We're doing the midnight bed dance again because the truth is: no one really knows where we are. Living out of suitcases for over a month, in our 4th round of beds in as many weeks, children bump on the floor in the night and cry out. They don't remember where the toilet is, where our room is, where home is. It's all we can do to spoon them back to sleep, propping our heads up on thin pillows, arms under their weary necks. It's all we can do to set an alarm, find a clean bowl, drive them to a new school.

The exciting adventure of our days gives way to fitful dreams and midnight cries.

I was praying for them, the night before we sent them to school, when we knew where we would settle but weren't quite settled there yet. We faced a long commute, an alarm set before dawn, and I woke at 4 unable to sleep, praying, praying, praying over them. My inclination, my first instinct is to pray, "Lord, keep them safe." But I thought, if that was our only priority, surely we wouldn't uproot them, put them on planes and trains, walk them through the doors of another new school. No, it's not safety we want for them.

It's courage. And faith.

So instead I prayed, "Lord, make them brave." It didn't put me back to sleep, but it put my heart in its place and my hope up high. Oh, I want them to be brave, to know they can, to wonder and doubt and cry a bit maybe (it's hard to be brave if nothing at all is scary), to know when they fall off the bed they'll be found and carried to safety, to hear the wind and see the rain and still long to run outside and face the storm.

Oh, God, give them courage. Make them brave. And give me strength to spoon them to sleep once more.



From January 2013

***

These are a few of my favourite posts from this year, things I've written during this epic phase of resettling in Ireland. If you blog, leave me a comment below with a favourite post of yours from this year. Would love to read how you saw yourself and those around you in 2013.

Oozing peace when Jesus calls

The eldest is preparing for a third appointment with the dentist in as many weeks. He's not actually had anything done yet, and though he's fairly happy-go-lucky about the "baby root canal" that's coming his way, the multiple delays and anticipation of the unknown have caused his sensitive heart a bit of anxiety. That's how he puts it:

I'm a bit anxious, he says.

Of course he is. There's a doctor and a shot and a drill (though we haven't exactly divulged that last point to him) and there's plenty of things that can cause him to lay awake in bed at night and be just a bit anxious.

Matt was gone over the weekend so our peace experiment was more like a peace mirage that hazily drifted before us on the horizon, a mere glimpse of something sweet. Yes, we had our occasional moments of togetherness and calming prayers, but it was hard to put into practice the idea of intentional peace when the little people outnumbered this one supposed adult. So the one thing we've managed to do (most nights) is read Jesus Calling together. I read it in the mornings and then we do the kids version at night.

And this book oozes peace.

After we read, as I pray over them and touch their shiny hair and beg God for good dreams instead of bad, I tell them: He's right here, you know. He is in this room and He guards you day and night. As all 10 years and 9 months of Jack look at me with a crinkled eye, saying, "I'm a bit anxious," we remember tonight's words:



Let My Spirit give you words of grace as you live in the Light of My Peace.

We are living in the Light of His Peace, I say, even in the anxious moments, the hard moments, the wild moments where two out of three of them are running circles around this house and the hacking coughs and giggling fits of the younger two overshadow the quiet doubts of the eldest.

Peace transcending understanding.

And in that moment, there on Jack's bed as we give thanks, we remember: He is so near; His peace always within reach.

***

I am no longer an amazon associate as Missouri has weird laws and we actually don't even live in the US anymore, so there's that. But I sing the praises of the books that sing to me, so there you have it. Is something singing to you of peace?

Doing the math :: thoughts on Jenkins, gambling and wealth

So just as I was about to hit publish and was following up with proper links, I saw Jerry Jenkins responded just today to one article. I appreciate this lengthy, quite open and frank letter. Thank you for sharing it with us, Jerry.

***

And now an update on something that will only interest you if you grew up in the American Christian subculture of the 1990s. Yes, I'm going to talk about Jerry Jenkins and gambling. If these words mean nothing to you, feel free to move on to This American Life or Real Simple or something.

Ok, everybody else still here? Welcome Moodies, youth group friends, and Mom. Let's recap:

A few weeks ago World Magazine published an article on Jerry Jenkins and his frequent past-time of playing poker for money. The article quoted Jenkins - chairman of the Board of Trustees for Moody Bible Institute and best-selling author of the oft maligned, though still popular Left Behind Series - saying,

"… You can do the math. I’ve sold 70 million books. So to break even making $8,000 playing poker, it’s kind of pocket change for me.”

This article pushed a couple of long-simmering buttons for me, as it did for many others, particularly fellow alumni of Moody. But gambling isn't one of them. Though I'm not particularly keen on the "sport" of gambling, Jenkins would claim what he plays is a "game of skill." 

“I don’t play for what I would consider significant amounts of money. And I wouldn’t gamble, either. I mean, I don’t play slots,” he said.

