Do You Feel It Calling You?

Artist Thomas Rousing, Creative Commons, cc licensing

Can you remember it? The first time someone pointed it out to you or the first-time you noticed that feeling in your chest?

It might have been the way you caught that football pass while diving into the grass, or after they caught you belting out a song when you thought you were alone. It might have come in a teacher's scrawl at the bottom of a writing assignment, words that said, "You have talent. Keep going."

Was it about your drawing skills, or your speed in math, or how you are able to hold captive the attention of twenty children's eyes in elementary school and Sunday School?

Whether someone else noticed it yet or not, there is something you do that brings you joy. There is something you do that grabs your attention, gives you a little lift, and makes you want to strive all the more.

Famous Olympic runner Eric Liddell once said, "I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run, I feel his pleasure."

What is it for you that brings you joy, that calls you out to pursue further? For me, words and teaching grab my heart. I love learning new things, and then turning those concepts over and over in my mind, wrestling with how to best capture and describe them, linking them with other ideas. I love most of all learning about our Creator God, seeing his heart for his world and the transformative work he does. His artistic sculpting of people's lives and history amazes and delights me.

This weekend I get to join talented women like Angie Smith, Dee Brestin, Susie Larsen, and many more from across the nation to speak at the Set Apart Conference in St. Paul, Minnesota. These are women who love God and are passionate about using their words to share God's wild chasing love for his creation. And for me, I am honored to speak alongside them. When I get to talk about God, it feels like worship to my King.

If you are near the Minneapolis-St. Paul area and wish to join us, feel free to click here for any last-minute tickets. Join thousands of women from across the Midwest to get to know this God of hope, our Artist God. Feel free to come see me too. I would love to meet you and talk more. I am sharing "The Seven Needs of a Husband" in sessions A and B, on both Friday and Saturday.

What is it that brings you joy? What do you do that excites you? Would you join me this week in saying, "This thing, God? I'm doing it for you. It's worship to you."

I'd love to hear what yours is.

Not Lost In Translation

Latin samba drums thunder from my computer speakers, and we dance, jumping around the living room. My five year old Daniel leaps joyfully beside me, tiny shoulders bouncing rhythmically, legs stomping the beat. We grab hands, shimmy to the beat, and swirl.

Jetlag whirls off, this third day back from our missions trip, and it's time to move. We dance, laughter spiraling off us, as we swoop up dirty laundry, and carry used dishes to the kitchen. Steaming sudsy water pours into the sink, frothing high to hide the old.

Returning from a short-term senior high missions trip to northern France, joy and nostalgia spill from us. In a former textile industry city, those factories stand tall and empty now, and high rise apartments tower beside them. In a city brimming with North African and Arab immigrants, beautiful Nubian cheekbones, dark eyes, and curly hair mark a city that is nearly eighty percent Muslim. Muslim calls to prayer, hallah butchers, and robed men on their way to prayers swirled around us. And during this month of Ramadan, devout men and women avoid food and water in daylight hours, and state that their normal five daily prayers are solely for God in this month. "All the rest of the months, our prayers count for us" (to have the good outweigh the bad), "but this month, our prayers are just for God himself as worship." We smiled, he and I, this papa at a soccer field, and our conversation flowed.

Muslims can pray for dreams of God and for him to reveal himself to them during this time of Ramadan. Respectfully not eating or drinking outside near Muslims, we greeted the people around us, and entered into conversations, wishing them "Bonne Ramadan," and I prayed for dreams of God, prayed for revelations of himself.

The normal French reserve melted away at each conversation and encounter, and the questions came, "Why are you here?"

"We're here with some French and Algerian friends, working beside them at their church at 140 Boulevard de Rheims. We're here because we love God and want to tell you that God loves you deeply. Jesus loves you."

Respectful conversations followed then, about Submission to God (the definition of Muslim), and we spoke of lives submitted to God and worshiping him, and about Isa (Jesus) who saves us, and the People of the Book, what the Koran calls Christians.

"I've never met Christians like you," several of them said, in surprise. On plastic green turf fields, we told stories of changed lives, of joy, hope, softened hearts, marriages and lives, and it's all about Him, and their eyes looked different, as they listened and asked questions, falling quiet at times. We listened and asked questions too, and spoke again of our God who says, "If you seek me with all of your heart, you will find me." This God who offered a sacrifice for us to know him, and of a Papa God who waits at the side of the road for a glimpse of us--his wandering kids-- and then dashes into the street to embrace us. And the delight spills out.

Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose.

Boats, Beans, and a Summer Hunt for Crazy Joy

It wasn't at the fire pit that I felt him most. Glowing embers spelled out his name amidst laughing families, playful Family Camp counselors, and sticky fingers waving blackened marshmallows. The unmistakable scent of bug spray wafted off us all, and a spectacular red sun slipped into the lake. I felt him, and loved him, but there wasn't time to talk much then.

Later in a room of women, I was honored to be able to speak twice, and we opened our Bibles across sun-kissed summer legs, scratched at mosquito bites, and unfolded our lives a bit. I felt him there, and grinned quietly to him, loving him. It, feeling like worship to be able to speak his words with others, and to spill wide my own life.

In the garden this afternoon, I kneel on warm straw, and lift verdant jungles of bush bean leaves and pea-pod vines, seeking produce. Delicious hot July sun soaks into my coral tee-shirt, and I burst into words with him there. Crunching velvety green beans still warm from the earth, the joy oozes from me, and I talk to my Creator God aloud, alone, in a yard. Dappled leaves applaud in trees overhead, winds swirl my hair so much that I can barely hunt for beans, and I laugh in crazy joy.

"Taste and see that the Lord is good: blessed is the one who takes refuge in you" (Psalm 34:8).

"...[Your] praise will always be on my lips" (Psalm 34:1b).

Some of us are heading to Europe on a missions trip this week. Join me in praying for this time, will you? Thank you. We are praying that His crazy love and joy will grow deep within us and spill out to everyone near us. And we go to learn, to work alongside a French-Algerian church there, our family in Christ.

How can I pray for you this week? What helps well up His joy in you?

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 Coffee Break With the Stars

Courtesy of HubbleSite

Photo Link

It's not fresh, this rain puddle-y mug of coffee. But I'm feeling frugal and tired, so I slide last night's forgotten zucchini out of the microwave and slip in this mug to reheat old coffee. It's acrid from too much time on the hot burner and slightly stale, but I'm craving a jolt of caffeine.

In between hours at work, and time at home watching a Ronald Regan documentary or bent over metric conversion tables, I pull my Bible close, craving time with Him. I ponder words from the oldest New Testament letter (this letter from Jesus' half brother James to his Jerusalem church and beyond).

"Don't be deceived, my brothers," he says. 

I pause again now, the coffee too stale for me to finish. Ugh. I shudder, and pour myself some orange juice. Tangy sweetness washes away acrid staleness.

"Don't be deceived, my brothers," James says, tying this thought in with the sentences above. "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows."

Refreshing words rinse staleness from my mind. The Father of heavenly lights. Hubble space images of spiraling galaxies, twisting green nebulas, and hulking red stars  fill my mind.

"Lord of the Star-fields, Ancient of Days, Universe-maker, here's a song in your praise," croons Canadian musician Bruce Cockburn in my memory.

Father of heavenly lights, dropping every good and perfect gift from above. He Who Does Not Change Like Shifting Shadows.

"Lord of the Star-fields, 
Ancient of Days, 
Universe-maker, 
here's a song in your praise."

The Father of heavenly lights rinses staleness from me.

Linking with Imperfect Prose and A Holy Experience. 

How a Singing Surgeon Shapes my Marriage

Guitar chords squeak slightly as musician Chris Tomlin sings. Sips of creamy hot coffee slide smoothly down, warming a Minnesota January.

We have been craving worship these days, my man and I. Clicking through praise songs on Youtube like addicts in rehab, desperate, hungry.

Worship seems to be both the mirror and the balm. Words that speak of God's greatness mirror my own junk back to me, flashing light into my dark corners where I need the Healer to step in with scalpel and precision. After painstaking cuts, balm is needed... and applied.

Seven weeks of intense focus on our marriage, seven weeks of choosing to invest anew and to build an even more vibrant marriage. Seven weeks of taking introspective looks at the areas God needs to fix and build in us. Seven weeks of cuddling on the couch, frequent texts, whispered midnight talks in the dark, intentional dates of sushi and read-aloud books, and fierce hugs.

Dr. Willard Harley, well-known counselor and author, recommends couples spend fifteen hours a week in undivided attention with each other, and even simplifies the requirement with at least one hour of undivided attention a day, preferably more.

