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Friday, July 29, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
HEY! THERE'S A NEW MOMMY-O POST OVER ON OCIEANNA.COM "Real-life Conflict and a Father Who Loves Me"
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Stop on by!
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Mommy-O HAS MOVED TO OCIEANNA.COM
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Monday, June 13, 2011
Mommy-O's Prayer
Dear Lord, Thank You for this path I'm on. I'm feeling overwhelmed, Lord. I'm so tired and weary. I need Your strength to get me through this day. Please help me to use my time well. Help me to stay in the moment and be a good mom and wife. Bless each of the kids. Help me to Love them tenderly and with patience. "The Lord will work out his plans for my life--for your faithful love, O Lord, endures forever. Psalm 138:8
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Call to Battle
" but our confidence must rest in the Lord alone, for He is the sword and the shield of His people. . . Quail not before superior numbers, shrink not from difficulties or impossiblilities, flinch not at wounds or death, smite with the two-edged sword of the Spirit, and the slain shall lie in heaps. The battle is the Lord's and He will deliver His enemies into our hands. With steadfast foot, strong hand, dauntless heart, and flaming zeal, rush to the conflict, and the hosts of evil shall fly like chaff before the gale." Morning and Evening C.H. Spurgeon
Ah, these words come as a fortress to me this morning. My enemies have waged war against me. Who are these formidable foes, you ask? Who else? Those four little sinners living in my house. Their weapons? Bickering, disobeying, disrespecting, purposeful loudness, unkindness. These are mighty weapons. How can I--weak, afraid, unsure of my tactics--ever conquer such enemies?
But if that weren't enough, the other enemy flanks me--my own sin. Yes, I've been attacked by frustration, impatience, anger, not trusting God's sovereignty, and more. It's hopeless, at least it seems that way.
Yet, my strength for battle--both the one for my kids' character and the fight against my own sin--need not be fought by me alone. No, the battle is the Lord's, and He will never fail.
Lord, I can't fight another moment without You. I need You. "But you, O Lord, are a shield about me, my glory, the lifter of my head." Psalm 3:3 ESV
Ah, these words come as a fortress to me this morning. My enemies have waged war against me. Who are these formidable foes, you ask? Who else? Those four little sinners living in my house. Their weapons? Bickering, disobeying, disrespecting, purposeful loudness, unkindness. These are mighty weapons. How can I--weak, afraid, unsure of my tactics--ever conquer such enemies?
But if that weren't enough, the other enemy flanks me--my own sin. Yes, I've been attacked by frustration, impatience, anger, not trusting God's sovereignty, and more. It's hopeless, at least it seems that way.
Yet, my strength for battle--both the one for my kids' character and the fight against my own sin--need not be fought by me alone. No, the battle is the Lord's, and He will never fail.
Lord, I can't fight another moment without You. I need You. "But you, O Lord, are a shield about me, my glory, the lifter of my head." Psalm 3:3 ESV
Monday, June 6, 2011
Mommy-O's Prayer
Oh Lord, I need You. My thoughts and emotions are so pent up, so much burbling under the surface. Please help me to be at peace in whatever circumstance You place me, content to serve my family with joy and grace, leaning on Your strength. How I love them! Help me to delight in them more and more each day.
“No good thing does He withhold from those who walk uprightly.” Thank You for Your amazing riches and grace!
“No good thing does He withhold from those who walk uprightly.” Thank You for Your amazing riches and grace!
Friday, June 3, 2011
Do They Even Like Each Other?
Aren’t road trips fun?
“Give it!”
“But I want to play with the spinning toy thingy.”
“It’s mine!”
The argument continues until the inevitable, “Mom, she won’t give me the spinning toy thingy.”
What can I expect when we’ve been driving for three hours? Road trips can be hard on everyone, but what gets me is my weird expectation for a perfectly joyous time in which the little darlings will harmoniously get along.
Yeah, that pretty much doesn’t happen. They don’t argue constantly, but from time to time (and it feels like a lot when you’re in the car for so long) they do bicker, fight, whine, argue, and cry. And it’s often when an older sibling (dictator) wants to control a younger brother or sister (peon). The older feels she has the power, but the younger—rather than simply capitulating to her ruler—rebels.
“No! I won’t give you the spinning toy thingy! I don’t have to! You’re not my MOM!”
Sometimes I think they really, truly dislike one another. I wonder if they’ll ever be friends.
The criticism—“That’s not how you fold a towel. Just let me.”
The belittling—“Really? You really don’t know how to tie your shoes yet?”
The sarcasm—“If someone would put others first for once.”
The guilt trip—“It’s okay. I’ll take the smallest piece of pizza.”
Man, oh man, it can be unnerving … and saddening. I long for them to love each other. They need their siblings more than they know, and I want to see them support and stand by one another. Yet, it’s often cutting words and meanness. Like in the van—the war of the spinning toy thingy. Sigh.
But then in the midst of the chaos, something wonderful happened. Somewhere along the way, the arguing had ceased, and little voices simply talked from the back seat. As we arrived to our destination, I heard this:
“I really liked talking to you, Christian.” Gabrielle smiled at him as they got out of the car.
“Me too, Gabby. You’re the best sister in the world.”
Oh yes, that's enough to send thrills through a Mommy-O’s heart.
Then after we got settled in the hotel, all four of them sprinted to the ocean, giggles melded with the seagulls caws and the crashing waves. Not one argument exploded—not even when poor Christian tripped and soaked himself in the chilly saltwater. Nope, in fact, the others helped him up. And I was able to get this lovely photograph of Ben and Gabby gazing at the sunset together.
Well, I suppose they do like each other after all.
“Give it!”
“But I want to play with the spinning toy thingy.”
“It’s mine!”
The argument continues until the inevitable, “Mom, she won’t give me the spinning toy thingy.”
What can I expect when we’ve been driving for three hours? Road trips can be hard on everyone, but what gets me is my weird expectation for a perfectly joyous time in which the little darlings will harmoniously get along.
Yeah, that pretty much doesn’t happen. They don’t argue constantly, but from time to time (and it feels like a lot when you’re in the car for so long) they do bicker, fight, whine, argue, and cry. And it’s often when an older sibling (dictator) wants to control a younger brother or sister (peon). The older feels she has the power, but the younger—rather than simply capitulating to her ruler—rebels.
“No! I won’t give you the spinning toy thingy! I don’t have to! You’re not my MOM!”
Sometimes I think they really, truly dislike one another. I wonder if they’ll ever be friends.
The criticism—“That’s not how you fold a towel. Just let me.”
The belittling—“Really? You really don’t know how to tie your shoes yet?”
The sarcasm—“If someone would put others first for once.”
The guilt trip—“It’s okay. I’ll take the smallest piece of pizza.”
Man, oh man, it can be unnerving … and saddening. I long for them to love each other. They need their siblings more than they know, and I want to see them support and stand by one another. Yet, it’s often cutting words and meanness. Like in the van—the war of the spinning toy thingy. Sigh.
But then in the midst of the chaos, something wonderful happened. Somewhere along the way, the arguing had ceased, and little voices simply talked from the back seat. As we arrived to our destination, I heard this:
“I really liked talking to you, Christian.” Gabrielle smiled at him as they got out of the car.
