Gushing

My little boy is in one the sweetest stages yet.

I'm currently gushing over his smiles that he saves just for me, his giggles, his cuddles.

I really don't know if I will ever get over him.

He's been pushing boundaries, learning what "no" means, and melting my heart every other second.

What a balancing act it is between overwhelming insecurity that I'm not getting it right and overwhelming settledness that this is right where God has me.

This motherhood thing is all-consuming, all-exhausting, life changing.
At the end of most days, my hands and my heart are tired and weary, but full to the brim.

Today, I am letting the gift I've been given seep into my skin and settle into my bones.  This is good.  This is love.  
I give thanks.

And when my little person pulls on me and needs me and I find myself at the end of, well, all of me, I'll give thanks then, too.

The Chapel Song

I went to kindergarten in a small private school.  My teacher was sweet and squishy and I don't remember her name, except I think it started with a B because she had earrings that had the letter B on them.

I also had my first crush.  His name was Taylor.  We met at the pencil sharpener every once in awhile.

We learned cursive (which was pretty fun) and I made the best lowercase "h" out of all of the class.  My teacher told my mom so.  I'm still pretty proud of that "h."

We had chapel every week.
I don't remember what day it was on.  Hey, I was in kindergarten.

Every time we had chapel, we sang the same song.
I thought it was just the chapel song... that it was some kind of ritual.
I thought it only took place in my chapel.  (It didn't by the way.)

I love you, Lord, and I lift my voice
To worship you, Oh my soul rejoice!
Take joy, my King, in what you hear
May it be a sweet, sweet sound in your ear

(This is all I remember from this song.  Evidently there are lots of other verses.  Who knew?!)

This morning I went to sit down during nap time, and I closed my eyes and tried to lift whatever lingers in your heart after you've been needed and pulled on and wanted and taken from.

And it rushed up out of somewhere, that chapel song.
My heart started to sing it ritually.
I got to the line with the "sweet, sweet sound part"...
And I sang out loud.
(Because my husband leads worship, I often get asked if I sing too.  I do sing, thank you.  
Um, no, I don't sing well.  But I do sing.)

Somehow, while looking around my messy house that I just. cleaned. yesterday. and singing the song that came every week for almost a year, over and over, it strikes me:
The repetition, it never ends.
Whether it be the cleaning or the singing or the choosing to praise or the petition that our lives make sweet sounds instead of discordant noises.
It's day by day, moment by moment, endless.

When it seems like whatever you just worked through comes back to haunt your heart, don't get weary.
When it seems like your pleas fall on deaf ears, don't stop singing.
When it seems like you're finally together, don't stop pressing forward into the exposing light.

The house, it gets messy again, even after deep cleaning.
My heart, it fails me.  Sometimes, the sound it makes is less-than-sweet.

But this morning, I will declare, ask, beg that somehow, by grace, I make a sweet sound to His ear.
And sometime today, I'll clean the house.  Again.

I'll do the same tomorrow.

Long Arms

My eyes squeezed shut and my hands palms-up on my knees, I whisper one question:
What if I have nothing else to give?

A dirty high chair,
A messy, falling out bun in my hair,
An aching need to just nap,
Cluttered toys and sticky floors...

It's all mocking me.

Again, what if I have nothing else?  What if it's all dried up?

What if it all crowds in on me... the everything that takes from me and the nothing I have to give... what if it overtakes me and I can't recover?

My eyes are still shut, and I wait for some command.
Some order to get on my knees and drive my forehead into the ground.
Some motivation to make sure to be more disciplined, more together.
All I can see is the time and the energy that I just don't have.

Even though I know them, the words touch me in a new way this time as they're whispered into my soul:

Surely the arm of the Lord is not too short to save,

nor his ear too dull to hear.

His arms can't be cut off, even by a mound of cluttered toys.
His ears can't be muffled by the noisy baby or the lists in my head.

When you feel like you can't reach through it all, whatever it is, remember.

It's not too much for Him to get through.
He's got really, really long arms.
He'll find you if you let Him.

31 days: Blurting

Make this your common practice:
Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you can live together whole and healed. 

I don't know where the notion came from, and I'm sure I was unaware of it until I'd unearthed it and held it in my lap:
If I don't say it out loud, if it doesn't seem like part of my character, whatever takes up residence in my thoughts is mine and mine alone.  If I judge, compare, or get frustrated only in my head, it's ok.

Long story short, I figured it out.
It's not ok.

Somehow, "figuring it out" didn't fix it all for me.
I still see something on Facebook that makes me feel left-out, less than, or just sad.
I still have moments when my skin gets uncomfortable on me, and I'd like to try on someone else's.

These moments, they can plague and taunt me.
The small frustration or bitterness or even self-loathing can bury itself somewhere deep and dark, and I carry it with me.

These thoughts can sneak up so quickly and bite so venomously that once I figured out they were hurting me, I had to make a game plan.

My solution: Blurt it out.
...to the closest person possible.
99.9% of the time, this happens to be my husband.

I tell him what's going on because I already know it's not ok.
No judgment, no shame.

It's become such a normal practice for us, he can just look at me and know when I'm comparing or feeling icky in my spirit.

It's not simple, it's not fun, it's not something I look forward to.
It's like throwing up... the acidic, bad-for-you stuff leaving the body... It's gross.
But the more I practice, the moment the words leave my mouth,
so does the guilt and shame, the frustration, the comparison, and the burden of the sin.

My shoulders feel lighter and I can sit up straighter and live in the light.
No hiding, no fear.

31 days: Sidelines

That's why my cup is running over. This is the assigned moment for Him to move into the center, while I slip off to the sidelines.

John the Baptist had followers.  He was touching lives, people were committed to his calling, his vision, his teaching.

God ordained him from before he was born to play a part in the grand scheme of the great plan. 

That blood pumping through your veins, tear-jerking kind of calling and dreaming... 

He had to have experienced it.

For me, it's writing.

It's motherhood.

It's being the kind of wife that lays down her all to support the man God's given her.

These callings, they keep me awake at night.

They inhabit the knot in my throat when the tears spill over.

These are the things I don't even have to ask to know the answer - 

They're God-birthed dreams.

Just like John the Baptist's.

I tend to desperately grab ahold of these desires, work toward them, make my life about them.

It's easy to forget that I'm on the sidelines.

It's easy to forget that though these are not about me.

My children, my words, my husband, my ministry, I'm just a spectator of it all.

It's time to step aside, and watch my God at work.

Jesus, be the center.