blog

My friend Joy and I stood at the Starbucks counter deliberating our orders. We were tired from traveling, but didn’t want too much caffeine late in the afternoon. I finally piped up with my order. “May I have a grande blonde cinnamon dolce latte with almond milk, half-caf, half-pumps, and no foam, please?” Joy side-eyed me with a smile. Yes, I’m that girl. Specific. Particular. We were on a work trip together (actually our entire (in)courage staff was there!), so over the next couple of days, Joy, along with Anna and Grace, got to see my special ordering skills in all their glory as we enjoyed several more coffee shop trips and ate meals together. “Why yes, I’d like the carnitas meal, please, with pinto beans instead of refried, no sour cream, no pico de gallo, avocado slices instead of guacamole, a side of limes, and half corn, half flour tortillas. Thanks so much!” Some people might call me picky (or ridiculous), but I say I’m just a girl who knows what I want! Yet it occurred to me recently that despite my strong food and drink preferences (Diet Coke, LOTS of ice, lemon slice, with a straw), there are lots of times in life where I’m paralyzed with indecision. The world is like a giant Starbucks menu with so many options it can be overwhelming to feel like we have to choose the right custom combination of fill-in-the-blank to suit our exact wants or needs. What will fill me up and fuel me on in just the right way? Do you hear this looming question at every turn too? I hear the constant whisper on social media. I can even feel this way about Christian resources. (Is that okay for me to admit as part of a Christian resource company? Welp, I just did.) Friends, I find myself weary and thirsty for meaning, significance, answers, and truth. There are so many good (and plenty of not-so-good) offerings to choose from, but every promise of deeper understanding and fresh hope can end up sounding like noise. And the thing I’m wrestling with — and I’m wondering if maybe you are too — is this: When surrounded by so much noise, am I forgetting to listen to God’s voice? Every day I get notifications about new planners, journals, Bible studies, IG stories, blog posts, podcasts, YouTube videos, books, devotionals, conferences, and rappers preaching revival. ALL these things are good! Yet I can get so caught up in trying to identify the newest thing that could be the most revolutionary for me ( Have you tried a pumpkin cream cold brew? ) that I forget I already know what I really need and where to find it. What I really need is Jesus, and I can always find Him in the Bible. God’s Word should be my first, foremost. End of special ordering. End of story. I feel like this is a safe enough place to admit that God’s Word, Bread of Life, Living Water, is not always what I reach for. God has given us the power to choose. In modern day America especially, we’ve taken that freedom to the limit – and I’m totally a part of it. While I love the opportunity to custom order my Starbucks latte and Chipotle burrito bowl, I need to quit taking this “what am I in the mood for” mentality into my spirituality. We need to stop special ordering Christianity. The most revolutionary thing for me and for you is to revolve our lives around Christ. Let’s orbit our thoughts around Him. Let’s order our steps toward His. Let’s make the most special thing about us that we specialize in the language and love of Jesus. As believers, we ought to first be followers of Jesus before consumers of content. Without a doubt, I believe content creators should create! As a writer, I’ll keep writing. Artists should keep painting. Musicians should keep composing and performing. May each daughter and son of the King use their gifts to the glory of God! But if your soul is parched and your heart is weary like mine, we don’t need to keep scanning the Christian menu of radio stations and bestseller lists to find what best fits our current whim or wish list. Let’s feast first on Jesus. He always satisfies. He always satisfies. Then Jesus declared, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” John 6:35 (NIV) This post first appeared on (in)courage.

It was an ordinary Tuesday, except for the fact that I was on the verge of a breakdown over lemon zest. This sounds ridiculous, and it is, but it is also serious. This is the face of anxiety. I sat at my desk, nestled under the far windows in my kitchen, and plugged away at a long list of work tasks — emails to write, spreadsheets to analyze, projects to dream up. My list was long but it’s work I love to do, and I was grateful the kids were in school and I had a quiet morning to dive in. But on this particular morning, it turned out I wasn’t home alone like I expected. My husband was also there. His job demands long hours and lots of travel at times, which other days affords him the flexibility to set his own schedule and work from home. Super great, except on that day – for me. Chris came into the kitchen and started tinkering, opening cupboards, pressing buttons on the stove. I winced a little and looked up from my computer. “Whatcha doing?” I asked “Making those lemon bars,” he said. It was barely nine a.m., but he was preparing for the evening when we’d both enjoy having a sweet treat compatible with the limited eating plan we were on at the time. I tried to get back in my work zone. I reread the half-written email I was in the middle of composing. Glass bakeware clinked together as Chris pulled them from the cupboard. I leaned closer to my computer screen and typed the next sentence. Parchment paper ripped across the jagged metal line, ripping my concentration. I tabbed over instead to an article I needed to read. Deep breath. Chris carefully lined the glass dish with the waxy paper. Every crinkle sent a shockwave of irritation up my spine. I closed my laptop. I got up and started emptying the dishwasher. “Why are you doing that right now?” my husband asked over his shoulder. “Oh, you know. It’s just easier for me to concentrate when it’s quiet, so I figured I’d get the dishes done while you’re baking.” “Ok, can you hand me the grater?” I stacked bright plastic kid cups and placed spoons and forks in their designated slots in the silverware drawer. Deep breath. Deep breath. Eggs shells cracked. The metal whisk bounced and scratched inside the metal mixing bowl. Whisk, whisk, whisk. Over and over and over. I tried to fill my heavy lungs with enough breath. “Wash these lemons for me, will you please?” he asked. My heart raced. I washed the lemons. Then he started to zest. When my anxiety is high, there are some sounds I can tune out: the dishwasher humming behind me, the dryer thud-thrumming behind the thin laundry room door beside me. But other noises are like nails on a chalkboard to my tender wiring. Every time the lemon scraped the length of the metal grater, my insides cringed in pain. My chest tightened. This is stupid, I told myself. Get a grip. But I could not get a grip. I was unraveling. I stopped drying the dishes, but I could not stop the stream of tears. “What’s wrong?” my husband asked, bewildered. I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. You’re not doing anything wrong,” I said. “The noise is just too much for me right now. I guess I’m having a flare-up of anxiety.” I walked through the hall into our bedroom, into our bathroom, shut the door, closed the toilet seat, sat down, and cried. I cried hard. I couldn’t not cry hard. There wasn’t one thing I was upset about. There wasn’t something I was stewing over or especially worried about. This was the most frustrating, shameful thing about anxiety to me — that I couldn’t always name it or explain it. And if I couldn’t explain why I was feeling what I was feeling, then it seemed invalid to feel it. I heaved air into my tight lungs and prayed for a way to help my husband and myself understand my world of anxiety in which we were both foreign travelers. My breathing slowed, and my mind filled with a new image. I walked back into the kitchen. “I want to help us both understand why I’m reacting this way, and I have an idea. Have you ever had a really bad toothache?” I began. “When a tooth nerve is damaged or exposed, things that you normally eat are suddenly extremely painful. Warm things become scalding and cool things become freezing and crunchy things become rock-hard; it’s impossible to eat normally.” I went on, “Food isn’t the real problem. The way you’re chewing isn’t the problem. There is a raw nerve that when touched produces a visceral, physical reaction you can’t control. This is what anxiety is like. Baking lemon bars is not the issue. My desire to cope with the noise is not the issue. My anxiety is like raw nerve endings and certain noises touch those raw nerves and trigger pain to the point that my system is overwhelmed. My body deals with it through tears.” I’m not sure if that made things any clearer to my husband, but I know it helped give voice to my experience. Giving voice to our experience can help slowly unravel the tangle of shame we’re living in. Friend, anxiety is real. Whether you relate with my experience or not, chances are high that there is someone in your life who does. We all need to understand that anxiety is more than a list of worries and woes that need to be prayed over or surrendered to the Lord. For sure we need to pray, and may we all live surrendered to Jesus! But we’ve got to understand that anxiety is not always synonymous with fear-driven worry. Anxiety can also be a mental health disorder caused by psychological and physiological imbalances with a host of symptoms. We don’t try to downplay a nerve issue when we’ve got a tooth screaming in pain. We don’t criticize ourselves when our iron levels are out of whack or we need more B12. We acknowledge the deficiency. We take steps to feel better. We seek help. Five months later and I’m doing better. I’m thankful for lemon zest and the things that force me to cry out to God. I’m thankful for His mercy in helping me understand my brokenness. I’m thankful for the grace that my anxiety has ebbed for now. And I’m thankful that when it flows again, I will be more ready to admit it and be gentle with myself. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. Hebrews 4:16 (ESV)

There’s this question I’ve been chewing on. I can’t get it out of my mind. It goes like this: What if the display of God’s power in our lives is directly related to acknowledging our need for Him? I’ve seen the evidence play out more times than I can count. For almost a decade I’ve watched a friend desperately try to grow her family. Every avenue explored, every expense exhausted. A child briefly placed in her arms only to be taken. So much heartache. An ongoing surrender to God’s goodness in the shape of suffering and sorrow. Last week she welcomed a child into their forever family. Only God. Another friend was recently faced with a weighty decision, one without a clear answer and lasting implications no matter which outcome won out. She couldn’t reason through it on her own. In her wrestling, God put an image in her mind, a person she needed to connect with. Yet she didn’t know this woman. Not knowing this at all, I felt compelled to connect my friend who was wrestling with another friend who had walked a similar road. Can you guess? The woman my friend needed to talk to was the one I introduced her to. Only God. Then there was a couple who sat on our living room couch late at night and asked if they could tell us their story. My husband and I leaned in. I couldn’t have guessed the brand of struggle, sin, and despair their marriage went through – nor could I have imagined the story of hope, healing, and redemption they’re living. “As long as you’re breathing, there is hope,” they said. We weren’t personally in crisis, but I knew these words were true beyond seasons of despair. I tucked them in my heart. Hope in hopeless situations — only with God. Not one of these friends would have chosen their circumstances or written their own story, but in their greatest need, they experienced God’s great power. That is a gift not one of them would trade. I wish I could reach through this screen and know the unexpected, undesirable, hanging-on-to-hope circumstances you’re living. We’ve all got something. But in my lack of knowing, God knows. He sees you. He is with you. I’m wondering if He’s prompting all of us to ask: ⁣ What if the display of God’s power in my life is directly related to acknowledging my need for Him?

I’ve been feeling it again. That low-grade ache of discontentment. That inner restlessness, nagging, gnawing, something softly knocking. That unnamed longing for something more even on the good days when I finally catch my breath, catch up on laundry, or make it to bedtime without being called a mean, mean mommy. I don’t know why it takes me so long to recognize the source — God’s still small voice, calling yet again to return to Him, spend time with Him. I’ve been choosing the trap of glowing screens and too many late-night scrolling minutes. Whoa, where did the last hour go? I like to be alone. Alone with my thoughts. Alone in my digital bubble, an insulated reprieve from all the demands and needs. I like to be alone, yet I tether myself to the noise of hundreds of friends I don’t know beyond a screen. Cute cat! Sad story. Look who’s pregnant or moving or getting a promotion! The evidence of my choice to indulge in digital vegging shows up the next morning in dark under eye circles and two more snooze cycles. It’s a chore to drag myself awake. I’m too tired and distracted to hear God call: Come to me. Connect with me. Can you relate? Have been you been there? Are you there today? Now, it’s not like I don’t read my Bible. It’s not like I don’t pray. I’m good with God. We talk throughout the day. I’m okay. But what if doing enough to spiritually get by isn’t the point? I’m finally listening to my longing and admitting that there’s something in my lived-out priorities that’s outta whack. My soul hungers for more. And more social media, more sleep, more viral videos, more home organization, more activities or mindless TV aren’t going to cut it. You and I were made for more. We were cut out for divine connection. Created for intimacy. Hand-picked for relationship. Sculpted for surrender. Wired for worship. We’ve all got a God-sized gap that no other gods can fill. We’ve got to recognize the ways we’ve been trying to let them — and stop. Say no to what pulls us away from the Gap-Filler and instead press into Him. I set my alarm earlier than my comfort says to. I remind my kids about our no TV rule before school and to read in bed if they wake up early (Murphy’s Law says if I get up early, someone else will too!). Time protection in preparation: I decide what I’m going to read, place my journal and Bible on top of my laptop lest I autopilot-forget my purpose and fly right into work. Time protection in expectation. Before I drift off to sleep I remind myself of what is true: The law of the Lord is perfect, refreshing the soul. The statutes of the Lord are trustworthy, making wise the simple. Psalm 19:7 (NIV) In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly. Psalm 5:3 (NIV) Inviting God to fill the place in our lives only He’s made for isn’t a one-size-fits-all formula. There’s no right or wrong way to spend time with Jesus. But for me, I’ve found nothing better than to start my day with Him. In God’s Word. At Jesus’s feet. Pen to paper. Recording and remembering. Listening. He’s never not shown up to meet with me. The struggles of our lives, the crises, and daily grind are real. The urgent things that demand immediate doing, the desirous things that draw us to their company, the attention-grabbing things that feel in-the-moment important but lack eternal significance — I get it. I get all of it. But we don’t have to live consumed by the noise that is not His voice. Before the sun has yet to run its horizon-rising course, I will come. With gunk in my eyes and a stiff morning back, I will come. When I reach for my alarm, I remind myself that I’m not getting up for Facebook or Instagram or email. As I pull the chain on my stained glass desk lamp, flooding the darkness with light, I remind myself I’m not rising early for productivity, to check more off my list. I rise for Him. Those who know your name trust in you, for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you. Psalm 9:10 (NIV)

It startled me the first time it happened. It was a Wednesday night my freshman year of college at the musty-smelling YMCA behind my dorm where the collegiate ministry I was involved in met for weekly worship and teaching. We milled around afterward in small groups, scuffing our feet on the thin, dingy carpet, laughing easy, procrastinating going back to whatever late-night studying or paper-writing awaited us. I was talking with my friend Kathy. We were probably sharing the highs and lows of the week or commiserating over how the dining hall ran out of chicken crispitos at dinner. I don’t recall the exact details of our conversation — I’m sure it involved me spilling my latest stress-inducing situation with school or the guy I was dating, not dating, or wanting to date again. Through the fog of almost twenty years, I do remember clearly what happened next. “Let me pray for you about that,” Kathy said. And then she put her hand on my shoulder and started to pray. She didn’t say, “I will pray for you about that,” as in, after we leave or tomorrow before class or later in the week if I happen to remember. She just did it — right there under the buzzing fluorescent lights with our friends cracking jokes nearby and the worship band tearing down their equipment. Kathy prayed. Telling you this story now doesn’t seem so radical. My friend prayed for me. So what? But at the time? As an eighteen-year-old feeling fresh and stretched in my faith-growing skin, it was the most outrageous, exhilarating thing. I felt so . . . cared for. Seen. Kathy’s prayer didn’t last long. Standing there with my eyes closed in the middle of a bunch of a college students felt awkward. But maybe simple words and a healthy dose of awkwardness are the very things that can point another person to Jesus. It did for me. That wouldn’t be the last time a friend gave me the gift of praying in the moment. Just last week at church, I found my friend Margie during the “mingle” time between our singing and the pastor’s preaching. Immediately, her sweet face lit up, and she pulled me into the type of warm hug grandmas give best. Then she took my hand and asked how the book was coming. (The last time we spoke a few months ago I was in the middle of writing.) I told Margie that I had finished my manuscript and would be getting edits back soon, but I needed God to expand my capacity given an extra busy season at work. There in the middle of a cacophony of chit chat, with friends and strangers shaking hands across rows of chairs, Margie pulled me back in for a hug and prayed. “Lord, increase Becky’s time and energy this week. Use her talents for the good of Your kingdom and to encourage the hearts of women. You are so faithful. We know You will do it. Amen.” I inhaled my friend’s rose perfume and smiled at the life of faith etched across her face. An extra dose of joy and peace had transferred from her to me in our final squeeze. I felt held up. Margie could have promised to pray for me that week, and I know she would have been good to her word. But to stop and do it right there was a gift to my heart. Yes, God, You are faithful. Thank You for giving me friends to remind me how true it is. Something powerful happens when we choose to listen carefully and then enter into someone’s circumstances by taking their concerns straight to God. In moments like these, I know Jesus’ words to be true: For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them. Matthew 18:20 (NIV) Let’s be a friend like Kathy, a friend like Margie. Let’s listen well and pray boldly. And it doesn’t just have to be in a church-like setting. When we run into a friend at the car wash or in the frozen food aisle or at school pick-up, let’s be women who risk feeling awkward for the sake of strengthening a friend’s faith. Let’s invite the presence of Jesus and the power of the Holy Spirit to invade our lives and move through our circumstances. I don’t know if it felt like an act of courage to Kathy to pray for her college peer. I don’t know if Margie thought she was being courageous by modeling intercession to a younger Christ-sister. But to me, they are women of courage, and the landscape of my faith is better because of them.

I’ve spent the last many weeks juggling Christmas parties and shopping lists, trying to remember which kid needs a $5 ornament and which one has to bring a traditional holiday dish for his class feast. In the midst of the holiday happiness and chaos, I’ve also been trying hard to listen — straining for the answer to the question my spirit is aching over: God, what are You saying? Help me to hear. I don’t want to miss it. I have a case of spiritual angst over hearing God’s voice. Not because I doubt His ability to speak to my heart, but because sometimes I question whether I’ll be able to hear Him above all the noise. Life is just so loud. I’m not talking about the constant clamor coming from my three growing boys. (Though the volume they produce is staggering.) I’m talking about the noise of constant information and solicitation. The amplification of confrontation. The perpetual bombardment of breaking news and viral videos. Divisive posts and explosive comment threads. So much fine print and endless must-see lists. My eyes are blurry and my ears are ringing — and it’s not from twinkling lights or jingle bells. None of it is particularly out of the ordinary. It’s become the white noise to our regular lives. But just because it’s normal doesn’t mean it’s spiritually palatable. I can’t stand radio commercials or TV commercials. They trigger immediate irritation. Just ask my husband. My senses also feel assaulted by huge billboards flanking the freeway and flashing neon signs groping for my attention. Pop-up ads and email spam, flyers tucked under my windshield wipers and stuffed in my front door handle. It’s all too much for me to handle. I wonder if I’m the only one who feels this way. Does everyone else know how to tune it all out? Or do they somehow embrace the nonstop petitioning for our attention, our purchase, our opinion? Do others just happily ride the current of hot trends and best deals without any soul nausea from feeling jostled inside? Anyone else exhausted by it all? It’s not that I have anything against the blowout sale at Macy’s or the new Chinese restaurant with the coupons for free wontons. I’m sure I’d enjoy reading all the magazines and subscribing to all the podcasts and you bet I’d look better, feel better if I said yes to every workout plan and supplement and oil promoted on Facebook. Business and commerce and blog posts aren’t bad. But if I had one wish this Christmas, it might be for those noise-canceling headphones that I envy every time I’m on an airplane. Yet the noise entering my ears isn’t as much the issue as the noise clamoring in my soul. Noise demands to be heard. It’s territorial. It crowds out whatever else is trying to take up space. I think this is why I’m aching for quiet this Christmas. I want to tune out, push back anything that isn’t Jesus. I want to make room for Him not only on the day we celebrate His birth but every day. Join me over at (in)courage today for four practical ways to quiet the noise this Christmas and into the new year. It’s what I’m #preachingtomyownheart. I pray it encourages your heart too. Merry Christmas.

I remember as a little girl being bright-eyed with wonder at the candlelight service on Christmas Eve. The dark sanctuary filled with families and neighbors and sweater-clad strangers standing shoulder to shoulder — waiting. A single flame started in one corner. A tiny flicker in the dim expanse. Then the glowing wick from one candle would touch the waxy tip of the next and the flame would pass. At the same time, the soothing melody of Silent Night rose from one voice. The crowd joined in. Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. I waited anxiously, twirling the white candle between my palms. I loved being part of transforming the darkness, of passing on the source of warmth. One by one, each person dipped their lit candlestick forward to bring light to the next person. The flames quickly multiplied as one became two, and two became four, and four became eight until all five hundred worshipers were reached. I look back through my mind’s eye and see my six-year-old freckled face aglow with Christmas awe. Thirty years later and that scene still gets me. How we, the body of Christ, the church, have the joy and privilege of gathering in celebration of the greatest gift ever given because of Christ’s body — the Son of God turned human infant, born to live and die in love and sacrifice. Yet our purpose as believers is not only to gather but to respond, to help spread the Light. For the past two weeks, the (in)courage community has been linking arms with Mercy House Global to spread God’s mercy and light in tangible ways to women in poverty. Today is the last day of our #1000mercies campaign and I wanted to invite you to be part of it! Join me over at (in)courage to read the rest of this story and find out how you can give the gift of hope this Christmas.

The receptionist with the sparkly blue eyes smiled wide when I came up to the counter to make my follow-up appointment. When several of the next available visits didn’t work with my schedule, I sighed in frustration and offered a weak apology. But she wasn’t irritated or impatient. “Let’s keep looking to find something that will work for you,” she said. I felt cared for. The baby was strapped to me in the Bjorn, one toddler was in the top of the shopping cart, and the other one squirmed in the basket with groceries piled around him. All three boys were humming at a low, nerve-grating whine, and I was spying the oatmeal on the top grocery store shelf, calculating if it was worth the climb. “You’ve got your hands full. Let me grab that for you,” said the gentleman with a scruffy beard and long reach who magically appeared. I felt seen . I walked into the large sanctuary where women were chatting in small clusters. I scanned the room looking for the cardstock sign with my assigned table number and made a beeline for it. Squeezing past a group of women, someone touched my shoulder from behind. “Hey, Becky!” I turned, surprised that anyone there knew my name. “I’m so glad you joined us again!” the ministry coordinator said. I felt valued. These snapshots of intentional kindness only lasted but a moment, but years later, they are still vibrant in my memory. Why? They weren’t lavish or extravagant. They weren’t loud or flashy or done for an audience. They were simple and small. Kindness doesn’t have to be big to make a big impact. That’s why I love the new Care Dare from DaySpring — they’re making it easy to be intentional about kindness. When I signed up, I got a printable download with over thirty simple ways to show people in my everyday life that I care. Easy things like, Say Hello First, Send a Card, Give a Compliment, and Thank Someone in Ministry. For the next thirty days, I’m going to join thousands of people in showing others I care. You should join me! Think of the big impact we could make. Chances are high that those who showed me small kindness in the past wouldn’t even recall the moment. But I remember. In a busy world where people are often preoccupied with their own rushing wants, urgent agendas, and frenzied schedules, an act of compassion stands out. I’m sharing more about the biblical call to kindness and a practical way we can put Scripture into practice. Join me over at (in)courage to read the rest of the article.

Big pines stood tall around me bearing witness to the smile stretched across my face. The campground was alive with morning noises — bacon sizzling on outdoor skillets, kids laughing louder than they would at home. I watched a bright blue chested bird perch on a branch heavy with pinecones while two hummingbirds zipped around in a magic dance. I sipped slow on my steamy coffee. Everything is better in the mountains. This was my family’s favorite week – when we (mostly) unplug, enjoy nature, and soak up lots of time just being together. It was the perfect way to end summer — connecting and refreshing before my husband begins his busiest season of the year as a college volleyball coach and our three boys start back to school and all the activity and responsibility that brings. With fresh air in my lungs and no alarm to wake me up (save for the loud whispers of excited kids), it was easy to start each day with gratitude in my heart. I thanked God for crackling campfires, family corn hole tournaments, and sunny trails just waiting for the happy thud of hiking boots. Thank You, God, for seeing our need for a break from ordinary routine. One afternoon I sat on a huge log at the far end of our campsite. My husband was on a jog, and the boys were building an epic fort. In the stillness of the moment — no one needing me, no task demanding to be done — I answered the still small voice. Pour it all out to Me. So I began to pray. For my husband and for each of our boys. For friends by name as they came to mind. I prayed for the young women my husband coaches and their upcoming season. For my book writing and other projects in the making. For you, our beloved (in)courage readers, for each contributor, and my staff-mates. For all that God has done and will yet do. I talk to God every day. But it’s often in the whirl of fixing meals or the rush of driving here and there. It had honestly been a while since I just sat with Jesus without some pressing next. Given the space to think, feel, share all that was on my heart, I found myself overflowing with thanks. For every request I had, my praise was doubled. Not because I’m extra pious or righteous but because of God’s profound goodness. With the sun on my back and the gift of time, I was flooded with awareness for all the ways God had answered so many prayers. So I was a little surprised by what the Spirit whispered to my heart next: Give thanks for the gifts you didn’t ask for . Praise Me for answers you never prayed. Join me over at (in)courage for the rest of this story and the simple prayer that can change the way we see.

The smell of coffee beans and cinnamon rolls wafted through the crowded terminal. Passengers congregated like impatient sardines near the gate waiting for the airline employee to announce their boarding group. The flight was assigned seating so I was happy to wait till the last minute to start breathing recycled air. I was thrilled to be heading to the (in)courage retreat, but airplanes are not my favorite. At best, I feel squeezed and queasy; at worst, clear the aisle ‘cause I’m sprinting for the lavatory. I was already starting to feel anticipatory nausea (it’s a thing), and the loud shrieking nearby wasn’t helping. I looked over and saw a mom and toddler in front of a vending machine. The little boy stomped his feet until his mom handed him a blue bag of Chips Ahoy. Cookies at 9 am aren’t going to help anyone! I thought. Immediately, a pang of conviction trumped my judgment. Surely, I have not been above dolling out sugary snacks to buy myself a couple minutes of peace and quiet. Lord, forgive me for being quick to judge. Please bless this mama with someone kind and loving to sit next to on the plane. Help her to see You in her day. Amen. The traveling sardines eventually filed down the jetbridge. I followed to 17E. It was a full flight so I was surprised to find my entire row empty. As I shoved my backpack under the seat, I had a glorious vision: three hours of uninterrupted rest and productivity. With extra space, I’d be able to concentrate on finalizing my notes for the retreat and then catch a little snooze. I’d land ready and refreshed for all God had planned! I adjusted the air vent and closed the shutter. Deep breath. This might actually be a great flight. Then there they were. The little boy with chocolate chip crumbs on his chin crawling into the seat next to me. The mom settled in and took off her son’s shoes. He wiggled and shrieked and wedged himself on the floor between the seats. “I just want to apologize in advance,” she said. And I knew. I knew God was answering my prayer. Be the blessing. . . . . . Join me over at (in)courage today for the rest of the story and find out how an unexpected plane ride taught me how to pray!

Wow, what a week it has been — and it’s only Wednesday! On Monday, I shared some words over at (in)courage about the vision and direction I have sensed God leading in this new season. Here’s a snippet: Friends, we have no greater purpose as God’s daughters than to point others to the love of our Father, which has been poured out for us through the life, death, and resurrection of His Son, our Savior. I’ve got a fire in my bones because He’s calling us all into deeper relationship with Him so that we can make a greater impact for His kingdom. I believe (in)courage is a tool He wants to use to accomplish this. But God doesn’t expand our territory to make us more comfortable. He expands our reach so we can offer His comfort, hope, and peace to others! Yet, we can’t do this by ourselves or by our own strength. We were made for community — to commune, link arms, and walk life out with both God and His family. “Better together” isn’t just a catchy hashtag; it’s God’s very plan hashed out through humanity when we give our best to and for one another . When we bend low, listen long, offer what we have, mourn, celebrate, ask forgiveness, and extend grace upon grace upon grace. This is what it means to serve, unite, and be empowered by Christ. It’s our desire to lean in even harder to authentic community. We want to be a fuller, more beautiful representation of the body of Christ. We want (in)courage to be a place where we hear reflections of our own stories, as well as learn from stories unlike our own in order to grow in compassion, understanding, and unity as God’s daughters. This is what it means to mature as life-linking sisters, empowering each other to do our part to proclaim Christ and grow the reach of the gospel. Read the rest of my State of (in)courage Address here .

You can check out the entire Purpose Power Summit lineup here and sign up for FREE to gain access to content from more than 20 fantastic authors, speakers, and leaders with encouraging words and biblical insight that will help you uncover your God-given purpose so you can impact the world with your gifts, talents, and story. Or go straight to my 20-minute interview — How to Transform Lack into Impact to hear me talk about the hard spot we all face when what you have to give is not enough for what is needed. There’s this one story that has made all the difference in my walk with God and how I live out my purpose, one small step at a time. I know it will encourage you too! Speaking of encouragement . . .

Two months ago, I sat at my kitchen desk nestled under the corner windows and had a conversation through the wonders of Google Hangout with a friend on the opposite side of the country. With one heal balanced on the edge of my chair, knee tucked up against my chest, l leaned in close to my computer screen so I could see the deep blue of my coworker’s eyes and not miss a word of her awesome jumbled accent. I leaned in because that’s what I would do if we were sitting across from each other with caramel lattes in real life. I leaned in because I knew that what she was saying was life-changing. For both of us. One month ago, I sat on my living room couch facing the twinkling Christmas tree and through the wonders of Facebook Live watched and listened to that friend share the news with a private group of friends. With feet propped on the ottoman and laptop balancing on my cozy-blanket-covered lap, I took deep breath after deep breath, savoring each word. Taking in the fullness of the moment. I wanted to breathe in the meaning. Lean in to the gift of this unexpected page of the story. Today, I’m sitting on my back porch. Outside is always the place I best breathe in, lean in to God. Today that friend on the Google Hangout and Facebook Live wrote a blog post. Today, Lisa-Jo Baker is sharing with the online world that God has called her to step out of her role as community manager of (in)courage and He has called me to step into it — to help lead and serve and cast new vision for my favorite community of women. You can read Lisa-Jo’s beautiful words today at (in)courage — and a few of mine too — to learn more what this means and how it all came about. (I really hope you will.) Tomorrow, I will get on an airplane and fly to Arkansas to meet at DaySpring’s headquarters with the (in)courage staff team to dream and pray and plan for this new season ahead. Will you join us in prayer? My pastor often reminds us that God is always the hero of the story . Even if other major characters are present, the hero role always belongs to Him. I am deeply humbled and honored. I am overwhelmed with great joy for the privilege of being invited to play this key role in the work at (in)courage . But as deep as my assurance is that God has prepared the way and opened this door, even deeper is my conviction that He is the sole hero of this story. Because changing lives, loving His daughters, bringing messages of hope, truth, and grace has the Author’s signature all over it. What wild grace that I get to be a part .

