(I wrote most of this post in May, but was drawn back to it today. I'm still unsure if I will continue blogging. I'm having trouble making these words not about me and there's so many other useful things that people could be reading. If it has mattered to you whether or not I post, thanks for your grace in my silence.)

In May, around the time of our last goodbye, the bloodroot flashed it fragile flowers in a space of three days and now the last forsythia blooms waved goodbye to me from behind the garage. The apple tree blossomed all in one day last week, welcoming the Orioles to dine, and quickly the its petals were knocked to the ground by the indifference of rain, and wind, and gravity. It rained white all in one day and I paused a long time looking.

Spring has a way of putting things into perspective. The colors are there for a day, a week, a month and then they die away. We just have a small window of time to delight over them. And when I say 'delight,' I'm not really sure what I mean. I sigh and praise Jesus. How do you really 'live' in the present; how do you take it in and make it part of you? Aren't you always just carried along to the next moment with small, sometimes useless, mementos and a longing to return? I take photos and beg my brain to remember, but it never feels the same.

My Graeme was a spring flower, come and gone in a season. Sunshine and shadows, smiles and pain. I stumbled through the short years, partially blind to the great drama unfolding around me: now angry, now grateful, now confused. Many days I was weary and numb, forced to swallow the reality of life and death and suffering in huge doses. Sometimes I was blessed to tears by a simple walk, or shared meal, or that flashing smile that always surprised me.

And though it all still feels like a train wreck, from my autumn-filled window I see that the true beauty of the flowers and the apple tree is still there, changing and waiting. The life of the forsythia and the bloodroot lie hidden behind dying leaves, brown stems, and dark earth.  And though his body, too, lies under dying leaves and dark earth, Graeme's real life now lies hidden in Christ, who is the Eternal Spring to this death-filled life. 


May my hope not be hidden: Christ, who died, is risen. The fruit of my trial will be praise.

Death Comes First

I sat down low to pray, though I am no saint. I went there in grudging obedience, empty of sincere expectation. But God speaks to the grudging and hopeless. He said (again), "present your body as a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service; do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed..."

And He said let go. Let go. Let go.

I don't want to let go.

And the days pass by, one after another. The seasons change three times. I've had no time turn, no time to be different. I and see the poor choices every day, piling up around me. I've chosen to rely on myself, to fear and to strive. And the joy seeps out of the walls of this house and everyone is grasping for what they want and I run away in my mind, living in the world of thoughts and intentions again.

I find this little furrowed brow in every room. This one with the grumpy face, the other with the grumpy spirit. Here's two small boys that need me to lead them gently to that place where they can hear that Voice, too saying, "present your body as a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service; do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed..."

And here the marriage and the home. My works will not praise me in the gates. Rubies? Let's just say that my worth might be slightly above a bucket of rocks. I may not be like a constant dripping on a rainy day, but I am not sunshine either. Sleepless at night, considering all that I have failed to do or say, I hear it again, "present your body as a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service; do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed..."

I slowly lay down the season of books and study and see the mess I made. I was asked to steward this: these boys, this family, this home and in the midst of it all to abide, abide, abide. But I abandoned this holy call to follow other things: reading and teaching and being important and feeling recognized.

It's true that I was confused when I made the choice to wander. Didn't He also say, "Having gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let us use them...?" The books and the words and the flow of learning these are stuck deep, deep down in me, all twisted into who I am. And all the mama stuff, the washing and scrubbing of hearts and floors, seems to me ill-fitting and itchy. It's difficult to say 'no' to what feels right. But confusion and difficulty are excuses only, silly justification for propping up tipping idols.

It's true that I long to teach and to learn. C.S. Lewis said, "the love of knowledge is a kind of madness." I feel that madness racing through me always. I want to know and discover and understand. And the madness itself is not evil. Didn't the Lord say that He could be seen, "being understood by the things that are made, even His eternal power and Godhead?" (Rom. 1:20) But I have not been content to see Him and understand Him in the space He has chosen for me and in His timing. Ever reluctant, my roles have felt to me too constrictive and small. How can I be what I was created to be in this little space? It seems like I have to give up who I really am to walk this path...

