Under Your Pile of Hats, I See It

Sitting side by side at the kitchen table, we are surrounded by slivers of blue, green, and black construction paper.

Photo of Neptune and moon Triton, NASA Solar System Exploration, Creative Commons cc license

"Here, this will be the volcano," I say, taping a grey three-dimensional cone onto a round blue sphere. "This is the ice lava. Wow, a volcano that erupts liquid nitrogen that freezes anything it touches! Can you imagine?!" and I act it out to Daniel as we attach tiny blue strips of paper to the inside of the volcano. "What a cool God!"

My seven year old grins at me, eyes wide, his haircut growing out in spiky tufts. He swings his legs excitedly under the table and picks up more paper.

"Mom, can we do some more?" he asks, his small red and black scissors poised in mid-cut.

Pausing for a moment, I waver. Because in the throes of efficiency, I had already switched hats. My Homework-Helper Mom hat was already off, my hand raised to don the Lunch-Coralling hat. Next up was Bill-Paying Mom, and Dish-Washing Mom. Homework-Helping-Mom was due again soon when 11th-grade Morgan and I would study Algebra 2.

(Don't ask about Dusting Hat. She hasn't been seen in weeks. Laundry-Folding-Mom works Saturdays, after Mark and the kids bring up toppling baskets of clean laundry. Who am I kidding? Laundry-Folding Mom just needs to tackle the growing mound of clean clothes that have been on the side couch all week, occasionally carried away and hidden in the bedroom when guests show up.)

My hats and To-Do lists are already lined up in my mind when Daniel asks it: "Mom, can we do this some more?"

Splashy colored paper, two scissors, and several glue sticks line the cherrywood kitchen table. South-facing window sunlight warms the dining room. Five flower buds swell slowly on the new green orchid branch.

"Sure, bud. That sounds nice," I say, sitting back down again. I pick up a scissors and start cutting.

"Did you know that Neptune has at least 27 moons? This icy-volcano is on the moon called Triton. Isn't God amazing?"

We pass glue sticks in silence and cut into green, blue, and red paper, the sunshine spreading warmth across my shoulders.

Our Creator God who invents ice-forming volcanic lava wears the hats of Creator, Father, Sustainer, Provider, Encourager, Savior, and Rescuer-King. In striking strength and beauty, he dons them all effortlessly.

I know you have a stack of hats, my friend. I see moms and dads who swipe on and off hats that read Provider, Meal-Maker, Child-Chauffeur, Band-Aid-Applier, Bedtime-Enforcer, Drink-Getting,  Bill-Paying, Present-Wrapper, and Homework-Helping mom or dad.

God leans in and pulls you into a deep hug. He sees you and delights in you. You are loved. You are enough in Him, and you are held and sustained by Him. Merry Christmas! We celebrate our Rescuing King wrapped in baby clothes.

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Of Oil Swirls and the Painter's Canvases

Remnants of Korean Steak Wraps spread sesame oil and soy sauce in brown swirls beside romaine lettuce leaves on two plates still on the table. Minced garlic and ginger hang fragrant in the air.

Photo: Megan Myers, Creative Commons cc license

My husband's voice slips out from seven year old Daniel's bedroom, reading a bedtime story aloud. Daniel sniffs and coughs, reaching for his handkerchief, a re-purposed cloth napkin.

"Mom, what makes colds go away fast?" he asked wearily a few minutes ago. 

"Sleep, buddy. Lots of sleep. Let's have you go to bed early, okay?"

He's brushing his teeth now, and a sentence from my daughter's AP Drawing class has been running through my mind this evening.

"Create an entrance to the picture for the eyes to travel to the subject," states her Art Principles handout. "The eye should travel in a circuit from the subject to the secondary subjects before leaving the painting. Do not place an obstacle in the picture which prevents the eye from going beyond it." 

And it's funny to have an art concept speak wisdom into my life, but I can sense a deeper truth from it in relation to my walk with God. This concept that I want the observer's eye to scroll right to the subject is something that reverberates truth in me. I desire for people glancing in my life to find their eyes directed to the beauty of Jesus. 

