Gifts of Love Gone Unnoticed

This post was inspired by a book I am reading right now – One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp.  You should read it, especially if you enjoy this post.

There are three things you should know about me before I officially begin this post:  First- I used to love riding my bike.  I could often be found doing laps for hours in the empty Kincheloe Elementary School parking lot of my hometown, Dowagiac, Michigan.  I much preferred this to the dangerous and unpredictable terrain of the road.  Second- I am not very observant.  That is an odd thing for a writer to say, but any observing that I do is out of training and discipline. It does not come naturally for me.  Third- Though I have revealed my challenges in housekeeping before, you should know that I was much more challenged by this when maintaining two jobs to put my husband through law school.
Now that you know these imperative details, I shall begin my post.

My husband, knowing that I missed riding a bike since I no longer owned one, bought me a bike one day while I was at work as a surprise.  He wheeled it into our very messy apartment and parked it in the center of the small, cluttered living room.  I came home from a long and tiring day and plopped myself on the couch next to my husband (in the small, cluttered living room now “decorated” with a new purple bike) and began whining about my day.  My husband grinned and nodded; not a typical response to a complaining, cranky wife.  It took me a moment to notice his out of place smile before I began looking around the room for the joke I was clearly missing out on.  Once discovered, the bike seemed to stick out like a sore thumb, but I had so easily missed it!

We both laughed.  I felt foolish and wonderfully in love with my thoughtful husband.  Certainly, he could have announced that he had a gift for me, waved me over to the bike, or placed it out in front of the door in the open and obvious spaces of the hallway.  There is an element of fun to gifts that are not so obvious.

I’ve been thinking about this story and the Giver of every good gift we have in our life.  How often does He place in our midst these small gifts, knowing they should bring joy to our hearts, and instead we breeze past them; not noticing them in the clutter and chaos of our lives, and plop before Him and start moaning about all that is wrong with this world?  I think pretty often.

I’m trying to imagine God now like my husband- a lover who enjoys to place before me gifts from His heart.  He paints the sky vibrant in color for me, and it passes unacknowledged in a rush to get to church in time.  He lays before me a feast of love in friendship and family that I pick at like a finicky child.  He graces me with the treasure of a small child nestling in sleep at my neck in the moonlight quiet and I bemoan my bed growing cold without me.

Gifts from a lover gone unnoticed.  He carves and molds and paints pleasures into my days, and I am willing to ignore them.  Imagine how disheartening it would have been for my husband, had I never taken notice of the bike.  It’s a bit of a stretch, of course, that I would never see a bike in the middle of my living room- no matter the mess.  But should it be any more of a stretch that I should never take notice of the good that God places before me, despite the messiness and busyness of my life?

Three beautiful, loud, rambunctious girls bullied their way into my slumber this morning.  I threw back the covers, grumbled into the bathroom and left them there to soak up my warmth that was all there was remaining of my presence.  Why?!  I suppose it happens frequently around here- me being roused from sleep by Julia calling for Mama, and Mary and Colette, squealing and giggling, in the wake, but it’s no less of a gift because it happens every day.  They are filled with joy every morning as they reunite, as though the night was far longer than it felt for me.  Whether they are blatantly thanking God or not, they are certainly relishing in that gift of good companionship every morning.  What a lesson I should take from them!

Perhaps this is why the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these- these children that capture joy in the “smallest” of moments- His simple and pure, everyday gifts- while we adults scramble with our discontent to get bigger houses, better cars, and “easier” lifestyles.  Right in the midst of climbing the ladder of discontent, God places in front of us that which could refresh our souls if only we pause to drink it in.  We forget what we are thirsty for- love, joy, peace- supplied everyday in small gifts wrapped by Our Father in His love.

  

Where Are You Planted?

It’s September which means that I have “lost” two to three hours out of my schedule which is now being dedicated to homeschooling a first grader and preschooler.  Of course, it is not a true loss of time in that it serves a very valuable purpose, just a large adjustment that requires increased organization on my part.  Truly, I value the time we have learning together.  As a homeschooler, I am able to emphasize certain topics of interest and really be a part in my child’s spiritual growth.  These were all the expectations I had heading into the commitment.

What I did not expect was my own spiritual growth as a result of reading a kid’s Bible or explaining memory verses to her.  We are only into our second week, and I have already experienced this joy.  Colette’s memory work has been focusing on the first Psalm, which I have read many times before, but as Scripture often does, it has revealed itself in a new light.  There is a beautiful visual of a tree in the verse, comparing it to a blessed man.  The tree is planted by a river and so it flourishes with this direct access to water.  Coming out of a very dry summer that required many waterings of the garden and a lawn that I gave up on, the verse struck a new chord with me.  Even with my faithful attendance to the garden this year, it’s yield was considerably lower than last year.  The lack of the blessing of rain, no doubt, had it’s effect.

