Two Weeks Before Christmas

Six months prior to the phone call, we moved five-hundred miles away from the only home either of us had ever known.  It was a miracle that Ironman was home that day.

THAT DAY...

TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...

Little Girl and I always took Daddy lunch to the office, but today he was home to answer the call.

THE CALL THAT CAME...

TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...

((RING))

It pierces my soul to remember the moment...

((RING))

The moment I slipped...

((RING))

Slipped from found to lost...

"HELLO?"

Why did he have to answer?  Maybe if he wouldn't have answered?

CRACK!!!

Our family table fractured under the weight of Ironman's fist.  I burst into tears without knowing why.  I groped and pleaded in the instant darkness for the reason my heart was twisted up where my toes reside. 

"MOM'S BEEN IN A CAR WRECK."

"IS SHE OKAY-  IS SHE OKAY?  IS-- SHE-- OKAY?  WHOSE MOM?  WHOSE MOM?  MY MOM?  YOUR MOM?  WHO!?!?"

My words hung in the air like a dense fog.  Seconds were a lifetime.

"MINE." 

Ironman's voice faded.  He could scarecely inhale enough oxygen to get the words out.  He dropped the phone.

"SHE'S DEAD."

*********************

DEAD...

TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...

His words deafened my ears.  There was no more sound.  I fell to the floor.  Breathless.  Face on the ground, my body heaved in sobs.  Time stopped. 

TIME STOPPED...

TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...

I realized we were now the family we never thought we would be.  Suddenly, this sort of thing DOES actually happen to us.

TO US...

TO US...

TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...

Robots made phone calls.  People came.  Dinner arrived.  Robots packed bags.  Robots boarded a plane.  The plane ascended.  Pain descended.  Strangely, we were soothed by the twinkle of Christmas lights glittering on the rooftops of houses.

TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...

Memories are frozen in time.  Still and serene.  Numb peace.  Forever changed.



TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...



Thirteen years ago today...



 TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...



We will never forget...



 TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...

Manger

Souls drown in sin's ache.  

Trough cradle.  Grace's altar.

Heaven's bridge LOVE makes.

****************************

A few thoughts about Thanksgiving and a poem...

Today I am guest posting for my friend Jermaine Lane.  Jermaine has an INCREDIBLE testimony of God's provision and healing.  Make sure you read his story when you stop by HIS BLOG.  You will be blessed!


For the month of November, Jermaine has been sharing his poetic gift with his readers.  As  part of his "Poemvember" (a month of poems) posts, Jermaine asked if I would submit a piece.  I was completely honored, and gave him my submission on November 1st.   I found out at the beginning of this week that my poem would go "live" one day before Thanksgiving. 


On the day before Thanksgiving, kitchens begin to fill with succulent aromas, homes are tidied and decorated, and joy is stirred as families look forward to Thanksgiving and Christmas.


BUT...


MY POEM HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THANKSGIVING.  It's actually a bit heavy.  I got to thinking that most people probably won't want to read such a serious poem during this wonder filled time of year.

THEN IT HIT ME...

It hit me that first and foremost, GOD'S TIMING IS NOT MINE.  I got to thinking about the many people who hurt and struggle during the holidays...and struggle deeply.  Depression is at an all time high this time of year.  Maybe some who will "find" my poem will be blessed to read of my struggle, surrender, and, ultimately,  freedom?   FREEDOM...


Is there anything for which I am more thankful?   


FREEDOM.


Absolutely not.  Even more specifically, FREEDOM from the image I had of myself.  FREEDOM from the image that, perhaps,  I had created.   My poem is about TRANSFORMATION and FREEDOM.  And the more I think about it...

MY POEM REALLY IS A *THANKSGIVING* POEM AFTER ALL...






Happy Thanksgiving to you, and thank you for taking time from your busy life to read my heart ramblings.  May you sense HIS gifts in your life and be touched by HIS presence.  Blessings to you!  





"MIRROR"

I stand before the glass.

Haunted.


The reflection is a stranger.


I slide quivering fingers over the slick smooth form touching cheek, mouth, eyes.


Hollow eyes stare.


I try to pull away hoping for escape from the thunder this glimpse has released in my soul.


Stranded.


I panic. I lunge.  I flail.
Arms move frantic to change the picture before me.


It remains.


I pause to look deeper.
Is this really me?  It can’t really be me.
Yet, this soul reflector has captured my being sure and true.


Without warning, a single stone hurls towards glass.
The sound deafening.  The mirror shatters.
I bend over shards hopeless to scoop them together, to protect, to reassemble.


My image is ten-thousand jagged fragments on the ground.


I curl in a heap of shame.
Confused, broken, lost in a tear river that flows over my ruin of impossibility.


To continue reading click HERE.

Unbeautiful Beauty

Depression is...

