Notwithstanding the obvious grammar error, this song just rattles my bones to the core lately. I sing it loud and proud every single time I watch Remember the Titans. Every. Single. Time. "Ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no valley low enough…"
I'm cutting to the chase here. You know that, "I know I need to do this (insert YOUR task here) and just when I step out, something stops me dead in my tracks and life starts throwing junk at me from every side so I retreat" feeling? If I'm the only one, feel free to skip the rest and go directly to the end. If not, allow me to officially invite you into my special club. We don't discriminate on membership. Come one and all. Bring finger food and we shall meet and share our woes. I may be the only member, which means more snacks for me. If not, I've got to get my act together and get this club up and running.
Allow me to indulge and share a few of mine. Just to make sure you know you aren't alone. At all. Here goes. It's not pretty, people. I'm a closet "read a bunch of books at the same time" person. Please stop cringing. I know it's not normal. It works for me, which speaks volumes about my brain. That's another post entirely. Here's the deal, I REALLY need to just finish the "bring your cares to Jesus, stop worrying, be the woman that God intended you to be" books and get moving. I'm currently smack dab in the middle of The Best Yes, by Lysa TerKeurst, Every Bitter Thing is Sweet, by Sara Hagerty, and a few pages shy of finishing Lisa Harper's, Overextended, (That's ironic). Oh. My. Goodness. It's ALL I can do to not log into Amazon Prime and order Jen Hatmaker's new book this very second. These are good books. Awesome, actually. But mercy, they can't replace what I really should be doing. Putting my faith into action. Standing up for what is right. Fighting for the helpless. Stepping out when I've no glimpse if there's really anything on which to land. Use my mourning for good and my grief for trusting in someone so much bigger than I. Being a wife that's not naggy (my word) and a mom that chooses the hills worth dying on and lets the other pass by as lessons learned. Oh, I pray my legacy is bigger than a huge pile of books with dog-eared pages on my end table. "Ain't no mountain high enough…" to keep me from doing the right thing.
My ego can only take so much, so I'm going to stop at one more. I've a legal pad full. After sending Dennis off for 15 trips to Togo, FIFTEEEEENNNN, I am still shocked when life rears its ugly head and starts making me wonder what will happen when he's gone. Let me tell you. EVERY time he leaves, appliances break, children are in car wrecks, cars stall on hiways, people ask me "Dennis" questions that I've no clue how to answer. Because, well, he's the question answerer. That's just what he does. People get sick, job junk kicks in. You name it, it's happened. So am I shocked that five days before leaving last week, we are in the Emergency Room with this weird heart thing he's got?? At 3:30 am, I'm sitting bedside (that's what I do best…) thinking, "You absolutely are NOT going to an African village where there's no clean water, let alone the medicine you need to make you stop feeling like you're having a heart attack. No. A million times, no." At the same time, he's saying, "So, I'm leaving the country on Thursday, is that problem? Can I just take some Aleve or something?" Oh, Lord Jesus, come quickly. I'm going to take this man out. And just like that, I'm reminded that first, I'm calling this what this really is. When there's a good thing going, the enemy will do anything it can to stop it. Secondly, telling Dennis that I don't want him going would be like telling my 6-year old that we're skipping Christmas. Third, who am I to stop a plan designed long before now by the one who's orchestrating all the cool stuff there?? I was certainly accepting defeat and letting every mountain and valley get in our way. Sigh. Suffice it to say, I could most likely be voted president of the club. If that meant the one with the most issues.
As I preach to the choir, I'm reminded of one of my all-time favorite go-to verses when, quite frankly, I'm tired of the junk. Of the mediocrity I settle for. Of the tepid faith that is convenient only when life is lovely. It's time to put the books away, after finishing them first. Look them up. They are GOOD. Trust in a God bigger than I am. He has my back. And yours. Surround yourself with people who help you remember. I've got them. And we laugh, commiserate, shake our heads, and watch life do its thing. I'm grateful for you. So you know, I just searched YouTube and sang right along with Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. Nothing better.