It can be argued he is in fact gambling if he's winning (or losing) $8,000 worth of pocket change from his opponents. But again, that alone is not the soul of the troubling issues this article brings to light. 

My uncomfortableness rests in three things:

1) The double standard Moody seems to place on its students, staff and trustees, setting forth strict codes of conduct based on (or implied by) biblical principles for students and staff (gambling, for one, is strictly prohibited; other activities such as drinking, smoking and movie-going are also prohibited for students) while the trustees enjoy no such prohibition. See also The New York Times article 'In Culture Shift, Evangelical College Lifts Alcohol Ban.'

Asked whether Jenkins’ hobby might send a mixed message to students, Regnerus said the school expected students to recognize matters of Christian liberty, while abiding by rules meant to accommodate families and churches with stricter convictions. 

“Moody is aware that Jerry Jenkins participates in poker, which is not prohibited in Scripture,” Regnerus said. He added the school does not have an official position that would clarify whether it considers poker to be gambling.

This exchange was frustrating, and though it may very well have been unintentional, to many former students it seemed misleading and disingenuous. Yes, Jesus doesn't mention poker. But the student life guide does. And while the weaker brother argument is a valid one - not wanting to discourage or discriminate against students who may come from more conservative or traditional faith traditions - it seems untoward to expect students to respect the Christian liberty of the men whose names are on the buildings and make the decisions for the student body. After all, they are the ones making rules for the students that they themselves do not abide by.

2) In the World article, Jenkins admits an attempt to hide his poker playing from the Chicago-area Christian community. 

“It’s too close to Chicago. I serve on the board of Moody, so I wouldn’t want to cause any embarrassment to anybody if they had a problem with that. … I live in Colorado, so if I play it’s outside the Midwest.”

I fail to understand his reasoning. If he's not gambling, as he says, then why hide it? And if Moody doesn't have a problem with its trustees gambling, whom would he embarrass? He's also been known to enjoy this game of skill with James MacDonald, a Chicago-area pastor and co-author of Jenkins' latest book. Both men are extremely well-off financially, supported by the same community they're hiding from.

3) The most troubling aspect of the article was the perceived posture of Jenkins, who refers to himself as being "flush," refers to the money he's gambled, lost and won as "pocket change," and states that playing in a casino where his son is a dealer is the only way he's able to interact with non-believers.

“Frankly, were it not for poker, we would hardly ever rub shoulders with unsaved people.”

What concerns me most is his flippant disregard for people and resources. What is pocket change to him is nearly double one month's salary for a middle-class family in the US, and it could very well be the difference between life or death in many parts of the world.

It's not just that he's a high income earner. There are many wealthy people who practice good stewardship and hold themselves to a high standard of accountability. But it's the idea that someone who so easily plays away - or, conversely, takes away - large sums of money as a means of "ministry" is a gatekeeper and leader of the modern evangelical church movement in America, shaping future pastors, teachers, bible study leaders, worship leaders, and - yes - missionaries.

Many of these students, alumni, teachers and donors are in the trenches: caring for those in need, leaving the comforts of home to live in the developing world, flying planes filled with food and medicine into the jungle, ministering to and sharing Jesus with prison inmates or preschool moms or the orphan or the homeless. Or any other number of ways Christ-followers choose to share his love with others. We look to people like Jenkins or MacDonald to show us the way of Jesus. A better way. I simply struggle to find the spirit of love Jenkins may share as he takes their money from the table. "Blessed are the poor in Spirit?"

Anyway.

After sharing these frustrations via Twitter, a representative of Moody Radio contacted me and kindly forwarded my email to Moody. It was lengthy and I probably went off the handle a bit and asked them if the president of Moody, someone Matt and I deeply respect, had any response. No, he didn't.

But Jenkins did, again through Moody's PR manager.

"I love Moody Bible Institute more than I can fully express. Having been a student here in the 1960s, then editor of MOODY magazine and finally vice president for Moody Publishers as an employee of more than 30 years, and having the privilege of serving this wonderful organization on its Board of Trustees, the last thing in the world I ever wanted was for my personal activities to bring harm or embarrassment to this place that I love." 

"I never perceived my playing poker to be anything but a hobby, but I see now that it is inconsistent with my role as a Moody Trustee. I viewed it as something I was free to do, but on reflection I understand that the negative aspects of the commercial gaming industry taint any association with public card playing, regardless of my intent." 

“I am sorry for this error in judgment and for the harm I have caused. I ask your forgiveness and ask that you pray that I would be found worthy of the great privilege and high calling I have been given as Moody's chairman of the Board. Thank you."

We, too, love Moody more than we can express. It gave us eachother, refined our callings and honed our gifts. It gave us brilliant friendships with students and with faculty that still ring true and run strong. We go back frequently and reminisce, showing our children where we first met and which dorm I lived in and how we sat on Culby 2 with all of our floor-mates watching the series finale of Seinfeld. In the spirit of full disclosure, we maybe even stroll through the tunnels where we would sneak an illicit kiss between class.

