride!” as we only seemed to go faster.  I never set foot on the Tilt-O-Whirl again.  Even as a high schooler, I was the dependable attendant to everyone’s belongings as they went thrill seeking from ride to ride.

Have you ever felt like that in life?  Yesterday I just wanted to shout, “STOP the ride!  I’d like to get off please.”  There was nothing unusual about the day, other than my thoughts spinning beyond my control.  All of the regular tasks and demands met my feet as they slipped out of bed to the floor, but defeat was whispering in my ear before I could even get started.

If we listen, there are hundreds of voices telling us how we need to spend the minutes of our day. Outside of the children who have their own agenda for me and a husband who stands to be neglected  in their midst if I’m not diligent in my dedication; there are times when walking through my house makes me feel like I am on a self-guided tour of failures.  There is the scale that tells me I should carve out some time to exercise and it’s housed in a bathroom that speaks of negligence.  Piled on the nightstand in my bedroom are books I have planned to read for several months, which reminds me that I have been avoiding editing my own book that hangs in limbo on my computer.  I opened the fridge to make breakfast and faced two pounds of spinach on the verge of decay that I had purchased with the intent to cook and freeze.  And I couldn’t help but notice there was the tell-tale indications of a fridge in need of purging.  Breakfast added dishes to the pile that had mysteriously appeared in the night and above the pile, hung a prayer board in need of some updates.  All the while I had been attempting to run Julia to the bathroom every fifteen minutes in the hopes that she would be potty-trained by the end of the week.

The day progressed- if one could call it progress as my kids took on their regular routine of strewing about toys and debris faster than one mommy could instruct them to pick up- and I felt like I was spinning.  I sought a moment of quiet found in no better place than blogging about a God Who is good and gracious to the weary and burdened… but Matthew sought to be fed again and again and Julia sought the attentions of mommy rather than a nap and that pesky dinner hour was approaching faster than usual.

Still, it was nothing that I don’t face on a regular day.  The Tilt-O-Whirl was spinning no faster than normal and yet, my head was screaming for the ride to stop.  Why did fear well inside me, then?  Why did I feel like the day, this life, was unmanageable?

Because I listened to every voice, but One.  I had just finished grumbling to myself that there wasn’t enough time in the day for me to do anything I wanted to do when it was met with a thought.  There is nothing in this day that God has called me to do that I haven’t been given the time to do it in.  In other words, whatever tasks God was calling me to do that day, He was also supplying the time for.  My job was simply to determine those tasks from the additional ones I had piled on myself.  

When days spin out of my control, it does not mean that He is any less in control.  It means that my priorities are not aligning with His.  I re-examined my day, scaling down to the necessities and focusing on what God wanted from my day.  It wasn’t a clean fridge, but the spinach was tended to.  He didn’t ask of me to potty train Julia, that had been my own deadline set simply because her sisters were trained at this age.  I found calm returning and order restored even among the bathrooms that never got wiped down.

There is a difference between what God wants from my day and what I want.  Too often I want a clean home, when He has asked me to minister to a friend.  Or I scramble after Pinterest-worthy projects, when He asks me to mold my children’s character.  Today He said, “Blog!” when I was ready to tackle those bathrooms that have attracted another day’s layer of toothpaste.

I’m beginning to realize that God has not called me to be a tidy homemaker, as much as this causes me to panic in my heart at what people will think about this admission.  I’m not saying that I am going to let housekeeping go out the window, but I do need to let go of some of these day to day distractions that keep me from focusing on what I am certain God has called me to do.  I know God wants me to instruct my children in His ways, to partner with my husband in achieving his dreams and to write to inspire.  The rest is just noise that I have to learn to filter or I will face too many more days like yesterday.

What can you say God is most certainly calling you to do today and what is distracting you from doing it?

“It is good for us to be here,” Peter had said to Jesus.  Then he offered to pitch tents and stay.  Now, before someone wants to gently tap me on the shoulder and remind me that this is Good Friday and not transfiguration Sunday, I will assure you that I am not confused with the church calendar.  It is good for us to be here on this Good Friday.  We won’t be staying; don’t pitch your tents, but for this moment, it is good that we should be here.