"So let’s not allow ourselves to get fatigued doing good. At the right time we will harvest a good crop if we don’t give up, or quit. Right now, therefore, every time we get the chance, let us work for the benefit of all, starting with the people closest to us in the community of faith." Galatians 6:9-10
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Friday, October 31, 2014
A Temporary Good-bye
It's been three weeks to the day that my family was forever changed and left numb when a phone call de-railed us from our normal, sometime mediocre, sometimes exciting, routine that we call life. There is nothing that can prepare you for this. No amount of prepping, pleading, deep-breathing, and pep-talks can place you in the position to take a blow of this enormity. There's a fog that you walk through for a while, and sadness swells to heights that nearly take you under. With just my head barely above water, treading to keep it there, every stage of grief, and some I haven't expected, come and go, only to reverse order and come barreling back.
I'm pushing on, after nights of endless tears where I think that there can't possibly be any left, dealing with logistics that death brings about, and spending a few days traveling to his favorite place, I can now say my temporary good-bye to my big brother. Spending the rest of my days here on earth asking why, being angry, being discouraged, being heartbroken, and feeling empty will not bring him back. But this I know. I loved him more than words can convey. And he loved me. I will forevermore wish that he knew how much I cared. How much my heart hurt for him and how I will always wonder if he knew how many people cared so deeply for him.
Death is always painful. But this is not a grief like others. It fills me with regret, guilt, and endless "what-if" pains. I know in my heart that this will subside, but my sadness at his inability to see God's peace, seek and accept help from his friends and family, and his utter despair, is by far, the most difficult piece to this horrid puzzle.
It is at this fork in the road that I have to choose what I will remember. So, here goes. And if you knew him, none of my favorite memories will surprise you. No one could make me laugh harder. My OTHER big brother and he actually tie in this category. Like the cry and stomach ache laugh. My kids adored him and they are blessed beyond measure by their uncles.
It's with this that I found this quote by Anna Quindlan that captures a love between a sister and a big brother:
"There is a little boy inside the man who is my brother…Oh, how I hated that little boy. And how I love him, too."
Please don't read into this that I hated my brother, but like most little sisters, sometimes big brothers torment them. And when you're five and your brother cuts your Barbie's hair off, there's some hate going on inside. When they hide from you, only to jump out to scare you and make you cry, you don't like them sometimes. When they shove you in a hide-a-bed couch, fold it up and leave you there, you kind of want to punch them. When he made home movies with all of his "big kid" friends and I begged to star in one, I ALWAYS died within the first 30 seconds of the movie. Hardly a blip on the big screen. I'm not even sure I was in the credits. He guffawed at the horrid reality that our pet cat, Yankee Doodle, tortured me without reason. And I still have nightmares of being chased by flapping arms that would "peck" at me, after watching Alfred Hitchcock's movie, The Birds. And why did I even watch that?? That's another blog.
So Paul, I publicly thank you for buying my son his first Whoopie Cushion. It's a rite of passage. Thank you for playing Santa's Trap Door with my girls. I can still hear them cackle with laughter. Thank you for making my world a better one, just by being in it. Thank you for introducing me to Billy Joel and Olivia Newton-John far earlier than you should have. You will be missed, cried over and laughed over. I pray that we did justice to your memory at Lincoln Park. So many of your friends were there to honor you. You made them laugh, too.
It's only right to end with an Eric Liddell quote, as we both adored Chariots of Fire.
"Circumstances may appear to wreck our lives and God's plans, but God is not helpless among the ruins."
I love you, big brother.
Death is always painful. But this is not a grief like others. It fills me with regret, guilt, and endless "what-if" pains. I know in my heart that this will subside, but my sadness at his inability to see God's peace, seek and accept help from his friends and family, and his utter despair, is by far, the most difficult piece to this horrid puzzle.
