Worth it

The teenager who battles depression and pushes everyone away and needs someone to love her.
The young man who is homeless, orphaned, and needs a place to stay.
The elderly woman whose life is coming to a close and needs to share.
The committed Christian mother whose family is wayward, sick, and broken.
The drug addict who never recovered from a trip 30 years ago.

I know these people.  I have been placed in each of their lives at one point or another, and I have done my best.  I have prayed for them and fasted for them.  I have listened to them, cooked for them, shared God's love with them to the fullest extent that I could.  But in the end I feel like I failed all of them.  The teenager is still depressed, the young man is still a mess, the elderly woman died without me making it to her bedside before her passing, the mother's family is still wayward and sick, the drug addict is still wandering aimlessly.  And when that happens over and over and over again, it becomes difficult to still believe.
 
I remember a time when I believed - really expected - that God changed lives.  I remember praying that a person would be healed, being fully convinced that it would happen.  It is still relatively easy for me to believe that God would physically heal a person's body.  When it comes to a person's life, though, "realism" reaches out to suck me in.

"Then suddenly a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years came up behind him and touched the fringe of his cloak, for she said to herself, "If I only touch his cloak, I will be made well.  Jesus turned, and seeing her he said, 'Take heart, daughter; your faith has made you well.'  And instantly the woman was made well."  Mt 9:20-22

These people need someone to believe that Jesus can heal them, that they can be better, that it is worth it to fight for them, that there is something that can be done for their situations.  I know I certainly need people to believe this about me!  Because I am the woman in Mt 9:20-22 who needs to be healed by touching the hem of Jesus' garment.  My hardening heart that wants to protect itself, that wants to turn in upon its own well-being - this needs to be healed.  My self-centered faithlessness truly worthy of being cast aside - this needs to be healed.  And over and over and over again, Jesus heals me.  Over and over again Jesus believes in me, fights for me, sends me relief, holds my hand, gives enough grace to make it, draws me to himself, smiles upon me with radiant beams of love that tells me that to him I am worth it. 

And so I have to keep fighting for these people and the countless others like them, loving them, praying for them, giving them what God has given me to give, trusting the rest to him, because whether or not "it is worth it," they are worth it.  And I really, really want them to know that.

And so are you.  I hope you know, whoever you are, that you are worth fighting for, that the cross says that plainly.

=)

Treasures

One by one He took them from me,
All the things I valued most,
Until I was empty-handed;
Every glittering toy was lost.
And I walked the earth's highways, grieving,
In my rags and poverty.
Till I heard His voice inviting,
"Lift your empty hands to me!"

So I held my hands toward Heaven,
And he filled them with a store
Of His own transcendent riches
Till they could contain no more.
And at last I comprehended
With my mind stupid and dull,
That God could not pour His riches
Into hands already full.

- Treasures by Martha Snell Nicholson

"Grandmother Says...
Carrots, Eggs, or Coffee; "Which are you?"

A young woman went to her grandmother and told her about her life and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going to make it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling. It seemed as one problem was solved a new one arose.

Her grandmother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water. In the first, she placed carrots, in the second she placed eggs and the last she placed ground coffee beans. She let them sit and boil without saying a word.

In about twenty minutes she turned off the burners. She fished the carrots out and placed them in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl. Then she ladled the coffee out and placed it in a bowl. Turning to her granddaughter, she asked, "Tell me what do you see?"

"Carrots, eggs, and coffee," she replied.

She brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they got soft.She then asked her to take an egg and break it.

After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard-boiled egg.

Finally, she asked her to sip the coffee. The granddaughter smiled, as she tasted its rich aroma. The granddaughter then asked. "What's the point,grandmother?"

Her grandmother explained that each of these objects had faced the same adversity--boiling water--but each reacted differently.

The carrot went in strong, hard and unrelenting. However after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak. The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell had protected its liquid interior. But, after sitting through the boiling water, its inside became hardened.

The ground coffee beans were unique, however. After they were in the boiling water they had changed the water.

"Which are you?" she asked her granddaughter.