I love Good Friday.  Glimpse any church and compare the attendance during Good Friday service with that of Easter and you will see that the day is not appreciated as it should be.  There is a lot of attraction to the bright outlook of Easter morning and while I love that service as well, Good Friday really sets the tone for me.  I like to draw myself into the somber mood of the day and feel the heaviness.  It is good to be here.  To feel the weight of sin.  The burden it has placed on my shoulders.  I have grieved God by what I have said and done.  I have grieved God by what I have left unsaid and undone.

We are moving collectively as a society to a dangerous position that God cannot be offended by our actions.  We pretend that our lusts and our greed and our unfaithfulness mean nothing to Him.  If God cares deeply for us as individuals then you cannot fool yourself into thinking that our sin does not grieve Him.  Sin will always be an affront to God; a matter He cannot overlook, just as a good parent cannot overlook the disobedience of their child.  He will never take it lightly for He sees the separation it causes; how His child pulls from His grasp.  If ever we should doubt how seriously God takes sin, we need only look to the cross.

That is why it is good to be here today on this Good Friday.  We must look our sin in the face and see the result it brought; the face of Christ, beaten and bloodied.  It is our sin that spat in His face and that stripped Him of His clothes and dignity.  My sin that spoke atrocities and that cracked the whip.  It was sin that weighted the cross He carried to Golgotha until He stumbled under the weight.  And the nails were sin piercing Him through.  It was sin that opened his veins and drained His blood.  It was sin that cast Him from His Father into death.

My sin and your sin.  Ugly, detestable, perverted sin that disfigured the face of Love.  My God, my God, what have we done?!

It is good for us to be here; to feel the weight of our sin.  My heart heaves under it.  It is mine for now to feel, but I won’t be pitching my tent here.  For now, it is wise to experience this pain of sin, lest I forget to feel the release when Christ took it upon Himself.

If we are not willing to reflect on the greatness of our sin- to be repulsed by it, to see the effects of it in the lives of others, to recognize the offense we have committed against God- then how can we truly celebrate the gift that Christ offered on that Resurrection morning?  It is good to be here for a moment, so that for an eternity we can celebrate what Christ won for us.

Leviticus 17:6 “For the life of a creature is in the blood, and I have given it to you to make atonement for yourselves on the altar; it is the blood that makes atonement for one’s life.”
Romans 3:25 “God presented him as a sacrifice of atonement, through faith in his blood.  He did this to demonstrate his justice, because in his forbearance he had left the sins committed beforehand unpunished- He did it to demonstrate his justice at the present time, so as to be just and the one who justifies those who have faith in Jesus.”

   

Jesus knew His time was coming.  He didn’t run from death.  He walked right into the face of it when He rode into Jerusalem.  He knew what He was doing; that He would be riling the Pharisees and Saducees just enough to send them over the edge.  In facing death, He spoke boldly.  He walked right into the temples and overturned the tables of the money changers.  Death or life, He ran His ministry the same way.

I might be going out on a limb here, because maybe I am a rare breed prone to morbidity, but I find myself contemplating what I would be like if I was dying- the kind of dying where I have a few sands left in the hourglass, but enough that I can get a few things accomplished before I’m taken.  I know you might think I’m choosing the wrong word when I say I sometimes daydream about it, because we imagine daydreams to be happy places and happy thoughts, but I daydream about it.  I think to myself, “If I was dying, maybe then I would have the boldness of spirit that I so lack now to tell people about the life-giving love of Christ.”  Maybe they would listen, because the words of the dying are weightier.

The morning after the temple altercation, Jesus is heading back into Jerusalem with His disciples.  He goes to a fig tree to satiate His hunger, and finding only a leafy tree, He curses the tree and it withers.  Here’s a thought: He could have just as easily commanded the tree to bring forth fruit.  He was, after all, hungry and cursing the tree brought Him no closer to resolve.  So why this elaborate display?  It wasn’t at all about the tree, but the emptiness of the religious with their leafy coverups.  Might I add that the tree didn’t get a death warning?  It was found useless and immediately cursed to an eternal useless state.  I don’t know… does that give anybody else a sinking feeling in the pit of their stomach?!

Can I just pretend to be bold here for a minute and ask you a challenging question?  What if Christ walked up to you today looking for some fruit; what would He find?  I keep asking myself that question.  The truth about me- the absolute, full self-examination truth- is that I treat Jesus an awful lot like a seat saver.  I’ve asked Him to save me a place in Heaven, but I haven’t really joined Him for the pre-game.