So it made me consider how no matter where we are or live, we receive blessings that rain from heaven, sometimes sparsely and sometimes abundantly.  Jesus said in Matthew 5:43-45 “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’  But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven.  He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.”  In other words, even those who do not realize the source, receive blessings from God.

But this Psalm speaks specifically to our ability to increase our blessings from God.  It compares a man to a tree by describing that it is where we plant ourselves, that affects our spiritual blessings.  A tree in a prairie will survive as long as it receives rain, but plant it by a river and it has a more certain case of survival.  It is planted by the source of life and draws from that source, with less concern for the spontaneity of rain.

As the Psalm explains, a man has an ability to plant himself near the source of life.  “Blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked or stand in the way of sinners or sit in the seat of mockers.  But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law he meditates day and night.”  It is clear where you will find insufficient soil in the company that you keep and where you will find the source of life- in God’s Holy Word.

It is followed by a promise for the man who wisely plants himself.  “He is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither.  Whatever he does prospers.”
So where are you planting yourself?  Consider how closely you surround yourself with God’s Word, through prayer, worship and Bible Study.  Are you feeding your spiritual tree from a regular source or are you leaving it to be watered infrequently?  Examine what changes you need to make in your daily walk to bring about a good season of fruitful labors and if you choose your soil wisely, whatever you do will prosper!  

Not the Mad Eyes!

There are moments in parenting where one can be tempted to groan about having to deal with a particular situation, or choose to be thankful that a discipline issue that has come to surface has given you an opportunity to discuss early on a matter that would not be as favorable as the child ages.  Though the temptation to grumble was present, I had chosen to face the matter before me with the latter attitude.  It’s not every day that one has real life examples to discuss stealing (hopefully).

I remember a particular incident of stealing when I was a young child.  My brother and I had discovered that our wrists were small enough to navigate the trap doors of toy vending machines.  With the right angle and wiggle, we could grasp one of those plastic bubbles containing a small toy.  In our mind it was brilliance, not stealing, so we didn’t hide what we had done from our father once he had completed checking out at the local grocery store.  I don’t remember the specific discussion that entailed, but I do remember suddenly recognizing what I had done was, in fact, stealing and feeling very ashamed for my father having to return the item to the store.

Bearing that in mind, I remained calm about the life lesson Colette would receive when I discovered a plastic pirate coin in her pants pocket while doing laundry.  I recognized it immediately as a “treasure” from a children’s museum we had recently visited.  I was certainly embarrassed and ashamed, but I also knew that an opportunity laid before me to teach my child right from wrong.  In the hopes of drawing an immediate confession, I held up the coin for Colette to view and said, “Colette, would you like to tell Mommy where you got this?”

Her eyes grew large with fear and she shrugged her shoulders as convincingly as a 5 year old can muster.  She attempted to prevent her face from registering any recognition, but her eyes had already given her away (that, and she had been caught red pocketed).  I gently informed her that I already knew where it came from, so it would come as no surprise, but she was still required to tell me.  In a state of panic she declared, “Someone must have slipped it in my pocket when I was playing!”  *Note: How I have expertly not mentioned the location of discovery of the coin in question.

I will not replay the round-robin discussion that took place for the next half-hour with many tears over how I was not buying the innocent-bystander-of-someone-else’s-deviance story.  What was frustrating for us both was the stalemate we had both achieved.  I knew that I could not allow her to hold onto that story, as there would be no learning from the infraction.  She volleyed back with accusations of how I never believed her and why couldn’t I just see that it was the truth?!  But she was stuck in her misery; sniffling through her bedtime routine, eyeing me up to see if all was well between us.

I wanted all to be well, but I could not gather my distraught child into my arms and tell her she was forgiven and all would be okay, because she had not confessed to any wrong-doing.  There would be no learning in that.  In fact, I saw that it could lead down a very dangerous road, so I held my position, reminding her that I could not accept her story.

Finally, she said to me, “Mommy, I want to tell you what happened, but I can’t tell you when you have the Mad Eyes.”  For the record, my husband, having much experience in wifely eye expression interpretation, can tell you I was wearing my Serious Eyes and not the Mad Eyes, but nonetheless; I giggled.  It was the ice-breaker we needed.  I told Colette that she had mis-interpretted my eyes, but either way, I was smiling now.  I assured her that we would both feel better if she would tell me what happened and I silently prayed that she wouldn’t try and pass off the same song and dance.

“I put the coin in my pocket because I liked it,” Colette confessed.

And while no parent delights in their child confessing to something you thought you had taught them better about, I felt triumphant that we could move on to the forgiveness that had been dangling over her.  We discussed how it was not a good decision and how we could make the situation right.  And, we discussed how it was good that she was learning this lesson now, rather than when she was old enough for a police officer to get involved.  I promised her that she was forgiven and that Mommy and Daddy still love her and we hugged and snuggled as I had longed to do from the moment she chose to turn from the truth.