So, Morgan's art principle is on repeat in my brain, and I find myself reviewing all aspects of my life. In my attitudes, am I pointing viewers to the beauty and transformative power of my God? In my stories and the words that I choose to describe my life, my marriage, my family, and my sin struggles, am I pointing to God's restorative grace and his unstoppable love?

Just like a painter or a sculptor chooses what to paint, where to highlight, and what to bring the eye to, I choose how I perceive and receive my world and attitudes. This color-swirled, majestic canvas of our lives is a gift and masterpiece still being finished by the Master Artist. I desire to have each curving Van Gogh-like flourish draw the eyes to our Artist God.

It reminds me of a verse I've been thinking about this week from my Bible reading in 2 Corinthians chapter 6. Paul is writing a letter to some believers and he says, "We put no stumbling block in anyone's path so that our ministry will not be discredited."

It reminds me of the art principle about placing no obstacle in the picture which prevents the eye from moving on. Then Paul racks up a seventeen-item list about all the ways he and his co-workers are striving to make right choices, but he ends with this thought: "We have spoken freely to you and opened wide our hearts to you."

And I think this is the way we draw the viewer's eyes to the Subject each time. We speak freely, striving honestly to have clean hands but admitting when we've stumbled, and we point always to the beautiful work of the Artist God in us. He gets all the credit. 

And we open wide our hearts to you. Thank you, friend, for this online or email friendship, for this pointing to the Artist God together. I appreciate you and would love to get to know you more.

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One Fraction of a Moment is All We Get to Decide...

And you can say what you want, but it all comes down to one split second....

One fraction of a moment is all you get to decide. Speak or not? Respond harshly or not? Rise up defensively or seek reconciliation? Click or don't click?

Photo: David Melchor Diaz, Creative Commons, cc license

Despite our values, our faith, our hard-fought-for beliefs, it can all boil down to one split second. Do I obey God here or not?

This week our house has been a hill of skirmishes. Battles bloodied, hearts gashed, words tearing.

In between the beautiful and warm moments have been the heart-aching, sharp-tongued ones too. How can our hearts and mouths encompass so much emotion?

In several relationships, we've been scrambling up hills, muddy-kneed, chiseled-hearted to fight anew for us, for each other. Each inch of victory is chosen, prayed for, and battled towards with deliberately-soft hearts, humble spirits, and apologies-in-hand. "I'm sorry."

"Me too."

"Can we start over?"

And lost ground is gained one word at a time. 

It all comes down to a split second. One fraction of a moment is all we get to decide.

Do I obey here or not?

After several days of choosing wrongly, this afternoon when the moment came, I paused, weighed my options, wavered, and then obeyed.

Joy came. I walked away, turned on rocking music, and the joy of obedience crashed in hard.


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Your Bold Audacious Hope

"I wonder if he's still here," I told Morgan as we ducked our heads low, dodging rainfall across the parking lot. Inside Dunn Brothers, an espresso machine hissed and whirred, while baristas tamp-tamped old coffee grounds from metal filters.

Photo: Petteri Sulonen, Creative Commons, cc license

"No, he's gone," I noticed, seeing someone else at the table where my dad and I had sat twenty minutes earlier. "We had such a nice time," I exclaimed as Morgan carried her blueberry muffin upstairs to the loft. "I like my dad."

Spreading books and notebooks across our customary round table in the corner, Morgan filled in rows of boxes with Chinese characters for the words: mom, dad, brother, and sister. I sat in thought for a moment.

My dad and I are similar: loving foreign cultures, languages, coffee, and learning. He had slid a bag of Turkish coffee across the table to me earlier, knowing my cache was gone.

 "Thanks, Dad. What do I owe you?"

"No, it's my gift to you."

"Are you sure? I can pay you back."

"No, no, it's my gift," he said, and our talk turned to other matters.

An hour and a half later as I left to pick up Morgan from her class, my dad had sat back down at our booth in conversation with the Spanish gentleman beside him. They were discussing the man's Portuguese language book there on the table and talking about cities in Brazil.

