Friday's Coming Soon

I live in loud, crazy, hyperactive, controlled chaos.  Summer is a mad celebration of creativity and growth in this house.  It feels a little like a roller coaster these days.  One minute I laugh with joy, The next, I scream at inanimate objects that do not cooperate with my frazzled cries.

I LOVE roller coasters.  I LOVE getting to spend all this time with the little Wilks'es.  Really, I do.  But sometimes, I need a break.  So, Friday is coming.  My sweet husband has planned a mega-date to celebrate my new writing endeavors, and to give us a chance to step off the roller coaster for a while.  My amazing parents are taking four kiddos Friday afternoon for overnight fun. I am  more than just a little excited.

For roughly 24 hours:

 1.  I will me able to use the bathroom, and even shower without causing anyone tears or calamity.
2.  My food will be warm when  I eat it. It will not resemble a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or a hot dog.
3.  Literary discussions will not include Captain Underpants or My Little Pony.
4.  I will not referee a single fight.
5.  I will not clean a single mess, or wash a single dish.
6.  Laundry will wait.
7.  I will not hear, "Mom, I have a booger, Wanna pick it?"
8. None of my time will be spent dealing with anyone else's potty mess.
9.  At no point will we listen to any music played on Wow-Wow-Wubzy or the Wiggles.
10. I will not hunt for a sippy or shoes.
11. Nothing other than ice will come out the my ice maker.
12. I will wake up by my own power, not by yelling children, or crashing vacuums.

And when I return on Saturday to the joyous ride, I will be a little more refreshed and a little less frazzled.  My hair might actually in place. I will take one look into four curious pairs of deep blue eyes and realize that I have missed every single second of it.

I will be ready to go again.  But right now, I need to get away. I need time to breathe, to think, to recharge, to re-focus.  I need to remember what to celebrate.  I have been busy trying to raise good kids.  I don't want to lose sight of all the good God has already put there.

Maybe that is why Jesus is always stealing moments alone to pray.  Everyone always needs something more.  Someone forever misses the point.  People press in at every turn.  It must have been hard, in the midst of the roller coaster of everything of  to remember why He came.  What did He want to celebrate and bring out in us, His children? What parts will not be missed as they are left behind?

One day, He will return.  All will be made right, and He will be ready to start again.  And he will look deep into our eyes, and we will realize: We have lived, for every single second, of this.

Faith like a child

Today, Mia walked through the grocery store (no cart, no stroller) and chose her own breakfast muffin this morning. She said, "chip  pre-pees, Momma?" and pointed to the huge chocolate chip-laden pastry in the case.    That's my girl. 

 Today, Abi helped me pick out a dress for an interview.  "Well, mom... the blue one has pretty stripes, but you should get the other one.  It looks like it belongs on you.  It makes you look like you have something to say." Alright, then.  Decision made.   

Today, Ben grumbled and groaned like a teenager when I made him get up for breakfast.  He also  changed Ian's diaper with out being asked.  Really.

 Today, Ian made up songs to the tune of the ABC's expressing his feelings on potty training, shopping and alligators. He also informed me that a  T-Rex  doesn't like bubblegum. (Too many teeth to brush, of course.) True.

On this normal, summer day full of banter and bickering, Bar-b-Que and bubble-baths, shopping and sprinkler runs two realities hit me like the image of a T-Rex chewing watermelon flavored  Bubblicious:

One, These kids are utterly amazing.

And two, they are growing up incredibly fast.

In eight years, Ben will be driving.  That's like two blinks from now, at this rate. The clothes I brought tiny Mia Grace home from the hospital in, like, say... yesterday, now fit the dolls she carries around the house while she imitates my limp and sings praise songs I learned in college.  Where is the pause button? It's a whirlwind; always changing, always moving, always growing.

Sometimes, late at night while they sleep, I try to recount the whole day in my head, just to make sure I didn't miss any moments.  At warp speed, they have morphed from these sweet-smelling lumps of sleep deprivation and joy to strong, independent free-thinking personalities.  I just don't want to miss any of it.  Sure, moments come when  patience and perspective runs thin, and I might wish to fast forward just a little...But what would I miss in the trade-off?  A smile? A chance to wipe a tear? A moment when the gritty rough parts of their soul might rub and shape mine just a little more?  If I had a choice, I would opt for slow motion play over a fast forward breeze through any time.
    
But the slow-motion-play feature that exists on our TV does not have an equivalent in life.


Now we buy diapers and wipes and goldfish crackers by the case.  Soon  the list might include i-pads and prom dresses.  Ian will probably still want the goldfish though.  

I joke with my kids that they grow-up too quickly.  I tell them to slow down, sometimes I say to stop for a while.  This used to elicit the "you-so-crazy-Mommy" looks on their adorable little faces.  They would give me the eyes and move on.  Now, their response is different.


"But Mom, we have to keep growing, all the time. That's the way God made it." 


Right again,  littles.

That's the way God made it.  For you to be growing all the time.  Sometimes you grow so fast, I have to get you new pajama pants since you busted out of the others overnight. Sometimes the growth seems less obvious. Then I realize you ave developed this whole other amazing dimension of thinking, or vocabulary, or skill, and I almost missed it.  But you are always growing.