Dark.

Lonely.

Hopeless.

UNBEAUTIFUL...




For my entire existence, my life has been tainted by depression.  The ugly beast steals light and joy.  Security and worth.  Depression is a liar and a thief.


My alcoholic father was ravaged by depression.  The first eighteen years of my life were broken stumbles trying to survive it's effects.


My beloved, Ironman, suffered from a highly intellectual, introverted depression since he was a child.  Until recent years, we never understood that it was depression who was the thief.  We suffered from it's loathsome grip -off and on- for the first 17 years of our marriage.


After 37 years of life, I had no tolerance for the thieving beast any longer.  I wanted away from it's darkness.  It had dominated for long enough, and I was going to escape from it's claws once and for all.


Then it happened...

  
*I* fell down UNBEAUTIFUL's merciless slope into the deepest pit  I could have ever imagined.  The girl who *KNEW* she would *NEVER* be depressed was in the steely claws of depression's grip.  I was stuck... unable to move, breathe, live.  I felt like God had left me.  I felt hopeless.  I felt utterly and completely ALONE.


ALONE...

ALONE...

ALONE...


Then something BEAUTIFUL happened... 


My beloved who UNDERSTOOD the helplessness of depression tenderly and intentionally cared for me.  He spoke softly and gently when I would listen, and he prayed when I wouldn't.  He brought soup to me in my dungeon.  He washed my clothes.  He coaxed me out of bed to shower.  He wept for me and he wept with me.  He KNEW the prison I was in.  He KNEW my incapability to rescue myself from it.  He knew UNBEAUTIFUL.

HE KNEW...

HE KNEW...

HE KNEW...

Last week, I picked up a book by Alise Wright (and several other authors) called Not Alone.  It's a compilation of personal stories of those who have walked this road.  These are stories of those who KNOW.  They have been in the pit and are sharing their stories so you will know that you are NOT ALONE.  Catalysts of chemical imbalance, insecurity, alcoholism, divorce, adultery, anorexia, job loss, failure, faith crisis... have left these writers crippled and in the darkness of  UNBEAUTIFUL's grip.  In the same way my beloved understood where I was locked away, these writers also understood.  Deeper healing has found me as I have read the precious stories of these warrior writers.  Something of true BEAUTY has been unveiled in UNBEAUTIFUL.   

The book Not Alone: Stories of Living With Depression  edited by Alise Wright is available through Amazon.com

Promised Land?

The last six weeks have been stressful, heart wrenching, emotional...


TEARFUL... TEARFUL... TEARFUL...  


We are bone tired weary.  The truth is, in my naivety, I never imagined this transition to zap us of all our energies for so long.  I think it's probably the culmination of the last few...errr... let's say twenty years that has finally caught up with us.  On June 1, 2011 we entered our twentieth year of small church ministry.


TWENTY YEARS.


We've been tossed about, hurt, used and used up, taken advantage of, taken for granted, and we have given until there has been nothing left to give.


 NOTHING.  


WORSE THAN EMPTY.  


LITERALLY.


We have PURPOSELY given ourselves away...  

WILLINGLY, because we were asked...   

AGREEABLY, for the sake of the message.



THE MESSAGE...  THE MESSAGE...  THE MESSAGE...


The message that, both, Ironman and I are so completely passionate about... perhaps NOW MORE THAN EVER.  The message that no matter what you have done or ever will do, no matter what has been done to you, no matter your social status high or low, what you look like, or what you feel... that GOD IS COMPLETELY NUTS ABOUT YOU.  He loves you in your present shambles.  He loves you in your I-have-it-all-together-ness.  He loves you with all of your secrets, shame, pride, foolishness, arrogance, flaws, disappointments, failures, skills and the lack thereof.   HE. JUST.  LOVES.  YOU.


HE LOVES YOU...  HE LOVES YOU... HE LOVES YOU...



During the past twenty years, we have had many successes, failures, heartaches, and joys.  We have known the deepest of friendships as well as the deepest of sorrows.  We have tasted life, and have been ravaged by death.   It was heart wrenching, yet relief when God began His relentless pursuit to call us to move...  to move away from the only life our four children have ever known...  to move away from being independent and move in with family...  to move away from meaningful relationships, familiar people, a familiar town, climbing trees, corn fields, and ministry...


MINISTRY.


SIGH.


