This is When It Strikes You Most

In the whispering crack of my door opening, I wake and feel him tiptoe near.

"Mom?" he asks and I know.

"I'll be right there."

Photo Credit: Flickr user Daniel Gies, Creative Commons, cc license

He pads away, hands out to navigate the dark room and hallway. I hear his door open and shut across the corridor. Wrapping myself in my blue African cloth, I maneuver the bed, the laundry pile, and into my eight year old's room.

"What's up, bud?" I crouch and sit down beside his low bed.

"My cousin, Ben, you know?"

I nod sleepily.

"My cousin, Ben, and me, we were at Grandma and Grandpa's house in their yard, and there was a big snake -- a black cobra. And he got Ben!"

I rest my hand on Daniel's chest. His heart, still fluttering and hammering against bone and skin, bounces under my palm.

"I'm sorry, bud. Dreams can be scary." Smoothing his hair, I stroke his cheek and feel his breathing slow. "Should we talk to God?"

He nods vigorously in the dark.

"Want me to, or you?"

"I will," he says and he starts immediately. "God, I'm scared. Will you help me? Will you help me not be scared? Thanks.

"Mom? Will you sing a song?" he asks, a quiet voice rising up from the blue and pink Piglet pillow in the dark.

"Sure," and I wrack my brain to be awake, to find helpful words and this is when it strikes you most. Need to know What you Know that you Know? Ask a sleepy brain to spout truth. What bubbles up is what you have become convinced of, what has become ingrained in your bones, what pounds in fluttered rhythm with your heart. A verse come, its reference forgotten but its truth burnished in dark bedroom from constant use. "When I am afraid, I will trust in you." The words ring out, the refuge is clear, and I say it again, then move into the next.

"I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you, oh God, are with me. I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you, oh God, are with me, Psalm 4:8, Psalm 4:8, Psalm 4:8." And even the reference is part of the song lyrics we made up years ago in an effort to imprint these truths in our hearts, in our beings.

There were two other songs we sang, childlike and simple, yet with truths that have become bedrock and bone to us. "God is so good, God is so good, God is so good, he's so good to us. He gives good things, he gives good things, he gives good things, he's so good to us." We end with "Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so; little ones to him belong, we are weak but he is strong." 

"Thanks, Mom," he murmurs and I can hear the peace in his voice, the thick tiredness creeping in. I kiss his face, trail my fingers on his quiet chest, and pull the door shut behind me.

Slipping beneath my blanket, I lie awake. The minutes stretch to hours in this new forty-something season. My brain flips topics and writes To Do Lists, making mental notes for morning. I think of the college applications my daughter has been doing (some colleges looming distant); remember this week's presidential debates; ponder futures, and I feel my own heart start to flutter faster.

And like my son, I whisper to the God of the world, "When I am afraid, I will trust in you... I will lie down and sleep in peace for you, oh God, are with me." A story and passage teases my mind from earlier and I vow to look it up. Today over coffee, I page to find it and smile in recognition. An ancient world leader in crisis speaks it out and his words are timeless: "[God], we do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you." 

And those truths settle deep beneath our ribs, bubbling up when bidden and shaping who we are.

Hi friend. What truths or foundational verses bubble up inside you? I love to learn and hear from others. 

If you are not receiving my posts by email, welcome. Simply enter your email address in the box under my bio at top right of the page. Don't miss a post and be part of any special invitations too! 
 

When You Just Want to DO Something!

He's leaning over the table, mouth open in concentration. Two stacks of soft white socks brush his elbow as he reaches over them.

"Look!" he exclaims, proudly wriggling the toilet paper roll down into the gallon ziplock bag. Two water bottles stand erect beside it.

He pauses and I slide two folded pieces of paper down inside the bags with our picture smiling out through the plastic.

"Did you get the oatmeal?" I ask.

"OH!" and there is a rustle of cardboard and brown paper.

"Strawberry-flavored," I read aloud. "Nice."

He rolls two white socks up in eight year old concentration and places them inside the bag. I press out the air and seal it shut, before grabbing another.

In a month of riots and unrest, police officers and political conventions, there are summer storms that are brewing. Newscasters predict record high temperatures for much of the United States this week, and humanitarian organizations send out emails about severe dehydration concerns for the elderly and the homeless.

And we just wanted to do something tangible, something constructive, to help people around us.

In fumbling words, I wrote:

Hi, I realize that this bag is simple. 

We don't have a ton either right now, but we wanted to share some of what we have to help, even if it's just a little. 

So, on these hot summer days, we wanted you to have clean water to drink. We wanted you to have a pair of new warm socks. We included a packet of instant oatmeal for rainy days, hoping that you could grab some free hot water and a spoon and cup from any fast food place, and we are praying that it is a hearty snack some day right when you need it. The toilet paper is because I know what it's like to appreciate bath tissue from my days living overseas. 

We know that homelessness is complicated and wide-spread, and that this small bag isn't much, but we wanted you to know that we are thinking about you, that you are not forgotten, and that we have prayed over this bag and for you. 