"present your body as a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service; do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed..." (Rom. 12:1)

Let go. Let go. Let go.

I think of Jesus there in the grave, presented as a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God...

We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death...

We are... always carrying in the body the death of Jesus...

For we who live are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake...

And fragile and beautiful hope springs up. The resurrection is coming.

...in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life. (Rom. 6:4)

...so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies. (2 Cor. 4:10)

...that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal flesh. (2 Cor. 4:11)

As The Ruin Falls

Inevitably, C.S. Lewis has the perfect words...

As The Ruin Falls

All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you.

I never had a selfless thought since I was born.

I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through:

I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.

Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,

I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin:

I talk of love - a scholar's parrot may talk Greek -

But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.

Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.

I see the chasm. And everything you are was making

My heart into a bridge by which I might get back

From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.

For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains

You give me are more precious than all other gains.

μετανοέω: Away From Self-Reliance

It's been a frosty two months. The warm, sunshine thoughts that started the year have been frozen right over with pride and self-righteousness. I was so full of hope as I named the year. The year of μετανοέω, of turning. I hoped at the beginning that this would be a year full of leaning into my sweet Lord Jesus, a year of listening and quiet trust, of gentle fearlessness and sure power.

I made lists of things that I should do each day, each week - the mothering, the wifing, the friending, the teaching. The lists were supposed to help me steward these high callings, remember all the details, keep it all in order. It turned out that I was just making a list of things that kept me away from my God.

What I have failed to learn and live is that no amount of work will ever give me peace. There will always be more to do and I'll never feel like I've done enough. All the crossed-off lists in the world will not bring me closer to finding what I really desire.

When my life is controlled and evaluated by my lists, I rely on my own poor strength. I move from task to task joylessly, missing the holiness all around. I rely on my weak skill to be both teacher and student and fail to see the what should be learned. I assume my intentions make me good enough. I scramble through the day restless and thirsty, fearful that someone is going to notice my secret: I am not enough.

For long months, God has called quietly to me, beckoning me deeper into mystery and abundant life:

He said, "Come, and I will make you new, " and I have replied, "I am working on it, Lord."

He said, "I will give you rest," and I have answered, "I need to finish just one more thing..."

And so His voice has grown faint and I have arrived at the end of myself (again) and I look and see the ruin and fruitlessness of all that I've worked at.

Because you have forgotten the God of your salvation, and have not been mindful of the Rock of your stronghold, therefore you will plant pleasant plants and set out foreign seedlings; in the day you will make your plant to grow, and in the morning you will make your seed to flourish; but the harvest will be a heap of ruins in the day of grief and desperate sorrow. (Isaiah 17:10-11)

The things that matter most in this life cannot be framed in to-do lists. The things that matter most happen quietly in the heart. They are hidden and abstract and they can't be crossed off: love, joy, peace, faith, wonder...

Then the voice said again, 'If you are thirsty, come and drink... Are you not thirsty?'

'I'm dying of thirst,' said Jill.

'Then drink," said the Lion.

(from The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis)

Go Ahead, Give It A Name

I have named four children, some cats, a dog, a rabbit, and few rocks. Only the names of the children were carefully chosen to reflect my deep hopes. I'd like to name the new year. It lies all fresh and shadowed in front of me. No footprints or worn paths. Just shining potential stretched out white.

I hesitate to name the year because this may set me up for failure. After all, if there's no expectation, then technically I can't fall short, right? Here I behave as if life is a series of mathematical equations. I start with a positive intention, add time and effort; subtract laziness and fear; multiply by the number of days I wasn't chasing the wind or running around in a panic, and arrive at my life's grade, which I feel is always running around the 60% mark. Arithmetic: Give. Take. Follow this 'rule'. Tally this mistake and that shortcoming. Nice and straightforward.

Except I'm following a God of grace and, apparently, grace does not follow any rules of mathematics. In the Kingdom, the least is the greatest and the weak are strong and to gain anything you've first got to go and give everything away. And to gain the treasure hidden in the ground, I need to buy the entire field.

“The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field." Mat. 13:44

So, I'll buy the field. I'll name the year. I'll spell out all that I secretly desire to be true for the next twelve months, hoping to get a firmer grip on the Kingdom. I'll start digging.