“Me too, Gabby. You’re the best sister in the world.”
Oh yes, that's enough to send thrills through a Mommy-O’s heart.
Then after we got settled in the hotel, all four of them sprinted to the ocean, giggles melded with the seagulls caws and the crashing waves. Not one argument exploded—not even when poor Christian tripped and soaked himself in the chilly saltwater. Nope, in fact, the others helped him up. And I was able to get this lovely photograph of Ben and Gabby gazing at the sunset together.
Well, I suppose they do like each other after all.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Mommy-O Prayer for This Day
Lord, I confess I've been quick to be angry lately. There is no reason to get angry over the annoyances in my life. It makes my kids stressed and worried and is a bad example to them. Please help me to be patient when I'm interrupted. Help me to respond with love and help me to trust that You'll work it out for me to get my work done in Your timing. I need Your grace, Lord. I can't be a good mom without you. You are a good and wonderful God. "Gracious is the Lord and righteous, our god is merciful." Ps. 116:4
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Giddy Gratitude
I spent this weekend at a writers’ conference. From the time I got there, through the two workshops I taught, to the spectacular dinner and closing time, I had this incredible feeling of gratitude. I kept thinking, I’m so glad I’m here.
And you know what I meant. I wasn’t just glad to be enjoying the conference, I was truly glad to be there. There, breathing the air, moving my limbs, thinking…living.
Since my cardiac arrest in January, this feeling comes over me quite frequently. It’s a rush of joy, even excitement, simply to be walking around. At the conference when folks talked to me, or I entered a room to hear a speaker, or sat down next to a writing friend at a meal, I was filled with happy anticipation. It reminds of a kid going to Baskin Robbins. Yup, that’s how happy I felt, like I got to eat ice cream all day long for two days (without the bloating and sugar blahs—just the fun part).
It was awesome, but on the drive home, somewhere on Interstate 405, the adrenaline high transformed to exhaustion. I was very tired. I’m still recovering from the cardiac arrest, and a weekend of so much glorious excitement requires a few days of rest. My family and I expected that.
But to be honest, as I’ve returned to my normal routine, I’ve been more than just weary. The giddy gratitude slipped away and I found myself feeling bogged down, sullen, even grumpy.
Doing chores.
Herding kids.
Grocery shopping.
Disciplining.
Wiping snotty noses.
Not as thrilling as an action-packed writing weekend. At least that’s what I was thinking as I drudged through my day … but then, thanks be to God, I remembered! All of these things do burst with excitement. Yes, they do! Why? Because I’m here to do them with my wonderful kids. I could've lost these hours and days. Someone else would've been folding their laundry or dabbing away angry tears. It's an honor to serve them. A gift. A gift to relish and treasure. A gift I wouldn't trade for anything.
I’m incredibly grateful for a wonderful weekend, but being a mommy’s way more thrilling than going to a writers’ conference. In fact, it’s even better than ice cream, because the joy of walking this mommy's journey with them is the greatest reason to “be here” of all.
And you know what I meant. I wasn’t just glad to be enjoying the conference, I was truly glad to be there. There, breathing the air, moving my limbs, thinking…living.
Since my cardiac arrest in January, this feeling comes over me quite frequently. It’s a rush of joy, even excitement, simply to be walking around. At the conference when folks talked to me, or I entered a room to hear a speaker, or sat down next to a writing friend at a meal, I was filled with happy anticipation. It reminds of a kid going to Baskin Robbins. Yup, that’s how happy I felt, like I got to eat ice cream all day long for two days (without the bloating and sugar blahs—just the fun part).
It was awesome, but on the drive home, somewhere on Interstate 405, the adrenaline high transformed to exhaustion. I was very tired. I’m still recovering from the cardiac arrest, and a weekend of so much glorious excitement requires a few days of rest. My family and I expected that.
But to be honest, as I’ve returned to my normal routine, I’ve been more than just weary. The giddy gratitude slipped away and I found myself feeling bogged down, sullen, even grumpy.
Doing chores.
Herding kids.
Grocery shopping.
Disciplining.
Wiping snotty noses.
Not as thrilling as an action-packed writing weekend. At least that’s what I was thinking as I drudged through my day … but then, thanks be to God, I remembered! All of these things do burst with excitement. Yes, they do! Why? Because I’m here to do them with my wonderful kids. I could've lost these hours and days. Someone else would've been folding their laundry or dabbing away angry tears. It's an honor to serve them. A gift. A gift to relish and treasure. A gift I wouldn't trade for anything.
I’m incredibly grateful for a wonderful weekend, but being a mommy’s way more thrilling than going to a writers’ conference. In fact, it’s even better than ice cream, because the joy of walking this mommy's journey with them is the greatest reason to “be here” of all.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
My Favorite Part of the Day
“But I want to go, too!” my little Abigail pleaded. “Please!” The desperation in her voice rang throughout the cul-de-sac.
It was almost 8:00 PM, but since the sun’s been lingering till a later hour here in the Pacific Northwest, the older kids were allowed to stay outside and run like wild banshees with their neighborhood friends (at least that’s what it looked like they were doing).
But since, first, Abigail’s just little and needs to go to bed, and, second, it was mostly big boys out there, and finally, like I said, it was no peaceful game of lawn bowling going on, I didn’t think it was a good idea for her to go. I delineated all these reasonable explanations to her…
“But I waaaaaant too!” In her dark moment of anger and sadness, she sprinted up the stairs to her room to continue the wailing (tantrum, perhaps? I think yes).
After five long minutes, she appeared, with a somber yet calm demeanor, in my room where I was sorting laundry. “Put your jammies on, honey.” I told her.
She disappeared to her room, and apparently as she started to dig for jammies she found something. She came running to me holding a teddy bear blanket I had just bought for a friend’s baby shower.
“Is this for me?” A big grin twinkled in her eyes.
“No honey,” I said firmly. “No. That shouldn’t be in your room.” I took it from her hand. “How did it get there?”
My firmness was too much for her. Her big brown eyes peeked up at me—so sad, with a look of helplessness. She didn’t scream or protest her innocence, she just said, “I don’t know,” then slowly slumped toward the door.
“Oh sweetie.” I tugged her back to me, knelt to her level, and looked in her eyes. “I’m sorry. Mommy shouldn’t have been so firm.”
Her chin trembled, just a bit, and a few tears welled in her eyes, then in a quick moment her little body clung to me, her arms tight against my neck. I picked her up, and we sat on the bed, with her snuggled on my lap as she sobbed it out.
She cried for a long time, and then she just stayed cuddled, silently, as I rubbed her back and whispered that I love her and how pretty she is. The thoughts of my duties of laundry, dishes, and toys on the floor fluttered to my mind, but I tossed them away. I won’t let go of her until she let’s go of me.
Finally, after about twenty-five minutes, she leaned back and smiled. “Do you want to see my daughter, Mama? She’s just a baby, but I have a new shirt for her to wear, and you know she lives in my room by my bed. I don’t have a crib for her, so I just use a box ...”
Of everything I did yesterday, working, writing, dishes, talking, cooking, eating ... those twenty-five minutes were my favorite. What could be better than being the one she needed in her heartache, knowing my embrace would comfort, giving my heart and receiving her love? These moments will become less frequent as she grows. I’m grateful for each one.