We wanted you to know that God sees you, he loves you, and he is near to the broken-hearted. In the attached paper here are some sentences from the Bible that have been vital to me. I pray they are helpful for you as well.

Warmly and respectfully, 

Jennifer and Mark

Daniel and I rolled socks, slid in oatmeal packets, stood up water bottles, squished in a roll of toilet paper, and slipped notes into twelve bags. Twelve bags seemed so small and yet so exciting as they sat on our cherrywood dining table.

"Mark, want to come pray with us for the people who will get these bags?" I asked him, as Daniel hopped on one leg beside me and jumped onto the chair.

Softly, warmly, we talked to God about the strangers whose names he already knew and we thanked him for the chance to help.

If you, or your friends or family, want to assemble similar bags, please feel free to use our ideas too. We were inspired by our church's Vacation Bible school project, although we chose our own items to include. Or share with us other fun ways you've enjoyed reaching out in love and kindness. Those in email can click here to join the conversation.

If you are not receiving my posts by email, welcome. Simply enter your email address in the box under my bio at the top right of the page. Don't miss an article and be part of any special invitations too.

It's All About WHO You Know? (When Our Kids Lead the Way)

Photo Credit: Rudolf Vlcek, Creative Commons, cc license

 "I'll pray, Mom," he chirps, my six and a half year old standing on the frayed sewing bench that is my desk chair.

"Thanks, Daniel. I would love that. Morgan, John, will you pray with us too?"

"Sure."

They lope over good-naturedly. My broad-shouldered son looms tall over me -- they both do, actually. Nineteen year old John is a replica of his dad, and willowy sixteen year old Morgan leans over to grab my hand. I squeeze her palm on the right of me, grasp John's fingers firmly on the left, and smile to hear my six year old talk to the Creator of Galaxies.

Daniel asks God to "Help Mom with her lesson, and to be safe, to not die, and to make good choices." He thanks God for taking care of us, for the family, and for our house. I strive to remember every word, and even now fall short of explaining the sweetness and naturalness of his conversation with the World-Spinner.

Morgan pulls her long brown hair to the side, and prays next.

"Dad," she says calmly, and my heart is startled yet happy to hear her address the God of the Universe with such intimacy. "Dad, be with Mom as she talks today. Speak through her. Be with the women she'll be speaking to..." Morgan's voice continues.

And in between the words with the afternoon sun pouring spring's heat through our dining room window, we stand huddled around my desk. This place where I wrangle words, craft sentences, and seek God's face, soaking amazed in his delight for me -- this crammed kitchen corner at my desk is where we stand humble in God's presence and my children stride boldly, comfortably, into God's presence. And I am undone, overjoyed, and utterly thrilled to see this glimpse into their relationship with Jesus.

If nothing else comes of this day then to have been prayed for by these kids, it will have been worth it, I reason happily, and then marshal my thoughts again as John's masculine voice steps in.

"God..." he begins, and my lips crack in thankful gratitude, mouthing silent to my God, "Thank you, God."


Friends? We who are moms, dads, sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles, grandmas and grandpas... we have the honor of walking into the throne room of the Most High God. And striding in beside us, or in front of us, or trailing in behind us, are the ones who are watching, learning, teaching. We get to converse with the God of the world! It is intimate, awe-inspiring, and a wonderful privilege.

When Paris, America, and Worlds Collide

He's standing at the window, staring out through falling snow and I can see the worry biting deep into his lip. Shoulders hunched, he leans forehead against the cold third-story glass and peers across the street and down the block. Rising blue and silver in winter twilight, the French high school gazes back at him with darkened window rooms.

Photo: Peter Gutierrez, Creative Commons, cc license

"Hey," I slip up to him and rub my brother's back. "I'm sorry. I know it's scary. It'll be okay, though."

My words trail off, because nothing can fully unwind the twisting stomach knot of walking into a new school. Four moves in four years brought its own adventures and challenges, but this last move for my shy brother had sapped him. That winter 1991, he was tired of goodbyes and heart-weary at the work of starting new friendships.

We stand silent in his corner of the three-bedroom apartment our family shared that year in a snowy mountain hamlet of France, and my stomach churns and aches for my little brother. Freckles sprinkle against an anxious face, brown hair parted center, curling wispy and boyish mischief on the sides.

"Can I pray with you?" I wonder quiet, and he nods. Our words are calm, at ease talking to the unseen God who knows our names, our hearts, our lives, and who wasn't lost in the trans-Atlantic flights. The Creator speaks French, English, African Koinyeka and Dioula languages, and every breath's spoken word.

This memory has crept in to me this week, remembering that ache and the wrenching twisted stomach and, while my brother's story no longer winds nervous at a European window, I know that you and I have others that creep easily into our minds, curling up a tummy quiet. 

You and I, we have stories of our own, and stories that belong to family and friends close to us. Stories that are not ours to share publicly, but we can still lean heads into window panes beside them, stare down into the swirling snow below and whisper, "You are not alone. I see it too, and I am here." 