We have wonderful, beautiful memories and in so many ways, Moody gave us the life we have. It's not a life like Jerry Jenkins has, and I hope he understands that. The students he's leading may very well choose a different way.

People over things, and a posture of love.

I find myself in a daily struggle with obedience in the pursuit of those callings. A good, painful struggle; a different type of game of skill. And I hope to share more about it here, with you, soon.

A holy strangeness

Here is my current psychosis:

Moving across the ocean is a drop in the bucket compared to visiting a new church for the first time. Which is too bad, really, as it's in the job description right now. Visit churches, meet people, listen to their stories, see what God is doing. I love all those things, except the visit churches part, which I hate. Super hate.

I wake up late and grumpy. I put on my dour face. I stare in the mirror for long stretches. I am short with the children. I am angry with Matt. I get in the car feeling all the feelings. I stare out the window in search of a way out. I literally drag my feet.

Being new, feeling different, being conspicuous, looking lost... this is what I do and am and look like every day! I don't know the songs or the rhythm. I don't know where our children go or when to stand or sit. In the shops or the school yard, at the meetings or in the church. I don't know anything at all.

It is a holy strangeness, feeling called by God to do something that requires you do something that you really don't want to do. In fact, even if you want to do it, you feel really bad at doing it. You have nothing of yourself to give or offer that will enable you to do it. You are almost certain that you will fail at doing it.

And so, we offer up our complete incompetence. 

We ask, be my strength in spite of me. 

We admit, I hate this, God, is that ok? 

We say, You are enough when I am nothing.

We pray, You are here and we are Yours.

And we sit in the pew (or the back garden or under the covers) and wait for Him to show up. Which He does, always does. 

Turns out, He was just waiting for you this whole time. Even in church.

***

What was the last thing you really didn't want to do?

Faith in the ink of rebellion

I had a boyfriend once, whose thick hoop earring and cross tattoo on his back made him quite the object of fascination among us youth group girls. When I finally got the chance to touch those dark lines, I asked him why he did it, the earring and the tattoo. I thought I knew; he was all hard edges and loud music. But he looked at me with such innocence, "I am a slave to Christ," he said, referencing the Old Testament binding of a slave to his master. The boy with the ring in his ear.

This was how I knew I loved him. Faith in the form of rebellion.

***



I was looking to add to my rebellion. Getting married at 20 made me feel much more settled, safe and pure than my teens had led my heart to believe. Matt was my match, my calming force and steady hand, sent from above. But I still had a wildness burning within that tandem bike rides along the lake front could not tame. Adulthood had onset with a swift force and I needed one last look back at the years which broke and bore me.

Like any good big sister, I talked my little sister into it, too. It wasn't all that hard; she was - and still is - a willing accomplice. In any case, we took our 18 and 21 year-old-selves and asked for our mother's blessing. She sighed and fretted, but the fact we were doing it together, the fact we had spent the majority of our young lives at odds, the fact we had finally seen one another for what we really were - mirror images, best friends - her fight for tradition and propriety faded away in the face of soul sisters.

And so it was, we took a printed copy of a clip-art image of a daisy into the tattoo shop. Yes. Clip-art. We left imprinted, her ankle and my back, with a white and yellow daisy. My inner rebellion was satisfied by a pure symbol of peace.

Over the years, Matt got the itch as well. His calmness and maturity gave way to a hidden dissenter, asking questions and searching for depth. His soft edges grew stronger while my hardness became less brittle. When the systematic theology and preaching formulas he deferred to for so long failed to make much headway on the uneven and narrow footpath of life overseas, he longed for simple faith in the face of doubt. The calm in the storm.

And so it was, he journeyed to Belfast with a youth pastor friend and left imprinted with St Brigid's Cross. His inner dissenter was satisfied by a symbol of simple faith, folded within with the reeds of long Irish grass.

This is how we belong to eachother. Me and my sister. Matt and I. Us and Christ. The story is written on our skin and when we are asked, we tell it. Faith, hope and love in the ink of rebellion.

There are more stories to be shared, and we dream up the designs and the placement. A pair of strong hands cradling the tree whose leaves hold the names of our children, Yahweh written like a wreath around my wrist, the ring of black with my name on his finger ("You know it's permanent, right?" my mother asks, aware more than others that some things tattooed on our hearts do not last).

We shall see... whether these stories are written on paper or skin or heart. We shall see, the shape it takes. We shall see if it fades away.


joining the syncroblog at A Deeper Story on our Embodied Stories...

Take courage

We're doing the midnight bed dance again because the truth is: no one really knows where we are. Living out of suitcases for over a month, in our 4th round of beds in as many weeks, children bump on the floor in the night and cry out. They don't remember where the toilet is, where our room is, where home is. It's all we can do to spoon them back to sleep, propping our heads up on thin pillows, arms under their weary necks. It's all we can do to set an alarm, find a clean bowl, drive them to a new school.