It was almost 8:00 PM, but since the sun’s been lingering till a later hour here in the Pacific Northwest, the older kids were allowed to stay outside and run like wild banshees with their neighborhood friends (at least that’s what it looked like they were doing).
But since, first, Abigail’s just little and needs to go to bed, and, second, it was mostly big boys out there, and finally, like I said, it was no peaceful game of lawn bowling going on, I didn’t think it was a good idea for her to go. I delineated all these reasonable explanations to her…
“But I waaaaaant too!” In her dark moment of anger and sadness, she sprinted up the stairs to her room to continue the wailing (tantrum, perhaps? I think yes).
After five long minutes, she appeared, with a somber yet calm demeanor, in my room where I was sorting laundry. “Put your jammies on, honey.” I told her.
She disappeared to her room, and apparently as she started to dig for jammies she found something. She came running to me holding a teddy bear blanket I had just bought for a friend’s baby shower.
“Is this for me?” A big grin twinkled in her eyes.
“No honey,” I said firmly. “No. That shouldn’t be in your room.” I took it from her hand. “How did it get there?”
My firmness was too much for her. Her big brown eyes peeked up at me—so sad, with a look of helplessness. She didn’t scream or protest her innocence, she just said, “I don’t know,” then slowly slumped toward the door.
“Oh sweetie.” I tugged her back to me, knelt to her level, and looked in her eyes. “I’m sorry. Mommy shouldn’t have been so firm.”
Her chin trembled, just a bit, and a few tears welled in her eyes, then in a quick moment her little body clung to me, her arms tight against my neck. I picked her up, and we sat on the bed, with her snuggled on my lap as she sobbed it out.
She cried for a long time, and then she just stayed cuddled, silently, as I rubbed her back and whispered that I love her and how pretty she is. The thoughts of my duties of laundry, dishes, and toys on the floor fluttered to my mind, but I tossed them away. I won’t let go of her until she let’s go of me.
Finally, after about twenty-five minutes, she leaned back and smiled. “Do you want to see my daughter, Mama? She’s just a baby, but I have a new shirt for her to wear, and you know she lives in my room by my bed. I don’t have a crib for her, so I just use a box ...”
Of everything I did yesterday, working, writing, dishes, talking, cooking, eating ... those twenty-five minutes were my favorite. What could be better than being the one she needed in her heartache, knowing my embrace would comfort, giving my heart and receiving her love? These moments will become less frequent as she grows. I’m grateful for each one.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
As the Deer Panteth...
As the deer panteth for the water so my soul longeth after Thee.
The words to an old praise song taken from Psalm 42. I love the way the King James-ish words sound--there’s something comforting about them. And of course, the desperate crying out to Jesus—that hits me.
Especially as a mom, there are times I so long for Jesus it brings tears to my eyes. I often fail to be the mother I want to be, yet I try so hard to do everything I know I should. And even when I think I’m making the right parenting decision, often doubt creeps in. Especially when it comes to discipline.
We have attitude issues in this family, and not just the kids. Both my husband and I struggle at times, which makes it even more difficult to discipline the one who glares at us with eyes full of rebellion. How do we tell him to get his attitude on track when ours can be less than Christlike?
A helping of long-ago advice comes to mind:
It’s my job as a parent to teach my children the truth. The truth doesn’t change, even if I fail to live up to it.
Yes, I know …
But still, disciplining a child’s heart is difficult, full of doubts and regrets, hopes and fears, all mixed up into a soup of confusion.
What can I do but pray? Or more honestly, what can I do but run to my Savior, begging for help and comfort, clinging to Him like a child myself?
I long for You, dear Jesus, like a deer that panteth for the water.
As the deer pants for the water brooks,
So my soul pants for You, O God.
2My soul thirsts for God, for the living God;
When shall I come and appear before God? Ps. 42:1-2 NASB
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Dandelions and Daffodils: A Mother/Daughter Memory of Hope
My four-year-old daughter’s face beams as she hands me a “bouquet” of dandelions. “Put ‘em in you ‘air, Mama.” My sweet girl sure brings smiles to my heart.
But being a mommy of four (six years old and younger) doesn’t always make me smile. It can be a rough adventure—millions of pairs of pee-wee sized underwear to fold, infinite toys to pick up, handfuls of Cheerios to fish from the sofa. And need I mention the mental stress of constantly training those less-than-virtuous attitudes? “Stop screaming at your brother.” “I just told you not to do that.” All together, they create one exhausted mama.
Sometimes I find myself complaining—even whining—about the chores of motherhood. In my darker moments, I long to escape to the time before kids when I could finish the laundry in a couple hours and spend an uninterrupted evening with my husband.
Reflecting on those pre-kid years also invites not-so-happy memories of a year that brought no joy—not a bit. My pastor called it a time of “frowning providence.” I called it the worst year of my life.
Michael and I had been married five years when pregnancy surprised us—we were overjoyed. My mom rejoiced with us, and she and I dreamed I’d have a girl for us to deck out in baby-sized funky fashions. As our little one grew older, I visualized teaching her to rollerblade and inviting church friends to birthday parties. She’d be a considerate teen and then, when she’d experienced just enough life on her own, she’d marry the godly man of her (and my) dreams.
Those dreams crumbled when an ultrasound at ten weeks revealed no heartbeat.
During the heart-wrenching days that followed, my mom comforted me, even though she was fighting a battle of her own …
She was amazing—not only continuing to jig silly dances, sing constantly, and most of all, fill the house with laughter, but also not letting the cancer shake her faith. She’d thank God for the intense pain because it drew her closer to Him. She’d pray for me when I was sad—even though she was the one who was dying.
Mom deteriorated quickly. Soon hospice arrived, and within weeks, mom departed. Bouquets of daffodils decorated the funeral hall. When I see daffodils, I think of her.
As the days and months passed, I felt isolated and lonely, and despite my struggles to contain them, tears flowed.
But then, eventually, came Gabby, and here she is, gifting me with her handful of dandelions. I still miss Mom and the baby I lost, but remembering my pain helps me to be grateful for what I have. And if God’s grace carried me through those dark nights, I know He’ll be with me, holding my hand, giving me strength to pick up millions of underwear, infinite toys, handfuls of Cheerios—and even to train those less-than-virtuous attitudes.
Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from Him. Psalm 62:5 (NIV)
But being a mommy of four (six years old and younger) doesn’t always make me smile. It can be a rough adventure—millions of pairs of pee-wee sized underwear to fold, infinite toys to pick up, handfuls of Cheerios to fish from the sofa. And need I mention the mental stress of constantly training those less-than-virtuous attitudes? “Stop screaming at your brother.” “I just told you not to do that.” All together, they create one exhausted mama.
Sometimes I find myself complaining—even whining—about the chores of motherhood. In my darker moments, I long to escape to the time before kids when I could finish the laundry in a couple hours and spend an uninterrupted evening with my husband.
Reflecting on those pre-kid years also invites not-so-happy memories of a year that brought no joy—not a bit. My pastor called it a time of “frowning providence.” I called it the worst year of my life.