It is at this fork in the road that I have to choose what I will remember. So, here goes. And if you knew him, none of my favorite memories will surprise you. No one could make me laugh harder. My OTHER big brother and he actually tie in this category. Like the cry and stomach ache laugh. My kids adored him and they are blessed beyond measure by their uncles.
It's with this that I found this quote by Anna Quindlan that captures a love between a sister and a big brother:
"There is a little boy inside the man who is my brother…Oh, how I hated that little boy. And how I love him, too."
Please don't read into this that I hated my brother, but like most little sisters, sometimes big brothers torment them. And when you're five and your brother cuts your Barbie's hair off, there's some hate going on inside. When they hide from you, only to jump out to scare you and make you cry, you don't like them sometimes. When they shove you in a hide-a-bed couch, fold it up and leave you there, you kind of want to punch them. When he made home movies with all of his "big kid" friends and I begged to star in one, I ALWAYS died within the first 30 seconds of the movie. Hardly a blip on the big screen. I'm not even sure I was in the credits. He guffawed at the horrid reality that our pet cat, Yankee Doodle, tortured me without reason. And I still have nightmares of being chased by flapping arms that would "peck" at me, after watching Alfred Hitchcock's movie, The Birds. And why did I even watch that?? That's another blog.
So Paul, I publicly thank you for buying my son his first Whoopie Cushion. It's a rite of passage. Thank you for playing Santa's Trap Door with my girls. I can still hear them cackle with laughter. Thank you for making my world a better one, just by being in it. Thank you for introducing me to Billy Joel and Olivia Newton-John far earlier than you should have. You will be missed, cried over and laughed over. I pray that we did justice to your memory at Lincoln Park. So many of your friends were there to honor you. You made them laugh, too.
It's only right to end with an Eric Liddell quote, as we both adored Chariots of Fire.
"Circumstances may appear to wreck our lives and God's plans, but God is not helpless among the ruins."
I love you, big brother.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Anniversaries Abound
As we wind down our dream vacation to celebrate 25 years (wowza, that makes me feel old) of marriage, I can't help but become pensive and reflective. Being away from home draws that out in me. Even more so than usual to my friends who say I'm this way ALL the time!
I left for vacation with school not being over for my students. I did FaceTime with them their last day. Some were all over it, but most more than likely hid and thought, "Geez, can it be 1 o'clock already?? I've had enough of that lady. Come on summer!" Needless to say, I hurried through deadlines (my least favorite thing...right up there with, "Hey, you want to do something spontaneous?") Insert nausea here. Got in a short trip to "Granny's Hotel" and celebrated the 5th anniversary of our little goober, Micah, being home. Wrote detailed lists of to-do's for every child I have, double checked Micah's child care calendars (yes, plural. Thank you, Kelsay and Sarah, for sharing my obsession) and tried to make sure I'd forgotten nothing. Dropped off my beloved Hannah at the airport to watch her little grown-up self go through security without me and hopped 3 planes and boom, here we are. A different view of God's coolness. But, may I say that He's no cooler here than He is at home? Vacations can recharge you, but you still have to deal with life no matter where you are.
All of that to say this. God is good. Very, very good. I still struggle with my pit-dom and most days have to intentionally concentrate on the fact that my surroundings, my emotions and my issues don't change that. Thank you, Jesus, for that. He's also reminded me of this. Nothing can replace Him. Nothing can replace family and friends. Nothing can replace his mercy. Nothing.
I knew well in advance that I'd be hitting the "six months since my dad passed" mark while I was here. Months ago, I told myself that surely at the six month mark, I would have reached a pinnacle of mourning and would then be well used to breathing in and out each day, without missing him. I don't know if there's some manual somewhere, but I'm not sure I'm following it. So tomorrow, at 10:05 am, dad has been with Jesus for half of a year. I miss him. At the least expected moments, I cry in public at the most bizarre of situations. Sometimes while I make coffee, sometimes when I stare at the ocean and wonder how in heaven's name did he stay for months on a ship to land on Normandy when I can barely get salt water in my eyes without wanting to swear just a little.