The exciting adventure of our days gives way to fitful dreams and midnight cries.

I was praying for them, the night before we sent them to school, when we knew where we would settle but weren't quite settled there yet. We faced a long commute, an alarm set before dawn, and I woke at 4 unable to sleep, praying, praying, praying over them. My inclination, my first instinct is to pray, "Lord, keep them safe." But I thought, if that was our only priority, surely we wouldn't uproot them, put them on planes and trains, walk them through the doors of another new school. No, it's not safety we want for them.

It's courage. And faith.

So instead I prayed, "Lord, make them brave." It didn't put me back to sleep, but it put my heart in its place and my hope up high. Oh, I want them to be brave, to know they can, to wonder and doubt and cry a bit maybe (it's hard to be brave if nothing at all is scary), to know when they fall off the bed they'll be found and carried to safety, to hear the wind and see the rain and still long to run outside and face the storm.

Oh, God, give them courage. Make them brave. And give me strength to spoon them to sleep once more.



I think praying bravery - in lieu of safety - is a scary thing. What scary thing are you praying for?

2012 favo(u)rites :: The success lie (on family, failure and faith)

We are babysitters this weekend, slumber party novices leaving evidence of mildly irresponsible late-night milkshake drinking. Blankets, pillows and swords litter the hallways. Before he heads to work, we cuddle in a very large, very comfortable, very I-don't-ever-want-to-get-up-from-here bed. I feel his chest rise and fall heavily, hear him sigh as he says, "I'm sorry our bed sucks. I'm sorry for all of it."

It takes me a moment to register what he's saying, what he means, how his heart drops in the memory foam of the bed.

We are laying on a big, soft symbol of success. And our pokey, old, free-for-the-taking mattress back home is a symbol of failure. 

We all believe that, don't we? The house, the job, the car out front, the kids in excelled learning, the 401k. These are barometers of a life well done. We work hard for them, make sure they're shiny, take comfort in them and feel successful. This is what we're told we deserve, what we can get it if we try hard enough, what will make us happy and what will keep us secure.

Except, it's a lie. It's a lie we are all too willing to believe. Honestly, it is so much easier to look successful with hard work and money than it is to prove we're successful in quiet prayers and patience.

What is success anyway? How other people see you? How you think you look to the outside world? Does it really matter what Dave Ramsey thinks? Is the interest rate that big of a deal? I don't believe those things influence or determine success. 

My sister is successful not because of her wonderful bed, not because of her athletic kids, not because of the house or picket fence or chocolate lab (though those are all real and fantastic things). She's successful because she and my brother-in-law just celebrated 20 years of marriage. They are successful because of the hard work, time, patience and sacrifice they put into marriage and parenting. They are successful because they come home together, pray together, serve God together, and love their kids together. They are successful because they believe all these things are gifts from above, a life they never imagined, a family based on faith and hope and love.

And us? We haven't failed just because we don't have a house, a backyard, a sturdy retirement account or spotless refinished hardwood floors (though that would all be very nice). We are successful because our kids are happy and we get to spend the majority of almost every day with them. We're successful because we are pursuing something we know God has called us to do. We're successful because at the end of the day, we come home to each other. We're successful because we get to show our kids and our friends and our communities how faithful God is, how He's provided, how He's leading, how He loves. We're successful because we work hard, not for the house and the car payment or the fully vested stock options, but we work hard at prayer and perseverance and obedience.

We're successful because when we fail, it's not over. The failure is never permanent. Mercies are new every morning, and we get to try again. Jesus holds it all together, and it all belongs to Him. 

"Oh, babe, don't say that," I tell him. The house we are staying in is filled with the laughter of our children and their cousins. They are so happy and free. We get to serve my sister and her family on this happy occasion of a 20th wedding anniversary. And I feel so blessed and so thankful for one night of peaceful sleep in a big, comfy bed.

We are a success story... one I can't wait to tell.

***

I'm reposting a few of my favourite bits and pieces from this year. God worked me over hard... I want to remember. Leave a comment with a blog post of your own, a favourite or a new one. Let's remember together.

Trust and obey

There's a song we sing when someone is baptized, memorized words in unison floating over the blue of the pool. I don't remember ever learning it, but always knowing it. I remember the comfort and fellowship it brings to see it released from the mouths of people you've known your whole life, consecrating the baptized, young and old, following Jesus.

I was thinking about it today, as so many questions and fears and doubts run races round my head and heart, three weeks before we leave my hometown - again. I don't know, Lord. I don't know how this will all work, but I trust. And obey.



When we walk with the Lord in the light of His Word,
What a glory He sheds on our way!
While we do His good will, He abides with us still,
And with all who will trust and obey.