And I learned a lot about the release of confession.  Once again, as parenting has often lead me to do, I saw how frequently I am a crying and accusatory child holding to a distorted truth before an all-knowing God, Who longs to pull me out of my misery and offer the forgiveness sealed by the sacrifice of Christ.
“O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing.”  Matthew 23:37

How often we are not willing to accept the forgiveness, the comfort, and the protection of the wings of our Father who freely gives it to those who ask!  Instead we choose to writhe in our misery and make false claims about our situation.  This is how sin holds us captive from the love that God offers.  We create a barrier between ourself and God when we refuse to confess our sin.  Just as I could not gather Colette in my arms and offer her forgiveness without her confession, so do we create that same barrier with Christ.  How could I offer true forgiveness for a crime she did not own?  And though I could forgive her in my heart, she could not know the release of that forgiveness if she was not first willing to know the offense of her sin.  So though Christ’s forgiveness was completed on the cross 2,000 years before you committed the sins He paid for, you will never know what a blessing that forgiveness is unless you openly place before Him your confession.  No fear of “Mad Eyes” as we humbly come to the cross.  Those are His Love Eyes; the ones that lead Him to the cross in the first place.    

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.  Then you will call upon Me and come and pray to Me, and I will listen to you.  You will seek Me and find Me when you seek Me with all your heart.  I will be found by you,’ declares the Lord, ‘and will bring you back from captivity.'”  Jeremiah 29:11-14  Do not be held captive in your sin, but seek Him and you will be found.

Dirty Dish Prayer List

Awhile ago my dishwasher decided to stop working.  I called in a repairman who couldn’t get it to work, suggested a new one, and charged me $50.  He also said before we got a new one we needed to have some electrical work done.  My husband touched the dishwasher that night and it miraculously started working, but it’s been given to occasional temperamental behavior so I’ve stopped using it altogether except as the world’s largest dish drying rack.  This means I spend a lot of time everyday at the kitchen sink, staring at the minty green wall in front of me.

It has actually been surprisingly convenient because I never have to wait for the dishwasher to be full to run a cycle, which means I never have dirty utensil that I am waiting to use.  But it has required additional time out of my day and so to best utilize that time I put a message board on the wall in front of me and having been listing prayer requests.  Now I pray over those dirty dishes for friends and family who are facing trials.  If you’ve recently exposed a concern to me, I have probably prayed about it while scrubbing away at finger-smudged glasses and stubbornly stained casserole dishes.

I have been wanting to share the idea on the blog for a couple of weeks now, but other than presenting it as a good idea, I couldn’t think of much more to write about.  Until today.

The funny thing with washing the dishes after every meal is the monotony of the dishes used.  Where it used to be that dirty breakfast dishes were waiting patiently in the dishwasher to be joined by dirty lunch dishes, now I often take the clean breakfast dishes from the dishwasher and use them for lunch and the same happens at dinner.  For this reason we don’t rotate through as many plates and cups as we once did.  It’s really the epitome of motherhood.  We clean up, just to get dirty again and just when we are satisfied with what we have accomplished, somebody needs a drink of water… or spills something on their shirt… or dumps the toy bin.  And then it’s time for dinner.

So this morning while washing the breakfast dishes and bemoaning how it would be a mere three hours before I would be wiping down the same Disney princess plate, it occurred to me how monotonous sin can be in our life.  And what a good practice regular prayer was to wipe that slate clean.  Because I know what it’s like to let the dishes pile up through the day and the task is much more daunting then.
 
Just as it is a given that a day will lead to dirty dishes and laundry that will require tending, it is just as likely that my day will become mired with my sins and Somebody will have to clean up after me.  In any given day, I face the trials of losing my temper, thinking unkind thoughts, serving myself, giving into laziness and gluttony, and a whole host of other unattractive dirt.

It’s funny how my prayer list over the dirty dishes included everybody but myself.  As if I might have it altogether!  (Pardon the long pause while I laugh at the irony a bit)…
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The truth is we all need to be wiped clean daily from the build-up of living in a world of sin.  “Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord.”  Acts 3:19

One more comparison that I would like to make with dirty dishes and sin.  Have you ever done a sink of dishes only to get to that pesky last casserole dish that is caked with burned cheese and you think, maybe it would just be easier to let it soak for a bit?  So you put it in the water and leave it there over night only to be faced with it in the morning and now you have murky water with floaty cheese bits and you dread sticking your hand in there because who knows what else is lurking?  No?!  You haven’t?  *Ahem* Me either.  But let’s imagine for a moment that you have had that experience.  And let’s imagine that instead of dishes, we’re talking sin.

