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.)

What You May Not Know You're Telling Us

Photo: Chad Cooper, Creative Commons, cc license

Photo: Yen-Cheng Li, Creative Commons, cc license

When I peered out last night, they caught me by surprise. Standing crowded together, they stared to the right, fascinated by something in the west. I laughed and wondered what I was missing; and how did they know to all turn and watch?

In the jumbled garden beds, a crowd of sunflowers stands tall in a jungle of weeds. Strays from last year's structured vegetable gardens, the sunflowers are not yet fully grown. Their flowered faces are small, more like sleepy full-lashed cyclops, and last night they stood in silent vigil after a setting sun.

I laughed yesterday at the sight of them. This morning, I stepped out to study them again. In perfect precision, they had changed during the night, and now they all faced east. Heavy-lidded tiny eyes following the light. Yesterday, peering into evening's twilight, they remained still, staring at where they had last seen the sun's face. Waiting, quiet in the night, they stood. Until this morning, and how do they know? These stray wild flowers on a cloudy grey morning, how do they see the sun's face when I have yet to? How do they know to turn to the light, to turn to the place where they know they'll see his face? How do they know to wait? 

And I see that in you, and in other dear friends, this ability to follow the Light. I see you, standing... some in meticulously-ordered sites and the watching for the sun is easy, ordered, expected. You know where he'll appear because he did yesterday and the day before, and you stand and you wait, knowing the light will come. Other friends, we've talked, and you share it raw and honest over coffee cups or cyber space that the waiting is hard, this life is jumbled, disordered, and not as structured as you had planned. The days are cloudy, and you don't quite see his face yet, but you remember where you saw him last and so you stare and wait, convinced that since you saw him here last, this is where you'll wait, watching, until you see him again.

The sunflowers amaze and delight me, moving me to laughter and joy on a day with both grey thunderous rain and splashing sunlight. I watch the way they follow him, the way they follow the light despite the changing weather. Their faces keep time with the movements of the sun and their eyes never waver, following his light.

I see it in you, friends, in the times we've talked. And for others of you whom I'm still getting to know, I can sense it. That others see this in you too. How your face hovers waiting, and how your very being turns towards Him, and points me in His direction too. You point us to His light, my friends.

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

You Are Sooo Close

Photo Credit: Benson Kua, Creative Commons, cc license

A lovely foreign-accented dark-haired woman with pale complexion and red lipstick clips words with a heavy tongue beside me, while an American businessman converses with her. They mention churches, the Basilica, nieces dancing in Hopkins, and a local pontoon party.

I've finished my Sunday School lesson outline and refilled my coffee. It scalds my tongue, and I spill two drops of golden tan onto my page.

I wonder about this morning's blogpost I need to write and stretch my legs that, miraculously, are not as sore as they could be after yesterday's run. Successfully getting back into jogging, I ran one and a half miles without stopping Friday afternoon. Saturday and Sunday, I groaned and clutched my legs in pain but proud accomplishment sustained me.

Yesterday (Monday) I forced myself to run again, knowing the second time is always the hardest. Making yourself set out down that marked path when the memory of agonizing weariness is so fresh and your legs are still sore from the last run is the hardest time to run. No endorphins ever set in, and my run looked more like a limping pitiful jog, but I did it. My husband's cell phone I was using as my music player had a battery line in the red, warning of only ten percent life left. I willed and prayed it to last to my mile and a half marker, a blue house that seemed absurdly far away.

Cars passed me going north and south, and far-off hollow hammer falls echoed across the valley. Mountains of black dirt behind an orange plastic construction fence hinted at future retail areas, and a blue porta-potty boasted "Fresh Air" across its walls. I panted and willed myself to keep going.

Green-glinting mallard duck and his demure brown mate floated on a vast rain pond, mirroring a massive blue sky. I wheezed and tried to train my arms to circle in tight arcs and not flail wildly.

