Near

I have felt raw since I heard the news.  In my solitary moments, I have mostly only been able to utter His name.  In that name, all my questions and despair rest.  All my outrage and distress finds a direction.  It feels that this is all I can do.  And I feel that He is near, even though there are trace amounts of accusation and hurt when I call out.  I don't feel judgement in his response, but love and maybe even understanding.
I am reminded how it hurts to love down here.  How sometimes I wonder if I should disengage, so that the weeping would not come when the lights go out.  But, I believe that in the hurting and the feeling, we are made more like Him.  And I would take that over my own blissful and ignorant comfort.  I read Matthew 5 today, which tells about the times we are blessed.  It tells us that He is near those hurting, broken and at the end of themselves.  Oh, how I hope they feel Him now.
I see my precious kiddos in full appreciation and delight for who they are, the impatience has melted away these last few days.  It's called perspective, I think.  If God can allow my anger and indignant cries, not just allow, but draw closer in love, then I can do the same when these little ones have big feelings.  I don't believe in sending them off to be alone with big feelings, simply because I can't stand the sound of the cries, or whining, or yelling.  No, I will draw closer in love, too.  Not to take all the pain away, but to be there, letting them know that they are not alone.  That these big feelings are okay, and we'll get through them together.  Many times all we need is an empathetic ear, and to know we're not alone.
The emotion that overtakes me about the tragedy is not vengeance or policy outrage, but simply sadness.  For the parents whose hearts feel empty right now, for the children who were lucky to walk out of the building, and for those who weren't.  I worry about what they felt in those last moments.  That they were so frightened, that they suffered.  That those left behind have only begun to suffer.
In my heart, I believe that Jesus was with those children, amidst the horror.  He didn't leave them.  And to many, that seems such a hollow notion, outrageous even.  But, I believe, they're with Him now, where there is no suffering.  It's those they left that will need Him now.  And I pray, Lord Jesus, come near.

Let Go

The fall has brought changes in our home.  These changes have brought challenges.  These challenges have brought learning.  And I am so very thankful for the learning.

But amidst the insights and holy glimpses, certain days have dragged on the ground, picking up pieces of discouragement, self-pity, and confusion along the way.

On one such day, I was driving along feeling oh-so-down, when something on the windshield caught my eye.  I looked down to see a moth clinging for dear life to the glass.  My initial reaction was, "I feel ya, buddy.  I'm right there."

You see, in motion, windshields are quite, um... windy.  And this little creature was trying his darndest  to HOLD ON, only to be swept around the surface of the glass, over and over.  He would be blown to one side, and somehow catch hold for a bit, only to be swept to the other side, time and again.

As I watched this maddening process, I began to tear up.  Never before have I felt so connected to an insect.  I felt his frustration at the strong gusts and persistent changing of the wind; I felt his despair and hopelessness at the relentless battle.

It's you and me, little guy.  

And then, like that, he was blown away.

The fight in him proved insufficient.  Suddenly, I felt that this must be the case for me, too.  Discouragement swept across my heart, like the gales across my windshield.  And I gave in to the self-pity.

But, you see, a little distance gave me perspective.  Later that day, I was reminded of the scene that played out before me.  Suddenly the end of the scene didn't seem so tragic.  Earlier in the day, the gust that finally upended my little friend was the victor, and his fate seemed doomed.  But as the scenario was brought back to mind, I suddenly found clarity.

Perhaps the moth had not been blown away to his doom; perhaps he had finally learned to LET GO.  At once, it occurred to me that finally giving up the battle, stopping the endless struggle for control, and letting go was exactly what he needed to survive.  To fly away.  To thrive.  Perhaps in the letting go, he realized, remembered, that his purpose was to fly, not strive for control.  And that while the wind seemed scary, it would serve a purpose when he finally let go.  It would get him back up in the air, so he could continue on his path.

 In the letting go, he was free.