Trust and obey, for there’s no other way
To be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.

Not a shadow can rise, not a cloud in the skies,
But His smile quickly drives it away;
Not a doubt or a fear, not a sigh or a tear,
Can abide while we trust and obey.

Trust and obey, for there’s no other way
To be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.

John H. Sammis, 1887

A gentle reproof over white coffee

We went on a date, the eldest and I. He's been curious about coffee for some time, and I can only assume this is a result of the frequent "Dad's Meeting Someone For Coffee"-and-"Mommy's Working From the Coffeeshop"-convos we have with the little people. He wasn't so sure on actually trying any of the black stuff, but was curious about this White Coffee his sister talks so much about (she who was known to finish our homemade lattes at the ripe old age of 2).

So we set a time: Sunday, dusk. Cold snap and rain clouds. Tall steamed milk with peppermint (him) and tall nonfat pumpkin spiced chai (me). In mugs, for maximum foaminess, please. We chat over the Sunday paper.

"So, how was your week?" he asks in his very best Man Tone.

"Oh, it was ok. Some good days and some not to good days," I reply.

"Yeah, I know... because of the little ones..." he says out of the side of his mouth, whispering behind his hand. This is our secret: how crazy they are and how mature he is. 



He wants to know about church and Operation Christmas Child and if my coffee is good and how I feel about moving.

"Are you excited to go back to Ireland?" he asks.

We are close now, so close. Really just days away from buying plane tickets, though I've been saying that for a month now. But the end is near, the lease is unsigned, the date to vacate is set...

"Yeah, I am... but I wish we had tickets. Once we buy plane tickets, then I know it's really happening." We can talk like this, I think. He's seen it all. This is his life, this waiting and going and coming back.

He looks me in the eyes, smiles, nods his head, "It IS happening, Mom. It is."

Dead serious, that lad. He knows a thing or two about patience, about calling, about God.

"I know," I say, sighing at the gentle reproof. Faith staring me in the eye.

I know.


Has a kiddo laid a faith-bomb on you recently?

God & Honest Toddler :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 11}

She asks us, "Where are you at with God right now?" and my mind goes blank. I don't know where I am, I think. I don't know where I am, anywhere. 




This is Honest Toddler. He's not our toddler, at least not that we're aware of, but his tweets make us suspicious as they eerily reflect the life we're living with our wee lad.

So you know, Asher throws this fit yesterday. All out rage as he flings shoes and socks off in the car. It's already been one of those days and he'd had it with the wait time. As we turn into our parking lot, he is all despair and resignation: slinking back in his chair, staring out the window, sighing big tears. We pull into our space and of course there's like an armful of car crap I've got to take into the apartment, and here is our own honest toddler, barefoot and needy. It's 40 degrees out, just too cold to walk, and his tender toes touch the ground with a whimper.

Hold me.

He is tired and apologetic without words, and with my left arm full of the car crap, I pull him up with my right arm. He barely hangs on, chubby legs wrapped around my thigh, fingers curled on my collar, whimpering still.

I am juggling all the things a life with three kiddos entails: the socks, the shoes, the homework, the jackets, the Woody doll. And my little guy, he's just holding on for dear life. He trusts me, but he's scared and tired and cold and he can't make it to the door on his own. We make it, just barely, and I set him down for a brief moment on the cold concrete so I can open the door and let him in.

Here you go, babe. 

I am holding on for dear life, fingers curled around His collar, wrapped around His sturdy frame. I trust Him, but I am scared and tired and not sure I can make it to the door on my own. In His left arm he juggles the world, the real problems, the crap that comes with fallen nature and sin and death. 

And in His right arm, He carries weak, whimpering me... and as we near the door - we are so close to the door - my feet dangle towards the cold floor.

Where are you with God right now? Maybe we can hang on together...

The baptism :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 2}

And this is how it happened.



No fanfare. No video cameras. No real cameras, even. Only a few camera phones in our midst, and only one photo.

But there was food. And friends. People who have loved him and taught him, want to know about his day and share their food and drink with him. His little friends, too: four boys he loves, wanting to be their leader.

It was long in coming, but quickly decided. He'd been thinking about it, weighing it. His need to fly under the radar - to not get too noticed - kept him from walking up, from saying yes, from wading into muddy lakes with near strangers. But still, always, he kept his heart and mind open to it. And when it was time, it was time.

Our friends - a dear new sister walking with us these last two years here - giving testimony and laying down their heads in cool water. He came up to us both and said, "I'm ready now," and just like that: baptized.

I admit I felt my heart in my throat. My first response: "Not right now, honey." This was not my plan, not how I envisioned it, not what I expected. But it was His plan, and I had to let go. 

I had to let him go.