I holler over my shoulder again to stop wrestling right now! then turn back to the customized sandwich assembly line. Gluten free bread for Elias, no crust for Jude, creamy peanut butter (NOT chunky) for Noah. I press hard and twist the new jelly lid until it offers that satisfying pop and releases a fresh burst of blackberry perfume. A fresh torrent of screams bursts from the back bedroom. I don’t want to be a referee today. Help me, Jesus. Help them , I sigh. Brotherly fun turned bitter bickering yet again. “He kicked me” and “He started it” and “He cheated” and “No, you’re a liar” shoot back and forth like arrows of accusation. The middle one is using that voice; I stuff my hands in pockets’ safety lest I slam a door. “Eyes on me,” I say loud and stern to cut through the chaos. “I am trying to make lunch so we can go meet friends at the park. You guys need to figure out how to play together nicely or don’t play together at all. I am sick of your fighting!” I walk out before they launch into another round of “but it’s not my fault” justification. I turn at the doorframe to throw a final pair of laser-eye darts of the you better behave variety. I return to my picnic preparations. Click on Pandora for some soothing George Winston. Breathe. If we can just get out the door . . . if we can just make it to the park and the promise of reprieve that fresh air and good friends will surely bring. I slice a few apples and fill up water bottles. Thank you for this day, I pray. Please help us . . . A soul-piercing scream interrupts my prayer. The bedroom door crashes hard against the wall and three boys explode down the hall like a stomping, hollering, angry mob. Mean words fly between them as they put their hot read cheeks and wild eyes close to mine, clamoring to be the first to download his grievances. I put my hand up. “Three boys on the couch right now,” I say. They huff to the living room. I want to shout back at them. Tell them I am fed up, that I’ve had enough. That I want to go to the park—or anywhere—by myself! Will they ever quit using the same out-of-control, self- centered script? Script. Oh, I almost forgot about my script. I collect my thoughts with another deep breath and join my sons. They’re scrunched sulky together on the sofa. I kneel down on the living room rug so we can see eye-to-eye. I fill my lungs with air and instead of laying into my boys, I use the script I prepared in advance. “Boys, it hurts my heart when I hear you say mean words to one another. It hurts my heart when you choose to disobey the rules, when you choose to roughhouse when I’ve told you not to. I want to go to the park like we planned. But if you cannot behave appropriately and treat one another kindly when we’re home, then I cannot trust you to behave appropriately and treat others kindly when we’re somewhere else. The bottom line is this, guys: How we treat each other at home is practice for how we treat people anywhere else.” They fidget like 8, 7, and 5-year-old boys do and one starts to stand up in his wind-up of protest. I put my hand up. “Please sit back down and listen,” I say. “You’re going to want to hear this.” He sits. “In order for us to still go to the park today, two things need to happen: First, you need to apologize to each other and to me for being disrespectful. Second, you need to get along with each other and use kind words until I say it’s time to go. If you can show self-control for the next twenty minutes, we will go to the park. If your words or actions are unloving, I will call our friends and cancel the playdate. Do you understand what I’m asking?” They all nod yes and say sorry, some with more sincerity than others. I count the attempt a victory. After I hug each boy they all run off to play. I hear the clickety-clank of a Lego avalanche overtaking the bedroom. I hear the ka-chung ka-chung of a bouncy ball against the closet door—another game of indoor handball. My heart exhales. Thank you, Lord. Thank you that even when I get it all wrong, you walk beside me. Thank you that you’re continually growing not only my boys, but me. Shaping me, training me, guiding me in your ways so that my own words and actions may better reflect your lovingkindness. Thank you for helping me be mindful of how I talk to my children. Help us get through these next twenty minutes so we can go to the park. Amen. Twenty minutes come and go without incident and we make it to the park. We soak in the blessings of sunshine and swings and grass to run free. As I watch Elias fling his wild body from monkey bar to bar, crazy legs flailing, I can’t help but smile at God’s faithfulness to keep watch over me as I flail through this crazy journey of motherhood. I never knew being a mom would be so hard. That I would feel stretched so thin. That I would care so deeply. That my buttons would be pushed so often, pushed to my core to the point of feeling cored out, empty, depleted, some days completely defeated. I also didn’t know that every challenge with my kids would push me to see my deeper need for Jesus. That He would graciously pull me through the grit to Him. That He would use the behavior battles and messy meltdowns to teach me how to press in—to Him. Without exception, God’s Word is my first and greatest lifeline for getting through the crazy chaos days of raising kids. It is living bread and water, it is life and hope, the source of every treasure of wisdom and knowledge. Read the book of James , precious mamas, and let the renewing work of Scripture transform your mind and your life: “ If you need wisdom, ask our generous God, and he will give it to you. He will not rebuke you for asking .” ( James 1:5 ) “ Understand this, my dear brothers and sisters: You must all be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to get angry. Human anger does not produce the righteousness God desires.” ( James 1:19-20 ) Another lifeline God has given me again and again is the tried and trusted experience of godly women. Others moms who have been through the ringer with their kids and through the process of being right wrung out, they have learned a thing or twenty about walking with Jesus in the thick of motherhood. Wendy Speake and Amber Lia are two such women. Their new book, Parenting Scripts: When What You’re Saying to Your Kids Isn’t Working, Say Something New , is a parenting book meets workbook that helps weary parents figure out what they mean to say before they say something mean. " If you decide in the calm moments of life how to deal with conflict, there is a chance to respond the right way, each and every time. ~ Parenting Scripts Through Wendy and Amber’s writing and online Gentle Parenting community, I have learned firsthand the power of the parenting script. It wasn’t without some initial skepticism and awkward first tries—anything new can feel wooden and will my kids even listen ?! But the thing we all know to be true is that we never do our best thinking or our best parenting when that vein in our neck is pulsing mad from being disobeyed or disrespected or just plain ol’ irritated for the hundredth time in a day. There is hope in prayerful preparation.

I’ve been feeling it again. That low-grade ache of discontentment. That inner restlessness, nagging, gnawing, something softly knocking. That unnamed longing for something more even on days I finally catch my breath, catch up on laundry, or make it to bedtime without being called a mean mean mommy . I don’t know why it takes me so long to recognize the source — God’s still small voice. Calling yet again to return to Him, spend time with Him. I’ve been choosing the trap of glowing screens and too many late-night scrolling minutes. ( Whoa, where did the last hour go? ) I like to be alone. Alone with my thoughts. Alone in my uninterrupted bubble, an insulated reprieve from all the demands and needs. I like to be alone — yet tethered to a gazillion disconnected friends. ( Cute cat! Sad story. Hey, she’s pregnant again! ) Is vegging out such a sin? The evidence of my choice shows up the next morning in dark undereye circles and two more snooze cycles. Do I have to drag myself awake? I’m too tired and distracted to hear Him call: Come to me. Connect with me. ( Can you relate? Have been you been there? Are you there today? ) It’s not like a don’t read my Bible. It’s not like I don’t pray. I’m good with God. We talk throughout the day. I’m okay. But what if doing enough to spiritually get by isn’t the point? I’m finally listening to my longing and admitting that there’s something in my lived-out priorities that’s outta whack. My soul hungers for more. And more social media, more sleep, more viral videos, more home organization, more activities or mindless TV isn’t going to cut it. You and I were made for more. We were cut out for divine connection. Join me today at (in)courage for the rest of this story !

He shuffled up the walkway in his worn argyle sweater and brown corduroys. We came out to meet him so he wouldn’t have to climb the two concrete steps to the front door. “Hi, Dad,” I said, with our usual awkward hug. I loaded my toddler in the backseat and climbed in beside him. Dad eased himself in the front next to my husband. Mumbling over his shoulder we made small talk on the short drive to church. It was Easter Sunday Eve. I chatted about Noah’s newest word and the picnic we had planned. I dreaded the next inevitable question. The answer in recent years was never good. But I had to ask it anyway . “So, how are you doing, Dad?” He cleared his throat and looked out the window. “I’m okay.” Long pause. My husband shot a look in the rearview mirror that begged me to keep the conversation light. “I, umm,” Dad continued, “I went to church three times this week. I plan to go again tomorrow at least once. Maybe twice.” “That’s great,” I said and asked which churches he attended and what each service was like. We pulled into the crowded parking lot and made our way into the worship center. White lilies lined the stage. Classic hymns recomposed with modern beats pulsed from the speakers. The pastor got up and preached a resurrection message. But all I could think about was my dad’s week. I pictured him sitting off to the side in unfamiliar pews, stranger faces glancing back at him each time he rattle-cough-hacked or blew his nose too loudly. I pictured him surrounded by crowds, but all alone. It was a sobering glimpse of my dad’s grim reality . The truth was, he didn’t go to church six times during Holy Week because he was super spiritual; he went because he was utterly desperate . . . Join me over at (in)courage where I’m sharing the rest of this story of God reaching into my dad’s darkest pit.

It’s a mad dash between trying to get the rebellious four-year-old to nap and dabbing on enough under-eye concealer to look presentable while finishing the imminently due assignment before dashing out the door. The crowded campus parking lot with narrow spots is easy to navigate compared to the skill it takes to delegate kids’ schedules in order to pull away from the fray and actually go to class. I climb the final flight of stairs slightly huffing and make it to my seat with but a breath of time to spare. I look west out the picture windows that span the length of the classroom — foothills and trees and a bustling street, reminders of life and all that keeps breathing. We do introductions, then go over the course syllabus for English 510: Literature and the Bible. “Now let’s dive into our first class activity,” the professor says. “Turn with me to Ezekiel chapter 37.” He reads from The Message version a story about dry bones. God grabbed me. God’s Spirit took me up and set me down in the middle of an open plain strewn with bones. I follow along on my Bible app, taking in the story to the cadence of the professor’s voice. He stammers a bit but my eyes stay locked on the words. So I prophesied, just as he commanded me. Then breath entered them and they came alive! I glance up and understand the cause of the professor’s pause . . . I’m delighted to be posting at (in)courage today! Please join me there for the rest of the story.

I made it two houses down before the mighty wave’s shadow overwhelmed me. I could feel it ready to break. Tears started to leak out in anticipation of the pummeling to come. My boys jumped and giggled loudly, straining their necks to see daddy’s iPhone, guessing where the next Pokemon might be. The sun peaked thorough bows thick with summer green on its slow decent toward the horizon. Everything glowed golden. I still couldn’t fake a smile. “Go home if you need to,” my husband offered. I turned back around ashamed I couldn’t squelch the sadness. I reached the front door and was swallowed. * * * I don’t know exactly why the tears fall so fat and fast. I miss Dad . I ache for Alyssa . I feel anxious over a looming unknown. I told Chris that my sadness is like the kind of wave that crashes hard upon the shore right after a long period of calm. Then as quick as it came and turned you upside down in its harsh, unexpected fury—it is gone. Sometimes this grief thing makes me feel crazy. Beyond myself. Outside of myself. Out of control of myself. I so desperately want to control it. To stuff the sad, achy parts into boxes marked Happy, Content, Normal . I want to understand it away, explain the grief away. I want my mind to bulldoze over for the mighty swells. Squash them into submission. Call it grief, sweeping sadness, cyclical depression: whatever name I give it, treating it with a harsh, shoving hand doesn’t change it. Stuffing it only has a jack-in-the-box effect. Eventually life will turn the crank of emotions enough times and that jack of sadness won’t have any choice but to spring forth in a torrent of tears or irritability or anger or detachment. Same root. Different leaves. I’ve mingled metaphors, but who’s judging? Writing is cathartic. Weaving words helps me find may way, catch my breath, through the swirling. The ocean has power to pummel with waves, yet it also has power to calm—its rhythmic song lulling me toward quiet grace.

The smell of pine and earth and sticky sweet marshmallows roasting golden over an open fire. The scurry of lizards and God’s fury creatures, birds with brightly colored feathers calling to one another in chirps and song. Steep rocky peaks and lush meadow greens, winding waters babbling over smooth river stones. Crisp air deep to breathe. Space to move. New things to see. This was the adventure we had planned. Ten days of open road taking our crew of boys to exciting wilderness locations—embracing the gift of family time away in God’s great creation. Our hope was to start our expedition heading 1,000 miles north to Yellowstone National Park. But seeing that overnight temps were still dipping well below freezing in mid May and most of the campgrounds were closed till later in the season, we decided to relinquish our dream of elk and buffalo and hot springs for another time. Surely it was best to take a less uncertain route. Before we left on our Camping Extravaganza, as I was calling it, I asked a friend to pray that I would be lighthearted . A day into the trip another friend texted me and asked how she could pray— a flexible spirit , I said. These weren’t my usual requests. More typically I would ask for protection prayers—you know, Lord, please don’t let anyone fall off a cliff or into the fire pit. Jesus, don’t let my kids pick up a poisonous snake or puke all over the van coming down the mountain. I enjoy safety and sanitation. Stitches and vomit should be avoided at all costs. (Can I get a mama, amen?!) I believe God not only has the power to answer our prayers, but the power to prompt them . He knew I would need a light heart and flexible spirit for this epic adventure with my husband and three young sons. He was preparing me before we even pulled out of the driveway, a day and several hours behind schedule, in our silver minivan packed to the gills with camping paraphernalia and, let me just be honest, a ton of unnecessary crap. With Noah, Elias, and Jude squeezed in the backseat like booster-buckled sardines and our own small mountain of stuff, we headed off across the California dessert, through Vegas traffic, a corner of Arizona, and finally to our first destination: the beautiful red rocks of Zion, Utah. Except we couldn’t see the breathtaking vistas and awe-inspiring stone formations. Because we arrived at 9 pm. Because we left late. Lighthearted. Flexible. We spent our first night in a $200 hotel room. Everything cheaper was booked. The boys thought the tiny bottle of bright green mouthwash was the best thing ever . At daybreak, Chris—faithful husband and superhero daddy—wrenched himself from the satiny hotel sheets (where little sleep was had because a certain middle son apparently grinds his teeth at a soul-piercing decibel) to drive into the Park and wait in line for a campsite. He made it to the tired attendant as the sun was lighting the mountains on morning fire, just before all the spots were filled. She handed him a card for site #77. Chris retrieved the boys and I from the hotel and chauffeured us to our new outdoor residence. Number 77 was the worst site in the campground. Probably the worst in all of Zion. One dead tree stump. No shade. Sandwiched between busy entry and exit roads. A lovely view of several worn out trailers. Not the lush, spacious, private nature escape we envisioned. Lighthearted. Flexible. Please, Jesus. We ate stale bagels grabbed from the hotel buffet and set up camp. Now it was time to see the glory of Zion. The boys thrilled over riding in a tram for the first time, which took us through the Park’s inner ravine. Magnificent views of sheer faced cliffs painted in sandstone of every crimson, amber, and amethyst hue never ceased as we traveled ever higher.

In the calamity of divisive politics In the devastation of a diagnoses Be still and know that I am God. In the uncertainty of financial distress In the tension of relational unrest Be still and know that I am God. When you’re at the end of your parenting rope When your dream is dying and you see no hope Be still and know. When the needs are too many and resources too few When you’re falling apart but need to be the glue Be still and know. If the days drag on in a mundane mess If you long to see God and feel His nearness Be still. If your peace and trust are trampled by worry If your life is a blur of hurt and hurry Be still. In every moment of every day When skies are clear, when clouds hang gray When hope is easy and burdens light When too many knockdowns sap your fight When you wonder about purpose, if you matter at all When you want to crumble but you’ve got to stand tall When the world is heavy, tainted, and dark When you long for more love, just one little spark When you need the fierce lion and the merciful lamb Be still and know the Great I AM. * * * Sharing in community with Jennifer Dukes Lee #TellHisStory and Holley Gerth #CoffeeForYourHeart.

My children like to fight about ridiculous things. They go round and round in circles with their unique little-kid logic, wielding augmentative skills like tiny lawyers. Mostly this is completely irritating. Like when they go to blows over who gets the last banana or why one brother should share his new Legos but the asserting brother certainly doesn’t have to for reasons x, y, and z. Sometimes this sibling banter moves past a mother’s annoyance to fascination and entertainment. Like when my boys debate about whether zombies are stronger than ninjas or how animals will behave in heaven. I get a peek into their amazing minds and wild imaginations. Then there is the sweet occasion when their arguing becomes a window of insight. A glimpse at deeper truths being soaked up. A couple months ago I overheard one such conversation between my two oldest boys that went something like this… Noah (6): Grownups don’t take naps. Elias: (5): Yeah, they do! Noah: No, they don’t. Only kids do . Elias: But, some grownups take naps. Noah: Nu-uh! Taking naps is just for little kids. Elias: Well, Mommy takes a nap on Sundays and she’s a grownup! To most this probably doesn’t sound like an extraordinary interaction. But to me, it was astounding. Because I learned that my kids are watching. Closely. Elias was right. I do usually take a nap on Sundays. His statement indicates he made two observations: 1) This was a predictable pattern in my life, and 2) Sunday was different than the other days of the week. There was a time not too long ago when this is not what Elias would have noticed. I was given the crazy blessing of having three sons in just three and a half years. While I’m still very much in the thick of motherhood (my boys are now 7, 5, and 3), those earliest years with lots of littles were uniquely special and utterly exhausting. The days stretched long, held together by a mother’s glue of spit up, breast milk, and crushed Cheerios. It was a season when getting the preschooler, toddler, and baby to nap at the same time felt like a divine gift FROM THE LORD. Should such grace strike our small, blue, two-bedroom house like a lightening bolt from heaven around one in the afternoon, it was all I could do to offer up a Halleluiah! Thank you, Jesus! followed by a quick and desperate plea of And please don’t let them wake up soon! Then I heaved myself on the couch in a weary heap and fell asleep. This was my afternoon pattern for a long time. It’s how I survived. But once I emerged from the fog of middle-of-the-night nursings and toddler-Houdini crib- climbing, and began to get a reasonable amount of overnight rest, the boys’ naptime shifted to my time. My time to be productive! Instead of waking up to find me drooling on the couch, my boys emerged from their mid-day slumber to find me hard at work. Washing dishes or fixing dinner. Often sitting at my computer, feverishly trying to finish a batch of payments for my part-time job as a medical biller. Perhaps tapping out a blog post or composing emails regarding the moms ministry at church. Whatever the activity, my boys knew that while they rested, Mommy worked. Until something shifted. Almost two years ago God called me to surrender a piece of my heart I didn’t even know I was holding back. Things changed when I started to Sabbath. It actually began when I wrote a post about how I didn’t think keeping the Sabbath was possible for a busy mom in the throes of raising spirited boys. Through connections made from that post, I discovered a group of people who had made an “all in” commitment to Sabbath keeping, led by a wonderful writer named Shelly Miller —she called it the Sabbath Society. I quickly recognized that I had actually met Shelly at a conference the year prior. So I happily subscribed to her weekly Sabbath newsletter, thinking it would at least be interesting to learn about this archaic faith practice I didn’t have time for, and fun to reconnect with the sweet woman who had prayed for me in a South Carolina hotel. Oh, were my expectations small. Instead of an obligatory list of seventh day dos and don’ts, I discovered an invitation—from God’s heart to mine steeped in love and grace—an invitation to rest. I have struggled with finding identity and security in my ability to produce and perform. Choosing to Sabbath was the next step on my journey to relinquish these self-reliant tendencies for greater reliance on the Lord: His provision in place of my perfectionism. For me, learning to Sabbath has meant learning to take productivity off the exquisite pedestal I’d placed it on in favor of practicing God’s presence. Surprisingly, I discovered that this exchange doesn’t always feel super spiritual. Sometimes it looks plain and practical. Like taking a nap. Now when my sons wake from their afternoon snooze on Sundays, they don’t find my hands deep in sudsy dishwater or typing fervently at my computer. They find my hands—and my heart—at rest. I trust that God is using my example to shape their young minds. I trust that in my rhythm of rest they are learning about God’s good gifts.

I pulled treasures out of a high cupboard and set up Noah and Elias for a few minutes of independent play. (Strategic stashing of forgotten toys was one of my favorite mommy tricks to occupy toddlers with the novelty of “new” and buy myself a little time.) Content with their red monster trucks and ABC blocks, I left my two and three year old on the living room rug, picked up the baby in his bouncy seat, and hurried to my bedroom. Today, I was going to get dressed. Pants without an elastic waistband, a shirt without spit-up. This was big stuff. I looked through every pair of jeans in my drawer and every shirt in my closet and they all screamed awkward! I was still in that uncomfortable postpartum stage where neither maternity clothes nor my old skinny jeans were an appropriate fit. I glanced at Jude drooling happily and swatting at the fuzzy monkeys hanging from his mobile. Cheerful noises drifted from the living room. “Brudder, do you want to race me?” Followed by the zoom of toy wheels racing over hardwood and the familiar crash of plastic against baseboards. “Boys,” I called, “I’m so glad you’re playing nicely! Keep up the good work.” After a second peruse through every piece of clothing, I decided a fresh pair of yoga pants was probably the best choice after all. I pulled on the comforting black stretchy fabric and reached for a flowy top. Then I noticed it was very quiet. I love quiet. But it’s rarely a good sign with young boys. I peeked my head out the door and peered into the living room. No little bodies to be found. I heard a giggle. I took a few steps and spied spindly legs crouching under the dining room table. “Whatchya doing under there?” I asked. “Umm, nothing?” my oldest replied in a tone dripping with guilt. I stooped down to look in the faces of my mischievous children. I was not prepared for what I saw. Wedged between their little feet lay an open carton of eggs. Cracked shells. Yokes everywhere. STICKY SALMONELLA SLIME SLIDING DOWN THEIR ARMS! My moment of peace, attempting the tiniest bit of self-care, was instantly transformed into a disastrous mess. I instantly transformed into Monster Mommy. Red faced, raging blood pressure pounding in my ears, I roared angry disapproval at my boys at a decibel my hard-of-hearing neighbor probably heard. With white knuckles I clenched the arm of each eggy offender and carried them to the bathtub. “Sit down and don’t you dare move!” I seethed picking fragments of jagged shell out of the looped carpet. Then I scrubbed my boys vigorously in their pre-8 am bath. Just as I was beginning to regain my composure, I found egg smeared on my clean outfit. A fresh bout of rage awakened my beastliness again. ———- Three years later and I can finally laugh over the ridiculousness of this event. How my boys were just being inquisitive kids and I was just being an exhausted mom reacting to an unfortunate episode of childhood curiosity. But for days, maybe even weeks after, I beat myself up over how I had completely lost it. I carried a thick blanket of guilt over the way I had scary screamed at my small children. I felt shame over the hot tears we all cried—tears springing more from my volatile response than their poor choice. I know most would offer comfort and consolation that I was normal. That anyone would react that way to food being wasted and a good rug being ruined by children who obviously knew their actions were naughty. Yet, calling it “normal” didn’t bring relief to my wounded heart. Because this wasn’t an isolated incident. I was angry a lot. And not just about big stuff like children crunching raw eggs into my dining room rug. If a boy fussed about buckling his car seat or asked for a second bedtime drink. If brothers bickered over whose turn it was to use the blue crayon or someone dropped a bowl of Cheerios on a freshly swept floor. If a little one wanting attention tapped my shoulder or tugged my shirt just one more time—I was like a time bomb waiting to go off. From calm and clear-minded to triggered. Boom! Explosive. I was a young mom with three kids under four who was rocked raw that the very people I loved the most could bring out my very worst. I adored my children but I detested my anger. Most of the time I loved them well. But my increasing pattern of reactionary parenting in the gritty moments of the day made me feel like all the good stuff had been totally erased.

The body content of your post goes here. To edit this text, click on it and delete this default text and start typing your own or paste your own from a different source.

For three weeks I’ve been trying to write this blog post. I’ve sat down half a dozen times using half as many methods: typing at my laptop, scribbling in my journal, musing in my mind. And— nothing. Well, writer’s block didn’t plague me completely. I did a fair amount of research and reflecting, compiled several pages of relevant information. And, sure, each writing attempt produced a decent smattering of words. But then— stuck. So funky stuck that I began to wonder if I should just trash it all and instead write a funny limerick about the time my son tried to “clean” my contact lenses in his little potty full of pee. While that might be worth doing for pure entertainment’s sake, this stuck-in-me post felt weighty—worthy of coming out. I just couldn’t let it go. Then last night while I spent some time in my sacred thinking box (aka quiet shower after my kids are asleep), I had this awakening: Conviction is empty without action. Conviction is trite without change. I knew exactly what it meant. For me. For getting my post unstuck. But before I tell you why, let me back up. The post I’d been trying to write was about my *one word* for 2016: DELIGHT. I wanted to write first about how God used my one word for 2015 in amazing ways to guide me, stretch me, and bless me as I purposed to continue in Him and trust Him to continue in me. ( You can read about the beginnings of that here. ) I wanted to tell you how God was faithful twelve-months-strong in ways big and small and how as December crept to an end, I longed for Him to speak to me clearly again. I longed for a new word to shine a light on the path God had set for the year ahead. Then I hoped to wrap it all up in a pretty, word-art bow and tell you with poetic grandeur how He did it! How God whispered a new word right to my heart and now I can take flight on another great adventure of pursuing this God-given theme! But each time I tried to do this writing I wanted I got stuck. Not because what I’ve said isn’t true. God did work in significant ways in my life last year that are worth sharing. And He did answer my prayer for a specific word to guide me in 2016. What my shower epiphany made clear is that I couldn’t fully write about a new conviction until I was ready to fully live it. My One Word for 2016 is DELIGHT, which was birthed through this Spirit-whispered question: Where do you find your delight? This led to a humbling confession: I had been finding my delight in meaningless junk of this world instead of in the Holy Word of God. Not junk that would make this post gossip-worthy or shocking. But junk nonetheless. This is what I confessed to the Lord on the last day of 2015: God, you are with us, yet I have missed you. I miss you. I know you are always here—I have thought of you and called to you—but lately I have not purposed to draw near to you. I’ve been filling the holes in my time and holes in my heart with meaningless gods: Sudoku, Facebook, sleep. I’ve been looking there first for comfort, connection, peace. But you are the only true source of any of it. You are the source of all. Please forgive me, Father. Forgive me for making idols out of being idle. Forgive me for putting you behind unimportant things. Forgive me for ignoring your voice when you call. It was that confession that sparked a renewed conviction to give God my best in 2016 by allowing Him to be the source of my delight.

I carry a wadded up turquoise tablecloth out the back door and shake breakfast crumbs over the porch railing. I turn to go back inside to set the dinner table, but light catches the corner of my eye. Green leaves dancing in early evening breeze light up like thin paper lanterns. I drop the tablecloth on a dusty chair and grab my phone from its back pocket home, then tiptoe down three stairs for a closer look. Quiet as to not disturb nature’s artistry at work. Click. I capture five-pointed leaves made more alive by the day’s last light. I breathe. * * * I snap pictures of browning banana peels on my kitchen counter, left haphazard by my husband . I frame the scene in pixels, not because discarded fruit skins are a thing of beauty, but because God uses the commonplace to teach my heart uncommon truths. To teach me that sacrificial love is not just a fancy term in some archaic book; it’s the saving grace Gospel in the one Good Book. The message we’re called to live. The Creator of bananas, marriage, and forgiveness chose to make me a writer. I write to learn the lesson full. So I sit down at my curb-rescued desk and type out the message He’s writing in me. The post title reads, “Banana Peels and a Lesson in Perspective,” and by the end I know I’m tasked with throwing yellow and brown breakfast trash away every day along with any irritation for the sake of practical love. Readers leave comments that say, “ Me, too ” and “Thanks for being real.” All I’ve done is the heart-searching, word-plucking work the Spirit led me through. * * * I walk into an Orthodox church for the first time and marvel at the colorful displays. My senses overwhelm me and I feel a little faint—not sure if it’s my blood pressure dropping or the stuffiness despite the spacious place. I sip from the water bottle I hope it’s okay to have inside and purpose to make the most of this special grad class field trip. I shuffle my way around the perimeter then weave through every aisle. No matter where I turn there is art. There is story. Intricate paintings and stained glass masterpieces. Carved wood, marble pillars, silk flowers, and crystal chandeliers. And gold. Oh, the gold. Golden paint in stylized halos hover above every saint. Shimmer. Illuminate.

Often when I’m thick in the daily grit, it’s difficult to step back and see the bigger picture of what God is doing in my life. I see small strokes of His faithfulness and provision through personalized blessings: dinner delivered from a friend while my husband is traveling, an improved attitude with one of my kiddos, a mechanic’s second opinion and car crisis averted. But I’m not always able to envision the full masterpiece the Creator is painting, can’t always grasp that there is a larger story He is writing. When I’m in the middle of living, I only have narrowed eyes to see the moment right in front of me. But there is a blessing waiting… The blessing of perspective. The blessing of looking back over a series of seemingly disjointed events and coming to a deeper understanding of God’s fluid, continuous work in my life. I recently was afforded this blessing when Amy J. Bennett asked me to be a guest on her podcast. Feathers: Faith in Flight is a podcast focused on telling stories of faith steps and how God uses life’s often unexpected circumstances to turn our hearts toward Him.

What if you just rested? What if you closed the computer and powered down the phone? What if you turned off the music or the podcast or the great preacher on TV? What if you put away the iPad and hid the remote control? What if you didn’t post, tweet, share, favorite, comment, like, or link up? What if you exchanged the noise out, noise in, for quiet? More of Him? What if you just stopped? Chose rest. Breath. What if you laughed over little boys in backyard buckets or ran wild through the sprinklers?

Somehow the long of summer has melted fast like a bright red Popsicle abandoned in the sun. The sweet, refreshing treat morphed into a sticky, concrete-staining puddle. Somehow the adventure-seeking, marshmallow-roasting days of summer have faded like smoke trails after Fourth of July fireworks. Rainbow bursts of color and light an instant image turned faint memory. The sky left muddied gray. In seven days my boys start back to school. And I feel like I failed summer. Yes, I said boys with an “s” which means plural. I’m launching the second born piece of my heart and can hardly believe that in one short week I’ll turn the corner from Mom-Home-with-Lots- of-Littles to Mom-of-School-Age-Kids and the bulk of my days will be spent with just my Jude. So this hallmark summer closing a hallmark season was suppose to be Hallmark perfect. The movie reels played in my mind with a Celtic/Taylor Swift/Jack Johnson soundtrack. (I have a vibrant imagination of what an outdoorsy/fun/laid back summer sounds like.) The scenes flashed with cinematic flair from boys curled in cozy library nooks pouring ove r books to new swimmers stroking long and confident across a glimmering pool. I pictured productive mornings at the dining room table practicing letters followed by happy park play dates reconnecting with old friends. I say “Hallmark perfect” in jest because if you know me you know I’m actually all about the real, gritty mess of motherhood, which is always full of beauty but rarely picturesque. I honestly don’t think I set my expectations too high or my hopes too lofty. But I did set a few key Summer To-Dos as a guide to help make the most of these precious, time-flying days . Nothing on that list got done. My kids did not learn how to swim. They did not complete a summer reading program at the library. (Okay, for the sake of full disclosure, let’s go the distance and confess that we actually did not even step foot in a library. Not. One. Time.) We did not work on proper letter formation or reinforce the new reading skills my oldest learned in kindergarten. I don’t recall deep cleaning a single thing and that big basket full of who-knows-what on the side of my bed was not properly dealt with but rather strategically shifted week after week so as not to be tripped over or viewed through a door crack when company came to visit. And there’s a long list of friends I genuinely wanted to connect with, to share hearts over iced coffee while watching tiny tanned limbs flail through backyard sprinklers— but good intentions fell short without timely initiation. As I look back on these fast-flying summer months I see the glare of not enough learning, cleaning, connecting, or reading, and too much glowing TV, blasting AC, yelling, rebelling, and close-quarter dwelling. The reflection makes me feel pretty much defeated. Our whole summer withered like that sad red Popsicle. Wasted away before fulfilling its full potential. But before I drown in a sticky pool of red dye self pity, I remember the power of perspective. I open my journal and read through hundreds of God gifts scribbled down as thanks. I scroll through my camera roll and see countless moments meaningful enough to capture in pixels. And I remember this: Focusing on my shortcomings crowds out memories of all the blessings. And oh, friends, there were so many blessings. Not fancy or expensive. Simple blessings so ordinary I almost forgot. Like painting rocks. One glorious morning my little explorers set out on a backyard expedition to uncover earthen treasure. We set up a washing station to carefully clean their stone discoveries. Once the earthen beauties were baked dry by the summer sun, we laid paper bags over cracked concrete —high-tech painting stations. And budding artists in superman pajamas were joy-full to create.