(I might be taking some liberties with the mental capacities of the moth, or perhaps making assumptions about his revelation, but it serves a purpose in this analogy, so please grant me grace)

A Year of Fire

This last year has been one of learning patience. trust. waiting.  Not as much unanswered prayers as... prayers answered in a different way than I would have liked.  It has been challenging at times.
But, oh, I wouldn't change it for a thing.
This God of ours, He loves us.  He has provided faithfully and in unexpected ways.  His Holy Spirit has been lovely and nearly palpable to me.  I have felt utterly dependent on Him, and honestly, as hard as it has been, I would stay in this state of transition and uncertainty forever if He wills it.
Because, you see, I'm learning that there is no uncertainty for those of us whose hope is in the Lord.  He's already said He will take care of us, provide for us.   And more than anything, I've learned that He will give us this day our daily bread.  His provision is every. day. And I trust him anew every. day.
I was driving along, unexpectedly alone for a bit, going to meet my husband who had my children with him.  I was listening to music, with the windows down, and I suddenly felt young again.  Now, I know I'm only 31, I'm not that old, but let's face it - I'm not exactly a youngin anymore.  But driving along, wind whipping my hair around, I had the overwhelming sense that the Holy Spirit was telling me that I am still His little girl.  Just because I have a family of my own, doesn't mean I am any less His daughter, and that He will take care of me, as any good father would.
You see, He's teaching me.  And He told me He's teaching me, through this year of fire, because I am worth refining.  And I'd like nothing more than for Him to continue to teach me, be it through trials or blessings, for the rest of my life.
I was a young woman, basking in her Father's love, reveling in the knowledge that He's refining me.  And I'll take that fire any day, if I can keep learning from Him.

What I Learned in the Silence

Bedtime is a culmination of cuddles and affection, of stalling and impatience.  Children suddenly have countless stories to tell, questions to ask and strange requests.  Anything to prolong this process.  Usually Ben and I are quite eager to meet our self-imposed deadline, that magic hour of 8 o'clock, ensuring that these precious little minds are at optimal strength for the next day.  How else will they come up with creative new stalling techniques tomorrow night?
We rush around reading stories, getting jammies on, having last-minute-before-bed-but-before-teeth-brushing snacks, going potty and brushing teeth.  Usually we tag team and we switch off who we put down.  Many nights Layla requests that I put her to sleep, which is usually not too long of a process.  I have a list of must-do's that I check off: prayer, cuddle, sometimes a story, song aaaand... I'm out.  Usually I'm very aware of how long I'm in there.  Usually I have an agenda, all to get me out to the adult land of freedom known as "After Bedtime."  Usually I'm all business.
Not to say that bedtime isn't a very sweet affair.  Layla is affectionate and sweet, silly and endearing.  She usually sings with me in her soft innocent voice as I croon "Baby Mine" or "You are my Sunshine" into the darkness.  She tells me she loves me and puts her arm around my neck.  The hardest of hearts could not resist her sweetness.
But, the agenda still lies in the back of my mind, and the minutes tick down to my freedom.  As I ease out of the bed, there are inevitably requests for one more song, a drink of water, to lay with her a bit longer.  Usually I give in, enough to avoid a conflict, but not too much to push my long-awaited break much further off.  I'm certain the impatience seeps through the affection.  And yet, I slip out before another request can be made, and the light of the hallway congratulates me on my successful emergence into "After Bedtime."
However, the other night bedtime looked a little different.  Oh, it started out the same- book, jammies, teeth brushing.  But as I turned out the light and climbed into bed next to my sweet girl, I started to ask her what song she wanted me to sing, and she cut me off saying, "Just no talking tonight, Mama."  I was a bit taken aback and said, "Okay, girlie."  And we just lay there together in the darkness.  And as I let go of my agenda, I relaxed into the relationship.  The just being together.  It was a peaceful and precious time of just being with my daughter, and that was enough for her.  It was all she wanted.
In that quiet darkness, I was struck with the parallel to my relationship with God.  How I usually have an agenda, something or somewhere I'm eager to get.  And how, like my little girl, what my Father wants is simply to be with me.  I don't have to perform, to do.  Who I am is enough, and sometimes all He wants is for me to be still.

In the Water

I submerge myself and the heat makes me uncomfortable, but I take some deep breaths and wait for my body to acclimate. I don't have to do this, but I need it. The adjustment is worth it, and the shock of submersion slips away as I sink down, as far as I can go.

The weightlessness takes the pressure off as I swish and sway in the freedom of it. I look down at my protruding belly and my body looks different somehow. I know it is the same, but my perspective has changed since I entered the water. I feel... sacred. My hands reach down to embrace this miracle encased in my own imperfection.

The worries and burdens of life flow up, sometimes uttered, sometimes wept, sometimes just as passing thoughts as I stare at the dancing flames of the candles. And I know that this is holy ground. This is His water, embracing me, filling me up, because I let it.