And the real truth about Him is He’s not just a seat-saver.  He wants to partner with us here on Earth to bear some real fruit for hungry and lost souls.  And it takes a bold witness to do that.  The kind that walks into the temple when the political arena is already heated and turns over the tables.  He ruffled feathers, okay?  He wasn’t always this soft-spoken, warm and fuzzy Jesus that gets painted today.

The truth is the truth hurts and if I speak it, it might ruffle a few feathers.  Probably a lot of them.  And that’s probably why I don’t speak it boldly enough.  I’m not a feather ruffler, never have been.  I’m more of a seat saver.  I like to think, “Okay, I see we disagree. I’ll just sit here waiting for your return.  Hoping and praying that you do!  I’ll save you a seat!”

So let me say as I step away from my seat- He’s right here among us.  Right now.  Even this week with all of the politically charged and angry energy.  He’s right here.  He’s not just hanging out in Heaven waiting for your arrival.  He’s in our midst, searching for fruit.  And there are a lot of empty trees with supposed leafy goodness.  I’m speaking to Christians here, because a fig tree should produce figs and a Christian should produce Christ.  That is our job; to reveal Him to those who don’t know Him.

I would like you to meet Him.  More than anything I would like you to know Him.  I get too scared most of the time to say it, because there are a lot of things that Christians have done that make people squirm in their seats or run in the other direction.  I get it.  I’ve probably caused some squirming myself. Anybody who knew me in high school- I’m sorry.  I’m mostly sorry because I called myself a Christian and poorly represented the name.  It is the most harmful act a “Christian” can commit.  I wasn’t perfect then.  I’m certainly not perfect now.  I feel as though I am only at the beginning of letting God be the good work in me, but can you not let me get in the way of seeing Him?  Judge me how you want, but don’t judge Him by my actions or anyone else’s.  

So here’s my fruit, small as it is: Ask me about Jesus.  I think I’ve been saving seats and forgot to put out an invitation.  Pull up a chair and let’s start a dialogue about what He means to me.  I’ve been saving you a seat.
 

They shouted, “Hosanna!” days before they would cry for his crucifixion.  Do you ever wonder what on earth happened?!  Hosanna means, “Save!”  They thought he would save them.  He rode into Jerusalem on a donkey and they called him “Son of David,” rightly seeing the fulfillment of prophecy from Zechariah 9:9.  His would be the kingdom that will never see an end.  The streets of Jerusalem were wild with anticipation.  Yet, never had they been so wrong.  “Save us!” was their cry and save He did, but not in the way they imagined.

I imagine that first of Palm Sundays, myself in the crowd, because that’s right where I belong among a crowd that testifies to a belief they have not fully understood.  I’m in the moment of praise where my heart is full and my throat grows tight with tears and all feels right in this moment.  I believe He has come to be my king and so I shout, “King!”  I believe He is blessed so I cry, “Blessed!”  I believe He will save and so I shout, “Hosanna!”  My heart stretches over the beauty of my children shouting those same words.  I am certain of God’s presence and plan and I raise my palm branch in unity with those around me.  We have the long awaited king, who will establish a kingdom that will never end.  The oppression of Roman rule will be no more.  “Save us!” I make my plea, as I watch Him ride away and the streets begin to empty.

That’s when everything gets confusing.  I go home and try to put the day’s events in my Box of Expectations and it doesn’t fit.  He isn’t going to be a king.  He’s been arrested and death is his sentence.  It’s almost like He gives up and just hands himself over to the Romans.  It’s pitiful, really.  I’ve heard about the miracles and now I wonder how they could possibly be true.  How could they be if he could find himself in this predicament now?  He’s not saving me, if he can’t even save himself!  I feel betrayed.  What is this that I have put my trust in?  A losing cause!  I am angry and I am hurt.  It isn’t easy at first, but the words, “Crucify him!” escape my lips.  

Palm Sunday begs the question, “What is He saving you from?”  And if you don’t have a solid answer, you run the same risk that the Palm Sunday crowd succumbed to of crucifying Him with the same breath that had sung His praises.  How else was the same crowd so easily persuaded in a matter of days?  They had expectations for Christ that didn’t fit in His box of plans.  What about you?