These are the days so long it’s hard to understand why some say the years fly by. These are the diaper days and bedtime battle nights. These days that blur together because the nursings and nightmares leave but moments chopped together to make up a mama’s sleep. These are the shouting days when you scream right back and then cry in pained shame because you know two wrongs don’t teach what’s right. These days filled with too many “No’s” and “Don’t touch that’s” to keep track. These are the days where you need two extra eyes and four extra arms so you can feed the baby while you make spaghetti and fix the Lego masterpiece that the Evil Emperor Zurg just destroyed. These are the days of endless snack fixing, spill-proof sippy cup spill cleaning, crumb sweeping, and exhausted weeping. These days when getting sick feels cosmically unfair because kids aren’t a file that can wait on your desk or a project you can pass off. Because somehow you signed the 24/7 contract with no time off allotted as the CEO of your kids who need to run, play, eat, bathe, every day, round the clock whether you’re throwing up or not. These are the days where your body is not your own. It’s the baby’s nourishment and the toddler’s comfort and the preschooler’s jungle gym, but it’s still soft and squishy because there’s no time to entertain actually going to a real gym. These are the days. These days where going to the grocery store or the bathroom alone feels like a luxury. These days where all the wants and needs, whining and training make you feel like you can barely breathe. Yes, these are those days. But, they are also these days…

I imagine painters see, feel, breathe bursts of color. That pigments of every hue run through their veins, pulse in their chests. I imagine there are days they can’t not paint. Moments when their minds are a blur of brushstrokes waiting to break free, yearning to pour out a message through paint and canvas. That there is an image or emotion, landscape or lesson that must leak out in artistic expression before it is lost. I imagine musicians see, feel, breathe chords and melodies. That notes and lyrics course through their bodies, syncopated rhythms dictate their hearts’ very beat. I imagine there are days they can’t not sing, compose, or play. Moments when their minds buzz with musical phrases, magical verses, harmonies, interludes, or stylistic attitudes. That there is a song that must be birthed through voice or instrument, inspiration that must move from conceptual feeling to tangible expression lest something in them be lost. I don’t know these things to be true. I’m not a painter or composer. I’m not singer, songwriter, print maker, or piano player. But if I had to put my money where my imagination is, I wouldn’t hesitate because of what I do know as an artist. Yes, I am an artist. I’m a writer. My medium isn’t soft pastels or rhythmic runs; I don’t create with acrylics or arching melodies. My art is made of words. Nouns, adjectives, and verbs strung together to tell the stories that vibrate across my heartstrings. I see the world not through color or song, but through description and analysis. My mind begins to craft the retelling even as I’m in the middle of the living. It’s not contrived— it’s how I’m wired. It makes me come alive. Surely writing, like all artistry, requires discipline and intentional focus. It’s not all creative inspiration just floating by. But one way I know I’m an artist is when I’m not trying to make art, but art is trying to make me.

If you can blast up the music and rock out to your favorite tune If you can gently sway to Mozart and feel the music fill the room If you can pause and bend down low to smell the sweetness of a rose If you can spy six shades of pink in the garden where it grows If you have a friend who knows you and loves you as you are If you have three meals a day or four wheels on a car If you have someone to call when you’ve had an awful day If you have someone to hold when the clouds won’t go away If you can walk around the block and wave hello to your neighbors If you can count on a friend to help who never counts the favors If you can stroke across a pool or feel the sun on your face If you can spy a passing butterfly or call a dandelion grace If you have a house to call your home or a place to rest your head If you have shoes on your feet or a place your soul is fed If you have a favorite hobby that grows delight in your heart If you have a dream you’re dreaming and taken a step to start If you have a skill you’re good at or a subject you love to study If you have a goal to reach and an accountability buddy If you have someone to hug and squeeze and whisper, I love you, to If you can look upon the sky or sea and get lost in endless blue If you can dip your spoon in ice cream and savor the frozen sweet If you can call a friend past midnight and say you need to meet If you can begin a new adventure by opening a book If you can soothe a hurting child with a caring look If you can help someone in need without a second thought If you can be grateful for who you are instead of who you’re not If you can look past numbers on a scale or in your bank account If you can count all your gifts, good fortune easily recount If you can say Yes to just one thing on this simple “If you” list Then you are wealthier than most, so give thanks. You are blessed.

Clouds of white smoke billowed high, glowing orange against the black night sky. Mom pulled my hand in a frenzied dash across the street. I looked over my shoulder and saw Dad at the end of the driveway in his blue-checkered bathrobe wielding a green garden hose against the monstrous flames. Safe inside the neighbor’s house, I clung to my favorite stuffed monkey that Mom raced back upstairs to save upon my desperate pleas. It was way past midnight but Mrs. Peterson brought us cups of hot chocolate. I sat between my sisters, searched my mug for mini marshmallows, and tried to count the staggering number of Scotty dog decorations instead of thinking about the fire. Days later after the coals stopped smoldering, we walked through the scorched backyard where the garage used to stand—my great grandfather’s old workshop— ashes of memories. The wood fence was obliterated and I could see straight through to the yard next door. A yellow bucket lay 50 feet away in the driveway, melted from the inferno’s heat in wonky disarray. I looked up and saw into my second story bedroom. Not through a window—straight through the wall that was no longer there. Back of the house burned right off. Join me at Share The Brew to read the rest of this story—a stroll down memory lane of the must-not-forget stones of my faith . Click here to find the post.

I pull my hands from the water and wipe them soapy straight on my jeans. I crouch down to see eye to eye with my four-year-old, breathe deep, and listen to his most urgent cry: “Mommy, my brudders are not being kind and caring for me at all! They aren’t playing with me or helping me fight the lava monsters! And that is RUDE!” We talk again about using our words and how sometimes we need to join what someone else is doing or play alone. Elias swipes his runny nose along his sleeve and dinosaur stomps back to his room, big tears holding fast in the corners of his eyes. I turn back to the dishes and let my gaze rest on the sunflower-filled mason jar sitting on the windowsill. Deep yellow petals encircle mocha centers like golden crowns. Blooms of sunshine resting on sturdy, green stems. Flowers from a friend. I understand how my middle boy feels. He wants to be with. He longs to be seen. Known. Valued and included. I get it. Suddenly I well with tears of my own. Join me at (in)courage today , where I’m sharing more. Click here to find the post.

Dear Oldest Son of Mine, I don’t want to forget the way we hold hands and jump over sidewalk cracks on our morning walks to school. I don’t want to forget how you stoop low to find another rollie pollie friend, how you make me halt my brisk pace to smell the sweet star jasmine together—two noses inhaling deep into tiny white blossoms of Spring. I don’t want to forget the way you beg me to sit next to you in the back seat when Daddy drives or how every night you ask for extra back scratchies. I don’t want to forget the sweat on your brow and satisfaction in your smile when you finally learned to jump rope like a pro. Is your record still 157?

It’s hard to know how to carry on with my day, how to keep on with the lunch making, light saber duel refereeing, loads of laundry changing… It’s hard to know how to even breathe when precious daughters are being stripped and sold, families forced to flee up mountains in the middle of the night, when mothers are abandoned in shipping containers, sons shot, babies dying for lack of food and water. It’s hard to know how to move from this spot in front of my laptop after reading this post about the very real atrocities ISIS is waging and the atrocious conditions the mamas who barely escaped are living in —mamas like me, like you, like my neighbor, like your best friend (yeah, people, women, SISTERS , just living somewhere else). My biggest worry today is whether we should sink another four grand into our old minivan to fix the shot transmission or invest in a newer model. It feels like a major decision for our family. But is it a matter of survival? An issue of innocence or freedom? Am I being hounded and hunted by in-the-flesh evil? Am I being forced to choose which of my children to save? I can’t stop asking these questions, can’t stop seeing their haunted eyes—mothers like me and children like mine, just “unlucky” to be born on the other side of the world.

I sprayed the bathroom mirror with Windex and watched the light blue mist trickle down in icicle drips over white toothpaste splatters. Come be with m e, I heard God whisper. But, but . . . my heart immediately stammered. But my desk is a mess and I didn’t dust. But I haven’t changed the sheets or chopped the veggies or hung the Happy Birthday sign. But there are crusties on the highchair and crumbs in every corner. But . . . Come BE. With ME, He called. I suddenly saw Mary at the Lord’s feet and Martha reflecting back at me in the streaky mirror. … I’m over at Deeper Waters today sharing about how Jesus gently interrupted my frantic pre- party cleaning to reveal the mess that mattered most—the one in my heart.

The toilet seat left up doesn’t bug me that much. Socks and underwear discarded directly in front of the hamper aren’t my favorite, but no big deal. And for being an athletic guy, my husband smells quite nice most of the time. It’s the banana peels that get me.

It wasn’t that I got to exchange my yoga pants for a fancy dress. It wasn’t the Hollywood hotel with the primo view or dinner out with my man, no high chairs or kids meals, just table for two. It wasn’t the red high heels walking the famous red carpet or the free movie theater popcorn smothered in addicting salt and butter.

We finish dinner and my boy looks across the table into his daddy’s eyes and pleads for another round of baseball. I glance up at the clock. (These longer daylight days can be deceiving to a six year old who thinks there’s no end to time to play.) “We’ll go outside as a whole family and each boy will get three buckets of balls to hit,” my husband says. “Sound good?” Noah and Elias cheer, offer the quickest mumbled May I please be excused? and cram on their matching black Nikes in lightening speed. I take Jude out of his highchair, put a teetering tower of plates and forks in the sink, and return half-drunk milk sippy cups to the fridge. I walk outside.

I miss you. I miss the way you welcome me with your wide open spaces. Miss your invitation to endless possibilities. The way you help uncover unseen lessons lurking in the dusty corners of school pick up, potty training, and spaghetti making. I miss filling your margins in the spare moments of mine with simple thoughts, mixed-up feelings, or weighty revelations born from walking through the mundane days. I miss unpacking the message my heart is most needing in the comfort of your page. Hours string into days, days into weeks, and I don’t make time to unravel the web of observations woven by that non-stop thread. I feel tangled when I’m away this long.

He shuffled up the walkway in his worn argyle sweater and corduroy pants. We came out to meet him so he wouldn’t have to climb the two concrete steps to the front door. “Hi, Dad,” I said, with our usual awkward hug. I loaded my toddler in the backseat and climbed in next to him. Dad eased himself in the front seat while my husband drove. From over his shoulder we made small talk on the short drive to church. It was Easter Sunday Eve. I told him about Noah’s newest word and the picnic we had planned. I dreaded the next inevitable question. The answer in recent years was never good. But I had to ask it anyway. “How are you doing, Dad?” He cleared his throat and looked out the window. “I’m okay.” Long pause. My husband shot a look in the rearview mirror that begged me to keep the conversation light. “I, umm,” Dad continued, “I went to church three times this week. I plan to go again tomorrow at least once. Maybe twice.” “That’s great,” I said and asked which churches he attended and what each service was like. We pulled into the crowded parking lot and made our way into the worship center. White lilies lined the stage. Classic hymns recomposed with modern beats pulsed from the speakers. The pastor got up and preached a resurrection message. But all I could think about was the week my dad had. I pictured him sitting off to the side in unfamiliar pews. I pictured stranger faces glancing back at him each time he rattle-cough-hacked or blew his nose too loudly. I pictured him surrounded by crowds, but all alone. It was a sobering glimpse of my dad’s grim reality. The truth was, he didn’t go to church six times during Holy Week because he was super spiritual; he went because he was utterly desperate. Several years of bad luck and worse choices had catapulted my dad from living the high life to hitting rock bottom. From corporate success to chronic unemployment. Fiscal freedom to financial ruin. He traded European vacations and luxury cars for bankruptcy and subsidized housing. Add to the list failing health, addiction, depression, and a second divorce, and my dad had plummeted into a pitch-black pit without a light or a ladder. He couldn’t climb out. My sisters and I tried to throw him a rope. It always fell short. The affirmation I offered my dad in the car was genuine. For having no money, no friends, and nowhere to go, church was an excellent choice. But sitting next to him during this resurrection celebration, I couldn’t see the hope in it. I only felt the grief. I only saw a man not drawn by devotion, but wrought with despair. I saw a man not motivated by piety, but moved by self-pity. I was ashamed that these judgements even entered my mind . But the evidence seemed obvious. That was my dad’s last Easter. He died nine months later. It’s now my fifth Holy Week without him and each year I look back and see with greater clarity the brokenness…that was mine. I look back and see a daughter jaded by what she perceived as years of unanswered prayers. I see a daughter looking for hope in miraculous physical healing, relationship restoring. I see a daughter dulled and wearied from continual disappointment. But God wasn’t hindered by the darkness of one father’s pit or the faltering of one daughter’s faith. He was in it all. My dad didn’t regain his health or wealth. His revival was greater—he recommitted to walking with Jesus. A few months before my dad died he took his disability money and traveled to the Holy Land, a decision I thought was physically dangerous and financially irresponsible. Now it makes me smile. And I can’t help but wonder if it was the stories my dad heard his last Easter week that made him want to go. That made him need to feel the soil where Jesus knelt in the Garden of Gethsemane and cried out soul overwhelmed. If it was that last Good Friday service that left the sound of nails pounding through flesh and wood echoing in his heart, the reality of his own sins nailed to the cross. If it was those repeated resurrection messages that made him need to see the empty tomb, evidence that Jesus had indeed conquered death. I cannot help but wonder if the week I once grieved as my dad’s lowest desperation was actually a picture of the Resurrected Savior reaching down into his pit. Saving him again.

I watch my gangly son sprint through the open gate to the far end of the blacktop where he finds a friend and a red bouncy ball. He’s all spindly arms and lanky legs strung together with muscles lean and long. Some days it feels like this eldest son of mine is six going on sixteen. My gaze floats past little girls jumping rope, a tricycle rider pedaling happy, and the seasoned schoolyard aide who always wears a whistle and a smile. It’s a blur of playground commotion, but my sight is fixed clear in the distance on my boy. He raises the red orb high above his head then thrusts it down in one smooth mighty motion. Rubber ricochets off asphalt and the perfect sphere jiggles wonky in the air till the impact’s force runs its course and the other boy catches the ball in jubilant victory. It’s just a regular Monday. It’s just an ordinary morning of kindergarteners playing before the ringing bell signals the beginning of another learning day. It’s in this ordinary moment my heart swells with thanks. All my inners about to burst with ridiculous glee and sobering gratitude. Eventually I leave my post as unnoticed, grinning watchman, leave my boy to delight and play and grow. I turn toward the path home. I inwardly laugh at myself for such intoxicated joy first thing in the mundane of Monday morning. I mean, really, I’m nearly teary over my kid bouncing a ball. What in the world? But I know the deeper reason for my exaggerated, moment-savoring wonder. It’s rooted in a renewed understanding of God’s abundant goodness and faithful care. My heart is full from a mountain weekend soaking in His love. I shuffle past moms chiding disheveled kids in rushed morning chaos and their Hurry up! The bell’s about to ring! urgent pleas trail behind me. Another day that will be me. But today I’m strolling slow, chewing on all I heard and saw, felt and sung at the weekend women’s retreat I attended with a dear friend. I hear snippets of messages spoken, God’s Word boldly proclaimed: I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me . (John10:14) I feel the way worship stirred my heart: I’m no longer a slave to fear I am a child of God I smell the crisp air of a million pines and remember the desires and tears poured out over journaled prayers, some of the sweetest conversations I’ve had with the Lord in a long time. It was a weekend of feeling the depths of God’s care. Assurance that He sees me. He knows me. He pursues me and forgives me and delights in me. Because I am His sheep. His child. His Becky. And when overwhelmed by the wonders of God’s intimate knowledge of you, His personal reach into your ordinary, everyday grit and fears and dreams, the best response I know is to give thanks. To continue to live eyes wide open to His continual love and care. So I relish in the way my boy with no front teeth smiles the widest toothless smile as he plays the timeless game of bouncing a schoolyard ball. And I continue to give thanks through every step I take on the half mile journey home. I slow. I want to see. Because if I believe that God met me in the mountains through scripture and song, divine appointments, afternoon naps, and stranger-sisters praying over me, then I have to believe that He wants to meet me in the mundane of Monday morning. If He poured out His goodness on me at a retreat then He can pour out His goodness in my everyday routine. On the short route from the kinder playground to my white front door, I slow. I look. I find. I find that God’s goodness is here. His glory abundant . His fingerprints evident .

We’re eating chicken bowls after church and my six year old scootches his buns across the vinyl booth and buts up next to me, leans in and breathes. I pull out my phone and snap a selfie to remember the sweetness of a little one who wants to be near. Later I look at the grainy photo and see how big my boy has become. These sit-close days won’t last for long. IMG_2061

I’m watching my boy hang up his backpack and write his name in red marker on the easel propped up outside his classroom door. Around the time he drops his Spider-Man lunch bag into the big white basket, the lovely mom I’m chitchatting with mentions the daughter she lost last Christmas. I look at her beautifully pregnant belly and the toddler playing with his paci in the stroller and her kindergartener with pretty blonde hair and pink bow skipping toward the playground. I look at this mom who looks like she has it all together and never in a million years would I have known. Known the pain and grief and sorrow she has lived. Never would I have known her full story. She’s still smiling as she talks about her second born and the light and joy the little girl was to her family for nearly three years. She gently touches the life swelling within her and tells me how her eldest is excited to have a sister again. “Life goes on,” she says, “and it’s hard and I never imagined it would happen to us, but we are so blessed by the time we had with her and the time we have now with these little ones.” I want to weep right there in front of Room 3 and hug this woman whose name I can’t remember. I want to grab hold of my son with the missing front teeth and not let him go to the jump rope and tricycle calling his name. I want to hug him forever and never forget the blessing of life. The school bell rings, the yard whistle blows, and children freeze in mid-play motion. My heart wants to freeze time—for me—yet somehow also turn back the clock and change its course for this other mom’s broken heart. I can’t do either. We walk together along the chain link fence, trampling pink blossoms fallen from my favorite schoolyard tree, concrete sidewalk muddled with color. She shares more pieces of the story she never expected to live. “We know we will be with her again one day and there is so much hope in that. We miss her beyond words…” She pauses. Heart caught between the past and present. “But there is beauty in who she was, beauty in her life and in her death. We are blessed in both.” I say goodbye at her car and keep traveling the sidewalk alone, passed manicured lawns and then two turns toward home. I will my legs to keep moving as I choke back sobs. Beauty in the brokenness. It’s one thing to talk about, write about. It’s another thing to live. I thank God for the gift of this startling glimpse into another woman’s story. A glimpse of His grace. I’m almost home and I stop at a cluster of roses. One droops, near the end of its life. But the morning light shines through.

I started this little Friday tradition a few weeks ago for the sake of remembering—declaring and sharing God’s goodness on the journey. I decided I could make small alters out of words and Instagramed pictures, lest I forget God’s messages, promises, and faithfulness in my life. In that inaugural Recap Roundup post I wrote: " One of the greatest ways we can awaken to wonder is by remembering— taking time recall the ways God has blessed us, stretched us, reached into our circumstances and touched our hearts through the meaningful and mundane dance of daily life. It’s been less than a month and I have already needed to re-remember, to live these words, to not downplay or neglect the importance of documenting our days and planting stakes of truth in the sand. You never know when you’ll need one to lean on. Here are my stakes in the ground for the week… Instagram Favorites:

My desk nestles under two windows in a nook at the far end of the kitchen. The double-hung glass in their original frames give view to our small porch and sprawling backyard. (Sprawling, by SoCal standards, I should say.) It’s at this desk that I fall into the quiet afternoon hour—three boys napping—with a cup of reheated coffee and open my computer to work or write. But one day a few weeks ago, I had barely perched my behind on my desk chair with the chipping black paint when my attention was captured by something outside. The scrawny tree in the corner of the yard with awkward shoots sprouting from its bark had been transformed into a glowing conduit of light. I was drawn outside.

It’s been a long week. It’s been a good week. I celebrated a birthday, enjoyed summer-like weather, and a mix of work productivity and around-the-house puttering. I skipped to school holding hands with my mini-man, jumping over cracks and pointing out our favorite plants. I lost my temper with my kids, laughed with friends, and really thought about how blessed I truly am. I spent my morning with Jesus and most evenings watching Friends with my best one. It’s nearly the end and I’m tired. A little weary worn from the day in, day out, stuff of raising tiny humans. But I’m thankful. Thankful for this moment to stop, reflect, and share some highs and lows together. So here’s a glimpse back through my week… Instagram Weekly Favorites:

I wake up each morning with thanksgiving on my lips —a new day —renewed hope —mercies made new all by my God, for me, for us. Today. “Lord, be with me” prayers pour from my heart even before my feet pad down the hall toward the toilet and coffee—because true relief and refreshment come from Jesus. I’ve stopped the morning scrolling: the social media feeds on my phone, the lists in my mind. Both. Why start my day bombarded with information when my soul really needs quiet meditation?

Happy Friday, friends! You’ve made it to the end of the week! Maybe you’re ready to crumple into an exhausted heap or you’re rearing to jump into the weekend with excitement and joy. I feel a little bit of both. But before I look to what lies ahead, I’m taking a moment to look back on what has been. Last month I shared my One Word for the year—CONTINUE —and how God asked me to continue to give thanks for the work He has done, continue to trust Him for the work He will yet do, and continue to be obedient in each faith step He calls me to. Then last week I kicked off a new Friday tradition of recalling my favorite moments of blessing and stretching by sharing a few posts from my Instagram feed , and then remembering the ways God whispered words of life to my heart through the writing of others and pointing you to some of my favorite blog posts! But the weekend it waiting, why stop to scroll back through the moments I already captured, why pause to ponder words that I already left me enraptured? Because one of the best ways to awaken to wonder is to remember. (Yep, I wrote that last week, but my hungry soul is quick to forget and I need to keep chewing on the truth. You, too?) Instagram Weekly Favorites:

My phone big bongs like a melodic harp running scales, alerting me that the time I decided to rise has now arrived and I must crescendo out of bed. I shuffle to the kitchen, avoiding creaky floorboards, lest a sleeping child hear me and wake before the sun. I pull the antique bronze ball hanging from the dangling chain, igniting my favorite desk lamp and my senses awake. In soft glowing light I slide my finger across my phone to initiate functionality. I find the brown Holy Bible icon in its familiar bottom left corner and tap the digital Good Book to begin my daily reading. I’m soaking in Scripture this year in a new-to-me translation in order to perceive the Word with fresh eyes. I haven’t been able to buy a printed edition yet so the gift of changing versions with a finger’s flick is one I don’t take for granted. Verses light up on my small rectangular screen and my day begins with the peace, truth, and perspective God alone can give. In other words, I start my day with technology.

In college we crowded around tiny dorm room TVs quoting endless episodes of Friends . We bemoaned midterm drama and class schedule craziness over trays of mediocre, mass-produced dinners in the florescent-lit dining hall. We laughed through ridiculous group projects and learned how to pray and study the Word in apartment small groups. College was where I first lived community. It was beautiful. It was easy. Then there were years of a “transitional” job and part-time ministry. Moving and marrying and dreaded church hopping. (Heart-home hoping.) Years of trying to find a place again. A people to call home. I finally found my niche in a university marketing department. I looked forward to weekly editorial meetings in the “mini,” as the office’s tiniest conference room was affectionately called. I loved working on a small team with a talented designer and marketing guru to create content to meet clients’ needs. But the large creative team meetings were perhaps the job’s biggest perk—a time to break away from individual desks and glowing screens to exercise our creative minds together. I felt home again in community. Camaraderie. Professionalism. Friendship. Care. Working side by side to meet goals and deadlines and carry the pressure to exceed expectations together. I had never enjoyed a laptop and red pen and diverse group of people more. It’s a job I only said goodbye to because I was saying hello to someone I loved even more. Hello to my first son. Hello to being home with him. I adored this little life all pink and soft. A squirming, cooing, sometimes screaming, piece of my heart. My husband and I decided together that I would stay home. I was thrilled we could rearrange our lives to do so. But welcoming this new chapter meant parting ways with the past. Suddenly I felt very alone.

My heart thuds a little too loudly and I keep checking Facebook even though there’s nothing new, nothing I really need or want to see. I tap my phone to refresh the screen, checking for returned text messages I may have missed in the last 30 seconds. It’s nap time. I can hear Elias’ soft snores through the bedroom door. Jude stopped singing his 2-year-old version of Angels We Have Heard on High so I assume he’s sweaty sleeping, surrounded by his menagerie of stuffed friends. And even the 6-year-old rests, sleeps most day. (Halleluiah! Pure grace for a weary-mama-aching-for-quiet.) So it’s my small window to write. But I keep questioning if what I sat down to say is right. Right to share. Helpful or necessary to those who read here. Most often a speeding pulse and compulsive self-distracting means for me that God is stirring. And that I need to obey. * * * Every time I write about grief, whether in a full post or as a passing comment , I get notes slid into my inbox or Facebook messenger that say, “Yes, me, too. You’ve put words to my experience that no one else says or feels.” It brings redeeming joy that my pain could somehow be a gift to someone else. But it also escalates the ache. Because I heart cringe to know that others have felt so alone. That others have gone through seasons of mourning without someone to look them in the eyes and squeeze their shoulders and say, I see you. You are okay. Your grief and confusion and mixed-up, angry-sad-relieved-lost- and-mad feelings are normal. And it’s okay, not just okay, necessary, to let those feelings out. Whether you lost someone suddenly or after a long illness. Whether it’s been two months or five and half year or a decade or more. Whether you adored them or despised them or both on different days. Whatever the details of the losing, it is still a loss. It is complicated. It is confusing. It is a journey.

It’s been two weeks since I’ve published words here or written a status on Facebook or posted a picture on Instagram. I have missed it. But I’ve been busy being present. “Busy”not missing the gifts right in from of me. Big family dinners and cousins running joy-laugh wild. Bundle-up frigid hikes and God-glory casting light. Endless hours of Lego building and fireplace glowing and living. Each moment. Wonder-full. And in doing so I’ve realized that sometimes when I flick away from the moment I’m in to click away a cropped and filtered snapshot for the world to see, maybe I’m not being fully present long enough for my heart to fully see. To see the full beauty and grace and give-thanks-for treasure of this should-not-be-interrupted moment. Maybe when I wait for instant feedback with what everyone else thinks about my Intsagrammed life or when I continually check in on what’s happening with those I follow, maybe I’m not really waiting for God’s feedback on my happenings, not checking in first with the One I Follow. So I’ve taken a short break—to be all in. (Not because I’m anti-social media. I actually enjoy it. Partially adore it for the goodness is can offer and the connection, community it can help cultivate.) But because I needed to hit the reset button again on the pattern of my thinking heart. Live first. Savor fully, first. Linger longer. Give thanks wholly. Let God’s holiness permeate my heart before I premeditate a post. Friends, it’s been so good.

The countdown is nearly done, only two paper rings on the red and green Christmas chain dangle from the refrigerator magnet. The boys want details about exactly when Santa will come down the chimney and when are we going to look at more lights and can we have donuts tomorrow. “I’m not sure if The Donut Man is open on Christmas Eve,” I tell them. “Well, can’t you just look it up on your phone?” my six year old asks. They know Christmas is about more than shiny packages and sugary treats. We talk about baby Jesus and how much God loves us and Noah loves that Christ’s birthday is just nine days after his. “How about the story of the three wise kings?” he asks as we flip the brightly colored pages of the storybook Bible. We’re getting ready for His coming. But we’re also getting ready for ours. I’m getting ready for my Christmas. My presents for my kids’ stockings still need to be bought and wrapped and stuffed down to the toes. My meal still needs to be planned and shopped for and made. Maybe one last dusting of all my decorations artfully displayed. But I don’t want these last two days of advent to be about all my to-dos coming to fruition. I want to live out the fruits of the Spirit as I point my own heart and others to the joy and beauty of the Gift that’s coming. The One who came. Into the world. Into my heart. The Christ child. God’s incarnate, saving-grace Love. I want these last advent days to be filled with His JOY. I read Psalm 89 and let the words wash over me. Sing through me. “I will sing of the Lord’s great love forever; with my mouth I will make your faithfulness known through all generations.” (v.1) Then I imagine. I imagine Mary in that famous, ordinary stable, swaddled newborn tucked tightly in her arms, swaying like all new moms instinctively do. Oblivious to the strong stench of animals and post- delivery pain—too enamored with her new son, too overcome by her Father’s love. I picture Mary and Joseph trying to keep their excitement in check. Joseph putting a hand on Mary’s shoulder as she steps toward the wood slat door; Mary giving her husband the “just relax” look as Joseph starts to pace again. They must have just wanted to go tell everyone! “The Messiah is here!” their hearts longed to declare. “The Christ child, born of a virgin, breathing, crying, cooing right here in Bethlehem! God’s promise has been fulfilled! The King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Prince of Peace, the Rescuer has arrived in the flesh of a tiny babe. I’m holding Him! He is here!” Can you imagine their parental pride? Can you fathom their desire to make known God’s faithfulness and love? As we prepare to celebrate the Savior’s birth, I don’t want to be fixated on making my celebrations perfect; I want to be fixed on celebrating His perfect love. I don’t want to let this season pass with only passing smiles or passed out presents. I want the ones I know and love—even strangers on the street or the neighbor I wave to next door or the other frenzied mom behind me in the epic line at Target—to know of God’s incredible love. Of His wonders. His unending faithfulness As it manifested in the miraculous birth of a Savior King? Absolutely! But also in the nitty-gritty, grace-laced ways of God’s goodness working in my life every day. The heavens praise your wonders, O Lord; I join them with the words of my mouth and songs of my heart. Thank you for your greatest gift of love, the gift of your Son. I am forever grateful—forever will I make your faithfulness known. Amen.

I remember the way you tingled up my spine and fluttered like a snowflake flurry in the middle of my belly. So much wonder. Excitement. Delight. How you were there every year when we piled in the car and drove down the boulevard to the family owned corner lot that sprung to life with perfect pines each cold (or Southern California warm, as the case often was) December. We gravitated toward rows of Douglas Firs because my sisters liked the way they looked and Mom liked the way they were priced. My eyes danced to the majestic Blue Spruce with its strong branches and thick blue-green needles. But in the end there’d be a tree tied on the roof rack and four off key singers belting out carols (give or take one backseat sulker) and off we’d go. Back home for the trimming. Mom would bring down metal trays from the top of the fridge where each ornament was carefully placed as we unwrapped them one by one from crinkled tissue paper and recycled bubble wrap. Once every mismatched, memory-rich treasure was tray displayed, it was time for the hanging! You know the red metal tricycle and gilded angel girl were my favorites. Then, dear Magic, you’d croon to us through Harry Connick Jr.’s melodic voice singing lyrics we all knew by heart while we sat cross-legged in couch corners threading long silver needles, waiting for Mom to bring us bowls of stale popcorn for stringing… I’m thrilled to be guest posting today at Simply Jesus Ministries as part of Tobi’s “Christmas with Friends” series. Please join me for the rest of this letter to Christmas Magic over there…

Sometimes there are just no words for the things kids do. Like the time my son was potty training and dumped my contact lenses into his tiny plastic toilet full of pee. Swish swish. Swish swish. Or the time he was “cleaning” the big toilet…with my hairbrush. Swish swish. Or when we had to put a lock on the refrigerator to keep two toddlers from drinking my coffee creamer straight from the bottle, but the one who is freakishly strong pulled with all his three year old might and broke the lock, which I didn’t realize until I heard his brother crying and rushed into the kitchen, my mouth still foaming with toothpaste (note: mothers of boys, it may never be safe to brush your teeth), and found the two year old splayed out on the floor in a sticky white puddle rubbing a big red bump on his forehead. Slip. “ Mommy , I did not drink your coffee creamer,” they both wined. Yeah, sure you didn’t. Classic moments, no doubt.