Michael and I had been married five years when pregnancy surprised us—we were overjoyed. My mom rejoiced with us, and she and I dreamed I’d have a girl for us to deck out in baby-sized funky fashions. As our little one grew older, I visualized teaching her to rollerblade and inviting church friends to birthday parties. She’d be a considerate teen and then, when she’d experienced just enough life on her own, she’d marry the godly man of her (and my) dreams.
Those dreams crumbled when an ultrasound at ten weeks revealed no heartbeat.
During the heart-wrenching days that followed, my mom comforted me, even though she was fighting a battle of her own …
She was amazing—not only continuing to jig silly dances, sing constantly, and most of all, fill the house with laughter, but also not letting the cancer shake her faith. She’d thank God for the intense pain because it drew her closer to Him. She’d pray for me when I was sad—even though she was the one who was dying.
Mom deteriorated quickly. Soon hospice arrived, and within weeks, mom departed. Bouquets of daffodils decorated the funeral hall. When I see daffodils, I think of her.
As the days and months passed, I felt isolated and lonely, and despite my struggles to contain them, tears flowed.
But then, eventually, came Gabby, and here she is, gifting me with her handful of dandelions. I still miss Mom and the baby I lost, but remembering my pain helps me to be grateful for what I have. And if God’s grace carried me through those dark nights, I know He’ll be with me, holding my hand, giving me strength to pick up millions of underwear, infinite toys, handfuls of Cheerios—and even to train those less-than-virtuous attitudes.
Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from Him. Psalm 62:5 (NIV)
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
A Sunny Answer to Prayer
When I woke up this morning, exhausted from a full day yesterday, I didn’t feel like I’d survive taking care of the kids by myself. My husband was out of town, and I felt like hiding under the covers. Kids? What kids? Out of desperation, I prayed to the Lord: RESCUE ME!
Trusting for a positive answer to my simple, yet heartfelt plea, I thought maybe some kind soul would call out of the blue and say, “I’ll take your kids all day,” or suddenly a shot of energy would surge through my weary bones.
Well, the Lord didn’t answer my prayer in either of those ways, instead, He made the clouds go away and let the sun shine through. The kids have joyfully played outside all afternoon (AFTER they willingly did their chores—shocker!). And I’ve been able to rest and enjoy the moments they pop in to visit me. Huh, sometimes God answers prayer in ways we never thought of—sunshine like the rays of His love. Pretty cool.
Trusting for a positive answer to my simple, yet heartfelt plea, I thought maybe some kind soul would call out of the blue and say, “I’ll take your kids all day,” or suddenly a shot of energy would surge through my weary bones.
Well, the Lord didn’t answer my prayer in either of those ways, instead, He made the clouds go away and let the sun shine through. The kids have joyfully played outside all afternoon (AFTER they willingly did their chores—shocker!). And I’ve been able to rest and enjoy the moments they pop in to visit me. Huh, sometimes God answers prayer in ways we never thought of—sunshine like the rays of His love. Pretty cool.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Good Friday and Easter at Our House
Happy Good Friday! Remember to tell your kids the story of Jesus death on the cross today. To keep it simple and not scary, I'm planning on reading about it in their children's Bible. (I use Catherine Vos's The Child's Story Bible. Highly recommend!)
In our family, we like to NOT talk about the resurrection until Sunday. We pretend we're the twelve apostles and only talk about His death and sacrifice. We discuss questions like, "What do you think Peter did today?" and, "Do you think John was scared?" We sing, "Alas and Did My Savior Bleed," and "Oh Sacred Head Now Wounded." We don't sing resurrection songs or read the Easter story until the big day. It builds anticipation for more than just bunnies and baskets.
Then on Easter morning, I turn on the Hymns Triumphant version of "Christ the Lord is Risen Today" loud enough to wake the whole house! It always makes me cry. Later, after church, we'll do the Resurrection Eggs (Do you have these? It's a carton of plastic eggs filled with symbols of Easter along with a booklet to help explain. Great visual for kids.) We end the day with a reminder that even though Easter is a special time to remember Jesus resurrection, every Sunday is resurrection Sunday. And because He is risen, everything He said was true, He has the power to change our hearts, and He will always be with us, just like He promised!
Bonus!
For Good Friday, I'm posting one of my favorite poems by CS Lewis.
LOVE'S AS WARM AS TEARS by C. S. Lewis
Love's as warm as tears,
Love is tears:
Pressure within the brain,
Tension at the throat,
Deluge, weeks of rain,
Haystacks afloat,
Featureless seas between
Hedges, where once was green
Love's as fierce as fire,
Love is fire:
All sorts--Infernal heat
Clinkered with greed and pride,
Lyric desire, sharp-sweet,
Laughing, even when denied,
And that empyreal flame
Whence all loves came.
Love's as fresh as spring,
Love is spring:
Bird-song in the air,
Cool smells in a wood,
Whispering "Dare! Dare!"
To sap, to blood,
Telling "Ease, safety, rest,
Are good; not best."
Love's as hard as nails,
Love is nails:
Blunt, thick, hammered through
The medial nerves of One
Who, having made us, knew
The thing He had done,
Seeing (what all that is)
Our cross, and His.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
A Sinner's Morning
A sin occurred in our house last night. Of course, the nasty blight of transgression happens every day (by each of us—a lot by me!) but this was a theft and it needed to be “dealt with.”
Ugh. Not the peaceful morning I was hoping for. “Dealing” with my children’s sin is a stinky job. It saps my energy, brings anxiety, and honestly can be confusing. What’s the best thing to say, how do I make them see what they’ve done wrong? Will they confess and be sorry or will they burn with anger and reject me and the God who calls them?
Knowing the unpleasant task had to be done, my husband and I called the offender into our room and brought the charges. “We know you did this.” That’s pretty much all we said. The child’s expression morphed before our eyes. First it tightened with anger at being accused, then the eyes shifted upwards, as if a perfect excuse would suddenly appear through the ceiling, and then … tears welled and the crying began. “I’m sorry, Mom!” the repentant sinner wailed, “I shouldn’t have done it! It was WRONG!”
We commended our dear one for feeling shame over sin and willingly gave our forgiveness (after delivering the consequences) but our sensitive child held onto the shame like a treasured toy. “I’m terrible. I don’t know why I have to be so stupid. I always do the wrong thing…” and on and on.
Here’s where my confusion came in. I had no clue what to do. The problem wasn’t getting the confession, it was helping our child accept and receive forgiveness.
I’ve felt that way before. Have you? I bemoan how I’m a terrible mom, an unsatisfying wife, a lazy housekeeper, a thoughtless friend …These feelings perhaps ignited from a real sin I committed, but I magnified the guilt, mulling in the mud instead of receiving the cleansing bath of grace found in God’s Word.
And it came to me (and not through the ceiling)—the answer lay in Scripture. So I quoted the first one that came to mind. “The Lord is my shepherd.” Ah, perfect. No matter my sin, if I trust in Christ, he is my tender shepherd who loves me. What a picture of restoration. I told my child, who was still reveling in the shame game, to repeat the words aloud. As "The Lord is my shepherd" was said, his shoulders relaxed.
“Keep saying it, sweetie.” And, walking out of my room, although still upset, I could see the peace of God calming and comforting.
