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).

Boundaries: an outline

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*Originally written as a guest blog for my friend Kaitlin. Head over to her blog for inspiration, beauty, and a good old-fashioned pep-talk.

Somewhere along the line, the word "boundaries" got  complicated. It went from marking the edge of
a territory to having all sorts of relational implications that are anything but clear.

In their purest form, boundaries tell us where a space ends or begins and are meant to clarify and direct. For our forefathers, they created order out of a vast new world. They keep Appalachian Trial hikers from getting lost on an already long journey. And they keep my neighbors' dogs' poop off my grass. See? We want and need boundaries. So why are they so darn confusing in relationships? I don't have all the answers, but here's a place to start:

Know why you're drawing the boundary. 
Boundaries are meant to protect, clarify, direct, and keep the peace. If you're creating boundaries for other reasons (i.e. "This isn't convenient" or "This isn't easy" or "I don't like this person"), check your motives. We mask a lot of selfishness in the word "boundaries." 

Ask for wisdom.
If your boundary-making is rightly motivated, though, then you're wondering when to begin or end a friendship/relationship, and that's a murky matter. Do a lot of listening--listening to people wiser than you, and listening to God. Don't make any quick moves; be deliberate and patient about seeking wisdom. And remember that a boundary for some isn't a boundary for everyone. Without wisdom, you'll make too many lines, too few lines, or lines that just won't work.

Draw the line
The Israelites cried out for God to deliver them from the pursuing Egyptian army, and God did make a way through the sea, but first He said something unexpected to Moses: "Why are you crying out to me? Tell the Israelites to move on" (Exodus 14:15). We absolutely need to begin with crying out to God for wisdom, but then we need to move on--not that we stop crying out to Him, but that we don't stop there. Prayer moves us to action.

So, once you've determined to start, continue, or end a relationship, figure out where the lines are, and know that the process of "figuring out"is evolving. You'll stumble and mess up. You'll try something that doesn't work and stumble upon something that does. That's okay. I don't know many (any?) people who create boundaries perfectly the first time.

Color inside the lines
You've drawn the lines and now you have to do the hard work of following through. The boundaries have given you a new sort of freedom because you've clarified expectations, but you have to color inside the lines you've drawn. This, of course, is the hard part. It means breaking habits of engaging or disengaging, and old habits really do die hard. Give yourself grace to mess up (because you will), but also make it hard for yourself to mess up: gather a few people around you who know about the lines you're drawing and ask them to help you stick to it.

Let's get really practical. If you've committed to pursuing, be intentional about time with that person; call, text, get together, drop by, make a plan. If you've committed to ending, be intentional about latching those fences. Delete the number, resist communicating when you want to, and be okay with things feeling distant and awkward. So easy to type, eh?

And an important side note: drawing the line doesn't always mean announcing your line. In many cases, no one but you has to know the line's there; other times, the line needs to be clearly communicated. Again, seek wisdom.

Prepare for the lines to change (or not).
Have you ever looked at early maps of the United States? They're way off. The guys drawing those maps didn't have drones and computers to create accurate lines; they were walking the lines. We're like them. We don't have the luxury of a bird's eye view to our lives because we're living them, which means our perspective will change over time, as will (possibly) our relationships. Relational lines don't have to be permanent. It's why adopted children reunite with birth parents, fizzled friendships rekindle years later, and teachers can be friends with their students once they graduate. People change. Circumstances change. So our lines need to be moveable. Not always, but sometimes.

Here's the bottom line (get it?): 
Spend more time considering the WHY of your boundaries than you think you need to.
Be okay with messing up along the way.
Don't get judgy and throw your boundaries on others, or adopt theirs just because.
Be intentional, prayerful, and humble throughout the process.
Like our country's map, the lines won't always be straight and symmetrical, but the ones you create (thoughtfully) are better than no lines at all.

The way it was always meant to be

I studied a camouflage of jewel-colored water glint as ocean lapped coral so rhythmically we use the sound for therapy. For four days last week, Phil and I stole away to Puerto Rico, an early celebration of a DECADE together of wedded bliss, challenge, laughter, heartache, adventure, mistakes, joys, and intimacy. And the trip was just about perfect.

I only wish I’d written more.

The muse was with me. (And how could she stay away? Such beauty and inspiration, time and leisure.) But I needed Virginia’s room of one’s own and the peopled beach kept the writing just out of reach. But it did give me the opportunity to read the most perfect book I’ve ever read—the kind of book whose language inspires you to be a better writer and whose characters feel familiar and sympathetic and whose storyline is compelling. It was so delectable that I’m giving it its own post soon, so I’m going to make you wait for the title. It’ll be worth it, I promise.

 

As each day yawned, I felt the bubbling of words inside and turned them over like smooth stones in my palm. And a couple of times, I put the words to paper –punchy, unexpected sentences strung together so interestingly that even I was amazed they came from me.  But many times, the words gave up trying to escape because I choked them. I’ll write when I get back, I kept telling myself.

But now I’m back home and the words are gone, the muse has left, and it’s taken me days to write a version of our trip because the words fall short every time.

But this post isn’t just about what I wished I’d done; it’s about what we did. And I'm telling you it felt like we were walking on dry ground between walls of ocean. The weather was always sunny but never hot. We rode a ferry to an island each day, and I spent every boat ride trying to find the words to describe the water there. We hiked the rainforest and kayaked at night in the bioluminescent bay and talked and laughed and ate and read and slept til we wanted to. It was heavenly.