Then, I remember Jesus telling people that they should have faith like a child.  They should relate to Yahweh, like a child.  We like to strive to relate as adults sure of stature, and role, and position.  But what if Jesus wants a faith that revels in constant growth? We might not want to grow because it's hard, and full of change.  Maybe we aren't quite sure what that next step will feel like.

 Faith, like child, is designed to grow. Sometimes, as God's children, we grow in spurts that devour all the food in the house.  We learn something new and soak it up like a sponge.  Then sometimes, we grow in less noticeable ways, that build over time and require others reflection to see.  We may even feel stagnant.  But we want  roots of faith that sink deep so we wait.  

Children grow naturally, by design.  But, they thrive under conditions with three things:

One, they need nourishment.  The food and water of faith consists of the scriptures and the traditions we hold.  Take them in.  Identify with them.  Participate in them.  Feed your soul throughout the day, the way we feed our body.

Two, they need love.  A friend of mine tells a story of his time in Russian orphanages.  He speaks of tiny, frail children who fail to thrive because they do not get held, or cuddled.  They lay in cribs, clean and fed, but without loving contact they fade away.  Love fuels and sustains the growth of our faith, and our relationship to the One who defines it.  Speak love.  Show love. Walk love.  Live love.

And three,  they need community. Community teaches kids. It molds their growth and guides it.  Community in family, or in schools, or in sports gives purpose, direction, and even discipline, when necessary.  We were created to need other people.  The Church serves that purpose  in the growth of our faith.

Jesus asks for faith like a child.  We can allow ourselves to be loved, nourished and enfolded into true community.    We can seek the Father as his children, ready to grow and thrive, and excited about where the whirlwind adventure will lead.

Beautiful Scars

A big chunk of our family time happens on-the-go, running errands in our sage green mini-van.  

It was the week before Thanksgiving and we had several destinations to check off that afternoon.  

We had reached the point in the day when sweet treats beckon, but dinner seems far off. The bickering from the older kids in the back seat was noticeably absent. On a whim, we pulled into the drive-thru and ordered two kid sized hot chocolates and a juice box.  Cheers and laughter erupted from the back seat.  Sweets! With Whipped Cream! Happy day!  John and Laurie Wilks: Parents of the Year!

We waited, as patiently as possible.  Soon enough, an awkward teenager handed us our steamy liquid goodness.  We thanked her and I passed them back to the worlds happiest 8 and 4 year-old kids.  They were so grateful, it melted my heart.  I hollered a warning that their drinks were hot; and glance back at their smiling faces as John pulled back on to the highway.

I wish I could have frozen this moment and savored it.

Suddenly, I heard an ear piercing, terrified scream from my 4 yr old daughter.  She just kept screaming, and crying.  Traffic prevented us from turning around or pulling over.

She couldn't manage words over the primal screams of pain.  In a matter of seconds we'd gone from mini-van bliss to utter chaos.

(Please read the rest of the story that I wrote as a guest post on leannepenny.com.  Through the magic of twitter I found Leanne's amazing testimony of choosing faith over fears and joy over despair.  May we journey together and let God redeem our painful moments. ) 

Finding Your Voice

A few days ago, my eight year-old son  wrote this award winning piece in school.

The Life of an Eraser

by: Ben

Everyday I am rubbed against paper and pencil markings.

Why don't you just get another cockadoody paper?!

NO! Please don't use me now! I am too busy complaining to consumers!

OW! OW! OW! OW! OK, OK!, But make it quick! It still hurts when you use me.

OW! OW! OW! OW! Ok! You're done! Good-bye! I am going to "Pencilvania" 

where pencils are popular not me!

I asked him if I could share it here, and he gave a resounding YES. 

 I love it because it made me laugh, and appreciate his quirky sense of humor.  I love it because he busted his behind and worked so hard on it. I love it because it seems to have awakened in him, a love of writing, similar to ,my own.  But most of all, I love it because of it's perspective.  Ben put himself in a place I would have never thought to go, and stayed there long enough to give a voice to a silent tool, that would otherwise have none at all.   I love the idea of giving voice to the silent.  

I've been reading quite a bit of writing about writing lately, and much of it centers on this idea of finding "a voice" to write in, or with, or though... (pick a preposition).  In that "voice",  words, (and writers) connect with readers in a way way that reflects reality, and encourages more reading.  Much thought consternation and time is spent searching for ans honing in on this "voice". Some even treat it as if it as a mystical quest, somewhat like the holy grail of writing....I was off, finding my writer's voice...  


At least, for me, this quest for voice lands me right where it landed my second grader, outside  my normal perspective.  From someone else's spot, I may be able to see details, speak words, or hear melody otherwise drowned out.  In a position of empathy, I can see past my tiny little world to shed light on something worth seeing.  When I am obsessed with finding the right words, or the right image or the right anything to get my point across it is a slow and losing battle.  When I can let go of that fight. and get beyond myself, to a new perspective only then can I find a voice to speak the truth in love.  