I’ve mentioned more than once on this blog that I would have always called myself a Christian at any point in my life, but there is a clear period when my beliefs did not line up with a solid dependence on Christ.  In the same breath where I would profess my belief in Christ as the way to Heaven, I would have told you that there was no threat of Hell or the devil.  I called on Christ to save me, but I had no clear vision of what He was saving me from.  Maybe I thought He was saving me from making morally bankrupt decisions, but I was still making them.  Maybe I thought He was saving me from a much bleaker outlook on life, although it was precisely that time in my life when I struggled with suffocating depression.  I cried, “Save me!” but I can assure you I was on the cusp of crucifying the One who had come to save.  The threat to my salvation was that I didn’t understand from what He intended to save me.

Do you?

Maybe you have called on Him to save you from some troubles.  Or maybe you suffer from a faulty moral compass that has lead you down a dangerous path too many times.  Maybe God is your can of Fix-All.  Got pain?  Call on Jesus!  Got fear?  Call on Jesus!  Lonely and unloved?  Jesus is the answer!  Addiction? Jesus saves!  And while I agree that Christ has saving power over all of these things, I beg you to call Him Savior for more than this.  Life will always have its troubles and once you realize that, you might be a little frustrated that you haven’t been “saved” and call this whole God thing a farce.  But God’s Word never promises that we will be free of sorrow and tribulation; at least not until we reach our heavenly home.

My question for you is this: Do you call Him Savior because you want Him to save you from life?
Beloved, He has saved you for life!  Life in the midst of sorrow, pain, tragedy, and even death.  I have been saved for this life, that I might live it to the fullest under the glory of God!  

Cry Savior, because He has come to give you life and life abundantly!  Cry Savior, because there is no other name under Heaven by which you might be saved!  Cry Savior, because He lost His to save yours!      

Have you ever looked at someone you have known for a long time and it feels like you are looking at them for the first time?  A familiar face when intimately studied, changes; especially one you have grown to love and “know.”  Maybe it is because we take that face for granted when we see it.  I remember the first time I discovered this phenomenon.  I was in the car with my mother and I was in fifth grade.  If ever a face had been taken for granted by me, it was hers, until someone said they thought she was my sister.  “My mom?!” I thought.  Impossible!  So I took a close look and there behind that mom-ish facade was a person.  No kidding!  I remember just looking at her face in the light I imagined other people saw her and I think it was the first time I really took in her features- high cheekbones, dark eyes, really nice smile.  Mom.  And yet, not just Mom.  It was like she morphed right before my eyes.

God’s Word has a tendency to morph in the same way.  It’s familiar territory for me.  My eyes read the words sometimes with a half-effort.  “For God so loved…” Heard it before.  Yep.  Got it.  Gave His Son.  Moving on.  But if I stop and stare like it’s my first time hearing, it is brand new to my heart and I feel pierced by what I have “heard” a hundred times.

The other day I read a post from Heart of the Shepherd on Facebook.  It was Galatians 5:6.  “The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love.”  I stopped.  I stared.  I marveled.  All these times wondering about purpose, and what ifs, and how tos, and whys; melted into this one answer- “faith expressing itself through love.”  Conviction is that moment where your heart feels wounded with truth and you search for a way to repair it.  I wondered how much my faith was actually displayed by love and I considered that it wasn’t much.  Certainly not enough.

I love my children.  I love my husband.  I tell them everyday.  We kiss.  We hug.  We snuggle.  We are that kind of family.  And maybe because we are that kind of family, it is easy to have those acts of love be another motion that can get followed by a motion that is not so loving.  Anger, ungratefulness, grumbling, or just thoughtlessness.

The world talks about whirlwind romances as though they are the deepest form of love, but I tell you real love is slow and deliberate.  It’s the stopping and staring and discovering.  It’s that moment in Kroger when your cashier isn’t just the obstacle between you and dinner getting on the table on time, but a lady with a family of her own… or maybe none at all.  Slow, deliberate examination.  It’s the moment when the source of whining outbursts in the grocery store isn’t a brat, but a real, little person struggling to learn that love isn’t quantified in getting what we want and that’s a lesson we all struggle to hold on to.  Love is discovering that desperation to be wanted, needed, and loved is often what leads the teenager to make undesirable choices.  That girl is not the choices that she has made, but the choice that you make to love her can be exactly what she needs to guide her to better decisions.

