Hat Trick

When I was a homeschooling mom heavily involved in volunteer work and raising babies, it was a challenge to keep everything going. Philip would come home after being gone for 9 or 10 hrs and things looked a whole lot like they did when he left.

My responsibilities were streamlined toward my husband and myself. If we had a super engaging day of learning but I didn't get around to the laundry, inevitably the laundry is what Philip verbally noticed when he came home. Or if I cooked ahead for the week all day long and let the kids play outside and/or help with the laundry, he would innocently ask to see the kids' schoolwork. 

I wore so many hats there was just no way to know.

Eventually, I learned to greet him at the door with a bit of an attendance report. "Hi! The maid worked all morning, the tutor was here all day, the children's choir director popped in during nap time, but the cook never showed up, so we're having frozen pizza." 

That lifestyle was HARD, and I LOVED it. I managed and educated and organized and enjoyed and provided and abided. Some of my favorite verbs.

Now that I work outside our home, and still volunteer while outsourcing most of the formal education, it is hard to keep everything going. I come home after being gone 10 or 11 hours and everything looks about like it did when I left.

I have responsibilities popping in from every direction. Am I on time? Are my kids on time? Do I have good ideas? Do I have my lunch? Do the kids have their homework? Is.it.signed.for.the.love. What about meals? And hygiene? And emotions? Everybody's flipping emotions. Oh, and the dog bless him.

This lifestyle is hard, and there are parts of it that I REALLY love. But I am not great at all the things all the time, and that feels yucky.

So this is me greeting you at the door of my life saying, "Hi. The laundry girl is killing it. The Alumni lady is basically on her game. Meal prep momma is adorable. The girl who walks & drinks water & reads her Bible is showing UP,  y'all. But the housecleaner and homework facilitator are friggin AWOL."

Also, you know what sounds good right now? To pile up all these hats and ask God for grace and a good night's sleep.

 

Aroma Therapy

One time, when the kids all lived at home, we noticed a distinct unpleasantness in our garage.

It began as an odd odor, and progressed into a full blown muggy funk. For a few days we left the garage door open, but as the stench lingered, my family simply altered its traffic pattern toward the patio. Avoidance of this unknown source was not a suitable long-term solution.

"We must figure out what stinks so badly!" I implored.
Responses ranged from, "It's gross," to "I don't know what it is; I can't help."
One little darling admitted, "It smells like somethin' dead. I'm scared."

"Well, it's not getting any better!" I pleaded with the mass of denial. We had looked in all the usual places: it was not a shoe or a cooler or a baseball bag. So what and where was it?

Finally, we decided to draw straws to choose an investigator. Since my oldest son's sense of smell had been numbed by years of dirty socks and body functions, he received the honorary short straw. 

We wished him well as he paused at the laundry room door, then we watched as our courageous, selfless firstborn headed out to solve this repulsive mystery. (It should be noted that his courage and perceived selflessness may have emerged from my "no meals 'til we figure this out" ultimatum. Who can know for sure?)

After quite a while, he came in and walked directly to the kitchen sink where he washed his hands FAR longer than he typically does. As my blue-eyed teen somberly dried his hands with a towel, the family gathered, hoping to hear of his discoveries.

In his preciously thick, East Texan drawl, he began to speak.

"Umm. You guys remember last week when Mom asked me to bring in a milk from the deep freeze? Well . . . ummm, the milk was behind . . . So, like a month ago, you guys remember . . . I don't know if I told y'all that I caught a monster bass over in Mr. Bobby's pond. Anyway, I thought about getting it mounted, so I wrapped it in a plastic bag and stuck it in the freezer. So, like . . . I guess I set it in front of the milk. And when Mom wanted the milk the other day, I had to set the fish on top of the fridge to dig out the milk because . . . you guys know how ice sorta builds up around things in the freezer?"

Each member of the family stood still and stared in wide-eyed amazement as he spoke. Some seemed satisfied by the poetic justice of his coincidental short straw and guilty status. Others were distracted by his unorthodox manner of story-telling which exhibited a complete lack of chronological coherence. We raised our eyebrows and collectively leaned in closer,  prompting him to finish his narrative quickly and happily.

