Unearthing Thanks (and a special Audio for You)

Can you see them? The condensation-dripping plastic ziplock bags hanging from the clean dishes rack. And I'm not sure if it's just the frugal missionary kid in me that still washes plastic bags, or the trying-to-go-more-green-girl in me who is sad about too many plastic bags floating in the oceans, but nonetheless, three bags hang drying in the rack beside the Thanksgiving pies.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends! I am thankful for you, thankful for these places online where we get to exchange emails, exchange blog posts, and where we get to rekindle flames in our walk with God, in our marriage and family, and in our spheres of influence.

I am thankful for a warm house where the smell of pumpkin and pecan pies wafts buttery and with scents of freshly-ground cloves, cinnamon, and drizzled vanilla extract. I am thankful for tall grown children, climbing the stairs happy after a rare chance to sleep in, and for a slender eight year old  who chirps cheerful welcomes to his older siblings. I am thankful for fresh ground coffee in a scuffed up french press cylinder still oily from yesterday's brew.

From my pie-smelling home (with baked-on unknown browns on my stove top) and drippy plastic re-used bags, know that I bid you a warm Happy Thanksgiving. You are loved and delighted in. You are seen and heard. Your voice and story matters, and the Creator of the world is right beside you.

Feel free to grin along with my husband and I... We were honored to give a Thanksgiving sermon at our church this last Sunday, sitting together on stage, and digging into some of the surprising statistics and benefits of becoming people of gratitude, and seeing where God's ways bring the greatest joy. (Click here to listen online. Sorry, without visuals you are missing a cute photo of Mark as a six year old, and of me as a fifteen year old holding a pet monkey.)

(Next week, we'll finish the last post in this series of Let's Talk about Sex.)

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

When the Red and Blue Bring Greens and Golds

"Want to smell it?" he asks, stepping aside from the window.

Photo Artist: Jar (Away), Creative Commons, cc license

It's been raining for four hours, a misty, hard-to-see rain that flickers translucent in the air. Water soaks the grass, clusters and puddles atop crescent-shaped purple coral-bell leaves, and drips in steady rhythm from the canvas folded patio umbrella. Leaves hang heavy in saturation, and the backyard is awash in greens.

Daniel and I sniff the crisp air, inhaling the sweet rain scent.

Sixteen year old Morgan and I just returned from an afternoon of shopping. "I'm such a girl," Morgan laughed, excited about her shoes. In Memorial Day savings of fifty percent off at our favorite St. Paul thrift store, we took turns in the fitting rooms, waited in line for a chance to slip on capris, and scoped out a used Spiderman bicycle for Daniel.

I love the diversity of cultures and languages in that thrift store. We saw elementary-aged girls in long headscarves playing tag in the aisles, and listened to families strategize together in lovely lilting Spanish to find shoes size five-and-a-half. West African women chatted outside the dressing rooms in an accent that sounds like home to me, and Morgan and I stepped gently around a shy Hmong girl with two barrettes in her hair.

On a weekend that we remember wars past, and thank our service men and women for their courageous choice to defend and protect us, I see the beauty of that hard-won world. In a free land, people from all cultures and languages are protected and valued. We are better for having them, and it gives me glimpses of heaven.

Rain still falls and a wet cardinal somewhere chirps. Shimmering leaves drip jeweled orbs, and the array of greens is staggering.

A Backward's Glance that Will Change Your Trajectory

Miniscule snowflakes drift by sleepily today, while burly college men sprawl around our cherry wood kitchen table with my husband.

Photo: Gabriela, Creative Commons, cc license

Raucous laughter breaks out as they tease each other about the board game in front of them, and I grin quiet and shift more comfortably on my desk behind them. Scouring digital photos from last year, I select a few, inserting them into this year's Christmas letter. The photos trail beside tales, and I can't help but see it.