Until I read these words from Ben.  I had never considered the theoretical thoughts of my trusty pink eraser.  I had never felt the need.  But in the last few days, as  Ben considered the pain of the pink pearl, I witnessed nasty,hasty fights and rhetorical bullying offered in the guise of furthering the Church.  This makes me sad.  It also makes me wonder what other perspectives we are failing to see.  


(Warning raw ranting ahead.  Still processing thoughts here.)


I have given up any hope of a pie-in-the-sky, easy solution to the divisiveness and fighting that plagues the church I love so dearly.  Even if we could hold hands and sing Kum-Ba-Ya, that alone would not heal the hearts and minds so wounded on either side.  Could not hurt...But will not heal the deep wounds and (dare I say it) the beginnings of a schism already happening.  Truth is, right and wrong, theology and ideals, and real people with real hearts exist on both sides.  Words I read in the past weeks have made we wonder if we are so caught up in shouting for truth; we forget  listen to and give voice to the real Truth.  Capital T.  Whose Truthfulness and Healing does not depend on how we feel in the moment.  Those of you  who allowed your tweets and facebook, statuses and words to be bathed in grace and mercy were often out shouted by those who wielded their words like whips and swords.  And yes, the Word of God is sharper than any sword...but some have put that particular weapon down in favor of one more easily known and more easily twisted to fit the desires of our twisted hearts.


I am sad.  Because I feel that the church is losing it's voice.  We cannot speak to the coming generation when we are too busy shouting over what we want, and who is right.  How can they believe we offer healing and grace when we spout bitterness in public forums?   


The best, and worst, thing about the Church is the people.  And for better, or worse, we are living this thing out together as the bride of Christ.  We are all broken; we are all healing.  We are all needy; we are all needed.  We all have to move beyond our own voices to hear the voice of the One who was, and is, and is to come.  His voice is the one who will reach the coming generations... It's the voice of the Scriptures.  The voice of the One who prayed for us so very long ago.  Still calling us to follow; Still shocking us with the relevance of his peculiarity.  Still offering grace that heals to holiness.  That is the Voice.  That is the perspective of the Church.


May we cling to it; tune our ears to it; and never let it be silenced.   

Hearts of Prayer

We call him Hearts.  Hearts the-Licker Wilks is his full name (because his tongue sticks out, of course.)  An official Wuggle-Pet, Hearts enjoys the distinction of being the newest member of Abigail's sizable stuffed friend collection. Hearts and  Abi  just  met on Good Friday. You would swear they have been together forever, but not so much. Now that they have each other, he goes everywhere with her.  He secretly rides in her backpack to preschool.  He has his own spot in the van.  He loves to watch My Little Pony.   It came as no surprise to me when Hearts-the-Licker got sick with her on Easter weekend. (It's hard to say who had it first, though.)  He was a tough pup and took it well; didn't complain much at all, even when it came to his medicine.

We attended an Easter celebration that day at a friend's house.   At some point early in the festivities I noticed  Abi's friend's Blue Wuggle was residing in Abi's pocket. He just never left.  If you are are not in a stage of your life when you get to listen to kids TV programming as much a I do, you may not recognize the strange enormity of six inch tall Wuggle Pets.  You may not get the jingle lodged in your head almost daily. For what ever reason, Abi has wanted a Wuggle Pet since the first time she saw that commercial and heard the catchy ditty.   But honestly, Abi wants a LOT of things as soon as she sees the commercials.  She had asked me for one, in a list along with new crayons, and flip-flops with stars, and a purple lamb, and a thousand other things.  I didn't think  much about it.  I didn't take her request that seriously. She seemed content with my, "we'll see" answer and that was fine.
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Until that Friday,  I had absolutly no idea that she had been going over my head to ask someone else about her Wuggle desires.  (Okay, yes. I knew she had talked to John about it.  But, he gave her the same "we'll-see" response that I did. That was that.)  Apparently, she accepted our dismissal so easily, because she was taking it up with the Almighty.  Since the very first day she heard that little jingle, she asked God if he would please bring her a Wuggle Pet.  No, I am not kidding.

If I would have known this, I probably would have found her one myself, sooner.  Part of me wishes I could have been responsible, at least in part, for her Wuggle-smiles.  But I am not, and because of the sweetness of this story, I am okay with that.  

See, Abi's friend, (Heart's original owner) stood in the dark about Abi's Wuggle prayers too.   She only had a feeling (while they were doing something completely different) that  Abi would appreciate the Wuggle Pet and that she should share.  Without hesitation or regret she handed over the little blue dog with a smile.  I had thought it would only be for the afternoon; I was shocked when I was matter-of-factly informed that the arrangement  was final in the eyes of our nine year old friend, and her mother.  And then, with her eyes beaming and heart brimming, Abi gushed:  "God LOVES me!  HE answered my prayers!!! REALLY!!!..." and the rest of the story unfolded.

Abi got her Wuggle Pet.  Do I believe he Wuggle wish was granted by the One?   Do I believe the God fills the Heavens and the Earth would think to give my five year old her Wuggle Pet?  Does the Creator of the Universe stop to deal in 6 inch spotted blue stuffies?

