Losing A Grip

 

This photo is 100% swiped. It's all I have to show for a wonderful day spent on my feet without my phone in my pocket.

Four slow cookers, 36 dinner rolls, two worship services, six households, three pots of coffee, 110 minutes of four square, eight hours of conversation, 9 fewer fish in the pond and zero photos.

Not one picture of my handsome hubs ... who wore the shirt his daughters picked out for him to coordinate with them the best.

Not one picture of the man-cubs. None of Grammy or me or our guests. Not even any of the egg-hunting cuties who call me Granna and give great hugs. 

Just this one picture of my four favorite women shining a little of the light and love I walked in all day long.

But I feel like I need to back up into the whole truth. TBH Saturday was one of the hardest days I've had in a while. I was angry and anxious and deeply discouraged. I was moody and lonesome, resentful and mean.

It felt like a battle. An irrational bout for sanity and peace. I mean, yes, there were preparations for today, but I honestly wasn't stressed about that. I felt some fear and grief from the previous weeks sort of catch up with me, but (with Jesus and His wisdom) I'm usually pretty good at assessing and processing all that, too. 

It's fair to say I was a little tired, and there are always hormonal complexities to consider, but for real. What in the actual world?

We went ten awful rounds, the no-good tempter and I. And while the darkness stood its ground, eventually, the only thing I could swing was to give up and go to bed.

Often, whenever I go to bed, my mind shifts into overdrive, but not last night. The minute my head touched the pillow, there was a palpable hush. Like the shush of holy white noise drowning out the chaotic lies with mercy and truth.

"I will rest in the Father's arms. Leave the rest in the Father's arms."

Just before my alarm began to chime on Sunday, I opened my eyes to a bright new day. A fresh start to a life worth living.

So I kissed some foreheads, curled my hair, plugged in the crock pots and sang some praise.

All because He lives.

"The risen King of Victory is alive inside of me!" 

Happy Resurrection Day (even without a bunch of sweet pictures)!🌻

Behind Closed Doors

Besides his emotional sniffles as he walked me down the aisle, I only have one memory of my father crying. 

I wasn't supposed to see, but I had proceeded too quickly after my knock at his bedroom door had not been heard. I was twelve I think. He was on the floor, sobbing into the carpet. I quickly backed away into the hallway, closing the door in front of me. 

I learned a few years later that he had been enduring terrible grief related to the church and his ministry. For me, this revelation yielded equal parts explanation and confusion. 

I loved my dad, and I loved the church - mainly because he modeled such devotion to her, and I wanted to love what he loved. I wanted to be a part of the body he lived to serve, a part of the flock he loved to lead and feed and protect.

Today marks 28 years since his death. I can still see his smile, the fervor and whimsy in his eyes, and his short stubby fingers curiously smoothing the pages of his open Bible. His sermons my whole life were deep dives of sage exhortation, simple outlines springing up from scripture, and well-developed word pictures with a fair amount of self-deprecating silliness.

I am blessed to be able to describe him as joyful and fun. But I will never forget that single image of him, broken on his bedroom floor, buried in the weighty rubble of despair. He was desperate and literally crying out … empty with nothing left to give and nothing more to lose.

I don't think he wanted me to see, but I did. A little seed was planted in the secret places of my mind: "hide your heart". 

Was he told that big [little] boys don't cry … the day his mother suddenly died? Then, in between his father's lengthy deployments, did he miss the opportunity to watch a grown man grieve?

His father died when I was a baby. I wonder if dad felt like, once again, he needed to "be strong" for the family especially his beloved step-mom who, yet in her forties, had been widowed twice. The oldest son, a licensed minister fresh out of college … did he feel pressure to shut out his own struggles and sadness? Or perhaps, for the sake of self-preservation, he was already accustomed to involuntary suppression.

I really don't know. I appreciate his efforts to shield me from pain back then, but I wish I could offer him a safe space to process now. I'd love to hear his heart.

He was not perfect, but his love for God and the church was undeniable. During my teen years he took a sabbatical from pastoring. I remember noticing how faithfully he attended to Christ and His bride even when it wasn't his "job".

I inherited Dad's affection for the body of Christ, the family of God. In his footsteps, I have spent my days in pursuit of a call to shepherd … in every corner of my life. I see little gatherings of folks and my soul is on alert. I am naturally aware of where we could be headed, what needs can be met, nourishment to offer, and little nudges to keep us on track. 