It's laced throughout the document, and I hear it again and again. And the words just flow it out, this truth that I know but it takes a year's worth of telling to see it so plainly. In a paragraph on page one, it's there in Times New Roman font, "We are overwhelmed by God's gracious care for us and his extravagant kindness." And somehow it's in a paragraph about demolition and destruction, and yet he amazes me with his kind care.

On page two, the line weaves throughout paragraphs about seizures and cancer but once again the lines speak a truth I had known but the seeing it in black and white still takes me by surprise. Because the audacious truth of joy and seeing God's constant love is that the circumstances might surprise us. It's there, and I can't lie. The words reflect and recite it back to me, and nodding, I agree. "That incident reminded us how precious Daniel is to us and gave us an opportunity to experience God's palpable kind love and presence in our lives as we walked the days and weeks that followed."

And those truths that we can know in our heads really do come bursting from our hearts in the hospital rooms, outside the surgical ward, and in the MRI waiting rooms. Because the truth is "While it was an emotional time for our family, we were amazed at the innumerable ways we saw God's kind gifts to us throughout the nine-day hospital stay and the weeks before and after."

Taking a break from revising the family Christmas letter, I joined my daughter in making beef lo mein for supper. College boys had trickled in and out until there was just one left, playing games at the table with my husband on his day off. This former youth group man is now in his thirties and today is his birthday. Six year old Daniel and I frosted the cake, twirling spoons with white frosting across a yellow cake.

"Can I do the sprinkles?" Daniel asked eagerly. He pinched them up a few at a time, concentrating to drop them precisely where he wanted them on the vanilla frosting. Soon, we sang Happy Birthday and gave Brandon his card. Daniel was so excited that he jumped into a version of the song early, and we hurried to catch up to him, starting a second refrain. And our love for this thirty-two year old former teen in our youth program wells up inside us, jumping off the page of our homemade black and white card.

But this love? It pales next to the love that our God has for Brandon, for us, and for you. This kind love and palpable presence leaps off the page to me this year, reading back over our family's news for the Christmas letter. And I never would have guessed that a year with words like seizure, house relocation, house demolition, and cancer could hold so much joy, and uncontainable stories of God's kindness, but it does.

And may I tell you? For we know, brothers and sisters that you are dearly loved by God, and that he has chosen you. In this Thanksgiving week of finding and giving thanks, even a cursory glance backwards will show you trails and tales of God at work in your life. You are dearly, unconditionally, loved.

(Yes, yes, you too.)

To the Jennys and Jasons and All Who Chase Joy

Photo: Brenda Anderson, Creative Commons, cc license

Dear Jenny,

You would have laughed this afternoon, and I think some did. With a bundle of purple lilacs in one hand and a bulky walkman cassette player in the other, I awkwardly flipped open the machine to turn my tape over. Slipping around under the black walkman in my right hand, two extra cassettes waited their turn and, in the confusion of closing, a lilac leaf became trapped in the cassette player. Green leaves bunched harmlessly as rocky nineties ska music blared in my headphones. I strode in sweaty cool-down mode, sniffing lilacs, grinning madly, and singing along in nostalgia.

You had wanted to join me in this, you said? This novice foray into jogging consistently. I thought of you today as I ran, panting in two-stepped breathing, willing the side-ache away, and wondered which route you would choose. I penned this email to you in my head, while breathing in deeply through my nose. My delight at being outside in Minnesota's newly-arrived summer had intoxicated me, causing me to forget all traces of ordered breathing. I sucked in air, pausing to count and slow my lungs. Quickly the side twinge dissipated. So, be careful of the beauty, my friend. It may catch you off guard too.

There was nothing hip or cool about my run today, despite the flashy green and teal sneakers. Starting partway into a Couch to 5K-style fitness program, I alternated between running and walking, pony tails bouncing off bare shoulders in the summer heat, purple tank top and black athletic pants looking nothing like the stylish runners I've seen.