Love is deliberate.  Why do we treat it like it is spontaneous; a fleeting feeling that we struggle to maintain?  The way our society falls in and out of love speaks to a belief that love is something that bubbles up in spite of us, then spills out over time, and is gone as quickly as it comes.  We act like we don’t have any control over this thing called love; that whether we feel loving toward a person is somehow outside of us, often dependent on how that person acts toward us.  We act like it is a current that sometimes sweeps us off our feet and other times heads us for the shore, leaving us feeling washed up and abandoned.

But the Bible tells us differently.  It is commanded, even demanded.  Like a mother requests her child to put on her shoes before stepping out the door, we are to “clothe” ourselves in love in the form of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience (Colossians 3:12).  Love is our Christian uniform.  We are required to wear it.  It is how we associate ourselves with our Lord and Savior.

Getting dressed in the morning is a deliberate act.  I can say this is especially true for me with a six week old baby that is regularly attached to me.  The Bible likens love to an act of dressing because it is a deliberate decision to wear love for the day.

Consider your day.  How much is swept away in a current of routine?  How much are your acts of faith simply tradition, rather than love?

“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.  If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.”- 1 Corinthians 13:1-2

Faith without love is nothing.  The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love.  Faith is a call to action; a deliberate decision to put on love, because if faith is not dressed up in love; it really isn’t faith at all.  

This post is long overdue.  I suppose I have a good excuse.  I’m looking at him right now- nestled in my arm, preventing full range of the keyboard to type this message.  Matthew Jonathan Koudelka arrived two days “late” according to the medical world, but not a minute outside of his Master’s perfect timing.  It’s quite the story, so I thought I would share.  Since Jonathan and I do not discover the gender of our babies until birth, I will be referring to Matthew as “the baby” throughout the post.

If you had the displeasure of being around me during the late stages of my pregnancy with Julia, my third born, you know I was going practically out of my mind with anxiety about the birth of the child.  This time was different.  I did not give in to the crazy nesting phase that told me I needed to work myself to exhaustion everyday, and having learned through Julia’s birth that even when everything goes “wrong,” it can still turn out wonderful, I wasn’t allowing myself the usual “when is labor going to happen?!” woes.  My husband kept marveling at how sane I was.  I kept marveling.  I was two weeks away from giving birth and perfectly, blissfully sane.

Then disaster struck.  To me, the stomach flu is right up there with nuclear warfare.  I’m sorry to appear to over-dramatize, but I grew up in a family of seven children.  If one of us got the stomach flu, it was a matter of time before you were next.  And once it was in the home, it was like a guest that overstays its welcome until spring.  If you mention casually that your stomach hurts, I am likely to flee to the nearest hand sanitizer and avoid you like the plague until I am certain that you are not contagious (which in my mind means some time next summer).  Call me overly paranoid and I won’t deny it.  There are few things I hate more than when my kids get sick with the stomach flu.

So here I am, two weeks away from my delivery date, enjoying my sanity-induced, peace-filled slumber (not the usual late stage lack of sleep as I try to will myself into contracting), when I am awoken by my brother who lives with us.  He is sick.  Very sick.  And I start freaking out.  I wake my husband, informing him that no, I am not in labor, but The. Worst. Possible. Thing. Has. Happened.  I can’t fall back asleep.  I can’t stop fretting, so I start praying and pleading.  It was the longest time I have ever remained in constant prayer.  Somewhere in the night I received a sense of peace.  I felt that God had assured me that He was going to protect me and my family.  I ran with the comfort, straight to my pillow to eek out the last few minutes of sleep that the night held before the rest of my family awakened.

Brad was quarantined to his bedroom and I began a sanitation process that could only be described as thorough and Hazmat-worthy.  I was determined that I would not be dealing with the stomach flu in my household minutes before welcoming a newborn into the world, but even more than my determination, I remind myself of the confidence I had that God had assured me that I would be protected, along with my family.

Fast forward two days when I find myself on the bathroom floor denying the inevitable, waiting for my husband to arrive home so he can tend to the children I have abandoned.  Only, as he drives home, it hits him too.  I have been on the bathroom floor for several hours when I allow the full extent of my emotions to wash over me.  God has abandoned me.  God has lied to me.  God is angry with me.  I don’t understand God.  I don’t understand His ways.  I don’t understand His purposes.  I don’t understand His messages of peace and comfort.  This was NOT supposed to be happening.