The blue house loomed far out of sight and I felt my resolve flagging. Breathe. Don't stop. Breathe. Don't stop. Breathe. At least to the next driveway, at least to the next driveway. And the words became a mantra in and out of my double-rhythmed breathing. Don't stop. To the next driveway. 

Intersection lights blinked far down the road and I knew the blue house should be appearing soon.

You're so close now, Jen. Don't stop. Breathe, don't stop. Breathe, don't stop. Breathe. My legs screamed, my breathing was labored, and my arms flailed unchecked, but the blue house appeared. The driveway line was so close. I pounded step in front of step on the asphalt stubbornly, until the line came. At the obscure chosen mark, I was spent and limp, spinning a triumphant 180 degrees. Everything in me grabbed air and rejoiced at not running, as I walked weakly back down the path. Gasping, wheezing, I sucked air and tried not to collapse in view of passing cars. Step, step, breathe. 

Smile. Accomplished.

My chest and breathing slowed, the valley extended wide, expansive under a blue May sky, and the spiritual and metaphorical implications hit me.

Whatever you're persevering towards (raising kids, a book contract, marriage growth, an art piece, sin victories), keep going. You're so close. Don't stop. Breathe. Don't stop. Breathe. You are so close...


(Linking too with gentle Ann in thanks.)

What a Warrior in a Wine Cave Would Tell You

 

It was easier last week. Easier when the screen displayed five or six options, to breathe in blithely and say that we were trusting God for our new home.

It's always easier to feel relaxed in trusting God when the cars in the driveway start, when the bank accounts have wider margins between the credit and the debit boxes, or when the houses For Sale line up nicely into the categories we like.

Once the For Sale signs start lowering, and the pretty homes with the open layouts disappear, I'm required to really stand up and figure out what I'm holding on to. Am I trusting God for our next home only when the weekly emails state that there are eight or nine feasible options?

And that is the real question, isn't it? Glib answers crash quickly when the easy options fall off the table. If my stance of peaceful trust is only secure on clear blue days with no hint of storms, then my peace is less about Him, and more about me. My sense of self-sufficiency, my bank accounts, my cars that start... In other words, it's about life looking easy anyway.

The real test, the real test comes when it doesn't look like I can do it on my own, when there are only three houses on the list with enough bedrooms for us, and time shows that they seem to disappear quickly.

"But, where's the challenge in that, Jen?" he whispers to me. And I'm reminded of a warrior's cave musings from the Bible book of Judges. Among vintage wines, oozing grapes, and purple puddles on the ground, God approached a young Jewish warrior, hiding in a wine-press cave. Describing to the man the battles he was about to wield and win with God's help, God affirmed one key truth.

"You are going to know that I was the One who did this, not you, and not your nation. It's by my power that you're going to win these skirmishes."

In fact, God whittled down Gideon's fledgling army to a mere 300 men against 135,000 enemies. Statistically, calculates my husband, this meant that every one Jewish warrior would have to fight 450 men on his own, and survive to battle on. Not very good odds.

But our Warrior God, who loves to write thrilling stories into world history, loved that these odds would point to only one conclusion: God had done this himself. This wasn't the work of any Spartan-esque army. This was God showing off.

"Where's the trust, Jen, if it looks easy? What trust is needed if your options lie wide open? Trust me now, as the email screen of available houses shrinks, and your papers are tied up in City Hall meetings, and spring approaches. Do you trust me now?"

And this God-- who has walked us through cancer-scares on our little girl when she was five years old, and who found us this home, and who has always taken care of us --watches me, cocks an eyebrow, and asks, "Will you trust me now? Want to really up the stakes?"

What about you? Where do you say you are trusting God, but it has really just been because it's been easy to do on your own? In your marriage, with your dreams and future, in your finances, or with your kids? Our God loves us, and enjoys building our faith in him. Is he cocking an eyebrow at you too today?

(Photo Credit to Steve Snodgrass, Creative Commons, Cc license)

...Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose.

What Sex Unlocks in Marriage

Photo Credit: Maria Rosaria Sannino, Creative Commons, cc

It's a little bit like showing up to school with no pants on.

