Happy Humble, Serving, Joyful, Devoted, Contented Day! I mean, Happy Mother's Day!

Oh, boy, do I need this reminder! I would sum up my thoughts and feelings about this article here except that you just have to read it for yourself and see if you relate to any of it. I know I do! Oh, and before you start, Happy Mother's Day!

I heard it all over Facebook and Twitter and in phone calls last year. The disappointment.

The flowers that didn’t come, the cards that were forgotten, the breakfast that was a disaster and that you had to clean up while everyone else was watching football.

The house that wasn’t quiet or clean or tidied up. The getting to sleep in that didn’t happen, the nap that evaporated into a toddler’s meltdown, the meal that someone else didn’t prepare. The laundry that wasn’t folded for you.

The kids that didn’t call, the sermon that wasn’t about mothers, the grand kids who didn’t visit.

I heard it again and again in so many different, disappointed, let down ways – how this one day can’t possibly live up to what it means to mother.

How 24 hours can’t possibly hold the measure of a lifetime of laying oneself low for the loving and raising and wrangling of tiny humans.

Why do we think it will? I ask myself this every year after the inevitable disappointment.

But we do. We expect.

We expect so big and so hard and with so much pre-programming that we don’t know how to turn the expectations off. 

- See more at: http://lisajobaker.com/2014/05/how-not-to-be-disappointed-this-mothers-day/#sthash.08Ex9eZv.dpuf

You Are Here

It's been a long while.  A long time since I've written on this blog.  A long while that I've had time to even think about writing or reading a blog.  My life is so busy right now, and I'm just now getting an inkling as to what everyone-else-I've-ever-looked-at-cross-eyed-because-they-were-too-busy-to-live-life feels like. I know this is a temporary season, but it's the season I'm smack-dab in the middle of right now.  The frenetic schedule and energy needed for it is actually quite addicting as life is constantly changing around me in a swirling frenzy.

Knee-deep in homeschooling while simultaneously getting one of my children off to school and picked up every day is an interesting dichotomy for us.  Living in this tiny house with too many bodies wears thin and seems to become more suffocating with each year that passes. But I'm finding joy and contentment in the little things, if you can call them 'little'.  Sending my kindergartner to school has had surprising results like making me again feel connected to this unbelievable community I was so recently ready to pack up and move away from without a second thought. (We really do live in one of the best towns in the whole of NH, in my humble opinion.)  Meeting new people in our neighborhood due to various circumstances has made me actually cherish our previously-loathed location on our "fixer-upper" street surrounded by lovely (i.e. well-to-do) houses in the historic district of town.  Yes, we literally live on the wrong side of the tracks.  In a neighborhood where the most common vernacular consists of four-letter words and where heavy metal/rap is the preferred music carried on the wind, we have recently heard worship music belted out of our next door neighbor's window.  I believe that is a definite first.

God's way can be a tough way, a narrow way, a hard-to-swallow way, but it is always a way full of Hope.  I know God is with us, and He will not abandon or forsake us in this little house on this little street.  Because no matter the issues we have with this house, He is here.  Living among us.  And from the beginning of our house hunting, I've always said that I would rather stay here with Him forever than move forward without Him.

But.  It is still sometimes so hard.

I feel stretched at times in trying to keep house, never mind fitting everyone into this house.  I'm seriously starting to feel like the old woman who lived in a shoe with her ten children.  My creativity has reached its limits with storage solutions, and my children sleep on mats on the floor because there is no room for beds.  And yet, He is here.  Our back yard is perfect for our toddler but not so much for three bigger boys who want to roam and run and play ball.  We have two tiny closets in the entire house to hold seven people's clothes.  Yet He is here and whispers that we have too many clothes.  Our fridge is a fairly small one in order to fit in the space allotted for it and so come winter, we sigh with relief that we can use our grill outside to hold food.  Yet He reminds us we are lucky to have so much food.  When it's laundry day and my kitchen and living room is full of clothes because our washing machine and dryer openly reside in our kitchen, my God reminds me that my neighbors still have to run to the laundromat a mile or two away in order to wash their clothes.  When I look at our house and see all the S-T-U-F-F we have (even after our many purges), I ask myself whom I'm serving - God or Mammon?  And He gently reminds me He's better than all this stuff. He's better than any house anywhere.  He is here.

So if I were to look at one of those maps that indicates "You Are Here" and be tempted to think "But I don't want to be here!", I would be remiss to not take notice of the fine print that says "God Is Here".  And why would I ever want to move away from that very spot?  When God moves, we'll move.

God's way is a hopeful way.  God help me to remember that every time I trip over my laundry or my children!

"The Room" by Joshua Harris

My daughter is the one who found this story and shared it with me.  After just reading it and with tears in my eyes, I feel compelled to share it also with you.

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features save for the one wall covered with small index-card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings. 

As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I Have Liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one.

And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed."

The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I Have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed At." Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've Yelled at My Brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger," "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my 20 years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I Have Listened To," I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.

An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus.
I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?

Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card.

"No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood.

He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished."

I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

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"The Room" by Joshua Harris. Copyright New Attitude, 1995. You have permission to share. We only ask that you include this copyright byline and do not alter the content.

"This Is the Stuff" Life is Made of!

A friend posted this on facebook today - it's a song and artist I'm not familiar with, but it reminded me of our conversation at Kajiji Girls this morning.  It's a fun, light-hearted ditty about the things that can drive us crazy, and the things God uses in our lives to grow us.  About trusting in God as He knows best what's going to work in teaching us different necessary virtues.  I was also reminded this morning by my dear KGs to not lose sight of gratefulness even in the midst of tough times or even mundane times.  It's something I'll be working on (See, Stacy? How's that for a New Year's Resolution?). :)