So it happened, not in the Irish Sea with cold crashing waves. There wasn't time to plan a verse, a speech, a new name we were to choose for him. Instead, it happened in the cool of a summer pool, our pastor here stepping aside so Matt, father to our boy, could baptize his son.

Unplanned and clumsy. Beautiful abstraction. A boy saying yes to God. 

Hard to fit all that on a Certificate of Baptism.



What moments have left you undone, events you have planned that didn't turn out? 

Vintage cursive loops of faith

Do you know what's amazing? Two grandmas circling 90, with a few dozen grandchildren and great-grandchildren between them, remembering to send a birthday card on time - nay - early, even!

Eleanor and Gail, two women who had their own set of dark curls back in the day. One gave me the strong will and the outspoken nature. The other gave me the maternal spirit (some might call it "fretting") and the super sensitive skin.

Apart from the curls they are as different as night and day, but I belong to them. I bear their image and carry their legacy. Resilience and hope, courage and humility, grace and mercy.

I don't think I deserve them. In fact, I know I don't. I don't send birthday cards, I can be ungrateful, I am impatient with my children, and I am prone to wander. 

But they point the way. Imperfect and true. Vintage cursive loops of faith.

I open one of the cards and out drop a handful of pictures: me and my grandpa, grandma laughing, matching grandbabies in receiving blankets. Her gift to me on my 34th birthday. I tell my sister and we sigh together, remember grandpa's laugh, think how perfect and generous it was for her to send them to me.

"Although..." my sister says, suddenly very suspicious, "I am kind of worried she's starting to dole out her precious belongings."

Well, yeah, there's that.

UPDATE // I'm forced to print a retraction: one of my dear grandmother's is only circling 80, not 90. But that would've made my sentence longer, and not as flowy. You know, poetic license and all that. Besides, as my sister says, she's circling closer to 90 than she is to 20. :) 

The success lie (on family, failure and faith)

We are babysitters this weekend, slumber party novices leaving evidence of mildly irresponsible late-night milkshake drinking. Blankets, pillows and swords litter the hallways. Before he heads to work, we cuddle in a very large, very comfortable, very I-don't-ever-want-to-get-up-from-here bed. I feel his chest rise and fall heavily, hear him sigh as he says, "I'm sorry our bed sucks. I'm sorry for all of it."

It takes me a moment to register what he's saying, what he means, how his heart drops in the memory foam of the bed.

We are laying on a big, soft symbol of success. And our pokey, old, free-for-the-taking mattress back home is a symbol of failure. 

We all believe that, don't we? The house, the job, the car out front, the kids in excelled learning, the 401k. These are barometers of a life well done. We work hard for them, make sure they're shiny, take comfort in them and feel successful. This is what we're told we deserve, what we can get it if we try hard enough, what will make us happy and what will keep us secure.

Except, it's a lie. It's a lie we are all too willing to believe. Honestly, it is so much easier to look successful with hard work and money than it is to prove we're successful in quiet prayers and patience.

What is success anyway? How other people see you? How you think you look to the outside world? Does it really matter what Dave Ramsey thinks? Is the interest rate that big of a deal? I don't believe those things influence or determine success. 

My sister is successful not because of her wonderful bed, not because of her athletic kids, not because of the house or picket fence or chocolate lab (though those are all real and fantastic things). She's successful because she and my brother-in-law just celebrated 20 years of marriage. They are successful because of the hard work, time, patience and sacrifice they put into marriage and parenting. They are successful because they come home together, pray together, serve God together, and love their kids together. They are successful because they believe all these things are gifts from above, a life they never imagined, a family based on faith and hope and love.

And us? We haven't failed just because we don't have a house, a backyard, a sturdy retirement account or spotless refinished hardwood floors (though that would all be very nice). We are successful because our kids are happy and we get to spend the majority of almost every day with them. We're successful because we are pursuing something we know God has called us to do. We're successful because at the end of the day, we come home to each other. We're successful because we get to show our kids and our friends and our communities how faithful God is, how He's provided, how He's leading, how He loves. We're successful because we work hard, not for the house and the car payment or the fully vested stock options, but we work hard at prayer and perseverance and obedience.

We're successful because when we fail, it's not over. The failure is never permanent. Mercies are new every morning, and we get to try again. Jesus holds it all together, and it all belongs to Him. 

"Oh, babe, don't say that," I tell him. The house we are staying in is filled with the laughter of our children and their cousins. They are so happy and free. We get to serve my sister and her family on this happy occasion of a 20th wedding anniversary. And I feel so blessed and so thankful for one night of peaceful sleep in a big, comfy bed.

We are a success story... one I can't wait to tell.


What is your success story? I know you have one.

It's a strange thing

The sun wants in, but I won't let it.

For a second there, a brief moment, when it was still 6-something-AM and the baby came screeching through the living room, I caught a glimpse of clouds. But they didn't last, and now the sun wants in, and I am enclosed behind shades.