You are not alone. Your loved ones are not alone, France is not alone, and we hold an awesome privilege in our hands. We can stride into the throne room of the International God, and mouth our loved ones' names. He knows. He loves them even more than us, and he is still working.

Praying in Four-Four Time

A sagging snowman curtsies in the sun as I pass, and a clanging flagpole rope whips in four-four time in the wind. Spring sidles up beside me, slipping in and out of the clouds this week.

Mismatched mitten-hands shoved into red jacket pockets several times this week, as I crunched in Minnesota snow and whispered prayer.

Monday morning, I joined MOPS women from a metro suburb at round tables decorated in Tahitian sand and shells. We nibbled scrumptious white chocolate and berry scones, and murmured in surprise over bacon-topped mini French toast muffins. In laughter and in shared moments of quiet understanding, we spoke of our marriages, and urged each other on in loving our men and being their outspoken fans. Hours later, I shoved mismatched mittened-hands into pockets deep, and walked towards the car. "Thank you, Abba, for great times of getting to know these new women, and for chances to speak of you and the adventures of marriage." Prayer looked like praise and joy puddling out.

Tuesday night, five families unfold from minivans wide, and climb our icy cement steps. Inside, we line up curries, chicken stir fry, and pad Thai in a buffet line, and stomp up the kids from downstairs. Clamoring loud and crowding round, toddlers and teens mingle with moms and dads from small group as we fall quiet and thank God for food. Prayer looked like toddler hands, grinning moms, rice on the floor already, and hungry smacking lips. Then dishes clatter, and we're on the hunt for spoons and cups.

Hands shoved into pockets deep this week, I walked through wet streets again, whispering prayer and lifting up friends of mine. Prayer looked like silent reflection, somber possibilities, and a waiting game.

A sagging snowman curtsies in the sun, and a clanging flagpole rope whips in four-four time. Spring sidles up beside me, slipping in and out of clouds this week, and prayer follows on the wind.


I appreciate you being here with me today, friend, and would be honored to shove hands in pockets deep and pray with you too this week. What's on your mind? (Those in email are welcome to join the discussion by clicking here.) 

Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose. 

Photo credit to Microsoft.

A Family Bending in Prayer Together

Ahhh… the butterscotch chip cookie crumbles into my mouth as I bite it. Hot coffee gurgles and percolates in the kitchen and I can barely wait for it to be ready! Soothing nature/instrumental melodies stream from online, and the house feels peaceful.  Tousle-headed preschooler naps in his lower red bunk bed and my teens study quietly on their own. 

This week has been a whirl. Monday and Tuesday we were prayerfully watching the West African Senegal presidential elections, praying for peace there and a safe trip to the airport for my parents who were flying out from there. Tuesday they arrived, and I savored time with them after their absence of five months. 

Thanks Microsoft clip art

This week also we signed papers to sell our home (pending an inspection), after eight months of it being on the market. What a sobering, exciting, tremulous feeling to scratch our names so often across legal documents. Sign, date, sign, date. Fourteen years written across approximately fourteen sheets of paper. Grabbing his hand on the table, I whispered to my man, “Exciting and scary, huh?” 

For months, our family prayer was to be in peace and unity about these decisions. Wanting to follow God’s leading and to sense peace as a result, we prayed often for his timing in our house to sell, and for his timing in finding a new home.  This week when the offer to sell came, we felt peace and a decision to accept the offer. In true George Mueller fashion, some prayer requests whispered in silence to God were answered in clear ways only by him. So, we scratched pens, signed names, and shook hands. 

Clambering in and out of our car, we followed our realtor around to prospective homes this week. Up deep snowbanks and through slushy driveways, we slipped off shoes and padded through unfamiliar homes. Three year old raced through empty rooms echoing with squeals, wondering mistakenly where his packed up Legos were. 

One home grabs our attention now, and we wonder, ponder and pray. Grabbing hands with grandparents yesterday, we crouched low to the ground and sought God. Teens, toddler, parents, and grandparents all closed-eyes, thanking God for his leading to here, and praying for his continued leading and wisdom. What a beautiful thing to treasure: a family bending in prayer together.  I am so thankful for parents and in-laws and children who know our God’s name, and whose natural inclination is to seek his face. Rising, husband and I grabbed separate phones and called siblings and family afar, seeking their advice, asking them to pray for wisdom and peace too. 

This morning, my husband awakes. “I slept through the night without waking up once,” he uttered in amazement. For a man with RLS and general sleep issues, this is rare. 

“When was the last time you slept through the night like that?” I asked. 

“Never,” he said. 

I marvel and smile and look up at my God. Of all the nights where questions would normally interrupt his sleep… I would have thought the night after just selling our home, wondering about putting an offer down on another, and knowing that the May 11^th date was looming would all have been ample and expected reasons to disturb his sleep.  Wow, Abba. 

“You will keep in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you.” Thank you, Abba, for peace and deep sleep. You amaze me.