The Spoken Psalms

I've started reading the Psalms for my morning Bible reading since it turns out that trying to read Jeremiah in February is a *bad* idea. I'm reading these Psalms and realizing that they sound, in my mind's voice, like spoken word. I hear the impassioned speech of a desperate poet, trying with all his arts and knowledge to find words to communicate his plight and then his salvation. I hear his voice rise as he describes his anguish and his joy. I feel the pauses, the weight he gives to certain phrases- Selah. I hear the catch in his throat as he is overcome by emotion at the realization of his god's goodness. I can almost see his hand clenched at his chest as he breathes out the final words, "In peace I will both lie down and sleep; for YOU alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety."

These are not dry words penned by a religious scholar. These are my kind of words. Words that bring tears and tug at your soul. Words from the heart of a man who suffered well and rejoiced even better. These words are balm to my own heart and they spur me on toward hope, closer to joy, and further into the presence of true beauty.  

I Met a Murderer Today

After a conversation I had today about Jeffrey Dahmer, I was reminded of a poem I wrote 8 years ago at a time when I was struck with the depth of my sin and the ridiculous expanse of God's forgiveness. I dug up the dusty words to share with you all. 


I met a murderer today
I hid my eyes and looked away.
His face was too grotesque to me,
His gleaming teeth a fright to see.
I saw the people that he killed-
Their bodies bruised, their breathing stilled.
I heard the screaming, felt the tears,
Saw the culmination of his victims’ fears.
Oh, what horrors this man wrought!
I uncovered my face and for some comfort I sought.
The murderer does the same, I see
And now I know it’s only a mirror in front of me.

Of Magic and Mugs

This past New Year's everyone in our family got a special new mug for coffee, tea, and cocoa. When I was purchasing the mugs, I ended up with an extra snowman mug that I then set aside, thinking it would make a cute gift for someone else at some point. Totally not a big deal. Fast forward to today when Zoe's adorable penguin mug was scattered on the floor in pieces after an unfortunate accident. She was in tears and understandably so. But when I was able to hand her a brand new mug in the shape of a cheerful, rotund snowman, her eyes lit up and wetly sparkled with almost unbelieving delight. My simple error in buying one too many mugs resulted in a magical moment in our house.

My life is filled with moments like this. Most days I hardly notice the magic happening, but it's always there, buzzing in the air. I'm convinced that when I first emerged into this world, kicking and screaming, that God chuckled to Himself. He knew all the little pockets of mystery that awaited me, all the glimmers of magic and miracle, the dusting of the eternal on every surface of my life.

I've been so grumpy today. I don't wanna do, well- anything. But God (there it is again!) took the ugly minutes and breathed His Spring-like breath on them. Out they blossomed, like so many lilies, reminding me that yes, today is beautiful. And, yes, there is magic in my home.

Snow Angel

I wrote this yesterday after playing outside with my children. Lying on a mattress of fresh snow and feeling the snowflakes falling on my face made me feel like a kid again. 

I made a snow angel today,
A clumsy act of former times.
In the frozen white, long I lay
Stealing this moment my only crime.

Eyes shut tight with smiling lines
Then the hush a whisper brings.
Joy curled round me- frosty vines,
On my face, the icy brush of angel wings.

My Children

I'm amazed at my children. I often look at them and think in wonder, "How on earth did I end up with such incredible children? What did I do to deserve these little people?" If you could see us on any given weekday, you'd know that I am hardly mother of the year or even mother of the week. I yell at my kids, I'm impatient with them, time and time again I put my own needs and wants before theirs. 

And yet, do you know what my kids say to me almost every day? "Mommy, you're the best mommy in the world." They can't claim ignorance. They are front seat witnesses to my sins, my short comings. They are the ones feeling my temper and suffering from my selfishness. But their wide, twinkling eyes see with the filter of grace. They are not oblivious to my wrongdoings, but they choose to see goodness instead. They choose to focus on the times when I am being a good mommy. They choose to look past my sin, cover it with their child-like love, and magnify my feeble attempts at doing right by them.

My babies are teaching me how to love. They are teaching me what grace is. I have four little examples of Jesus running around my house. I don't deserve this in the least. I could focus on my guilt, I could duck my head in shame, but instead I will embrace these gifts. I will embrace the love of God in these children and claim this grace as mine, given to me by the Father of Lights. I will watch my children shine, beaming heavenly brightness in this dark world. And I will be ever thankful for the perfect love that theirs is a droplet of- the love that covers ugliness with beauty and turns this sinner into the best mommy in the world.