It's a strange thing to long for darkness, to wish for storms, to lay awake listening for thunder only to fall asleep until the heat stirs you back into day again. I think this is how I've always lived my life, this Kansas girl, waiting for storms. Even on a cloudless day, I search for them, turning my head towards the wind.

***

When we first landed back in the States, we were surprised by the heat and the sun. We were tired and achey and hid from the outside world, putting ourselves back together again. Then one day - late afternoon - a clap of thunder, and the downpour came. Hail and wind and thick green skies. When the hail died down and long sheets of rain kept coming, we five ran for the street, dancing and laughing.

Broken edges rounded by a whetstone.

***

Some say I expect the worst, never hope for the best, always wait for the other shoe to drop. But this isn't true. The truth is I'm always hoping for the best, expecting a miracle, waiting for a surprise. I want brooding, dark thunderheads to drop rays of glory around us. I want to shout, "Yes, I knew it! I believed, and look, here it is!" I want to drink, to fill ourselves up with it. Cover the children in it, dance in it, throw it back up to the heavens in praise.

But this stale sun scorches my feet. My head hurts, temples throbbing. We keep indoors, curtains pulled closed, waiting.

It's 10-something-AM and I'm just now taking my coffee in bed.

Epilogue: It rained, today, at approximately 3-something-PM. Beautiful, warm, steam-inducing rain. I sat on the balcony with the baby, his knees scraped badly from a morning fall, kicking my feet under raindrops. I felt heavenly water dimple my face, and I cried.

What a surprise.

The joyful anticipation deepens

Proverbs 3:5-6 {a personal paraphrase, from the Message}

Do you have a piece of Scripture - a lyric, a sonnet - anchoring your spirit today? Share it in the comments. Let us throw life rafts to one another.

On not knowing, but believing

We've got a schooling situation on our hands. As in, we have none.

Our support account says we're at 82%, which means we can see the finish line. The 90% which allows us to buy plane tickets.

We wait for God to work.

And it is summer, and the girl is ready for elementary school, and the boy is ready for Irish school, and we've not yet enrolled them in the fall. Anywhere.

I'm not sure what this means, except I feel ready. But our apartment is still full and we still have work to do. I tell people this summer and they say, "Really? So soon?" I ask myself that, too, and think "Oh, maybe... I hope so? But maybe not...?" They tell me I should enroll them anyway, better safe than sorry.

But I tell them I don't yet have peace.

Even if I were to enroll them, I don't where they would go, don't know if we'll still be in this apartment (let alone this country), don't know if we'd need to transition somewhere else to finish the fundraising.

I don't know so many things.

"In August, God will tell us," I tell them, "He always has." And this is true. When it comes to our kids and schools, He's always shown us the way. He's always put us in the right place (even when we didn't want to be there), always opened up a spot (even when they said it was full), always been patient with us (even when we haven't been patient with Him).

We have friends in a similar situation, in a similar season of life (this waiting and going). When I share these thoughts with her she looks me straight in the eyes and says, "Don't enroll them." There is no hesitation, no pause at the timing, no gasp at the numbers. She believes.

It's misty and dark outside now... a rare reprieve from the heat and sun, dampening our thirsty grass.

I believe, too.

The trade-off

He says this is the trade-off.

Home from an early morning meeting, he loosens his collar, grabs the children by theirs and shoos us to the door. “We are going for a walk!” he shouts, grabbing his Bible. And I laugh, “What are you going to do with that at the park?”

You’ll see.

She runs ahead with hair flying, careful for cars, stopping always before the next street. They throw rocks for that silly turtle - “my turtle!” - they saw just the one time in the creek bed down the street.

We walk faster, uphill, and this is too much for me after a week of feeling sick and down. But the fresh air is so sweet, my dry throat doesn’t mind so much the extra panting or coughing or chewed up water bottle some toddler tried to teethe his molars on. My legs come back to life and I breathe deeper than I have for days.

The children yell – “almost there!” “I see it!” – and he grabs my hand.

“This is the trade-off,” he says, “for all the hard stuff. We get to do this, walk with our kids on a cool morning, take them to the park. This they will remember.”

He says it’s a spiritual discipline, the rest and the peace. He says he wants this for us, to be disciplined. Not to because it makes us more righteous, but because it brings us closer to Him.

We sit on the swing in the dancing shade, the girl elbow-deep in sand and the boy climbing higher. “I’m thinking I should read from the Peters,” he says.

And so he does.

This letter is from Peter, an apostle of Jesus Christ. 

I am writing to God’s chosen people who are living as foreigners 

in the provinces of Pontus, Galatia, Cappadocia, Asia, and Bithynia. 

God the Father knew you and chose you long ago, and his Spirit has made you holy. 

As a result, you have obeyed him and have been cleansed by the blood of Jesus Christ. 

May God give you more and more grace and peace.