"When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg, or a coffee bean?"

Think of this: Which am I?

Am I the carrot that seems strong, but with pain and adversity, do I wilt and become soft and lose my strength?

Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat? Did I have a fluid spirit, but after a death, a breakup, a financial hardship or some other trial, have I become hardened and stiff?

Does my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and a hardened heart?

Or am I like the coffee bean? The bean actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavor. If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you.

When the hours are the darkest and trials are their greatest do you elevate to another level?"

AUTHOR UNKNOWN

Grace

Daily sufficient Grace...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7AM4VB5iy8

Does your bitter load of grief, tears and pain,
Seem too great for you to bear?
Don't complain. You are only being made fit to reign;
Fit to reign, with Christ our Lord.

Surely we are all unfit, all untaught;
And if wise and lively lore, knowing naught,
All the gold of Uphoe could not have bought,
Private lessons from a King.

Precious pain to teach His child, used of God,
Taught by very God Himself, and we complain.

-- "Pain" by Martha Snell Nicholson

Maternal Idolatry

"The journey of discovering what we're born for seems first to lead us to death. That is not a hopeless place, though. I suspect from it will emerge some clue about what - or whom -we'd be willing to die for." (-Jo Kadlecek, Woman Overboard, p.79). I want to be a good mother. I love my children. But would I die for them? There was a time I thought I had done so. I gave up a very promising career at the top of my field to stay at home and be mommy for them. I gave up physical necessities - I gladly accepted the physical tax of pregnancy and labor, even without medication with my youngest. For years I did not sleep through the night. I breastfed until my oldest was almost 4, and my 2 year old still nurses. I gave up any sense of doing something in the world that would interfere with these little ones. People have hated me for bringing them to worship at church. I have a new life, new friends, new activities, an entirely new way of being in the world. Surely I would die for them. I have already done so...

But there is a problem. No matter what I give up, no matter how hard I try, no matter how many books I read on good parenting or how determined I might be when I wake up in the morning, I get tired and fussy, myself. When my child has to be disciplined for the same behavior for the eighth time in one morning, when the almost 5 year old throws a temper tantrum, when the potty-trained toddler pees on the carpet four times one day, when the two year old wakes up and needs me to put him back to sleep twice in the small time I am taking to write this blog, when I'm just physically drained and in need of rest but cannot have it... I see that I have not died for them. Worse, I see that it doesn't matter if I did, because my death wouldn't even be enough for them. No matter what I do, I cannot FORCE them into an image I have created, no matter how good that image is, even if the image is of Christ. I cannot force them to receive the lesson that temper tantrums only make things worse. I cannot make them to be genuinely loving, humble, kind, and gentle. They are sinners in the need of a savior, just like me. There will be sins they struggle with well into adulthood, just like me. And because we are all in the same boat, I cannot be their savior, no matter how much I might want to do it, no matter how much I may give up for them, no matter how much effort I exert. If I really die, all that would really do is deprive them of a mother. They do not need me to die for them, and I do them a great injustice if I do.

BUT, when I begin and end my day in prayer, when I take 3 minutes to hide and give my feelings to God, when I focus myself with a centering prayer while pushing the grocery cart, when I saturate my mind with Scripture, when I trust in HIS death for my sake and my children's sake and I LOSE MY LIFE FOR HIM instead of for my children, then I have peace. Then I am suddenly effective again at being a mom. Then I have hope and strength.

Its funny - the outer actions of losing my life for my children and losing my life for God do not look that different. God has called me to be a mother. I have prayed over my calling, and I know that this is where God wants me at this point in my life (probably as much for my own sanctification as for my children's!). The decision to leave my career, that was for God. The decision to go without sleep, that was for God. The decision to give up activities, even at church, for the sake of mothering these little ones, that was for God. And when a decision has not been for God, I have not been able to sustain it with joy and conviction. I was not created for my children. I was created for God. And I do my children no favors where I confuse the two.