I really do think God made us for things like this--to commune deeply and drop our jaws at beauty and explore nature and emotions without fear. But sin entered the world and it isn't like that anymore. We have fractured relationships and spinning lives that miss beauty and experience shame. But it was a taste of the GOOD that God created this world to be and the PERFECTION that He promises it will be again and I'm grateful.

Stay tuned for more trip reflections and the book review!

When you just can't trust

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Of all people, I get his fears. Like him, I went to bed most of my childhood nights with a sheet over my head, my body curled away from the door (in case they attacked, they'd be further from my heart). The shadows mocked me, disappearing when I flipped on the light and dancing when I turned it off. They were monkeys, snakes, evil attackers with long noses and beady eyes. The window next to my bed was a break-in portal; all someone had to do was climb a ladder and use one of those glass-burning tools to silently open my window and I would be all theirs. My parents sleeping the floor above would never know until the morning.

Night after night, thoughts like that stormed my mind, and no amount of sleepytime tea, reading, soothing music, or praying seemed to help. So his three-year-old words to me the other night, "I'm trying to trust Jesus and it's just not working"--I knew that feeling. That feeling of silence on the other end of the Universe when He's promised He's there.

We do a lot of memorizing scripture about fear around here--partly because I still need it and partly because I'm convinced that nighttime fears often have a satanic element to them. Jesus fought Satan with scripture; so will we. But those scriptures can be so tough:

"Fear not, for I am with you" (Isaiah 41:10). How do you just NOT FEAR? What do you do when you fully believe He is with you AND you are still fully fearful? What does that say about me?

"When I am afraid, I will trust in you" (Psalm 56:3). My son's statement is mine: "I'm trying to trust, but it's not working. I'm still afraid. I'm still doubting."

"He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart" (Psalm 91:4). What happens when it seems like God isn't protecting us with his fathers as a mother hen would protect her chicks? What's God up to when bad things happen, when He doesn't keep us from harm?

Tough, tough questions, folks. Really tough questions to explain to a three-year-old. But I'm learning to let him see me struggle with them as well, to seek God even when He doesn't make sense.

When my boy is cowering under his covers and falling asleep in tears, my heart identifies, and it breaks. I want him to experience deep peace and trust, and it'd be so much easier just to stay in his room until he falls asleep or let him sleep in my bed with me, but doing that wouldn't teach him to trust in Jesus; it'd teach him to trust in me. There's an element to parenting that is me modeling Jesus for him, and so I comfort and pray and listen. But I can't be Jesus for him. If I stayed every night until he fell asleep, he'd never have an opportunity to trust. I can give him tools to fight the darkness (and we have--flashlights, night lights, prayer, scripture, logic, coming back to check on him incrementally, etc.), but I can't fight it for him. At some point, he has to put into practice what he's learning. He has to trust that Jesus is who He says He is: that He is with us even when He feels absent, that He is bigger than evil, even when evil seems to have the upper hand.

Trust--it's about the hardest thing to do, isn't it? So much perceived risk to believe in what's unseen but sure. It's the original sin: not trusting that God had their best in mind, Adam and Eve tried to circumvent Him by taking matters into their own hands.

I see him struggle night after night and I remember those years of nights of my own, and all I want to do is take those fears away. But that's it's own kind of distrust and control, the idea that I can somehow fix and save him. When I can step back and get perspective, more than anything, I want him to know his need for Jesus, and to be able to experience God's presence and faithfulness in the fears. And if that's true, letting him struggle may be the greatest gift I can give him, and me.

The story my floor is telling

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My living room floor is littered with candy from a Valentine's Day care package, farm animals abandoned near the barn, an elaborate garage built for Lightning McQueen (who, by the way, has magical powers to sleep all day and all night in there, given that he has some "sleep songs" sung to him every now and then), some clean laundry that's giving me the eye for typing instead of folding, a homemade paper crocodile that's giving me the creeps with it's unblinking stare, and about 18 other things tucked into bookshelves, under ottomans, and inside other toys--with good reason, of course.

In my mind, my floor is evidence of some bad, out-of-control week because I feel like a bad, out-of-control mama a lot of the time, but as I write, that floor of mine is sounding pretty fun (except for the laundry part). Despite one of my kids being awake for the day at 4:30 (or before!) every morning this week (read: exhausted mama who's kicking on Jesus and caffeine, in that order), their lives and mine are pretty darn great. As my friend says, "We're living the dream!" And we are.

So we had to stay home all week because we're sick. So we're running on fumes. So we maybe shouldn't be operating machinery because we're that tired. But our days are good, filled with playing and painting and reading and chasing and singing made up songs. Truthfully, there are lots of moments when I'd rather be somewhere else or do something else; sometimes I go to the bathroom when I don't actually need to pee just to have a minute to myself, and even then I see the little fingers under the door (or the forceful kick, thank you toddler boy).

But my floor tells a different story, one full of life and happiness, and it's funny because my insides don't feel lively and happy right now. They're just surviving, deciding what's absolutely necessary to make it to the next meal, to make it to whenever it is that I can sleep. But I'm glad to see that the external is coming out differently, which means somewhere in my get-me-out insides there's life. Because it's spilling out--onto my floors, into my car, under my couch. And I've maybe never been so grateful for the glorious mess staring back at me. 