Reasoning, propping up self-esteem, even expressing our love and forgiveness only seemed to feed the cycle. My husband's and my words weren’t believed so it didn’t matter what we said to this child. To get out of the whirlpool, it took the stability of God’s love as shown through the precious words of Scripture. He needed the Gospel.
Ugh. Not the peaceful morning I was hoping for. “Dealing” with my children’s sin is a stinky job. It saps my energy, brings anxiety, and honestly can be confusing. What’s the best thing to say, how do I make them see what they’ve done wrong? Will they confess and be sorry or will they burn with anger and reject me and the God who calls them?
Knowing the unpleasant task had to be done, my husband and I called the offender into our room and brought the charges. “We know you did this.” That’s pretty much all we said. The child’s expression morphed before our eyes. First it tightened with anger at being accused, then the eyes shifted upwards, as if a perfect excuse would suddenly appear through the ceiling, and then … tears welled and the crying began. “I’m sorry, Mom!” the repentant sinner wailed, “I shouldn’t have done it! It was WRONG!”
We commended our dear one for feeling shame over sin and willingly gave our forgiveness (after delivering the consequences) but our sensitive child held onto the shame like a treasured toy. “I’m terrible. I don’t know why I have to be so stupid. I always do the wrong thing…” and on and on.
Here’s where my confusion came in. I had no clue what to do. The problem wasn’t getting the confession, it was helping our child accept and receive forgiveness.
I’ve felt that way before. Have you? I bemoan how I’m a terrible mom, an unsatisfying wife, a lazy housekeeper, a thoughtless friend …These feelings perhaps ignited from a real sin I committed, but I magnified the guilt, mulling in the mud instead of receiving the cleansing bath of grace found in God’s Word.
And it came to me (and not through the ceiling)—the answer lay in Scripture. So I quoted the first one that came to mind. “The Lord is my shepherd.” Ah, perfect. No matter my sin, if I trust in Christ, he is my tender shepherd who loves me. What a picture of restoration. I told my child, who was still reveling in the shame game, to repeat the words aloud. As "The Lord is my shepherd" was said, his shoulders relaxed.
“Keep saying it, sweetie.” And, walking out of my room, although still upset, I could see the peace of God calming and comforting.
Reasoning, propping up self-esteem, even expressing our love and forgiveness only seemed to feed the cycle. My husband's and my words weren’t believed so it didn’t matter what we said to this child. To get out of the whirlpool, it took the stability of God’s love as shown through the precious words of Scripture. He needed the Gospel.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Teaching Firstborns God’s Order of Authority—A Summer Survival Guide!
My firstborn, ten-year-old son seems to spend his whole life in an effort to dress himself in the robes of a parent.
I often hear tidbits like:
“Now, Christian, we need to clean for Papa. Would you like to come home to a messy house?”
“Abigail, if you don’t eat your dinner, you won’t get dessert.”
“C’mon everybody, I’ve got three activities planned for you.”
“Mama, you need to be a good example to us.” Ack!
After half a week of constant posturing to maintain—and sometimes regain—my God-given authority, I’m tired and wondering how to handle a whole summer with my firstborn underfoot. Well, I may not have the answer, but here are some ideas I’ve come up with as I work through this dilemma.
First, I need to remember my dear boy is just trying to help. I know his “leadership” exudes from a sincere desire to create a more effective home and to guide us all into better behavior. I’m grateful he has this desire, and I want to encourage it. But I must be careful to help him see the difference between helping and usurping authority.
Second, I can thank God for the opportunity to teach my son about God’s order. When my boy acts like he has more authority than me, his parent, he’s not only striving against our family balance, he’s telling God he knows better. “This mom you gave me isn’t doing a good job, so I’m going to do it for her. I’ll take it from here, God.” It’s so important for him to understand that if he honors his earthly authority, he will more readily rest under the Lord’s authority. Handing the reins to his not-so-smart mom (in his mind), is a big struggle for my dear son. But it’s a fight we must win—by God’s grace, of course!
How do I cement a deep respect for authority in my son? Prayer and love.
Which brings me to the third point. I’m beginning to realize that part of the problem could possibly be my attitude—maybe just a little. You see, I too kick against authority. I have a certain way I want my day to go. I want my house to look nice and tidy. I want my children to say “please” and “thank you” and I want everything in my realm to make me look like a got-it-together mama.
I don’t know about you, but this doesn’t always happen. And when it doesn’t, like my boy, I sometimes get frustrated and try to force my will. Fruits go flying out the window—fruits of the Spirit that is—as I make excuses for my less-than-encouraging thoughts, words, and actions.
To simmer down I must remember that I’m not the one in control. We have a saying in our house. “You’re not the king.” I’m not the king. God is. And when I bow my knee to him in prayer and the Word, peace comes—as well as the ability to handle the dents and bruises to my vision.
The same is true for my boy. When he starts thinking he’s the king, the answer isn’t a big ol’ lecture. It’s not to “put him in his place,” or undermine his ideas. It’s to send him to his Savior in the Word and prayer. And as he sits at Christ’s feet, he will grow into the boy who respects authority—both his parents and others.
I often hear tidbits like:
“Now, Christian, we need to clean for Papa. Would you like to come home to a messy house?”
“Abigail, if you don’t eat your dinner, you won’t get dessert.”
“C’mon everybody, I’ve got three activities planned for you.”
“Mama, you need to be a good example to us.” Ack!
After half a week of constant posturing to maintain—and sometimes regain—my God-given authority, I’m tired and wondering how to handle a whole summer with my firstborn underfoot. Well, I may not have the answer, but here are some ideas I’ve come up with as I work through this dilemma.
First, I need to remember my dear boy is just trying to help. I know his “leadership” exudes from a sincere desire to create a more effective home and to guide us all into better behavior. I’m grateful he has this desire, and I want to encourage it. But I must be careful to help him see the difference between helping and usurping authority.
Second, I can thank God for the opportunity to teach my son about God’s order. When my boy acts like he has more authority than me, his parent, he’s not only striving against our family balance, he’s telling God he knows better. “This mom you gave me isn’t doing a good job, so I’m going to do it for her. I’ll take it from here, God.” It’s so important for him to understand that if he honors his earthly authority, he will more readily rest under the Lord’s authority. Handing the reins to his not-so-smart mom (in his mind), is a big struggle for my dear son. But it’s a fight we must win—by God’s grace, of course!
How do I cement a deep respect for authority in my son? Prayer and love.
Which brings me to the third point. I’m beginning to realize that part of the problem could possibly be my attitude—maybe just a little. You see, I too kick against authority. I have a certain way I want my day to go. I want my house to look nice and tidy. I want my children to say “please” and “thank you” and I want everything in my realm to make me look like a got-it-together mama.
I don’t know about you, but this doesn’t always happen. And when it doesn’t, like my boy, I sometimes get frustrated and try to force my will. Fruits go flying out the window—fruits of the Spirit that is—as I make excuses for my less-than-encouraging thoughts, words, and actions.
To simmer down I must remember that I’m not the one in control. We have a saying in our house. “You’re not the king.” I’m not the king. God is. And when I bow my knee to him in prayer and the Word, peace comes—as well as the ability to handle the dents and bruises to my vision.