"So . . . I guess I got the milk, and brought it in. But I guess I totally forgot about the fish. But . . . uh . . . I don't think I can get it mounted now, so I just took it out and buried it by the back fence. It had gotten juice all on top of the freezer too, so I cleaned that up with some paper towels and threw them away. It still kinda stinks out there, though. I should probably get some Lysol or somethin', but it's all good. Are the Rangers winning?"

***

Often, I perceive a distinct unpleasantness in my life. Its lingering funkiness indicates an unknown source beyond the usual challenges of everyday life.

I try to air it out. I try to ignore it. But ultimately, I resolve to seek out and eliminate the source of ugliness. The process of sin-search is not fun. I have to be brave. Deep down I know there is no hope of nourishment or growth until I deal with the mess.

As I retrace my steps, I find an unforgiven wound - though once carefully preserved, it is now exposed and rotting - affecting my environment in the most undesirable way. Once God leads me to the source of my pain, He patiently walks with me as I deal with it properly. Not by concealing it in plastic, frozen in time and space, but by burying it deep within the humble, loosened soil of my life. It will die away and become the richness of fertile ground.

And the Father begins a new thing in me.
Seeds of grace
firmly planted,
nestled in the compost of sorrow turned to joy,
watered by the Word,
warmed by the presence of the Son,
and strengthened by the wind of the Spirit,
eventually burst forth into fragrant flowers and fresh fruit.

"Let us examine our ways and test them, and let us return to the Lord." - Lamentations 3:40

"Humble yourselves before the Lord, and He will lift you up." - James 4:10

"If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness." - 1 John 1:9

"Be gentle and ready to forgive; never hold grudges. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others." - Colossians 3:13

"There was a time when I wouldn't admit what a sinner I was. But my dishonesty made me miserable and filled my days with frustration ... My strength evaporated like water on a sunny day until I finally admitted all my sins to you and stopped trying to hide them. I said to myself, 'I will confess them to the Lord.' And you forgave me! All my guilt is gone." - Psalm 32:3-5

"Happy are those whose greatest desire is to do what God requires." - Matthew 5:6

Sharper in Real Life

I remember the first time she came to my home. I was hosting a birthday party for my preschooler and her daughter was at the top of the guest list. Though I didn’t know her well, we worshipped together regularly, and I knew we had many things in common … we had studied music in college, we were married to sports enthusiasts, and we each were currently parenting teenagers, newborns, and several in between.

We greeted loudly that Saturday morning- giggly girls hugging hello, baby sisters screeching from car carriers, the other ladies chattering happily. My house was filled with cheery decorations and a sweet aroma. Rooms were tidy and the food was fully prepared. I welcomed her in with a smile.

Once the party had begun, she pulled me aside and asked if there was somewhere she could nurse her baby privately. Hmmmm. As dread replaced cheer, I forced the continuation of my smile.

Yes. I have a rocking chair in my room. That room that never got cleaned this week, that served as the staging area for most of this party's projects and preparation. That room that currently houses no fewer than four laundry baskets filled with all the random junk we collected from around the house as we cleaned. Oh, Dear Heavens, Yes, I have a place.

I looked her in the eye and confessed. "You are welcome to use my room. But if I let you see my room today, I must tell you, like it or not, you and I are about to become VERY close friends!"

At that point in my life I lived within a binding veil of perceived perfectionism. The truth of my messes was hidden away - safely out of sight. Very few folks had been granted access into the reality of my short-falls. But on that day, God used this glorified acquaintance to barge past the boundaries of my pride to offer acceptance and grace. Turning the knob to my bedroom opened a pathway to peace ... but it was hard. Exposing the cluttered mess surrounding my unmade bed - which symbolized other, less physical, areas of my life -  also exposed my fear of being known and rejected.

But there she went. Confident and gracious. She did not gasp in disbelief. She did not recoil with disgust. She happily high-stepped over a basket of [stuff], swayed with her infant while I tossed a pile of clothes away from the rocker, then she sunk into the chair and smiled a grateful grin as I slipped out of the room. 

We were SO gonna have to be BFFS after this.

Our friendship did grow quickly and easily in the fertile soil of humor and humility, strengthened by honesty, having been sprouted by the soaking, cleansing rains of unexpected transparency.