But there's still the laundry, so, you know, waxing eloquent about the mundane has to stop somewhere. On to folding.

The hard work of being still

January was full of:

answering questions like "Why did Jesus die on the cross?"

and wiping more snot than I thought any tiny human was capable of producing 

and battling some serious seasonal depression

and not sleeping enough at all

and trying without success to get those precious children to nap at the same time

and writing a talk for one of the Bible studies at our church

and trying to make some really big grown up decisions about the future. 

So yeah. Writing's been boxed out. But I'm here today, right now, and I want to process those big, grown up decisions a bit with you. Phil and I are asking questions about moving to another house in our city--if to move, when to move, where to move, and most importantly WHY to move. And intimately wrapped up in that is the SCHOOL question--which school and, again, WHY. We're asking hard questions like: "What do we value and how are those values reflected in these decisions?" and "What is God asking of OUR family here?" (read: quit comparing) and "What's motivating these decisions?" We're touring schools and having intentional conversations with those on all sides and it's just plain hard and confusing. Add to that my background in education, and I'm deeply, deeply invested in this decision. 

I used to think that decisions would get easier as I got older because I'd be so much more experienced and wise, but it's the opposite: I know now how much I don't know, and life choices are about 500 shades of grey. We're grateful that our problem is deciding among great schools--we really are. But it's also harder because there's no clear "right" decision. They're all good options, so the issue of "which one?" is completely muddied. And the ones we're deciding among are likes apples and oranges. If were were comparing two apples, one would pretty quickly surface as a frontrunner, but comparing such different schools and philosophies makes the decision difficult. 

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You know what I'm resisting most in this process? Seeking God's face. Like really creating space in my day to be quiet, pray, meditate, lay my heart before him, seek wisdom in scripture, and listen to Him and sense the Spirit. I don't want to stop for that. I want to get going. I want to talk to other people and get advice and I want to get online and look up practical things like how far it would be from Phil's work to whatever neighborhood we moved to. Those things would at least make me feel like I was doing something. But prayer? Waiting? Listening? Stopping? That feels like nothing even though it's everything. No shortcuts. But that hard work of being still? It's worth every minute. 

Why it's easier to give than receive

They say it's better to give than to receive and I like that because, let's face it, it's easier to give than receive. Hang with me here.

Giving says:
"You're in charge!"
"You did the nice thing!"

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"You don't owe anyone anything!"
"You look good in someone else's eyes!"

Receiving, on the other hand, means:
You're not in control.
The score isn't tied.
You aren't the one in power.
And you can't take any credit.

I'd like to believe that giving is a selfless act (and for those of you with perfect hearts, I'm sure it is), but a lot of the time for me, it's laced with selfishness because I gain the unseen upper hand in the relationship. The giving is so masked in goodness that the other person doesn't even realize (and often I don't even realize) how self-promoting I'm actually being. Because the truth is that I want the relational upper hand; it makes me feel better about myself. I want to have the balance thud decidedly on my side. I want to be thought of as thoughtful and selfless. And receiving really isn't any of that.

In the last month, a dear friend bought me coffee and another brought over dinner for no reason at all, and I found myself inwardly scrambling for how to make it up to them. "I'll pay for coffee next time," or "I'll make her dinner next month." Scorekeeper-style--yuck. Neither of those women were offering those gifts to me with the expectation that I'd do something for them in return, but unless I did, I had trouble settling into the receiver role.

And it makes me wonder if that's how I see God a lot of the time--a scorekeeper who's waiting for me to repay Him, or someone I can turn to and say, "Look! I did something nice! Now you can do something nice for me!" Clearly, bad theology and not something I actually believe in my core, but if I'm honest about the way I functionally live out what I believe, it typically goes something like that. Earn. Earn. Guilt. Guilt. Work. Work. Not Enough. Not Enough. But the truth is that I am on the receiving end of things when it comes to God--not in control and in His debt. And that's actually my strength: It's finished. The score is settled. And I can't take any credit because it's all been given to me.

I don't really know how to make my giving more selfless and genuine and my receiving more rested. But I'm guessing that scorekeeping view of God and everyone has something to do with it. I need to get acquainted with being a loser in the best possible sense, because as strange as it sounds I really do believe that the way up is down.

Celebrate well

Do you ever feel guilty celebrating? Maybe because others aren't experiencing the same joys you are, or because you're wondering how long the good things are going to last?

I do.

When good things happen--everyone is healthy, my family is at peace with one another and themselves, I find a pair of jeans that fit (miracle!), a hot cup of coffee (another miracle!)--I temper my celebration to self-protect. I often react to good things with one of three emotions:

fear ("When is the shoe going to drop? I know these good things won't last.")
doubt ("Why should I get good things? I don't deserve them.")
or guilt ("Others aren't experiencing this joy now." Or, "I'll probably just start loving these good things too much and make them idols.")

I don't want to fully celebrate; if I just go ahead and assume the long/hard/frustrating path, then I won't be disappointed. Total self-protection. But if I'm really communing with the Father and am not making those things idols, then they're good things that I was made to celebrate.