Things have been pretty quiet here over the past month. As a writer that makes me feel mixed. I am wired to process through writing. It’s my joy to share how God is working in my life through the ordinary glory of motherhood. It’s my passion to encourage others by reminding you that you’re not alone on this thick, sticky, beautiful mess journey of walking with Jesus. So when I’m not writing, I’m missing writing. When I’m not posting, I’m missing reaching out and connecting. But I also have to acknowledge, mostly to myself, that more than writing, I am wired for living. I was made to be present in the very moment I’m in. And for November, that meant more being. Some doing. And less writing. I spent November strolling through long walks with my family, soaking up sweet memories with my boys, capturing snapshots of God’s beauty and creativity.

I leaned against my kitchen sink—the one stacked with enough dirty dishes to hide the mysterious brown spots that needed to be scrubbed off—and took another deep breath. It had been a long week. A long couple of months, really. I felt so behind on ordinary life and I only half cared because the big, hard stuff that people I loved were going through made my crusty sink and loads of wrinkled laundry seem meaningless. My mind spun with details of trying to arrange schedules and scrounge up childcare during my husband’s busiest work season so I could go out of town to attend my friend’s memorial service. My 32-year-old, mother-of-two-little-ones, radiant friend who had lost her battle with cancer . I desperately wanted to make the seven-hour road trip to gather with loved ones and celebrate her beautiful life. There were still so many pieces up in the air, but at least I had Desiree committed to caring for my youngest son. I glanced back at the dishes and picked up my phone instead. It was hard to think through the heart-swirling emotions and mind-whirling list of to-dos. But I managed to pluck out a text to Des with a few more details about my departure and drop off plans, and rambled a list of thanks for all the other ways she had recently helped me. I finished the text with this heart confession: “I feel like I’ve been a really needy friend lately and you are always there to help so willingly. Thank you. I appreciate you beyond words and hope that at some point I can return all the favors.” Within a moment I heard the familiar bing-bong of a new message back… I’m sharing at Deeper Waters today. Click here to read the rest of the story .

Friends at church are singing the closing song but we’re home because our oldest was up in the night barking like a seal. His breathing is easier now, energy up, but we’re still house-bound for at least a couple days. Daddy had a sleepless night, too, with his own hacking cough and is now trying to seek a little late morning relief for achy eyelids. Keeping three boys quiet indoors is no easy feat. I corral my crew and we head outside with a stern warning that it is not a running, jumping, crazy-making kind of day. (I’m already thinking ahead to bedtime and how croup will be back with a vengeance to steel another night’s sleep if that little body doesn’t spend the day at rest.) I kick away pokey balls and spread out a brown quilt on the concrete slab. Boys plop on their chosen spots, buns crunching fallen leaves hiding beneath the blanket. I pull out the Sesame Street ABC and 123 cards from their shiny boxes and little boys delight in choosing dry erase markers for tracing practice. (Realizing you have a few unpacked boxes, even though you moved 11 months ago, becomes an unexpected gift when kids have new found excitement for old toys and activities they thought lost or forgotten.) I breathe in the crisp November air and thank God for this day that actually feels like Fall. With three little men all happily occupied I dash inside to get baby wipes for marker erasing and cups of water for sick kid hydrating. Though my oldest is nearly six, I confess that I’m still a stickler for sippy cups. Fewer spills just make my life easier at this stage. Because if the big one has a big kid cup then the middle one wants one and then of course the littlest, too. So for the sake of ease and sanity we just stick to the blessing of tightly sealed lids. But today I find the dishwasher whirring with all the blessed sippy cups inside. We’re outside, I reason. No big deal if water spills. So I gather four large plastic glasses and fill them half way with H2O goodness. “I want green!” “Yellow for me!” they shout their cup color desires. I disperse the water with a gentle warning to be careful not spill. They all nod and take their first gulp, water sloshing over the brim onto happy lips. Smile. Sigh. The coughing boy abandons his letter tracing and dumps out the bucket of chalk. He rifles through the pile of broken pieces looking for the perfect shade to begin his pastel masterpiece. Less than thirty seconds in, his elbow collides with his cup and water splashes everywhere, an instant stream running toward the quilt. Noah looks up with squinty eyes and shoulders shrugged up tight. He musters a half smile, asking if it’s alright. “I’m so sorry, Mommy,” he says. And his eyes stay fixed on mine. I sigh again. “It’s okay, buddy,” I say. “It’s only water. Just be careful not to slip in the puddle.” He nods and inches over to a dry concrete spot. I go back to helping Jude name his letters and reminding Eli to wipe away all his crazy scribbles before putting the cards away. I glance back at Noah and find him wildly scratching his chalk inside the pool of water. Color blurring everywhere.

I’ve started this post four times. I know you’re not supposed to write that. Or that. But here’s the thing friends… I want to finish this series eloquently. I want to wrap it all up in a neat and pretty bow. I want to succinctly and inspirationally tell you how writing 31 Days to Awaken to Wonder has radically transformed me and others. I want to be poetic and profound and find a way to share all the corners of my heart and scratched out notes and well-planned ideas that never made it into one of my posts. But after starting four times and painstakingly working my way through mixed metaphors and faltering story hooks, I recognized (yet again) that perfect isn’t the point. That I don’t have to have life-changing takeaways or deep soul lessons all perfectly synthesized, analyzed, ready for distribution and mass consumption. I don’t have to have it all together. I don’t have to have it all figured out. Because I don’t. But what I can tell you is that I have changed. Grown. Deepened. Awakened. Not because I’m super spiritual but because I asked God to work. To show up. And He did.

It just takes a few moments of sitting, scrolling, stopping, and savoring. Just a few moments to remember stories through captured pixels—stories with a different ending because of perspective changing. To relearn that re-framing a situation is sometimes the best way to awaken to its wonder. How else could a self-helping three year old spilling an ENTIRE gallon of milk transform from a moment of epic mommy rage into an opportunity to slow for God’s grace and experience the depth of His redeeming love.

My tray table was secured and locked and I was just waiting for the intercom announcement and seat belt bing bong signaling approval to disengage my seat from its full upright position. I just needed those four reclining inches and then I could settle in, eyes closed, for what I hoped would be a quiet flight of slumber. The small oval window next to me was closed, saving me and my stranger friend from the searing early morning sun. Though I couldn’t see the changing horizon my body felt the gradual ascent. I couldn’t see the skyline but I knew higher towards the heavens we climbed. The body of the plane finally leveled out and permission was granted to move about the cabin. But my body was ready to rest. Before I settled in for my airborne snooze, I decided to lift the tab on the plastic sun shield to take a quick look at the aerial view. My breath caught happy in my chest as I took in the sight.

The Bible is full of them. Commands, encouragements, and promises that are completely counter to our cultural experience. The last will be first, and the first will be last. Blessed are the poor in spirit. Consider it pure joy whenever you face trials of many kinds. We don’t see the first being last. On earth we see the first being first. Anything that begins, “Blessed are the poor or meek” makes absolutely no sense in a world where the rich and proud are lifted higher than the rest and the poor and meek are oft forgotten, left to fend for themselves. And trials? Our ease and comfort striving society sings no trial praises and boasts no hardship benefits. So how can this all be? How can we believe? Because we were not created for this fallen world. Because the Father’s love for us is vast beyond compare. Because the ways of this world are NOT the ways of the One who made it. * * * * * I walk out onto the back porch with Jude glued to my left leg. I tell him it’s time to water the garden and ask if he wants to help. “I water! I water!” he squeaks in his tiny two-year-old pitch. “Naked time, Mommy?” he adds. I smile and help him take off every stitch of clothes leaving a lanky, slightly pasty toddler and his Mickie Mouse Crocs basking in the morning sun. We water the raised flower beds together and eventually I yield the hose to his full control. I sit on the top step and survey the yard. Our summer garden that was once in full bloom has now withered under the extended scorch of too many weeks of post-summer heat.

There’s this little book called One Thousand Gifts . Maybe you’ve heard of it? By little I mean 60 weeks on the New York Times Bestseller’s List, over a million copies sold, and available in 18 languages. And by book I mean deep theological truths wrapped in exquisite prose about the dare one woman took to live fully right where she was. One little book written by a simple farmer’s wife that changed everything. Not just changed for Ann Voskamp because of the book’s astronomically impressive success —that’s not why I’m writing; I know that mama of six would shake her brunette head in humble beauty and say, “No, it’s not me. To Him be all the glory.” I’m writing because it changed everything for me as the tool God used to impress His grace and truth upon my heart. To transform my life.

I sit in my living room, house asleep, eyes and soul straining to wake. I pull my knees to my chest, huddle for warmth in the cool of early morning. And I give thanks. Thank you, Lord, for dinosaurs scattered on the floor and for the little boys who left them there. Thank you for this old hand-me-down couch more seasoned than my marriage. Thank you for its microfiber fabric—marked and marred from use and abuse by three dirty, rowdy, acrobatic, wild, growing boys—that still yields well to the magic cleaning power of a baby wipe. Thank you for my autumn decorations on the hearth that keep getting disarranged by curious little hands convinced wooden pumpkins look better in a different order. Thank you for the reminder that no one, no thing, is perfect besides you. Lord, help me to let go of all my inner strife that wants to keep my life perfectly in order— it’s a futile feat, I know, but still I strive. Instead I want to live fully alive!

Yesterday was my dad’s birthday. Third year not being able to call him. Third year his gone-ness sinks in a little deeper.

I remember it clearly. Late in the evening I sat on my disheveled bed nursing my second son—just a few months old, still pink and new. As he drank I prayed that this would be the last feeding for at least a few hours. I just needed a little rest. A little break from a little someone needing me. Oh, I remember the deep eye socket ache from lids chronically forced open too many hours each day. I felt myself drifting as my precious boy suckled out his nourishment. I knew my soul needed feeding, too.

I dreaded every meeting with her. Time slowed to an excruciating pace and my well-paying part-time job didn’t seem at all worth it during those two agonizing hours each week. I was an English tutor for second language learners. It was my junior year of college and I was grateful to have landed a coveted on-campus jobs that I could pop into between classes and earn double minimum wage. The gig was more or less just talking with another student for one hour, twice a week, to help improve their English. Each week we focused on a different language landmine: pronouns, verb conjugation, word order, plurals. Overall, I loved my job! I enjoyed getting to meet peers outside of my major who called another country home. It was fun getting to learn about different cultures while encouraging new friends on their road to English mastery. But one student, was not my joy. Her name was Ritsuko. She was at least fifteen years my senior and one of the coldest women I had ever met. Not shy. Cold. She would sit across from me at the lacquered language lab table, answer my questions in the shortest way possible, and never crack a smile. At first I thought maybe she was just nervous. So I turned up the warmth from my side of the conversation to try to make her more comfortable. That only made it worse. Even after months of meeting together, I knew very little about Ritsuko, other than she was from Japan, came to the U.S. for her husband’s job, and that she had finished all her engineering coursework three semesters back but couldn’t get her degree until she passed the university required WPE (Writing Proficiency Exam). She met with me because she had to. I desperately wanted to help Ritsuko improve her English (and fast) for her sake, and mine. But she didn’t make it easy. By Christmas break I had given up on small talk and trying to build any semblance of a friendly rapport. She was a stick-to-the-program kind of gal so I ditched the chitchat and got right down to business. One afternoon halfway through the spring semester, I let a simple, “So what did you do this weekend?” accidentally slip out (a question I routinely asked my other Monday students.) Shockingly, Ritsuko answered me. “I went to the mall,” she said. I was so taken aback that she actually responded, I felt compelled to attempt a light conversation. “Oh, that must have been fun,” I said. “No,” she replied. “Shopping American stores too hard.” “Really? Why is that?” I asked, expecting her to say something about the loud music, long lines, or crowded dressing rooms. But instead she said, “Sales people too friendly. They don’t leave me alone to look what I want.” What?! I thought. And thus ensued an enlightening, engaging conversation about how from her cultural perspective, a salesperson asking if she needed help finding something was not seen as good customer service, but rather an infringement on personal space. Ritsuko told me how off putting it was when strangers smile at her on the street. How she doesn’t understand why people are friendly to you when they’re not your friend. She shared how life in Japan is more private, reserved. You earn respect and trust in relationships—you don’t just give it away. I shared back how in the U.S. general friendliness is welcomed, warm, polite. How a smile is a sign of acknowledgement; offering help is a gesture of respect. We went back and forth discussing societal norms and how different cultural perspectives influence how we interpret our surroundings and interactions. As the conversation continued, Ritsuko wore a widening smirk. I finally had to know what was behind her curious expression. “What is it?” I asked. She paused. Thought. Then said: “Well, you most friendly American of all. I not know why . You not selling me anything. You not passing me on street. So why big smile and so nice all the time?” This, of course, made me smile all the more, which made me all the more embarrassed, while at the same time completely perplexed. I thought I had quit the friendliness months ago. I thought I wasn’t exuding any usual warmth. As I searched my mind for an appropriate explanation, the Spirit stepped in and stirred my heart with the most accurate answer. It wasn’t me she was seeing—it was Christ in me. I measured my words, aware of the other tutors and students around us, aware of the highly secular university we sat in, aware of the truth-challenge thrumming in my chest: “Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect.” I was young and not used to talking about faith with people who didn’t share my same beliefs. I took a deep breath, Ritsuko’s dark almond eyes never leaving mine. “If you think I am happier, more friendly than other Americans you meet, it’s not because I’m just really nice. I smile because I know a person named Jesus. He is God’s Son. He loves me and I love Him. His love in me allows me to love other people.” Ritsuko was intrigued. She wanted to know more.

I can still feel the tight and swollen ache of eyes marred by crying. I can still feel the pang in my heart, reality sinking deeper of my father’s dying. I dragged my weary soul to the couch and opened up the Word; I needed to hear God’s voice before my children’s cries could be heard. I flipped to the Psalms, a familiar home for comfort, solace, and hope, And there God handed me the 103rd song, like a lifeline length of rope.

I am not a morning person. Really, really not a morning person. But on most days, I wrench my blurry-eyed self out of bed at least a few minutes before my three little boys rise. I stumble through the kitchen to my rescued-and-refurbished desk and try not to let my chair squeaky scrape across the tile as I take a seat. I reach long to open the window, letting crisp morning air and bluebird chatter greet me awake. Why do I do this when I’d rather savor every last moment in bed? To give thanks. . . . I’m so blessed to share my heart and The Wonder of Joy over at Deeper Waters today.

Have you ever felt wildly passionate about something yet wholly inadequate to share it with others? That’s how I feel starting this section of the series of looking at the wonder of The Word. Last week we talked about how God first revealed His eternal power and divine nature through creation . I shared how my mind awakens to wonder and my heart stirs in awe by God’s infinite creativity and masterful workmanship in all He created. The skies above. The creatures below. Flowers and trees, so simple yet intricate, fragile but strong. I love nature. It draws me to the heart of God . So does the second way God chose to reveal himself—through His Word. Many years ago as a believer young in my faith, I remember lingering over the opening words of John chapter one: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood. I read it. But I did not fully understand it. I was pretty sure the passage was talking about Jesus, but even for a girl who loves language, I found myself tripping over words and getting mixed up in metaphors of what “the Word” actually meant. I pressed on, unsure of where this rocky road of understanding would lead me. Nine verses later came these words: The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth. Now things were becoming clearer. The Word became flesh—Jesus. God incarnate. Christ, the Son, one of three, part of the trinity. The Word, Jesus, God. All one. All with one. Since the beginning. The eyes of my heart were starting to open, like an infant after a long, swaddled nap whose vision blurs with the first few bats of delicate eyelashes, then slowly, the world comes into focus. My heart recognized the truth even though I could not explain or dissect every aspect. I think this was purposeful. Because areas left for my budding faith to trust made room for wonder. Today, my understanding of Scripture is a bit deeper. I have a better grasp on the greater context for many passages and a fuller knowledge of genres, writers, and historical significance. Yet the Word of God is the most precious, perfect expression of His goodness and love. The words on the pages we hold in our hands or flip through on our devices are actually God-breathed, Spirit-inspired. Infallible. Hallowed. I do not take this lightly. I am not a biblical scholar,, theologian, or hermeneutics expert. There is so much I don’t know. But the Bible is for me. The Bible is for you. We all need grace. We all need truth. The Word is both. John 1:16 reads: From the fullness of his grace we have all received one blessing after another. This I can attest to from my own life. One blessing after another. So I come to you this week, not as a master or authority, but as a regular girl enraptured by the wonder of God. The wonder of the Word. And I can’t wait to share with you stories of how God has used his great gift of divine inspiration to my life in real, gritty, grace-laced ways. The Word of God speaks. I’m on the listening journey with you.

PSALM 36: 5–9 “Your unfailing love, O Lord, is as vast as the heavens; your faithfulness reaches beyond the clouds. Your righteousness is like the mighty mountains, your justice like the ocean depths. You care for people and animals alike, O Lord. HOW PRECIOUS IS YOUR UNFAILING LOVE, O GOD. All humanity finds shelter in the shadow of your wings. You feed them from the abundance of your own house, letting them drink from your river of delights. For you are the fountain of life, the light by which we see.” Thank you, Lord, for giving us so many expressions of your precious love, the greatest of which, your Son.

I have always been taken by the vastness of God’s creation. His infinite creativity. His awe-inspiring creatures. A trip to the aquarium or local zoo makes me marvel at the beauty and variety of His animal kingdom. Delicate sea dragons with their lace-like appendages zigzagging through living coral of every bright and glorious hue. Massive octopi with suckers slurping at the glass. Sting rays gliding through shimmering water. Black and white zebra stripes, no two patterns exactly alike. Swinging elephant trunks and slender giraffe necks stretching to the sky. Spindly-legged flamingos that stink and turn the color pink based on the food they eat. Parrots whose voices mimic visitors and feathers mirror rainbows. Marveling over earthly creatures is one simple way to awaken to holy wonder. The speed of a cheetah is majestic; the power of a grizzly is marvelous. The flap of a hummingbird’s wings enough to make your heart flutter, your imagination sing. I’m not really an animal lover, in that pets just aren’t my thing, but I do believe animals are a living, breathing call from God’s beating heart for beauty, mystery, art, to ours. Having boys has taught me that sometimes that beckoning masterpiece comes in the form of insect art.

One of the best material gifts I’ve ever received is a silver rectangle three and a half inches wide, two inches tall, and three-fourths an inch thick. It has a smaller black rectangle on the back and a raised button on the top right. It’s a Canon PowerShot SD1000, my first digital camera. My friend Mey gave it to me for my 25th birthday. I was blown away by her generosity. So touched that after years of watching me snap pics with cheap disposable cameras, she wanted me to have something better. I’m sure Mey knew I’d able to capture more memories and share photos more easily with friends. What she didn’t know is how her kindness would help me Awaken to Wonder.

My boys were operating out of their usual crazy chaos this morning. Bouncing from room to room, cars playing, spaceship making, brother battling, pillow fight fighting. The noise was escalating to an intolerable volume, but I ignored the happy (ear piercing) racket because I was immersed in my own parallel chaos. I whirled from room to room like a Tasmanian devil mama, not searching for food for her precious brood, but searching for a precious book. I checked every cabinet and cupboard, drawer and nook. Its hiding powers overpowered me. I crumbled on the couch in a defeated heap. It was nowhere to be found. The book that I planned to review today, the one I couldn’t wait to tell you about, the one that God used over a decade ago to first awaken my heart to the infinite ways he reveals his wonders, the one with the black cover and bright colored window that I can see clear as light in my mind’s eye—that is the missing book. So again my writing plan goes awry . I huff and complain a little to myself (to God?) that all my hunting should be rewarded with a little finding. But I resign. And go about my day. I prepare chili for the crockpot so my crew will have a hearty meal to feast on come dinnertime. I clean up pee before someone slips on the slick pool left by the littlest who has a new objection to clothes and diapers. I marvel over Lincoln Log forts and put each boy on at least two time outs for not treating one another kindly or using screams instead of words. Lunch is served and toys are cleaned up and I hold out hope that my mama brain is somehow suppressing the vital information of where this book is hiding and that once the blessed hour of nap time comes I’ll be able to think and retrieve the treasured words in the calm and quiet. Jude, the smallest, gets put down first. He wants to play peekaboo with his yellow fishy blankie and asks for “one more song” three times. I lovingly oblige but firmly tell him “last one” on the final tune. We rock and sing. I put him in his crib, expecting joyful compliance, but instead I get a back-arching, soul- screeching, full-blown toddler tantrum. I tell him goodnight and turn out the light. The screams only escalate. A few minutes pass and I go back in. I expect myself to provide calm and strong discipline, but instead I give way to an ugly adult-tantrum. I yell at my sweet boy. He crumples in my arms, too overcome to mutter his “I’m sorry.” I whisper mine to him, to Jesus, again and again. With aching heart my auto-response kicks in and I start to sing the last song in my lullaby repertoire. The words start out, You are good, You are good, When there’s nothing good in me You are love, You are love, On display for all to see

Today I should be sitting down to write Day 8 of 31 as I guide my heart, and maybe yours, on this journey to Awaken to Wonder . I have notes and an outline of what today’s content should hold. But sometimes the “shoulds” need to be put on hold. * * * This morning at kindergarten drop off I saw a beautifully gray grandmother holding hands with a small boy with light brown locks. I didn’t see their faces, just the backside view of their precious connection. Their stature and coloring were a near perfect match to another precious grandma-grandson pair I know: Alyssa‘s mother and son. Watching these two strangers, I came undone. Grief is like that. It catches your breath in your chest, catches you off guard in moments you thought you were safe from its swallowing wrath. I had rushed my boy as we walked to school. I chirped and chided and continually reminded him to walk faster, keep up the pace, you don’t want to be late! I was too taken with the hurry to slow and savor each step we took together. On the way home, I hid huge tears brimming in my eyes with bigger sunglasses so the friendly crossing guard and his fluorescent orange vest wouldn’t see and ask too clearly, “How are you?” Because the truth is, I don’t know how to answer that question today. I am blessed and I am thankful. I am hopeful and I am hurting. I’m ashamed for taking the sweet and simple gifts of kissing my son goodbye at the playground gate for granted. I’m broken that Sam and Charlotte Fukumoto will never get kisses from their radiant mother again. And I’m confused. Confused by the relief and joy and pain I feel over my own gray-haired grandma who went to be with Jesus this past Sunday. My heart celebrates her home-going, and I am filled with deep and honest gratitude for the legacy she and my grandpa both lived and passed on of knowing God and making Him known. It’s the greatest gift she could ever give the generations that follow.

I laced up my tan hiking boots, coated my pale skin with bug repellant, and loaded my backpack with just the essentials: water, Bible, pen, and journal. I tucked the trail map in my pocket and closed the door to my mountain dorm. I was off. Off on another adventure. Just me and God. I avoided trails that the tourists traveled most and set off in the opposite direction. I breathed in the oxygen-rich mountain air, crisp and refreshing even in the heat of summer. I liked the way my boots padded in comforting thuds on the hard-packed dirt; I was thankful that this essential footwear was now actually comfortable to wear, the blister stage of breaking in now a pink-skin memory of the past. My ears were tuned to the tiny songbirds who perched on the spindly branches of the red manzanita. My nose was tuned to the melodic fragrance of woody Sequoias mingled with sweet wild flowers and musky earth. And my heart was tuned to hearing God’s voice through it all. How Majestic Is Your Name

Before a word was ever etched on a slab of stone or inscribed on a piece of parchment, God was writing His manifesto in the glory of creation. The heavens were His canvas and He used broad brushstrokes of every hue to compose an ever-changing love letter to describe His unchanging power and love. Sun and clouds and stars reaching down to us through never-ending skies.

“The heavens praise your wonders, O Lord, your faithfulness, too, in the assembly of the holy ones.” -Psalm 89:5 Continue Reading

If I were to ever have a whole day all to myself, I could easily spend it in a bookstore. I could browse shelves of classic literature and light-hearted novels, pour over children’s picture books and salivate over high def photos in beautiful cookbooks. I would be delighted to compile a huge stack of memoirs and devotionals and young adult lit and curl up in an over -sized leather arm chair with a never-ending caramel latte and just read the afternoon away. And as I browsed, there would be one section hard not to notice: The Self Help books. I would probably mosey over out of curiosity about what the next “quick fix” fad was and find a hundred plus “Ten Steps to a Happier Life” titles. But these “helpful” books wouldn’t make me happy.

Their little bodies naturally fold themselves into miniature accordions of zigzagged limbs pressed tight against bent torsos. Their eyes are focused, searching, seeking. Soaking up every detail. Savoring each discovery. To their little bodies, this posture is natural. Because their little hearts are awake to wonder.

There are certain stories I love to tell again and again. Like the one about how I didn’t get in to my dream college even though on paper I was the perfect candidate. Or the one where I felt stuck in a job that wasn’t my joy for more years than I care to count. Or the one where the position I longed for slipped through my fingers. Why? Why would I enjoy retelling stories of pain and disappointment? Because that’s not where those stories end. They may begin with my pain, but they end with God’s provision. God’s purpose. They aren’t tear-jerkers or split-your-side crowd-pleasers. But they are stories that make me REMEMBER. Remember God’s wonders in my life. It’s so very easy to get caught up in the day to day STUFF. You know how it goes. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner because your family insists on eating all the time. Dishes, laundry, work, and church. Diapers, homework, hungry world. That one you love is dying and that friend is going through that awful thing, barely surviving. You gotta get groceries, gotta pay the bills, gotta stop and weep for the hurt in your home or around the world. Gotta get some sleep. Bemoan the lack of sleep. It’s the stuff of life. But sometimes all the stuff can SNUFF OUT your life. It can snuff out your joy, your peace, or maybe your perspective. So sometimes we have to step away from the stuff that threatens to snuff us out so we can re-ignite and shed some light on who God is and what He has done. We have to remember.

We live in a generation that is chronically asleep. How can that be, you ask, when “I’m so tired” is the habitual response millions sigh out whenever asked the “How are you?” question. How can we all be chronically asleep when our 24/7 world of trying and striving and uber- productive living (or burning hours of midnight oil just to scrape by) keeps most us from the rest our bodies need? I’m not talking about an over abundance of physical sleep. No, I’m talking about spiritual sleepiness. Asleep to wonder.

I don’t how heaven works exactly. So this may be totally wrong. But I have a hunch that a few of Glory’s citizens shine a little brighter than the rest. I think Alyssa is one of them. If her smile lit up a room here on earth, if her zest for life and shining eyes were near magic, her joy contagious, here, then doesn’t it just make sense that her bright life light would become even brighter when she is restored in heaven to the fullness of who God created her to be? Yes, I think it does. So I’m gonna say with confidence full that on Tuesday, September 23 at 12:20 a.m. heaven welcomed one of those rare and glorious bright lights.

Each October The Nester hosts a writing challenge called 31 Days . The premise is simple: write every day for 31 days on a single topic. In previous years I have happily followed other bloggers on their October writing madness adventures, learning from their in depth look at every topic from strengthening your marriage or mothering in the mess to arranging a beautiful table-scape or making dinner out of pantry staples. But this year I heard the Lord whisper, It’s not your year to be a reader. It’s your year to be a writer.

My friend died today. And my four year old still wants to talk about the color of his poop. And he tells me to please stop crying because it hurts his ears. And he tells me he’s sad, too, because Jesus and God aren’t on this earth anymore either. We make pumpkin chocolate chip muffins, little hands dumping in sugar and flour, fighting over the spoon and who gets to mix first. Because on this first day of Fall, cinnamon and chocolate and warm things baking mean nothing. But they mean something. I have no words, yet, to tell you the pictures of glory I see of my friend dancing through heaven’s gates, all whole and healed and basking in complete joy in every cell of her being for being face to face with Jesus. I have no words for the soul wrecking, body wracking sobs and broken heart ache I feel for the tragedy, loss, pain, and devastation left here in cancer’s ugly wake. But God is close. He is here. He hears and is near and He never asks us not to feel.

The words roll off my tongue faster and more frequently than I care to admit. “Hold on a sec!” I say it to the kid (kids) constantly calling my name. Hold on a sec, I’m doing dishes. Hold on a sec, I’m making dinner. Hold on a sec, I’m reading email. Hold on a sec, I’m finishing up a task for work or text to a friend or, or, or… Though I feel like I’m purposing to be present with my boys, I realize that I’m far too often preoccupied…with me. Not that I should be at my boys’ beckon call or that I shouldn’t train my children to wait. (Yes, patience IS a virtue.) But what are they really hearing when I say, “Just hold on a sec”?

Somewhere stuffed in a dusty box lurks a photo of five-year-old me in my favorite red sweatsuit, gloriously appliqued with a colorful lion and tiger and bear. Oh, my! If this fashion- disaster relic was ever uncovered, you’d see a freckled-nose girl with raggedy light brown pigtails and a gap-toothed smile. But the crowing jewel of this masterpiece? Spindly white ankles and wrists poking out awkwardly from the thick crimson fabric — the tragic result of a treasured outfit two sizes too small. But I loved it. And insisted on wearing it. All the time. I haven’t seen this picture in decades but the details are still vivid, just like the familiar feeling that propelled my stubborn clothes-clinging: I don’t like change. My mother can attest to this. When I was a kid she decided to paint the family room a warm, inviting buttercup; I came undone. She rearranged the furniture; I protested and fussed. Even though I could acknowledge that these non-life-threatening changes were actually beneficial — improvements — I still wanted it back the way it was. A desperate need for everything to stay the same. Not change. As an adult I no longer pout or whine the same way over change, but my deep inner resistance to it remains. Like it’s hard wired in me. When I was working as an editor and up for a laptop refresh, I naturally jumped at the opportunity to exchange my brick-like PC for its light and sleek Mac counterpart. But as soon as my fingers hit those unfamiliar feeling keys and my email looked different and Word didn’t interface quite the same, I was shrieking inside, What have I done? Give me that old black brick back! This past winter we moved to a slightly larger house, an answer to two years of prayers and searching. Our new place had an extra bedroom and wide open living space. I loved the u-shape driveway where our boys could scooter and bike in the safety of the quiet neighborhood cul-de-sac. But almost as soon as the last box was hauled off the truck, my excitement began to retreat and I just wanted our old address back. No, I didn’t want to go back to piling our family of five into two crowded bedrooms or to the dishwasher that leaked a few liters every cycle. No, I didn’t want to trade my spacious new shower for the cramped quarters we use to share or give up my luxuriously large linen closets. But something about change, even though welcomed, upped my anxiety by about 23 notches. Not having set systems for storing and organizing things. Needing to figure out which wall art looks best where. Finding new homes for everything we own. All part of the change process that I wish I could forever fast forward and just skip to the settled in, this-is-my-new-normal-that-now-I-don’t-want-changed phase. Clearly this is a pattern in my life. An unpleasant quirk I know about myself and work to conquer manage. So when I started the process of building this new blog, I braced myself for the ugly inner resistance sure to take place. I was ready to talk myself off the ledge when the discomfort of moving from the blog I have known and loved for more than four years to a new platform, format, online space became too taxing. I knew that this was the right change at the right time for me to make, so I was geared up to pacify my inner change naysayer for the sake of completing the task. But you know what? For once, change came easy.