Yes. I do. Because He does love her.   He loves her, maybe even more than I love her. (That is really hard for me to wrap my  brain around.)  He loves her.  If He can use a Wuggle to show her that, why not?

“Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!"  Matthew 7:9-11

But what about when our proverbial Wuggles don't come?   Children go hungry. Rejection letters come again.  Loved ones are left to morn.  Sadness.  Brokenness. Oppression.  Pain.  Those tho live in  a perpetual state of--without.  We see it,  daily if we open our eyes.    Sometimes, the things we pray for don't materialize.  And if I am really transparent enough to reflect the light and love of Jesus, it is hard for me to  wrap my brain around that, too.

This life is like that.  I see a crazy mix of joy and pain, sunshine and sorrow, healing and sickness, abundance and need.    Some say God steps in to answer prayers for what we need.  True. A good Father would never want his children to go without.  Some say God likes to answer prayers by using his people and their abundant resources.  True.  My daughter's answered prayer came by the willing and generous hand of a little girl who runs with Jesus.  She understands that she is blessed to be a blessing.  I love that.  We do miss a chance to see answered prayers when we hold our gifts with white knuckled fists.  Is that why the next verses speak that good ol' golden rule?

 More than the cosmic vending machine.  More than most fair Father we can imagine.  Prayer gives us more than that simply because God is more than that.  It is more than the yes or the no; even more than the hope and the waiting.  In prayer, we find a connection. We find a relationship.

The best gifts I have ever received (and the best relationships I have ever enjoyed) have been the ones that tell me I am known, loved and accepted, even appreciated more than I realize.  The unsolicited gifts from my sweet husband that celebrate my quirkiness.  Friends who are willing to sit with me on one of "those days" and not expect me to be inspirational I'm just not in that place.  Children who recognize when I need civility and maybe even a little chocolate.

No, Abi didn't need the Wuggle Pet.  But she did need that connection.  She needed that certainty. He gave her a little blue reflection of tangible love to cling to.  Because life is like that.  And He knows what she needs even better than I do.

 

Chasing Waves

A few years ago, my family enjoyed a Christmas celebration on the beach at South Padre Island.  Instead of holding the Wilks family Christmas traditions at one of our houses, my amazing in-laws decided we would all gather at a sunny-condo.   We had all the beauty, all the relaxation, all the fun of a shore-line respite without the crowds, or any vain stress over swimsuits.  Add to that Christmas memories, lots of family time, and well, awesomeness ensued.  (Plus, John and I won the cooking competition, but that's another story.)

The trip was brimming with moments that I will carry with me forever.  One image in particular, has been flashing to the front of my mind today.  Shortly after we arrived and unloaded, John and I took the older kids (then 6 and 3-ish) to experience the ocean.  (Ian was tiny, still small enough to sleep in a suitcase sized crib, or in Grandma's arms, so that is where he stayed.)  We played in the sand.  We looked for shells.  We watched the clouds move on the horizon.  We listened to the waves crash.  We ran along the tide-line.  

It was an immense time, with immense surroundings.  I think it was the sheer enormity of everything that affected Ben that evening.  He thoroughly enjoyed himself, but he would not go near the waves.  He was very careful to stay where the sand was wet, but the water would not wash his feet.  He laughed and explored and went his usual mile-a-minute-way, always respecting that invisible line..... in the beginning.

And then, the line was gone. Something snapped. The boundary that kept him out of the water disappeared.      Was it erased by the security of the moment?  Was obliterated by his curiosity?

Forever Mr. Independent,  Ben had managed to run several yards ahead before breaking free.  He was running in and out with the water trying to beat the waves back to the soaked sand where we were.   I watched him from a distance, soaking in his freedom before moving closer.

My barely six-year-old boy was taking on the waves like a champ.  He was so free, so alive, so very happy and strong.  Laughter came from deep in his belly.  Oh, and another thing... and he was talking smack to the ocean.  I couldn't hear it over the roar of the waves, until I moved closer.

 At the top of his lungs, with joy in his heart  Ben was shouting at the waves that surrounded him: "Oh yea!  Take that!  You are BIG!  But God is Bigger.  He makes me strong.  I can take you.  Knock me over-- I'll just get back up again.!!!!..."

Normally, the worrier in me would have been rearing her ugly head at the thought of my boy running off into the waves with that much gusto.  Not that day.  My heart swelled with pride and joy and shared freedom in that moment.  I knew he would be okay; better than okay actually.

Right then, before I forgot, I said a prayer that Ben and our whole family could hold on to that picture.  I wanted him--and all of us--to keep that forever.

Because there are oceans that we face  through out all of life: Oceans of doubt, oceans of depression, oceans of pressure, oceans of  sickness, oceans of every day stress.  All kinds of things threaten to engulf us,  drown us, or keep us from enjoying the fullness of all that God has in store.   They are real. They are big.  And they are scary.

One of my favorite authors, Anne Lamott, says, "Faith is fear that has said it's prayers."