But this I do know. Dad's absence here doesn't change who God is. Climbing in and out of bouts of depression does not change who He is. Watching my mom slip away with dementia doesn't change who He is. Worrying about my kids, my job, my value to others simply doesn't replace what matters. These things will never be absent from my life, if I can be so honest. And quite frankly, these issues are inconsequential compared to most.
So as we prepare to leave, packing our souvenirs and memories, I'm so thankful for a God who doesn't withhold from his kids, even when they are so very undeserving. If nothing else I've learned, if I got what I deserved, life would be bleak and boring, at best. Instead, I have a loud, big family that is irreplaceable and quite hysterical, at times. We often speak in "The Office" language and break out in song. I have friends I'd literally die for and a husband that tends to keep staying around, despite the nutcase I am. Despite it all, I shall keep moving. One foot in front of the other. I pray that you can, too.
I left for vacation with school not being over for my students. I did FaceTime with them their last day. Some were all over it, but most more than likely hid and thought, "Geez, can it be 1 o'clock already?? I've had enough of that lady. Come on summer!" Needless to say, I hurried through deadlines (my least favorite thing...right up there with, "Hey, you want to do something spontaneous?") Insert nausea here. Got in a short trip to "Granny's Hotel" and celebrated the 5th anniversary of our little goober, Micah, being home. Wrote detailed lists of to-do's for every child I have, double checked Micah's child care calendars (yes, plural. Thank you, Kelsay and Sarah, for sharing my obsession) and tried to make sure I'd forgotten nothing. Dropped off my beloved Hannah at the airport to watch her little grown-up self go through security without me and hopped 3 planes and boom, here we are. A different view of God's coolness. But, may I say that He's no cooler here than He is at home? Vacations can recharge you, but you still have to deal with life no matter where you are.
All of that to say this. God is good. Very, very good. I still struggle with my pit-dom and most days have to intentionally concentrate on the fact that my surroundings, my emotions and my issues don't change that. Thank you, Jesus, for that. He's also reminded me of this. Nothing can replace Him. Nothing can replace family and friends. Nothing can replace his mercy. Nothing.
I knew well in advance that I'd be hitting the "six months since my dad passed" mark while I was here. Months ago, I told myself that surely at the six month mark, I would have reached a pinnacle of mourning and would then be well used to breathing in and out each day, without missing him. I don't know if there's some manual somewhere, but I'm not sure I'm following it. So tomorrow, at 10:05 am, dad has been with Jesus for half of a year. I miss him. At the least expected moments, I cry in public at the most bizarre of situations. Sometimes while I make coffee, sometimes when I stare at the ocean and wonder how in heaven's name did he stay for months on a ship to land on Normandy when I can barely get salt water in my eyes without wanting to swear just a little.
But this I do know. Dad's absence here doesn't change who God is. Climbing in and out of bouts of depression does not change who He is. Watching my mom slip away with dementia doesn't change who He is. Worrying about my kids, my job, my value to others simply doesn't replace what matters. These things will never be absent from my life, if I can be so honest. And quite frankly, these issues are inconsequential compared to most.
So as we prepare to leave, packing our souvenirs and memories, I'm so thankful for a God who doesn't withhold from his kids, even when they are so very undeserving. If nothing else I've learned, if I got what I deserved, life would be bleak and boring, at best. Instead, I have a loud, big family that is irreplaceable and quite hysterical, at times. We often speak in "The Office" language and break out in song. I have friends I'd literally die for and a husband that tends to keep staying around, despite the nutcase I am. Despite it all, I shall keep moving. One foot in front of the other. I pray that you can, too.
A New Year, A New Slate
Am I the only woman on the planet that refuses to make resolutions? Mostly, because I forget. And I honestly can't keep them. Seriously, if I want to change something so badly, why wait till January 1st? Thus, my "New Slate" title isn't eluding to a resolution, but my transparent attempt to be a better me. Pretty much in every facet of my crazy life, if I'm being truthful.