I was raised in a city that is 65% Hispanic. Growing up, my family hosted a slew of international students. I heard hushed tones of Japanese whispers sneaking out from the downstairs bedroom and boisterous bursts of Argentinian laughter booming from the corner room upstairs. College students from Taiwan and China, Finland, France, and Spain gathered around our dining room table to share food and culture and conversation. Later we rented a spare room to an older woman from Sri Lanka. I remember liking her coffee colored skin but having a harder time with the pungent smelling leftovers she left uncovered in the fridge. In high school I dated a Vietnamese guy whose parents weren’t too keen on the fact that I was white. There was a black girl on my basketball team and apricot was not the most common colored skin in our school. Through the years my mom dated several men of color and my dad’s second wife was Korean. I celebrated a half dozen Christmases with my three Asian American step-siblings and never minded my step-mom’s special kimchi refrigerator. I have one niece and five nephews on two sides of my family who are half Mexican and beautiful. I adore my boys’ pediatrician who is from somewhere in the Middle East. His thick accent and foreign inflection have become comforting indicators of expertise and care. I live in Southern California, one of the most ethnically diverse regions in the entire country. So, I’m kind of good, right? I’ve rubbed shoulders and shared meals with people who don’t share my pale complexion. I’m used to hearing different languages spoken in Target and the nail salon. I don’t have a problem with race. I honestly don’t think much about it. So, I’m kind of in the clear, yes? Or maybe not so much. Maybe some people I care about, some voices I respect, are starting to speak up, speak out to say that the status quo of quasi-diversity isn’t “all good” after all. Maybe there’s a whole lot about how God designed, how God desires the Church and Christian community to look like that people like me are completely missing. Should I feel badly that I’m a thirty-something white female living in an upper-middle class neighborhood in a predominately white pocket of LA? No. I am who I am, I am where I am because of God’s design for my life. But have I ever stopped to consider that the design that looks similar to mine — the same one I primarily sit next to at church and play with at the park and read online and listen to at conferences — is not the only one God made? That white is not the only hue, form, voice God cares about? Not the only story, perspective, experience I can learn from, be blessed by, or call mentor, friend, pastor, or teacher? Of course not, I say. Surely not all the roles I respect, people I cherish in my life have to be white. But have I ever purposed to seek out something other? Have I ever intentioned to pursue someone unlike me for the purpose of discovering the unique value they would bring? Have I ever considered inviting a person with another color skin into my life for the goal of delighting in who they are and how their perspective might be rich and beautiful, necessary and crucial because of our differences? Honestly? No. Maybe not even once. And this, I am awakening to, is part of the problem. My part in the problem. . . . . . I scribbled down these mind whirrings, heart stirrings in my journal last week, days before the news of Michael Brown’s tragic death and #Ferguson made its way into my tiny life bubble. I poured out these honest reflections rooted in deep questions after having the privilege of hearing a perspective from someone who feels “other,” from someone who I viewed as “in” but opened my eyes to how horribly skewed “being in” may be. I feel wildly inadequate to enter into this conversation. I fear that I have nothing noteworthy to share, nothing of value to add. But as I listen to others chiming in to this #GoingThere conversation, I realize that every voice is important. Every voice has value. That’s kind of the point. As a white woman who doesn’t have a “problem” with race, I worry that I’ll make things worse or sound stupid or say the wrong thing. But what if not saying something is wrong? What if you don’t have to be a race-relations scholar or diversity expert to offer a thoughtful contribution? What if you don’t have to be an outright racist or full-blown bigot to be a source of contention? What if not having all the answers or understanding all the facts or being able to own all the wrong aren’t good enough excuses to keep quiet? What if just saying that I’ve been wrong, that I’ve excluded or discounted the rainbow of God’s people, is a right place to start?

I’m applying a second coat of concealer to mask the dark circles under my eyes — ugly beautiful reminders of the heart bearing, soul sharing that happened in hotel hallways way past the midnight hour. My five year old stands besides me and rifles through my bathroom drawer. He pulls out my favorite tangible treasure from the weekend. A one and a quarter inch dome of glass secured to an antique bronze textured plate, encasing an aged-looking photo of a miniature typewriter. A message has been typed on the tiny device for the pendant wearer to wield: Wild Obedience.

No, I’m not pregnant. It’s not that type of big announcement and beginning again. We are content with our three-boy crew and have no plans for birthing anymore boys (or girls for that matter…but, oooh, little girls. I love them! …I digress.) BUT, this big announcement I hold in my heart is a whole lot like giving birth in many ways.

In October, God opened the door for me to go to a blogging conference called Allume. I came back from that long weekend in South Carolina heart overflowing, heart set on telling you about everything I had learned. Telling you by living it . It’s been a wild nine months and God has grown and stretched my faith and writing like no season before. I haven’t lived it out perfectly, but day by day I trust that God is perfecting my faith –not for my glory but for His. It was my deep desire to return to the Allume this fall, but like God often has a habit of doing in my life, he closed the door I expected…and opened another instead. This year that door is Declare . In three days I’ll hop on a plane during morning’s first light to Dallas where I’ll gather with women from around the world to be encouraged and equipped in following hard after Jesus in the call He’s put on my life. I will continue to learn how to live out the lessons God is penning in my life. Declare’s theme this year: Wild Obedience. I couldn’t be more thrilled! So now I’m linking up with my Declare sisters to get to know one another before the conference extravaganza begins! FOUR THINGS ABOUT ME 1. My Man . I’ve been married to my husband Chris for nine years. Our first photo together was walking down the aisle…not at our wedding but at my sister’s! My middle sister married Chris’ best friend, so Chris was the Best Man and I was the Maid of Honor. Though he turned me down when I asked him to dance, he made up for it by asking me out five days later. We got married almost three years to the day after my sister and now Chris’ best friend is his brother-in-law. 2. My Boys . We have three of the most spirited, dirt-loving little boys the Good Lord ever made: Noah (5), Elias (4), and Jude (2). Though I never asked God to give me three sons in just three and a half years, His plans are always better than any I could write or dream. I wouldn’t trade any rowdy, wrestling, stinky, adventuring moment with them for the world. 3. Culture Shock . I grew up with mostly just my single mom as the youngest of three daughters. Though I was a tomboy when I was little, I still find myself in complete culture shock at times over this house full of boys I now call home. Fart humor. Constant climbing. Light sabers and dragon duels. I live in a world of sweaty necks and dirty fingernails. I’m not a prissy girl but I’ll be getting a manicure before Declare and enjoying every feminine minute with my writing sisters! 4. California Girl . I was born in Arizona but have lived in California almost by entire life. I rarely have a tan and I’ve never surfed, but the mild weather and sunny skies are delights I wouldn’t easily trade. Yet, sometimes my husband and I dream about what it would be like to trade this life of crowded LA freeways and sky-high cost of living for wide open spaces where our boys could roam wild and free. Only time will tell if God leads me to be a California girl forever.

I’m the girl who can never remember names of artists or song titles or lyrics. I’m always, “You know that one band with that song that goes kind of like this…” I’m the girl who tapped her foot on stage at her first trumpet recital for ten awkward minutes to find an internal beat before ever blowing a signal note. I’m the girl who likes music. But I’m not a music girl. In high school I miraculously landed one of the leads in the school musical, but only because I auditioned for the role of Oklahoma’s Ado Annie, a quirky character who could get away with singing completely off key. In college I figured out that a guy liked me because he complimented me on what a great singer I was after we sat together in a worship service. To say I can’t sing is an understatement. I could easily become Simon Cowell’s new “favorite” worst singer in the world should I ever try out for American Idol. But despite my lack of natural talent, I can’t deny that music moves me. Music is art. It’s a language of the heart. It has a way of capturing, stirring, expressing emotions unlike words spoken staccato, alone. Music is a memory keeper. It awakens sights and smells and feelings of days or years gone by. It brings you back to significant moments with one swell of chorus sung.

I’m craving my own space, my quiet, my time to think, breathe. Find reprieve. I’m missing what’s been mine for the last five and a half years — my midday security, sanity — that’s now slipping through my fingers. I’m craving the ability to make things not change. (I’ve never been good with change.) Yes, I should be grateful for half a decade of nap-time solace (which means two years of mastering three boys’ concurrent afternoon sleep.) And I am. I am SO thankful because I know it’s been a gift to meet a need… My need for a little uninterrupted time for me. Write, read, pray, sleep. Work, clean, call, or weep. Ponder, wonder, dream, or sweep. Whatever the time is, it’s alone time. Just me. And I guess what’s making me feel all angry and anxious is that I still have that need. But the means to meeting it must change, and I can’t yet see how or when the replacement gift will come. But the gift before me now is a little boy in tan shorts and a red plaid shirt, whacking away like a backyard golf pro.

What if you just rested? What if you closed the computer and powered down the phone? What if you turned off the music or the podcast or the great preacher on TV? What if you put away the iPad and hid the remote control? What if you didn’t post, tweet, share, favorite, comment, like, or link up? What if you exchanged the noise out, noise in, for quiet? For more of Him. What if you just stopped? Chose rest. Breath. What if you laughed over little boys in backyard buckets or ran through the sprinklers?

My work day begins the moment I rise, often before the sun ever does, and doesn’t end until my head hits the pillow when it’s dark again. I’m also on call through the night, every single night, and I always work weekends. Holidays, too. I’ve been doing this round the clock job for more than five and a half years. You know what it is. I’m a mother.

Listen, my precious daughter, Do you know how much I love you? Do you know how beloved I see you? Do you believe how deeply I know you? Do you believe how clearly I hear you? Your cries, your questions, your curiosities, your concerns, I hear them all. It is my delight to hear you call. When you pour out your heart, whether in praise or confession, confusion or profession, whether with confidence or feeling condemnation, I’m listening. I’m listening when you’re worried, I’m listening when you’re whining. I’m listening when you’re content and when you’re stressed and pining. I’m listening when your joy is full and when your peace is perfect. I’m listening when you’re scared and nervous because your path seems uncertain. I’m always listening. Not because I’m looking for your failures or scouting out your faults. I’m not planning my rebuttal or rehearsing my defense and righteous laws. I’m never preoccupied with what you might say next. My focus is never anywhere else but in the present. With you. I’m just listening. I’m listening because I love you. Because I care for you. Because I delight in you. Because I’m committed to you. I listen because I need you to know that I am with you, for you. That I see you– not just what you do but who you are. (I have always known you; who you were then, who you are now, who you are becoming. It is my joy to see you.) Sure, I could take a spectator’s seat in the nosebleed section. I could watch you from afar in the stands. But I don’t ever want to be far from you. I want to be near, standing with you. Walking beside you. Listening to your heart. And if you share with me, there’s nothing you can say that will ever change the way I feel about you. But what you share may very well change the way you feel about me. So pour out your heart to me, precious one! Sing, shout, whisper, wail. My ears are tuned to your cries. Your voice is my joy when you call. So speak, sweet child. Then take a turn, and listen. Love, Your Listening God * * * The Good Lord stirred this letter in my heart in response to the prompt “How I…Listen” at Elise’s inspiring new”How I…Community.” If you haven’t read this girl , you need to.

I bark orders in Costco to “Stay by ME!” and answer too harshly at home to the boy who is SO hungry and needs one more snack. I bemoan the brotherly bickering and strain my ears to discern whether the crying is fake or real from three rooms away. These summer days are hot and long. Yet they are slipping by. I flip on the TV too often. I tune out their questions too much. I forget to savor each blessing. I forget to celebrate each moment. But I’m learning that wishing I had done yesterday differently doesn’t make for more full living today. You savor by savoring. You celebrate by celebrating!

I don’t even feel like I’m that same girl anymore. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that I was once her. That I spent two years lifting aching prayers for God to give me just one real friend to do life with. That I was that desperate mom always pushing my double stroller alone, always scanning the park playground and library bookshelves for a friendly face to connect with. Making friends usually wasn’t hard for me. I’ve always had quality women in my life. Women who I love and admire. Women who know my story and I know theirs. But because of life stage or geography, they had been pushed to the periphery. Now, I needed someone in my inner circle. I needed a friend who I could make last minute plans with when fresh air and adult conversation were my saving grace to get through the day as mama to three littles. I needed a friend who I didn’t have to schedule four months out with to share my heart or drive 45 minutes to see. I needed a day-in-day-out friend to walk through the ins and outs of motherhood together. I just needed someone to do life with. Writing this calls up memory tears from that deep place of longing that was once so real and searing. I cry for that floundering mom I use to be. For that Becky who yearned for meaningful friendships but didn’t know how to find them in a new town with two (then three) little boys in tow. For that precious mom who just needed to know she wasn’t alone. And then there are more tears for the ways God has answered those longing-filled prayers. Answered them abundantly. Answered them with so many beautiful women, soul sisters, do-life-with friends. Now my heart aches with the blessing. It actually hurts for how deep and wide God’s love is for me. How lavishly he has poured out compassion, joy, grace, through unexpected friendships. I prayed for one. God provided many… Desiree: My tell it like it is, purposefully doesn’t clean before I bring over my crazy boy crew, brings me coffee creamer and chocolate, faithful friend. I’m so thankful God brought us to the same moms group table and knitted our hearts together through miles of sidewalk and countless coffee cups. There’s no one I’d rather start my week with. I love you.

I loved the Pacific Northwest wind in my face. The salty air filling my lungs. The memory of last night’s amazing sizzling salmon still savory on my pallet.

When you need to remember that every breath is precious, When you need to know deep in your soul that today is a gift, When you need to feel the weight of grace in a moment like this, When you need to grab the wonder back, Start by slowing time by giving thanks, Start but leaning low to see the glory in the small, the ordinary, the fleeting awe.

I live white knuckled without even realizing it. Fists clenched tight over the thing that wields power over me from within my sweaty palm. Concealed but not controlled. I’m the one who’s being controlled. By my own expectations. I don’t mean to cling so tight to the lofty goals and unreasonable standards that lay me to shame each time I can’t measure up. I say I’m doing better. I say I’m living real. I’ll let you come over knowing dirty drips from boys’ backyard digging fingertips are marring up the white bathroom sinks. I’ll invite you in even if the dishes are piled on the counter and crusted remains from last night’s dinner are soaking in pans on the stove. I’ll say “this is real life” when my kid throws a fit and you hear him fuss or see him hit. I’ll sigh and say thanks for understanding that life is a beautiful mess and we’ve just got to embrace it. But inside… Inside my fist is the unbreakable thing that’s making my insides break under the weight. The weight of expectations. The weight of I don’t measure up as a mom or a wife or friend. I’m failing as a leader. I’m flailing as a writer. I’m smiling on the outside, smiling all is grace on the outside, but on the inside I’m drowning, derailing. I’m wailing on the inside because I will never measure up to these unmeasurable expectations. I can’t do enough. Be enough. Make others see me enough. My boys, my man, my ministry, my calling, Jesus, Father, Holy Spirit all deserve my best, but I’m falling. Falling short. Of the expectations. (Of perfection.) Of whose expectations? I breathe deep and will myself to loosen my grip. My fingers trained long years to stay stiff, closed, slowly loosen. Relax, release. Whose expectations am I faced with? My own. Just mine. Yes, it’s time to release them. Release myself. Into His Grip. * * * “It’s Friday. The day we write together for five shared and sacred minutes. The prompt this week is RELEASE.” -Lisa-Jo Baker This post is part of the Five Minute Friday community. Please read Lisa-Jo’s incredible words this morning about why your story matters . Then won’t you consider joining us by writing for five minutes about what “release” means to you? Or share with me in the comments sections.

I sat on the edge of his bed and I couldn’t make the tears stop. Apparently a five year old demanding to brush his teeth and pick out a treat right before naps was just too much for this mama to handle. Too much to take right after the three year old fussed and kicked and huffed his way through his pre-nap song, and then only stayed in bed after “I’ll take away Sully” and other disciplinary threats. Yes, a little boy’s longing to clean his pearly whites with big-kid toothpaste was just enough to push me over the edge because the two year old’s screams were still echoing in my foggy mama brain, along with bewilderment over how little lungs from such a sweet child can belt out so much belligerence over dropped Crocs that apparently I couldn’t pick up fast enough. There were hugs and I’m sorrys the whole house over and somehow I made it through the last refrain of Gentle Shepherd and closed the last bedroom door. The house is now calm but my soul is still in chaos. I’m outside. Wiping more tears. Feeling like I’m totally failing. Why else would each of my boys yell and hit and struggle? Why else would these ordinary, everyday trials bring me to tears? I breathe deep. Listen to the birds. I know I’m not a failure. I know this raising the next generation thing is really hard. And I also know my torrent of disproportional anger and sadness is not just about the next generation. It’s also about the last generation and this swell of grief over the one in it I lost.

When I approached Esther, the new, twenty-something, beautifully blonde staffer for our campus ministry, I didn’t know exactly what it meant to be “discipled.” But I knew the longing to be known. The longing to grow. To be okay. The longing for someone to guide the way. We started meeting in my beige-painted cinder block dorm room my sophomore year of college. We’d sit cross-legged on opposite ends of my periwinkle duvet for an hour of weekly “discipleship.” I guess I expected to learn about God’s Word and the how-to’s of walking with Jesus. I thought someone more spiritually mature could keep me accountable in my physical relationship with my boyfriend and my progress with Scripture memory. But what Esther really taught me was how to care for someone’s heart . I doubt that was ever her deliberate “lesson of the day.” But it’s what she modeled by caring for mine. The way she asked intentional questions and leaned in to hear the answer. The way she was comfortable in my uncomfortable silence. The way she wasn’t afraid of my messy past or confused present. Esther was just there to be with me. To hold the brokenness and fears of a straight A student who may have looked like she had it all together. With her disarming smile, inviting eyes, and commitment to meet consistently, Esther made space for me to explore who I was, where I had been, and where Jesus was leading me. We had been meeting for several months when she pulled out a little fold-up keyboard and attached it to her Palm. She started typing as we talked and I asked what she was doing. “I usually take notes about our time together later, but what you’re sharing is really important. I don’t want to forget it.” I must have had a strange look on my face because Esther quickly added, “I just want to remember how to pray for you and follow up later on what we’ve talked about. Does that make you feel uncomfortable?” “No. Not uncomfortable,” I said wiping the tears that I couldn’t will to stay welled in my eyes. “It makes me feel seen. Loved. Invested in . . . Like no one ever has.”

Ready to start your week off right? These eight steps may be all too familiar, but I encourage you to read slow, breathe deep, and don’t miss a beat. THESE ARE LIFE CHANGERS:

Dear Jude, For two years, I’ve been blessed to be your mama! That’s 24 months; 52 weeks; 730 days. What a gift you are! Birthdays always make me reflective. As I look back over the last two years, my thoughts can’t help but drift to those first few weeks of your life in my womb. And how woefully unaware I was of the gift you would be. Because to be honest, sweet son, I was too overwhelmed by my circumstances to take in the overwhelming blessing of being gifted with you. Your brothers were still so little when we found out about you: Noah two and half and Elias fourteen months. They were a handful! I was frazzled. At least that’s how I felt inside. Life was already so full with the demands of diapers and discipline, wild climbers and miniature wrestlers that I knew anything else added to my juggling act would make me crumble. Anything else pushed in would add perilous pressure. So when I saw that little pink line that my nausea and fatigue already told me was coming… POP! My bubble burst. The breath sucked right out of me and I was filled up with anxiety. How am I going to do this? How am I going to handle three little people three years old and under? How am I going to meet everyone’s needs and still maintain my sanity? How am I going to nurse the baby and potty train the toddler while making dinner when Daddy’s out of town? All the “How am I?”s filled my anxious heart and mind. It became hard to determine in those early weeks if I felt sick because of the pregnancy hormones or because I fretfully bemoaned every unknown. Then one day I was reading my Jesus Calling devotional and the words leaped off the page and into my heart. Written as Jesus speaking to the reader, I read: “Anxiety comes from envisioning the future without Me.” I breathed it in again as if the Holy God was talking just to me: “Becky, your anxiety comes from envisioning the future without Me.” The pang of conviction and power of hope washed over me. Yes. Exactly. All my, How am I’s were about ME. I felt so insufficient for the journey ahead. But in His grace, God affirmed that I was totally right. I AM insufficient on my own. But with Him, I am able to walk whatever path He leads me on. Every anxiety-filled picture of life looming with three small children left out the One big God. I’d like to tell you that after that epiphanic day I was forever perfectly at peace. But that wouldn’t be true. For the next 9 months of waiting for you, Jude, my anxiety ebbed and flowed. I still doubted my ability to mother you and your brothers well. But God continually reminded me that as He was forming you in my womb, He was reforming me, too. Whatever difficult terrain we encounter along the way, He’d be there to guide us through. And He has. 730 days of seeing God’s faithful hand, God’s beautiful plan in giving me you.

Nothing I have done or wish I did or am trying to do or will one day do can earn me the love of God. Not my high school grades and accolades. Not losing five pounds or toning my abs. Not baking wholegrain banana muffins or making a meal for that brand new mom. Not losing myself in front yard tag or hanging on to my temper. Nothing good or wholesome or witty or admirable can make me earn His love. Not writing a post that everyone loves or being known or seen or wanted or esteemed. Not reading my Bible every single day or being still at His feet to listen and pray. Not organizing that cupboard or that fundraiser or my thoughts before I speak. Nothing. Nothing of the everything that fills my anxious thoughts and striving ways can get me one step closer to God’s everlasting love. That’s not who He is. He isn’t a god whose love can be won or earned or bought. He is The God who is love, so knowing Him means being loved. Yes, my actions can bring Him joy and delight. My obedience will bless His heart and bless my life with the peace of walking in His will. I can make Him proud and gain a “Well done” one day at Heaven’s gate. But gaining God’s love? That’s His free gift to every man, woman, and child made in His image. God’s love is not available for bribe or barter. It’s not a prize for having the most friends or likes or retweets or religious service feats.

These are the days so looooong that it’s hard to understand why some say the years fly by. These are the diaper days and bedtime battle nights. These days that blur together because the nursings and nightmares leave but moments chopped together to make up a mama’s sleep. These are the shouting days where you scream right back and then cry in pained shame because you know two wrongs don’t teach what’s right. These days filled with too many “No’s” and “Don’t touch that’s” to keep track. These are the days where you need two extra eyes and four extra arms so you can feed the baby while you make spaghetti and fix the Lego masterpiece that the Evil Emperor Zurg just destroyed. These are the days of endless snack fixing, spill-proof sippy cup spill cleaning, crumb sweeping, and exhausted weeping. These days when getting sick feels cosmically unfair because kids aren’t a file that can wait on your desk or a project you can pass off. Because somehow you signed the 24/7 contract with no time off allotted as the CEO of your kids who need to run, play, eat, bathe, every day, round the clock whether you’re throwing up or not. These are the days where your body is not your own. It’s the baby’s nourishment and the toddler’s comfort and the preschooler’s jungle gym, but it’s still soft and squishy because there’s no time to entertain actually going to a real gym. These are the days. These days where going to the grocery store or the bathroom alone feels like a luxury. These days where all the love and the need and the whining and the training make you feel like you can barely breathe. Yes, these are those days. But they are also these days…

I grew up on Little House on the Prairie reruns and flannel board Sunday school lessons. Good and wholesome. But somewhere between Nellie Oleson’s antics and the fabric loaves and fishes, I missed a few key points. Like what I believed about the Sabbath. I thought God finished all his making-the-world work in six days, so with nothing to do on the seventh he rested, and we ought to do the same.

I sprayed the bathroom mirror with Windex and watched the light blue mist trickle down in icicle drips over white toothpaste splatters. “Come be with me,” I heard God whisper. “But, but…” my heart immediately stuttered. But my desk is a mess and I didn’t dust. But I haven’t changed the sheets or chopped the veggies or hung the Happy Birthday sign. But there are crusties on the highchair and crumbs in every corner. But… “Come BE. With ME,” He called. I suddenly saw Mary at the Lord’s feet and Martha reflecting back at me in the streaky bathroom mirror. “You are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed,” Jesus said to Martha. Jesus said to me. Yes, there was only one “but” I needed to pay attention to. The answer to all of mine. BUT only one thing is needed. Sitting with Jesus. Listening to Jesus.

I didn’t know it was going to rain Friday Night. I also didn’t know I was going to spend two hours reading. Rain and reading. Sigh. So much love in my heart. I love stories. Emotions and people and adventures. Loss and blessing, unknowns blooming into known, all woven together by the hand of the Creator. My heart was made for stories. I love the sound of water. Raindrops falling from heaven onto rooftop, splashing onto the back porch overhang, fast forming puddles on the uneven side yard. Splish splash. Plink plunk. Dribble dribble drip drip. Whoosh. A symphony that stirs me. Oh, how I love being surprised by a perfect night. (Laughter bubbles from the inside as I type that because I’m also surprised by what “perfect” now means to me. Perfect now means letting go of perfection. Because to get to my cozy spot on the couch I walked past the sink full of dirty dishes, I slid my hand over the batches of payments to post for my part-time job to grab the book that was beckoning me, I sidestepped the overflowing basket of laundry that needed folding, and finally I skipped over a collection of brightly colored kitchen toys strewn across the living room rug that I didn’t make the boys pick up before bed.) I actually had big plans for productivity, but three children were sleeping and my husband was away and I told myself just a few pages with my feet up after a long day was all I needed to recharge before charging into my to-do list for the night. So I snuggled down in my fuzzy green blanket and found my place marker in the new book with the cherry blossomed covered: Surprised by Motherhood by Lisa-Jo Baker.

Most afternoons if you drive by my house you’ll find me perched in my yellow, orange, and blue striped beach chair watching Noah and Eli scooter circles around our blacktop driveway, little Jude tracing their trails with his yellow school bus in tow just trying to keep up. But if there are no boys whizzing by on shiny Razors, no clunkety-clunk of wheels turning fast over pitted pavement, then you will probably find us in the backyard. Digging. Ride fast or dig deep. Those seem to be the two forces that drive my boys.

Jude is one of my greatest joys. He’s 22 months old, super sweet, silly, and a little sneaky. He loves hiding under the covers with Daddy for wild peekaboo games. Loves dragging his green stuffed monkey around the house while chasing hard after his big brothers. He loves to be hugged and squeezed and tickled. Loves to wrestle and climb and run in full delight with all his little legs might. He is pure and winsome. Utterly adorable.

Your goodness is greater than the grief The grief that makes us feel so week Your strength is greater than the sorrow Sorrow that drains our hope for tomorrow Your peace is greater than all the pieces broken Shattered live, shards of dreams unspoken May we know these truths in the face of each unknown Your healing grace please do not postpone May we feel Your presence in the midst of all the mess Please lavish compassion, reveal Your nearness And may be trust You, Lord, with full-surrendered hearts because we know that Your arms are the only place to fall the only place to start

I rushed through the narrow aisles, navigating my little red cart with professional-shopper precision. Past grandmas stooped over in food label inspection, past mamas wrangling little hands out of frozen treat freezers. This Trader Joes trip needed to be quick. Just the basics. Just a few necessities. Milk, bananas, eggs, and crackers. My husband was waiting in the car with our three wriggly boys. I think I made record time. I opened the slider to our silver minivan and slid the brown paper bags under Jude’s dangling feet. Chris craned his neck around to tell me the cute thing Elias said while I was gone and caught sight of the small bouquet of flowers peeking out next to the milk. “What are those for?’ he asked. “For joy,” I replied. “$3.99 for joy.” Later after the wriggles were snuggled sound asleep, after the milk and eggs and bananas were all put away, I took hold of those sweet little flowers. Unwrapped the clear plastic, cut the rubber band wound round the stems. Snipped off angled inches of green. Filled the blue fluted vase given to me by a sweet friend with water and then arranged my joy flowers in their new home. Perched on my kitchen window.

“The learning often doesn’t come until the writing.” She wrote these words almost a year before I read them. I picture Father God—miraculously not bound by time or space—planting this post in one daughter’s heart for the very purpose of encouraging another one many months and miles later. He must have because Sarah Markley‘s words express exactly how I feel as a writer. And there is such great hope and affirmation in knowing you’re not alone. When I steal twenty minutes at nap time or stay up way too late into the night to tap out the messy mama moments of my day or the deep stirrings of my soul, it’s an exercise in hearing God. I’m a writer because I love language. I love the way alliterative pairs perfectly punctuate each other. Love simile and metaphor. Love using words to bring an image splayed before my eyes to life or one buried down in my heart to light. I’m a writer because I love stories. Love epic ones of love and adventure. Love little anecdotes that make my sides split. I love how people, places, and divine circumstances weave together for a beautiful tale that gives glory to the fingerprints of God. I’m a writer because I love art. Love beauty and creativity. My heart is stirred by the wonders of God’s creations, in human and earthen vessels both. I love using the art of words to humbly shine a spotlight on The Light, The Artist who breathes life into all the world through giving art and making His art. I’m a writer because I love to encourage. Love offering hope and cheering you on. I love assuring you you’re not alone on the journey of mama or wife or follower of Christ. And I’m willing to peel back the layers of pretense and posture for the sake of showing you who I really am and Whom I really need . But most of all, I’m a writer because that’s how I learn. I don’t sit down at the curb-rescued desk my amazing husband refurbished or plop down on the brick red settee on my back porch to pen a lesson. I write to learn the lesson. Yes, I learn by listening and reading. I learn by doing and observing and contemplating it all through. But there’s something special about writing. Something about how God made Sarah, how God made me. We’re writers. And I don’t always know the meaning of that trip to Costco or the significance of that spilled milk until I write about it. When I’m not writing I’m missing out on some of God’s greatest riches. So I gladly snatch up those last twelve minutes of Jake and the Neverland Pirates or whatever writing moments I can muster, so that I can become more of who God made me—a lean-in-and-learn writer. * * * So grateful the writers encouragement of Lisa-Jo, too, and the beautiful community of Five Minute Friday writers, who are all aptly writing today on the word: Writer.

It’s one of those days where I almost needed round two of Fritos in my laundry room just to make it through. It’s one of those weeks where that area of struggle and sin in my life that I thought I had made so much progress in rears its ugly head again and leaves my heart reeling, too. I’m struggling with anger . I’m wrestling with right perspective. I’m aching to live holy, live fully in the freedom of thanksgiving. In the freedom of Christ-first, me-last service. I’m falling short.