I think this is true for any calling. A pastor cannot MAKE a person or a church see the light. And a pastor does his congregants and community no good if he just up and dies for them - either physically or in the slow, daily grind of serving them for their sake. The activity might not look different, but doing it for God yields peace, joy and love for those we serve. Doing it for them yields frustration, despair, and hatred.

"The journey of discovering what we're born for seems first to lead us to death. That is not a hopeless place, though. I suspect from it will emerge some clue about what - or whom - we'd be willing to die for." I will die daily for Christ.

1 Corinthians 13 for Homeschool Moms

1 Corinthians 13 for Homeschool Moms
by Misty Krasawski

If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and teach my children Latin conjugations, Chinese, and Portuguese, but do not have love, I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal, and no matter what I say, they will not hear me.

If I have the gift of prophecy, and know my children’s bents and God’s plan for their lives, and know all mysteries and all knowledge, and am the keeper of the teacher’s editions and solutions manuals, and if I have all faith, so as to move mountains, and even keep up with my giant piles of laundry and dishes, but do not have love, I am nothing, even if all the people at church think I’m Supermom.

And if I give all my possessions to feed the poor, and my formal dining room gets turned into a schoolroom, and our family vacations look more like educational fieldtrips, and if I surrender my body to be burned, never having time to get my nails done, put makeup on, or even take a bath, but do not have love, it profits me nothing because all my family cares about is the expression on my face, anyway.

Love is patient with the child who still can’t get double-digit subtraction with borrowing, and kind to the one who hasn’t turned in his research paper. It is not jealous of moms with more, fewer, neater, more self-directed, better-behaved, or smarter children.

Love does not brag about homemade bread, book lists, or scholarships, and is not arrogant about her lifestyle or curriculum choices. It does not act unbecomingly or correct the children in front of their friends. It does not seek its own, trying to squeeze in alone time when someone still needs help; it is not provoked when interrupted for the nineteenth time by a child, the phone, the doorbell, or the dog; does not take into account a wrong suffered, even when no one compliments the dinner that took hours to make or the house that took so long to clean.

Love does not rejoice in unrighteousness or pointing out everyone else’s flaws, but rejoices with the truth and with every small step her children take in becoming more like Jesus, knowing it’s only by the grace of God when that occurs.

Love bears all things even while running on no sleep; believes all things, especially God’s promise to indwell and empower her; hopes all things, such as that she’ll actually complete the English curriculum this year and the kids will eventually graduate; endures all things, even questioning from strangers, worried relatives, and most of all, herself.

Love never fails. And neither will she. As long as she never, never, never gives up.

Misty Krasawski is the overly-blessed mom of eight children whom she homeschools in sunshine-y Florida. She has been clinging to Jesus since 1975, homeschooling since 1997, and if the Lord tarries, will apparently continue doing so until 2026. Her wonderful husband Rob has much treasure laid up for him in heaven.

- From the September 2010 ENOCH newsletter

Building a nest

I have lived in parsonages my whole life. My dad was a United Methodist pastor, and when I was 6 years old, I was living in my family's 4th house. We didn't move again until I was 15, and when we left that childhood house I felt like part of me was being ripped away. Over the course of the next 15 years I lived in countless places - my parents' new house, college dorm rooms and apartments, grad school apartment, newly married basement home, my husband's and myself's new apartment, my husband's first, second, and third parsonage... I've lost track of how many times I've moved in my life. I've struggled to remember my own current phone number and zip code! Now I have children. I long to give them stability. I long for them have a place - any place - that remains constant. I know I am so blessed, and I see God meet our needs miraculously all the time! And yet I still long for a place... A place where we have memories of my kids as babies, as toddlers, as young children... A place where I do not constantly have it in mind that we are probably just going to leave the friends we make here in just a few years... A place where I can, like a mother bird, build a safe, stable, and secure nest for my little ones to thrive.

Yesterday the gentle hand of God arranged my life so that I happened to read Ps 84. I read in verse 3, "Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, at your altars, O LORD of hosts, my King and my God. Happy are those who live in your house, ever singing your praise..."