It didn't matter. The sun poured down, cars roared by beside me, and red-winged blackbirds flapped their wings to stay steady on swaying cattails and tipping prairie grasses.Water gleamed translucent at their feet, mirroring a wide blue sky. Brown and black birds skittered from shallow hollows in the ground around me, jumping several yards away before turning to peer one-eyed at my approach. Freshly-mowed grasses lay long and withering across the pavement, their fragrance a heady sweetness on the breeze.

And just when fatigue was settling in strong enough, the blue house appeared. At the imaginary driveway line, I swiveled, turned, and made my return. All that remained was a calm cool-down saunter the two miles back. (Cue the lilacs. Their stage-right-entrance is a block away...)

The joy poured in, and maybe it was the endorphins, but I doubt they exist on this small of a running scale. Summer's sun was brilliant, tantalizing. Singing along to nostalgic favorites, I thanked God for health, for lilacs, and for his world's beauty. Pressing purple clustered lilac blossoms against my lips, nose, and cheeks, I inhaled as long as I could, and grinned giddy in the sunlight.

Joy feels so different than a life on auto-mode. Joy stands out from complacent carpooling and humdrum habits, but I forget. There is always cause for joy, despite the gasping, the side aches, and the sweat dripping down my face. There is always cause for joy, despite the frenzied last weeks of school and the science test that looms. Joy is always a choice, despite uncertainties that rise and shimmer unbidden in the background. And I remembered this immediately after the blue driveway where I swiveled, turned, and stopped running. Stumbling in wobbly weariness, I gasped, grabbed air, and shook my head, feeling silly to have forgotten.

There was a baby name book I found years ago when I was seeking namesakes for my firstborn. The title boasted proudly, "Beyond Jennifer and Jason," and who could have known they would be so right? Joy is only found when I look beyond myself, when I see Him and his beauty, when I step wonderingly into realization of his presence and breathe fully in.

Only after the run did the sense of it fully settle in. Joy came as a result of stepping in determined perseverance, choosing to breathe and continue, breathe and continue. Joy floods in, and humble thanks.

Slipping off my shoes and guzzling from a green water bottle, Jenny, I'll close. Thanks for joining me in this, and letting me wax philosophical.

Jennifer

Photo: Liz West, Creative Commons, cc license

A Cosmic Wager: A Dare Thrown Across the Galaxies

 And that's the cosmic wager. A dare thrown across the galaxies, between two ethereal spirit beings. Like dice in a cup, the stakes are set, and humanity tumbles into the bowl. With swift inhales, the invisible spirit world leans in for a better angle.

Before this, the parameters were set. Striding into God's throne room, the devil laughed off God's invitation to see his human friend, Job.

"He just loves you, God, because his life is good. Take it all away, though, and he'd curse you to your face" was the wager.

And poor Job. He gets to be a token human to answer this cosmic wager. Will Job only thank God for the good things, the easy things? Or will he still trust God's heart when all of life falls apart?

I was wrong before, by accident. Well, incomplete, maybe...

In an earlier post about "How Do I Thank God For That?" we wrestled with the hard things, you and I. We accurately explained I Thessalonians 5:18 which says "IN everything give thanks" but I forgot about a verse in Ephesians...
                                                  ----------------------------------------
His teeth glint red from the light of the tiny black palm recorder shoved against his mouth. Thumbing the record button, my son growls and chirps phrase after phrase into the plastic device, then grins at the playback feature. Garbled and staticky, his words ring out each time. There's a sense of satisfaction in that for him, this five year old, to have his story spoken aloud. He giggles and whispers more.
                                               ------------------------------------------
I finished a new book today, a slim blue memoir fresh off the shelves from a Minnesota author. I was curious to read her work. Addie Zierman writes vulnerably of a teen journey of faith, of aching loneliness and depression, and of disappointments in the church community. I respected her candor and wished that we had had the chance to meet then, in those twists and turns she wrote of. The youth pastor's wife heart in me tore for the adolescent version of her and wanted to take her out for coffee. I took note too of how to compassionately reach out to teens and young people in similar circumstances. Zierman writes at the end of her book, "So I began to write about all of it...and, in the writing, I found structure... I saw connections I hadn't seen before..."
                                                --------------------------------------------
Two years ago I started scrawling out thankfulness lists in a gratitude journal, counting gifts from God-- both the easy good gifts, and the hard gifts, in which I remember that God is big enough to use even this, and that his heart can be trusted. My list soon spiraled inconsistently into any writing surface: my journals, here on this blog, and in the Gratitude Notebook itself.