The same is true for my boy. When he starts thinking he’s the king, the answer isn’t a big ol’ lecture. It’s not to “put him in his place,” or undermine his ideas. It’s to send him to his Savior in the Word and prayer. And as he sits at Christ’s feet, he will grow into the boy who respects authority—both his parents and others.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
What Kind of Bride Am I?
Recently I was asked to do a devotional for a bridal shower. As I thought about what to talk about, I, of course, ran to our great mothers—those great brides in the Bible. As I looked at these wives and their attributes, I began to wonder, What kind of bride am I?
Am I Eve? Do I, like her craving the forbidden fruit, manipulate my husband to get what I want? In the same manner as she listened to the voice of the serpent, do I heed the voice of my own desires or other influences rather than the authority God has given me?
Am I Sarah? Rather than building up my husband’s faith, do I, like Sarah in her fit of laughter, ridicule God’s faithful promises by my own lack of trust? And also, do I meddle into things which are between him and God—as Sarah meddled with the need for offspring?
Am I Gomer from the book of Hosea? A prostitute who ran from the man who God had called to serve her. Am I unfaithful in my thoughts or words? Do I run from my husband when I should be running to him?
If I’m honest, I must admit, yes, I am like these women a lot of times. But I long to do better, to reflect the others we learn about.
Am I Rebecca, Rachel? Beloved of their husbands and blessed of God.
Am I Ruth? Humble. The faithful wife who longs to support and serve the man who loves her.
Am I the Shunamite Woman (Solomon’s beloved)? Her passion for her husband engulfs all her life, and she longs to serve only him. Am I like that?
I hope to more closely resemble the faithful ones. But as I study these ladies, something aside from their character strikes me:
Each of these faithful women has been especially chosen by her husband.
Think about Rebecca, Rachel, and also Moses’ wife. All these women were simple daughters, interested in livestock. There was nothing exceedingly amazing about them. They were not born of kings, they weren’t exceedingly wealthy. Just good, upright women. But the main thing these women have in common is that they watered their herds at a well.
And what happened at the well? A husband, or representative of a husband, sought out each one of these women, Rebecca, Rachel, and Zipporah, courted them, and claimed them for his own. These women were called to be part of God’s family by the patriarchs themselves. Not because of who they were, but because of the simple fact that they were chosen.
What about Ruth? Was she much of anything in the world’s eyes before she married Boaz? We know Ruth was a woman of good character, but in earthly terms, Ruth was less than a nobody. A widow. A foreigner—not an Israelite. There was nothing earthly to recommend her to the noble farmer, Boaz. Yet, in God’s providence, Boaz chose her for a wife. Redeeming her life from poverty and bitterness.
What about the Shulamite woman? The great, beautiful King Solomon (did you catch that? A king!) took this woman—a young country girl—and in his great, overwhelming kindness, he didn’t just wed her, but passionately without reserve, in utter fleshly desire and spiritual delight, he adored her.
Song of Solomon 4
You have captivated my heart, my sister, my bride;
you have captivated my heart with one glance of your eyes,
with one jewel of your necklace.
10 How beautiful is your love, my sister, my bride!
How much better is your love than wine,
and the fragrance of your oils than any spice! ESV
Again, we see the kindness of a husband, who welcomes a bride into his arms, despite the woman’s lowliness.
Back to the question. Which sort of bride am I? I still wasn’t sure. I looked in one more place, near another well, an old, old well, yet during a different time.
John 4
5 Now Jesus came to a town of Samaria called Sychar, near the field that Jacob had given to his son Joseph. 6 Jacob's WELL was there;
What was there? A well? Have we heard this before? Do you think John knew that in the first five books of the Bible the place to get wives was at a well? Let’s keep reading:
so Jesus, wearied as he was from his journey, was sitting beside the well. It was about the sixth hour. 7 A woman from Samaria came to draw water. Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.” … 9 The Samaritan woman said to him, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask for a drink from me, a woman of Samaria?” (For Jews have no dealings with Samaritans.)
Immediately we see that just like Boaz, King Solomon, and Hosea, Jesus has no earthly reason to pursue this woman. Why?
Let’s talk about the Samaritan woman for a second. What do we know about her?
1. She’s a woman. Not good during that time. A rabbi wasn’t allowed to talk to women.
2. She’s a Samaritan—What does that mean? Less than a half-breed. Rejected, outcast.
We’ll get to more later. But for know we start to glimpse that Jesus is like those former husbands we’ve seen. He goes to a well and talks to a woman, not because she’s extra worthy, but because of something about the man’s character. There’s something the man has been called to do. Something in God’s bigger purpose.
Verse 10 Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.”
Not only did Jesus lower himself to talk to her, he gives her something better than she has. Let’s skip to verse sixteen.
16 Jesus said to her, “Go, call your husband, and come here.” 17 The woman answered him, “I have no husband.” Jesus said to her, “You are right in saying, ‘I have no husband’; 18 for you have had five husbands, and the one you now have is not your husband. What you have said is true.”
So we come to the other issue with this woman that would make a normal person stay away from her? What is it? What makes her more than a lowly woman, a rejected Samaritan halfbreed? An outcast of outcasts?
She thirsts.
Not for water. She thirsts for husbands. She’s had six. Six. And none of them could quench her thirst. They only left her dry, weary, tired. And thirsting even more.
What does this woman need? She needs a seventh husband. Seven, the number of perfection. She needs the perfect husband, who is Christ. And he doesn’t turn her away. She deserves to thirst forever because of her sin—her many, many sins. She does NOT deserve to have her soul quenched. She does not deserve to be Christ’s bride. Not the beautiful Christ. The lovely husband. She deserves to die in her arid loneliness.
We are that bride.
We are that faithless one, who thirsts for what does not fulfill. Our sins make us outcasts of outcasts, a Samaritan, Eve, faithless Sarah, Lot’s wife, Gomer—despised, rejected. We do not deserve to have a beautiful, strong, honorable husband seek us out and call us his bride.
But then … what happened to the Samaritan woman? Do you remember? Jesus quenches her thirst for husbands with Himself—the most beautiful husband there is. Better than the Old Testament grooms.
Yet, the story is not over, for, “This bride will not come cheap.”
Christ calls her to him, but he must pay a price for her. “Quenching his beloved's thirst will require him to endure the horror of the cross in her stead. For it is there, nailed hand and foot, that Jesus, the source of living water, would cry out, "I thirst." Christ goes to the cross to thirst in his bride's place, taking on her sorrow, grief and sin.”
Dear friends, our groom gives himself to us. He pulls us from our dirty, desperate estate and just as a husband will take his bride’s hand to claim her as his own, Christ takes ours. As a bride is clean, fragranced, adorned in a beautiful dress and jewelry, hair perfectly coifed, so our we as our great husband raises us from the filth of our sin and brings us to him.
And I wonder, what kind of bride was the Samaritan Woman? First, she embodied all those unfaithful brides, but then, after an encounter with Jesus, she blossoms into the Shulamite woman—the wife of King Solomon, passionately in love with Jesus.
The water he gives her overflows out of her abundant love for him. And she can’t help but tell others about him. She preaches the gospel to her loved ones, and you can only imagine the change her life took on. Do you think she continued to live in sin after falling head over heals in love with her new seventh husband? The perfect one?