So, I'm asking myself, how well do I celebrate good things--like really, guilt-free, all-out celebrate them? I think God desires a lot more party in my heart.

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In reading through the Bible in a year five years, I recently came to 1 Kings 8 about Solomon dedicating the temple he built for God. After 40 years in the desert and many more decades of uncertainty with Saul's rivalry with David, and 14 years building and furnishing the temple, the Israelites seem to arrive at a season of peace and goodness that they'd been longing for. They were obedient, God was dwelling among them, and they'd built a beautiful temple for His Name. And after all those years? They celebrated. For TWO WEEKS. They sacrificed tens of thousands of animals in His honor--so many I can't even wrap my head around it. Solomon prayed with hands outstretched to heaven--the very posture of his body reflecting freedom and openness. And after two weeks, Solomon sent everyone home.

I'm wondering what it would look like for me (or you?) to celebrate well. For many of us, everything isn't good and just how we want it. Lots of expectations are unmet and people and circumstances aren't what we want them to be. But in those moments when everything (or even a few things) in our pictures of how life should look is looking pretty darn good, how are we celebrating? Are we celebrating at all? I want to make my life one of praise, where even a hot cup of coffee is an opportunity to speak highly of Him. (And a two-week party wouldn't be bad either.)

On Advent and suffering and hope

Advent. It's a season of slowing--originally slowing in order to connect to our longings--those unmet-in-this-world desires. It's also a season of anticipating a hope that answers those longings. 

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David's Psalm in 2 Samuel 22 describes God as His deliverer, rock, refuge, horn of salvation, shield, stronghold, and Savior. In His might and delight, God rescued David again and again from the hands of the giants living in Midian. I love those qualities of God--deeply love them. I've experienced them, so they carry weight and meaning for me.

But I'm also struggling with these attributes of God. "He rescued me from my powerful enemy" and "God saves the humble." Part of me nods--yes, yes. But there's this other part grappling with all the godly, humble people I know who haven't been saved or rescued from their enemies. They've died of cancer. They've lost children. They continue to struggle with alcoholism. Their husbands have cheated. They've lost their jobs. And like Mary and Martha after their brother died, I'm asking, "Lord, where were you? Why didn't you come?" And I wonder about a larger, global suffering--how and why God allows beheadings, rape, disease, torture, and starvation. How does that jive with His character that David describes?

I don't have a lot of answers. Many days it feels like God has turned a blind eye and abandoned me (or the world) in my suffering. But I do know a few things. I know Mary and Martha didn't know the whole story, and I don't either. I know that the existence of suffering doesn't negate God's character as our good, kind Rescuer. And if suffering didn't exist, would I really long for Heaven? Would I really need Jesus at all or commune with Him deeply? Could it be that suffering draws us into Him in a way nothing else could?

I don't often understand the story He's writing. It's costly and messy and confusing. Many of Jesus' disciples felt the same way: "On hearing [Jesus' teaching on communion], many of His disciples said, 'This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?'" Jesus then asks Peter if he wants to leave too and Peter replies, "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have words of eternal life. We believe and know that you are the Holy One of God" (John 6:60, 68). 

So many questions are unanswered for me about Jesus. But like Peter, who else would I go to? He alone gives words of eternal life, and there's hope there in the darkness.

Yet in thy dark streets shineth

The everlasting Light

The hopes and fears of all the years

Are met in Thee tonight.

Listening and asking: the messy business of being intentional in conversations

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"So, how are you doing, like spiritually and emotionally?" my sister-in-law asked after an hour and a half of pleasant (small talk) conversation.

The tears spilled before my words, not because I was that emotionally or spiritually undone, but because my heart had been gasping for connection like that and I didn't even know it. Before either of us said another word, I felt like I could breathe again.

Another friend recently blogged about asking questions in conversations like "What do you want to achieve?" rather than getting stuck on piddly talk of work or food or the scoop on an acquaintance. What made her suggestion even better was the challenge to help the person achieve their goal in tangible ways. But often "we're afraid of finding out a friend's goals because that opens up the dialogue around our own hopes and dreams that we are currently avoiding."

And that's the thing: intentionality in relationships is messy. costly. uncomfortable. vulnerable.

I love people who are willing to take that relational risk, though. Sure, sometimes usually an hour (or year?) of small talk needs to happen before the deeper questions can come comfortably, but we do ourselves and others a disservice if they never come. Intentional listeners and questioners ask things like:

Tell me more about why you enjoy that so much.
What do you mean by _____?
How did you come to that conclusion?
Why do you think you reacted that way?
What makes this situation particularly hard for you?
How do you typically handle situations like this?

You might know someone who says things like that. If so, spend as much time with them as possible. With any luck, you'll be among them. I know I want to be.

Newsflash: I'm not in control.

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It's 6 a.m. and I already feel like I've lived a day. Between the (rare) nap I took yesterday and the weird stomach pain I had most of the night, sleep was fitful, short, and frustrating. And the kids, who've slept until 6:30 most mornings this week (and should have slept in this morning because they didn't nap yesterday and went to bed late) are both awake and I just want to drink my coffee hot and spend time reading scripture--something I feel like I deserve since I still got up with my 5:40 alarm even though I barely slept. Terrible theology, I know. I've turned my time with Jesus in the mornings into an idol. I have a complaining, entitled heart. The whole day feels defeated before the sun is even up, and there's one big, false assumption that if I could just do A and B, then C will result. I'll be in control; I won't have to trust.