Wanting to continually strengthen our marriage, Mark and I are striving for this in 2013, carving time out of work, family, ministry, and homeschooling. Our teens roll their eyes or smile softly when they see us smooching in the kitchen, or hiding away from the world more often now, but we grin, text more, and see the results.

Join us this 2013? Take the one-hour-a-day challenge with us.

Start first with standing honestly before your God (and then your spouse), asking the Surgeon to perform surgery in your life, your heart, your mind. Then confess, apologize, and move forward  in gentle humility. It won't be easy or fun, but it is worth it.

Don't forget frequent doses of worship, as mirror and balm.

Sorry for my delay in posting this week, friends. My words have been fewer this season, but I am glad to have you here. God is a gentle, healing Surgeon. 

Linking with Emily. 


Photo credits

Forty Days Later (For You and for Me)

 Forty days, a little over a month, of newborn snuggles and breastfeeding closeness...

Forty days of blissful "Look how sweet he is!" interspersed with exhaustion and sleep-deprivation.

Forty days of diapers, stolen naps, and fuzzy newborn kisses.

And somehow in there, the couple probably checked out of their hotel stable, stood in long lines at government offices, signed papers for the Roman census, and rued the way that donkey rides bounced painfully against still-tender regions. (And somewhere in there --since our ceramic nativity sets are wrong-- Mary and Joseph looked for a new place to live in town, and Joseph probably sought out and bid on some carpentry contracts, since the family was in a home when the wise men arrived sometime in the next twenty-four months.)

Just when life was falling into a routine, forty days had passed.

Fulfilling tradition and their Jewish upbringings, Mary and Joseph took one-month old Jesus from the hotel stable, or from their new home, to the fabulously-architected Jewish temple in big-city Jerusalem nearby. Just when the memories of angel visits and awestruck herdsmen may have been fading from the sleep-deprived parents' eyes, God Almighty issued a reminder.

This was no ordinary baby.

In a ceremony from millenia previous, the young couple brought the cheapest sacrifice allowed, scraping from their rent money the necessary amount to consecrate this baby back to God, thanking him for their son. Holding two birds they had bought from outside the temple, they lifted their baby high, waiting for the religious leaders to pray and bless the boy.

Suddenly tradition and ceremony halted. Breaking from the expected script, an older man stepped forward and cried out loudly, "Highest King of All, oh God. Just like you promised, I can now die a fulfilled man. I have seen with my own eyes what you talked about. Your plan from the beginning to rescue the world-- all people, all nations-- I have seen it now with my own eyes. This baby... this is no ordinary baby! He is your rescue plan from this darkness."

The old man spoke again, adding deeper, personal notes to the stunned mom and dad.

To add to the eerie temple scene, an eighty-four-year old woman, a familiar presence in the temple as a woman of prayer and worship, hobbled up, exclaiming exuberantly of similar promises and thanking God loudly.

Forty days may have passed since you last saw God move in huge ways. Life may be moving along along at a normal pace for you, for me. Life can easily fall into a routine, far from angel choruses and blinding lights.

But--when you want to hear from God anew, when you want to be reminded that this is no ordinary life, that you are indeed on a cosmic adventure with God--simply step back into the awareness of God's presence. Walk in, with hands held open. Into your church, or simply at your kitchen table with his Word spread wide, walk into his presence, and wait to hear the reminders of promises, of inexplicable joy, of a Story unfolding from the beginning of time.

In the Mornings After...

Mary's night had stretched long. Contractions crested and subsided with increasing regularity. Firelight flickered on rough-hewn rock walls and wooden stalls. Pain washed in waves, until wet heat whooshed from within her and the pressure lifted. A writhing baby- her baby!- reflected light against wet skin, lifted to be seen and placed gently in her arms. All else faded away as she snuggled him close, kissed his face, and stared into her engaged man's eyes. Whimpering, her closed-eye newborn rooted hungrily for food, and then fell into happy rhythmic breathing.

A sudden commotion outside woke them. Voices, sheep bleating and a hard knock at their door erased further sleep. Cold air rushed into the cave, casting wavy shadows against the rock and inciting the animals to mew and bleat anew. Disheveled herdsmen strode into the stable, smelling of camp fires and the night. Seeing the baby's swaddling cloths in the feed-trough sent them into hurried conversations amongst themselves. Turning to Mary and Joseph, their words tumbled and spilled. Stories of an angel, of thousands of angels, of lightning shows, and singing in multi-part harmony. News of international significance, of God coming as a baby.