As often as I have read that Psalm, I had never noticed that verse. I guess I had never needed it like I do at this moment. The gentle voice of God spoke to me. There is no safer, more stable, more secure place for my children than before his altar. It is through worshipping Him that I build such a nest for my kids.

And this is a nest that they will have access to forever, to which they can always go no matter where they are, no matter how barren their current location might be at any moment in life (84:6-7: "As they go through the valley of Baca they make it a place of springs; the early rain also covers it with pools. They go from strength to strength..."). There is no greater inheritance I could possibly give them. The truthfulness of this is proven by my own life. My parents built the nest for me in this way, and now, far from them, hundreds of miles from anything that is familiar, at a church that has been difficult for my husband, feeling dry and barren and exhausted, for no apparent reason the springs of life flow within me as I pray and read his Word. I do not need to have had a single, stable home as a child for this to be so. I need to have had genuine, godly love and discipleship, and that I had in abundance. How very blessed I have been!

As I have sung many times, "One day in your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere" (84:10). There is no better path than the one marked for me and my family by the One who loves us most. And I trust that it is so: "No good thing does the LORD withhold from those who walk uprightly." (84:11b)

Awaiting Death

There is something strange about knowing that you are about to die.  I don't have a terminal disease or anything.  Quite the opposite - I am nine months pregnant and about to give birth.  It could be tonight.  

My midwife is also a nurse in the maternity ward at the hospital, and she told me the story of a fellow nurse who had given birth naturally without pain medication.  That nurse had told her, "I thought I was going to die."  My midwife replied, "Yeah, I know - all women think that in labor.  They all think, 'I can't do this,' and 'I am going to die.'"  The nurse said, "No, really.  I really thought I was going to die."  To which the midwife replied, "All women really think they are going to die." 

The other night I had a pain in my gut that I remembered from when I gave birth to my first child.  "Oh no," I thought, "It's about to start."  It turned out to be nothing and quickly went away.  But in that moment the dread of what was coming seized me.  I am going to do this without pain medication.  "I'm such an idiot," I thought to myself.  "Who in their right mind would do this?"  And I had to get back in touch with the reasons I have chosen this path.  

I think we are suppose to die in childbirth.  I think there is something about the pain that really kills a part of us.  Biologically and hormonally, the brain is reworked.  All defenses are stripped away by the pain and there is nothing left to do but choose to embrace suffering to the point of death for the sake of another's creation.  I think this a gift from God.  I think it is a wise way of remaking a person into his image.  After all, embracing suffering to the point of death for another's sake is exactly what he did for us.  And it is exactly what he calls all of us - both men and women, clergy and laity - to do for the world.  

The God I know in Christ is not a monster who thrusts punishments at people vindictively.  "Eve, you sinned and so now - ha ha ha - I'm going to have women suffer in childbirth!!!"  No, the consequences from God found in Scripture tend to ultimately reach toward the goal of redemption, of creating new life well.  God is on the side of life, not destruction.  He is on the side of being in relationship with us, not of pushing us further away.  Of making us back into his image, not of contorting us further.  God's decision for pain in childbirth when sin enters the world is for good, not for evil.

There is an African proverb that two births take place at the birth of a child - the birth of the baby and the birth of the mother.  To be born as a mother, I can no longer live the life I lived before the baby entered the world.  In that sense, I really have to die.  And so I await this death.  It will happen any day.  I am a little scared, a little overwhelmed.  But then I look at Jesus.  His arms are opened wide, to the point of death for me.  He has walked this path, he knows the way through, and he will be with me.  I am so glad he loves me, and I pray that I will become one who models this great act of love well.  God help me.

(Note:  There is no escaping this.  I have spoken with many women who had C-sections, and they all say the same thing - recovery was horribly painful.  Apparently, because the uterus has to contract to recover from the pregnancy, women experience the contractions following the surgery, and beg for more and more pain medication.  One lady who had the C-section commented, "You either go through the pain during labor or afterwards.  It's not like you can get away from it."  I didn't have a C-section with my first child, but I did use an epidural and had an enormous episiotomy.  I remember the weeks following the birth as difficult and painful as I recovered. In contrast, women who give birth without pain medication have very little recovery time - like, a couple of hours until they feel like themselves again.  I think my friend was right - even in our high tech society, there is no escaping the pain of childbirth.   