Over the years, we have each had opportunity to extend grace toward one another. She and I have enjoyed the freedom to speak our minds. At times we misunderstood each other. We caused each other hurt and confusion, but we always continued the conversation until it landed in a peaceful place. Sometimes we were sorting through my junk, other times we were hashing through hers. Many times we simply enjoyed the deep, true comfort of a smile and a wave from someone who knows you well ... and loves you anyway.

She shared parts of her most difficult journeys with me. She consistently offered me the truth of her humanity. She was honest about her struggles. She is gifted and talented and strong in so many ways, but has rarely shied away from treasuring her weaknesses in front of me.

A decade ago in January, I hit my lowest point, and had a smallish break-down. She was the person I called. I couldn't be sure how others might react to the ugly pit in which I had lost myself. Some might gloss over my plight and downplay the severity of the crisis. Others might absolutely panic in the thick, blinding smog of my recent emotional explosion.

She neither bolted nor belittled. She listened. She prayed. She said she'd be there if I needed to talk some more. And we journeyed onward.

I thank God for that birthday party and that breast-feeding baby. I thank God for not leaving my heart trapped behind the walls of denial and pride and fear. I am thankful for friends who courageously share who they really are, and graciously allow me to be who I truly am. 

As we allow our lives to braid together in the grit and grace of God's loving truth, we find ourselves enriched and sharpened - better prepared to wield the truth in love.

"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another." Proverbs 27:17

"Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.
But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up." Ecclesiastes 4:10 

Before or Besides

Two stories.

Once upon a time, I was the mother to two preschool boys. One day I was helping them pick up their room and I quite literally stumbled upon a broken clothes pin - one wooden side with the now-meaningless spring still attached. Just as I was about to toss it in the trash, my son screamed, "Mom! Don't! That's my thingie!!"

Duly noted. Keep calm and tidy on. 

Later at the lunch table, I noticed he was having trouble holding his cup. As I tried to help him, I realized he had that silly clothes pin lodged into the palm of his clinched fist. I pried it from his milky grip and assured him that his treasured thingie would be safe on the counter until lunch was over.

Fifteen years later is the setting for our second story.

Several of us were relaxing in the living room when I began to smell something awful. (This in itself is not at all remarkable.) But, it was a suffocating stench ... thick and nauseating. Others began to gasp and react with eye-squinting puzzlement.

Our living room smelled like a musk ox bathing in a bucket of moth balls. We were pretty sure it was the teenage boy. The gagging reflexes had initiated as he walked in from work, And so I inquired.

"Honey, what's that smell?"

"Oh, that? It's my new cologne. Isn't it great?"

[Well, no, that is NOT great. And it is indeed NOT your new cologne because YOU live here, but THAT woeful concoction is about to leave this house.]

He went on to explain that a nice guy came to his work and was selling "name brand cologne for really cheap". And since he's been needing some new spray, he used what was left of his paycheck and bought the extra large bottle.

Mercy. [He took a shower immediately while we ran the air conditioner, opened the windows, and lit all the candles. The bottle was laid to rest in the dumpster, and his sister -who actually HAS use of her olfactory senses - accompanied him to the department store the next day;]

Ok. Two stories. One theme.

Idolatry.

Like the "eau de toilet", sometimes we are deceived. We are led astray by schemes that promise just what we think we need. We believe the lies. We give everything we have, and let it cover our lives - all the while placing our pride and confidence in our choice. But in the end, we've invested in worthless, counterfeit goods that do not deliver, and must be destroyed and replaced.

And other times, like with the "thingie", we are distracted. We find ourselves enamored by some small insignificant thing. But we highly regard it as a treasured companion through life. We take hold, and it dominates our thoughts and decisions. We raise its importance to an inappropriate level by never letting go. We choose to keep hold of it, even as it makes the truly important aspects of our lives challenging and cumbersome.

These are pictures of idolatry. Serving, setting our hearts upon, following after something or someone other than the One True God.

And I'll add this. Idolatry can also begin as a commitment to something good. Not a sinister deception or a stubborn preoccupation, but as a simple devotion ... to a wholesome, good gift from God.

Relationships can become idols when we look to people to provide for our every need, and to give our lives meaning and purpose. (That's God's job and He takes it very seriously.)