1 Peter 1:1-2 NLT

***

He calls me just now. Clocked in late to the second job, talked to by the boss. Yes, there is a trade-off, I think. I hope we land on the right side.

Actually, Lord, I just hope we land.

In two years (saved from drowning)

There's nothing like a near-drowning to make you wanna teach your kid how to swim. The eldest flailing with arms barely above water as half-a-dozen family members played and splashed and paid no mind to the child gasping for breath just out of reach. It was a cousin nearby, a superhero of a girl, who noticed him and pulled him out of the depth and towards safety. And we were all scared witless.

So it was that we moved to an apartment with a pool and we taught the boy to swim. His sister, too. They were nervous at first, him moreso than her, for she is very rarely ever nervous about anything slightly dangerous. In no time at all they went from tip toes and gentle wading near the steps, to cannonballs and running jumps and searching for lost crocs at the bottom of the deep end.

And then they met the ocean. The boy no longer afraid, emboldened by courage and confidence and trust. The girl chasing waves, searching for treasure.

We see it in them, how they learn so readily and happily, growing in faith and gathering their strength. That dark day in the pool was the start - the tipping point - of our long journey from flailing towards trust. They lead the way, without knowing it, teaching us how to do it.

Two years can change everything. More than that, it can change us.

Till We Have Faces (stays with me always)

"I can't imagine a man really enjoying a book and reading it only once." CS Lewis

I've read Pride & Prejudice no fewer than five times, The Red Tent three or four times, and this week I finished Till We Have Faces for the third time.

I first read this book in college, passed down to me by husband who took a class called "Images of Christ in the Novel." When we first met, we bonded over our mutual love of Lewis and, as he was further ahead of me in school, he would slip me obscure(-to-me) titles on the side, books beyond Narnia and mostly nonfiction.

"Here, I think you'll like this," he would say.

The Great Divorce pricked my heart, and Screwtape Letters shown a light in the darkness, the first half of Surprised by Joy I've reread half a dozen times (for the life of me I cannot get to the end of it!), and Mere Christianity I was content in him having read it, so I didn't need to. But Till We Have Faces has stayed with me, on my nightstand always, with Matt's name on the inside and his post office box number written in pencil below. It is torn and taped and I won't part with it. Ever.

This book, I don't know how to describe it. It is otherwordly and dark. It is beautiful and aching. It is confusing and so hard to grasp, that when I read it I feel like I'm trying to catch up and get a glimpse of its truth. When I get to the end and the narrative stops so short I catch my breath, I want to cry because I know there must be more. Orual will tell me the secret. But she doesn't and I go back and reread, searching for the answer. 

I wish I could put my finger on it, but I think I'm actually afraid to. The truth is that I am Orual and her sin looks to me as natual as any other. Jealousy masquerading as love. Pride masquerading as sacrifice. Self-hate masquerading as humility. And the gods, she rakes questions and accusations at them, ones I know in my heart but dare not write down or utter in prayer.

“Lightly men talk of saying what they mean. Often when he was teaching me to write in Greek the Fox would say, “Child, to say the very thing you really mean, the whole of it, nothing more or less or other than what you really mean; that’s the whole art and joy of words.” A glib saying. When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the centre of your soul for years, which you have, all that time, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you’ll not talk about joy of words.” 

I, too, am jealous of Psyche, for she knows the secret and the answer. She is content with a god she cannot see, an otherworldly home she is destined for.

“The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing — to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from — my country, the place where I ought to have been born. Do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back.” 

The men in Orual's life, within the Kingdom and the temple, trade theories and suggestions, and I am just as torn by them as Orual is. Who to believe, who has the answer? Why the riddle, and why can I not figure it? Why is there so much mystery, why all the mysticism, where can I find the cut and dry truth?

We want black and white, when everything is shrouded in grey. And when we finally see the answer, it may be too late.

"I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?"

Oh, this book. Nearly 15 years later and I'm still wrecked by it, learning from it, undone by its strange story. I'm sure I'll read it again, soon... closer to the truth, the dark beauty and mystery of love.

The heart of him

He brings home the prayer journal he's kept at church. Sweet, short prayers ending in Jesus' name with cryptic y's and g's dotting the pages (I'm afraid to ask, don't want him to know I've been peeking).  I flip through it anyway because what mother doesn't want to know what her child talks to God about?

He writes about friends with injuries, family travels, and brother with split lip. He thanks God for mom and dad, for home and school. And he writes about death and Ireland.

I hesitate to photograph or expose this holy moment. I cry at the heart of him.

Because I don't want him to think it's more about money than people, don't want him to worry about the future, don't want to burden him with uncertainty. But also because he loves, he believes God is good, and he knows we ultimately belong where Jesus is.

Which brings me to the second thing he brought home.

If You'd Been There / Jesus Appears to Jackson

His response? OMG. 

I cry again at the heart of him, laughing through tears.