Does patience exist?

Chesterton makes the observation that single virtues, when separated from all the others, are as unhelpful and mad as vices.  For example, truthfulness without charity and patience can run violent.  Likewise, charity without truthfulness and patience is a failure to love sincerely and well. I remember studying the fruit of the Spirit, and one Bible study writer noted it is the fruit (singular) not fruits (plural).  At the time I thought the distinction was probably irrelevant, but in light of Chesterton's comment I am inclined to rethink my position.  It makes sense that the life that is born from the Holy Spirit is one that reflects God's nature more and more, and this reflected nature, which is one, has many characteristics.  

As a mom, I often make resolutions, like "Today I am going to be more patient if my daughter takes forever to go to sleep," or "Today I am going to take great joy in the work God has given me."  But at best I am generally only able to conjure up the patience or joy or whatever for about 15 minute spurts, if that long.  This is sometimes the case even on days when I've had a really great prayer time.  

I wonder if part of the problem is that things like patience or joy simply are not entities to be had.  I cannot get more patience without also growing in truthfulness and kindness and hope, because patience in itself does not exist.  The Holy Spirit is the entity that exists - the Holy Spirit is the one to be "had" - and these are characteristics of that Spirit.  And so instead of hoping and praying for more peace or kindness or self-control or name the prayer, I'm thinking it would be more effective to focus upon praying for and submitting to more and more of God's Spirit.

Knowing God

I use to be able to do a lot of things I can't do anymore now that I'm a mom.  I use to lead Bible studies and clean up the church.  I use to spend hours upon hours studying Scripture daily.  I even spent years working on graduate degrees in order to eventually reach thousands of students with deeper and fuller knowledge of the Word of God and thus touch the world in a hopefully profound way for Christ.  Now when I think about all that is not getting done, I feel torn.  All these things I did - they were really good things.  It is scandalous to think that one little baby could be more important than all those people I could be reaching.  But every so often God gently touches me with the truth that my love for this baby is the outcome of living into His image.  Today the message came to me in an unfamiliar hymn I stumbled upon.  It's speaking about Jesus, but I see in it my life as I live the life of a mother, as well:

Open are the gifts of God, gifts of love to mind and sense; 

hidden is love's agony, love's endeavor, love's expense.

Love that gives, gives evermore, gives with zeal, with eager hands;

spares not, keeps not, all outpours, ventures all, its all expends.

Drained is love in making full, bound in setting others free,

poor in making many rich, weak in giving power to be.

Therefore he who shows us God helpless hangs upon the tree,

and the nails and crown of thorns tell of what God's love must be.

(UMH 194, verses 2-5)

Itchy Sin

My daughter has a rash all over her belly and on her wrist and ankle.  It is so pitiful.  We can't seem to make it go away.  And it bothers her so much that of course she scratches it.  I say, "Don't scratch it!" and she does a remarkable job for a 22 month old at resisting the scratching temptation.  But it just itches so much...

I once heard someone make the astute observation that sin gives you the best it has to offer right up front, and then it's all downhill from there.  

It seems to me that the moment of giving into temptation is a lot like scratching a persistent itch - you want to scratch it, you want to, you want to, and finally you give in and do it.  And, wow, for one glorious half millisecond it feels so good.  But then it itches even more than before, hurts even worse than before, and turns even redder and more swollen than before.  

Happy Father's Day

Click here to view our daughter's father's day tribute!

The legacy of this moment

Many months ago, when my daughter was very tiny, everyone kept telling me, "It goes fast!"  I made up my mind to treasure each moment as it happened so that I wouldn't regret missing those moments later.  Now, 21 months have gone by, and I really don't feel nostalgic, because I did treasure those moments, I gave her my best then, and now there are new moments to treasure and in which to give my best.  