Some people defend the Truth - which is good. But, in their efforts to be right, they treat others with a harsh lack of respect that contradicts the nature of the God they profess to honor.

Even religion and morality can become false gods. People say, "I'm devoted to God," but the reality of their heart is "I love the attention I get when I serve."  Or, "Helping others soothes my own insecurities." Or, "I find my identity [not in Christ and His righteousness, but] in saying no to bad stuff and saying yes to good stuff."

It's tricky!

What is your thingie today? What is it that distracts you and demands inordinate amounts of your attention and affection? What if you asked God - the Supreme Power of the universe Who also wants to be your friend - to give you the courage to let it go?

Are you broken? Or maybe just broke and stinky? What if you humbled yourself to God - the Redeemer and Healer - and allowed Him to wash you, and provide everything you need for a fresh start?

Or are you so busy enjoying created things, living the "good life", that you have displaced and dismissed Creator God - the Father of Life - the Giver of all good and perfect gifts?

"Then God spoke these words:

I am the Lord your God, Who has brought you out of ... bondage.

You shall have no other gods before or besides Me." 

- Exodus 20, Amplified

Commission at Braum's

The dining room is almost full. People of every age and every energy level sit in groups of various sizes. Some chat as fries are dipped in sauce, some smile silently as ice cream cones dwindle in peace, and some meander toward refills of soda.

A frail, middle-aged woman with tattered clothes and a second-hand designer purse slips in through the sliding door. Her hair is thin and her make-up is noticeable. She stands quietly alone a few feet from the cashier's line.

People either see her or they don't, but body language around the room pays her no attention. Eyes nonchalantly scan, and curiosities are whispered between bites, while oblivion completely shields other ongoing conversations.

Minutes pass, and the couple waiting for their order in the front booth casually strike up a quiet conversation with the woman. Smiles and sentences are exchanged and then they separate again. The husband approaches the counter to place an additional order then returns to his tidy booth without very many people noticing.

Standing straight against the display of bread and fruit, the woman folds her hands together tightly at her waist and waits.

A few patrons find themselves making accidental eye contact once they have stared too long in her direction. Suppositions of her story stream through several head-ducked whisper discussions around the room.

One teenaged girl watches as the woman stands and waits alone. She mouths compassionate concern to her mom while thumbing through her wallet. Their non-verbal stratgizing is unclear yet unified and hesitant.

Just then, a number is called and the gentleman in the front booth collects the to-go bag and foam cup then hands them to the woman.

It seems like several folks are watching now, waiting to sum it up with her departure. But near the exit, she turns and walks to the corner booth where she slides into the seat to eagerly unpack her supper.

Heads seem to bow all around as she pauses before her first bite.
God bless this food and it's not polite to stare.

The teen still seems intent on engaging and has evidently been granted permission. She bundles her half-eaten sandwich and fries, grabs her drink, and approaches the woman's booth.

Like a silent film, eyebrows raise with humble offerings, hands pat the table in glad agreement, and the rigid unwrapping of sandwiches between strangers catches the attention of the crowd.

Everyone acts normal at their tables while 80's music plays through the ceiling speakers. But also, it is a muted freeze-frame of nervous curiosity and awe.

After a few minutes, the girl's mother makes a trip past the trash can and introduces herself to the woman. The woman smiles big and commends the mother on raising such a kind daughter. The girl shows signs of overwhelm as she explains to her mom that the woman is asking for money.

The mother gently touches the woman's shoulder as frantic hands roll through explanations and requests. It is the first time words are loud enough to be heard across the room. "If I just had a few dollars to buy lunch meat and some bread . . . And a flashlight . . ."

While the woman expresses her preference for cash, the mother's face asks her girl, "Are you good or are you ready to go?" The girl, seemingly comforted by her mother's support, smiles, "all good".

The mother excuses herself and goes to the grocery section of the store. She places a loaf of bread and a package of turkey on the cashier's counter. The employee's quizzical grin precedes her answer, "No, I don't believe we sell flashlights." She cinches the plastic bag, ties a knot, and smiles, "Thank you, and God bless this."