The internal struggle that I have had from believing we were called away from ministry has taken me by surprise.  I know that my value is not wrapped up in being a pastor's wife.  My value as a person, and my value before God has nothing to do with it, but I still felt a bit "stripped."  I even struggled with the name of my blog.  Would it be okay to remain "The Upside Down Pastor's Wife?"  A wise friend of mine heard my heart. He told me that I am a "veteran" and I will always be a "Pastor's Wife."  It is part of my story, and it will always be a part of who I am, so the name remains.  :)   I do believe that God is calling us to a time of REST, but when you are in the middle of the unknown about what is on the other side, it is humanly difficult to do.  Our faith and trust have been challenged to the core in this transition.  We know and believe fully that God has called us.  We scooped up our family, loaded our entire lives into a moving truck and a trailer, stepped into our "Jordan" and moved 1200 miles across country.  After five weeks, there are a FEW glimpses of the Promised Land.  To be surrounded by family and having the love and support of my parents and grandma has been priceless.  Our children have lived more life here in the past five weeks than they have lived in perhaps the last decade.  They have gone fishing, hiking, biking, explored creeks, swamps, and forests.  They've been collecting all of the hugs, kisses, and snuggles that Grammy and Papa Don have been storing away for them for months. Our kids have been breathing in the fresh mountain air and basking in the wonderful Colorado sunshine.


THE SUNSHINE HAS BEEN HEALING FOR ALL OF US...


Even with the strength we have received from the glimpses of the Promised Land, this past week I struggled with the fact that Ironman still has no job.  I half-heartedly asked God where our Promised Land was.  He whispered to my heart that sometimes the Promised Land looks differently than we imagine.  He spoke softly to me that this is indeed the promised land for my children.  As their mother, that should be "enough" for me... and it is.


WE HAVE SEEN "ENOUGH" OF THE PROMISED LAND TO KNOW WE STEPPED IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION.



JUST ENOUGH...


We continue to wait and trust that what God has for Ironman and myself will soon be within sight.  Until then, we (try to) rest... we hope... we believe... that the message we so deeply believe in will again have an outlet to have a voice.  Until then, all God really wants from us is to SEEK HIM...TRUST HIM... 


TRUST HIM "ENOUGH" ON THE BANKS OF THE RAGING RIVER TO STEP, AND KEEP TRUSTING HIM "ENOUGH" TO CONTINUE WALKING THROUGH THE RIVERBED TO THE SHORE ON THE OTHER SIDE.

ONE WAY OR ANOTHER, THE PROMISED LAND IS ON THE OTHER SIDE.

"The Jordan is waiting for me to cross through.  My heart is aging, I can tell.  So Lord, I'm begging for one last favor from you.  Here's my heart.  Take it where you will.  This life has shown me how we're mended and we're torn.  How it's okay to be lonely as long as you're free.  Sometimes my ground was stony, and sometimes covered with thorns.    And only You could make it what it had to be."  (Rich Mullins)

Masterpiece

Music beauty is created by pause.

Pause is the necessity for life's beauty song.  

 Song without rest... life without pause... is cacophony of misdirected notes.

Notes surrendered to intentional silence is masterpiece.

We Will Miss the Harvest

As I look outside our window and see the spread of farmland that blankets the area, I am fully aware that autumn is close.  The corn is stretched strong and tall, the ears are formed, and the tops of the stalks are tasseled.  Harvest is just around the corner.  We have enjoyed the seasons in this little Michigan home for more than a decade, but the winds of change are blowing.  This summer will be our last season here.


WE WILL MISS THE HARVEST...


Having grown up a Hoosier farm girl on my grandpa's farm, this makes me sad.  I relish the fact that my own children have tasted a little bit of what it's like to grow up in the middle of a corn field.  The stars are brighter, the crickets chirp louder, and the tree frogs sing an unforgettable melody. To pass the time, you climb trees, swing on the porch swing, and watch the deer play in your backyard.  But the winds of change are blowing...


WE WILL MISS THE HARVEST...


To a farmer, the harvest is the most important time of  year. He is rewarded for his labor of planting and tending to his fields and crops.  The harvest is a TANGIBLE reward for his diligent efforts.   But because the Michigan wind is blowing...


WE WILL MISS THE HARVEST...     


 God asks some to ready the ground and plant the seed, some to water the seed, and some to gather the harvest.  A rare few are called to all the tasks, but we are not among the few.  This is God's work here, and our specific job is complete in this little corner of His Kingdom.  It is difficult to leave before the harvest.  We cannot gather the fruits of our labor and experience a tangible reward.  It takes a lot of faith to leave the "field" and trust that someone else will come to tenderly and carefully gather the harvest for which we lovingly labored.  We are sorting through our tangle of emotions.  We are sad the wind is blowing...


WE WILL MISS THE HARVEST...


The ancient wind of change is blowing our family all the way from Michigan to Colorado.  We have no plan.  We only know that God is calling.  We follow.  We radically trust.  We know there are things that our eyes cannot yet see.  Our hearts are stirred, and we must obey the call.  Perhaps a readied field awaits our arrival.  Perhaps we will reap in our journey ahead.  Whatever God has planned, we will do our "BROKEN BEST" to follow His lead. 

WE WILL MISS THE HARVEST...