But after repeated opportunities to stumble or be humble, my spirit is developing a supernatural awareness that my only hope to serve well is to remain deeply dependent on the Savior. 

Jesus meets me behind closed doors (just like He did with dad). He shows up in my desperation with pure compassion because nothing is hidden from Him. With resurrection power He helps me to stand again to walk in hope and peace. 

But also. I have learned to celebrate that recovery with others. I have sponsors and mentors who frame my challenges with gentle rebuke and solid wisdom. I have a mental health counselor who offers tools and language so I can better navigate the mysteries and mess. I have a husband who is honest to the core as he loves me. 

And I have children who have seen me cry. They know when I am struggling with sin, when I'm scared about the future, or when I am simply sad because the world is filled with hurting people hurting people.

Maybe I've let the transparency pendulum swing too far, and maybe they wish I'd close my door more often. But I know the heartache and joy associated with following Christ. It is a package deal that Jesus makes abundantly clear. 

You can't have the blessings of the Father without enduring the sufferings of the Son. You can't corporately worship in spirit and truth without the risk of getting wounded by humans bent toward deceit. You can't devote yourself to Jesus and then despise His bride.

I don't want my kids to give up, and I don't want them to sell out. And I never, ever want them to think they have to suffer alone because that is absolutely not the truth. 

"This, in essence, is the message we heard from Christ and are passing on to you: God is light, pure light; there’s not a trace of darkness in him.

If we claim that we experience a shared life with him and continue to stumble around in the dark, we’re obviously lying—we’re not living what we claim. But if we walk in the light, God himself being the light, we also experience a shared life with one another, as the sacrificed blood of Jesus, God’s Son, purges all our sin." 

(1 John 1:5-7, MSG)

Divine Appointment

 

We learn of a sizeable gift waiting to be awarded and it is my job to find a suitable recipient.

I make a plan to set up a meeting with a colleague to discuss potential possibilities.

But then I remember his department has an event, so to be courteous, I table it until the following day.

I make a new plan to set up a meeting, but discover he can only meet after 4 and I can only meet before 3.

I decide to meet with his assistant instead, and I plan to walk right over. However, interruptions and distractions delay my departure.

Hours later, I walk across campus.

Since the person I need to speak with isn't where I thought she might be, I climb the stairs to try to find her in the workroom.

I pass by a series of open office doors, and wave hello to friends who look up from their work as I quietly parade by.

I pop my head around one doorway and whisper, "Good morning, Friend!" 

"Please come in! I want to talk to you."

I never planned to stop or sit down or to plunge into a deeply authentic conversation. I was unaware that we had been at odds, that I had unknowingly caused confusion and pain more than a year before. I hadn't anticipated the heartfelt exchange of apologies and forgiveness that was literally waiting for me in a room to which I hadn't planned to go.

We share our sides. Bitterness is confessed and remorse is expressed. There is a holiness hovering heavy as hushed and humble words miraculously clear the air. I look up and use my ring fingers to wipe the moist mascara from below my eyes and then I stand to go. We thank each other for the honesty and grace and then marvel at how fresh and welcome the freedom feels.

Eventually, I finish the scholarship conversation I planned from the beginning. But not before God was able to use delay and deferment to position me with precision timing for the greater purpose. 

There was indeed a priceless and powerful gift to be offered and it was my joy to find - and to be - the suitable recipient.

"In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps." Proverbs 16:9

Typos & Terrain

When my friend texted, instead of "trial", she accidentally typed "trail". 

As I ponder it, I gratefully sense an invitation from the Lord to shift my perspective and view a “trial” as a rough and rutted “trail” toward more of His [good and wise] plan for me. 

Instead of feeling stuck in this stationary [momentary] hardship, this renewed outlook postures me for progress and patience and [eternal] peace. 

Yet those who wait for the Lord

Will gain new strength;

They will mount up with wings like eagles,

They will run and not get tired,

They will walk and not become weary. 

Isaiah 40:31

Lord, we praise You for Your wisdom and kindness. Thank you for promising never to leave us. 

Help us as we walk with You up these paths You're working to make straight. Equip us to offer truth and grace to those who walk beside us. 

Together, we pray for faith enough to surrender, and patience enough to keep in step and see Your Kingdom come.

Steps

Step 4: "We made a searching and fearless inventory of ourselves."

As I take note of past hurts, harmful habits, and selfish hang-ups, I just keep digging up dirt. To surrender my life to the Lord for long-term, deep cleaning, I must continue to look for things about which to be brutally honest.