So, here are truths I'm putting before me today. Maybe you need them too?

• You are not in control. Today isn't about you feeling accomplished, rested, or competent; it's about God and who He is, what He's promised, and what He's up to. Lean into Him.
• You may feel empty today--good! You have surplus to give out of--surplus that comes from unending grace, not your own storehouses.
• The day feels defeated already--good! Lay down your weapons. Die to that woman who has to have it all together. Boast in your weaknesses because it's then that He is strong.
• Fight to rest today. Quit trying so hard. Quit trying at all. Take up His light yoke and shrug off worry--you aren't in control anyway.

No Small Moments

I've been reading through the Bible for, like, four years. Maybe five. And I'm only in 1 Samuel. Clearly, I've taken a few detours along the way.

The story of Saul becoming the first king of Israel isn't new to me, but when I read how Saul was called to kingship by the prophet Samuel, I seriously didn't remember the details. Do you know how many weird, insignificant things had to happen for Saul to run into Samuel and for Samuel to name Saul king? A lot. Here's a brief list:

• Saul's father's donkeys went missing.
• Of all his sons, Saul's father asked Saul to go look for the donkeys.
• Saul walked all over tarnation to find those donkeys and couldn't find them.
• Just when he was about to give up, his servant happened to know that a "seer" (Samuel) was in a nearby village and suggested they go see him about the donkey situation.
• Saul says they need to pay the seer but they don't have money. Oh wait. The servant has some. Perfect.
• On their way to the village, Saul and his servant happen to walk by some girls going to draw water, and ask them if they've seen the seer. They have.
• Samuel had just arrived in their town that day. 
• Samuel was on his way to a banquet, and the people wouldn't eat until he was arrived. If Saul found him too late, he'd have to wait a while to talk with him. 
• Saul finds Samuel in time (and God had told Samuel the day before that he would meet Saul at that place and time...the banquet was actually for him, even though he hadn't shown up yet).

Y'all, a donkey hunt is the way God chose to anoint the first king over His people. Every one of those details individually is insignificant; you wouldn't think twice about the fact that a servant has a little change in his pocket. Girls going to get water in the middle of the day? Okay, yeah, that happens. But without each of those details working in concert, Saul may not have been the king of Israel. 

This isn't an isolated story. It's all over the Bible, all over our lives. And it's not a new story. I know all about "divine appointments" and God's sovereignty. But it hit me freshly this week, and I needed the reminder that I'm part of an infinitely bigger story than I can sense or see, that my moments matter.  

Seder Meal

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For the first time, Phil and I participated in a traditional Seder meal together on Maundy Thursday with a handful of friends from church. A Seder meal marks the beginning of the Jewish Passover (the meal Jesus ate in the upper room with his disciples the night he was arrested), but you certainly don't have to be Jewish to participate in it.

We ate what Jesus and His disciples ate. We said what Jesus and His disciples would have said. We did what people for over two centuries have done on that night. And it made Easter weekend so much more meditative and meaningful. I could (should?) write for a long time about my experience that night, but for now, here are a few highlights:

Savoring. Since the food eaten is small-portioned and symbolic, a seder meal is slow and purposeful. I particularly enjoyed tasting each bite and drink, thinking on it with the intensity and alertness of a food critic because I'm usually scarfing down whatever is quick and easy.

Remembering. The slow pace clears space for reflection and remembering, which is one of my favorite themes throughout the Bible. Remembering takes time and conscious effort and, yes, slowing down. For this I-don't-even-have-time-to-eat mama, the slowing was not just my favorite part; it was the most essential.

Experiencing the senses. The seder meal engages all the senses. Obviously, taste is used most, with the specific foods and wine to drink, but beyond that, the sight of the table set, candles lit, and friends gathered, the smell of lamb, the feel of breaking bread, and the sounds of singing and corporate readings elevate this meal to something extraordinary.

It's a family thing. The meal was intended for entire families to enjoy together, and parts of the meal are specifically designed for children, having them look around the house to find hidden objects and recite parts of the readings. I love this. I love that young children were trained in the traditions of their fathers and that families sat down to meals together.

Historical. People have eaten this meal and said these things for over two centuries. It's humbling to be a part of something that started long before I was alive and will finish when Jesus returns. Makes me feel appropriately small and simultaneously significant.

Bitter-sweet. The meal is a combination of sweet and bitter foods--a tangible reminder that life is a combination of sweet and bitter moments--moments that Jesus himself experienced. I like that this meal acknowledges the reality that tears and joy reside together this side of heaven.

Jesus symbolism everywhere. You can't miss the symbolism. The most poignant example for me: throughout the meal, guests each have four cups of wine, standing for freedom, deliverance, redemption, and thanksgiving. The one Jesus raised when he said, "Drink from this all of you"? The third one. And before that night, no one ever actually drank that cup, they just acknowledged it. Can you imagine how shocking Jesus' words were that night? Just wow.

Heaven on Earth

Here's the bottom line: I want life without suffering. Of any kind. 

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If I'm honest, here's what I really, really want:

I want to grow old with my husband and kids.

I want my kids to be happy and healthy.

I want to have peace in my home.

I want my children to respect and love me.