Facing  the waves in our life, we want to look to Jesus; to walk on the water.  Peter was so lucky that day. That must have been so amazing:  a little stroll that defied the laws of physics. What did it feel like?   And then, in the end Jesus was right there to catch him, and pull him up.  The actual hand of God stretching down to lift him out.   Again, amazing. (Matthew 14:22-28)

Never happened to me.  So far I haven't gotten to tread upon the surface of the water,  When I fight the waves I end up like Ben: fully clothed.  fully wet. fully sandy.  And fully surrounded.  Does it take any less faith for us  to continue to be fully joyful in the midst of the onslaught, than it took for Peter to remain focused on Jesus in those moments?  No.  And is it any less amazing when HE is right there with us, rescuing in the midst of the waves and bringing us back to walk with Him along the shore?  Not at all.

The floods have lifted up, O Lord,

    the floods have lifted up their voice;

    the floods lift up their roaring.

⁴ 

Mightier than the thunders of many waters,

    mightier than the waves of the sea,

     the Lord on high is mighty!       Psalm 93:3-4

Sandboxes

 

I was knee deep in kids ministry stuff:   Curriculum.  Devotionals. Notebooks of ideas.  Collections of random stuff to use for object lessons, costumes or crafts.   I as wading through, and engrossed in my passion for teaching kids to follow Jesus.  I vaguely remember hearing the theme for the Wonder Pets on in the living room. It was distant background hum compared to the ministry puzzle I was piecing together.  I was practically oblivious to much else...until I heard the squeal.

As a mom, I have learned lots of squeals.  Some of them can have vastly different meanings.  Some I dread, like the  squeals of pain or squeals of tattling.  This one was not one of those.  This one was so delightful that you could not help but giggle when you heard it.   This was a contagious eruption of pure joy coming from my one year old daughter.

I stepped over my pile of tangible thoughts to see  what had her so tickled.  As I walked into the kitchen I wished that my camera had working batteries.  And then I wished that I my sizable nose was magical like Samantha on Bewitched.  There before my eyes was the happiest child I have ever seen, beaming and giggling, exploring and grinning, in the midst of one of the most gargantuan messes I have ever seen.

As I did not have a camera, and cannot simply wiggle my snoz to clean a mess, let me try and set the scene for you.

Amelia loves to play on the kitchen.  She loves to take things out of the cabinets and explore all of the different things she can find.  This is pretty typical.  What is a-typical on this day is the level to which she took this pastime.  She emptied out an entire set of cabinets. But it wasn't the pots and pans or the cups and bowls.  It wasn't the small one on the end where the towels live.  It was the baking cabinet.  Ten pounds of whole wheat flour.  Five pounds of whole grains. At least a pound of sugar.  Baking soda.  Powdered milk. Baking mix. Cocoa powder. Baking powder.  Did I mention that we typically buy these things in bulk at our house?  The entire right side of the kitchen was covered  (could not see tile or grout) in homemade sandbox at least four inches deep.  Amelia is sitting in the middle of it giddy, with bowls and cups and measuring spoons.  Her skin is uniformly covered in an odd shade of tan,  kind of like peanut butter cookie dough.  A PigPen-esk cloud  billows up around her.  She cannot contain her excitement.

When she notices I am standing ankle deep in her pile, she smiles and hands me a white plastic tablespoon.It is then I realize that she could not possibly have acted alone.  I had not been wading in my sandbox long enough for her to create all of this.  As if on cue, her best-est-friend and accomplice comes out of hiding from the other side of the counter.  The same PigPen cloud surrounds him.  He is covered in the same peanut butter hued powder. His face holds a different expression, not quite the uber-glee of his little sister.

There is happiness and contentment for sure, but there is also a hint of mischievousness.  His eyes were turned down slightly. He was aware I might not be brimming with joy at the thought of cleaning the baking-wonderland.  Yet, they still twinkled to let me know he was proud of the grandeur he created.

"Ian," I ask.  "What happened?"

"Mia wanted it."  "I made it better because... my wuv her!"

The conversation continued.  I tried explain about wastefulness.  We couldn't use any of this again!

"But,  My wuv her!"

I tried to explain about safety.  It was slippery stuff.

"But, My wuv her!"

I tried to explain about all the time mommy would lose cleaning the mess.

"But, my wuv her!"

I tried to explain that since he used all the baking stuff in the sandbox, there could be no cookies in the near future.

"But, ugh. My WUV her!"
.
(That last one was a doosy.  I could tell. )  He shifted his feet through the flour concoction.  More clouds of grain dust  kicked up as he went.  He wrapped his peanut butter colored arms around his peanut butter colored sister and gave her a kiss.

Three hours and one dead vacuum later, both the kitchen and the children were clean.  I went back to my original sandbox and began to think....

See, I know a story of a God who created an amazing world for someone He "wuv-ed"  As the story continues, this God enjoys being with to be with the ones He loves and to showing  them how to live in their world.   Even when unthinkable sacrifice is involved, this God has no regrets... all because He loves us.

A...Prayer... is a Wish Your Heart Makes...

  "I wish YOU come TRUE!!!!"  The other night in our playroom was alive with smiles and dreams.  Ian was enjoying a fairy wand from the dress up box.  "Mom, what you wish?"  The question echoed again and again,  in sweet toddler speak.