You've had that dream too, I'm sure. On a rushed morning getting ready for school, you dash out the door with your backpack and bag lunch. Not until you step out past the long line of orange school buses do you feel the wind on your thighs and realize that you've forgotten to put on your pants. Heart-thumping wildly, we all dash ourselves awake at this moment, our pulses racing as we sit up in a dark room.

I am honored to speak at an upcoming event this week, and love that they chose the "Ovens vs. Microwaves: Issues of Sexuality in Marriage" session of mine. It is one of my favorite workshops. Talking candidly about sex is a bit like showing up to school with no pants on. Yet it's a topic that we Christians need to talk about more often.

Whenever we fall into the notion that "good girls don't talk about sex or sexuality" we have forgotten how bluntly and unblushingly our God talks about sex. Sex was God's idea. He invented it, and us, intentionally sculpting in bundles of nerves throughout our bodies. Nerves that are not needed for the purposes of procreation, but are essential for pleasure.

In Hebrews 13:4, God declares, "Marriage is honorable in all, and the bed undefiled." The Greek word for bed here is koite, which in Latin is coitio meaning sex. Thus God says in Hebrews here that "Marriage is honorable in all, and the sex undefiled."

In the Biblical book of Song of Solomon, a play with two main characters, a Beloved and her Lover describe in tantalizing detail their desire for each other. On their wedding night at the consummation, a third voice enters the fray, saying quietly, smilingly, "Eat, o friends and drink; drink your fill, o lovers." Bible scholars wonder if this is their Creator telling them to enjoy what he has invented for them.

Gary Thomas, in his article entitled "The Power of a Pure Passion," explores some wild discoveries about sex and marriage, after new research on the chemical interactions of our brain, including the chemical oxytocin: 

The past decade has led to an explosion of understanding about the chemical interactions of our brains, and many insights about love and marriage have become more readily apparent. For starters, that wonderfully transcendent, carry-me-away feeling of infatuation will not last more than about 24 to 33 months. This sudden affection is intense, but it’s a “sprinter,” not a marathoner; it has no endurance, and will begin to fade about the time that most couples come home from their honeymoon.

As the inventor of our brains, our Creator knows this, so He also designed a follow-up act that literally renews a couple’s affection: sexual intimacy. Here’s how it works. At any given time, the female brain contains up to ten times more oxytocin than the male brain. Oxytocin is the bonding chemical that creates feelings of affection and empathy. You want to know why women tend to be more invested in close relationships than men? Oxytocin is one of the reasons.

There’s only one time in human experience when the husband’s level of oxytocin begins to approach that of his wife’s: immediately following an act of sexual intimacy. A man’s brain literally re-bonds with his spouse, making him, at that moment, more committed to his family, more satisfied with his wife, more invested in his home. Wives, why do your husbands want sex with you so often (whether they know this is the reason or not)? It’s because they never feel closer to you than immediately following that encounter.

Need some oxytocin? Does your man?

Take a moment to look across the room at him. Study his broad shoulders and that strong back. Close your eyes and remember his cologne, or sneak up to him and sniff his neck. Feel your lips on his skin. Think about some of the things you love about him emotionally and physically. Then disappear, and know that God is saying, "Have fun. I made this for you."

Hi friends. I love you stopping in. What do you think? What's an aspect of marriage that Christians don't talk enough about? 

(And linking with Ann to count gifts-- thankful for God's invention here today.) 

To the Peach Pie God

Photo credit to Curtis Palmer, Creative Commons, cc

The news from the big box company who wants to move in across the road from us and the pertinent land owner strikes fear in us. We look at cold hard facts and know that we can no longer stay in this home, but the realization leaves me heartsick and tight-chested. We worked for years to get this property, and have sunk in deep roots in the year and a half we've been here. I stare out the windows at my raspberry, strawberry, and rhubarb beds frozen under snowdrifts, and wonder if I'll have time to safely export them with me. Tulip and daffodil bulbs lie within reach of future bulldozing easements, locked from me in frozen earth.

