How a Foot Learned to Love

I've been wrestling lately with the idea of belonging. How do I know that I belong here? What is my role here in Erie? How do I fit in my church family? Does anyone actually need what I have to offer? What do I have to offer anyway?

I've been trying to figure myself out and trying to see how my unique talents and skills could possibly benefit the people around me. I mean, I see how my creativity, for example, is a good thing for my family because it affects our home and our daily lives, but how can I translate that skill into something that the people at Faith Reformed Church need? Maybe they don't want my style invading our calm and peaceful church building. Maybe my signature impetuous ways aren't the best thing for the beautifully staid and contemplative Reformed folks there.

1 Corinthians 12 has been a huge help to me in this struggle. Verse 15 says, "If the foot should say, “Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body”, that would not make it any less a part of the body." Yeah, sure, sometimes I feel like I don't fit in where God has put me, but this verse is telling me that I belong where I am. I may feel like I'm different from the people around me, but being different in His church is good. Different is how God designed us to be. Different helps us function well and grow. And even in those times when I'm feeling like a left foot in a right hand world, I know that somehow I'm needed right where I am. And my skills, habits, and tendencies are exactly what my church body needs. 

And see, here's the best part. 1 Corinthians 12 is followed by 1 Corinthians 13- you know, that famous "love chapter"? 

Paul spends a chapter talking about how each member of the church has an important part to play in the well being of the body and how necessary diversity is in the church and then he finishes with this, "And I will show you a still more excellent way." And, boom, he dives into chapter 13.

"...if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing."

So all that stuff he just said about how important all the members of the body are, everything I just learned about how needed I am in my church- if I don't have love, it doesn't mean shit. 

Anything and everything I do, whether in my home or in my church or in my neighborhood, must flow out from a heart that is so busy with love that I don't even have time to wonder if what I'm doing is needed or appreciated.

Honestly, I'll probably still feel like the odd man out sometimes. I'll probably still doubt that I'm supposed to be here. But I'm trusting that my God will keep changing me into a person who is more concerned with loving people than with being accepted.

I'll keep doing my thing here. I'll decorate my house with oddly bright colors, plan church events, and paint rocks with the neighborhood kids. God made me a foot and so I'll be the best foot that I can be. So what if the hands around me don't understand what I'm doing? I'm not sure I understand what they're doing sometimes, but I know I need them. We're in this together. We're all the same body and we are bound together by love. I think that's all I need to understand right now.

"Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.

So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love."

The Mystery of a Mother's Love

Occasionally, a bee or yellow jacket will make its way into our home. My first reaction is to close the door on whatever room the accursed insect is in and then I contemplate my next move. When I realize what I have to do next, my heart shrinks a little. Then I gather my bee-killing supplies and approach the closed door. After a quick prayer or three I cautiously open the door a crack and then abruptly shut it again. At this point, I'm so afraid of that wretched buzzing creature that I'm just about frozen with fear and considering just keeping the door closed until Joshua comes home 7 hours later and takes care of it for me. But then my mothering instincts kick in and I do the one thing that my brain keeps telling me is a bad idea. My feet barely move, but I make them take me back to the closed door. I open it, step inside, and shut the door behind me.

It's just you and me now, you vicious winged killer.

Maybe it sounds silly to be so afraid of such a little thing, but for me, the act of a mother setting aside her own paralyzing fear just to protect her children is a phenomenon that puzzles and intrigues me. Why do I face my fear and shut myself in that room inhabited by the thing that makes my heart pound and skin crawl? Why do I face that danger (whether real or imagined)?

I do it so that my babies don't have to. I'd rather be shut in with a dozen of my fears than to step aside and let any of them touch my children. Where does this love come from? When did it get put in my heart?

And what can I do to make it grow?

Riding Bikes

Riding bikes in the parking lot.
The sound of training wheels on the pavement.

Golden sunlight splashes
on smiling faces and shimmering laughter.

Wheels spinning,
Like their childhood racing away from me.

So I breathe in this golden moment
And carry it in my soul

Always.

Little Moments of Big Grace

My kids are messy. I don't think that they are messier than the average kid, but my understanding is that the average kid is pretty darn messy. So when I found a pile of brightly colored, used plastic cups on our enclosed front porch, no doubt left over from a lunch that happened approximately three years ago, I shouldn't have been surprised. Really, as messes go that was SO not a big deal. I've seen much, much worse, but they had neglected to be responsible and so they needed to be called on it. And it's not likely that I'd be using my sugary-sweet voice as I did said calling.

But then the thought hit me, "What if I just picked them up?" Not extremely novel as thoughts go, but you see, I'm a stickler for having my children clean up after themselves. How else will they learn to be mature, responsible cup picker-uppers contributing to society? But a little voice in my head told me that this wasn't a moment to be a stickler, this was a moment that could be filled with grace.

At that moment, I knew my kids didn't need to be scolded yet again, but what they really needed was a mommy who picked up after them while they played outside in the sunshine. Sometimes the most gracious thing a parent can do is scold and discipline their child, but sometimes the best thing to do is to bend down and clean up their mess.