This will be The Year of Turning. The year of μετανοέω (me-tä-no-e'-ō).

I want to turn over the soil of my life, break up the clumps, let the air in. I want to sow new seeds. I want to turn from self-reliance, fear, laziness, selfishness, and distraction. I want to turn to the Spirit, to prayer, to love, perseverance, joy, servanthood.

My bucketful of intention won't get me far. I need a plan; one that won't allow me to stray into arithmetic. What steps come first?

Lord make me restless and homesick for You this year. Teach me to turn to You in new ways.

What is the chief end?

A busy season has called me away from the computer, though I long to share photographs and strings of words. I have carried heavy thoughts these two months and watched bits of life through my camera lens.

Tonight, I wonder if I should continue with my postings. What is their purpose? To talk about myself? To put my heart and family on display? What is gained by a few meandering paragraphs? I did not grow up in the church or in tradition, so imagine my surprise to hear the words of a catechism spring into mind: What is the chief end of man? To glorify God and to enjoy Him forever.

If I continue with my varied thoughts, I hope the result is sincere praise and thanksgiving to our God. I feel like a pilgrim, groping through the shadows, waiting and listening for direction. This mama stuff is hard and I fall so often. Fear entangles me daily and I am weak from trying to throw it all off. The Lord gently leads me with His Spirit and His Word, but I linger in distraction and arithmetic.

But Creation around me sings His praise and sometimes I see it. He redeemed me and that's no small thing. I could post that news every day and it should never get old. When I acknowledge His patient work in my heart or in my family, isn't that praise?

Is God glorified by these words of mine spilled on the page? If not, then I should be done with it. Push delete and don't look back. Some prayer is in order I think. If you read this, would you join me?

Love, deeply

A familiar ache this week: eternity in my heart longing for the filling. The words come slowly to me. It's the conversation of humanity stretching back into darkness and I simply add my groan: what do we make of all this crookedness? Fallenness shouting up and down the street and here in my heart.

The leaves change outside and I feel the guilt. My spiritual chlorophyll gone and the reds and oranges of selfishness exposed. I love with strings attached, insincere and inconstant. I want love returned or noted, at least, in some vague space. My strings snap and unravel. The days feel heavy; friendships loaded with suspicion; the old voices call to me, announcing that I've been found unworthy still, not enough. My heart walks the old, tired circle again.

And isn't it pride in me that thinks this even matters? Why waste the attention and the typeset? There are lost hearts and hungry faces that haunt me, reminding me to breathe generous gratitude. I have walked darker paths fighting fear and flesh and holding tight to dying children; this present uneasiness is light work.

I draw out these words because they are the lights on path back to Promise that I have to find again and again. The soul stirring always leads me to the Throne where I am reminded of deeper truths: the loneliness in me is not real because my Lord will never leave me or forsake me (Deut. 31:6). The darkness in me no longer has any claim because I have received the Spirit of adoption (Rom. 8:15). These clouds in my heart will pass.

Truth sanctifies and my selfish love cannot stay. I owe a continuing debt of love (Rom. 13:8) and I am heiress of the Greatest Love and there's only room for thankfulness.

A whisper: no more demands and silent expectations; stand in perfect Love.

The end of all things is near. Therefore be clear minded and self-controlled so that you can pray. Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. (1 pet 4:7-8)

Spirit Flow

I've been asking for the Spirit, for more of Christ in me. As I cry out in spiritual thirst, I pray that the Lord may grant me a time of moving prayer or an amazing, life-changing scriptural insight. I've imagined a mystical closeness; a supernatural overflowing in my soul; an easy willingness to obey His commands.

But that's not what I'm getting. I ask and ask again for the Spirit and I am surrounded by people. My life overflows with people. Projects and events and meetings and deliveries and meals and games and movies, all full of people.

I long for the Spirit, and I'm not sure what I'm asking for. My motives are likely crooked. I'm looking for a knowledge or a power that I can wield. I ask to understand a mystery and to contain the wind, both impossible, yet promised to me. I ask and ask again. I read of Him and use His language, "fill me, rest on me, come upon me, carry me, instruct me, be poured out on me, enter me, lift me, fall on me, speak through me, gift me, give me life." This is what He has done for the saints in the past and I want to feel that sweetness, too.