I want good food to eat and time to eat it. And, if I'm being really honest, I probably want it now.

I want a clean, organized home.
I want others to respect and admire me.

I want to have time to myself regularly.

I want emotional stability.

I want financial security.

I want light bulbs to never go out and floors to never need vacuuming and dust bunnies to go away forever.

I want green lights everywhere I go.

I want to avoid car accidents, plane crashes, cancer, and tsunamis.

I want friendships that aren't messy.

I want my to-do list completely checked off.

I want to relax.

I want to be good at everything I do.
I want my work to feel rewarding and meaningful.

I want other, less selfish things, too, like:

I want to meet the needs of others.

I want to be an encouraging, praying, passionate wife/mother/daughter/friend.

I want peace on earth. Really, I do.

I want relief for those who are hungry and diseased in the world.

I want equal opportunity for everyone.

I want the dignity of life to be upheld.

I want to live more simply so I can give more generously.

And, of course, I want more spiritual things like:

I want Jesus to return.

I want the blind to see, the deaf to hear, and the lame to walk.

I want no more widows and orphans.

I want people everywhere to know the transforming love of Jesus.

I want the fruits of the Spirit to be more present my life.

I want to worry less and trust more.

I want to love Jesus more dearly each day.

I want the Word of God to be alive and active.

I want things to work out and be right and not have to work at it. Or, if I do work at it, I want things to turn out perfectly. But the Bible teaches the opposite about suffering: that I will experience it in this life and that it does have a purpose--so much so that Paul says he delights in his hardships and difficulties (2 Corinthians 12:10).

Here's the thing: I'm supposed to long for Heaven without trying to find Heaven here on Earth. Because when I believe I can have all those wants this side of Heaven, and even begin to think I deserve them, I become angry, disappointed, confused, short-sighted, impatient, victimized, perfectionistic, discontent, and discouraged. I become restless and entitled to one serving of no-suffering, please. That girl sounds terrible to be around, and that girl is who I am a lot of days. But that's not who I was made to be.

To be clear, those wants I have are really good things. I was made to want them because I'm an image-bearer of God and they're things He values. BUT. Since the fall, Eden has had weeds and will have them until Christ returns and makes all things new and right and perfect and peaceful again. Until then, it's okay to want those things and even to strive for them, but they can't be my hope. Because as much as my calling as a Christian is to reverse the curse by making this world more God-like, I also need to realize the limitations here, to know that full and complete reversal isn't something I do, but something God does and will do when He returns, and to accept and even delight in suffering this side of Heaven, if it means knowing Jesus better. 

Mommy Martyr

It's no secret that being a mom means putting yourself last a lot of the time. Get everyone else fed and dressed and then I'll throw myself together in the few minutes that are left. The little person wants to read a book with me and I want to catch up on friends' blogs? Reading a book with him always wins. The little person needs milk and I need to start a load of laundry? I'll get his milk first. He needs to eat lunch and I need to go to the bathroom? I'll probably just manage to hold it another hour. Such is life. And it's good, mostly. It's a good thing to have the refrain of my mind be "How can I serve the people in my life today?"

But what happens when that self-sacrifice turns into martyrdom? And when does it cross that grey, grey line? When does it become "I can't take time to get my hair cut/work out/write/go on a walk/run an errand/answer the phone because my kids need me and only me and I don't want to inconvenience my husband during his time off?" How do I get to the place where doing something for myself feels wrong and indulgent? (Side note: I really hate that phrase "doing something for yourself." It sounds so, well, self-helpy and frou-frou. But it's a real thing.) How do I get to the place where doing something for myself doesn't end in guilt for not putting others first?

And most importantly, how does this square with what Jesus says? He clearly values humility:

"The first shall be last, and the last shall be first." 

"Consider others better than yourselves."

"Do nothing out of selfish ambition." 

But he also knew when to "do something for himself." He often stepped away from the crowds. He spent many nights alone. He spent time with a few good friends. He took time to eat. He knew when to say "yes," when to say "no," and when to say "wait." Most of the time, when others needed him, he said yes. And I think that's how it should be. Whenever possible, we say yes to putting others first. BUT. There's a key part of that familiar passage to consider:

"Look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others."

It's implied that we'll look to our own interests, that we'll take care of ourselves. Looking to the interests of others does not exclude looking after yourself. Jesus' ministry was only possible because of the many times he stole away to pray, to eat, to be still. I can't give to those around me effectively if I'm not taking time to steal away. But it's not the stealing away that brings life; it's stealing away to be with Jesus. And that seems to be the key: time to myself should still be about service; I should take time to myself SO THAT I can bring more God-life to the world. And the only God-life I bring comes from what He breathes through me from time spent with Him. Steal away. Fill up. Pour out. Repeat.

But I'm left with a lot of questions. Questions like: When is saying "no" to someone else's need creating a healthy boundary and when is it selfish? How do you put others' needs above your own without sacrificing your own needs? How do you know when "doing something for yourself" is healthy or actually self-indulgent? (Because let's be honest: sometimes "stealing away" to get that pedicure is really more about me than it is about something eternal or others-centered. And yeah. There's a spiritual place for pedicures--not to worry! But do I see it as a way to bring beauty to the world or invest in a friendship, or is it simply an escape from the zoo that is my house some days? And, of course, sometimes escaping the zoo IS what brings God-life because I might otherwise explode on my loved ones.)