A deadline decision looms just a week away, so we crunch numbers, scrunch foreheads, and seek wise counsel. And in between the inevitable, the fear, and the worrying grief, we hug long, and whisper truth to ourselves, to each other, and to our children.

"God is good, he can be trusted. He has always taken care of us, even lavishly, generously caring for us. He is the Peach Pie God, sending us a peach pie through teens when we were discouraged about youth ministry years ago. He is the Ball Road bliss home God, the marriage-redeeming God, the garden-creating God, the children-giving God, the Scene-striding God who knows the words to sustain the weary." 

At church yesterday, we admitted each apprehension our hearts threw out, and assured ourselves with truths of who God says he is. And yet, grief is allowed, and we God-followers are allowed to ache and say, "This is hard." In rawness, I stood to sing, and God sent lyrics for me. Tears fell as I sang,

"...Even when I'm caught in the middle of the storms of this life,
 I won't turn back I know you are near, 
And I will fear no evil, for my God is with me, 
And if my God is with me, whom then shall I fear, whom then shall I fear?
Oh no, you never let go, through the calm and through the storm,
Oh no, you never let go, in every high and every low
oh no you never let go, Lord you never let go of me

And I can see a light that is coming for the heart that holds on
and there will be an end to these troubles but until that day comes, 
still I praise you, still I will praise you..." (Matt Redman, "You Never Let Go")

The next song's lyrics said,

"...Troubles surround me, chaos abounding, 
my soul will rest in you, 
I will not fear the war, I will not fear the storm, 
my help is on the way, my help is on the way

Oh my God, he will not delay, my refuge and strength always, 
I will not fear, his promise is true,
my God will come through always.

...I lift my eyes up, my help comes from the Lord ..."(Kristian Stanfill's "Always")

I clenched my jaw against crying, wiped silent tears, and continued my conversation with God in song,

"Nothing formed against me shall stand, 
you hold the whole world in your hand
I'm standing firm in your promises,
you are faithful, you are faithful, you are faithful.

...I know who goes before me, I know who stands behind,
the God of angel armies is always by my side..." (Chris Tomlin, "Whom Shall I Fear?")

Sound and tech crews in the back flashed a pre-determined verse on the screen, and God whispered back,
      "Look to the Lord and his strength;
       seek his face always" (I Chronicles 16:11).

I don't know what your weekend has been like, or what you are going through, but our God loves you and is faithful. He has words he wants to tell you. Would you ask him, friend? Speak your worries, your wonders, your fears and excitements. Then sit back and wait. He wants to answer you, and will: through a song on the radio, through his words in the Bible, through a friend, a sermon, or an online note. You are loved.

I'd love to hear what you are thinking today, friends.

(And linking to count gifts with Ann. For his trust-worthy heart and for his whispers through song.)

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.)

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.

The Radical Choices After "I Do"

Photo credit to Josiah Mackenzie

It wasn't a proud moment.

Huddling under blankets, I squeezed my eyes against the closet light, and buried further into muffled quiet. He dressed, searched for matching socks, and I grumbled at the interruptions to my nap.

Soon, my man turned off the light and left the room. Grabbing my last twenty minutes of sleep, I burrowed deep into sheets and pillow. Kitchen noises, microwave door slams, and cabinet clatters grated on me. Then there was silence and a blissful few moments of sleep, before the alarm woke me.

Padding out to the kitchen I saw a note on the table next to a tall glass. "I love you. Here is some chai to wake you up. You may need to reheat it." White whipped topping swirled with grated nutmeg above creamy chai tea.

Embarrassment at my inner grumblings mixed with shame, and I apologized to God for my attitude. Grabbing my phone, I texted my husband just as his worship practice was starting, "You're a nice man! Thanks for the note and the chai."

"You are my love, my life, the best friend I know," he responded.

I was wooed, romanced, and thrilled. Dashing off a quick reply to him since he had to start drumming, I then turned to my chai and my Bible.

Choices. We all make them.

My husband chose to be kind to me, despite my sleepy grumbles. I was humbled, touched, and different for the rest of the day.

