between His shoulders

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Someone gave me this verse last week, and I've read it every day since, trying to let the words settle like wrinkles:

"Let the beloved of the Lord rest secure in him, 

for he shields him all day long, 

and the one the Lord loves 

rests between His shoulders" (Deuteronomy 33:12). 

It's part of Moses' final blessing (God's favor and protection) to Israel, and it's for me too. I have mixed feelings about being the lamb between his shoulders. Part of me hates being that helpless, that small, that needy and dependent--so dependent that I have to be carried. I'd rather think of myself as able and competent; I don't want to have to need anyone that much. I'd rather buck and wander, thank you very much.

But that part about rest rings inside like church bells. Yes and amen. If anything tries to attack me, it has to go through Him first. And being held to Jesus by all fours, not as a way to wield power but as a way to lead gently, a way to take my burden--myself--on him? Oh thank you Jesus!

So, yes. I'm secure because
He has me.
He shields me.
He loves me.

I can buck or rest there, between His shoulders,
but what good would bucking do?
He has me.
And He isn't letting go.
And I'm grateful for a Savior who says:
Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden
and I will give you rest (Matthew 11:28).

Hi there.

I can't say that "I'm back," but I'm here, now. Clicking keys and marking white space for the first time in over a month. The break has been good--necessary. The six weeks of sleep deprivation from the toddler with nightmares took me back to the days of having an infant; I probably shouldn't even have been driving, so writing was out of the question. But we're on the other side of the nightmares for now, and I've had a few experiences in the past month that have put a kid with nightmares into perspective, so I'm here, now.

Let's go with bullets today, just for fun. And because that's all I can do with these atrophied writing muscles. 

• Have you been watching the GOP debates? Donkey or elephant, they're simply fascinating.

  

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• Do you know about the forced sterilization of over 60,000 men, women, and children from the 1930s to the 1970s? I couldn't believe the article I read in World Magazine this past issue. I kept telling my husband, "Did you know about this? How could this be okay for so long? or ever? Who gets to decide these things?" I'm still boiling from the injustice. Click the link above for the full article. 
• On a more light-hearted note, the offspring are hilarious, per usual. The little one, Noodle, (who's about to be TWO!), has quite the vocabulary. The other day, she stopped running and said, "Need water break, Mommy." And when I told her Daddy was at work, she said, "Aw may-un (man). I miss Daddy." Love that girl to pieces. The big (tall!) one, Moo, loves asking deep questions right as I'm walking out of his room at night: "Mom, who is God's enemy?" and "Mom, I hug you so you can have Jesus in you. I know all about Jesus, all the parts about Him. But who made Jesus?" Lord, give me wisdom! What an incredible kid.

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• And on a completely shallow note, do you know about Softsoap's Wild Basil & Lime hand soap? If you can't find me, I'll be in the kitchen washing my hands so I can smell them. 

Whenever the fog passes

It's been a kidney stone, car-dying, car-buying, kid with nightmares, kid teething, stomach bug, sleep-deprived 10 days. As if all of nature was mocking me, I dropped into bed at 8:20 last night but couldn't fall asleep for several more hours because of the strobes of lightning and the thunder that gave my bed the feeling of motion. So. Maybe I should give myself a break about all the writer's block. Maybe this just isn't the month to be hard on myself about buckling down to write. Because some weeks, you need sleep more than you need just about anything else.

That being said, I claimed the little corner
desk in our living room, declared it mine. Cleared the mail and alligator artwork and coasters, left a clean space with a simple lamp, and a wire basket for current books and writing projects. And now there's space--not quite a room of one's own, but a place to think and write. The physical space helps validate me as a writer, gives the title clout and worth and reality. So even though my brain is a junk drawer on NyQuil, my space is clean and waiting for me whenever this fog passes.

Today I'm THAT writer.

I'm swimming in wet cement. Inching along, kind of wanting to get out, but really feeling so discouraged that I want to give up more than I want to get out. One day I'm all "I'm a writer! Let's do this. I'm inspired and good at what I do and don't have time in a day to write all that's in my head," and another day it's just, well...nothing. Blank stares from the muse, complete dread of figuring out what to write, silence from God. I'd rather stab my finger with a pencil than sit down and try to write.

It's one of THOSE days. Months, really.
A funk.
Writer's block.
Whatever.

And I hate it when writers write about writer's block because it's so cliche and always wreaks of woe-is-me, but here I am anyway, joining the masses, complaining about how hard it is to write.

But I just need to write. To do the excruciating work of slaying myself open and letting others see the yuck and beauty and wonder that's there. Couldn't I have been called to a less gut-wrenching thing?

And so I'm writing.
Even if it's bad.
Even if the only adjective I can come up with is "bad."
Even if my heels are bucking and I'm punching the air.
At least the bucking means I'm alive, that I care.
At least that's what I'm telling myself.