Last week, I pulled out Ann Voskamp's book One Thousand Gifts again, reading it anew, wanting to learn and relearn the habits of finding joy in the everyday life, of seeing even more intimately God's heart and love for the people he made. Ann dares us "to live fully right where you are" and to know that joy is always possible.

I've lost that daily practice of naming gifts and lost my original Gratitude Notebook, so today I grabbed pen and paper, and started a new list. In her arguments for retraining the mind in this way to stop, see, and name the gift, Voskamp compiles quotes from:

- the apostle Paul where he twice says, "I have learned how to be content...  I have learned the secret of living in every situation..." (Philippians 4:11-12).

-Erasmus who said, "A habit is overcome by habit" and

-Writer Annie Dillard who wrote, "Seeing is, of course, very much a matter of verbalization. Unless I call my attention to what passes before my eyes, I simply won't see it. It is ... 'not merely unnoticed, but...unseen'... I have to say the words, describe what I'm seeing...If I want to notice the lesser cataclysms of valley life, I have to maintain in my head a running description of the present" (Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts, 127, quoting Dillard).
                         
Words are powerful. They shape our perceptions, our memories, our identities. I choose how to see and frame my day, my family, my life, by how I stop, notice, and summarize my feelings, and by my response to the things around me.

Like five year old Daniel who is emboldened and authenticated by hearing his words repeated back to himself; like Zierman who found greater structure and connections in her life from the perspective of seeing it written out; and from my renewed challenge to see all of life as a gift from God, I'm writing it line by line.

Because what I missed last time? What I forgot, was this cosmic wager and this command in Ephesians: "Always give thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ" (Ephesians 5:20). FOR everything, not just IN everything. This is new territory to me, a truth I forget all the time, and work to re-learn.

Today is my chance to get ready for this cosmic wager, to train my mind to see, to note, to respond in trust. So I scrawl out thanks across the pages, thanking God for:
-sun splashing across my children's faces as they study
-hot coffee in my favorite mug
-a stable job
-9th grade science experiments at the stove with Morgan
-orchid buds swelling pregnant with life
-cars that run
- a warm house in Minnesota November

May writing out these words, these gifts, give me new perspective and train my heart to see His.

(Linking with Imperfect Prose.)

Revised: I've wrestled with this blog post throughout the night and throughout today again. My blithe easy gifts above seem incomplete and naive without addressing the hard gifts too. Hard things in our lives, and in our family's and friend's lives, like cancer, young deaths, hard marriage seasons, addictions, relationship issues, and more. And through them, I have become convinced of my God's loving hand, even while not understanding everything he allows to happen. And for that, I am stepping tremulously into thanking Him in everything, and learning to trust Him in trying to thank Him for everything. But, please extend grace, friends, as I still learn this? Maybe we can together walk this journey.

Photo credit: Creative Commons; Christmasstockimages.com 

Hungry for the Best Day Ever?

 Flaky pastry crumbs tumble off orange-vested autumn color. He eats with a surprising blend of seriousness and gusto. Focused on the apple turnover, he nibbles and chews. Focused on him, I snap photos and realize how this wild love for my son melts me inside.

At the apple orchard, we purchase tickets for a wagon ride, pose for photos next to giant plastic apples and wooden pumpkins, and clamber onto a tractor wagon ride through the orchard. Glimpses of blue lakes, green-algaed ponds, and rows of Harelson, Cortland, Macintosh, and Honeycrisp apple trees lurch gently beside us on the wagon, and I see his face again, serious, steady, a pensive happiness.