Choosing to look for good in each other, choosing to respond in gentle humility, choosing joy and life over selfish grumblings, choosing kingdom life...

We have been choosing to pray together every morning, my husband and I. While we had always known the benefits of that, this is a new consistency and new intentionality for us. Pausing life, ignoring the kids for a moment, and before one of us heads out the door, we hug, lean close, and step into the throne room. Foreheads or cheeks touching, we pray with soft voices for each other. Naming battles, praying blessings, choosing this radical other way of Kingdom life. A life that is so counter-intuitive some days --gentleness, other-focused, patient -- that it involves a conscious retraining of our mind and actions. 

And it is so good. We see Jesus in the softness, in the gentle, in the serving.

"You and Mark seem... different," said a friend yesterday who knows us well, nodding her head and smiling. I thanked her, talked of God, and shared my brokenness.

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

Splashes of Joy and Strength

Sun pours in through the windows. Grainy video footage of the sixties movements march across our TV screen. My teens sprawl long-legged across the living room floor, munching lunch in history class. In the back yard outside, white rags of surrender blow from my wire raspberry fences. 

A green dinosaur scrambles up on my lap, leaning his head sleepily against me. Plush fabric dino horns brush my cheek as my four year old cuddles in. 

Throughout the afternoon, homework crises rise and fall, emails are sent, and laundry mounds high, yet the sun still pours in rich and warm.  My Bible spills open across the scratched cherry wood table, the same table my husband grew up around as a child. Stealing over in quiet moments, I grab verses here, nuggets there. 

“’I will strengthen them in the Lord and in his name they will walk,’ declares the Lord.”

Earlier in the chapter while relating stories of rescue, the writer declares: “Their children will see it and be joyful; their hearts will rejoice in the Lord.” 

The sun spills across my kitchen floor, and floods into my living room, lighting up the jade and banana palm. 

“I will strengthen them in the Lord, and in his name they will walk…” 

We can see his rescue stories written across time, with hearts that rejoice in Him. 

Linking with Shanda and Duane.

Light through the window clip art courtesy of Microsoft clip art.

Conspiring Teens Plot Joy (Want their Secret?)

The teens exchanged glances, eyes flaring, shoulders keeping time with the rising drums. “Ready?” was the unspoken question, as grins split open further to sing, “You are hooooooooly.”  Spiked blonde hair rose above a striped teal and brown shirt, and shorter brown-haired male in tan sang out with abandon, in a line of young men in the front row. Behind them, female teens smiled wide, glanced at friends nearby, and dropped jaws to sing with rich tones. “Hoooooly, Holy, You are hooooooly, holy.” 

Drums boom, the church families, singles and grandparents all raise voices high, but it's the teens who grab my attention. I love their joy, their “Ready? Let’s go” glances to each other as the recognized chorus appears, and then their disappeared abandon to the words, as they close eyes, lean in, and sing out.

I can't comprehend your infinitely beautiful and perfect love
Oh I've dreamed dreams of majesty as brilliant as a billion stars
But they're never bright enough after all

You are Holy
Oh Holy
Holy, Holy, Holy

I will sing a song for you my God with everything I have in me
But it's never loud enough after all

You are Holy
Oh Holy
Holy, Holy, Holy

Heaven and earth are full, full of your glory, glory
My soul it overflows full of your glory, your glory
Oh blessed is he who reigns, full of your glory, your glory
My cup, it can't contain all of your glory, your glory
Hosanna we are found after all you are

Holy
Oh Holy
Holy, Holy, Holy

I can't comprehend
You're infinitely beautiful  (After all (Holy) by the David Crowder band) 

Sing with me this morning! “My soul it overflows, full of your glory… my cup it can’t contain all of your glory.” Linking with Ann and Shanda.

I love getting to know you. What has your weekend been like? Where have you seen joy this weekend? Those in email can join the conversations by clicking here. 

Photos courtesy of Microsoft clip art. Video courtesy of the David Crowder band, found on youtube.