I feel like I'm constantly dealing with nasty mop water.

I get a section of my life processed ... like mopping half a room. But then the water is disgusting. Grateful to be rid of the funk, I empty it out to choose new, fresh water.

In the progress, I force myself to see the good along with the bad. I choose to believe the truth of forgiveness and mercy instead of the enemy's lies about shame and condemnation. I choose to live according to God's promises, and to commit each day to clean and holy living. Mop it up. Rinse it out. Dump it out. Fill it up.

I remember my grandmother could mop her floors and the water wasn't even dirty. Seriously. But let me tell you a few fun facts about her home ...

No one ever wore shoes in her house. Ever. Food was consumed at the kitchen bar or the dining table, washable rugs covered 70% of her floor space, and I think she mopped every day. Ha!

So, no dirt in, a limit set on potential spills, measures of safeguard against wear and tear, and daily attention.

No wonder her mop water was clear! How can I apply this principle to my life as I celebrate recovery? 

Dirty influences and muddy temptations are checked at the door. No garbage in. Less garbage out.

Set standard operating procedures that minimize a moral mess ... like screens staying in the family room, plentiful healthful snacks in the pantry, and keeping a gratitude journal.

Have trusted accountability in place so that when life becomes a wreck, partners can bear some of the burden, help keep things in perspective and preserve what's really important.

Daily attentiveness is key.

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

Thank You, God, for tools that bring discipline. Thank You for mercifully dumping my dirty water "into the sea of forgetfulness" again and again; and for faithfully refilling my bucket with clean and pure water ... so I can keep mopping. Please redeem my messes into a message of hope.

Entreatment

 

The silent treatment. 

A false reprieve. Passive aggression. The worst kind of tension.

There is so much that needs to be said in the pursuit of peace. And yet with willful determination, everything is muzzled into pressurized coexistence.

No clarifying perspectives, no humble apologies, no gentle rebukes. No resolution.

I despise the awful space at the receiving end. And to be honest, I have often dominated in the dreadful dishing out.

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On the other hand ...

Silence.

A holy pause. Intentional margin to listen and remain calm. Collected.

There is so much that could be said in the name of profuse progress. And yet, with willful determination, everything is muted into an expanse of hallowed hush.

No cluttering preferences, no weighing of options, no confirmation nor denial. Only resolute faith.

I resist this posture of patience. And to be quite honest, I don't practice it enough.

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People who have yet to properly process their own hurt are masters of the silent treatment. Soundly driven, the wedge forces relationships further apart and deeper into despair. 

People who are mastering the disciplines of being quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry can confidently offer the gift of silence. Quietly we are drawn into more of God's presence where healing and hope abide.

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And all the people aside ... when I think of how easily and how often I treat the powerful stillness of God as if it were some petty silent treatment … I weep.

He is never far and His purposes are pure and kind. He cannot fail.

I will not fear the silence.

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Processional

He wanted to find a quiet place to be alone. He was looking for a secret spot to read his Bible and talk to God, so he walked around until he found it.

Then he met me.

And when he decided he could love me forever ...

He wanted to find a quiet place where no one could bother us. He was looking for a secret spot to offer me a diamond ring and ask me his life-changing question. He walked me down to the water's edge to find it.

And I said yes ... to him, to all the adventurous possibilities, to the perpetual unknown, and to the protective One who knew us best and seemed to be arranging it all.

That was twenty-nine (and a third) years ago. #TeamShortEngagement

Today, when he wanted to find a quiet place to spend time with me and feel close to God, he knew exactly where we should go. 

And together we found it.

Our anniversary [re]discovery: familiar peace, our firm Foundation, and a fresh breeze of renewal and hope. 

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*Sometime ask me about our proposal and I'll tell you how Philip faked a fight just to hear me beg him not to break up, and so I had to punch him twice on the arm and once in the gut before taking the ring and kissing his giggling mouth then say that I was sorry but he should be too, and I realized I loved him so much because I wasn't even bothered by his off-pitch top-of-lungs rendition belting John Michael Montgomery's I Love the Way You Love Me with the windows rolled down alllll the way to the lake ... just a grinning.💗

RESeT

There is a corner of my bedroom that few people see. Honestly, I haven't even seen it in months! All year long it has welcomed towers of transparent tubs with clearly labeled lids. Preparations, wardrobing, and supplies, packed and stacked, piled high with hope and readiness for all things wedding.