The milk was cold but my blood was boiling. White dairy liquid leaking down the front of kitchen cabinets, spilling into cracked-open drawers. A silky pool slick over granite counter top, soaking into cereal boxes. Soggy cardboard. Sticky tile. Wasted nutrition. Yelling mama. Ninety seconds ago I stepped away from the boy nicely seated at the table waiting for his second bowl to quickly go help his brother who had already finished breakfast and been excused. It could not have been longer than 90 seconds. I stroll back in to this.

Here’s ten things you probably don’t know about me, and probably don’t need to. 1. Sometimes I eat old Cheerios off the floor when I’m too lazy to walk to the trashcan. Gross? Yes. Time saving? A little. 2. Rude sales reps threaten to bring out the worst in me. They make me want to pump my tongue full of venom and unleash my wrath. Like the lawn fertilizer guy who came to my door this morning. When I nicely told him that we are renters and not interested in his product, he sneered, “So, you rent the house but not the lawn? Have you seen the weeds infesting your grass?” I politely replied that lawn care is just not an investment that we’re interested in right now. But it took full will power not to release the Snarky Reply Red Dragon. I still think back about that pet store owner I wanted to zing and wish maybe I had. #naturalzinger #byGodsstrengthtonguetamer 3. Sometimes I bribe my boys to take long naps by promising sips of my afternoon coffee. Bribery doe not fall within my parenting philosophy. Nor does offering my children legal, addictive stimulants. But every day all three of my boys nap at the same time (even my 5 year old!) and it’s a glorious hour of quiet that I need. Plus, I only use all natural coffee creamer with no artificial flavors, chemicals, or dyes. So that makes it better, right? #andnohydrogentatedoil #tippingbackthepgoodmomscale #survivalparenting 4. Long toenails totally disgust me. #idon’tknowwhy

My chair was comfortable and my coffee was hot. My eyes were still casting dark shadows from my red eye flight the night before, but tired or not, I was ready. Ready to embrace all the writer wisdom, craft encouragement, and soul-sister fellowship this first full conference day had to offer. Bring it on, God! I thought. The large room pulsed with servers bustling and 450 women buzzing with Allume excitement. I swallowed my last bite of egg and sausage as the big screen on stage flickered. The video rolled. The whole room stilled. Silent save for uncontrolled gasps echoing under ballroom chandeliers.

I remember waking up from a groggy half-sleep and seeing the wonder in his eyes. Peering over the edge of the bassinet. Still practically a baby himself. He saw his brother for the first time. It was a sight to behold.

I started lunch happily sitting around the table with my boys drinking delicious fruit and veggie smoothies that little hands helped make. Half way through lunch I shut myself in the laundry room and leaned against the dryer eating Fritos between calm-down deep breaths. Yep, it’s one of those days. I could still hear the one who bugs, bugging, and the one who screams, screaming, and the one who was “frozen” complain about still being freezing. But I just needed a time out. The salty indulgence and satisfying crunch helped a little. The added oxygen was probably good for my brain. As I took 30 more seconds to just be a-lone (praying no one was knocking the baby out of the high chair or smearing pink smoothie on the walls) I had to wonder… Am I crazy that this mothering thing can be so hard? Am I chemically low on patience or creativity or backbone the way some women are low on estrogen or blood sugar? Because that’s seriously how it feels sometimes. Feels like no matter how much I plan or purpose, muster or try to master this thing called motherhood, I just can’t get it together sometimes. Without a clear answer as to whether the root of my struggle was grown in the soil of my own self or if it was just in the DNA of the Parenting Beast, I had to get back to the three small breathing beasts in the dining room (and whatever mess had been made in my absence.) But as I emerged from my hiding place, a different series of questions rose in my spirit. Where is the beauty, Becky? Can you see it? Are you willing to look? I’m no stranger to finding unexpected beauty in expectedly ugly places. In fact, I love the search. Love how a blossom past its prime can still give witness to the perfection of its Creator.

This is Elias. He’s three and half. My middle boy. He’s super silly. Cute and coy. He gives the best hugs and has a fiery temper. He’s a helper and a cuddler and a curious explorer.

I peered out the floor to ceiling windows divided by mahogany wood frames at the steady flurry of swirling white flakes. I was cozy in the warmth of a heated classroom, but my bones still felt the deep chill of the cold Chicago winter that was foreign to my Southern California blood. My body couldn’t shake the goosebumps and my ears couldn’t shake the echo of 20,000 voices ringing loud in Jesus jumping celebration in the huge arena I had just come from. The hub of Urbana 2000. But through the cold and the crowds, the incredible worship and inspiring speakers, through the voice of the nice-dressed man presenting a missions opportunity before me now, there was something that rose above it all. A whisper. God’s whisper to my heart. I heard it first in the massive arena and I heard it again in this moment while taking in winter’s beauty: Are you willing to give me your summer? That was one of the first times in my life I remember hearing the voice of God clearly in my heart. Knowing what he was asking. Choosing to respond. That winter whisper I heard in Illinois led me to Kings Canyon National Park the following summer.

I’ve got a hole in my jeans And a burden on my heart But when my path’s uncertain Giving thanks is where to start My hot tea is half empty But my life can be right full No matter which way I go If I just give God my whole My whole heart, my whole will My whole self in surrender Then the rips and tears and questions Won’t be the things I remember I’ll remember who God is Who He promises to be The daily gifts of faithfulness Will be the landmarks that I see Thanks for pairs of little hands Thanks for the road that got me here Thanks for the One who is enough Whose love casts out every fear Thanks for every opportunity Every chance to trust Him more For thanks turns into joy Turns my heart to want Him more Thanks shows the one I trust The one whose lead I follow When my focus stays on Him There’s no need to waver, wallow So to you, amazing God, Whose gifts I hold so dear I’m giving you this burden Please make my way quite clear No matter right or left No matter valley low or highest peak I am your listening daughter I’ll accept your answer. Speak.

Sometimes my thoughts wander and my desire to be more like Christ makes me wonder… What if I could choose to do it all differently? (And by it I mean all the bad “its” of my past.) What if I could be selfless every time I was selfish? What if I could obey each occasion I chose my own way?

On Wednesday night I sat in a small circle of moms in mismatched chairs. I was back in my hometown, but I knew none of the faces snacking on chocolate covered rice crispy treats except the one who invited me there to speak. She looked exactly the same as she did in high school. After the coffee and icebreaker, it was my turn to share the word God had put on my heart. I was excited to tell these ladies about joy! About how giving thanks is the key to the fullest life promised by Christ!

I’m the kind of girl who likes feeling accomplished. Even though I vowed almost four years ago to take productivity off her pedestal , checking boxes off a to-do list still may be one of my favorite things. (And I still may be in the practice of adding already completed tasks to a list just for the satisfaction of marking another big X. Maybe.)

Spiderman, Captain America, a Gladiator, and Knight are in their arsenal of costumes.

Three years ago yesterday my dad passed away. It’s amazing what three years can do. My journey of grief looks so different today than it did during the initial shock of losing my 59-year-old father or throughout that first year of every first without him. First birthday, first Christmas, first anniversary of his death. Such difficult, painful milestones.

Salty tears ran down my cheeks and a huge grin spread across my face. The smell of savory barbeque floated on the warm spring air. A pedestrian passing by probably thought I was crazy–a crying, smiling girl with phone pressed tight against her ear. But I couldn’t help it. Waiting on the Firestone Grill patio for my tri-tip salad and my sister, I listened to a voicemail–not just a a voicemail– a message containing the most encouraging words my heart had ever heard. Earlier that week I had the privilege of sharing what God was doing in my life with a group of women at my church. Several friends told me after that I did a wonderful job–words I appreciated hearing. Now, another sweet friend had called to tell me the same. But more than acknowledging what I did, she affirmed who I was. Her voice reached through the recorded words and touched a deep place in my heart. She was lavish with her praise. She used so many adjectives I started to giggle. Not for the sake of boosting my ego, but for the gift of seeing my soul. Yes, one of the greatest gifts is being seen. Truly seen. And this dear friend gave this treasure abundantly. Her words spoke truth in my life in a way that validated the very best parts of how God created me and spurred me on to live more fully out of the gifting he’s given. Listening to her message made me feel loved. motivated. empowered. Then my sister came back with a black tray of deliciousness, so I moved on to enjoying my meal. But this gift of encouragement continued to stir my soul long after that first stream of awe and gratitude tears were wiped away. I feel silly admitting it, but I saved that voicemail and have listened to it many times over the last eight months. That’s the power of encouragement. Words that give life. A couple months had now passed since I followed the automated prompt, pressed 9 for saved messages. Until this week. On Tuesday, for no real reason, I listened again to the most encouraging words I had ever heard. (Oh, I laugh, because God always knows the reason.) On Wednesday I was asked to share my story at a large event. My heart pounded in excitement and fear. Self-doubt threatened to choke my answer. But that’s the power of encouragement: it. gives. courage. I said yes. * * * I’m writing with Lisa-Jo’s Five Minute Friday community. We write for the sake of story, beauty, creativity, truth. The task is to write for 5 minutes flat on a single word prompt. In truth, I usually spend way more than five minutes. But whether it’s 5 or 45, this exercise get’s me writing, telling my story—God’s story. And that’s the best outcome for me.

It’s sneaky. It’s sly. It can slither, creep, crawl, or tip-toe right into your mind and then burrow deep within your heart. Before you even realize it, something pure and innocent can transform into something dark and ugly, while never changing out of its pretty package.

Some days it’s easy. The winter sun casting brilliant rays that illuminate a simple garden leaf, transforming something plain into spectacular. The perfect curve of my middle boy’s pouty cheeks. Cheeks that get all rosy flushed with bed-jumping joy or sleepy heat after a long snuggled nap. The way steam rises up in swirly mist off my morning cup o’ jo. The way the littlest one squeals in anticipation of our newest tickle game. The way my friend looks in my eyes because she really knows me.

I had the pleasure of writing this reflection piece on Psalm 145 for the Advent Devotional my church presented this year. So I thought I’d share it here with you, too. May we each take a moment today to savor, reflect, and remember the joy gift of our Savior King!

I don’t want to admit it… But some days, my kids feel like a burden. Some moments, mothering feels like a chore. I feel irritated, inconvenienced, put out. I don’t want to admit it, really I don’t…but some days the the overflow of my heart is not love and kindness and joyful training for my boys. I like to rationalize these icky feelings. I mean, who wouldn’t feel weary after six days of solo parenting while your husband is out of town? Who wouldn’t be a little downtrodden from the demands of meeting the constant, unrelenting needs of three rambunctious boys? My feelings of wanting a little space, a little peace and quiet are valid, right? Plus, fill a tank that’s depleted of patience with a healthy dose of PMS and who’s gonna blame me for feeling like a I just want to play hookie from this mothering gig for half a day? I just want an easy day. A day where my 4, 3, and 1 year old will all play peacefully without supervision so I can sit and just be. (If you have even one small child, you know that’s not gonna happen, let alone with a trifecta of tiny testosteronies.) These reasons may be understandable, even justifiable. But the real reason for my icky feelings about motherhood today is because I am selfish. As soon as I acknowledged this truth—the root of my struggle—I knew the way out. The way to combat selfishness is to choose an act of selflessness. So with a small huff and a sigh, that’s what I did. And today selfless meant mud.

My autumn mantel is still in tact. We’re moving in a week and a half, so it just doesn’t make sense to pull out the Christmas decor. I’m longing for my sweet evergreen and holly berry wreath, but I guess there’s an upside to being stuck in a decorating holding pattern… Because I’m still seeing this every day:

I sat on the edge of the cold porcelain bathtub. Hot water pounding out of the shower head into the empty tub. Steam slowly filled the bathroom.

Do you ever feel like an entire day of good parenting is wiped away by one bad mom moment?

It’s seeing 49 pop up on the airline scale when 50 lbs is the checked-bag limit. It’s dying to read her story because you couldn’t get it out of your mind , and then finding the divine tale among the treasure loot in the best swag bag–the perfect airplane reading for the twelve hour journey home . It’s being convinced that the red and black stowaway crayolas ruined an entire load of laundry and then finding a post about how to get the crayon out and the crazy method actually worked! It’s your husband coming home early on the one afternoon he had to himself because he knew that boys smashing raw eggs under the dining room table made you come undone. It’s tears of joy over an ordinary trip to Costco turned extraordinary . It’s losing your mind to brothers bickering and then catching the biggest one cuddling the littlest.

I’m 30,000 feet above the sprawled out landscape of low-ridged mountains, mocha land covered in winding tan veins of deep ravines. Somewhere over southern New Mexico, I think. Somewhere in between my journey from Greenville, South Carolina back home to Glendora, California. I look out the oval window next to my F27 seat, watching wispy white clouds stretched like cotton, and I wonder… Where do I start in telling the story of how God used one evening of dish washing procrastination to set in motion a four-day adventure on the other side of the country that would stir my heart and change my life in ways I had dared not dream? How do I fully describe the wonder of God’s incredible provision of finances and childcare and prayers that followed His miracle of a ticket to a sold-out conference? How can I completely capture the beauty and splendor of being in a room of 450 women who follow hard after God even when it’s hard because they are captivated by their Maker, compelled to love their Creator and all whom He created? How can I craft the right word pictures so that you can see the God-glory of hands held high in praise, the God-grace of hearts bowed low in surrender, the God-gratitude of faces shining Jesus-light in overflowing joy?

Last night I had planned to joyfully do laundry and worshipfully wash dishes …but then I saw this free printable at A Holy Experience and instead was stirred to create something beautiful.

What if I stopped complaining about it? What if I stopped feeling overwhelmed by it? What if I stopped being bitter towards it, beat down by it, and bemoaning every time I had to do it?

Nothing feels glamorous about searching on your hands and knees for soggy Cheerios trapped in the looped rug beneath the dining room table. Nothing feels spectacular about setting your timer to go off every 15 minutes so you can take your toddler (who may or may not be screaming) to the potty…again. Nothing feels paramount about performing another rendition of the Alphabet Song in a new accent to keep your kids entertained so you can quickly slap on some makeup to cover the new wrinkles creeping in each day and the dark eye circles that never go away. Nothing feels significant about making another peanut butter sandwich or quesadilla or blueberry waffle with extra cinnamon sugar sprinkled in the “dragon caves.” Nothing feels impactful about kissing another booboo or breaking up another fight, about singing the same bedtime song 12 times in one night or helping rebuilding that block tower until it’s just right. Nothing feels important about changing diapers, brushing teeth, buckling seat belts, or wiping tears, bottoms, and noses. Nothing feels life-changing about soothing middle-of-the-night bad dreams or satisfying pleas for just one more drink of water please. Or reminding for the thousandth time DO NOT put toys in the light socket or lock you brother in the bathroom or pick up the baby or pick your nose. Nothing about mud and boogers and pee and poop and vomit and who-knows-what is caked on your shirt and stuck under you nails feels marvelously magnificent or remotely meaningful in the big picture of life. But that’s the magic. How we feel doesn’t dictate what actually is. And the thing is…all this seemingly ordinary stuff makes being a mother anything but.

I’ve known since I was seven years old. I want to be a writer. It was Mrs. Barber’s poetry club that did it. I remember the pastel drawing of my favorite stuffed monkey my mom drew for the front cover of my laminated poetry collection. I remember my rhyming poem about a fuddy duddy muddy buddy, my concrete poem about a rainbow, and my haiku about wind. Even as a scrawny second grader with ragged pigtails and a freckled nose, I knew. Knew that words had power and emotion and life. Knew that stories lived inside me, and that words were the key to unlocking them.

I remember driving in the car with my husband and my first son, all pink and new, along the windy road that curved between the open hills and backs of random homes with farm animals in the suburbs. I remember wincing at each bump in the uneven payment, still wounded from the war of delivering the precious gift now tucked snugly in his Graco car seat. And I remember crying. Tears just streaming down my new mama cheeks. Crying because once our black Saturn rounded that final curve and then three more short turns till home, it would be time to nurse again. Time to let this new-life Noah latch onto his only source of life-giving food–the latch that made toes curl tight with pain that shot my whole body through. Crying tears of overwhelmed. Tears of exhaustion. Tears of I never knew that this natural thing would feel so unnatural and I really want it to work but it sucks the joy life out of you to do something eight, nine, ten times a day that feels so awful, so awkward. I remember my husband touching my knee. Not sure what to do. “You don’t have to keep nursing,” he offered. “We can go get some formula.” He was trying to be sweet, give me freedom, reassurance. But this was something I had to do. For my son. For me. Seasoned moms said that it would get easier. I had to believe it was true. And true it was. * * * I think back to that day more than four and a half years ago, and wish that I could hug that new, desperately tired, trying to do right mom. Tell her that she would go on to nurse three boys, each for more than a year, and there would be tender moments without pain and the gift of bonding and nourishment and nurturing would be so very worth it. In many ways I feel like a totally different person now, different mom. Yet there are new things about my current season of motherhood, raising three boys, 4, 3 and 1, that stir in me that same worn to the bone and at my limit cry because I want to do the very best by my sons no matter the cost but some days I can’t help but succumb to the tears because I don’t know if the struggles will get better and if all sacrifice will be worth it. But I’m guessing that in another four and half years I’ll know that it was and that it did, too. Five Minute Fridays over at Lisa-Jo’s . Writing on one word for the sake of creative bravery in a community of women who love words and Jesus. Today’s word is True. Come check it out.

He kept running in and out the back door. “Mommy, come watch me! Come watch me, Mommy. Come watch me!” he panted over and over with no breath in between. His cheeks were rosy and I could see a golden sweat-soaked lock peeking out from beneath his his fierce blue and black shark helmet. “I’ll be out there in a minute,” I told him, trying to muster a little enthusiasm. But I didn’t want to go out there in a minute. Didn’t he know that this was Daddy’s time to watch him and his big brother ride scooters and bikes and it was my time to clean the kitchen, listen to my soothing Holy Experience piano soundtrack, and enjoy that Jude was happily eating Cheerios and watching me wash dishes while securely strapped into his elephant booster seat? But the third time Eli’s sweet, persistent pleas echoed across the kitchen walls, the third time I grumbled to myself, I don’t have time for this , I suddenly (thankfully) had a shift in perspective. I don’t have time to take my hands out of the dirty dish water so I can watch my beautiful boy? I don’t have time to give this living piece of my heart a moment of my attention? I don’t have time to put aside my charge toward productivity to cherish being present with my family? I recently wrote about my desire to make my washing holy work . But sometimes following the Holy Spirit means stepping away from the washing to go and be with the ones waiting to be loved.

She smiles wide each time I see her, not because life is perfect but God is good. She leans in when we talk with eyes that shine understanding, empathy, encouragement, love. She is wise and beautiful in all her years, but counts joy her greatest accomplishment over all the degrees and jobs and accolades. She’s the first one to ever truly care for my heart, to let me lean in deep, pour out all the brokenness and fears, desires and dreams, knowing love and belonging wait on the other side. She never judges or condemns. Just gently leads though listening, careful question asking.

They fought me on it even though they love it. “But my legs will get too tired,” one whined. “But I just want to stay home,” the other one fussed. Staying home would be easier. But on this particular day, I knew getting out would be better , for all of us. Getting out would mean stepping out of the traps we fall into where bickering and frustration make us forget how much we desperately love each other . At home, more rules are broken and patience is worn out until the mama almost breaks and turns on the TV, desperate for some peace. But there’s another way to get peace. To get out. To breathe deep the fresh air and take in the beauty of all things earthy, green, created.

If you’ve been reading my blog for very long I hope you know at least a few things about me: I LOVE God. I LOVE my family. I’m NOT perfect and that’s why I need a perfect SAVIOR. I try to savor each moment, count each one a gift, and choose joy in all things, because that’s what we’re called to do. And if you’ve ever read anything by Ann Voskamp, like her b estselling book or blog , you would probably guess that I also love her writing, her heart, and her joy dare to count one thousand gifts. Daily I am blessed by her challenges and inspiration to live fully right where I am. Like today, with umpteen hours sprawled out before me and feeling the hum-drum-bummed of daily life knocking at my door to take me out with discouragement and ingratitude for the daily routines of naps and meals and training brothers to trade selfless love for their “me first” and “that’s mine” screeching preschooler whines… I knew that I had the choice to ignore the knocks and step through a new door with eyes wide open to find all things joy and grace and gratitude. “Giving thanks for one thousand things is ultimately an invitation to slow time down with the weight of full attention.” – Ann Voskamp So while playing outside with the boys, I set my camera on macro and set about to find beauty masquerading as ordinary. And beauty I did find.

Wash the dishes. Wash the laundry. Wash yogurt faces and grimy toes. Wash three apples, seven carrots. Wash thirty fingers, one snotty nose. Wash the toilet from boys’ poor aim. Wash the floor from milk drip stains. But what about time to cleanse my soul? All I can see are the caked on crumbs, green grass smudges and tracked in mud. But the state of my heart needs attention, too. The needs visible before my eyes are the one first attended to. Yes, they are real needs. But what about the real needs? Seeking God. Prayer. Repentance. Following His call. Asking Him to call. The dishes and the laundry must be washed so my family can eat, be clothed. But how can I feed my soul with more Jesus and clothe myself in more of His righteousness with all this washing to be done? Lord, help me to make the work of my hands a time for your work in my heart. Remind me each time I wash away a stain that your blood has washed away each sin. Yes, the real washing has already been done. Now it’s time to let your presence wash over me with mercies, peace, and strength made new each day. So I will scrub for you. Make my scrubbing holy work. For you washed away my shame, my pain of life lived without you. So may I make my washing a way to be with you, in you. Every washing day.

Cinnamon apple candle flickering Christmas on the sill above the sink. My editor’s fine point felt tip pen ready to wield its power. The bows clipped on my black patent leather shoes during my first trumpet recital . The color my nose turns from bitter cold or bitter cries. The scarlet lipstick and floor-length dress and I donned for Senior prom. The imaginary bow tying the perfect package of boyfriends, grades, and accolades wrapped up to hide the insecurity, pain, and shame inside.

I wish joy wasn’t so hard to fight for. I wish it didn’t slip through my fingers just when I thought it was finally tight within my grasp. I wish once I found it, claimed it, lived it, chose it, believed in it, embraced it, and savored every tiny bit of it that it would stay that way forever. But joy isn’t a one time then forever kind of thing. It’s an every day, moment by moment, in this very minute will I see it and be changed by it mystery reality. It was absent when I woke this morning to the middle boy slamming his bedroom door which woke the baby and roused the stirring but quiet older brother. And I didn’t choose joy when I thought about the hot and humid, long and longer day ahead without Daddy home to help entertain and discipline and be with to make it through. So I guess I’m glad I’m not stuck in one joyful or joyless state. Because I always want the chance for more. To be more fully full of joy! And there was joy to be found this morning. J oy for Donut Man’s rainbow sprinkles sugar-stuck to happy lips and tall glasses of icy milk. Joy for boys bantering with sweet and silly voices. Joy for brothers sharing an under-mommy’s-desk fort. Joy for having a mostly-uninterrupted phone call with my sister while boys ran backyard wild. Joy for sagging surfboard swim trunks and tiny buns peaking through to summer sun. Joy for three happy, healthy sons, even when their shrieking screams and whiniest wines make me almost come undone. There is always joy to be found. Joy to choose. But the secret is in the keeping on and keeping on and continuing to count the blessings big and small as grace gifts from the Savior’s heart to mine. And if I keep on seeing, choosing, counting then surely joy will tower over the mounds of pain. Surely joy will surmount the mountains of struggle and trial. Surely the joy beauty will shine through all the muck.

I wish I could spend a whole day reading. A whole week would be really magical. Feet up on the porch. Stretched out on the couch. Curled up with a latte in a Starbucks leather armchair. Just reading. I love to read. And I would love to be reading all the great books stacked on top of my printer and the ones in the green bag beside by bed and the ones stuffed in my nightstand and in the back of every deep desk drawer. I want to start reading The Artist’s Daughter , an intriguing memoir and the MOPS theme book of the year. I want to dig into one of the novels my mom passed on to when me I was collecting stuff for our Goodwill fundraising drive. I want to delve deeper into Wild Things so I can learn the art of nurturing boys . I want to soak up every word of One Thousand Gifts and practice eucharisteo till I’ve been wholly, holy transformed, too. And I want to read my Bible without worrying about the clock. I want God’s truth to wash over me all tired body and wearied soul and drink deep the Word of Life. But opening a book takes time. Putting eyes on pages and digesting each word seen into understanding takes focus. My time and focus is mostly spent elsewhere. * * * …Oh, but am I reading what I do see? Am I being purposeful to learn my children? To read all their quirks, talents, desires, and fears? Am I understanding all they have to teach me? Am I laughing at and cherishing and relishing in each of their beautiful stories as they unfold before my eyes? Some days, yes. Yes, a lot of days I do. But surely too many moments go by with my eyes glazed over and these three remarkable full-of-life stories become a hazy blur of chaos, needs, redundancy, and messes. And I forget to focus. Forget to stop and appreciate each amazing page of creative, instructive, and inspiring reading material right. in. front. of me.

“Stay in the car while I go get a cart,” I told Noah and Elias with a stern voice and eyes that meant it. I already had Jude strapped on me and I wanted to snag the boys’ double-wide ride just across the aisle. But before I got to our van’s silver bumper, there was a woman waiting with a cart for me. She must have overheard my instructions to the boys. “I remember what it was like having young kids,” she said warmly. * * * After flashing my membership card at the door a stylish couple with an adorable toddler with blonde pigtails shot a smile my way. “That use to be me!” the wife said. “This is our youngest and our other two are now in school. I hardly know what to do with myself without all three to look after.” We exchanged a knowing look, from a mom who’s been there to a mom who’s there. * * * While deciding which brand of organic whole grain bread to buy, a dashing elderly man stopped his cart next time mine and with a cool Scottish accent said, “What a handsome family you have. Such a blessing.” * * * As we were making our way to the last samples stand, coconut granola I think, another sweet senior flagged us down. His wrinkles were deep but his eyes shined with life. “Twins?” he asked pointing to Noah and Eli, sitting side by side. I told him their ages, 4, 3, and 1, and Eli showed off his new silly face. “Do they have a piggy bank?” he asked and then took two crisp one dollar bills out of his pocket, folded in rectangles with perfect creases. The boys’ eyes lit up like the man’s. “That’s for being good helpers for your mama. Take good care and save that in your bank,” he said. I thanked him for his kindness, and for his service, nodding at the WWII veterans cap he wore proudly. * * * When we finally made it to the front of the store, there were long lines of carts piled high. I calculated our chances for the fastest check-out and made my way over to the most promising line. Another shopper pulled up at the exact same time. Though we were pushing lunch time and nap time, I told the man to please go ahead. But he kindly insisted I move in front of him, even though my cart had double the stuff. “Thanks a lot,” I smiled. Then when we finally made it to the loading zone, I was straining to reach the avocados that has slid to the depths without squishing Jude who was still strapped on me in the baby carrier. “Can I help you with that? ” the same man asked. And then loaded the rest of our groceries onto the black conveyor belt. * * * Is my neighborhood Costco just full of kind-hearted citizens all ready to offer a helping hand or encouraging word? Maybe. Or does God pour out his loving kindness in everyday ways because he sees you always and knows what you need most and when? Absolutely. Yes, it was a more pleasant than usual trip to the big box store. But more than that, it was gifts of goodness from the Lord’s heart to mine. It was him saying, I saw you up all night long with a coughing four-year-old and I see your tired eyes and weary soul now. I saw you this morning when you snapped at the kids because your patience was depleted and you forgot to keep your focus on me. But I heard you say sorry to your precious little ones and you are precious to me, too, even when you fail . And I see the day and week and months ahead and it’s gonna be long and you’re gonna feel weak, but I am your strength and I’m always by your side. My goodness never ends, not even in Costco, and I’ll use every stranger you meet to show you more of who I am and how much I love you.

“ Writing is like a mirror, we see ourselves best in what we’ve written.” -Lisa Jo And that’s why I take 5 minutes every Friday to write without worrying about getting it right. Click on over to Lisa Jo’s blog to hear the whole story of the beauty and blessing of the Five Minute Friday Community. Today’s Word: Last * * * “Me first! Me first!” they both shout. Whether it’s first to get help with their shoes, first to get their Monster’s Inc. gummy vitamin, first to put a token in their Good Job Jar, first to go down the slide, first to open the door, my four- and three-year-old fight over who gets to be first. I cringe at their self-first desires. I know their hearts and minds are young, undeveloped. That’s what these early years of training are for. To cultivate their understanding of right and wrong. To mold their desires toward the things of God instead of the things of this world. But I just wish that putting OTHERS FIRST came more naturally. I cringe not only because I want my boys to share and treat one another with kindness, love and respect, but because, if I’m honest, their “Me first!” whines are a reflection of my own selfish ways. I know what Jesus says: “The last will be first.” But do my actions, my motives, my secret thoughts always show that I believe him? That I obey him? I put me first when I go for that front row parking instead of allowing the parent behind me to have the prime spot for an easy drop off. I put me first when I plan a playdate that’s easiest with my kids’ schedules and energy levels instead of doing what’s best for my friend. I put me first when I don’t serve my husband with a joyful heart because I really want him to put my needs first. And on and on the things of me first. But “me first” is not the perspective I want to hold, the attitude I want to embrace. I want to walk the road of ME LAST because that is the journey that takes me closer to Jesus. Combating the “me first!” clamor first starts with me.

I can’t stop thinking about this post since I read it last week. The message of radical love. The shining truth of blessings through sacrifice. The incredible example of following Christ no matter the cost. Several lines keep ringing in my heart. Like this: Our actual theology is best expressed in our actual hospitality. Hospitality is Life with no Gates. Hospitality means if there is room in the heart–there is room in the house. I’ve grappled with the implications of Ann Voskamp’s words . …So what I believe is best demonstrated by what I do. This isn’t new. No, I’ve heard this before. “Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says….The man who looks intently into the perfect law that gives freedom, and continues to do this, not forgetting what he has heard, but doing it–he will be blessed in what he does.” -James 1: 22, 25 And that’s not all James, the half-brother of Jesus, had to say about it. Speaking about Abraham’s example of doing what God said when he offered his son Isaac on the alter, he declared: “You see that his faith and his actions were working together, and his faith was made complete by what he did.” -James 2:22 Am I listening to God’s Word and then doing it? This is the question. “Love one another.” It’s all over the Bible. Jesus is in the business of love and he wants us to be his partner, protege, padawon. Then there is this that also reverberates in my soul: “ My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”-John 15:12-13 Clearly Jesus is the greatest example of sacrificial love to the point of a gruesome death on the cross for our redemption. Since I don’t believe he’s asking us to lay down our physical lives, what else about “life” might he be asking us, me, to lay down for the sake of loving my friends? My comfort. My desires. My convenience. My preference. My pleasure. My will. My way. … It’s amazing how when you ask God to SHOW you HOW to demonstrate your actual theology though actual hospitality, to show you HOW to love others and lay down your life, HE WILL DO IT! He gave me the opportunity to extend an invitation to out of town family to stay in our home with us. Yes, we’re already 5 people in a 2 bedroom house and squeezing in 4 more will take some creativity and flexibility, but Hospitality means if there is room in the heart–there is room in the house. Then God gave me the opportunity to watch my niece and two nephews for several hours. Yes, my husband was working, and yes that meant having 6 kids 8 years oldand under (5 of them boys!). But H ospitality is Life with no Gates. And that’s just the beginning… I share this not because I am awesome and always obey when God gives opportunities to clearly follow him. (Because I don’t.) I share this because I am excited about this journey. Excited for what it means to love radically. Excited to put aside my own comfort to follow Christ’s call to love. It’s absolutely amazing how God is using Katie to radically love children in Uganda. I’m encouraged and inspired by her example. But in Ann’s beautiful words: Living radical isn’t about where you live — it’s about how you love. It’s about realizing– Love doesn’t happen when you arrive in a certain place. It happens when your heart arrives in a certain place – wherever you are, right where you are, dirt road Africa or side street America.