"Well,  how about a whole day of play and laughing? Can I have that?" I request.

"Um, maybe..." He replies while waving the wand over my head.  His eyes are shut tight in concentration.  "Nope.  It's not working. What you wish now, Mom?"

"Clean house?"  (Wand waves.  Eyes squeeze shut...)

"Um, maybe..."  The game continues on like this.

"Hey, Ian, " I say on my turn, "What do you wish?"  I take the  starred stick in my hand and wait for his answer. It remains constant as the light in his eyes.

"I wish you come true!!!!" 

"You mean you wish for my wishes to come true?  That's sweet. Thanks, Ian."

"No, mom. Not that.  I wish YOU come TRUE.  And Mia true.  And Abi true.  And Ben true.  Everybody true."

True: being in accordance with the actual state or conditions;conforming to reality or fact; not false. real;    genuine; authentic; sincere; firm in allegiance; loyal; faithful; steadfast being or reflecting the essential or genuine character of something. 

That's a pretty big wish for a little dude.

In essence, I wish for you to be real.  Honest.  Be, authentically, exactly who you were made to be. I wish for you to stop hiding behind what was done or left undone.  Do not shrink behind false smiles or empty gestures.   Stop reflecting worry, busyness, piety, self-importance or martyrdom.  I wish for you to reflect the genuine character of Christ.

Here's the thing.  In order for something to be reflected, it has to be present with the reflector.  I cannot see my reflection in the bathroom mirror if I am sitting on the living room couch.  A mirror will not reflect a flash light if it is turned off.  To cast the light of Christ on the world around us we must understand and respond to the incredible reality that he is in fact WITH us.

Wherever we are, whatever mess or monotony we are standing in; the risen Christ is with us. Praise the Lord.  G. K. Chesterton was once asked what he would do if Jesus as standing with him at this moment.  He simply replied, "He is."  That is the wonder of the incarnation.  That is the miracle of Easter.  And that is the truth that makes it possible for us to "come true."

When I was in seminary, I had this habit of cleaning our postage stamp sized apartment until it sparkled.  I was almost obsessive about it.  I bleached the floors.  I dusted--a lot.  I arranged blankets perfectly and dosed them with febreze to hide the stains on the love seat. I had a toothbrush just for scrubbing the track for the door on the shower.   Those of you who know me now will find this VERY hard to believe.  Weird, but true.  I wanted everything to be clean and prefect of anyone were to come over, or stop by.  I needed it to be ready.

The reality of our life in Wilmore was far from spotless. Fun, busy, life changing, soul-forming: yes.  Spotless: no.   The week of my graduation I had papers and presentations and interviews and moving plans, and good-byes and everything whirling around me.  Despite family coming in from everywhere, I could not keep up the charade of spotlessness.  I meant to. I just literally ran out of minutes and energy.  I was  ashamed, mortified really, that my family would find the disaster.  With five minutes before the first guests were to arrive, I closed the heavy front door and put a pretty hand written sign on the exterior.

"I am glad you are here. Please, meet me outside."

 I had to take care of something after that, I can't remember what.  When I came back no family was to be found in the yard.  I thought I'd take  the minute and see what part of the mess I might tackle, or hide.  I pushed the door open and found the mess CLEAN.

I collapsed into the chair.  (I could see the upholstery now.)  At first I was embarrassed.  What would they say.. What  must they think?   Then I felt guilty. They traveled for hours  Why should they have to clean my mess?  Then I was grateful.  Grateful that I did not have to hide behind the facade of fastidiousness. Grateful, that neither a massive mess, nor an inauthentic shrine to the ways of the fly lady could  stop my loved ones from wanting to be present with me in those moments.

Maybe I am over-simplistic.  Maybe all  the bleach fumes went  to my head.  But I think I started to learn something on that graduation day. When I close the door on my heart and say to the One that I worship:  "I'm so glad you are here.  Please meat me outside.  This is all to messy now and you deserve better."  He is not content with that.  When I run myself ragged to make my heart and life presentable by own power.  He is not not content with that either.   He wants to be truly present, with me, removing all obstacles to that authentic relationship so that I may actually reflect the Light.

I pray that we all may "come true"   in the Light of the Risen Lord.

Mad, Mad, World

It occurs almost daily at now. My sweet bright-eyed Ian rushes up to me. He stomps his little two-year-old foot with the force of Goliath. He crosses his arms like an 80's rapper posing for a photo op. He glares, inches from my face and yells at echoing decibels, “I MAD, MOM!!!!” If I am wise in this moment, nothing, and no one moves or responds until Ian is sure that he has been heard. His frustration has been noted. We all understand, “He MAD.”

I wish I could say that the world stopping anger of my toddler proved the only madness so alive and well in the world we know. It keeps good company. Road rage interrupts our commute. Political pundits engage in a heated arguments. Stories of violence over whelm the news. Books on anger management flood our shelves. We yell at our sports heroes. We scream at our golf balls. We call strangers names via social media. We smash a stress ball at our desk while we envision the head of a co-worker. We grunt at our video games. We laugh at hateful women as they pull each others hair out on reality TV. WE ARE MAD.