Of course not. That living water never runs dry. His love for her never runs dry. And then it overflows from her heart—from our hearts. Love for all around us flows uncontrollably and the recipients include … our husbands.
The love for our heavenly husband is fleshed out daily in love to our earthly husbands. For as we adore Christ, we will be patient, kind. We won’t boast or envy. We won’t insist on our own way, or be irritable or resentful. We’ll rejoice in the truth, bear all things, believe all things, endure all things. In Christ, we become the wife he’s called us to be. Not out of resentful duty, but out of overflowing love for our heavenly husband whom we cherish.
So my advice, to the soon to be bride. Fall in love with your savior, and your love for Him will overflow to your groom as well.
*Special thanks to Scott Hunter and Brett McNeill for their help!
Am I Eve? Do I, like her craving the forbidden fruit, manipulate my husband to get what I want? In the same manner as she listened to the voice of the serpent, do I heed the voice of my own desires or other influences rather than the authority God has given me?
Am I Sarah? Rather than building up my husband’s faith, do I, like Sarah in her fit of laughter, ridicule God’s faithful promises by my own lack of trust? And also, do I meddle into things which are between him and God—as Sarah meddled with the need for offspring?
Am I Gomer from the book of Hosea? A prostitute who ran from the man who God had called to serve her. Am I unfaithful in my thoughts or words? Do I run from my husband when I should be running to him?
If I’m honest, I must admit, yes, I am like these women a lot of times. But I long to do better, to reflect the others we learn about.
Am I Rebecca, Rachel? Beloved of their husbands and blessed of God.
Am I Ruth? Humble. The faithful wife who longs to support and serve the man who loves her.
Am I the Shunamite Woman (Solomon’s beloved)? Her passion for her husband engulfs all her life, and she longs to serve only him. Am I like that?
I hope to more closely resemble the faithful ones. But as I study these ladies, something aside from their character strikes me:
Each of these faithful women has been especially chosen by her husband.
Think about Rebecca, Rachel, and also Moses’ wife. All these women were simple daughters, interested in livestock. There was nothing exceedingly amazing about them. They were not born of kings, they weren’t exceedingly wealthy. Just good, upright women. But the main thing these women have in common is that they watered their herds at a well.
And what happened at the well? A husband, or representative of a husband, sought out each one of these women, Rebecca, Rachel, and Zipporah, courted them, and claimed them for his own. These women were called to be part of God’s family by the patriarchs themselves. Not because of who they were, but because of the simple fact that they were chosen.
What about Ruth? Was she much of anything in the world’s eyes before she married Boaz? We know Ruth was a woman of good character, but in earthly terms, Ruth was less than a nobody. A widow. A foreigner—not an Israelite. There was nothing earthly to recommend her to the noble farmer, Boaz. Yet, in God’s providence, Boaz chose her for a wife. Redeeming her life from poverty and bitterness.
What about the Shulamite woman? The great, beautiful King Solomon (did you catch that? A king!) took this woman—a young country girl—and in his great, overwhelming kindness, he didn’t just wed her, but passionately without reserve, in utter fleshly desire and spiritual delight, he adored her.
Song of Solomon 4
You have captivated my heart, my sister, my bride;
you have captivated my heart with one glance of your eyes,
with one jewel of your necklace.
10 How beautiful is your love, my sister, my bride!
How much better is your love than wine,
and the fragrance of your oils than any spice! ESV
Again, we see the kindness of a husband, who welcomes a bride into his arms, despite the woman’s lowliness.
Back to the question. Which sort of bride am I? I still wasn’t sure. I looked in one more place, near another well, an old, old well, yet during a different time.
John 4
5 Now Jesus came to a town of Samaria called Sychar, near the field that Jacob had given to his son Joseph. 6 Jacob's WELL was there;
What was there? A well? Have we heard this before? Do you think John knew that in the first five books of the Bible the place to get wives was at a well? Let’s keep reading:
so Jesus, wearied as he was from his journey, was sitting beside the well. It was about the sixth hour. 7 A woman from Samaria came to draw water. Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.” … 9 The Samaritan woman said to him, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask for a drink from me, a woman of Samaria?” (For Jews have no dealings with Samaritans.)
Immediately we see that just like Boaz, King Solomon, and Hosea, Jesus has no earthly reason to pursue this woman. Why?
Let’s talk about the Samaritan woman for a second. What do we know about her?
1. She’s a woman. Not good during that time. A rabbi wasn’t allowed to talk to women.
2. She’s a Samaritan—What does that mean? Less than a half-breed. Rejected, outcast.
We’ll get to more later. But for know we start to glimpse that Jesus is like those former husbands we’ve seen. He goes to a well and talks to a woman, not because she’s extra worthy, but because of something about the man’s character. There’s something the man has been called to do. Something in God’s bigger purpose.
Verse 10 Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.”
Not only did Jesus lower himself to talk to her, he gives her something better than she has. Let’s skip to verse sixteen.
16 Jesus said to her, “Go, call your husband, and come here.” 17 The woman answered him, “I have no husband.” Jesus said to her, “You are right in saying, ‘I have no husband’; 18 for you have had five husbands, and the one you now have is not your husband. What you have said is true.”
So we come to the other issue with this woman that would make a normal person stay away from her? What is it? What makes her more than a lowly woman, a rejected Samaritan halfbreed? An outcast of outcasts?
She thirsts.
Not for water. She thirsts for husbands. She’s had six. Six. And none of them could quench her thirst. They only left her dry, weary, tired. And thirsting even more.
What does this woman need? She needs a seventh husband. Seven, the number of perfection. She needs the perfect husband, who is Christ. And he doesn’t turn her away. She deserves to thirst forever because of her sin—her many, many sins. She does NOT deserve to have her soul quenched. She does not deserve to be Christ’s bride. Not the beautiful Christ. The lovely husband. She deserves to die in her arid loneliness.
We are that bride.
We are that faithless one, who thirsts for what does not fulfill. Our sins make us outcasts of outcasts, a Samaritan, Eve, faithless Sarah, Lot’s wife, Gomer—despised, rejected. We do not deserve to have a beautiful, strong, honorable husband seek us out and call us his bride.
But then … what happened to the Samaritan woman? Do you remember? Jesus quenches her thirst for husbands with Himself—the most beautiful husband there is. Better than the Old Testament grooms.
Yet, the story is not over, for, “This bride will not come cheap.”
Christ calls her to him, but he must pay a price for her. “Quenching his beloved's thirst will require him to endure the horror of the cross in her stead. For it is there, nailed hand and foot, that Jesus, the source of living water, would cry out, "I thirst." Christ goes to the cross to thirst in his bride's place, taking on her sorrow, grief and sin.”
Dear friends, our groom gives himself to us. He pulls us from our dirty, desperate estate and just as a husband will take his bride’s hand to claim her as his own, Christ takes ours. As a bride is clean, fragranced, adorned in a beautiful dress and jewelry, hair perfectly coifed, so our we as our great husband raises us from the filth of our sin and brings us to him.
And I wonder, what kind of bride was the Samaritan Woman? First, she embodied all those unfaithful brides, but then, after an encounter with Jesus, she blossoms into the Shulamite woman—the wife of King Solomon, passionately in love with Jesus.