Climbing into the car this afternoon before we had even left the driveway, though, he was ready for joy. "This is the best day ever!" he exclaimed. This phrase of his: "The best day ever!" comes up every day.

Pulling up to the kitchen table and seeing spaghetti makes him cry, "This is the best day ever!" Hearing that his college-age brother is coming home for the weekend elicits it --"This is the best day ever!" ("You can pray," he tells John at supper that night, giving him the honor of praying for our family meal)

After small things even: time snuggling on the couch, Lego battles, or even longer conversations, Daniel grins, hugs us, and exclaims, "This is the best day ever." Sighing happily, he kisses us and then ambles off.

How do you live life so free and joyful? On sunny wagon rides in orchards dripping with apples, joy comes easily to me. Or while eating my share of the fluffy frosted apple turnover and watching him eat somberly, the joy is there too.

But to keep that sense of wonder in the kitchen full of dirty dishes or amidst the petty family squabbles? It's a choice, I'm sure of it. A decision to see the good, to grab delight in simple pleasures, and to exclaim it loudly, "This is a great day!" 

Thankful for tangy fresh apple cider, for flaky popovers that leave me hungry for more, for sunshine and warmth on rainy fall weeks, for warm homes after rush hour, for a car that runs, for hot sudsy water to wash dishes, for family and friends, for God's gentle love and patience with us all, for sweet five year old sons, and for the wonder of science and seeds on this homeschooling day, I practice and learn.

Hungry for the best day ever? Take lessons with me from a sweet-cheeked five-year old and take joy seriously. Look, see, count, and thank our God.

(Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose too.)

How Do I Thank God for THAT?

 I pour myself another cup of coffee and hear a semi truck's rumbling exhales on the road outside. A friend's question has been tumbling through my head this last week and a half.

"I know I can thank God for even the hard things in my life -- and with hindsight now, I can see where he's brought beauty in those things -- but in my child's life?" she types. " To thank him for abuse in her life? How do I do that? Am I supposed to?"

The question hangs in cyberspace as I read it, ponder it, and then walk away to give it the thought it deserves. In the busy two weeks that follow, it tickles my brain.

At two women's retreats, I join other lovely speakers to talk on the theme of "Chased by Grace." In my sessions on Nehemiah, we walk through hope-infused stories of a refugeed people standing up from the rubble in their lives, strapping on swords, and rousing to "Fight for your brothers, your sons and daughters, your husbands and wives, and your homes."   "...And our God is fighting for us!" Nehemiah yells. Again and again in that historical account from the 400s BC, we see God's huge hand bringing beauty from rubble. An expert Architect, he rebuilds the ruins of a city and the ruins of peoples' lives. And he did it in such a way that the enemies and surrounding nations realized that "this work had been done with the help of our God." 

Back home from the retreats, a blonde-haired friend and I text about an upcoming informational breakfast against human trafficking. In addition to going, we decide to sponsor a table, rallying more people to fight against human trafficking and to rescue women and teens. (Want to join us? Nov. 2 in Minneapolis. It's free! Let me know.) We talk details and I slip my red phone back into the wooden bowl on the counter. Thinking of young girls and guys trapped in sexual slavery sinks sadness into me. Even that, God? What does it look like to give thanks in everything?

Curled up on the couch with my Bible and study materials, I come across the familiar verse in 1 Thessalonians 5:18 ("...in everything, give thanks...") and suddenly a grammar preposition changes everything. It didn't say "FOR everything, give thanks" but "IN everything" -- like through everything, in all circumstances, not for all circumstances.

This freedom, then, to not have to say thank you for abuse on children, for cancer in healthy cells, for poverty around the world-- for whatever hard things wait for you back home.

This injunction, this invitation, to-- in all circumstances-- still thank God: 
-that he is big enough to handle even this
-that he can be trusted to rebuild this ruin and bring beauty from even this
-that he has a track record of restoring and redeeming the broken fallout of other humans' bad choices. 