I am ashamed with my feelings, but they are undeniably real to me as I grow weak with dehydration and pain.  I can’t pray.  I am angry.  I am hurt.  I am terrified.

I realize how weak my faith is to have been shaken by a bout of the stomach flu, but it wasn’t the illness that did the shaking.  It was what I had interpreted to be God’s intentions, and discovering I had read Him all wrong.  My husband, who is now just as ill as I am, drives me the long way to the hospital where I receive fluids and face the fear, as the monitor detects contractions, that I might go into labor in the midst of this misery.  Even as I plead with God that this not be the case- that I not have to welcome this precious life with a face mask and fear- I know that I am entitled to no such leniency.  I feel completely powerless and under the heel of God’s Will.  I have no bargaining power in a faith that has waned away with the day.  I have lost sight of His love which is all that has ever given me hope in this world.

I wrestle with God like Jacob in the wilderness and I wait for my wound, my battle scar.  Because I can’t deny His existence; It’s been there too long, so I’m not coming out of this unscathed, am I?  That’s what scares me.  That’s what makes me feel unable to face God and the rest of the world.  I’ve used my own confidence in my faith as the reason I am entitled to the goodness in my life.  Because I believe so confidently, God will take care of me.  And now facing down the toilet- what I thought I had been assured I would not face- I feel my confidence being flushed, wretched right out of me.  Surely God won’t care for me now, because my belief that He is good is fading with my strength.  I feel toyed with.  I try not to admit it, but I do.  I can’t hide these emotions from Him, so I expose them in my flood of tears.  Verses come to mind of protection and love and assurances and I feel like I can’t discern their meanings anymore.  What is “protection” and how have I misinterpreted what I “heard” last night?  If not God’s voice, than whose?

I call to mind the sufferings of Job and David and the disciples and think of what a joke I am compared to their un-yeilding faith.  I can’t make pleas to their god.  They never doubted He was good.  I have fallen from favor.  I can’t ask for mercy.  I can only submit to what is to come.  I switch into this cautionary relationship with God.  He is Potter; I am clay, but suddenly the clay fears the Potter’s intentions.  I ask for my faith to be restored, but I don’t even feel entitled to that request.  I feel like an unfaithful lover, asking for trust.  Because the truth is, I know God loves me and I know He has a plan for me, but I suddenly feel very, very unworthy.  For the first time in my life, I feel totally unworthy of His love and it does not feel good.  Maybe I am not making the connection clear here, but I always felt (whether I admitted it or not) that His love was quite contingent on my faith and my feelings toward Him.  Quite frankly, I didn’t feel loved in the throes of illness, because it wasn’t what I wanted!  And feeling that way- even while knowing in my very heart of hearts all of the promises of God’s love- made me feel at risk of being abandoned by God.

The following day, as I slowly recovered, I felt a gratefulness to God for the healing I didn’t deserve and the baby still safely nestled in my womb.  But I still felt unloveable.  I felt as one does after knowingly disappointing another- cautious, uncertain, ashamed.  I approached God only with feeble prayer, as I faced children succumbing to the same illness.  What could I ask Him for?  Certainly no request of mine should be honored I thought, so I mumbled “Your Will” and wondered how much more of His Will in opposition to mine I could take.

I was exhausted, mentally and physically, but mostly I felt alien to my own thoughts; unable to go back to the place of peace that had always been my faith.  I could not trust that God would love me when I was angry at Him.

My husband called from work, doing his daily check-in with his very pregnant wife, and shared some good news.  An unexpected financial surprise.  I started sobbing.  Hysterically, he would probably say. “Why are you crying?” he asked, confused by my sudden affront of emotion.  I tried to explain to him what a relief it was to hear that God was still blessing me even when I was doubting Him.  It didn’t make sense that He would and yet, it made perfect sense, because if there is one certainty about God that I have always known it is that His love doesn’t make sense!  It is not reasonable, not contingent or conditional, not logical, and not in any way based on how I feel about Him.

It didn’t make sense!  And suddenly, that was why everything started making sense again.