I'm not kidding myself that I may have two people read this blog, one being an obligatory "mothers-in-law are too kind not to read it" reader. And being as honest as I can be, I'm so okay with that. This is more for me than anyone else. But hey, if someone else out there relates to my chaos, is inspired by something I may actually write with Jesus' help, or is pretty much over the stress and drama of everyday life, well so be it. I pray that may be the case for the two, still mysterious, readers who take time to read my ramblings.
This past year has been a whirlwind with a nursing school graduation, a high school graduation and a wedding within three weeks of each other. Throw in a little jaunt to Africa and POOF! This last month has been, by far, one of the most difficult journeys I've walked. I use the word "journey" because it implies that I'm still on it, haven't gotten to the end and usually there's contentment and peace when you cross the finish line. I lost my dad, my hero and cheerleader on December 12th at 10:05 am. I know that's specific. But there was something comforting about holding his hand the very second he stepped into heaven. I looked at the clock and thought, "Wow, he's really gone home." Grief ebbs and flows. There's really no predicting when it hits. No warning. No waving flag that it's about to start. My grief is selfish in many ways, but real nonetheless. Dad is dancing a jig, hanging out with old friends and sitting at Jesus' feet. I'd hate to admit that I want to deny him of something so cool. But I miss him. I cling to the promise that Jesus knows our suffering, is our rock and prince of peace. May I be transparent now? If I had it MY way, I'd still be chatting with dad. I'd be listening to his corny jokes and his WW2 stories. I'd pick up pizza and eat with my parents around a tiny table and tell them for the hundredth time that, "No, I don't want money for the pizza, dad." But MY way is not reality and certainly not best. I'll miss him, grieve over his passing and sometimes cry at very inappropriate times. But I'm human, that's okay, right? I leave my "two" readers with this..."I (we) can do all things through Christ who strengthens me (us)."
I'm not kidding myself that I may have two people read this blog, one being an obligatory "mothers-in-law are too kind not to read it" reader. And being as honest as I can be, I'm so okay with that. This is more for me than anyone else. But hey, if someone else out there relates to my chaos, is inspired by something I may actually write with Jesus' help, or is pretty much over the stress and drama of everyday life, well so be it. I pray that may be the case for the two, still mysterious, readers who take time to read my ramblings.
This past year has been a whirlwind with a nursing school graduation, a high school graduation and a wedding within three weeks of each other. Throw in a little jaunt to Africa and POOF! This last month has been, by far, one of the most difficult journeys I've walked. I use the word "journey" because it implies that I'm still on it, haven't gotten to the end and usually there's contentment and peace when you cross the finish line. I lost my dad, my hero and cheerleader on December 12th at 10:05 am. I know that's specific. But there was something comforting about holding his hand the very second he stepped into heaven. I looked at the clock and thought, "Wow, he's really gone home." Grief ebbs and flows. There's really no predicting when it hits. No warning. No waving flag that it's about to start. My grief is selfish in many ways, but real nonetheless. Dad is dancing a jig, hanging out with old friends and sitting at Jesus' feet. I'd hate to admit that I want to deny him of something so cool. But I miss him. I cling to the promise that Jesus knows our suffering, is our rock and prince of peace. May I be transparent now? If I had it MY way, I'd still be chatting with dad. I'd be listening to his corny jokes and his WW2 stories. I'd pick up pizza and eat with my parents around a tiny table and tell them for the hundredth time that, "No, I don't want money for the pizza, dad." But MY way is not reality and certainly not best. I'll miss him, grieve over his passing and sometimes cry at very inappropriate times. But I'm human, that's okay, right? I leave my "two" readers with this..."I (we) can do all things through Christ who strengthens me (us)."
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Sign here, please
We've been doing a lot of talking about names at my house lately. Allow me to let you in on a recent conversation with my 5-year old.