Sometimes, it’s easy to approach those obvious “little” sins and say, “I’m done with that!”  We wash them up and pack them away, content to never use them again.  And then there is the casserole dish sin.  The one that’s a little more cooked in and requires a lot more work and we decide to just let it soak for a bit because it sounds easier than approaching the disaster head-on and investing a little more time and energy.  But it’s never any prettier in the morning, is it?  Those sins might require a little steel wool scrubbing, but it’s best just to get it over with.  What an assurance we have in Christ that, “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”  1 John 1:9

And now that I have completed this task, onward to some dirty dishes and laundry!  Please feel free to email me or comment below if you would like to be included on the Dirty Dish Prayer List!

Privileged for a Purpose

President Obama was recently quoted as saying, “If you’ve got a business, you didn’t build that.  Somebody else made that happen.”  It’s been in the news.  It has gotten a lot of small business owners and conservatives upset.  There are unflattering pictures of Obama paired with cute little quips popping up on my Facebook page talking about how somebody else made him happen.  People are blogging about it and I suppose, now I am too.  And being a conservative, you might guess what I am going to say, but keep reading because I might surprise you.

I didn’t climb the family corporate ladder to land myself two stable parents and some really awesome siblings.  I didn’t use my intellect to weigh my options and select a nice town in Midwest America over an underprivileged country in Africa as my place of birth.  I didn’t decide to be born white or healthy.  To tell you the truth, I didn’t always use my best judgement in adolescence to steer me clear of dangerous situations.  And if we are being really honest here, I didn’t go about the husband-selection process in the level-headed manner that one should.  It was by no diet of willpower that I have avoided disease or infertility or even obesity.

I’ve been blessed.  Privileged.  The grace of God has rained down on me.

I can’t go through life ignoring that, although there are times in life when I certainly try.  I want to pat myself on the back for good choices and hard work.  I’m not lacking in those areas.  And I’m not trying to paint a picture of a life that has been totally at ease either.  I’ve made tough choices.  I’ve faced heartache and hardship.  I’ve known deep sorrow.  But I’ve been privileged.

It’s funny when God sends a message loud and clear without ever speaking.  Or at least not in that booming voice from Heaven you would expect.  Or even that quiet whisper in prayer.  It’s come in the voice of friends, crying to me about their heartaches- the paths they didn’t choose; the place or position or parents they had no say in.  It’s come in an increasing awareness of the hurting in this world.  It’s come in the tugging of my heart when I see children I didn’t deserve, a husband I didn’t deserve, a family I didn’t choose and compare it with those who didn’t start out so lucky.

I keep hearing that I’m privileged.  For some reason, for some purpose, my life started out differently than a large majority.  I can count my lucky stars and move forward pretending that the path I lay out from here is all by my own doing, but I know the truth.  I was privileged for a purpose.  I can go on ignoring that purpose, as many, many, many Americans do, but it would be fighting my very nature.  I was designed with a purpose.  God didn’t bless me so I can tout about how great He is and point to my riches as proof.  He has asked me to use my blessings to glorify Him and multiply His Kingdom.

In the well-known Parable of the Talents found in Matthew Chapter 25:14-30, Jesus tells the story about a master who goes away and portions some of his money (talents) in the care of 3 servants.  To one, he gives 5 talents; to another, 3 and to the last, 1.  He gives no instruction, but it was said that they were given to each “according to their ability.”  The first two servants double the money, but the servant with one talent buries it for fear of his master.  When the master returns, he is displeased with the last servant for having done nothing with what he was given and all that he had was taken from him.  We are meant to multiply what God has given us for the good of our Master.

There are some who work hard to pay for their nice homes and their nice cars and their nice kids (And please, let’s not get into semantics about what is nice.  If you have a working vehicle and a roof over your head, it’s pretty nice in comparison to what some have).  Maybe we think because we are spreading our love to our children, we are multiplying what God has given us.  But to me, it looks a whole lot like buried talents.  If you have the capacity to love children, love somebody else’s kid too, because there are plenty out there that don’t know they are worth anything to anybody.

Maybe we think because we are paying our bills and working hard to get where we are, we are doing our part.  But if that’s all we are doing, we’re just maintaining what we got.  It’s buried money.  If you have an extra dime, it’s a dime more than somebody else has.

If you have a voice and half a wit, it’s more than what some have, but if you use it to promote yourself, you might as well just go bury your head in the sand.  It is amazing what a word of encouragement can do for a person.  Try that instead.

If you have two hands and two feet, don’t forget those who lost theirs at great sacrifice.  You’ve been privileged with those for a purpose.  Use them.  But if you’re walking around, waving your arms, just trying to get noticed, you are sinking in quick sand.  That’s not what God gave them to you for.

Have a special talent?  Maybe it’s been sitting on a shelf for awhile because it wasn’t amusing you anymore.  Guess what- Buried Treasure!  God gave it to you for a purpose.