It's complicated. And while I don't have many answers, I do know this: it's a matter of the heart. Did you catch that little phrase earlier: "because my kids need me and only me"? That's my heart coming through, y'all. And not the pretty part. That's the part of me that believes the lie that I'm irreplaceable and that somehow I can bring all kinds of life and peace to my kids by my enduring presence. Yikes. Pretty sure that's God's job and that "being there" for my kids has become an idol, and in that moment I officially become a mommy martyr. My kids need me, sure, but they really need Jesus, and the best way for them to learn that is by seeing their very needy mom leaning on Him. That way, when I'm not there to give them comfort/companionship/peace/happiness, they know that Jesus IS there and does those things better perfectly anyway.

Feeling yucky, silver linings, and my word for 2014

For the past two weeks, we've been passing around illness like it's a Handy-Snacks in the school lunch room. So, we rang in the new year last night by going to bed as early as possible, which was still 10:30 because Noodle decided it was a good night to scream. A lot. Poor thing has been constipated I think because of the medicine I'm on for mastitis (again). Moo moved from a stomach bug to a fever/cough/congestion combo that's lingering on for what feels like an eternity. Christmas Eve night, Phil got the stomach bug, and Noodle's reflux has been flaring up.

So.

We've hardly slept.
We're exhausted.
We feel cooped up.
We feel defeated before the day has even begun.
It's an accomplishment just to get dressed every day.

But enough whining. The silver linings in all this?

Phil got sick when his work day was light the next day.
Phil was off and we were at my parents' (read: help available) when I was sick.
Noodle has not gotten the stomach bug or the cough.
These sicknesses are temporary; I can't imagine the stress and difficulty of chronic illness.
This life is temporary; we were made for something bigger than these day-to-day toils.

A friend asked me about my New Year's Resolution(s) this year, and told her I hadn't even had the brain power to think of it. Today feels like any other day with spills and snot and nap times and wrangling my toddler out of his favorite PJs.

While I don't have a resolution per se, I do have a word that I pray drives this year: HOPE. Hope for Heaven. Hope in Jesus. Hope for restoration in the world, my family, and my own heart. Hope that's anchored in the soul, the deep places that only God knows and only God can meet, despite circumstances. Hope that aims to look for the good in all circumstances, even when all the answers aren't there and it hurts. Hope that knows without a doubt that God is up to something all the time even if all I can see is black black black. And it's good. That's the hope I long for.

False alarm

Bad things happen to other people, right? That's what I like to tell myself. It keeps me sane. Keeps me from freaking out and being that mom who wraps her kids in bubble wrap and a helmet and keeps them inside all the time.

Bad things in utero definitely happen to other people. I can't even let myself think they could happen to me or I'd just lose it. But yesterday, I thought that maybe the Very Bad Thing was destined for me. And I was undone.

For so many weeks, all I've wanted is for Baby Girl to quit her several-hour-long acrobatics every night, so when I woke up after a night of uninterrupted sleep yesterday morning, I was grateful. And then these words kept nagging: "If you experience any decrease in fetal movement, please notify your doctor immediately." I kept swatting the thought away, convincing myself it was nothing. But I still wasn't really feeling her move.

Years of medical school have exposed Phil to just enough nightmarish baby stories that when I mentioned the lack of movement to him offhand, he insisted that I hang up the phone with him and call the doctor immediately. That's when I started to wonder if the Very Bad Thing was coming my way. That's when I started the slippery spiral of what-ifs and fought back tears over even the idea of losing the Baby Girl I love so fiercely.

So, after three hours at the hospital of testing and monitoring, I'm grateful to report that all is perfectly fine with sweet Baby Girl. Praise Jesus, who would be good even if I didn't have such good news to report.

I was at the library with Moo when the doctor's office returned my call and asked me to come in right away. My angel friend who was there with me took Moo for the afternoon (and by angel I mean she has a 3 and 4 year-old of her own and had to get them all fed and down for naps by herself), and God orchestrated all the details down to how many diapers I had in the diaper bag.

But for three hours I had a tiny, tiny glimpse of what it might be like to lose a child before he or she really has a chance to live. And it was about the most heart-breaking thing I've ever felt. So while I'm unspeakably grateful to have a healthy baby (never again will I wish away her kicks), my heart is humbled and heavy for those who have lost theirs, whether through miscarriage, infertility, still-birth, medical complications, accidents, or acts of violence. Thank God that he is close to the broken-hearted.

A friend remembered

Do you have that day--that distinct day in your memory--when everyone was happy together one last time? One last time before something irreversibly changed it all?

That was this day for me last year, the last time I was with my friend Saidie and her family before she was diagnosed just days later with incurable cancer.

It was her birthday and Phil, Moo, and I were honored to be the only non-family guests at the party other than their priest. As with all their family birthdays, we laughed, ate delicious Lebanese food, and were filled with happy, happy, happy.

I do remember Saidie telling her sister, though, about a strange pain she'd been having on the right side of her chest. A detail at the time, insignificant until her diagnosis: stage four bile duct cancer. It had spread to her lungs and liver, and she didn't need to tell us what that meant.

She was my mother's age. 

And she was my mom-away-from-home for the past eight years.

Four and a half months later, she was gone. 