Even still, sometimes I shake my head in amazement at how deceptively fast the seemingly endless similar days go by.  Just a few days ago - or was it a month ago? - I remember a moment when I was rocking my daughter.  It was a special moment in the same way that most of the moments are special - nothing out of the ordinary happened, but I was very deeply treasuring wrapping her in maternal warmth and security.  And I had the thought - tomorrow it will be gone.  And now it is past many days over... but not entirely.  There is something that is left.  

There is a legacy of each moment that remains with us forever.  In that moment I gave my daughter the gift of resting securely in the arms of her loving mommy, and that became a part of who she became in the next moment, and the next, and the next, and it remains a part of her in this moment.  Of course, that is not the only moment that has become a part of her - every hug, every lullaby, every nutritious meal, every rubbing on of sunscreen, every endless hour spent playing tea party, every laugh and every cry, every decision for patience and every loss of temper - these moments may be gone, but she, the living person, is their lasting legacy.  

In your life, what will the legacy of this moment be?  I've started asking myself this at random moments throughout the day, and it has been tremendously helpful in keeping me focused.

Pure heart, good conscience, and sincere faith

As a young mom, there are so many things I want my child grow in learning - potty training, ABC's,  social skills, etc.  But today I came across a verse that brought me back into focus:  

"But the aim of such instruction is love that comes from a pure heart, a good conscience, and sincere faith."  - 1 Timothy 1:5.

And I remembered - That is what I want for my daughter- a pure heart, a good conscience, and sincere faith, overflowing in love.  I plastered the verse all over her playroom to remind myself.

Generations: Toledot and the book of Genesis

I was 3 months pregnant and on my way to the doctor's office for a check up.  A song came on the radio, with the lyrics, "I AM the one who knew you before your birth, before you were..."  Such statements have always amazed me.  God knew me before I was?  I've always found great joy in that thought.  But on this day, as I was thinking instead about my yet-to-be-born daughter in my womb, the thought floated across my brain, "Umm, no, she exists because of me and my husband."  It was unbelievably mind-blowing in that moment for me to grasp that God had forever known and planned my yet-to-be daughter's existence while I also considered the precariousness of conception, pregnancy, and delivery.  Maybe it shouldn't have so startled me, but it did.  

Then she was born, and God let me know her.  Day by day we laugh, sing, dance, and grow together, and in the process it is tempting to think that I am the one making her into who she will become, because, well, I am certainly a big part of it.  But it is crazy to also consider that who she is and who she is becoming has always been known and planned by God, that God foresaw all of this, that God has woven who she is into his beautiful plan for all of creation.  

     

In the beginning was God, and God began to create.  On day one God made light.  On day two, the sky.  For seven days God performed each work in its own time, and the Hebrew word used to describe each of these works is toledot, often translated "generations":  "These are the generations (toledot) of the heavens and the earth in their creation" (Genesis 2:4).  Toledot is the same word used in the rest of Genesis for the "generations" of humans.  It is mind-blowing for me to consider that my daughter is next in line in the unfolding of creation, that her life is a part of the next piece accomplished in its time, which is now.  

The Bible seems to be very mysterious when it comes to matters of free will and predestination, and the apparent precariousness of life highlights the tension between the two within my mind.  But I find it to be a good check to myself in my parenting to remember that this precious little girl first was God's idea.  That God chose me as one of her co-creators.  That God sees and knows and understands fully her destiny and has done so since before she was a glint in my imagination.  That my daughter's creation is being accomplished in its own time, as a part of God's beautifully orchestrated creation that continues its journey on to completion.

Learning from African Perspectives on Motherhood

"If I no sleep, my mother no sleep.  If I no chop, my mother no de chop.  She no de taya aa, sweet mother, I no forget the suffer way you suffer for me" (Nico Mbarga, "Sweet Mother").  

Being a good mom isn't that different from being a good pastor.