Have courage?  Be courageous for someone scared to death (or facing death).  Have a smile?  Bring it out for that one person who doesn’t get smiled at very often.  Have faith?  Show it to the faithless.  Have a testimony?  Share it.  Especially with those who are going through the same thing.

Are you getting my point?  What we’ve got- whatever it is- has been given and it was given with a purpose.  President Obama was right.  If you have a business, or a home, or a good job, or a nice family, or an education, or an opportunity, or a breath of life- you didn’t build that.  Somebody else made that happen.  His Name is Jesus.  Not the United States Government.  Not Katie Koudelka.  Whatever you have, it is a privilege from God to be used for a purpose.

  

 

For My Dad

“How much does lawn service cost around here?” my dad asked.  He doesn’t live “around here,” nor would he ever hire a lawn service.  “I’m not sure, Dad,” I respond as I try to come up with a reasonable figure.  He continues, “Did you notice how long it took him to mow the lawn next door?”  Suddenly, I feel very ill-prepared, unobservant, aloof to the activity of my own neighborhood.  “It’s a pretty fast mower,” I offer this, my only observation of the very large and very loud mower that visits my neighbor’s home every Wednesday, right during nap time.

I know I have failed him in giving the necessary numbers so he can calculate how much money a lawn service might draw in a given day.  Of course, he timed the complete job.  Fifteen minutes- edging included.  But my inability to provide any speculation on the cost of the service leaves the math equation stranded.

This is who my dad is.  I believe the world appears to him in numbers.  As a child, he would challenge his children to estimate how many cars we would see on long trips to visit our grandparents.  This would lead to your head bobbing back and forth at a sickening pace, counting cars flashing by on the opposite side of the highway so as not to miss a single one.  He can predict arrival times to the minute better than Mapquest.  It is likely he knows how many ceiling tiles there are in every building he regularly visits.  He counts how many fireworks there are in large displays and how much money we watched go up in smoke.  He knows multiple routes to every city he has ever visited and can recall what gas station or mom and pop store used to be on the corner of every street he’s ever travelled down.  I’m not kidding.  His most frequently asked questions of any visitor is, “How did you get here and how long did it take you?” and you better be prepared with an answer lest you appear completely senseless of the base facts of life.  He often responds with something on the lines of, “I visited such-and-such-city once, back in the eighties.  Is that diner still there on the corner of Blah-blah and Blah-blah street?”  Please don’t respond with a hesitant “I think so…,” especially if you currently preside in said city.

He’s a smart guy- my dad.  And he got there by being curious.  If he was a cat, he would’ve been dead long ago.  He likes to know where things came from, how much time it took to make them, how many people were involved start to finish, and what kind of turn-around they are getting on their investment.

He’s asked a lot of questions and in return received a lot of answers, so as a young child, I recognized he was someone you go to with your own questions.  I set out to read the Bible cover to cover when I was probably around the age of 8 or 9.  I had a little notebook that I wrote my questions in and I remember approaching my dad with them one night.  I can picture him standing by the front door, so it was likely he had just gotten home from work (a teacher of math and science), as I rattled off my questions.  I don’t remember all of my inquiries, but I do remember asking him where the Garden of Eden was and what were the “Nephilim.”  We had a discussion about my questions, many of which he answered with ease. I remember him also telling me that I should ask our pastor some of the questions.

And I remember he was smiling.  Maybe it was because he saw himself- his own curiosity- reflected in his child.  Maybe it was because he was pleased I was reading the Bible.  Or maybe he was glad that I had confidence enough in him to have the answers to such important questions.

I am thankful that I have a father who I can confidently go to with my questions about matters of God. If there are Christians who have been accused of blindly following their faith, you could not reasonably call my father one.  There is no way his questioning halted when he entered the church, studied the Bible, and lead his children in the path of faith.  It would be against his very nature.  There are those who claim that to have faith in Jesus one must be lacking in intelligence.  This argument is easily refuted in the embodiment of my dad.  He’s one of the smartest guys I know.  His intelligence is rooted in a Father that did not turn away His son’s questions, but revealed them in faith.

At the heart of getting an answer, is knowing of whom to ask.  If you are struggling in Calculus, it is unlikely you will find sufficient help from your gym teacher.  Likewise, when we struggle with belief; with life; with purpose; it is best to go to the One with all of the answers.  And yes, it is okay to start out with, “Are you even up there?” because He has an answer for that, too, and He will rejoice that you are finally letting Him answer that question.  

I am grateful that I have a father who not only has a lot of helpful answers, but who also directed me to my Heavenly Father who satisfies my own inherited need to question.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!    

Luke 11:11-13 “Which of you fathers, if your son asks for a fish, will give him a snake instead?  Or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion?  If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in Heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him!”