Over the holidays, I finally got it all cleared out, and it feels new and wonderful. The lingering fullness and lack of margin certainly held meaning and purpose for a time. We have found ourselves in a season of serving and sowing along with all the celebrations. 

Sadly, without noticing, I had grown accustomed to the looming excess and crowded feelings of anxiousness, but now, in this freshly exposed space, all I can sense is a new start, uncluttered and calm. Life-giving.

With similar, happy resolve I also addressed my jumbled jewelry hanger that clanged necklaces against my closet door with each swinging entrance and exit. We all know there are only three or four that I want to wear, so the rest have been released.

All that remains is tidy and still. Quiet.

Next, I purged and organized the contents of each of my desk drawers. Nothing I don't need. Everything in its place.

There is peace in being systematically prepared with merely the necessities. Come what may.

Then I even went through my closet, giving away the clothes I only think I might wear, leaving the garments that I actually use with ample room for each to hang loosely so as not to wrinkle.

Honesty. Simplicity. Room to breathe.

Could it be true that our living spaces reflect our soul and its health? 

Well, there remains an unstable pile of papers mocking me from atop my desk, a windowsill disguised as a library shelf, the hall closet crammed with overstuffed photo boxes, and the cabinet under my bathroom sink riddled with randomness, Lord help us all. 

Nothing to fear. Plentiful opportunities to show myself some grace, a little patience, and all the freedom . . . to further explore the wisdom of less becoming more.

Pep Talk

Mommas of littles, listen. You are doing important work! We know it. Yes, it feels like groundhog day a LOT. I know that almost everything you seem to accomplish is systematically UNdone within hours. I know

I also know there is a keen sense of creativity bounding around in your soul and untapped skills just churning inside you, nagging for a vent. I'm certainly not proposing the use of alphabet sponge stamps to make spirit wear for the church softball team. That might be weird. 

But find something that brings you joy, or at least offers your brain and hands a good workout . . . a change of pace or a change of scenery, and then re-engage to keep going! 

Plan, equip, serve and train those little rabble-rousers like the elite chief operations officer that you are! These are the rich years. I promise. You might have more resources in the future; that may be true. 

But these little ones who relentlessly giggle and fight, who serenade you with original songs strummed on tennis rackets with soupspoons drumming on oatmeal containers; these impossibly adorable humans who learn new things every day, who beg to play in the mud, and then smell so delicious during bedtime prayers . . . they will be grown and even married before you can believe it.

I still can't believe it. Soak it in. Sow seeds wisely. Choose presence over perfection. Stay the course. I wholeheartedly believe you have what it takes!

-cdj💗

📷2002

Thankful & Blessed

 

A knock followed by happy hellos announces another round of fellowship. What quickly develops is another unique blend of friends who feel like family and family who have worked hard to become real friends.

Some people find a seat. Most stand in huddles at first. She listens and watches as seemingly from nowhere there is very much to discuss. Stationed in that comfy corridor between the sink and the stove, she finds her joy and purpose. She makes coffee, she wipes the counters, and she reminds the children to have walking feet. 

Often, there is a crock pot simmering, ready to feed a little or a lot at no particular time. Other times she relies on soup and sandwiches which can be made ready with little warning. There have been times when her best offering was toast and eggs. Her favorite times are when she knows there is plenty of food on the premises, but the critical ingredient is creativity. One backwoods not-quite-charcuterie spread coming right up!

She wanders from her post occasionally, but mostly she stays in that space where she feels useful and secure. Plus, the island is a magnet for great conversations and hilarity, so whether she is rinsing dishes or sipping coffee, she likes to keep her front-row seat. 

If she were anywhere else, she might feel responsible to ask questions and keep conversations going. But here, she just hovers with no eye contact, her ears wide open, her heart filling to the brim, and her mind free to dawdle in the depths. Eventually, the prepping, serving, and tidying work themselves out. 

By this time, pockets of people are sprinkled and spread throughout the home. College football, walks down the driveway, a puzzle between the sofas, lingering chats at the table, and the impromptu praise band of pianists and singers with the inclusion of a reluctant cellist, an enthusiastic baritone, and a weak, yet relentless recorder player.

People leave, but then a few more show up. The core gathering lasts for hours as dynamics revolve and refresh. And in the end, the crowd shrinks into a small herd of residential folks who resume their regular rhythms, and return to "normal". But they are better. They are satisfied and full having exchanged their gifts of unconditional love, and everyone feels thankful and blessed.