It’s that time of week so I’m linking for another Five Minute Friday ….5 minutes to write without worrying about getting it right. This week’s word: Small.

Whenever I see a middle-aged man eating solo at a restaurant, I think of him. I wonder how many meals he ate alone. How many moments he shared with no one.

It’s funny that my last post was about how we call Elias magical, because since then I’ve been seeing and hearing that word everywhere. Bloggers are writing about it. Friends are talking about it. Magazine articles are advertising how to get it… The Most Magical Summer Ever. Isn’t summer just so magical? they all say. As June blossomed into July and now July has melted into August, I’ve thought about this question. I’ve thought about their stories of perfect days at the beach and amazing family camping trips. But to be honest, as I’ve imagined their tan toes sunk in warm sand and faces lit by the warm glow of evening campfires, I’ve thought, Nope, not so magical over here. Because summer with a 4, 3, and 1 year old is really just regular life but hotter. It’s still potty training and dinner making. It’s still laundry and dishes and discipline. Nothing feels magical about bedtime battles with a strong-willed child. Yes, it’s summer, but there’s still fussing and whining and brothers bickering and occasionally biting. There’s finishing the day with a to-do list with so many boxes still unchecked and yet feeling so spent that there’s nothing left to give to one more to do. So is it just me? Am I the only one not having the most magical summer ever? Then I remember this from Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts: “Isn’t it here? The wonder? Why do I spend so much of my living hours struggling to see it? Do we truly stumble so blind that we must be affronted with blinding magnificence for our blurry soul-sight to recognize grandeur? The very same surging magnificence that cascades over our every day here. Who has time or eyes to notice?” Oh, yes. THESE are the questions I should be pondering. Isn’t the wonder HERE? Here in the still same but hotter every day. Who has EYES to notice? I will choose to have noticing eyes. So I breathe deep. Take my eyes off the magical gifts of salty, beach-sun fun and crisp, mountain fill-your-soul air enjoyed by others, and place my eyes on the gifts of summer magic given to ME. Then this is what I see.

From the first moment I held him, he filled my life with new joy.

I’ve actually been thinking about this a lot lately… To be present in the present is a present. Tongue twister? Truth. In other words, to be mentally and emotionally engaged in the moment at hand is a gift. A gift to my children, my husband, myself, my God. A gift I don’t always remember to give. Sometimes I’m too caught up in the past. Dwelling on mistakes or wishing for past pleasures. Sometimes I’m too fixed on the future. Waiting for what is to come, either in dread or anxious excitement. Sometimes I’m even too focused on trying to capture the present moment that I forget to just be present in it. Quick get the camera and document this adorable memory before it’s gone, I think. And while I love photos and videos of my amazing little boy crew…would I remember each gaze, antic, or milestone even better if I just soaked it all in, savored every second as it unfolded before me, around me, within me?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say. Sometimes clichés are cheesy. Sometimes they are true. I remember coming across a picture several years ago that left me captivated. It was inspiring. Tender. Heartfelt. It was beautiful. I was so taken by this picture that I set it as my desktop background at work, during my pre-kid days as a full-time editor. I felt blessed to glance up and see this visual masterpiece throughout my day. But not everyone thought it was beautiful. In fact, one dear coworker shrieked in startle and disgust when she turned from her nearby workstation and saw this.

Tears. Happy tears. I just read this post by Lisa-Jo called When they ask what you did today . I’m not sure why the water wells in my eyes. I guess I feel stirred. Comforted that I’m not alone. Moved that someone else understands and is brave and beautiful enough to say it to herself, to me, to all of us. Thanks, Lisa-Jo , for reminding me that I am more than a dish-washer, butt-wiper, meal-maker, fort-fixer, floor-sweeper, and milk machine!!

“I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.” -Philippians 4:13

I’m linking up again for Five Minute Friday , where an incredible community of women let go of writing rules and should do’s for the joy of just writing. One prompt. Five Minutes. No editing. Check out Lisa Jo’s site for all the details and join the fun! In Between… GO The phrase stirs uncomfortable. Wedged in between my two big sisters in the backseat of mom’s maroon Isuzu Trooper II. Waiting to be noticed in between high school boyfriends. Wavering in between sizes as my body grew three times carrying three babies. Then waiting three times again–maternity clothes too big, but favorite skinny jeans just a dream– in the blah of in between, trying to shrink back to the body I remember as my own. In between houses, in between best friends, in between churches, in between dreams. The in between makes me want to hurry up, get to where I’m going, to where I want to be. Yet, maybe there is something good about the in betweens? Something more than uncomfortable?

Rhythm… GO I remember the feeling of tapping my foot. Tap. Tap. Tap. Seven-year-old small me sitting in the middle of the big sanctuary stage at my first trumpet recital, trying to find the rhythm, the beat. I must have tapped my black patent leather shoe twenty times before I took the biggest breath my little lungs could hold and blew the first note of Hot Cross Buns. It’s been 24 years, but sometimes I still feel like that little girl with the crimped hair and missing front teeth, desperately trying to find the rhythm. To know for certain that my feet, my fingers, my heart, my life are centered on the right beat before I make my first move. But unfortunately three crazy little boys are not the patient audience that attended my inaugural recital. I don’t have time each morning to wait until I feel perfectly prepared before playing my mother song. If I waited, I’d probably be tapping for a long, loooong time. So I’m learning to find my rhythm in Christ. Learning to listen, desiring to synchronize my steps with the Spirit and trust that as I follow God I will play well the song story He has written just for me. STOP This post is part of Five Minute Fridays, a kind of creative exercise flash mob where everyone writes on the same prompt for five minutes all raw and beautiful just for the sake of writing. Click here to check out what others are saying and join in the writing fun!

They adore him because they know him. They trust him because he is trustworthy. They respect him because he is respectable. They laugh with him because he is silly. They wrestle with him because he is strong. They walk around with tools in their pockets, pencils behind their ears, and black socks pulled high up their ankles because they want to be just like him. He is adventure and approval. He is snuggles and security. He is wild and stern and tender and he delights in who they are and who they are becoming. He is their Dad. They are blessed. And I am blessed to watch this beautiful story unfold of a dad and his three boys. I am Mama. I am Wife. Yes, I am blessed.

I’m linking up with Lisa-Jo for my first Five Minute Friday. The assignment, the gift, is to write for five minutes on the topic given without worrying about self editing or over thinking or finding the right words. Just write. So here I go. Listen…

Monday mornings can be rough. Today. Monday. Yes. Rough. Little boys waking up grumpy after too much fun jumping the afternoon away in their cousin’s birthday party bounce house. And now before anyone has even gotten out of PJs, there’s been bickering and biting, wailing and whining, crying and complaining, ungrateful grumbling, and disgruntled disobedience. Ever have one of those mornings? A morning when you just want to send everyone back to bed and pull the covers over your own head and not emerge for a really, really long time? I know my attitude has turned as sour as theirs and I only want summer sweetness…but sometimes don’t know how to get there. “Apart from me you can do nothing.” Jesus’ words from John 15 broke through. Ahhh, Jesus. My joy dwindling, my mood despairing, my words discouraging…I decided to choose Jesus. And in that choosing I saw silly moments sparkling through the Monday muck.

I’m linking up with Lisa Leonard for my first “hello monday” post. It’s pretty simple. Just sharing some hellos as I look forward to a brand new week.

Every day these three little guys stretch me, challenge me, tickle me, climb on me, hug me, kiss me, frustrate and amaze me. And every day they bless me. Every day…a gift from God.

In the whirl of life with little kids, days and weeks and years can blur together, each one melding with the next. Through the sleep deprived fog I know that I have nursed babies, made meals, washed dishes, beamed joy over my children, wept alone, laughed and cried with friends, and on and on the things that make up daily life. Most weeks by the time Friday finally finds its way here I can barely remember what happened on Monday. (Most days by dinner I can barely remember breakfast.) But through the blur I can clearly recall one significant day almost three years ago. It was a Wednesday morning. September 1, 2010 to be exact. Noah, then a toddler, had splashed milk from his cereal bowl all over my jeans, and another kind of milk had leaked through three layers of clothes to the surface of my teal sweater, thanks to the gift of nourishing my two-month-old Elias. But I was already dressed. And I wasn’t going to be late this time. So I blotted all the milk as best I could and got my little crew out the door. I walked into the church sanctuary feeling disheveled and disoriented. Uncertain and intimidated. It was my first time at this new mommy group and I didn’t know a soul. But God had prompted me to go. So I went. I didn’t know what to expect. But I was expectant. So many times I had prayed, Please God, just one real friend. Just one friend to share heart and life and mommyhood with. I had no idea how God was going to answer that small plea with relational blessings beyond measure. I could write a whole series on exactly how God used this mommy group to build authentic, life-giving relationships. How I went from feeling lost and isolated, a new mama floundering alone, to feeling encouraged and hopeful, a mama connected in community and flourishing because of tangible love and support. (And maybe someday I will write more about that.) But right now I will tell you that this mommy group was a lifeline. A gift. God asked me to step out in faith and when I did, he was faithful to meet my needs. And I am forever changed because of it. Today is another day I know I won’t soon forget, even when the mommy fog rolls in thick. Today, after three years of Wednesday mornings of fellowship with kindred spirits traveling the motherhood journey together, I walked out of that church sanctuary for the last time. Not because I have stopped being blessed by that ministry or stopped loving those sweet women. But because God is again asking me to step out in faith.

I wiped a hundred salty tears and gave a thousand kisses; At least two noses wiped snot on me—not within my wishes. I made breakfast, lunch, (and thirteen snacks?) and now dinner’s on the stove. To Target, Costco, Trader Joes my mommy van I drove. My hands are raw from doing dishes, yet there’s still more to be washed; Like endless training of the two-year-old who keeps saying “Oh, my gosh!” I painted pictures, built dragon caves, cleaned pee in every room. And caught myself saying crazy things, like, “You don’t deserve to use the broom!” When did cleaning become a “privilege” for them, but for me my daily “plight”? I guess when vacuum attachments are special swords for a special dragon fight. I folded laundry, changed twelve diapers, then refolded stacks once more— Sneaky boys stealing laundry baskets to creep like turtles across the floor. Sometimes I feel like a zookeeper, trying to keep animals in their cage; Please tell me I’m not raising monkeys and climbing is just a stage. Then for one moment my world was perfect: Brothers building towers, babe nursing at my breast. But then I blink… And one boy throws a block and the other boy screams And the baby bites me with his two tiny chompers so I’m screaming, too, Which makes the baby wail and I just want to rewind time And hit the pause button on that one precious moment of serenity and sweetness And leave my life frozen there FOREVER. But I can’t. Because I’m a mama, and my boys are growing fast. And these crazy chaos days feel loooong, but surely they won’t last. Soon, little boys who want to kiss me with peanut butter faces Will be replaced by teenagers with scruffy chins and braces. The little arms that reach up high and around my neck squeeze tight Will soon grow manly muscles and sprout tall past mama’s height. So please, dear Jesus, help me to stop and savor these crazy days, Help me to remember every boyish giggle and adoring baby gaze. Help me to delight in all their growing—each funny noise and silly word, Help me to put aside my to-do lists so each child feels he’s heard. Help me to look past crumbs and milk drips to see the gifts and not the mess, Help me to find more words of praise and honor, and criticize much less. But mostly, gracious God, help me to turn to you each moment of each hour To find wisdom, patience, strength, and grace—to be Mama by your power.

Two weeks ago I shared with you a recent joy-inspiring moment. And how good it felt to live out these words from I Thessalonians: Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. These verses have been the beat of my heart in this current mothering season of my life. Sometimes they are the truth that I live. Other times the reality I aspire to. And, if I’m honest, often the pang of conviction for the person I want to be and commands I want to obey, but don’t. Some moments are really hard and I forget to be joyful, don’t know how to be thankful for the ick of life. Like a month ago when, instead of going out to celebrate my birthday with a dear friend, I was cleaning up vomit from two sick boys. Or like a few weeks ago when instead of crafting with friends at Mom’s Night Out I was sitting on a hospital bed listening to the high pitched hum of fluorescent ER lights waiting to hear if my baby had pneumonia. Not a lot of joy pouring from my heart in those moments. But it doesn’t even have to deal with sick kiddos or being kept from something fun for my joyful, thankful heart to get crowded out by discouragement and ingratitude. It’s the everyday moments that test me, too. The moments when the 4-year-old isn’t listening and the 2-year-old is whining while the 9-month-old is crying and everyone (including ME!) is hungry and tired and I just want them ALL to GO AWAY! (My heart beats in frenzied frustration just thinking about it.) “Be joyful now, Lord?” my heart asks. “But these challenging children and this hectic house aren’t making me happy!” “Pray to you now, God?” I question. “In the midst of this chaos when I can’t even hear my own thoughts?” “Give thanks to you now, Jesus?” I wonder. “For what? The disobedience or the tantrum or the soul-piercing scream? How can I be joyful and pray and give thanks in a mamas-gonna-go-crazy-just-like-these-kids moment?! And who would expect me to? And why should I? “…for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” Yes, despite my grassy knoll euphoria of two weeks ago, I definitely don’t have a picture-perfect life or always choose what’s right. But I know my God and I know that His will is ALWAYS good. So that’s what I’m trying to choose. Bit by bit. Day by day. Find joy in and give thanks for the strong minds and bodies and voices of my three amazing boys. Pray and ask God to show me how to live out His word and grow in joy and gratitude for the privilege of being a mommy. * * * And this is just the ordinary life of a stay-at-home-mom of little ones. This is not divorce or unemployment or cancer. I count myself blessed that I haven’t had to walk one of those journeys. I’m also blessed to know some who have and, despite their circumstances, are choosing JOY and PRAYER and THANKSGIVING along the way. Meet my beautiful friend Alyssa. Isn’t she stunning? This picture was taken two days after she had a mastectomy for Stage 3 breast cancer.

Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. -1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 Some moments cause joy and prayer and thanksgiving to gush from my heart. Like on Friday afternoon when we went on a family hike in Chino Hills State Park. Beauty everywhere! The blueness of the sky. The crispness of the air. The warmth of the sun when its rays reached down and kissed cool cheeks. Greens of every hue proclaiming their grandeur in lowly moss growing along the earthen path. And of course the blessing of sharing it with my amazing little boys and the wonderful man I call Husband and they call Daddy. The best part of the day was when we wandered off the trail to a secluded knoll flooded with tall grass and long sticks. The perfect spot for exploring and sword fights and snacks.

Earlier this week I had one of those golden moments. When you slow down long enough to see a life full of beauty and love. When sweetness and simplicity outshine stress and complexity. I had just put Jude down for his late afternoon nap. Dinner was simmering on the stove and I went back outside to be with Noah and Elias… As I step onto the back porch I hear happy noises of little boys playing. Playing nicely. Together. No fighting over who gets what shovel or truck, no pushing a brother or testing a parental boundary. Just digging happily side by side, filling blue buckets with boyhood treasures. Dinosaur bones and diamond rocks. Earth worms and rollie pollies. Sigh. They love each other and I love them. My heart is full. I breath in the crisp air of Southern California “cold”, tuck my hands into my pockets, and snuggle my feet deeper into my worn Ugg boots. I look up and behold a brilliant orange globe peeking through the neighbor’s trees, glowing low on the horizon. God’s fingerprints of love and beauty. And in that moment, I felt so blessed. Not only because it was a minute of peace and serenity in a day, week, month, years strung together by the challenge and chaos of raising three little boys, but blessed because God allowed me to see it, to savor the gift of that moment.

Yesterday I had an epiphany. I was over at (in)courage reading this blog post . And as I pondered the author’s question about what in life I am making harder than it needs to be, it hit me: Self imposed rules that are self defeating should be broken. This deeply resonates with many areas of my life. But the first thing that came to my mind was my self imposed rule about writing. I wrote here on this blog ONCE in 2012. Why? Because I had imposed this unspoken rule on myself that if I couldn’t write regularly, if I couldn’t pen a post and double, triple edit to make sure it met my ideal literary and grammatical standards, then I shouldn’t write at all. And I couldn’t do those things in 2012. With the (unexpected) blessing of baby boy #3 (third boy in three and a half years) I just didn’t have the time to blog like I wanted to…and I still don’t. But then it hit me. When I started this blog almost three years ago I named it Moments….from Becky Keife. My heart in starting it was to celebrate the moments that make up the journey . I didn’t call it “Exhaustive Reflections on Life” or “Every Detail in My Days” or “Moments in Perfect Words”…no, just moments. And I have missed writing. Missed sharing the little pieces of my story that God puts on my heart to share. Because sharing is not only an encouragement to those who read (I hope) but it encourages me. Makes me more mindful, more thankful of God’s hand in my life and fingerprints on my days. So here I am to say that I will no longer let my own rule defeat me. More moments to come…

When you’re at the end of your rope… Call out to God. Because he hears you. And he will answer. I know, because he did for me this week. Big time… For the last seven days my husband has been in Hawaii with his volleyball team. I’ve known for months this week was coming. And for months I’ve been dreading it. Home. Alone. With three kids. Three years old and under. These little munchkins, if you don’t know them. Noah, 3 1/2, Elias, 2, and Jude, 4 months.

I’ve really been missing my dad. Not only will this be my first Christmas without him, but December 26 (the day my whole family always gathers together) marks the one year anniversary of the last day I saw my dad. As the Christmas countdown nears, my heart fills with more sadness. So many mixed emotions. Memories flash of Christmases past… Breaking open the book of LifeSavers candies he always stuffed in our stocking. Tearing through a package he sealed with an abundance of scotch tape. Dad in his traditional argyle sweater, corduroy slacks, and leather loafers. But today as the tears flowed and I thought about what this Christmas will be like without Dad, God so graciously reminded me, Precious Becky, though you grieve not being able to celebrate Jesus’ birth with your dad this year, I REJOICE that he is celebrating the Lord Jesus WITH Him, with Me, here in heaven! My first Christmas without Dad means Dad’s first Christmas with the Savior. True joy in sorrow.

Every time I see the cheesy sweet license plate frame that reads, “I Love My Life as Mommy and Wife” I think, “Me, too!!”

I recently found myself opening my refrigerator… staring inside at this…

Grief is a strange thing. It reminds me of the wind. Sometimes you can see a storm brewing in the distance. You know that high winds are on their way. You have time to prepare, to brace yourself for the force coming at you. Other times strong gusts appear as if from nowhere. Their strength almost knocking you down. Then there is grief like a subtle breeze. It grazes your shoulders and whispers in your ear, a gentle reminder that something outside of you is stirring something within you. It’s been five months since my dad passed away. Though I’m comforted knowing my earthly father is at peace in the presence of his Heavenly One, still… I haven’t much liked this journey of grief. Haven’t liked the days when the ache of loss is wind pushing at my back. When grief is the driving force in my heart and mind. Nor have I enjoyed when it comes at me like a blustery headwind, making it hard to take even one small step toward healing. And the days and weeks with seemingly no wind at all feel like a welcomed reprieve…until a whirly, twirly tornado darts in from my blind spot carrying the force of all the unspoken memories and unexpressed emotions of those quiet, windless days. * * * Sometimes I feel like grieving is a foreign language I’m suddenly expected to know. But instead of being fluent I’m stumbling to eek out an intelligible groan. I wish I knew more about grieving. But I do know a few more things about the wind. Wind is not always destructive. Its power can be productive, harnessed for helpfulness as by the beautiful sail of a boat on the open sea. Wind can be cleansing. It can push out pollutants, leaving a clear sky and fresh, breathable, life-giving air. Wind can be refreshing. The kiss of a cool breeze is renewing relief when the sun’s scorching rays reach down for you. Yes, grief is very much like the wind. I don’t fully understand where it comes from or where it leads. Why or how it can take so many forms. I don’t know what course it will take or what purpose it will have on a given day. Don’t always know how to prepare for it or find joy in it or be moved by it. But I know it’s Maker. I know Him, and I trust Him. This picture reminds me of the beauty and chaos and peace and movement that comes with the wind.

It’s often said that a picture is worth a thousand words. On this Father’s Day, I could use more than ten thousand words to describe the amazing moments in my husband’s fatherhood journey. But, instead, I’ll let these pictures tell some of the story. Chris, you are an INCREDIBLE daddy to our boys. Noah and Elias love you, need you, appreciate you, and adore you. And so do I. Thank you for who you are and what you do for our family. Happy Father’s Day!

There was a day a couple weeks back that I really wanted to hang out with a friend. But everyone I called was busy. Normally this wouldn’t be a big deal, but on this particular day it really bummed me out. Another boring day at home by myself with the boys, choking down another peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then playing the same games with the same toys while the minutes lurch along like a tired turtle …is how I was feeling about the day. I just needed someone to help me break up the monotony of routine. But no one was available. So I was left to sulk alone. But in the midst of my sulking I realized I wasn’t alone. There was an adorable little boy to my right. And an adorable littler boy to my left. Why are you bummed about spending time with these two little blessings? The part of me who wasn’t stuck in a funk asked the part of me who was. Don’t be bummed about the way your day didn’t go…be blessed by the way you can make it go! And with that, I decided to ditch the bummed and don the blessed and I took my two adorables on a date with their mommy! I strapped on my sneakers and strapped the boys in the stroller and we walked to the little Italian place in the Village. Just breathing in the fresh air on our way there made me feel better. But the huge pay-off came when Noah’s face beamed with pure delight when I said the P-word…pizza! It was the best news of his life! We sat outside and ate and talked and people watched. Me and my adorable dates.

Last week my husband and I found ourselves in the Emergency Room with our eight-month-old sweetheart trying to figure out the cause of his twelve-day-long fever. If you’re a parent (or any sane individual) the ER is one of the last places you ever want to be. But on our pediatrician’s urging, we were there and ready to get some answers about our son’s mysterious illness.

Well, friends, it’s been exactly one year since my humble little blog began . 365 of days have lent themselves to 48 posts. (That is, 48 posts that made it from words on my heart to writing on the Web…dozens more still waiting in the mental archives.) My tiny corner of the blogisphere has become a homey place I look forward to spending time in…sharing my heart and getting to hear from yours. And it’s been quite a year… There’s been grumbling and gratitude and a store clerk with attitude . The sorrow of death and joy of birth , and thoughts on productivity , for what it’s worth. I’ve preached the power of my walking shoes and truly wanting whatever you choose. Love can be shown in really strange ways and I’m trying to savor all of these days . I’ve been spiritually revived and found resolve and as God prompts I’ll continue to blog. Whether it’s been about the meaningful or mundane, thank you (truly, I thank you) for reading along and sharing in these moments that make up my journey. [The title of this post is an ode to my “Friend” Monica’s “Happy Planiversary”/”Happy Vegasversary.”]

Today I encountered a person I was really tempted to zing. (Watch You’ve Got Mail to understand what I mean.) On my daily walk with the boys we pass a local pet store. To Noah’s pure delight, we stop and admire the puppies prancing in the glass enclosures. Occasionally we go inside to check out the variety of other cuddly creatures. As we came upon the shop today, Noah got super excited and repeatedly asked to see the kitties. He loves kitties. So I turned the double stroller 90 degrees and entered the little store. The smiling ladies who usually man the front counter were nowhere in sight. The place was altogether vacant. As I was explaining to Noah that the cat cages were empty because all the furry kitties had found nice homes, an unfamiliar woman emerged from the back of the store. “Can I help you with something?” she asked. “Oh, no thank you,” I replied. “We’re just enjoying the animals.” “That’s what zoos are for,” she said sternly. It took me a moment to realize the implication of her remark. In an instant I was shocked and sad and angry. I wanted to say… “Excuse me? Do you seriously want to deprive an innocent child from the joy of marveling at a fluffy bunny or scaly snake because you’re not sure our presence is going to improve your bottom line? You are a sad, bitter woman to say such a thing. My son loves animals. And today’s browsing very well may have turned into tomorrow’s buying, but you better believe that this is the last time I’m ever coming into your stinky store. Though I walk by here every day, when my sons gets his first goldfish or gofer snake, puppy or parakeet, I am going to trek on down to PetCo and happily give my patronage to a big-business chain instead of your sorry little independent excuse for a quaint small-town store. Good day.” In other words, I wanted to zing her. Instead, I turned the stroller around and said, “Thank you. Have a nice day.” And walked out. All the way home I replayed the conversation as it happened, and the one I had wanted to have. I honestly didn’t feel better for having been polite instead of lashing back. I was so irritated that this lady’s attitude was now going to deprive my little boy of a simple daily pleasure. I felt that she was rude and I wanted to repay her with rudeness. And as I walked away I wasn’t sure why I didn’t. Then the words from the verse I had memorized earlier in the day came to mind: Let no debt remain outstanding, except the continuing debt to love one another, for he who loves his fellowman has fulfilled the law. -Romans 13:8 Huh, I thought. What’s the application in this context? I’m not indebted to this salesperson. I don’t owe her anything… ”except the continuing debt to love.“ Without forethought or intention, God had used his Word written on my heart to allow me to love this woman with my words…or lack thereof. Not because I’m amazing. (No, I wanted to zing her.) But because he is. As I continued to reflect on the incident, I began to feel good about my response. Not only do I want to be a good example for my boys, but I also want to be a good representative of the God I love and live for. What if I would have lashed back with the verbal sewage in my mind and then (somehow) been asked by the woman, Are you a Christian? I would have undoubtedly felt ashamed. Or what if she was having a horrible day? What if she had just lost her dad or was in the middle of a personal crisis or was under financial stress and a harsh word was her unfortunate way with dealing with it all? Though I didn’t feel it in that moment, I’m so thankful that God’s love and compassion somehow permeated my heart and made it to my mouth so that my words did not offend. * * * Later in the day I became doubly thankful God helped me hold my tongue… When my husband got home from work I shared the incident with him. He suggested I inform the store owner of the encounter so they’re aware of their employee’s poor conduct. I thought that was a good idea and told him I’d think about it. But later when I was in the other room he decided to call on my behalf to relieve me of the burden. He ended up speaking with the woman who identified herself as the store manager and acknowledged that she matched the physical description I gave. He explained what was said. She was completely apologetic. She didn’t remember saying that and said that she loved kids and welcomed all visitors into the store. She felt terrible that I had somehow misunderstood her and assured that she would never intentionally say that and was so sorry if she hurt my feelings . She asked that I please come back anytime I’d like. * * * Hmmm… I honestly don’t think I misheard her. But she sounded very genuine. And really, it doesn’t matter who is right. Someday soon…maybe tomorrow…I’ll go back to the pet shop. If she’s there, I’ll talk to her. And I’ll trust God to lead me through the conversation. With God as my guide, no zingers needed.

There are many things you consider when choosing a spouse: personality, physical attraction, religious beliefs, life goals, and overall compatibility, just to name a few. And then there’s the inlaws. Most of us have heard the old saying, “You’re not only marrying him, you’re marrying his whole family.” This is usually said as a warning. As in, be willing to welcome (or at least tolerate) all the baggage your future inlaws will bring. Like the uncle with no concept of personal space or the sister who gives backhanded compliments. [Not my personal experience, just random examples.] For better or for worse, when you marry someone, you are saying “I do” to the whole inlaw enchilada.

I’m 29 years old today. It’s been 15 days since my dad passed away. He was 59 . 2 pieces of my heart run and crawl around outside of me. Noah is 2 . Elias is 7 months. I’ve been married to my best friend for 5 years, 6 months, and 13 days. I cried this morning thinking about how this is my 1 st birthday without my dad. He would have called me and left a message that said, “Hi, Becky, it’s your dad. Just calling to wish you a happy birthday. I’d love to take you and Chris and the boys out to celebrate if you want. Anytime is good for me. Whatever works with your schedule. No pressure. Love you.” I did get 2 voicemails, 3 birthday cards, 14 text messages, and 65 Facebook posts from other friends and family sending me birthday wishes. 3 is the number of times I cleaned up throw up and washed bed linens from my poor Noah Bear. I used about 47 tissues to wipe 3 snotty noses and lots of salty tears. (I’m SO over this winter cold season!) But taking care of sick kiddos by a sick mamma was helped by 1 beautiful bunch of flowers from my amazing husband and 1 delicious bouquet of fruit from my sweet friend. And when I’m sad, thinking about Dad, God brings Psalm 103 t o my mind and speaks to my heart about how the darkness and redemption in Dad’s life is a testimony to the truth of His Word. So what do all of these numbers add up to? Immeasurable blessings. Infinite opportunities to trust in…to lean hard on the Lord. I don’t know if I’d call this a “happy” birthday. But I am full of hope. So, hopey birthday to me.

A week ago today, my father passed away. These are the words I shared at his memorial service. * * * As I thought about what I wanted to share today, I thought about many of the things Dad loved: Coffee, Necco Wafers, and ice cream. Polo shirts and puzzles. Sports, sports, and sports. Dad loved reading John Grisham books and traveling around the world. He couldn’t get enough blue cheese dressing on his salad or meat sauce on his spaghetti. He loved playing croquet at the park and Chinese checkers at the kitchen table. He was always up for a chicken dinner at Knotts or a hot dog at Angel stadium. Dad loved American history, family genealogy, and a good breakfast buffet. But most of all he loved his daughters, his grandchildren, and our faithful God. Like all of us sitting here today, my dad wasn’t perfect. And I know he wouldn’t want me to tell you that he was. But as I’ve thought back on his life as I knew him, I am truly blessed by so many wonderful memories…so many meaningful moments when my dad was there for me when it mattered most. When my mom woke up in the middle of the night to find our garage engulfed in a roaring fire, Dad was there to fight the blaze with a garden hose while Mom ushered Annie, Mary, and me (and my favorite stuffed monkey) to safety. He lost a slipper but helped save the house. When I was a Girl Scout, Dad was there to take me to the Father Daughter Dance. He twirled me in my pink poodle skirt and let me have punch and cookies to my heart’s content. When I stood for my trumpet solo at the East Whittier Pops Concert or at the free throw line on the basketball court…when I crossed the finish line after three miles at a cross country meet or after 400 meters around the track, Dad was there cheering me on. He was there for our yearly trips to Big 5 to buy new basketball shoes. He helped me pick out my retro aqua track cleats. And when I earned my Varsity letter, he was there to take me to Sergeants in Uptown Whittier and let me spend as much time as I needed to decide what style of jacket to get and which patches should go where. And Dad was always there to take us to Disneyland. I don’t know a parent who enjoyed the Magic Kingdom more. Together we zoomed through Space Mountain, zipped around the Matterhorn, and held on to our hats and glasses for the wildest ride in the wilderness. Disney parades and stage shows and churros. Dad was there for them all. When I needed to tour the San Gabriel Mission for my fourth grade project, Dad was there. And later when it came time to tour college campuses he was there for that, too. Together we weighed the pros and cons of each university and I knew he’d support me in whatever decision I made. When I spent a college summer in Kings Canyon National Park, Dad and Esther drove the windy mountain roads to come see me work and minister beneath the clear blue skies and massive sequoias. Birthday dinners at Benihana, graduation brunch at The Ritz, Dad was there to celebrate each meaningful milestone. And of course he was there on the three most important days of my life, too…he walked me down the aisle when I said “I do” to my amazing husband, Chris. And he held Noah and Elias on the days his grandsons were born. And like all dads, he was there to teach me things. How to be as competitive as he was at Gin Rummy, Sequence, Pounce, and Risk…though Risk I never won. He taught me that you can never use too much Scotch tape when wrapping presents. Peanut butter and pancakes are a perfect combination. And you can fit any amount of luggage and souvenirs in the trunk of a compact car. “It’s solid geometry,” he’d say. “Solid geometry.” And at the end of his life, whether he was trying to or not, he taught me more than I ever knew about God’s amazing grace. That there is no valley too dark or pit too deep for the redemptive love of God. Through Dad’s life, I saw the Lord answer what at times I thought were impossible prayers. Dad’s struggles and triumphs, life and death have strengthened my faith in immeasurable ways. And perhaps that is the greatest gift a father can give. Ralph D. Pickett October 21, 1951—January 27, 2011

I resolve to think more about my health and less about my looks. More water, less Diet Coke. More exercise when I have the motivation and more when I don’t. I resolve to savor more todays and wish less for possible tomorrows. More gratitude, less grumbling. I resolve to be the spouse, parent, sister, friend I want to have. More listening, less talking. More love, compassion, grace. I resolve to accept that we don’t have to work more if we’re willing to want less. I resolve to view our money and possessions as what they actually are– on loan from God to accomplish His purposes. More time in the Word, less on the Web. More prayer, less people-pleasing. I resolve to spend less energy thinking about what I want to do, ought to do, and more time just doing it. More of Him , less of me . I resolve.