This tremulous release of opening hands to say, Okay, even in this, even in this, somehow...

-That even in our dark moments, in our hurt and pain, we can cry out like David in the Psalms, "Lord, slay the wicked!" and you get even that, God.

-That you are the Perfect Judge before whom we must all stand one day and give an account for every word and deed.

And that you are in the business of restoring lives, rescuing the widows and the orphans, and you call us to "Stand up and fight (alongside you)." Fight for your brothers, your sisters, your sons and daughters, your husbands/wives, your nieces and nephews, your grand-kids, and neighbors. "Our God will fight for us!" 

And, in this, I can give thanks and unclench my hands.

I love hearing from you. What hard things can you list in the "even this..." pile? (Those getting this via email can click here to join the conversation.)

(Linking with Emily.)

Photo credit. 

 Note: Perpetrators still need to be reported, processed, punished; survivors still need to be believed, rescued, counseled. For a helpful poignant book on surviving abuse, I appreciated Mary DeMuth's book "Thin Places."

The French Were Wrong

Two blonde veterinarian students review for a large exam at the coffee table to my left. Tucking their hair into long pony tails, they discuss bovine disorders and throw out rhino-something terms that leave me in the dust.

Nestled into a corner beside me, a slender woman with short silver hair and a teal parka rustles papers about World War II nurse rosters, and I glimpse attendance sheets and columns of names. My curiosity mounts and I try to restrain myself.

In the hair salon yesterday, I sat under a black plastic shawl as the stylist cut my hair. The beautiful Lebanese-American with a striking nose and tempestuous black curls tied behind a yellow bow told me stories of a five-year old her, moving into a step-mom's home who "never wanted kids."

I blinked back tears, too embarrassed to cry at Great Clips, while my stylist matter-of-factly said, "I just tried to be gone a lot. I watched the people at my friends' houses to see how relationships should be."

I bit down tears, and opened up too, saying how thankful I am for God's gentle love for us and work on me. We talked of our families and hopes and I remarked on her compassion and involvement in her sisters' lives.

A day later, and she still comes to mind. I smile and think of her resilience, and pray for her.

Growing up as a young American in West Africa and France, I soaked up those cultures. Returning to the United States twenty years ago, I still find myself a product of those rich cultures and experiences. One French social law that slips into my actions some days says to not engage in extended conversations with strangers, since it may trivialize or cheapen the concept of friendship. (Can you see why the French are mistakenly perceived as aloof or cold sometimes to foreigners?) The French themselves don't mind breaking this rule now, though, and I remind myself to also.

Stop and see the people around you today, friend. The coffee barista with the Austrian accent, the college students with their upcoming exams, the tired mom in the checkout lane who may visibly relax at the comment of how cute her toddler is, and your lovely hair stylist with untamed curls.

Stop. See them. Smile into their eyes, and receive the gift of meeting them. 

Linking with Ann, I count gifts of people today at A Holy Experience. 

And What Do You Buy God?

Five or six nickels and dimes line up precariously on the white pine bed railing, as my four-year old and I shove toys into piles in his room.

Sitting cross-legged, I sort toys and bag up giveaways. "Daniel, I found another one!" He races over to pluck the coin from my hand, and carries it triumphantly up the ladder to his bed railing.

My brother flew home this week, my eldest son walked the stage in flowing red robes on Tuesday night, and we celebrated his graduation party on Saturday. Throughout the week leading up to it, our family cleaned, painted, and landscaped like madmen. And my silly prayer to God all week? Lord, please let the tulips keep their petals and beauty until after the party. I wanted the guests to have that splash of color in the yard, and even more so, I longed for my horticulturalist brother to enjoy them with me.

Graduation party day came, and my vibrant red, purple and yellow tulips were still there. Nodding in rain, blown by the wind, they were still there -- weeks past their duration date-- still there when my brother drove up to see them.