In the afterglow of worship, sleep came easily. But as cold blue dawn cracked the horizon, what did partnering with God on a cosmic adventure look like in the morning light? In a dark stable, with the swollen afterbirth still laying on rusty blood-encrusted hay in the corner, partnering with God probably looked surprisingly mundane in the morning light.

What does my obedience and partnering with God look like on cold blue mornings? What does partnering with God look like once worship's afterglow has passed?

She pulled her baby close, smiled up at her man, and felt her chest filling, surging, with heavy sustenance. Baring, opening herself, she gave, nourished, filled another. The post-labor contractions started again, smaller than yesterday, but painful enough to cause her toes to flex in purposed response.

Smiling and closing her eyes, she probably grabbed for His words, the promises her God had whispered to her in dreams and from angels. Words that spoke of who he was, and of what he was doing in the world. The great I am, God with us, Emmanuel. Humming in lilting Middle Eastern tones, she continued into quiet song. Worship can be done any time, any where.

What does partnering with God in cosmic adventures look like in the morning light? Grab his words, slide into song, and nourish the thirsty around you.

Photo credit to Charlie Dwyer. 

A Mediterranean Brush Off

Apricot bits pair with creamy yellow couscous pearls, tumbling off Daniel’s spoon and speckling his chin. Mediterranean food rains down on his wooden chair and the linoleum floor below. 

“As soon as you’re done, we’ll play outside,” Morgan urges.

“Mom, I done!” he asserts. 

“No, eat a few more bites,” I tell him. He bounces anxious shoulders, squirming in his chair, afraid his sister will recant the offer or leave without him. Understanding his worry, I head to his side of the table, helping him scoop a few more sweet bites into his mouth.  

“Okay, you can go now!” I swipe couscous crumbs from his face, off the table, and across my hands. Daniel races downstairs, calling his sister’s name, a streak of blue-striped pajamas. 

Last night in the youth group worship time, a young teen welcomes me excitedly. “Will you sit with me, Mrs. Dougan?” She knows she can call me Jen, but she chooses Mrs. Dougan. “Sure, Alisha*.”

We smile and whisper in the darkened room as the music starts, and then turn to sing. As I sing, her shoulders sway and bump into me at each measure. I grin quietly and step gently to the right. Singing loudly beside me, she steps closer again, swaying into my shoulder every two beats. Knowing this, I smile, wait a few minutes and subtly step right again. Brunette girl sings and follows me into the aisle. In quiet laughter, I stay there, singing, smiling, and bumping shoulders. 

Brushing shoulders in constant rhythm distracts me until it turns my attention to Jesus. 

In a crowd of bustling people, the long-haired man walked. Jostled by the usual Middle Eastern market crowds, today’s walk had an added dimension though. People were here to watch him, to see what he would do, and to ask for help. Lame men and women with oozing sores or encrusted stumps, frazzled parents with coughing children, and hollow-eyed people followed him hungrily. One woman, smelling of human waste and blood, accustomed to recoil and rejection, didn’t even try to start a conversation with him. Reaching through the crowd, she snaked her hand to his free-flowing robe.

“If I can just brush his robe, then I’ll be healed,” she thought, a victim of a life-long disease. “If I can just brush against him, life will be different. This will be taken care of. I will be well again,” she knew. 

Brushing shoulders or clothing-hems with the Godhead will transform lives, heal wounds, bring life. And she was right! Her grip started a conversation, ending with a healed body and a reconciled relationship with God. 

Grinning in a darkened worship center, my shoulders being rocked into every two beats, I suddenly see things differently. I can be Jesus here to her, my sweet teen. 

I can see Jesus in her too. And this brushing of shoulders in a crowd of people is a good way to re-see Jesus, and to worship. 

Outside now, Daniel and Morgan fly down the slide in a tumble of striped blue pajamas, red flannel jackets, and laughter. The couscous is all brushed off for now, but the Mediterranean fragrances still linger sweetly in my home, and remind me to brush shoulders with the Mediterranean Walker more often. 

Linking with Scribing the Journey and Imperfect Prose. 

Photo credit, although this was not the recipe we used, nor did ours have olives in it.