"Mom, did you name me Micah? Why? Did my first mom (his name for his birth mom) call me that? What was her name? Where is she? I miss my nannies. I bet they love me."
Sigh. I can only answer maybe two of his questions at any given point. Firstly, because I can't get a word in edge-wise. Secondly, I'm not always intelligent enough. There. I said it. Yes, we named you Micah. We named you after Micah in the Bible. No, your first mom didn't call you that. I don't know your first mom's name and I'm not sure where she is. And yes, your sweet nannies love you to the moon and back. Then, we're usually off to other topics like that Rio 2 comes out in theaters on April 11. Little bit of information for you moms of kids...yes, Rio 2.
I've always been a firm believer that names carry lots of weight. As in a good way. They allow you to be unique, to be noticed, to make first impressions and to be memorable. Naming my kids was a venture I didn't take lightly. I'd write every combination of names we liked in every order and with unique spellings, without prophetically putting my kid in therapy because we named him/her some weird name like Moonbeam. But it was serious business. This naming kids job. You pretty make or break their kindergarten year. Will someone mock them? Is it too long to fit on the tiny space on their papers? Did you forget to check for inappropriate initial acronyms? Will there be personalized pencils and little license plates for their bikes? By now, no one can doubt that I have some issues.
Allow me to share one of my favorite verses with you. "Don't be afraid, I've redeemed you. I've called your name. You're mine. When you're in over your head, I'll be there with you. When you're in rough waters, you will not go down. When you're between a rock and a hard place, it won't be a dead
end." Isaiah 43:1-3
I don't know about you, but whew! What a relief that Jesus knows my name. Not only that, it's unique and special. He's gracious enough to never leave me hanging. Never. And I've been in over my head hundreds of times. Sometimes, because I made bad decisions. Other times, from grief and despair. Dead ends aren't even in His vocabulary. I'm not sure I will ever grasp what it truly means to be known by name by my creator. When others don't remember you, He will. When you feel completely boxed in, He'll grab your hand and lift you out.
At the very least, I must offer the same to Him. The only name that truly matters is His. Just Jesus.
Q
"Mom, did you name me Micah? Why? Did my first mom (his name for his birth mom) call me that? What was her name? Where is she? I miss my nannies. I bet they love me."
Sigh. I can only answer maybe two of his questions at any given point. Firstly, because I can't get a word in edge-wise. Secondly, I'm not always intelligent enough. There. I said it. Yes, we named you Micah. We named you after Micah in the Bible. No, your first mom didn't call you that. I don't know your first mom's name and I'm not sure where she is. And yes, your sweet nannies love you to the moon and back. Then, we're usually off to other topics like that Rio 2 comes out in theaters on April 11. Little bit of information for you moms of kids...yes, Rio 2.
I've always been a firm believer that names carry lots of weight. As in a good way. They allow you to be unique, to be noticed, to make first impressions and to be memorable. Naming my kids was a venture I didn't take lightly. I'd write every combination of names we liked in every order and with unique spellings, without prophetically putting my kid in therapy because we named him/her some weird name like Moonbeam. But it was serious business. This naming kids job. You pretty make or break their kindergarten year. Will someone mock them? Is it too long to fit on the tiny space on their papers? Did you forget to check for inappropriate initial acronyms? Will there be personalized pencils and little license plates for their bikes? By now, no one can doubt that I have some issues.
Allow me to share one of my favorite verses with you. "Don't be afraid, I've redeemed you. I've called your name. You're mine. When you're in over your head, I'll be there with you. When you're in rough waters, you will not go down. When you're between a rock and a hard place, it won't be a dead
end." Isaiah 43:1-3
I don't know about you, but whew! What a relief that Jesus knows my name. Not only that, it's unique and special. He's gracious enough to never leave me hanging. Never. And I've been in over my head hundreds of times. Sometimes, because I made bad decisions. Other times, from grief and despair. Dead ends aren't even in His vocabulary. I'm not sure I will ever grasp what it truly means to be known by name by my creator. When others don't remember you, He will. When you feel completely boxed in, He'll grab your hand and lift you out.