My Dad

As I was writing about my mom recently, it made me think about how great my dad is. My mom couldn't have been the woman she was if he wasn't the man he is. He was her foundation, her springboard so she could fly.

When you first look at my dad you'd think he is simply a serious, deep thinking, solid, wise, Reformed pastor. Well, yeah, because he is. But what you may not notice at first is his fun side. His laugh has cheered many a gray day for me. He gets excited and giddy as a schoolboy when he buys a new electronic "toy" like a tablet or phone. He tickles grandkids and lets them pile on him until only a glimpse of his salt and pepper hair shows me he's still under all the wiggly bodies. His hugs feel like coming home.

Growing up in my dad's house was pretty awesome. Mom made life full of wonder and Dad made life full of knowledge. That's a pretty unstoppable duo. Dinnertime conversations often revolved around math concepts, fascinating new words (remember "lacrimatory"?) or theological questions one of us kids would bring up. If all of life was school, then dinnertime was Advanced Placement.

When I was a preteen, I would often come to my dad with the many concerns of my dramatic life. He would gently counsel me, always pointing to scriptures in his old Bible, with the cover made of duct tape. His door and his Bible were always open to me. Because of that, my heart was open to him.

It's been almost thirty years now since the day my dad held me in his arms in that big rocking chair, just moments after I was born. My parents often told the story of how Dad got to hold me first when I was born until my mom demanded, "Give me my baby!" I always liked hearing that story. It summed up how my parents made me feel all through my childhood and beyond- I was wanted.

My dad is one of my best friends. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'm his favorite kid. (Of course, my siblings say the same thing, but in my case it's true.) I don't know how it's possible for a man to make all his children know they are his favorite, but the thing I do understand is that this very trait makes me understand my eternal Father's love a bit better. It's because of my dad that I can comprehend, in the smallest way, what God's love for me looks like. I know what unconditional love feels like.

Thank you, Father, for my other father. He's the one who showed me what you look like. Thank you for loving me enough to give me this gift of a parent, mentor, and friend all bundled up in the package of a bearded man with a contagious laugh and an unconquerable passion for you.

My Mom

I was thinking about my mom's career and marveling once again. My mom was a counselor for the Women's Care Center here in Erie. Scared, pregnant young women would come to her, needing help, and she would lovingly help them get through the situation they were in and give them a boost into a better life. Sometimes she would help facilitate adoptions, other times she would invite them to come live with us until they could get back on their feet. I don't actually remember the Christmas Eve that a prostitute had dinner with us, but it makes for a great example of the way my mom brought her "work" home with her. She loved this job- this stressful, sometimes terrifying job that allowed her to help people and show them the gospel in action.

So when she left that job to stay home and homeschool us, she made a sacrifice that I'm not sure I'll ever understand. She was saving lives when she pointed scared, unsure mothers toward adoption. She broke cycles of abuse and misery when she gave hurting women a new home. And yet she knew that her children were more important than any of that. This blows my mind, quite frankly.

I know I was a big part of the reason for this career change. I was in 5th grade and struggling in school. I cried on the drive to school in the mornings. I cried at home. I was friendless and despondent. My parents saw the situation and weren't content to leave it alone. (I want to mention briefly that I had an incredible teacher at this time. None of my struggles were because of her. She was the kind of teacher that made you want to dive into books full of adventure and expand your imagination and when she read aloud to us, it was the greatest treat. But even with an amazing teacher, I was not doing well. I needed more.)

My mom stayed at home with my sisters and me (my brothers were older and mostly done with school) and our unconventional education began. We traipsed about historical locations and read plaques and pamphlets ad nauseam. We baked bread once a week, all gathered around the long, flour-covered dining room table, thumping and bumping the bread dough. We wrestled with math, grappled with grammar, and splashed into literature. These were the days I learned to love Shakespeare and dislike Dickens. We would read history out loud while my mom knitted and interjected her comments on various eras. We studied Greek and Latin root words and that is when I fell in love with the mystery of our language. I learned how to cook, how to keep to a budget, and how to refinish furniture. These were the days when I learned that all of life is school.

Please understand me, I'm not saying that all women need to quite their jobs to stay home and teach their children basket weaving. This is just my family's story. For my mom and for her children, it was the right choice. She left a job she loved to be with her kids whom she loved more. She gave us a great childhood and an amazing and unique education. I'm eternally thankful for this gift. She didn't just give us her time and energy, she gave us herself.

Thank you, God, for my mom's willingness to sacrifice for us. I'm starting to understand that now. Help me to be more like her.