The water he gives her overflows out of her abundant love for him. And she can’t help but tell others about him. She preaches the gospel to her loved ones, and you can only imagine the change her life took on. Do you think she continued to live in sin after falling head over heals in love with her new seventh husband? The perfect one?
Of course not. That living water never runs dry. His love for her never runs dry. And then it overflows from her heart—from our hearts. Love for all around us flows uncontrollably and the recipients include … our husbands.
The love for our heavenly husband is fleshed out daily in love to our earthly husbands. For as we adore Christ, we will be patient, kind. We won’t boast or envy. We won’t insist on our own way, or be irritable or resentful. We’ll rejoice in the truth, bear all things, believe all things, endure all things. In Christ, we become the wife he’s called us to be. Not out of resentful duty, but out of overflowing love for our heavenly husband whom we cherish.
So my advice, to the soon to be bride. Fall in love with your savior, and your love for Him will overflow to your groom as well.
*Special thanks to Scott Hunter and Brett McNeill for their help!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
How Many Times Have I Told You?
“How many times have I told you?”
It seems like my mommy job is a never-ending treadmill on futility.
Well, maybe that’s a bit of an overstatement, but seriously, how many times do I have to tell my son to stay out of his sisters’ room? And how many times must I instruct my princess-adoring daughter, Gabrielle, that, “Sweetie,” (my teeth are clenched) “Cindrella wouldn’t make smacking sounds when she eats with Prince Charming”?
We had a spell of this type of “forgetfulness” today. Christian, my five-year-old rough and tumble knight, has a bad habit of putting his fat fists on, and in, things he’s not supposed to …
First thing this morning, he ran to the front porch to “help” retrieve the milk from where the milkman left it. Before I could get there, he’d knocked over the egg carton also nestled with the milk. So fun cleaning up a bunch of egg yolk (actually, not so much). How many times have I told him to ask for help when getting the milk?
Later, he dumped out my daughter’s big, perfectly organized, box of … beads. Yeah, millions (well, it seemed like millions) of sparkly pink, yellow, and gold beads all over the floor. How many times have I warned him not to touch Gabrielle’s things?
And finally, without thinking it was even wrong, he smiled at me and grabbed my daughter’s newly beaded necklaces (a big pile she’d been working on) and balled them into a tangled mess. I sent him to the corner. When he got out, where do you think the first place he raced to was? That same ball of beads.
Definitely ingredients for a frazzled mom’s frustrated outburst, but the moment that went beyond frustrating was when the same five-year-old repeatedly (and I mean repeatedly) loses his temper. Such defiant words coming from my silly boy’s mouth. Such an inability to control his fists and his stomping feet.
After about six of these incidents today, I just wanted to cry. Will he ever learn? Will his heart ever soften to my instructions?
And then I heard echoes of my heavenly Father. My own sins go far beyond those of my sweet children. I think first of my own needs more times every day than I can count. When my frustration explodes in words that shame Him; when I snap at my husband rather then giving him the benefit of the doubt … It’s like a neverending treadmill of futility—my repeated sins.
Yet, God’s grace and forgiveness never end. I can never sin more than He will forgive. Did you hear that?
I can never sin more than he will forgive.
Even if I ask for forgiveness one minute then rush and do the exact same thing the next, well, Jesus paid for those sins—the first one and the second.
My Heavenly Father never gets exasperated with me—he never says, “How many times have I told you to be patient with the children I’ve entrusted to you?” It’s so hard to believe, but it’s true. He always let’s me climb back on his lap and whisper one more, “I’m sorry, Abba.”
“Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord:
though your sins are like scarlet,
they shall be as white as snow;
though they are red like crimson,
they shall become like wool. Isaiah 1:18
It seems like my mommy job is a never-ending treadmill on futility.
Well, maybe that’s a bit of an overstatement, but seriously, how many times do I have to tell my son to stay out of his sisters’ room? And how many times must I instruct my princess-adoring daughter, Gabrielle, that, “Sweetie,” (my teeth are clenched) “Cindrella wouldn’t make smacking sounds when she eats with Prince Charming”?
We had a spell of this type of “forgetfulness” today. Christian, my five-year-old rough and tumble knight, has a bad habit of putting his fat fists on, and in, things he’s not supposed to …
First thing this morning, he ran to the front porch to “help” retrieve the milk from where the milkman left it. Before I could get there, he’d knocked over the egg carton also nestled with the milk. So fun cleaning up a bunch of egg yolk (actually, not so much). How many times have I told him to ask for help when getting the milk?
Later, he dumped out my daughter’s big, perfectly organized, box of … beads. Yeah, millions (well, it seemed like millions) of sparkly pink, yellow, and gold beads all over the floor. How many times have I warned him not to touch Gabrielle’s things?
And finally, without thinking it was even wrong, he smiled at me and grabbed my daughter’s newly beaded necklaces (a big pile she’d been working on) and balled them into a tangled mess. I sent him to the corner. When he got out, where do you think the first place he raced to was? That same ball of beads.
Definitely ingredients for a frazzled mom’s frustrated outburst, but the moment that went beyond frustrating was when the same five-year-old repeatedly (and I mean repeatedly) loses his temper. Such defiant words coming from my silly boy’s mouth. Such an inability to control his fists and his stomping feet.
After about six of these incidents today, I just wanted to cry. Will he ever learn? Will his heart ever soften to my instructions?
And then I heard echoes of my heavenly Father. My own sins go far beyond those of my sweet children. I think first of my own needs more times every day than I can count. When my frustration explodes in words that shame Him; when I snap at my husband rather then giving him the benefit of the doubt … It’s like a neverending treadmill of futility—my repeated sins.
Yet, God’s grace and forgiveness never end. I can never sin more than He will forgive. Did you hear that?
I can never sin more than he will forgive.
Even if I ask for forgiveness one minute then rush and do the exact same thing the next, well, Jesus paid for those sins—the first one and the second.
My Heavenly Father never gets exasperated with me—he never says, “How many times have I told you to be patient with the children I’ve entrusted to you?” It’s so hard to believe, but it’s true. He always let’s me climb back on his lap and whisper one more, “I’m sorry, Abba.”
“Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord:
though your sins are like scarlet,
they shall be as white as snow;
though they are red like crimson,
they shall become like wool. Isaiah 1:18
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Love Finds You in February Winners!
Thank you for all who participated in this fun contest. All of we author-types had lots of fun answering your awesome questions!
Sandie’s books to: Martha A. and Katheyeeberly
Loree’s to: Sherry K and Marlee
Ocieanna to: Shelly
Tricia to: Abi
Cerella’s to: Emily
Miralee’s to: Kim & Elyssa
So Shelly, send my your address and I'll shoot a signed Love Finds You in Lonesome Prairie over to you!
Thanks to all who participated!
Sandie’s books to: Martha A. and Katheyeeberly
Loree’s to: Sherry K and Marlee
Ocieanna to: Shelly
Tricia to: Abi
Cerella’s to: Emily
Miralee’s to: Kim & Elyssa
So Shelly, send my your address and I'll shoot a signed Love Finds You in Lonesome Prairie over to you!
Thanks to all who participated!
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