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.

Five Seconds Away From Joy, Better Health, and Peace of Mind

"Mom, can you come get me?"

Cocoa paint congealed in my orange plastic tray today, as my seventeen year old son's sick voice continued huskily. "My fever is higher again and I just wanna be home."

"Oh bud, why don't you sleep there tonight and I'll come get you first thing tomorrow morning?"

It was late afternoon, with rush hour starting soon, and his camp was a three hour's drive away. Plus my new trim paint brush dripped freshly-loaded paint, and splashes were already beginning to harden on the wall.

He waited quiet on the phone, breathing hard, and my husband motioned me to go from the background. "Really?" he asked then weakly and the mom in me caved.

"Okay, I'll come get you, bud. That's fine. I'll leave in twenty minutes, okay?"

Interestingly, both my sons struck fevers on the same day – 133 miles apart from each other. Saturday morning, my youngest woke us up at five am, padding in on hot little legs, whimpering. His heart thumped madly in his tiny chest, and we cuddled on the couch as the sun rose. Later that day, while I was on my way to urgent care with flushed little Daniel, we got the call that John, our oldest son, was feverish and ill at camp as well.

Red-cheeked, limp, and vacant-eyed, four year old Daniel slumped against his car-seat Saturday. I maneuvered corners, and scanned the directions. "We're almost there, okay, buddy? How are you doing?"

"Me doing well, Mom," he stated weakly, lapsing into silence. Minutes later, a tiny voice from the back seat broke the quiet. Straining to hear what he was saying, I was amazed to hear him singing, "oh my soul...,” a worship song that he knew.

An elusive magazine article, that has slipped my brain, promised better health and peace of mind to me this week, all through the power of singing. (When I find it, I'll link it here, okay? Sorry.) 

Today, after washing cocoa paint from my fingers, I grabbed the keys and headed out. Can I admit to you, though, that I was crabby and begrudging the delay in painting? Rain hit halfway through the trip, and my broken windshield wipers flopped oddly, smacking rubber against the top of my car and along the passenger side, smearing my vision as I drove. I grumbled. My paper directions and the roads didn't coincide. I grumbled, stopped for directions, pulled into some u-turns, and grumbled again.

He talked to me, then, my Maker; he sent seas of sunflowers to line my highways, and jump-start my sense of humor. I cracked jokes to myself, grinning madly at them, apologizing to him, and choosing joy. Turning on Christian radio, I started to sing along.

At the camp, my car crept along curving, crackling dirt roads. Tracking him down, I found my tall, lanky seventeen year old son in a temporary sick bay, looking gaunt and weak. We loaded him up, hugged the summer staff good bye, and headed home, a three hour trip.

"Mom, I was a little bit angry at God," he admitted ten minutes onto the highway. "I didn't want to be sick anymore, so I decided to sing. I knew that praising and cursing couldn't come out of the same mouth-- not that I was cursing, Mom -- but I chose praise. I couldn't really sing; I didn't have much of a voice." He shared also of playing the guitar and dripping sweat.

"My voice was kind of squeaky," he laughed, trailing off weakly, and he stared slack-jawed out the front.

I smiled in silence for a few miles, until I turned on the radio. A worship song slid through the car. Suddenly I heard raspy whispering beside me. 

…Your grace has found me just as I am,

Empty handed but alive in your hands.
Singing Majesty, Majesty.
Forever I am changed by Your love,
In the presence of Your Majesty…

Humbled, I listened. In their fevers and illness, my sons had consistently chosen gentleness and worship. In raspy voices with shaky breaths, on their own in empty cars with me, they taught me lessons on choosing joy, choosing worship. 

I grinned, thankful for them, and so slow in learning this lesson that God had to show it to me multiple times, I joined in. 

 …‘Cuz what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You’re near
What if trials of this life
Are Your mercies in disguise?...

Mile after mile, we sang. 

…Oh my soul

Worship his holy name
Sing like never before
Oh my soul
I worship your holy name…

It was fitting that this one should come on. Oh my soul, worship his holy name. 

Want joy? Need a jolt of energy and well-being? You are five seconds away from it. 

What have you been singing this week? What is your go-to worship song lately? 

Dilapidated Barns (Praying Scripture for Your Children: A Week's Guide -- free printable)

Alongside rolling corn fields with the soil still dark and wet, and small rural towns where dilapidated wooden barns crumbled slowly inward, I drove. 