Thank You, Mom

With Mother’s Day approaching, I thought it only appropriate to honor my own mother in this entry.  Let me start by saying, she’s not perfect, but what mom ever was?  Eve probably had the best shot at it, living in a perfect world and all, and we know how far she got.  So when it comes to moms, mine isn’t perfect but I really feel like God poured an extra blessing on me by the one I got.

Moms aren’t perfect.  And neither are dads.  I believe that is what is at the heart of the commandment to honor your father and your mother.  The truth is when you are 16, your brain tricks you into thinking it is far superior than the one your parents were given.  And though you may on occasion be “right” in a particular argument, as a Christian we are called to honor our parents’ wisdom over our own.  God knew more than any teenager that parents were not always going to be right.  He also knew that an important lesson for every man and woman is humility.  To humble yourself at the age of 16 is no easy task.  Or perhaps it was only a large struggle for me because I was rarely successful.  Looking back on many of the topics that made me scoff in my youth, I realize now what lessons I have carried with me into my own parenting.

It’s a long time coming, but… Thanks Mom!

Thank you, Mom, for choosing a good husband.  I believe that is the start of a good mother; knowing with whom she is going to forge the future of her children.  My dad is not perfect either, but he is a really good husband and father.  This foundation that was laid for seven lucky children is becoming more and more a rarity.

Thank you, Mom, for valuing family.  Because my mom (and dad) raised seven children, I have six people that capture my love and adoration continually and the number continues to grow as they marry and have children.  The gift of a large family taught me that the world doesn’t revolve around me and my needs, but I am a part of a world that revolves around love.

Thank you, Mom, for not taking shortcuts.  When your peers were heading down the road of convenience with disposable diapers, dishwashers, and canned goods, you were sweating over hand-washing dishes three times a day for 9 people, scrubbing cloth diapers and socks and tshirts, and canning and freezing the goodness of summer.  Though when I was young I thought store-bought cookies were a treat over your home baked ones, it was only because they were such a rarity.  My taste buds still confirm that there is nothing like homemade.  You taught me what accomplishment feels like at the work of my own hands.

Thank you, Mom, for teaching me what a treat is.  Cool Whip is so much more special when you only get a dollop a year.  So is eggnog, maraschino cherries, and ice cream cones from Twistees.  Perhaps there were times when money prevented you from indulging us as much as you may have wanted to, but I suspect that most of your resistance was out of wisdom.  While I will admit that I ate Cool Whip unabashedly from a tub on a regular basis once I moved out, I really value that you taught me how to cherish the good things in life.  Special memories of childhood were going to the Berrien County Youth Fair, picnicking at the beach, going to visit grandparents, and those rare occasions when we would get subs from the Kmart deli when we had been out shopping too long.  They didn’t happen everyday, so I was grateful for them.  I rarely got everything I wanted.  Thank you for that.  Because parenting isn’t good if you give your kids everything they want; parenting is good when your kids appreciate the occasion when they got something they really wanted.  We didn’t have a lot of toys in comparison to kids today, but we sure loved the toys we had.  More than that, we loved the company we had in a playmate.  If we had our say as kids, we probably would have eaten at McDonald’s more than the one time a year when we were traveling to Grandma and Grandpa’s, but then that burger would not have tasted so good.

Thank you, Mom, for family traditions.  Homemade burgers and fries, followed by popcorn and pop every Friday night never got old.  Thank you for knowing it is still an expectation when we visit.  Thank you for putting my hair in curlers for Easter Sunday and insisting that we all looked our very best for that day.  Thank you for not putting the presents under the Christmas tree until the late hours of Christmas Eve night, even when Santa Claus was long a thing of our past.  There is nothing quite as exciting as a Christmas tree packed with presents for seven children (and stockings falling from the mantel).  Thank you for always making a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, for lighting the candles and blowing them out right before dinner started, for always making big breakfasts on Saturday mornings, for always cooking huge meals for Sunday dinner, and for doing so many things the same exact way for years.  Sometimes the greatest security you can give a kid is in the routine that says, “things will always be this way,” even when it won’t. 

She’s not perfect, but I am really thankful she is my mom.  

  

Lord of the Day

I have been leading a Bible Study on the Book of Acts at Heart of the Shepherd every Sunday morning for several weeks now.  It has been about 4 weeks since we read Chapter 12.  Today I read it with my daughter and suddenly I discovered something I had not noticed only a few weeks ago.  This is what I love about the Bible!  When God calls it the Living Word, it is because it takes form in our lives regularly if we allow it, bringing life with that understanding.