As my faith leads me to ask for the Spirit, in the same breath He is come. I want to collect Him like a treasure, but He does not want a stopped bottle or a lidded jar. I cannot catch the Living Stream and the Flowing Fountain in a cup for myself to sip at will. I must keep coming back to drink. Return to Him and return again. And there are all these people.

But the manifestation of the Spirit is given to each one for the profit of all... (1 Corinthians 12:7)

What I receive in answer to my prayer for the Bread of Life and for Living Water, does not belong to me. These gifts are for the benefit of all, for the Church, for the Body of Christ. And when I ask God to come near, when I reach for the Spirit, the people always come near, too. Why would God fill me up with the Spirit if not for the benefit of those He loves? Why overflow my cup if there's no one around to collect the abundance and give glory to Christ for it all?

Even if I'm simply a conduit, this is grace to me, too. The kind of grace that forms and bends me and makes me new. For what is it I fear most in the world if not people? Rejection and abandonment have trained me to self protect. My selfish fear growls like a bear while I'm in these crowds and I want a different way.

But to keep in step with the Spirit it's necessary that my toes get stepped on, that the floors of my home feel the tread of strange feet, and that the doors of my heart open to the people God sends my way. When I choose this I am born new again and the seeming paradox - that God is strongest in my weakness- is like honey and I pray again, "Though I am afraid, please Holy Spirit, come."

The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear the sound of it, but cannot tell where it comes from and where it goes. So is everyone who is born of the Spirit. (John 3:8)

Release

For as the heavens are high above the earth,

So great is His mercy toward those who fear Him;
As far as the east is from the west,
So far has He removed our transgressions from us.
As a father pities his children,
So the LORD pities those who fear Him.

For He knows our frame;
He remembers that we are dust.

As for man, his days are like grass;
As a flower of the field, so he flourishes.
For the wind passes over it, and it is gone,
And its place remembers it no more.
But the mercy of the LORD is from everlasting to everlasting

On those who fear Him,

And His righteousness to children’s children,
To such as keep His covenant,
And to those who remember His commandments to do them.

(Psalm 103:11-18)

This week, I feel my dusty frame. So weak and so inconstant. How could I continue but with deep draughts of His great mercy? Little feet have run far away and brows have been furrowed in long anger and I wonder anew that I was given this high calling of motherhood.

I ask aloud, "How will we ever train these boy hearts to love the Good and put off the old, to live this adventure with gratitude and courage?" And I feel the burden heavy on my shoulders, the days stretching out before me full of forgotten responsibilities and meaningless squabbles, of childish tantrums that cut me deep. And I see that I can't carry this. I can't.

But there is this Love that carries me and knows my frame. Gently, gently He leads me and He speaks promise to me. In Him I live and move and have my being. And if I would change these boy hearts, I would first change my own and draw them gently before the throne of grace, to the One who gives life and breath and all things.

And, God willing, someday those feet that are so quick to run fearlessly down the street will run fearlessly after Jesus and that stubborn heart with stubbornly chase after the Truth. But it won't be because of me. It will be the work of the Spirit in them. The same Spirit that whispers to me, seals me for Hope, and changes me; He will do this work. I can't.

I am released. And I release these boys, too, and we are all flowers in this field and someday the wind will come and our place will not be remembered.

But God's mercy will be, from everlasting to everlasting.

“So now, brethren, I commend you to God and to the word of His grace, which is able to build you up and give you an inheritance among all those who are sanctified. (Acts 20:32)

Claiming My Inheritance

Trembling and stiff, I poured out life into a mic, repeating the Spirit-led words of a six weeks' pondering. In the tangle of sentences and now-cried tears over past wounds a strange feeling crept over me: It was like the surprise of finding a treasure you thought was lost. I felt alive. My emotionless face was hiding the battle raging inside me between all that I fear and all that I was made for. With my final stammered words, I stepped away victorious, not because my words were fancy or profound, but because God's Word is Life and Power and He just had His way in me.

For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.