BUT SOMEWHERE A NEW "FIELD" AWAITS US AND WE TRUST HIS LEADING FOR THE JOB WE ARE CALLED TO DO...

LET THE WIND BLOW...

"We are only God’s servants through whom you believed the Good News.  Each of us did the work the Lord gave us.  I planted the seed in your hearts, and Apollos watered it, but it was God who made it grow."  1 Corinthians 3:5-6 

Treasure Tree

I am so excited to share a link to my *VERY FIRST~EVER* guest blog!   Today, I'm writing at Alise...Write!  I met Alise on Twitter a little less than a year ago. I have a deep respect for her and her writing, and I don't know if I've met anyone more genuine in the blogging community.  She is not afraid to wrestle with extremely difficult issues, and she always stretches my thinking.  Alise is a blessing, and I am so thankful our paths have crossed.    :)

Here's a bit of my piece about brokenness, cherry trees, dead branches, and God's love... Thanks for reading!  :)

Between our sidewalk and driveway, stands one of my favorite things, a weeping cherry tree.  Each new spring she blesses us with an enchanting array of pink and white blossoms.  When the wind whisks through her branches, the loosely attached buds create a seemingly endless snow of petals.  Late spring, she offers another gift.  FRUIT.  Her branches fill with bright red cherries that are picked, pitted, and fashioned into Grandma's sour cherry pie.  The summertime gift she offers is a hideaway for my children.  They love to climb into her strong, twisted trunk and escape behind her waterfall of branches.  Her secret cove is the perfect place to get lost in a book on a warm summer day.  These are all splendid gifts to be sure, but the most valuable thing I've ever received from Treasure Tree is not in her beauty, her fruit, or her hideout, but in the lesson of her DEAD BRANCHES.  To continue reading, click ~~>  HERE.

Tears in the bucket

Growing up with an abusive alcoholic is like...



being a puzzle with missing pieces.

 You can ask everyone around you to halt and help you look for the missing pieces, but you'll never find them.   You fill in the empty spaces the best that you can, but you are always on a quest to find a better piece here or there, anywhere.    

ALWAYS ON A QUEST…

To cope with being the wife of an abusive alcoholic, my mom became a creature of habit.  She learned to control as many things around her that she could.  Almost everything in her life was out of control.  Routine gave the shambles of my mom's life something stable.  She could create it.  She could manipulate it.  She could master the discipline of it.   

AND MASTER THE DISCIPLINE OF ROUTINE...

SHE DID...

Every Friday night, while my father was hopping from bar to bar, my mom was at home washing toilets.   While my father was hopping from bed to bed and woman to woman, my mom was alone mopping the floor.

My mom was a hands and knees floor scrubber.  I can still see her hunched over on all fours methodically scrubbing with the old wooden scrub brush.  She would meticulously begin in the same corner of the kitchen every Friday night.  Back and forth she scrubbed.  She tried to scrub away her sorrows of wondering where her husband would be that night.  Who would be with him?  Would he make it home alive?  Would she get a call at 3:00 a.m. and have to pick him up from a bar, or a jail, or a hospital?  Would he come home at all?  Back and forth she scrubbed, constantly wiping the sweat from her brow.  Tears fell in that dirty old mop bucket.  Tears became the solution that cleaned our kitchen floor.  Tears drove my mom to wish her daughter a better life than she had. 

TEARS BECAME AN AVENUE FOR PRAYER... 

With each tear that fell in the bucket, my mom's heart cried out in prayer that her only child would have a better life than she had.  My mom's tears pleaded with God that He would somehow assemble the puzzle of my life that had severely damaged and missing pieces.  My mom prayed for rescue.  Escape.  Protection.  Guidance.  Help.   

EACH TEAR A PRAYER THAT THINGS WOULD BE DIFFERENT FOR ME.

Every Friday night, I think that old plastic bucket filled faster than it emptied.

  

AS TEARS BECAME PRAYERS...

PRAYERS BECAME HOPE...

My mom had a hope that my life would be better.  My mom had a hope that my broken puzzle could somehow be restored.    


MY MOM HAD HOPE, AND GOD HEARD HER TEAR-PRAYERS. 


 This is the life that my mom prayed for me.  Safety.  Love.  Faithfulness.  Security.  Strength.  Peace.  Tenderness.  Faith.  Light.

HER PRAYERS WERE HEARD...

AND ANSWERED...

THE TEARS OF HER OWN LIFE CAUSED PRAYERS OF HEALING TO FALL ON MINE...

THE TEARS IN THE BUCKET STILL CARRY ME...

THANKS MOM...

Good Morning Forty

Good morning, Forty.  I knew you would be here to greet me this morning. 