Today we were doing some final Christmas shopping at the store with the big red bulls eye. As we weaved our way up and down aisles crowded with people and toys, I found myself losing focus of the reason we were buying gifts.

So we’ve decided to forgo my two favorite Christmas decorating traditions this year: the classic Christmas tree and the meaningful Nativity scene. Why would I do such a thing? His name is Noah.

I spent the weekend finding new nooks and unconventional crannies to display my favorite Christmas ornaments. [Check out the previous post to read why.] Here are a few more of my clever creations… I filled this chunky glass vase with the strings of cranberry wooden beads that we usually drape around the tree. Then I topped it with simple bronze ball ornaments and finished with a plaid Christmas ribbon.

Truly, truly, I have so much to be thankful for. Just one of the things I’m giving thanks for today is our morning family walk. We bundled up the boys and strolled our quiet neighborhood streets. The sky was bright blue. The air was perfectly crisp. And I don’t think my kidlets could be any cuter!

Here are a few things I delighted in on today’s morning walk:

I hope living with me is better than living in a desert.

After days (or weeks) of letting TV, dishes, laundry, sleep, paperwork, grocery shopping, and Facebook consume any quiet, kid-free moment I had, I was finally still enough for long enough to hear God whisper to my heart, “Come, be with me .” And I was just weary enough not to fight it. I knew I needed to obey.

I’m taking on a 30 day fitness challenge and I’m inviting you to join with me! Last week I was over at (in)courage and saw this post by Jen from Balancing Beauty and Bedlam . She talked about creative ways to build community, one of which was working out. Fitness has definitely been top of mind for me lately. Since giving birth to my second son 12 weeks ago, I have been eager to shed these prego pounds and get back to feeling like me. I’ve been watching what I eat and taking long walks while pushing the boys in the mega-heavy double stroller. But I’m still not getting the results I want fast enough. So when I saw Jen’s invitation to 30 days of fitness, I knew this was the kick start I needed. So what is it and why did I choose it? WHAT: It’s a workout DVD by Jillian Michaels called 30 Day Shred, which combines strength conditioning, cardio, and abs. WHY: First, I have 10 more pounds to lose to get back to my pre-prego weight and into my favorite pair of jeans (you know the ones that are comfortable and figure flattering…oh, how I miss them!) Second, I can commit to 20 minutes a day…as a busy mom of two under two, any more just isn’t realistic. And third, 30 days is long enough to get real results, but short enough that I knowI can follow through. (I like to set myself up for success.) Plus, I know that fitting even 20 minutes of intense exercise into my rather intense life would be challenging, so I liked the idea of joining a community of other women who were doing it, too. And when I found the DVD on Amazon.com for $5.99 it sealed the deal! Today I endured the first day of shredding. It felt good (and bad) to feel my out-of-shape muscles burn, wipe some sweat from my brow, and know that I am one day closer to a do-my-body-good accomplishment! I’m sharing this with you all NOT to toot my own horn about buying a silly workout video and doing it for one day. I share this with you because I NEED accountability, and I’m thinking maybe some of you might, too. I’ll be updating you at least a couple times with my progress over the next 30 days. PLEASE feel free to jump in and join me any time! Only 20 minutes a day away from a healthier you, me, WE!

Have you ever noticed that we are all more keenly aware of our own imperfections than anyone else is? A friend and her son recently came over for a play date and remarked how clean my house was. She jokingly asked Noah if he was sure he actually lived here because she was certain it was way too tidy to be the home of a toddler. My house, clean? I was keenly aware of the breakfast dishes in the sink, the layer of grime on the refrigerator shelves, the rust ring in the bathtub, and how well my tile floor hides dirt. On Saturday I went to my childhood best friend’s engagement party. Several people commented on how good I looked for just having a baby two and a half months ago. A single gal told me I must share my slim-down secrets with her if she ever has a child. My body, slim? I was keenly aware how the waistband of the only nice pair of pants I could squeeze into was digging into my soft tummy each time I exhaled. I entertained a new friend for lunch last week and she complimented me on how beautifully decorated my home was. She enjoyed the selection and placement of art and accessories in every room. My home, decorated? I was keenly aware of the huge blank wall above the fireplace that has been begging for a canvas to cover it since we moved in over a year ago. Perhaps it’s time to transfer my keen awareness to something other than my imperfections. Maybe I should be more keenly aware of how blessed I am to have a home to weclome friends into and an abled body that has given birth to two precious boys. Because, really, no one has a perfect home or a perfect body. (Except maybe a celebrity with a professional decorator, cleaning crew, personal trainer, and private chef. And even then, she is probably keenly aware of her imperfect marriage, unhealthy self image, and lack of hope.) So here’s to being keenly aware that perfection isn’t as important as perspective!

"The way she holds your little finger The way she coos when you are near The way you calm her every whimper And cast out all her fear The way he giggles with excitement The way he cries when you’re apart The way his eyes light up with wonder And his smile melts your heart "It’s in these little moments Shared just between each other That make you know for certain You were meant to be a mother

Since yesterday I told you about one of my favorite bedtime stories, today I want to share another beloved ritual from my childhood…the bedtime song. After my mom finished reading our stories, she would turn out the lights and sing a song. My favorite was Gentle Shepherd . As she sang, she rubbed my back. Her soothing strokes mingled with the peaceful melody calmed my heart and mind as I drifted off to sleep.

Like most kids growing up, I LOVED bedtime stories. Actually, I loved stories any time! But bedtime was always extra special…a time of quieting down and listening to my mom’s soothing voice. My sister, Mary, and I would sit in our matching twin beds nestled in the nook created by the double peaked ceiling of our shared room in the house my great grandfather built. My mom would perch between us and take our bedtime story requests. More often than not, we chose The Random House Book of Poetry for Children. There were silly poems and thoughtful poems. Poems that made us giggle and poems that made us shriek. One of my favorite poems was one that made my heart feel comforted and glad. Home! You’re Where It’s Warm Inside by Jack Prelutsky Home! You are a special place; you’re where I wake and wash my face, brush my teeth and comb my hair, change my socks and underwear, clean my ears and blow my nose, try on all my parent’s clothes. Home! You’re where it’s warm inside, where my tears are gently dried, where I’m comforted and fed, where I’m forced to go to bed, where there’s always love to spare; Home! I’m glad that you are there. Now that I’m the mom, I’m inspired to create this kind of home for my kids. A place where they will always know that they are loved. A place they’ll be glad to be. As someone who struggles with perfectionism, it can be easy to allow the to-do’s of running a home to take precedent over the get-to’s of raising a family. I get to kiss the boo boo’s and dry the tears. I get to prepare healthy meals and give cozy hugs. I get to be a teacher, playmate, and encourager. So day by day, I’m learning to let go of being perfect and embrace being present. I’m Mommy and I get to make Home a Special Place!

Sometimes I’m overcome by how much I love my boys. Of course, I always knew (in an intellectual, of-course-this-is-logical kind of way) that I would love my own children more than any other. But sometimes it surprises me how deep and fierce and pure and joyful my love for them is. I’ve only been their mother for a relatively short time. But each day I know my boys is another day I love them more. Sometimes my love is too much for my heart to hold. It spills out of eyes. It creates the goofiest grin that I couldn’t erase from my face if someone offered me a thousand bucks to do so. Noah and Elias are my sons. I delight in them. I love them just for who they are. In loving them I can’t help but have a greater understanding of the Father’s love for me. It’s profound, really. Watching Noah play or Eli sleep makes my heart smile. In the same way, God’s heart is filled with joy just watching me be me. He loves me not for what I do but for who I am.

My walking shoes are therapeutic.

Confession. Growing up I had this quirky habit: I had to open the mailbox before I opened the front door… every time . It didn’t matter if it was a Sunday, a holiday, midnight, or if I knew the mail had already come and I was even the one that had retrieved it. Every time I stood I stood before our green front door, that black metal box hanging on the rough brick wall beckoned me to open it.

Several years ago I was talking with a coworker and asked her if it was hard to be single. She was in her early forties and had never been married. We chatted and she expressed that yes, at one time she had hoped and longed to be married, but now was content with her life and the journey God had taken her on. Then she said something that has always stuck with me: “It’s better to want what you don’t have than to have what you don’t want.” The wisdom in that simple phrase has come to mind time and time again when I get caught in the wanting game. I want more sleep, more energy, more time. I want better hair, whiter teeth, and cuter clothes. I want best friends who live on my block and understand me all the time. More money, better communication, a bigger house, kids who never whine, and flatter abs. I want. I want. I want! And then I remember those words. Especially the last part…to have what you don’t want. What if I had a child with a severe disability or a husband with a terminal illness. What if I had no food for my family or didn’t know how to read. A lack of hope, no one to call a friend, an abusive past…all things I would never want. How blessed I am to NOT have what I don’t want! And really, when I think about it, I really do want everything I have. A husband who is smart and funny and my best friend. Two insanely cute and precious little boys. Two legs to walk on and two arms to hug the ones I love. A sharp mind (when I’m not sleep deprived) and friends who care for my heart. The amazing-grace gift of salvation and a relationship with Jesus. Wow. Everything I have I want! I guess wanting is not such a bad thing…if you want what you already have. Be content with what you have, because God has said, “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.” -Hebrews 13:5

So I changed the look of my blog. When I saw this new background it just seemed to fit. While I loved the Old World look and worn, travel journal feel of my old blog template, I decided that didn’t really resonate with this season of my life. The previous design reminded me of pouring over aged books or sifting through antique treasures. There is no space in my life right now for pouring anything but juice into sippy cups. The only things I have time to sift through are baskets of laundry and boxes of toys. I liked the idea of the old design, but it’s just not me. This new one is. I am trying to embrace not what I WISH were elements in my current life (like vacations to cobblestone paved European villages or a full night’s sleep), but rather what IS. Blue is the clear sky under which the boys and I take our daily walk. Green are the beautifully manicured lawns I admire as we stroll our neighborhood streets. And simple and magical is a dandelion wish, which is the kind of childhood I hope to give my sons.

I’m taking a life course called Humility 101. My current instructors are a toddler and a newborn. Here are a few lessons from today’s curriculum. Your primary function in life is a milk machine and butt wiper. You think you know how to discipline your self-asserting toddler, but everything that should work does not. You realize that you might just blow your entire savings account if someone offered you 24 hours of uninterrupted sleep. You give everything you have, yet you still feel like it’s not enough. Knowing that my attitude and actions each day directly effect two little lives that are totally dependent on me is very humbling. I’m trying to learn how to fully go to God for the strength that I need and accept his grace for my many shortcomings. These are some challenging days. But I wouldn’t trade them for the world. Your prayers for this leg of the journey are greatly appreciated. Please meet my humble instructors…

Curious. Inquisitive. Brave. Adventurous. 100% BOY! Noah is 19 months old and loves to climb, explore, and try new things. About a month ago we found a quaint little hidden park in a nearby neighborhood. Noah had a blast discovering every inch of his new favorite playground.

Five years ago today I said “I do” to a life-long journey with my best friend. As a young bride, I was deeply in love with my new husband. But over the past half decade I have learned so much more what it means to love and be loved. I love Chris more each time I see him thrive at a job he’s passionate about. I love him more when I see him act with integrity and treat others with respect. I love him more when I watch him be an incredible father to our two boys. Every day, I love him more and more. Here are a few memorable moments from the day our journey began.

On Tuesday, July 13, 2010 at 5:18 pm, God brought another small but spectacular miracle into this world. I am proud to introduce to you Elias Michael Keife

Today could be the big day. The day I give birth to my second son. The day my little family of three becomes four. I am so excited to meet this whirly, twirly, kicking machine who’s been growing inside me these past 38 weeks. I can’t wait to look into his little eyes, caress his little cheeks, let him wrap his tiny hand around my finger. Welcoming baby Elias is a blessing we’ve been praying for, preparing for, and waiting for. So, why I am resisting? Last night as I was rocking and singing to Noah during his bedtime routine, I burst into tears. The thought that this could be my last night with only Noah to soak up my love and attention overwhelmed me. I’ve had almost 19 months with my little buddy and now everything is about to change. Of course, in my head I know that all the joys and blessings, love and laughter Chris and I have experienced being Noah’s parents will only multiply with the addition of Eli to our family. I know that it will be an incredible journey coming to know this new little person and seeing Noah become a big brother. There is much to look forward to. And I am genuinely excited. But I have always had a hard time with change. Even good change. I like to know what to expect. Probably because when I can anticipate circumstances I feel like I can control the outcome. But here I am again on the edge of a big uncharted sea…mothering a toddler AND a newborn! (Not unknown territory to mankind, I understand…but still a scary adventure for me.) Had only I prepared more! Had only I made time to reread the parenting and breastfeeding and baby care books I poured over when I was pregnant with Noah. Will I remember what to do? Had only I organized my underwear drawer and hand-mopped the floors and scrubbed the refrigerator shelves. Wouldn’t I feel so much better going into today? Yes, I’m sure I’ll remember how to care for my new baby. No, I’m pretty sure had I done all those things my mind would just be on the other dozens of items on my never-ending list of to-dos. So, what now? I don’t know for sure if Elias will make is big debut today. But I do know that I need to turn to my loving God and ask Him to take care of me. Really, that’s what I need to do every day. With God’s tender guidance I know I can lean into this season of change. I will endure the hard moments and savor the sweet ones. I will trust that He knows what I need, what my husband needs, and what BOTH of my sons need. And He will be faithful to the end.

One of the best things about being the mom of a young child is getting to re-experience the world through a child’s eyes. I love watching Noah get excited about life’s simple pleasures. Things like crayons, Cheerios, orange popsicles, and digging in dirt. Sometimes I can make life feel so complicated. Noah helps me get back to the basics.

Several months ago while Chris was doing yard work he chopped down a very unruly rose bush. It wasn’t producing many flowers and posed more of a thorny trap for a curious toddler than anything else. I hadn’t thought much about this bygone plant until the other day when I looked out my side kitchen window and saw this:

Motherhood. I can think of no other “job” that requires so much self sacrifice or produces so many heart-melting smiles. When I look at these pictures of everyday moments, I forget about the sacrifice and only feel the smile.

Noah and I were out running errands today when we stopped at Boston Market for lunch, which was overpriced and NOT very yummy, yet it turned out to be an excellent choice. Here’s why… First, the man ringing us up at the register commented on what a happy boy Noah was. While we were eating, Noah was smiling and making silly faces at two workers who were restocking the nearby condiment station. They waved to him, but were talking to each other in Spanish so I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Later, one of the workers came up to our table with several packets of crayons and white paper. With a big smile, he laid them in front of Noah and walked away. As we were leaving, we passed by two elderly ladies, probably in their late seventies, whom Noah had been flirting with throughout our entire lunch. One of them said to me, “I have to tell you that your son just made my day!” Wow! In that moment I felt so proud and happy and blessed. This amazing little boy was making people smile and bringing joy to their day just by being himself. And I am the lucky one who gets to be his mom! As our day went on, I couldn’t get that woman’s warm, aged smile or her heartfelt words out of my mind. As I thought about how much that small encounter meant to me, I was struck by how God must feel the same way when His kids, you and me, bless one another. What joy and pride He must feel when we bring light and life to someone else just by being ourselves and letting the joy He has put in our hearts shine forth. Today, Noah blessed another person by being the child God made him. Sometimes it’s so easy to get bogged down in life by all the day’s to-do’s or your own laundry list of complaints or the little injustices and annoyances that creep into the day. But what would happen if we focused less on that and more on being the person God created us to be? I hope to follow Noah’s example and allow my inner joy to shine a little brighter. Maybe I can make a stranger’s day, too.

We continued our Mother’s Day celebration Sunday afternoon with Chris’ family at one of our favorite eateries, Pacific Fish Grill in Chino Hills. After enjoying delicious fried zucchini, perfectly golden crispy shrimp, and tender grilled salmon over flavorful rice, we walked over to the main courtyard of the shopping area. This provided the highlight of Noah’s day…the glorious ground fountain! As Noah’s older cousins sprinted in and out of the sporadically spurting spouts, you could just see the look of desire and anticipation on my little guy’s face. So, at first Chris tried to let him enjoy the water wonderment without getting wet, like this…

I had a fantastic Mother’s Day! It started off by Chris getting up with Noah so I could sleep in! Woohoo! I was slightly put off when that only lasted an hour…but I couldn’t be disgruntled for long once I saw my grinning toddler running toward me with a big white envelope in his hands. He shimmied his way up on the bed, lunged into my sleepy arms, and gave me the perfect juicy kiss. Then my husband entered the room with a beautiful bouquet of sunflowers and other perfectly lovely blooms. I love fresh flowers! By this point the aroma of fresh coffee and a hot breakfast had made its way into our room. Again, a good enough reason to be woken up early. While enjoying a yummy breakfast with my boys, Noah unexpectedly pulled something out from beneath his highchair tray. Thinking the card, flowers, and breakfast were certainly my whole gift, I was totally surprised when I realized he was holding a gift card to Motherhood Maternity! Then, a few moments later, Chris pulled out a second gift card and explained that the first one was from Noah and this one was from him. (With only 11 weeks to go before the baby’s due, I was planning on just making the clothes I have work for the rest of the pregnancy. But any pregnant woman will tell you that a couple of new tops that actually fit can produce untold levels of comfort and happiness.) Later during breakfast, Noah did the sign for “please” for the very first time! (We’ve been doing basic sign language with him since he was a little baby and it always blows me away when he suddenly starts using a new sign.) For my son to be so very polite in asking for more cheese, please…it was a little Mother’s Day miracle. 🙂

As I stood in my kitchen tonight, trimming the fat off a huge eight pound pack of chicken breasts from Costco, I was keenly aware of what a great act of love I was performing. Now, great may seem like too strong a word. But the thing is, my husbands hates touching and smelling raw chicken, but he also hates any trace of fat, vein, or sinew. So I have taken on the role of Official Chicken Trimmer for the past 4 and 1/2 years of our marriage–a title I will likely hold for the duration. Over the years I have often thought about renegotiating the division of labor when it comes to this less-than-pleasant task (and admittedly have not always wielded my fat-cutting cutlery with the happiest of hearts.) But several poultry packages ago I made the decision to stop guilt-tripping my husband over this issue, and instead seize the opportunity once or twice a month to love him through this fairly simple act of service. So this got me thinking…how else can I purpose to love Chris in tangible, yet perhaps not quite so obvious ways? And better yet, how is my husband loving me? Chicken trimming doesn’t scream romance, but for me it has love written all over it. So are there acts of love Chris is doing that I’m missing because they’re masquerading as something else? I’m happy to report that, yes, there are many ways my “wonderbul” husband loved me well this week! I didn’t get flowers or a candle-lit bubble bath, but here are a few ways love came to me incognito: He swept, swiffered, then hand-mopped all the floors so I wouldn’t have to bend over with my prego belly. He rented a movie in the romantic comedy genre (without me asking) because he knew I would like it. He hosed down all the patio furniture to eliminate the threat of lurking spiders so we could relax outside and enjoy the beautiful day. And I’m sure there are many more! After my chicken-trimming, I decided to continue to the “love fest” and bake chocolate chip cookies at 11 pm so Chris could enjoy a final sweet treat before renewing his healthy-eating-and-exercising commitment tomorrow. Loving feels good. How have you loved or been loved in a unique way this week?

I love to capture life’s random moments. Snapshots of an ordinary day. Reminders of simple pleasures and chances to choose joy. Here’s a little wonderful randomness from my little man. He makes me smile. Hope these make you smile, too.

I often struggle with measuring the quality of my day by my level of productivity. I love lists. Even more, I love checking things off my lists. (I’ve been known to add an item to a list even after it’s been completed, just for the satisfaction of drawing a big checkmark in that box and knowing I accomplished one more thing that day.) And certainly productivity has its merits. Without it the necessary tasks would never get done and many would find themselves in serious coach-potato status. In fact, the Bible affirms the value of productivity when it talks about the woman of noble character in Proverbs 31 . “She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks…She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.” These are good things and part of being a faithful steward of the people and things God has entrusted to our care. Yet, sometimes, I, and I think others, can put productivity on a pedestal. I can make it an idol of sorts. So that it is my productivity that gives me validation, significance, and worth. At the end of the day I can look at my lists and weigh the checked boxes against the empty ones and say, “Well done, you!” or “You fell short again. Better try harder tomorrow.” This is not what God had in mind. For what my lists don’t consider are the unexpected moments, the unquantifiable responsibilities, beauty, feelings, or the Spirit’s leading. This is what I’m learning to lean into. So today, I did not clean the stove or reorganize Noah’s closet. I didn’t go to Target, call the airline to confirm next week’s flight, or prepare an elaborate dinner. I only did one load of laundry instead of three and there are several emails sitting in my inbox waiting for a deserved reply. So many empty boxes. But this is what I did do: I read my son Dr. Seuss stories and built 20 block towers. I gave Noah uncountable kisses and fed him a healthy lunch. I scoured the kitchen sink and took out the trash. I sang extra songs at naptime, then listened to my body (and my other growing baby) and took a nap myself. I shared a stack of Mini Nilla Wafers with Noah, to our mutual delight. I went to dinner and Home Depot with my two favorite guys. I like my house to be in order and all my duckies in a row. I like checkmarks, a visible sign of all that I’ve accomplished. I like knowing that I used my time and energy wisely. But what is wise? I’m learning to say, “Today was a good day”—not because I was productive but because I was present for my family. I’m learning the wisdom of living for love, not lists. How about you?

While we were in Atascedero, Noah enjoyed his very first Easter Egg Hunt! It was so fun watching him find the brightly colored eggs in the grass, excited for each new plastic treasure.

After leaving Santa Barbara, our grand time continued when we arrived at Mike and Mary’s in Atascedero. Our first adventure led us on a quest for a highly recommended field of wild flowers. I pictured frolicking with Noah among endless spring blooms, encircled by beautiful rolling green hills under a brilliant blue sky. Well…I got my hills and sky. After a solid 40-minute search yielding no such sweeping flower field, we finally decided to turn around and go home. Since Noah was getting pretty antsy at this point, we stopped in front of two friendly cows as our country consolation prize. (Turns out just another mile or two and the wonders of Shell Creek Road would have been ours! Next time.) When we got home it was Noah’s bath time. On our first night at Mike and Mary’s, this usually fun night-time ritual was met with screaming and protest. Apparently Noah was craving the security of his blue plastic baby tub and the big white porcelain tub was just too scary. Wanting to avoid another pre-bed meltdown, I racked my brain for a solution. He was really too big for the kitchen sink, not to mention that Aunt Mary’s kitchen would surely be drenched afterward. Finally, the mommy ingenuity kicked in. As you can see, the result was a hit! On Saturday our lovely hosts took us to nearby Morro Bay. We strolled along the boardwalk, perused the cute shops, ate scrumptious halibut tacos and fresh fish & chips, then headed down to the beach. Noah had a great time chasing waves, playing with his new sand toys, and running like a crazy little man. Though Chris was close at hand, Noah inevitably took a tumble in the surf. The sunscreen and sand in his hair made a lovely gray paste.

On Thursday the boys and I packed up the car and headed north. Destination…Atascadero, to see my sister and brother-in-law. On our way, we made a pit stop in beautiful Santa Barbara. And whenever we have a chance to go to SB, we have to stop at Little Alex’s for the best grilled chicken nachos EV-ER!! Yum!

Here are some fun moments from the last couple months. I’m so lucky to be this little guy’s mom! The joy he exudes makes every day with him a blessing.

I grew up in a house full of girls—my mom, two sisters, and me. We played dress-up, fought over the bathroom mirror, and got ready for prom. I never imagined myself in a house full of boys. But that’s exactly what’s about to happen. Yesterday, we found out that baby #2 is another boy. I don’t want to admit it, but my first reaction to this news was disappointment. I told myself not to get my hopes up, but I was secretly convinced that it was a little girl growing and twirling inside me. I had dreamed of tying pink bows around bouncy pony tails, sipping steamy imaginary tea next to bunny and bear, and teaching my daughter how to make mommy’s scrumptious chocolate chip cookies. Fighting back tears, I said goodbye to my dreams. And then I realized, these were my dreams… This amazing little person isn’t being born just for my joy. He is going to be a wonderful new part of our family. Chris’ son and Noah’s brother. I started to see glimpses of new dreams. My boys dueling light sabers and building backyard forts. Father-son fishing trips and family mountain hikes. Noah growing up with a constant playmate by his side…two little buddies sharing life’s adventures. Having children is not about fulfilling a parent’s dream. It’s about welcoming the perfect blessing God has chosen for you. It’s about being eager to discover who that child is and how you can come along side to grow them up into the person God created them to be. Photos like these are helping with my changing dreams.

Noah is fifteen months old today! Fifteen Things I Love about My Son (in no particular order): His light-up-my-life smile The way he leans in to give Daddy kisses His curiosity and eagerness to explore The way he smells after a bath How he runs with pure joy His ridiculously tiny buns The way he says “nana” (banana) in the voice of an angel His dragon growl How much he loves reading stories with Mommy The way he makes strangers stop and smile His gentle spirit The best giggle I’ve ever heard The way he snuggles before bedtime His kissable cheeks That he will always be my son and I his mom

This picture of Noah was taken nearly four months ago, but it’s one of my favorites. Those adorable blue eyes stare at me from the side of my fridge each day and it always puts a smile on my face. So, just for kicks, I thought I’d share it with all of you.

On Saturday I had the opportunity to go with my dear friend, Esther, to a mini women’s retreat called, “Make Space for God.” This is a portion of my reflection from the first session of the day. But I have stilled and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child is my soul within me. Psalm 131:2 Noah has been weaned for two months. He no longer needs my physical body for his own physical nourishment. He can now drink from his own Sippy cup and feed himself with his little fingers. Even as a tiny toddler, he is exerting his independence, exercising his own will and wants, and testing his boundaries. But though he wants to adventure and explore new things each day and protests when he doesn’t get his way, still he knows he needs mommy and daddy. Still he clings to me, knows I’m where it’s safe and warm and comforting. Before naptime and bedtime we rock and sing. Noah melts into me completely. My active, energetic, strong, and wiggly little boy is calm, quiet, peaceful, and still, nestled snuggly in my arms. Usually, he’ll tuck in his arms and curl his small hands in the curve of my neck, just to be that much closer to me, that much more enveloped in my comfort and care. I deeply treasure these moments—these moments of my son surrendering fully to my love. And so it is with what God desires from us, from me. He has given me the ability, the choice to be loud and busy, to push the boundaries he has set for me. Yes, he enjoys it when in the course of my day I stop and smile at him, ask him a question, have a quick conversation, or check in about this or that. But it’s not unless I stop completely and melt into my Father’s loving arms, surrender fully to his care, that I can really know and enjoy this child-like picture of deep faith and communion with God.

Thank you for this mountain of dishes You gave me food to eat Thank you for this pile of laundry You gave me clothes to wear Thank you for this file of papers You gave me work to do Thank you for this closet of clothes that no longer fit You gave me a baby to carry in my womb Thank you for this furniture covered with dust You gave me a home to care for Thank you for this tub of dirty water You gave me a child to bathe Thank you for this day full of things to do You gave me a family to serve and love “Do all things without grumbling or disputing, so that you will prove yourselves to be blameless and innocent, children of God above reproach in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you appear as lights in the world.” -Philippians 2:14-15 Lord, help me to turn all my grumblings into gratitude—today, tomorrow, and always. Thank you for every precious blessing you’ve given me. I don’t deserve any of them. Thank you for your perfect provision, your perfect love.

It’s amazing what 90 minutes outside the house can do for the soul. As a stay at home mom who works part time from her dining room table, it can be easy to get trapped in all the to-dos and forget about the world outside your 1,200 square foot bubble. Dishes, laundry, diapers, chasing Noah, reading stories, making breakfast, lunch, and dinner, posting payments, posting charges, dare to shower, dare to nap, bills and emails, and another day has come and gone. This is how most of my days come and go without a breath of fresh air, save for a quick trip to the trash can to dispose of one of Noah’s super stinkies! Today, I knew I needed something different. Take a chance! Venture out! I heard a voice calling. I remembered something about a music time for babies at this charming little children’s book store in the Village, the one we popped into a couple months ago to buy Noah’s first Christmas book. (This place is almost as cute as The Shop Around the Corner, if you know what I mean.) I looked up the store online, found the info, and made a plan! I left the dishwasher full of clean dishes and Noah and I were off for a little adventure! We walked (well, mommy walked and Noah lounged in his stroller) the 15 minute trek to the store. Then we joined the circle of five other moms and their tiny tots and were led in a series of songs and activities by a very cute and bubbly young blonde. We clapped our hands, patted our legs, and banged on a drum. Noah was very intrigued. Sadly, the fun only lasted 15 minutes. Hmmm….do I have to turn around now and go right back home? We stayed for a bit and Noah tinkered in the little play area–particularly amused by a plastic banana and tiny whisk–and I chatted with a few of the other moms. I still wasn’t ready to go home to the skimpy leftovers from last night’s dinner waiting for us. Then I remembered this inexpensive Mexican restaurant I ate at a couple years ago that was only a few doors up the street. So off we went for a mother/son date. We shared beans, rice, and limey guacamole. It wasn’t fancy, but it was fun. We walked back and I was excited to enter my wonderful home again. We were only gone 90 minutes, but it made my whole day. I can see how this may all sound a little melodramatic, but if you’ve ever been a stay at home mom, I think you understand. 🙂