The party went wonderfully, the food multiplied, the hard rain held off, and we delighted to linger long with people over ice cream sundaes and hot coffee on a cloudy day. Conversations flowed, grass-stained teens played volleyball for hours, and we had a wonderful time.

And the tulips? They held their color, waving in the wind.

Five or six nickels and dimes line up precariously on the white pine bed railing. Surrounded by Legos, cheetahs, and valiant plastic green army men, I sort toys into piles, and sit in Daniel's room, listening to him. He tells me of games he plays, and battles his cheetahs have been in, and he occasionally hands me toys to sort. I listen and clean; listen and love him; listen and bring order to the disarray.

And the joy in him wells up. This time with him, this one-on-one listening, this listening to the smallest details of his life, fills up his love bank and bursts him wide open.

"You beautiful, Mom! I love you." And we work some more. I work quietly behind the scenes, restoring order and beauty to spilled toys, spilled out bits from a busy life that hadn't yet been dealt with.

Love spills into him, and over him, falling out around him, and he breaks into happy leaping.

"Mom, I buy you something?" he asks suddenly, touching his six or seven coins lined up on the bed. These were his coins that he was saving in the ceramic blue and white pig. Coins he was saving to buy a Lego set.

"Mom, I buy you something?"

"Wow, Daniel, that's really sweet and generous of you. I'm okay for right now, but maybe later, okay? Thank you!" I stammer and affirm him.

I get this. This desire to give back to the One who sits in my disarray and listens, to the One who spills love to me with simple gestures, like tulips bobbing in the wind. The love spills up and over, and I burst into wondering what I can give back to Him. And the nickels and dimes line up precariously on my white pine railing.

"Thank you, God! Thank you for so much. I buy you something?" And the line it slips out my mouth in quiet humor to my God all weekend now, a shared joke between me and the Godhead. His letters tell me that a life of worship and obedience is what speaks love to Him right back, and so I gather my heart and leap into worship. 

Hi friend! I've missed you. What has this last week been like for you? How are ways you speak love back to God? (Those in email can click here to join the discussion.)

Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose, and Ann at A Holy Experience.

Coins photo credit.

A Scary Privilege: How We as Moms Set the Tone

This Saturday, it fell apart.

"Why is it that the day before a Youth Sunday, everything somehow goes so badly?" my husband asked, sliding a hand through his hair in exasperation. "It never fails."

Toddlers dissolved into tears; teens argued; but mostly it was me. I argued, raged, and dissolved into tears. In an embarrassing grocery store incident, a stranger snapped at us -- I responded-- then he apologized and gently hoisted kitty litter into our cart. My daughter and I flushed an embarrassed crimson and bagged rapidly, wanting just to be away from watching eyes. Stacking blueberries and lettuce heads, I heard his soft apology, and offered an embarrassed one of my own.

Changing my default of discontent to doxology, described by Ann Voskamp, author of "One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are," is not easy to master. I can so easily fall into complaining, whining, or indignant behavior.

At home, surrounded by a bounty of groceries and a wealth of old resentment and impatience, my family and I stopped, apologized, and started over. Choosing to see good in the day, in each other, in the gifts from our Creator, we stopped, apologized and started over. 

Peace settled slowly into our home, joy creeping in. 

Oh friend, can you relate? Have you noticed a direct co-relation between your mood and your family's moods some days? What helps you and your family in those times? (Those in email can click here to join the conversation.)

Linking with Ann and Emily.

A Twilight Romance

A summery twilight spills sharp sunlight on my new neighbor’s trees – the green hues popping vividly against the blue sky behind. Inside, I type on a make-shift computer desk of two coffee tables and a bookshelf. Preschooler fights bedtime behind me, and the teens are off to camp. Caramel-, mocha- and chocolate milk-colored paint chips march along the wall behind my couch, waiting for inspiration. Jazzy vocals from Pandora get my shoulders bouncing and jivin’. Partially-unpacked boxes stack in corners, and newly-found Legos mound in a corner. 