I've been thinking about our meeting for quite some time.  I always used to wish that somehow you would show up late for our appointment.  I wasn't really sure I ever wanted to meet you at all, but now that this day is here, I can quite see that you are actually right on time.  

Forty, I see that you have brought with you Second Chances and New Opportunities. Grace and Mercy have been my ever constant companions.  You should all get along nicely.  As we walk hand in hand ~together~ into today, tomorrow, the next day, and the next, I will remember the blessings and delights of my first forty years.  I will also remember the heartaches, brokenness, and disappointments.  All of the sorrow has shaped and formed me, and has grown me up to be content to be here ~on this day~ with you. 

Thank you for coming.  It is a mercy and delight to be here.  So many never get to see you, and for me you are perfectly on time. Forty, I embrace you. Let's journey forward and never look back.  Somehow, I have this distinct feeling that the best years are actually yet to be. 

Good morning, my friend.  

Good morning, Forty.  

Good morning.  

  

"Every day of my life was recorded in your book.  Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed."  Psalm 139:16

A Beautiful Grace

Certain words have a way of painting pictures in our hearts.

At the mere mention of one of these unique words specific emotions, images, and opinions are sparked. Our experience, in part, frames the conclusions and definitions we draw from these words. The word "father" is one of these such words.

When you hear...

FATHER. Do you feel warm and tender? Do you feel safe and protected? Does "father" to you represent wisdom and love?

Or when you hear...

FATHER. Do you feel distant and fearful? Do you feel nervous and defensive? Does "father" to you represent abandonment or pain?

When you hear...

FATHER. Maybe you feel something completely different than these two scenarios. Maybe you even feel a combination of both. Perhaps the word doesn't evoke any particular feeling at all, but I want to share with you why the word FATHER for me is a grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE...

For the first twelve years of my life my earthly father sunk his sorrows in a bottle from bar to bar almost every single night of the week. He's been in more brawls than I would care to know about, most were probably over women. He wasn't able to hold down a job for apparent reasons, and he wrecked more vehicles than I could ever remember. I am quite certain that he cheated death. SEVERAL TIMES. I don't remember him ever being tender with me when I was little, and he certainly didn't make me feel safe or protected. My childhood memories include trekking off to bars and jails to retrieve my father. My childhood memories include watching my father physically hurt my mother, and include my father hurting me. I remember that when he was home, even in the middle of the most beautiful sunshiny day, our house was dark, and the thick heavy drapes were drawn on all the windows. I was instructed- sternly- not to make the tiniest rustle of noise. His skin wreaked of liquor combined with the stench of vomit. Yet the word "father" for me is a grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE...

I think I've always known that a good father would be nothing at all like my biological father. When he broke away from the bottle once and for all, the only thing that changed was the presence of alcohol. Sadly, all of the other violent behaviors remained. Always hoping for the best in every situation, I still believed that one day I might awaken, and my father would suddenly be changed. He would realize the gift he had in my faithful, beautiful mother. He would realize the gift he had in me. He would be kind and tender, playful and caring. He might even show me how to hit a baseball, or take me on a bike ride. His eyes would sparkle and dance when I walked into the room, and he would be proud of me, his little girl. I never awoke to such a dream being fulfilled. Even still, the word "father" for me is a grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE...

As a girl I cowered around men close to my father's age. Even as a teenager I feared my friends' fathers. When I was in elementary school, I was ridiculed by other children, because my father was the town drunk in a very, very small town. My father used to tell me that no man would ever love me. As a result of him mistreating me, I have always been plagued with deep insecurities. To cope, I looked for love in all the wrong places so I would feel approval, acceptance, and security. I was simply longing for a place to belong. Heaps of brokenness and shame buried me. My father was charming to everyone around us, but in the prison of privacy he threatened to take my life if I ever shared what went on inside our home. I believed him. I was silent. My own father should have shattered any positive image that I have of any and every father. But, the word "father" for me is a grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE... 

As I look back on every single one of my formative years, I realize that I have a REAL FATHER who held and kept me. Maintained and protected me. Even though He allowed appalling things to happen to me, He did not allow those things to destroy me. Even when I strayed, He did not allow me to stray beyond His grasp. As a grown woman, layers of my own brokenness continue to be peeled away. Each undone layer brings to light pain along with new graces. My REAL FATHER directed me here, to this particular time and place, through the traffic and devastation of the circumstances of my life. Every hurt, regret, sorrow, mistake, and shame from my earliest memory until this very day, He has used to form and shape me, mold and seal me. He has whispered deep into my soul that *I* am *HIS* LITTLE GIRL. It is His eyes that sparkle and dance when I enter the room, because... He. Loves. Me. My FATHER loves me. He is my grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE...

INDEED... 