The dinner rush is over and the room is calm and quiet. A little boy and his grandmother sitting nearby have finished their cones and are almost ready to leave. The grandmother clears the table and gathers her purse and sweater as she monitors the boy's solo trip to the counter. He loosens the velcro of his man-sized wallet to pay and zip up the change.

He walks with purpose and care to deliver the chocolate ice cream cone to the woman in the booth with the teen. She gasps with delight and hugs the little boy as if they are family. He blushes brave to receive his thanks and runs back to clasp hands with his grandma so they can go home.

The mother carrying groceries passes the little boy on her way back to the booth. Setting the bag on the table, she agrees with the woman in the joy of the unexpected sweet treat, and nods to her daughter that it's time to go.

And they go.

As we go. Into our world. Whether "Braum's" is our workplace or dinner spot or pit-stop traveling through . . .

"Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it." Hebrews 13:2

Bound to be Good

Mom & Me.

This is our third Christmas in the home we share. It's quite simple, just not always easy.

The unconditional commitment similar to an adoption. The "till death do us part, in sickness and in health" vibes like a marriage. The character-shaping complexities that accompany any mother and daughter dance.

These are the ties that bind.

Our differences are sizeable:

*Her hair almost always looks perfect. Mine almost never does. 

*She has jewelry specific to each outfit. I will wear the same pearl necklace until it breaks and then buy another one very much like it. 

*She follows recipes, dirties dozens of dishes and tools, and sets the oven timer. I pour and stir in one container with one spoon and play it by ear. 

*She loves Hallmark movies. I can't. 

*I love chunky guac. She cannot.

But do you know what we have in common? We are cute. Duh. Plus also we are serious about prayer and patience. And when each of us perceived an invitation from God to step out in faith to partner with one another come what may, we both had the courage to say yes. 

Is it clunky? Yes.

Are we gaining flexibility and strength? Yes.

Are there miscommunications? Yes.

Is there laughter and good food? Yes.

Are there days when each of us low-key longs for the greener grass from our separate yards? Yes, I'm afraid we do.

But then from separate closets, we return to our senses and remember Who we live for and suddenly we feel these ties that bind. Sturdy cords of mercy and love hold us together when all else fails.

God is with us and for us, and He is sure to receive the glory.

Bound to be good.

By And By

I didn't know Mrs. Joyce very well. I've been in her home a few times, and eaten her food on occasion, but I've hung out with her kids on purpose several times. 

Her kids are so great, and based on cumulative hours spent at her house, my husband basically qualifies as one of her kids.

Mrs. Joyce passed away yesterday, and I am sad. I see how sad my husband is. I hear how sad her family is. And even at a distance, I share in this deep sorrow because she was was such a bright light.

The first Christmas that Philip and I were dating (which was incidentally three weeks before our wedding I can explain that craziness later) we stopped by Mrs. Joyce's house. It smelled like a friendly blend of warm cinnamon and garlic. There was foil-covered food blanketing the stove top and surrounding counters. Everyone was in athletic wear. The soap in the hall bathroom was the good stuff. 

Adult kids lounged on the arms of sofas and recliners while a fluffy, fat cat eased into and around all the discussion. Football was on, but you couldn't hear the announcers for all the chatty laughter. The drapes flanking the sliding glass door were as thick and rich as the southern accents, and the leftover pumpkin pie was almost as sweet as the lady who served it.

She insisted that I sit on the couch beside her and she asked me questions about the wedding. She told me how much she adored Philip, and how long she had felt that way. Even now, 28 years later, I can see her wide smile and hear the happy smack of her laughter coupled with the simultaneous jangle of earrings and bracelets. She giggled easily and continued to gently touch my arm or knee or hand the whole time we talked.

As I stood insecure at the threshold of adulthood, she was "goals". I wished in my heart that God would miraculously make me sweet enough to open my home wide and often; that he would bless me with loads of leftovers, good soap in the hall bath, and plenty of people to play football in the front yard. 

Oh, for the grace to fold folks into my tribe the way Joyce did for Philip and me. As she loved others with hospitality and prayer, she planted seeds of belonging and joy, and her life pointed us to Jesus. Her life continues to point us to Jesus. That is exactly where our focus is now, as she rests in His loving arms having served Him well.

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All the Way

You know how some dates just leave a stain in your memory? When somebody left, or something was lost, or maybe it was just the most horrible Thursday you could ever imagine.