In Acts Chapter 12 it is recapping the story of Peter being imprisoned for spreading the Gospel.  So threatening was the message, that his captors saw fit to have him guarded by four squads of soldiers containing four soldiers each.  That’s 16 men to 1 man in chains.  And as overly cautious as this may sound, it wasn’t enough.  Peter’s friends were back home praying for him earnestly.  The night before he was to go to trial, an angel awakens him and leads him out of the prison.  He goes to the home of Mary, the mother of John Mark, where everyone has been praying for him.  A servant girl, named Rhoda goes to the door and she is so excited to see him that she forgets to let him in and runs to tell everyone.  Verse 15 was the moment of revelation for me.  “‘You’re out of your mind,’ they told her.  When she kept insisting that it was so, they said, ‘It must be his angel.'”

Originally, I found the interaction with Rhoda humorous.  The girl forgets Peter at the door, she’s so excited!  And I suppose because I was amused by that, I missed what the comments by the rest of the party really implies.  You see, these people had been praying for Peter.  It is reasonable to guess that they were praying for his protection, for his release, for his faith, and for his comfort.  And these same praying people cannot believe it when he actually shows up at the door.  In fact, they explain away the girl’s persistence by saying it must be Peter’s angel.  In other words, they think it is more reasonable that Peter is dead and his angel is paying them a visit, than to believe that Peter was actually released from prison.

It occurred to me that we Christians suffer from this same disconnect in our daily walk of faith.  It is as though we trust God in heavenly matters, but often don’t expect Him to intervene with our earthly ones.  And when He does answer those prayers with the friend we have needed, or the money to cover unexpected costs, or a sudden sense of peace, we often give ourselves the credit as being resourceful enough to make it through the hard times.

Suddenly, this story became so very powerful to me, because it wasn’t just about Peter escaping from prison, but it was an intimate look at how I actually view my relationship with God.  It revealed to me how very likely I would be the one saying, “Rhoda, you’re crazy!  It must be an angel, because there’s no way it’s Peter!”  I so often struggle with the thought that God regularly accomplishes the impossible or even the unlikely.  I can trust in Him for my eternal salvation, but I am hesitant to believe He has a grasp on this day.

I have a great God.  He has conquered my sins, covered them with His righteousness, and longs for my entrance into His Eternal Home.  But He wasn’t done with me when He secured my eternity.  How easily I forget that.  He has a daily plan for me.  One that involves regular interference.  Most of which I probably do not ever acknowledge or recognize.

Jesus isn’t just a God of the eternal, but He is Lord over this day!  His power is accessible today, but we so often act like we won’t see it until eternity.  If we welcome Him as the God who cares about today, we will see the power of the God that was able to conquer not only death, but the life we face today.

    

The Messy Mommy Ministry- A Call to Action (Or Inaction?)

The plan was to have a good friend come over for dinner on Easter Sunday.  I told her 5 o’clock because we would be getting home from church at around noon and I wanted plenty of time to get my house clean before she arrived.  I think I’ve let on a few times that I am not the tidiest housekeeper.  This is in no part due to laziness, but more so due to an inherited inability to throw out anything or organize that which I am unwilling to throw out.  (Not to mention the triple combo efforts of three professional mess-makers).

Thus began a distracted effort to prepare sweet potatoes, fold laundry, whip up a pie, vacuum, and de-clutter as soon as I got children down for a nap.  In the flurry of activity my spirit was high as I sang some of the songs from service that morning.  Before it was even halfway over, I had decided that this was the best Easter ever.  Good Friday service was very effective and it was the first time since having children that I was able to give my undivided attention to the service (Special thanks to well-behaved Colette and Mary, and Daddy, who took out not-so-well-behaved Julia).  Then on Saturday the kids made a Resurrection Garden, dyed Easter eggs, and Colette and I made cookies together that had scriptural references for each ingredient.  With all of the additional blogging, I was feeling very connected with God and felt that I had been successful in sharing the Message with my children.

And yet, something started nagging at me while I cleaned.  All of this preparation was in honor of my friend- a friend who knows me well; a friend who knows the messiness of being a mother; a friend who I invited to dine with us because her own children would be spending Easter with their father and she would be alone.  And suddenly what I was doing did not seem so honorable, because I realized that my scheduling design was to avoid her seeing the reality of my everyday living.  We moms do this a lot.  Too much.  Don’t we?  We scramble to tidy up our lives and homes so we can accept compliments on how “put-together” we are with these broad grins and a wave of our hands as we say, “Oh, it doesn’t always look like this,” but we want you to think that we’re just being modest.  And meanwhile, we perpetuate this falsehood among us that you can have the perfect house, perfect husband, perfect kids and perfect life while causing others to feel inadequate.  So we all keep running this rat race that keeps us distracted from serving each other in very deep and real ways that begins with us being REAL with each other.

It suddenly became very detestable to me.  This is not to advocate letting your housework go to the dogs or not having the decency to wipe down the toilet seat for your guests.  But, my desire to put on a false ambience of order at the expense of my friend’s loneliness on the very holiday that expresses God’s great love and humility, gripped me with irony.  So I tossed in the towel, let her know she could come over whenever she was ready, and made no last minute pleadings with my husband and children to run like mad shoving piles out of sight.