All is grace...always grace,

 

She Drew the Roots

Yesterday, my seven year old daughter, Sunshine Girl, gave me a picture of a flower she drew.  I praised her for her picture, and then thought about the eclectic mix of  artistic flowers I've seen over the years of working with kids.  There have been hundreds, perhaps even thousands of floral renditions, but Sunshine Girl's picture was slightly different than the myriad of others.

SHE DREW THE ROOTS.


When I was a classroom teacher, we studied the anatomy of a flower in fourth grade science. I instructed my students to include the root system in their diagrams, but Sunshine Girl wasn't drawing a diagram for science.  She was creating art.  She drew the flower exactly how she thinks about, feels, and sees it. Sunshine Girl included what is forgotten and hidden to most of us.  She included the MOST IMPORTANT part.  The Roots.


UGLY.

DIRTY.

MUSTY.

DARK.

ROOTS.



THE MOST IMPORTANT PART OF A FLOWER IS *NOT* IT'S BEAUTY.

The ROOTS are the lifeline.  The ROOTS are the anchor. Without a healthy anchor fingering down into the soil, the plant that yields such beauty cannot be nourished and cannot survive.



HIDDEN. FORGOTTEN. ROOTS.  

TENDED.  MAINTAINED. PROTECTED. 

PRODUCE. SPLENDID. BLOOMS.

Sunshine Girl's picture got me to thinking about my own roots.  Are my roots gripping and spreading deep into the soil around me to give me the best spiritual anchor as possible?  Am I even planted in the right soil for the best nourishment as possible?  I believe that what you are planted in, spiritually speaking, is what you will produce.

"May your roots go down deep into the soil of God's marvelous LOVE. And may you have the power to understand how wide, how long, how high, and deep HIS LOVE really is."  Ephesians 3:17-18

Notice what the blossom on Sunshine Girl's flower is.  A heart.  A heart represents LOVE.  Not only did her picture reveal roots, it displayed LOVE.  May your roots travel, spread, finger, dig, anchor, and weave deep into the rich soil of God's...

I LOVE YOU~ REALLY AND TRULY~ NO MATTER WHAT

...LOVE, and may you well up with a beauty that will burst forth and blossom from the uncontainable life and nourishment you receive from that truth.  BE HIS LOVE TO OTHERS. 

I am thankful for the picture gift of my seven year old to remind me of these truths, and for that reason, I am so glad SHE DREW THE ROOTS. 

Worse Than Dead

I am looking at the farmer's field 

          outside my bedroom window.  It's springtime, and there is a substantial amount of green popping up daily in the field.The field is also covered in a blanket of brown stalks that wave when the wind whisks them.These straw shafts are the evidence left from a once fruitful wheat harvest. The green is beginning to seize the brown. The green is healthy. The green is lush.The green is life. The green is weeds. 

THE GREEN IS WEEDS.

Weeds.

Weeds.

  

Weeds. 

They, themselves, are strong healthy plants.  Left unattended, they will overcome the entire field.
   

STRONG-GREEN. 

FALSE-LIFE. 
 

As the field stands, there will be no more TRULY healthy life.  Sure, a few kernels of wheat could have fallen to the ground during the harvest last July or August, and a few new plants might sprout up bearing fruit from those seeds, but with the vast amount of green taking over, the new life will eventually be choked out. The fruit, if any, will not reach the full potential of the original seed.  The abandoned field is rendered useless for bearing new growth.   

IT'S WORSE THAN DEAD.  

It's a breeding ground for false life. The weeds will mature and go to seed. As the wind whips through swollen pods and puffs, it will carry the weed seeds into other fields and begin to fester growth there as well.   

As the field stands...  

As the field stands...  

As the field stands...

This ground needs to be BROKEN. This green needs to be turned up by it's roots and set free from the soil to which it clings.  This brown needs to be turned under to create room for new growth. 

Broken.  

Broken.  

THIS GROUND MUST BE BROKEN. 

BROKEN.  

READIED.  

PREPARED.  

SOFTENED.   

Soil must be tendered for the seed to bed, and for new life and growth to begin. 

HEALTHY-DEEP. 

BOUNTIFUL-GROWTH.  

  But first, the ground must be broken.... broken..... broken..... 

In my own life, times of brokenness have facilitated my deepest growth. There are times when I have been overtaken by weeds-  STRONG-GREEN.  FALSE-LIFE.  -just like the field outside my window.  Something had to be broken to bring freedom from the alien roots in my life.  SOMETHING had to be broken.  

ME. 

The truth of the matter, though, is that It hurts to be broken.  It hurts to have roots rip and tear away from the soil in which they have grown deep and comfortable, but... 

PAIN ALWAYS HAS A PURPOSE IN GOD'S SOVEREIGN HANDS.  

ALWAYS.     

Do not fear being broken, my friends.  Instead, fear NOT being broken.  Surrendered sorrow has the capacity to cement you to JESUS if you walk transparently through your pain. Whatever your journey, humbly trust Him.  