(2 Tim. 1:7 NKJV)

This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It's adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike "What's next, Papa?" God's Spirit touches our spirits and confirms who we really are. We know who He is, and we know who we are: Father and children. And we know we are going to get what's coming to us—an unbelievable inheritance!

(Romans 8:15-17a, Msg)

He Will Redeem Even This

"..this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in [her] life." (John 9)

I'm not sure why my early years were difficult, but my Redeemer lives. What is done cannot be undone, but my Lord makes all things new. Now He will use it and I want to be willing, though I am slow of speech and tongue.

The LORD said to Moses, "Who gave man his mouth? Who makes him deaf or mute? Who gives him sight or makes him blind? Is it not I, the LORD ? Now go; I will help you speak and will teach you what to say." (Exo. 4)

As I open this vein of memory and the pain runs scarlet I will trust Him. I will expose these scars to the Light and the healing will flow.

Come freedom, come.

Literary Wanderings: George MacDonald #12

This is the final section of Diary of an Old Soul. I read it four times last month and nothing stirred me.

But today... today I am weary of soul and ol' George felt it too. A few weeks of walking the same path, of climbing the same dry hills has left me feeling empty. Empty of purpose and empty of joy. There's only so many times you can pick up the same toy or wash the same dish or fold the same shirt before it begins to take on the hues of insanity. This high calling starts to feel like chains to my flesh, my pride demands recognition and I start looking for escape.

I don't want to run to idols. My God is jealous for my love. He doesn't ask me to love the dishes or the laundry or the endless movement of things through my home; My God wants me to love Him. He's not created me for glamour or fame; I was created to serve right here. And He pours out to overflowing the hope and the joy and the self-less love that my self-full heart needs.

1.
I AM a little weary of my life--
Not thy life, blessed Father! Or the blood
Too slowly laves the coral shores of thought,
Or I am weary of weariness and strife.
Open my soul-gates to thy living flood;
I ask not larger heart-throbs, vigour-fraught,
I pray thy presence, with strong patience rife.

2.
I will what thou will'st--only keep me sure
That thou art willing; call to me now and then.
So, ceasing to enjoy, I shall endure
With perfect patience--willing beyond my ken
Beyond my love, beyond my thinking scope;
Willing to be because thy will is pure;
Willing thy will beyond all bounds of hope.

Grum

Grum. Grum. Grum. According to Dr. Seuss, that's the sound that a hippopotamus makes when it's chewing gum. It's a rumination of sorts. It's the sound that my mind has been making the last few days.

There's all these thoughts rolling around in my mind, you see? Conversations and interactions replaying themselves. Accusations shot from the Enemy. Encouragement poured out from the Spirit. And my own heart laying out some interesting points. Last night it was a duke-out between the voice of Wisdom and the voice of Fear. Who won? I'm not entirely sure.

The first cause of all the grumming is complex, but the trigger is a relationship: A long-prayed-for friendship that still seems so awkward and fragile and dangerous to me. I am untrained in the finer points of fellowship and unhealed in deep places, and this combination often leaves me breathless around the people that I admire most.

An abundance of rejection has created a deep pool of paranoia in my life. I chronically doubt affection. I continually question motives. And I always seem to leave the window of my heart cracked open just enough to allow slimy dark lies to snake in and embroil themselves in my thoughts. I become convinced again of my too-muchness and not-enoughness. I see only my endless success in mucking-it-up. I want to self-protect, to back out, to run away.

But God in His mercy doesn't allow me to stay there. The quiet voice of Truth commands and provides unselfish love and fearlessness. He is my refuge; I do not need to self-protect. He is Truth; the Liar has to flee. He is Love, I should not doubt it. And friendship is a gift; I should receive it with grace.

Abba, Father, thank You for Your crazy love for me. Please continue to root out the fear in my life. Be my only-needed Friend and keep me from placing unreasonable expectations on others. Teach me to love selflessly.

Hoped-for friend (you may know who you are), I love you with a fierce and timid love, whether you receive it or not. You are my sister, a consanguinity made by Christ.

Once let friendship be given that is born of God, nor time nor circumstance can change it to a lessening; it must be mutual growth, increasing trust, widening faith, enduring patience, forgiving love, unselfish ambition, an affection built before the Throne, that will bear the test of time and trial. - Allan Throckmorton