They'll never know this little internal struggle I went through. They'll never know they got out of doing some work. But in that moment, they were covered by grace. And my prayer as their mommy is that this grace will, by the power of God, change their little hearts and turn them into gracious, loving people.

It was such a little thing. It took 45 seconds at most, but our days are made up of little moments. It's the little moments that can bring smiles or tears. It's in the little moments that the battle for my children's souls is being fought. And it's these little moments of big grace that will turn my children's faces toward Jesus. 

And that's no little thing.

Death in His Grave

The song, "Death in His Grave," has been going through my head since we sang it at church on Sunday. It was perfect during worship that day. It was Mother's Day, which is a tough day for me, so getting to sing about how Jesus conquered death was a welcome reminder. It's good to sing songs like this when we are feeling discouraged or missing people we've lost or just longing for our heavenly home.

And then there's today. It's a gorgeous day. The sky is bluer than seems possible and the sunlight almost  laughs as it filters through the trees to touch the fresh, green grass. It's been a good day. I'm accomplishing tasks that I was dreading, my to do list keeps getting shorter, and I'm surrounded by my healthy, beautiful children. And I couldn't help thinking that today is a perfect day to sing about Jesus defeating my brutal enemy, Death. Because, you see, while today is a good day, death is always just around the corner. I don't mean that any one of us could drop dead suddenly, though that certainly is a possibility. I'm talking about the way that every moment we live here is tainted by darkness and death.

Even as I look out at the sapphire sky, my heart feels a touch of sadness. There are parts of my life that aren't as they should be. There are bits of my heart that are chipped. Not quite broken, but not quite whole.

Why am I writing about this? Trust me, I'm not trying to be a downer or be depressing. I'm writing about this because we need to accept that we will never feel that perfect happiness here. There is no such thing as a "perfect moment." That's our reality. But you know what else is reality? One day, we won't be sad anymore. We will be perfectly happy. Jesus conquered death- and not just cancer, miscarriages, or bee stings. He has conquered every touch of death on the beautiful days. Every tiny speck of darkness, every moment of doubt, every twinge of disappointment.

So I look out at my day, the sunshine, the birds singing, the gentle breeze, and I know that, while my enemy waits just around the edges, he has been defeated. He will not touch my days forever. Jesus has laid him in his grave.

The Transcendence of Laundry

I've been a mom for a decade. Throughout those years, God has been impressing on my often discouraged heart that the way I spend my time here and the tasks I've been called to are crucial and vital to our world. Let's face it, parents of little kids have a tough job that tends to feel pointless and endless. We wipe bums and noses over and over, wash the same dishes multiple times in a single day, and then there's the laundry. Oh, the laundry! It forms into piles of such impressive heights that even the most accomplished mountaineer wouldn't dare try to confront them.

But all these seemingly pointless tasks are really the stepping stones that our children will follow on their way to maturity and holiness. They need to see what a servant looks like. They need to know how to handle responsibility and work hard to achieve a goal. They need to see what it looks like to live faithfully in this world.

My children rely on me to care for their little bodies and souls and to guide them through each day. And as they see me claim the Everest-like laundry, they see a woman who will do anything to get her babies to where they need to go.

Even if I have to move mountains to get there.

The Trusting Broken Heart

Every year I struggle with the days leading up to Mother's Day. I keep thinking I'm getting better, but then I find myself in the greeting card aisle looking at all the words I wish I could say to my mom and then nothing in me feels okay. I was thinking yesterday about how my mom is no longer a part of my life. She once was such a part of my life that I literally couldn't have lived without her. At one point, about 29 years ago, her life sustained mine. It was her heart pumping life into mine. I used to live inside her and now I have to live without her.

What kind of God does that? How could He possibly think that is okay to do? Who does He think He is?

I think these words and I write them to relieve the pressure against my chest, but I don't doubt His love. I don't doubt that this was the best way. This was the best plan.

 When He took my mom almost 10 years ago, my heart shattered. I could feel the shards flowing through my veins, slicing my soul with each surge of blood. But even in the midst of the pain, I could feel a hand gently reaching through my skin to grasp one piece at a time. He placed the fragments, one by one, back in my chest and slowly, painstakingly rebuilt the puzzle of my heart. As He rebuilt it He cut out some of the parts that were poisoned. He formed it into something better. Only He wasn't able to finish it. One piece is missing. One piece was lost. The hole is there, always gaping, never healing.

 But it will be whole someday.

 And so I trust His healing hands. I trust that He broke my heart so that He could rebuild it into something better. I trust in His skill as surgeon to cut into me to help me. To make me bleed so that I can have life- a far better life than I could have had before. The life that my mother's blood once gave me is a mere imitation of it. I trust that when His hammer came down on my heart and the splinters flew apart that He felt it too and the shards of His heart mixed with mine as they flew. And I trust that when I someday stand in His presence, His tools of surgery will be set aside and His scarred hands will wipe these tears off my cheeks. And my heart will finally be whole.

A New Beginning

I have had some thoughts bumping around my head and I thought it might be helpful to get them out on "paper." My plan is to write very occasionally on various topics that I'm thinking through.