We survived the stomach flu.  The baby stayed safely in my womb for an entire two weeks longer than I expected, as I typically deliver early.  Each day that we stepped further away from the incident of illness was like a reminder of what “protection” means.  It doesn’t mean we don’t face the battle.  We face and we persevere.  But beyond feeling protected from the physical fears of this world, I felt through this a spiritual protection of my faith that has given me a deeper understanding of God’s love.  Not because I love, but because He loves.

Having endured labor three times without any medication assistance, I knew I needed a focus for this approaching labor.  I’m not sure why, but through every labor I have danced.  I am a very uncoordinated individual and was reluctant to dance even at my own wedding because of the likelihood of injury, but when in labor with Colette, for some unknown reason, I began dancing and it brought great relief to the pain then and each labor after.  It’s kind of a Woodstock-ish sway, and I probably look completely bizarre to the nurses, but it works.  With an expectation of this upcoming dance, I selected a song: “10,000 Reasons” by Matt Redman.  I had heard it for the first time several months ago and had immediately selected it as my labor song.

When labor finally began, I whispered quietly to God, “Let’s dance.”  And we did.  It was a dance of forgiveness, a dance of restoration, a make-up dance of sorts.  I danced like a child standing on her Father’s feet, just following His steps and feeling loved.  And He danced with me that dance that makes every little girl feel that love that even her disobedience and unfaithfulness cannot turn away.

Matthew Jonathan Koudelka danced into our lives on December 20th.  His name means “Gift of God.”

Most of you know that I have been working on my first novel for the past year.  Though I have longed to be an author my entire life (I can prove it because I have plenty of elementary school “When I grow up” essays as evidence), I have never taken my writing as seriously as God intended me to.  The blog was my first attempt at committing to writing.  After a year of blogging regularly, I took the leap to start a novel with a timeline to finish in a year.

I suppose you can say I accomplished that goal in that I have a 92,000 word, 172 page document with a beginning, middle and end.  The actual sense of accomplishment that I thought I would feel at this point has been elusive.

Writing a novel is a funny thing.  I think most authors start out with a spark of inspiration and plot the idea.  Often it is a specific purpose- a goal to express a certain idea- that brings on the story.  I have heard it said many times by authors that characters reveal themselves to the writer as the book progresses.  Never did I understand this until my characters started falling in love despite my intentions. There were times when my story took turns I never suspected.  Perhaps I am a little surprised and baffled by my completed manuscript.

Most challenging was understanding the goal I wanted to accomplish with this book and then figuring out how to accomplish the goal.  If I wanted a character to go through a particular catharsis, I had to plot events, conversations or even tragedies that would bring this growth about.  Often I felt as though I were “playing God.”

The experience of writing has been very spiritually revealing, not just in my commitment to finally use my gift for God’s glory, but I received a new appreciation for God’s mastery of story telling.  He is the “Author and Perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.”

As a humble and uncertain author, I often wondered if my choice in plot was destroying my character.  Sometimes I discovered it had done just that and I had to lay on the delete button for several minutes to restore some hope. Even now, I wonder if I sent them down the right path.  I have opportunity still to change their past and redevelop their future before I send it off to a publisher with the hope of permanently securing their story between a professional looking cover.  Maybe all of those possibilities toy with my sense of completion.  But there was a particular tragedy that I felt was certain in this book; paramount to the revelation that I sought for my characters.  Scary to think about when we consider the Author of our lives and yet, comforting.  He’s not hitting the delete button, or scrutinizing scenes and reconsidering.  He’s not making mistakes with what He sets before us.  He’s not pounding His head on the keyboard, wondering if He will ever come up with a solution.  He knows that what He puts us through will work for the good of His perfect plan.  Even tragedy and failure and uncertainty can bring about the revelation He intends for us.

As I balanced two main characters with a sprinkling of friends and family, and tried to figure out how to weave their thoughts and personalities for the good of the story, I often found myself overwhelmed.  But Our God does not get overwhelmed with the details of our lives and how they impact others.  How amazing is that!  As I consider what a tough project this was- the times of frustration, the doubts, the fears, and the work- I am in awe of how perfect God’s plan is and how it has been written from the very beginning; the end never changing!  I know that as I bring this imperfect offering to His table, He will use it for His good purpose whatever that may be and again, I stand in awe.