Indoors again now with Morgan, I cup hands around my tall refill of Colombian dark roast coffee, shivering from the damp walk in through the rain. Morgan and I tear off chunky sugar-topped bites of her blueberry muffin, and I pull my Bible near. Silence slips in and God's word sinks verses deep into my heart and mind. Paul's writing to the Corinthian church describes the new way of doing life through a ministry of the Spirit of God. This new life through Jesus gives humans a restored relationship with the Creator of the Universe.

"Therefore, since we have such a hope, we are very bold."

"...And we.... are being transformed into [God's] likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit."

"Therefore, since through God's mercy we have this ministry, we do not lose heart."

As you and I spend time with our Heavenly Dad, he is transforming us to look like him. And in these ministries he has gifted us with --  be it your marriage, your family, your job, your writing, speaking, teaching, your Art, your passion, your ministry-- you can be very bold! Have hope and do not lose heart.

"Therefore, since through God's mercy we have this ministry, we do not lose heart."

The espresso machine whirs and hisses again, and the sky is grey and cool. But you? You're looking more and more like your Dad. Be bold. 


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Coaxing Friendship Between Siblings

There were days when I wasn't sure of it myself: this brave notion we were telling them.

"It's true," I had insisted. "Friends may come and go, but family is always there. Brothers and sisters can be really close friends."

They had stood there scowling. He was mad that she had crumbled his Lego creations by mistake, and she was hurt that he had laughed at her.

"MOM! John told me to be quiet!"

"MOM! Morgan is bugging me. Tell her to go away."

The battles raged. Pink tutu-ed Morgan had stomped her foot, sticking out a hip with all the attitude a skinny six-year old can muster, and John had rolled his brown eyes in droll ten-year old nonchalance.

Once, in a story that has become legend at our house, Morgan had thrown her tiny five-year old arms backwards, lowered her head in charging rhino-fashion, and barrelled across the room to tackle her big brother. Snaking out a long arm, John had held her off with laughing glee.

I had felt my patience slipping down to hide among the Legos on the floor.

"Hey, you guys can being really close friends someday, but we've got to work on this now..." my voice had trailed off. Mediation took time, and each person had wanted to explain their side.

Besides lots of prayer, and this repeated refrain of someday you can be really close friends, there is one other thing I'm so glad we got into the habit of doing as a family. And it started unexpectedly as newlywed marriage advice.

"No matter how mad you are right now, tell me five things you like about him," my newly-married friends and I would badger each other in those early years. Sputtering and sighing, my female friends and I would hem and haw, before softening and speaking aloud several things we loved about our men.

Overwhelmed one day during a sibling battle between my two children, surrounded by Lego blocks, stuffed animal bears, and Barbies in various stages of disrobing, I had tried it on my kids.

"John, Morgan, some day you two are going to be really close friends. John, you're going to want Morgan's advice on girls, on relationships, and maybe on fashion. Morgan, you're going to want John's perspective on guys, on relationships and life, and you will want his big brother input. So before we leave this conversation: John, what are three things you like about your sister? Morgan, what are three things you like about your brother?"

Their eyes had flashed fiercely at me, their eyebrows declaring to the neighborhood the ridiculousness of my notion. Stuck, though, they had paused, grumbled for a moment, and then quietly reflected.

"Morgan, I like how you..." John's voice had been gruff but soft, and I had watched Morgan's shoulders relax as her brother had spoken aloud the good he saw in her. She had followed, in a small high-pitched voice. "John, I like..." and I had seen the anger melt from my son.

They flounced away to their separate rooms that day, still slightly angry, but the bluster had faded. I had thanked God, prayed hard for them, and looked forward to the days ahead.

And now eleven years later, I am so proud of them. John is a towering twenty-year old, and Morgan is a willowy sixteen years old. Purposefully looking for ways to connect with each other, they head out for ice cream some afternoons, play computer games together, and stay up late into the night laughing and talking. They are close friends, dear to each others' heart, and thankful for the other person's input into their lives, friends, and heart issues.

We still sometimes hear angry roars downstairs, but they are short-lived. John and Morgan know how to apologize and how to work for reconciliation. And that truth? We're convinced of it, and I thank my God for how he can weave friendship between siblings.

I wish I could remember who to thank for the idea of having kids do that too.

As my youngest son watches his older siblings now, it gets to start anew. What has helped you and your siblings build closeness? What have you found helps your kids build closeness in their siblings? 