The beauty of fluttering leaves and sun-dripped trees never ceases to captivate me. Am I too easy to please? Creator God, your art amazes me. “You steal my heart and you take my breath away… How could I stand here and not be moved by you?” 

Take a second to watch the video clip below of a drama done by our senior high mime team a few years ago to Lifehouse’s “Everything” song that I quoted above. You are being romanced, friend…  

Share this with friends and family. 

…You calm the storms and you give me rest
You hold me in your hands
You won't let me fall
You steal my heart and you take my breath away
Would you take me in, take me deeper now
And how can I stand here with you and not be moved by you
Would you tell me how could it be any better than this
…

Cause you're all I want, you're all I need
You're everything, everything
You're all I want
You're all I need
You're everything, everything
You're all I want
You're all I need
You're everything, everything
You're all I want
You're all I need
Everything, everything

And how can I stand here with you and not be moved by you
Would you tell me how could it be any better than this… 

 

 Linking with Ann and Shanda.

You Had Me at ...Avocados

He was waiting outside the bathroom door for me, flowers in one hand and two avocados in the other hand. I grinned and kissed him, pulling him close. It was our wedding anniversary, and my husband was speaking romance to me in my own language. Having lived overseas for many years as a kid, I crave mangoes, avocados, and guavas, yet the frugal woman in me hates splurging too often on the exotic produce. My husband knows me well and woos me in avocados!

YOU are being wooed and romanced too. You are studied, understood, and known intimately. The Artist knows your cravings, knows your sweet tooth desires, knows your hidden longings. He remembers what makes you smile. He records your tears, and cradles your broken heart. He woos you --woos US--like a Lover bringing flowers.

I am on a journey to see God's gifts, to thank him, to run to him. This journey, this new discipline, is exciting! The "dare to live life fully right where you are" renews my way of thinking, forces me to see the gifts, name them, and run to the Giver. My family has joined me in this. We now have a "Gifts"/gratitude book that we keep on our kitchen counter and add to daily as desired. It delights me to see various hand writings scrawl their gifts across the page... daughter, her friends, son, my visiting parents. Like a guestbook of naming gifts and thanking the Giver, the Artist, the Lover. He romances and woos us, like a husband holding flowers and avocados in my hallway.

 

What about you? What gifts have you seen from the Artist today? We counted a huge rainbow yesterday that spanned our sky, enjoying family today, sweet cantaloupe juice, laughter and games as a family, and "happy for a great summer," says my daughter.

Sun-splashed Trees: A Discipline of Thanks

Abba, I bask in the beauty of your creation, drinking in the fresh morning breeze through the window, the bobbing lemon and violet pansies in the windowbox, and tall sun-splashed leafy trees against an immaculate blue sky. Hot coffee beside me, happy family's voices echo nearby, distant traffic noises float on the summer breeze, evoking a surprisingly sentimental comfort. The sheer curtains in front of me breathe slowly in and out by the morning breeze, and my own breathing slows.

Giving thanks -- this new discipline to learn and practice daily, hourly. I forget so often. Father, forgive me, teach me, transform me, renew my mind. I thank you for your summer beauty in a Duluth neighborhood; for sandy beaches, sunscreen scents and picnics near the sound of waves. Thank you for free bike rental coupons and laughing, shrieking adventures in a single surrey and a red deuce coup on the board walk in Canal Park and on the lighthouse pier. Thank you for shared jokes with my sixteen year old as he confidently steered and veered our single surrey bike. Thank you for an unabashed three year old's stomping in warm summer rain puddles before an audience on the pier, and my tinge of sadness when he noticed them and shyly stopped, hiding his face from their friendly smiles. Thank you for lovely evenings and meals with extended family, board games at the table, movie nights in the living room, and tall glasses of home brewed sun tea with freshly picked mint leaves in abundance.