She'd want me to remember the good times. All the times we laughed and drank and were merry. The times we dreamed together and celebrated. The times we smiled knowing smiles across a room or discussed the latest sale she found or boasted about how amazing her daughters were (and are).

But it's hard to think only of that when I see reminders of her everywhere I look. I see the gifts she gave Moo at his first birthday and at Christmas and I wish so badly that she could see him play with them, that she could know him and hear him say her name. I drive by her church or her favorite restaurant or I want to get her opinion on baby room ideas because she always had a good eye for decorating and I can't.

And there's that aching void that never goes away but lessens with time, and it hasn't been enough time yet. It still hurts and I miss her and I wish I could be eating Lebanese food with her today and laughing, laughing, laughing until our faces hurt.

But she's also here with me all the time. In her daughters, who are like sisters to me. In my memories. On my mind and in my heart.

She's here. 

And she's not. 

All at the same time. 

Whew!

For the past eight years, we've lived in a series of transitions, being told by institutions and hospitals where we would spend certain years of our lives. Four of those were in Birmingham for medical school, one was in Chattanooga for residency, and the final three were back in Birmingham to finish residency. Eight. Years. All we ever wanted was to settle down and be done with others telling us where to live and for how long.

But I forget how nice it is to have someone else tell you those things, to take on that ultimate responsibility of deciding. Not to mention having someone to blame if when you're unhappy with life.

Here we are, though, at the end of that eight-year journey. We're settling now--not compromising, but putting down roots. For the first time in our married lives (or really our memories), we're living in a place for the foreseeable future with no definite end in sight. And we love it. Roots? Community? Familiarity? Yes, please. But we're also feeling the weightiness that we made the decision to live here, a decision that will affect us and our children for years to come.

Mostly, after eight grueling years of med school and residency, we're just excited and relieved to be on the other side, not as an arrival point, but as a new beginning. Last Monday Phil started his REAL JOB, and it's gone about as well as a new job can go. For the way my man has worked diligently and humbly, struggling and triumphing with equal vision over the last eight years, I'm grateful and so, so very proud. Mostly, we're grateful to our Emmanuel--God WITH us--for leading us through this season, down to details we didn't even knew mattered.

And just for funsies, here's a little photo trip down memory lane from this journey. Wish I had Phil with a backpack on for his first day of each year, but I'm not that forward-thinking or sentimental, so what you see is what you get. Enjoy!

2005--Phil's 1st year in med school

2006

2007

2008

Match Day 2009

Med school graduation 2009

2009/2010

2010

2011

2012

2013

Since you asked...

Reader suggestion: take the verses you're reading and show how God is meeting you where you're at in life.

I started reading through the Bible again about two and a half years ago.

I'm in Joshua. The beginning of Joshua, actually.

As in the 6th book of the 66 books in the Bible.

I've taken lots of breaks to meditate on other passages, listen to sermons, or read devotional books. But mostly I just have a hard time reading scripture quickly. The English major in me can't help dissecting a sentence and thinking about the implications of a passage. I often find myself stuck on one verse for days and days before I'm ready to move on. There's a great good that comes from reading through the Bible more quickly (I did it once), which is to zoom out from the individual verses and see the intricate and overarching web of God's redemption throughout history.

But this is not that time. This time, I'm reading deliberately, and here's what God is teaching me and where He's meeting me in the truth of His Word:

In Joshua 1 (told you I was at the beginning), Joshua is appointed the new leader of Israel, and after 40 years of wandering in the desert, God is about to lead His people into Canaan--a promise He made to them 40 years earlier and one He kept by providing for them in the dessert over and over again. But here's the thing: God already promised Canaan to them, promised that they would have victory over the people who lived in the land, but the Israelites still had to fight. In fact, over 40, 000 men "fully armed" for battle went ahead of the Israelites (Joshua 4:13). The potential for conflict, war, fighting, and possibly even death must have been palpable because God tells Joshua--the leader--five times in four verses to "be strong and courageous" (Joshua 1:6-9), implying a great fear in the Israelites about what they would encounter on the other side. The victory was theirs, but they still had to fight.

So why does this matter?

For some reason, I often think that if God promises something to me then the path will be easy and obvious. Ha. I imagine that He will pluck me out of my current circumstances and place me gently and cleanly into green pastures where I'm supposed to be and I'll just enjoy the ride. Double ha. Both in my experience and in the Bible, it doesn't work that way. He does promise Canaan to us (ultimately in the promise of eternal life with Him and temporally in the thousand ways He's making us more like Him), but He doesn't promise ease or even perfect clarity.

Exhibit A: A dear friend died of cancer recently and I really, really just want (expect?) God to pluck me out of the grief, to make everything okay again, to bring her back. But. He's not doing that. Instead, He's walking WITH me through the ebb and flow of grief and teaching me to trust Him even when He doesn't make sense. And that has to be enough. And it's hard.

I want God's will to be easy. I want Him to do all the work and just let me enjoy the fruits, but I'm learning that the work, suffering, endurance, and patience that God asks of us in this world actually ushers in the fruit. Life from death. Light from darkness. Redemption from despair. The way of Jesus.

God alone does part the waters--the impossible somethings in our lives--but we still have to walk through the seabed trusting that He will keep His promise to get us to the other side. And He does. He always does.