Trust Him.

Trust Him.

Trust Him.

... and bring on that plow.  

"The sacrifice You desire is a broken spirit.  You will not reject a broken and repentant heart."  Psalm 51:17

"Because your heart was tender and you humbled yourself before Me when you heard what I spoke... and wept before Me, I truly have heard you."  2 Kings 22:19

Take it to Africa

I hate my kitchen floor.

The kitchen floor seems to be a never ending saga in our home. The rolled, bargain basement, white linoleum in our kitchen has textured crevices that were a thing of beauty for all of about five minutes.  I quickly realized each tiny groove was going to be a trap for dirt.  I managed for the first few years to acceptably maintain linoleum central, but as the years increased, so did the number of kids.  Ironman and I have four kids, and when six people occupy a relatively small living space, you seem to manufacture dirt, and we do. Tons of dirt.  I constantly searched for cleaners that would break through the gunk.  I tried everything.  Nothing would penetrate to the original white.  Since I am mildly OCD, I have been complaining about this floor for nearly eleven years.  The complaints have been gradually increasing, and as of late I complain several times a day. No matter what I do to clean it, it still looks dirty.  I try to console myself. I know it's clean. I am Mrs. Clean.  Mrs. Clean has cleaned the floor and the floor- sigh- looks gross.

THIS
FLOOR
IS
DRIVING
ME
CRAZY!

Ironman must have finally had enough of my nagging, grumbling, and complaining (not some of my better qualities, I will admit).  He decided to step in with his superpowers, and borrow the church's floor buffer.  Wanting to do the job right, he trekked off to Home Depot to purchase a special pad for the scrubbing machine.  Lady Depot gave Ironman the perfect product for the jackhammer-like wonder cleaner.  "It's made especially for linoleum," she promised.  We hauled the table, six chairs, area rug, garbage can, crocks, and mats out of the kitchen to ready it for the big clean.  I was so excited I could hardly stand it.  I allowed myself to dream of clean crevices and sparkly white floors.  Muscles flexed.  Handlebars gripped.  Super Powers enabled.  Motor revved.

BUZZ
RUMBLE
ZOOM
ROAR
CLATTER
RIP
BANG
YIKES!
UGH...





Lady Depot, sadly, is not a truth teller. If I had it my way, she would be transferred to another department.  EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY!  The top layer of linoleum was ripped clean off.  Clean off.  Oh dear.  Whine.  I have perfected the art of doing the best I can with what have, so I fell to my hands and knees like Cinderella with a bucket and scrub brush dreaming of a groove free, non-white, tile floor that I am clearly not going to receive. My heart went to ugly places.  I am ashamed to admit the depth of the blackness I am capable of thinking and feeling.  I compared myself to others around me, and their financial ability to salve almost any materialistic desire they may have.  I began to feel bitter about the people in my life that haven't tasted what it feels like to muddle along from pay check to pay check- for years.  Scrub.  Scrub. I am so alone.  Scrub.  Scrub.  Back and forth.   Jealousy's seed stirred in my heart, and I felt powerless to overcome it. Scrub.  Scrub.  Sob.  Then I heard it.

A faint whisper…

Shanda…

Shanda…

My daughter…

You are comparing yourself to the wrong people…

I have had to remind myself on more than one occasion to "Take it to Africa."  That's what I say around these parts when the lies of our affluent culture begin to steal my perspective.  While I was rigorously scrubbing away at my kitchen floor, I awakened to the fact that I have a kitchen floor to scrub.  When I feel frustrated that our cars can no longer be classified in the current decade, I have to remind myself that we have two cars, and they both do run.  When I get overwhelmed that we scrape by from paycheck to paycheck, I remember that we receive more money on a weekly basis than the majority of people in the world receive in a year, and for some it is more than they receive in their entire lifetime.  We have a roof over our heads, albeit a bit leaky. We are warm in the cold months and cool in the warm months.  All six of us are clothed and fed, quite abundantly at that.  We are not living in a hut in Africa with a grass roof and dirt floor, and we don't struggle to find drinking water that is safe for ingestion.  Take it to Africa.  Take it to Africa. "Yes, God.  You have blessed us beyond belief.  Forgive me for my ungrateful heart. I am ashamed that I have not treated your provisions like the gifts that they are- given directly from Your hand."  Take it to Africa.  Take it to Africa.  My own words laid sluggish and burdensome in my heart.  In my humanness, I lost sight of what really mattered.  We have been provided for.  It is our affluent culture that screams at me that I need a new kitchen floor, but I don't really need a new kitchen floor.  In all honesty, I may still want a new kitchen floor.  I will probably even struggle greatly with this desire, but I will try to remember how over-the-top blessed I am, skip the longing for a gleaming floor, and pass on a portion of our provision directly to Africa. 