Greeted by a young school age girl who shyly, graciously, met me at the door and ushered me into the unfamiliar church building, I met her mom and the other coordinators of the Building 31 (formerly MOPS) group that meets at Rochester Assemblies of God church. The women in this group were wonderful and we connected over our love for Jesus, and our desire to dig into God's word. 

Thank you to my new friends there. Together we are going to be praying God's words back to him, for our kids, for our families and friends, and to the One Who Sits Enthroned on the rim of the earth. (If you are interested in joining us, here is a free printable for you! "Praying Scripture for Our Children: A Week's Guide.")

This evening, as my husband practiced drums for worship team, our family enjoyed listening to this song over and over again by the Jesus Culture band. Take a moment to listen with us. The words to "Your Love Never Fails" are beautiful! (All credit to Youtube for letting us use this.)

Nothing can separate
Even if I ran away
Your love never fails

I know I still make mistakes
But You have new mercies for me every day
Your love never fails

Chorus:
You stay the same through the ages
Your love never changes
There may be pain in the night but joy comes in the morning
And when the oceans rage
I don't have to be afraid
Because I know that You love me
Your love never fails

Verse 2:
The wind is strong and the water's deep
But I'm not alone here in these open seas
Cause Your love never fails

The chasm is far too wide
I never thought I'd reach the other side
But Your love never fails

Bridge:
You make all things work together for my good

Hello friend, what have you been listening to this week? 

Suburban Ninjas and a Peach Pie

The doorbell rang. Before we could get to the door, there was a clatter, the sound of running feet, and a car door slamming. Descending our flight of stairs and opening the front door, we could only perceive blurry details of some people and a car disappearing out of sight. On the wooden porch step lay a pie. 

Microsoft clip art for all photos in this post.

It had been a hard Sunday to be at church earlier that day. Sunshine poured down that spring day six or seven years ago, but ministry life felt discouraging that week. Our efforts seemed to be fruitless, and our time accomplishing nothing.  Youth pastor husband and I had sang and smiled sincerely, but then hurried home. A Sunday afternoon nap, some desultory conversation, and time in God’s word was needed to cure this discouragement. 

That afternoon, suburban teen ninjas slipped a peach pie onto our front steps. It came just when we were talking to God, and he was answering back, “Do not grow weary of doing good for at the proper time you will reap a harvest, if you will not give up.” Knowing we needed tangible encouragement that day, though, he sent a peach pie through mysterious ninja humans. 

We now refer back to that time as God giving us a peach pie, and it is but one example to us of God’s loving gifts and faithfulness. He speaks his love to us in daily gifts-- life, breath, family, His presence, and joy – and every once in a while when we silently need encouragement, he sends a "peach pie."

This story sprang to my mind this week as I was finishing up the book of Jeremiah. God plays such a huge, powerful role in this book, but it was a quiet tender scene that grabbed my attention actually. The prophet Jeremiah had been the bearer of bad news too often and ticked off the authorities. Thrown into a cistern, he was sitting in mud and abandoned in the elements to die. Securing his release, a godly Egyptian man by the name of Ebed-Melech took extra care in pulling the old prophet out of the well by affixing padded cloths to the arm harness of the ropes (Jer. 28).

I love that God sees this and remembers it. In the next chapter we hear God actually speaking out a message for Ebed personally and by name. Tell Ebed that (I saw him and that) I will rescue him from the coming danger in this besieged city at war. 

Our God is watching. He saw a kind Egyptian gentleman pad ropes to lift out an old man of God from a well in the middle of a besieged, war-torn city. It is easy to think of God as being more occupied with the front lines of world conflicts and national leaders, but it blows me away to hear him recording instances of individuals being tender and considerate, simply affixing torn rags to a rope harness for an old man in a well. 

God saw that and addressed Ebed by name. That same God saw suburban ninja teens slip a peach pie onto our steps one summer day years ago, and he knows them by name. That God is watching now, and sees our actions today. In God’s wonderful radical economy, she who refreshes others will be refreshed, and our loving acts towards others are quiet worship to Him. 

Want some joy today? Whisperingly confer with God, and be a suburban ninja with a peach pie, or old rags on a rope harness. 

What about you? What random acts of kindness have you seen done, or have you been excited to be part of? What do you like to do with your kids?