She told me she had crawled into bed that afternoon and cried because she was missing her kids so much.  And frankly, it made me want to crawl into a hole.  When I could have been a friend, I had chosen to perpetuate an image instead.  It didn’t honor my friend.  It honored me and my image.  And not only that, but I really think behavior like this is harmful to my ministry as a Christian.  Too often I am running around saving face, missing what is really important.  Yes, I have missed opportunities to be the hands and feet of Christ because I didn’t want someone to see my messy house.

Colette and I had been talking about what we do if Jesus came back to Earth and He was coming to our house today.  Colette just stared in wide-eyed wonder and said (what I have determined to be very wise), “I don’t think I would say anything!”

And I said, “I would start running around cleaning like crazy.”  Because I would.  Even for Jesus who has a daily, omnipotent view of my home.

Colette gave me one of those knowing looks that she makes right before she says something brilliant and began, “There’s this story in the Bible about Martha and Mary…”  She actually trailed off as if to communicate that her point was so obvious there was no need to go further.  I got it.  Jesus came to Martha and Mary’s house, and Martha scurried about cleaning while Mary sat at the feet of Jesus, listening.  Martha pleads with Jesus to get her sister to be of some assistance.  Jesus replies, “You are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed.  Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.” (Luke 10:41-42)

Jesus did not tell Martha that cleaning was not virtuous.  He did say that what Mary had chosen was better.  How many times do we burden ourselves with activities that are good, but God is offering us something better?

Clean houses are great.  Being of service to others is better.

What I am proposing is a pledge of transparency and a move towards putting a hold on wiping down the kitchen so we can pick up a tissue and wipe at the tears of someone in need.  I am calling it My Messy Mommy Ministry, because I’m not willing to let distractions keep me from hearing God’s call to action.

 

      

 

Feeling Phony

I think about Peter a lot.  I would like to say we are a lot alike- in his pre-rock-of-the-church stage- but even then I feel like I am handing myself too nice a compliment.  Peter had a courageous mouth.  Or maybe Peter suffered with Chronic Foot-In-Mouth Syndrome.  I can relate to that.  It’s why I prefer writing.  There is a lot of deleting, pausing, cutting, pasting, even researching proper word usage to make sure I mean what I say.  But outside of the safety of my computer, my brain and tongue do not always seem properly connected.   Likewise Peter had this habit of blurting out awe-inspiring confessions of faith, only to find himself doing something quite the opposite moments later.

Hypocrite.  Phony.  Fake.  Lukewarm.

How many times did Peter internally struggle with these words- fearing that they actually defined him?  Peter- who walked on water, only to sink when his focus became the waves.  Peter- who proclaimed Jesus was the Savior, only to misunderstand what that meant.  Peter- who slept in the Garden of Gethsemane though Jesus had asked him to pray.  Peter- who said he would lay down his life for Jesus, and then fled to save his own life when Jesus was betrayed and then he denied ever knowing Him.

If the shoe fits, wear it.  Probably was not yet a coined phrase in those days, but it was likely Peter was thinking something of the sort.  Who was he to deny the role he kept playing?  It seemed to be in his character; something he could not escape.  And maybe that Saturday he was starting to accept it, own it, believe it.  Maybe he was thinking his last couple of years had been built on false pretenses.  Jesus was dead.  He had deserted him.

Perhaps he remembered Jesus telling him that He had prayed for him, encouraging him, “And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers.”  Who was Peter to be the one to strengthen, when his weaknesses were so often publicized?

Who am I to encourage you, when so often my own actions conflict with my heart?

2 Corinthians 12:9 “But He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.'”  Who better than Peter to display the transforming power in our lives by the very grace of God?  Who better than you?  Who better than me?  Because when I am finally able to produce a good work in Christ, it is evident that it wasn’t my doing.

I think about Peter a lot and how Jesus reassured him.  Jesus knew something about Peter that Peter didn’t even know.  Jesus knew what Peter would become.  Jesus knew the plans He had for him.  Truth be told, Jesus had more faith in Peter than Peter had in himself.  And He has a lot more faith in what you can accomplish than you probably have in yourself.  It’s a funny thing to consider God having faith in you.  We talk so much about having faith in Him, but sometimes I don’t find that so encouraging when my faith wavers more than Peter’s.  But then I think of God watching over me with the love and faithfulness of the perfect parent, quietly reassuring me, “You can do this!”  And I can’t argue with that.  My confidence is in my faithful God, not in my own ability to believe, because like Peter, I fail in even doing that moments after I proclaim it with all my heart.  Psalm 117:2, “For great is His love toward us, and the faithfulness of the LORD endures forever.  Praise the Lord!“