We live in a world soaking in anger. We are angry that our world is not as it should be. Things are broken. We are hurting. We want solutions. We want fix-its. We want justice. We are MAD.

As a parent, I often find my ire raised over the oddest little things: Someone left the legos out to be stepped on-- AGAIN.... I told you to find your shoes 20 minutes ago.... Don't you listen?..... Did we REALLY need to see how many suds it would make if you poured my shampoo down the toilet? Grrrrrr.... Just GO to bed!!!

I tell myself that it is justified. They need to learn these things. They need to be respectful show consideration. Be safe. It is okay that I get mad. I am right. They can't make those choices. How else will things change? I tell myself that my angry reactions will help others see better, more reasoned, or more righteous choices the next time. They need to know when “I MAD.”

Then I read this:

"My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires."

James 1:19-20

(Ouch.)

Let's be honest. So often, we pretend our frustration is the same as the righteous indignation of Jesus over turning tables. In reality, it stands as nothing more than the simple short fuse of sinful humans. We cloak our anger in the guise of righteousness to comfort ourselves, or to boost our good and noble intentions. Human anger cannot, and will not, bring about the result we say that we want. It can't. Righteousness comes by faith and sacrifice. Righteousness culminates in the cross. But this human anger hides the cross and gives prominence to the enormity of our own annoyances.

Righteous indignation reflects God's ultimate love for his people. The cross is always in view. The goal is always in mind.

The other day I caught my refection in the mirror as I was convincing one of my precious children that: I was right, they were wrong and yes, I was MAD. Suffice to say the first thing reflected in my expression was neither love or righteousness. In fact, it was frustration, anger, stress, and general Agggggghhhhhhhh! Could they see Christ in me in that moment? Doubtful. Did it bring about the change that I wanted? Nope. Lord, have mercy.
I am not saying we should all strive become shiny, happy, stepford Christians who keep up a thick facade, and never admit we are angry over the little things, (or even the big injustices of life). Instead we need to bring all of our true emotions and annoyances before the throne of Grace. Only then can we have true refuge and salvation in and from this ocean of brokenness and anger. Calling it fine or hiding behind our “rightness” only adds to the problem.

As we get honest, we need to get connected. Surrounding ourselves with a community of believers is crucial. We were created to need others. This human anger tries to convince us we are better off alone. Again, the safety of the community can shrink the power of human anger by perspective, prayer, and growth. Just as Ian needs to be heard in his MAD moments we do too.

As we get connected we can begin to seek habits, and cultivate thoughts that can allow us to be the
harbor and refuge from the angry world we want to be.... for our kids, or friends and ourselves. Instead of hiding behind the Righteousness of God, we can actually be known by and called by, the Christ who embodies that Righteousness. The same Holy Spirit that empowered him empowers us today. May we reflect Him in every moment even when the world screams MAD.


What things annoy you, or make you angry?
What do you do about it?

How does your faith connect to your emotions?

What is in the Center?

She picks a big book off the table. Ever so carefully, she opens it to the center. “So, Mom, did I find Psalms, or Proverbs?” It's a common question in our house these days, and one that I enjoy hearing more than I can find the words for at this moment. My almost-5- year-old princess is becoming quite fascinated with the Word. She memorizes like a sponge and takes in the stories like living water. I praise God for these answered prayers. She has also learned, that if you take your Bible and very carefully open it to the middle, you will more than likely find Psalms or Proverbs. Like a Bible scholar in training, she practices several times a day. I LOVE this pastime. I relish it. I encourage it. I pray that it expands and grows.

But I confess, sometimes I giggle. Sometimes I bite my lip to stifle the laughter that wants to escape. Because, no matter how carefully you open those pages, it is very hard to find Psalms or Proverbs in your brother's World Record Book, in the Jumbo Star Wars coloring book, or in the Anthology of Whole Grain Baking.

She gets seriously bummed and even angry when you try to explain she did not actually find the wisdom she seeking. Because, she was looking, and, by her estimation, following the way that she was taught. But she has forgotten one detail. It matters WHICH book you use.

In the beginning of this Lenten season, I wonder how often we see ourselves mirrored in my daughter's search for Psalms and Proverbs. During this preparation time, we try and make more room in our lives to search for Truth, and Wisdom. We give up little indulgences or maybe we take on disciplines in hopes of seeing, and becoming a little more like Jesus. We follow the rules and examples hoping if we do everything right we will land where we intended.

But sometimes, I wonder, if in out quest to do Lent right, we are still somehow looking in the wrong place. We have made it about the challenge of lent. We have made it about working on ourselves and exploring what we can accomplish. (Instead we should work for Kingdom purposes while He molds and shapes us.) Maybe I spend too much time in the playroom, but it seems to me that leaving Christ out of the journey of Lent is akin to attempting to find Psalms in the Guinness Book of World Records. We have part of the picture engrained but we are still looking in the wrong place. And we may end up, bummed, or annoyed or angry when we realize that introspection and self-denial in and of themselves are only a form of selfishness masquerading in robes of false piety. They cannot and will not lift up the Christ we wish to see.