In her article "Abiyamo: Theorizing African Motherhood," Oyeronke Oyewumi notes that Western cultures such as ours often view the mother as "trapped in her primary role as caregiver."  I see this everywhere.  Our culture is forever offering me sympathy for my plight (this starts early - "Are you sleeping?"), hope for the bright day when my daughter starts school  ("You'll get your life back when your child starts school..."), and encouragement for me to take what is surely a deeply-needed break from my child as often as possible now ("Did you know there is daycare provided?"  "Why don't you ask a church member to watch your daughter once or twice a week so that you can get more done?").  All of this is very well-intended.  

But other cultures' understandings of motherhood confront me with the limitations of our own.  It is true that being a mother is demanding and difficult.  But this is not all that motherhood is.  Mothers are great life-givers.  Mothers exercise tremendous influence over their offspring and thus over society as a whole.  Mothers are every human being's first home.  They are the first relationship every human ever experiences, for better or worse.  In Yoruba culture, motherhood is viewed not as a temporary situation for the woman of a baby, trapped until she can return to doing what she really wants, but as a lifelong gift.  

I think our culture's perspective on motherhood feeds off of the way in which our culture nurtures the value of self-centeredness in all of us, mothers or not.  We call it "independence," but what we really mean is that we believe it is enslavement to be in a situation in which we have to give up our own needs and sense of entitlement moment by moment to care for another in the way of Jesus.  Thank God that he doesn't value his "independence" as much as we do.  

I am happiest as a mom when I am surrounded by people who believe that what I am doing in being a mother is valuable, when the benefit to the child and thus to the world is emphasized, when the cost is taken as a given not to be avoided but as something that must, for the sake of the child and the world, be embraced.  I believe this is true not only for mothers but for all persons called to live of life of sacrificial service for others.  

Next time you encounter a mother with a small child, please offer a word of joy and delight for the great benefit of her sacrificial service.

Staying with Mom Instead of Childcare

I just spent the past several days at Annual Conference for my denomination.  It was such a helpful time for me as a mother.  Our culture encourages mothers to leave their children in childcare for the sake of giving the moms a break to do other things.  And so, at this conference, there was childcare provided.  And it was really excellent childcare.  The woman in charge was herself the mother of three, and she was fabulous with children.  The rest of the workers were very attentive and loving.  There were activities for the children to do throughout the day, food to eat, pillows for comfortable nap times, and even a special devotional time.  It was great.  But I didn't leave my daughter there.  I took her, but I stayed with her.  

Imagine that your entire family is going on a trip to visit a new land you have never been to.  Once you get there, you are surrounded by new people... and then you turn around and discover your husband, your wife, your siblings, your children, they disappeared when you weren't looking.  Ughh.  How would you feel?  Add to that the fact that you are at a stage in life in which being with your family means everything to you, in which things feel right when you are with them and wrong when you are not.  This isn't the case at all stages of life.  A teenager equivalent to the experience of a toddler being left by his mommy with strangers would probably look more like having his/her clique of friends from school disappear at a party.  But whatever the case, I just couldn't bring myself to do this to my daughter.  

When my daughter was five weeks old, a friend of mine asked me, "Now, what do you think you should do when your baby is crying uncontrollably in the back seat of the car and you still have a long way to go?"  I replied, "Umm, turn up the radio and ignore her?"  My friend taught me how to get in touch with the part of me that would not want to do that.  And today, on our way home from the conference, I sat in the backseat with my daughter feeding her Cheerios, reading her books, and singing and signing songs.  I've come a long way.

I know that childcare is an important thing - there really are moms who absolutely need it for financial reasons and such.  And sometimes there is no alternative but for a child to cry in the car.  But often, if we are honest, we who are nurtured in this easiest-is-best culture are inclined to use these methods just because we are worn out and it feels easier to do so in the moment.   But often the best way - not just for the child, but I believe for the mother - is the way of the cross, choosing to die.  My daughter and I stayed together for the entire conference.  The entire weekend was mentally and physically challenging for me as I cared for my daughter 24 hours a day without the comforts of routine and home, and in an environment that required constant vigilance as she was constantly in danger of disappearing from sight in the huge hotel.  But the rewards were priceless.  I don't even know if I could do justice to them in just a few words.  Suffice it to say that our bond grew seven-fold these past 3 days, I am more capable of focusing upon her than ever, she is even more confident and secure, and my maternal warmth has doubled.  