With my re-found perspective, I finished giving our floor the business.  It still doesn't look clean, but I know it is, and I am grateful.  I decided to appreciate the blessing of the rest of my kitchen as well, and I enthusiastically cleaned the fridge, microwave, stove, dishwasher, sink and counters.  I even polished the kitchen cabinets.  My kitchen sparkled for the most part.  I went to bed feeling satisfied that deep cleaning had taken place in more than just my kitchen, but most importantly, in my heart.

bloodwatermission.com

We Get to be Here

Today, my husband and I are celebrating our 20 year wedding anniversary.  We have been looking forward to this day, well, since our wedding day.  The two naive teenagers that stood at God's altar all those years ago were certain their hopes and dreams would carry them abundantly into the future.  We were confident that by this marital landmark we would be leading a strong flourishing ministry, we would be financially secure homeowners, and we would be wise joyous parents of 2,3, or 4 children. We knew life would pretty much be perfect.  We've also visualized exactly how we would celebrate these two decades of blissful togetherness.  Hawaii.  Period.

HOPES WITHER.

DREAMS GET SWALLOWED UP.

LIFE PRESSES IN.

HARD.

I will eventually share the in between journey from our wedding until now, but today -this day- a major milestone of marriage finds us at a much different place than we ever imagined.  My husband is the pastor of a tiny church that survives offering plate to offering plate. We have lived in the church parsonage for the past decade, and we are anything but financially secure.  We are incredibly blessed and overjoyed with our four amazing children, but the hope of being wise parents flew out the window around the time our oldest daughter turned two.  It didn't take long before we understood that life was not going to be perfect. Sigh.  And the desire to spend a second (Did we really even have a first?) honeymoon in Hawaii followed "wise parenting" right out that same window about 12 years ago.  

EVEN WHEN LIFE IS HARD, THERE'S ALWAYS LIGHT TO BE FOUND

As our anniversary approached, my husband started arranging a humble getaway surrounding the dates of our special day.  He planned for us to stay in a chalet -just the two of us- in beautiful, mountainous Tennessee. Light!  We haven't taken a trip alone in over nineteen years, so we have been counting down days like a seven year old anxious for Christmas. It's been an especially difficult few years for our family and we haven't had a vacation or break from ministry in almost two years. We need this rest. We need this renewal.  We need this celebration.  There were just six days left in our countdown, and the flame of our light began to quake. Sickness slammed us.  ALL six of us. 

TUESDAY came and went.

WEDNESDAY gone.

THURSDAY still sick.

FRIDAY panic.

SATURDAY realization.

SUNDAY sad.

We've been dominated by a merciless virus. We're stuck at home. We're not going to Tennessee for our anniversary. Hope is muddied, once again.  Faith is fragile.  Does God know how bone crushing tired we are? Does God know we long for a break?  Does God know we ache from disappointment? Does God know?  God?  God?

WISDOM FROM A FRIEND

I have a friend that recently turned fifty- another one of life's milestones.  I asked her how she was feeling about transitioning out of her forties (even though she, honestly, doesn't look a day over 37).  She said to me, "Shanda, I get to be fifty.  What do I have to complain about?  I am just so thankful that I get to be here."   Ugh!  Today, I want to bawl like a toddler that just dropped her popsicle on the beach.  I know I can't.  I get to be here, too.  I get to share this day with my beloved.  Maybe we can't spend the day playing hide and seek in our private chalet in the middle of the mountains, but we still have much to celebrate.  With God's help, we've made it this far- together.  When you have a love that has been tried and tested in the flames of disappointment, rejection, hurt, failure, death, struggle and brokenness you know you have been given a great gift.  There is a priceless beauty that has been forged. Among the ashes of our twenty years you will find humility, compassion, trust, safety, assurance, delight, gratitude, and depth of love.  We know that we will be by each others' sides no matter what- and we've had some hellish no matter what's.  Here we are two decades in.  Maybe our bank account doesn't look like much, but we have everything we need and a lot of what we want.  Maybe our church isn't successful in the eyes of this world, but we have a small group of people that seeks hard after God with every ounce of their being.  Maybe we aren't the wisest parents in the world, but we are blessed by our children and in our broken best we trust God to make up for what we lack.  Maybe our lives aren't pretty much perfect, but love does cover almost all.  Maybe we can't spend our anniversary in Hawaii, but it really doesn't matter if we are sitting by the ocean sipping pina colladas from coconuts, tossing pebbles into the winding mountain stream, or sitting in a tattoo parlor getting matching love tattoos, we are together.  That is all that matters.  And we get to be here. 

~Happy Anniversary, Matt!  You are truly my gift from God.  Here's to the next twenty years.  It is my greatest joy and honor to be your wife!~ 2/23/11