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Your Bedouin Invitation

There are suitcases straddling the couch and sleeping bags coiled beside them.

Photo: Charles Roffey, Creative Commons, cc license

Photo: Kashfi Halford, Creative Commons, cc license

"Do you think it'll be cold?" I ask, grabbing a blue plaid shirt. There are replies from across the house. "We can always layer more, I guess."

Phone calls come and go from teens, parents, leaders, and the camp speaker as Mark and I finish a board game with Daniel and take turns packing.

Sixty-six of us are driving three hours northwest of here this weekend for a youth group fall retreat. There is a van crammed with food, a bus filled to capacity with students eleven to nineteen years old, several other vehicles, and a slew of cheerful leaders looking forward to connecting with our teens. I can't wait.

In a lull of packing and details, I grab my Bible and journal and curl up beside the kitchen table. In between the cell texts and checklists, I want to meet with God. I'm reminded of a story in the Old Testament during the ancient time of Moses and the Israelites. The nomadic group of two million former slaves were fleeing their old life in Egypt and encountering the God of their ancestors, who was wooing them in Red Sea crossings, food from the sky, glowing firewalls, and other miracles.

The Jewish desert tribes were learning about their Creator, and remembering how to worship and follow him. At the edge of the campground, Moses did something fascinating. Setting up a tent, he called it the Tent of Meeting, saying that anyone wanting to talk with God could enter.

What grabs my attention today is that the text doesn't tell us if people went into the tent. I imagine -- I hope-- they did, but it doesn't tell us. I know that on other days, the desert Jewish bedouins pleaded with Moses, "YOU go inquire of God," and they hung back.  

My prayer this weekend is that we would meet with the God of the world in life-changing ways.  I know that we can create the setting and make the plans, but encountering God is something that happens when we are willing to step in.

Like the Bedouin outside the desert Tent of Meeting, Lord, I want to step into intentional times of meeting with you, of worshiping you, of getting to know you, and of hearing from you. I want that for myself, for my teens and leaders at camp, and for my online sisters and brothers here too. 

And at the kitchen table with my Bible, journal, and pen, it can start now. I confess that all too often I see the invitation and yet walk away, assuming I'll come back later. Not today. Right now, I'm stepping in, choosing quiet, and slipping into the tent. Join me?

Shoved and Elbowed by God

Photo: Raul Lierberwirth, Creative Commons, cc license

Drying my hands on my pants, I stepped around the corner. Sitting outside the church sanctuary on hallway benches, a young couple leaned close. Smiling and bending down to hug them, I talked briefly, already hearing the first song playing.

Photo: Theen Moy, Creative Commons, cc license

My friend's eyes were tired, her answers perfunctory although warm, and I saw her young husband stroke her arm. I touched their shoulders again in love, raved about how cute their round-faced baby was, and strode away.

Seven-year old Daniel skipped beside me, gripping his Sunday School papers, while we shook the ushers' hands and stepped into the dimly-lit worship center. It was crowded but we found three seats, knowing Mark would join us shortly. Pushing my hair back, I stood and joined the singing.

"Go back," I felt God say.

"Now? I just got here. Leave worship?"

"Go back. Go now," God shoved me mentally.

"Daniel, I'll be right back. Stay here, okay?" I could see my friend Daisy just two chairs away and knew Mark would be there any minute.

"Okay, Mom," Daniel said, his forty-nine inches so short in the dark room.

In the hallway, her husband was alone as I approached.

"Is she in the bathroom?" I guessed, heading that way.

"No, she went out to the car."

I spun around and bounced downstairs. He called out the car make and model but Honda-something was unfamiliar to me anyway. I walked the parking aisles, looking for a head in a car.

"Lord, help," I asked.

Three passes later, I found her and knocked on the car window, crawling inside. Her eyes were red and she swiped a sweatshirt hand across her cute freckled cheeks.

"Hi, God loves you so much, do you know that? He told me to come back. He knew," I said softly.

We talked and opened up our lives together. Worship in the parking lot looked like praying, raw talks, and reminding ourselves of God's heart.

Thanks, God, that you are perceptive and tender, and that you are good at nudging me hard some days.