I am not saying we should abandon Lenten disciplines. I am saying we should look at the direction they point our hearts. Jesus echoes the words of the Prophet Hosea as he talks, saying, “I desire mercy, not sacrifice.” (Hosea 6:6, Matthew 9:12). Pious discipline for pious discipline's sake (or for the sake of the challenge) will not point us toward redemption. Disciplines that place us in a better position to spread the mercy of the Kingdom here and now will allow us to be Easter people and reflect His light.



What discipline, or what fast have you taken on in this season?

How will you actively serve the Kingdom of God in this time?

Where do you go for wisdom and strength when the Lenten season proves difficult?

Can't Hear You

One word describes my day today:  LOUD.  The alarm broke through the peace of slumber and I haven't had anything close to quiet since.  Children argued.  Babies teethed.  School was thunderous.   Volume controls seemed stuck at eleven.  Today has held nonstop noise.

After a work day described as boisterous at best.  I returned home to loud wii games, and sweet, loud children.  I set about cooking a pork roast and trying to quiet my mind; still my spirit.  Before I knew what I had done smoke alarms blared.   The pan was too hot, and lime pepper was smoking fervently.  I grabbed a towel to fan the fog and promptly set it ablaze.  Nice.  Alarms rang louder.

I put out the flames without an issue.  Next to tackle: the problem of all that noise.  By this point all three kids were crying and hiding under their favorite blankets.  I tried to be light-hearted to put them at ease.   I  stood,  singing and making jokes while I tried to find a switch on the alarm.  Have I mentioned the decibel level creeping higher by the minute?

I called my dad and screamed into the phone, "Could he please help?"  He came over and joined the cacophony of sound that surrounded us.  We had to yell to hear each other.  Broomsticks banged wall units.   Breakers surged on and off.  Fans wobbled.    Ladders clanged underfoot.  The dog ran back outside to find peace.

Finally, we discovered the trick to stopping the vicious assault on our senses; one small button at the back of the house.  We closed the windows.  We put away the brooms and ladders.  We stopped the fans. Blankets returned to beds.  The house became still again, for a few moments.  Ian fell asleep on my shoulder in record time.  Abi giggled.  I breathed it in deeply.  Ben threw his arm up and remarked, "Yea, all the sounds are gone, now we can hear!"

But let all who take refuge in you be glad;
       let them ever sing for joy.
       Spread your protection over them,
       that those who love your name may rejoice in you.

                                           Psalm 5:11

The loudness of life points to need of a refuge, a shelter.  Some days present that assault on our senses, on our faith, on our outlook.  We need that place of safety  where all we hear is the certainty of His guidence.   We need the noise to leave, so we can hear the One ever present amongst all the sound of life..

Give Us Eyes to See

"Hey, Mom?"  His big blue eyes seemed especially placid this afternoon.

"Yes, son?"  I responded, expecting a question about Cherry Fun Dips, science-fiction, or melting snow.  Instead, I got this piercing inquiry.

"Mom, why did God make our eyes so that we could only see each other?  I mean, really.  If I were God, I would have made our eyes so that we could also see ourselves.  That would be awesome.  We wouldn't even need any mirrors...ever!"

"Well,"  I wanted to see where this train of thought was headed.  "Why do you think God made our eyes to only look at each other?"

"Well,   I guess if we really look at each other, then we have to take care of each other.  If we only look at ourselves, then we might forget  to love the ones around us.  Maybe we don't have those kind of eyes because we are selfish enough already."

Well said.  I love that boy.

Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others. 

Philippians 2:4 NRSV

Truth and Winking Frogs

She came bounding into the playroom, then stood to study Ben's handiwork for a while.  "Ben, can I play with your Winking Frogs too?"

He stared at her for a moment, trying to muster the patience of a wise older brother.  "No, Abigail.  It's not Winking Frogs.  It's Link and Wogs...But yes, you can play with those over there."

(Sadly, Lincoln Log City was unable to recover from massive a natural disaster that occurred yesterday afternoon.  Reconstruction efforts will commence shortly.)

Maybe my world is small.  Maybe my thinking skews a bit odd.  But, sometimes the playroom becomes a microcosm of events that reflect on a larger scale.  Both of my children believe they are completely right and justified in the way they named said Lincoln Logs.  Both of them got their point across to the other, in a way. (They shared enough common ground to realize they both wanted the same thing.)  But both of them still think the other is completely wrong.  Yet, the true name for the Lincoln Logs has been lost to both of them. Truth lies sandwiched in between two sides of the argument.

American Christianity is fractured by the liberals and the conservatives.  American politics is divided amongst republicans and democrats.  Our playroom is bigger and the stakes are much higher.  But we are pulled  between two poles, convinced there must be a monopoly on who is right and who is wrong.  The more I walk in the Way the more I can see a radical (and at times uncomfortable) reality.  Truth lies sandwiched in between two sides of the argument.   

A third path exists.  Political leaders with shady personal lives still manage to lead, and to worship.   Look at King David.   Religious change agents who break established norms still do so for God's kingdom.  Look at Jesus.  We may be comfortable in our thinking.  We may even be convinced that we are in the right.  But when we look again, Truth lies sandwiched between two sides of the argument.