For whatever the reason, you remember the date. Like sharpie on your soul it becomes a marker . . . a measuring point . . . and a makeshift altar.

I'm pausing at this Ebenezer for reflection . . . sticks and stones . . . brokenness . . . a breaking away, a laying down, and a miraculous building back up.

Redemption is a journey and healing is a process.

This is what I wrote to a friend when she asked how I was [really] doing about halfway through this revolution:

There is just a rising river of grief with a swift and unpredictable current that I simply must cross. 

No one is chasing me, there is rest on the other side, but for now I just can't relax ... I.must.keep.walking.

My hands are high, holding important things above the stream of ruin. My core is flexed, and my feet are cold (realities of faith and issues of trust).

But I am not alone, and this temporary challenge has a purpose: my ultimate good and God's eternal glory. 

This is the song that ushered me across:

"Sometimes sorrow is the door to peace

Sometimes heartache is the gift I need

You're faithful, faithful

In all things

You're still my rock, my hope remains

I'll rest in the arms of Jesus

Come what may"

This morning, "Goodness of God" served as my usual confession on my solitary commute. I pushed play in the silence. 

Just as Cece and I began to sing (man, I'm telling you, we are pretty fantastic together - she has literally no idea) , I thought of the day and the year and all I could do was marvel at how far we've come - my Savior and I. 

At the chorus my voice cracked, and out rushed an emotional mix of warm tears and fresh faith, and I could barely get the words all the way out . . . but I sang them believing, broken and bold. 

"All my life You have been faithful. All my life You have been so, so good."

RESeT

Something had to change.

Last January I took a break from social media. I wasn't sure how hooked I was, but I could sense an unhealthy preoccupation. Once I deleted the apps, out of habit I still slid one screen and tapped the top right app every time I opened my phone. Muscle memory glitched for a couple days. 

The noticeable hiccups were when I thought of something, or when my kids did something funny ... it was like a tree falling in a forest. If no one on social media saw it and laughed, was it really funny?

Without a daily alert of birthdays across the country,  I was limited to sending well-wishes to friends and family whose birthday was already in my calendar or consciousness.

All our January birthdays and our anniversary were celebrated in the quiet, undocumented vibrance of real life.

I started texting photos and some of my musings to individual friends. I enjoyed the chatting that resulted from my need to be heard.

I started asking people how they were doing and checking in with a wider array of friends. I enjoyed the connection that resulted from my desire to hear from others.

I read books and wrote essays, and organized my closet. I took walks and worked puzzles and wondered what I was missing. And, I started watching TV, which I do not enjoy, but it was an easy filler for those mindless moments of vegetative lounging.

I read the Bible every day. I was present with my kids. I'd like to say I began to floss, but that would be a lie. There is so little hope for me in that area.

Eventually, several weeks later, I reloaded the apps and enjoyed freshly appointed boundaries like "only on Friday night and saturday" or "not while kids are awake". 

One little taste of freedom helped me to reconsider the habits I had coasted into, and to recommit to better manage my media consumption. In May, several friends joined my friend, Erin, and me for five days of swapping our scrolls for the better. The connection and freedom and growth that soaked in and squeezed out of that week changed me for good!

This morning it feels as though it may be time for another reset, so we've decided to host another 5-Day Change-It-Up Challenge!

Who thinks a break sounds timely? It's five days. December 26-30. You can do anything for five days! Just a little rest time. It will be a challenge, but I promise it will be fun!

Everyone who agrees to the challenge will receive five daily emails filled with ideas and inspiration to help you along the way. 👋🏼

You can also opt in to receiving a text each morning and evening for an extra boost of encouragement. 😂

Each person who accepts the challenge is encouraged to gather a few friends who know about the challenge . . . so that whether or not they also join, they at least have fair warning that you may indeed blow up their inbox with silly photos of your pets for a couple days. 🙃

At the end of the five days, we CELEBRATE!!

If scrolling has you bogged, we hope you'll mark your calendar and consider joining us December 26-30, 2021 for five days of Refreshing RESeT. 💛

Join the next Five-Day Change-It-Up Challenge!

Sign up here: December 26-30, 2021: RESeT