Life is Tenacious

The other day my husband, daughter, and I went on a hike in the mountains.  At one point we got lost, and we were just wandering through the mountain.  It was breathtaking.  I had never been off-trail before - this was my very first experience really being in the deep of nature.  The fresh moss and grass padded our feet.  The high, arching branches shaded us from the sun.  The gentle breeze constantly refreshed us.  There was a constant variety to the scenery - sometimes lots of leaves on the ground, sometimes rocky terrain.  Sometimes the climb was so steep I had to use all four limbs, but there would be a level grassy area, giving our muscles a break.  "This is a human's natural habitat," I realized at one point as I sat down and watched a rush of wind make the trees dance.  We weren't created to live walking on hot, mercilessly glaring concrete with radios blasting.  This was home.  I would have no idea how to live in a home like that, but I felt so much more human there.  

Today I had to drive some distance.  In my car, on the road, I felt a pain as I drove over the slab of concrete that pressed itself upon the ground.  It felt like a bruise upon the earth.  I am overwhelmed when I think about the extent of how out of touch we are as humans with the good habitat that God created for us.  It hurts.  It hurts us.  The Bible begins, continues, and ends with the story of how God wills the existence of life - abundant life.  And the Bible also constantly describes how humans are constantly throwing a slab of concrete over the places where life - our own lives - should be.  I feel this at work in my own heart.  Years of living in a world full of sinful people who have hurt me.  Years of living as a sinful person who has hurt others.  There are places in my brain and my heart where instead of abundant life and life-giving fruit there is nothing but concrete pressing itself down upon my soul.  The forces of death and destruction are overwhelming.  And yet, what would happen if a road was left all alone for a time?  After awhile, life would break through it.  The concrete would crack and separate, and up would sprout plants.  Life is tenacious.  As overwhelming as the concrete is, it is a mistake to underestimate the power of life.

And so I pray today that God, the Creator of all, the One who so loves life that He made it so tenacious, the One who so loves life that He sent His Son to conquer death once and for all, that the great and glorious Living One Who Is would cause life to break through the concrete that has sadly been laid over our own hearts.  That life would spring up from the ground in our own soul in ever more abundant ways.  That we would know the abundant life for which we were created.  That we would experience being truly human, in the image of the living God himself.  O God, I know were are not at all worthy of this, but I pray that you would glorify yourself through us anyway.  Amen.  

Practicing Patience

When I was in college I participated in a Fruit of the Spirit Bible study.  Every week we would study and pray for God to fill us with one of the "fruit":  

"O Lord, let our lives overflow with the fruit of love..."  

"O Lord, fill us with overflowing joy..."  

"O Lord, establish Your peace..."  

But then we got to patience.  And it was strikingly funny to me that no one wanted to ask God for more patience.  "What if God actually answers the prayer?" one girl asked.  "I think I'd rather God just give me what I want now, not patience."  I guess we all want lives full of peace and joy, kindness and goodness, and lots of love.  What makes patience so different?

Etymologically, patience is related to the idea of "suffering."  We are practicing patience - no, suffering - when we quietly clean up a toddler's fourth potty accident of the day, when we wake up for the fifth time at night to hold a crying baby, when we gently answer the person who interrupts us from a special quiet prayer time with God...  Practicing patience means choosing to suffer.  

Suffering doesn't feel nearly so neat as joy or peace.  But the fruit of the Spirit all goes together in one package.  Loving others necessitates patience.  And patience that endures is impossible without the love of God in one's heart.  Experiencing peace is great.  But peace that lasts is peace that is practiced, and practicing peace in one's relationships with God and other humans necessitates patience.  The fruit goes together. 

And that is good news for all of us who want and pray for love, joy, peace, and such, only to find that obedience to Christ requires decisions to suffer everyday, in little and big ways.  Those moments we might erase from our days if we could - That is where the love is.  That is where the joy is.  That is where the peace is.  That is where God is.  And there is no other place we should want to be.