At the very least, I must offer the same to Him. The only name that truly matters is His. Just Jesus.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Hello, my name's Mary and I'm a....
Oh, so many blanks I could fill with that intro! All of my HOL family knows what my video debut declared...."Hi. My name is Mary Roth. I'm a teacher and I'm a missionary." Or we could dwell on the out takes bloopers and you got this one...."Hi. My name is Mary Roth. I'm a teacher. I'm grossly underpaid and I'm a missionary." Honest. I didn't think that would make the bloopers cut! Sometimes I think I'm funnier than I really am. Well, allow me to me brutally honest. IF I was going to fill that blank today, this week, this month, I'd probably not use the word "missionary". Perhaps these labels would be more accurate: whiner, pessimist, grieving daughter, tired mom, stressed teacher, grouch and hundreds more. I looked them up. None of them make the fruits of the spirit list. Dang.
I did warn you of my brutal honesty in case you cared to stop reading so proceed with caution. At least I can't SEE your mouths gaped open and your eyes roll at my bad attitude. I'm going to go out on a limb and pretend that I'm not the only who gets in these pits and can't seem to crawl out. And worse yet, sometimes I just settle there, perfectly content in the pit. It's a lot less work to sit than to crawl and claw my way out. But here's the kicker I've wrestled with lately. What if in my pit-dom (feel free to use that word I just made up) I'm supposed to just be still and stop crawling, climbing, reaching and fretting? Maybe, just maybe, if I closed my eyes for a moment and listened, I'd hear something in the pit that I could cling to that would convict, encourage and whisper hope into my soul that would let me really know that we're aren't meant to be pit dwellers. That circumstances aren't to define me. That if I relied on my emotions to spur me to be more Jesus-like, I'd be a sorry, hot mess. What if, in the middle of the pit, I opened my hands and unclenched my fists and just let Him carry me out? I mean, seriously, I was never meant to go at this alone.
So dear friends, this one's all for me. Allow me to share a few lessons I've learned lately. Choose a glass that's half-full, not empty. Surround yourself with a few friends that you can truly be transparent with. Be prepared to be rebuked. It's ugly, but it's gotta be done. Good friends are honest with you. Be intentional in thinking about others. Make time for your family. Pray for strength and courage to be bold. Be a missionary. There won't be time for a pit vacation, I'd say. In fact, we'd be amazed if we knew what lies ahead.
Habakkuk 1:5-Look at the nations and watch and be utterly amazed. For I'm going to do something in your days that you would not believe, even if you were told.
Hold on, friends. Hold on.
I did warn you of my brutal honesty in case you cared to stop reading so proceed with caution. At least I can't SEE your mouths gaped open and your eyes roll at my bad attitude. I'm going to go out on a limb and pretend that I'm not the only who gets in these pits and can't seem to crawl out. And worse yet, sometimes I just settle there, perfectly content in the pit. It's a lot less work to sit than to crawl and claw my way out. But here's the kicker I've wrestled with lately. What if in my pit-dom (feel free to use that word I just made up) I'm supposed to just be still and stop crawling, climbing, reaching and fretting? Maybe, just maybe, if I closed my eyes for a moment and listened, I'd hear something in the pit that I could cling to that would convict, encourage and whisper hope into my soul that would let me really know that we're aren't meant to be pit dwellers. That circumstances aren't to define me. That if I relied on my emotions to spur me to be more Jesus-like, I'd be a sorry, hot mess. What if, in the middle of the pit, I opened my hands and unclenched my fists and just let Him carry me out? I mean, seriously, I was never meant to go at this alone.
So dear friends, this one's all for me. Allow me to share a few lessons I've learned lately. Choose a glass that's half-full, not empty. Surround yourself with a few friends that you can truly be transparent with. Be prepared to be rebuked. It's ugly, but it's gotta be done. Good friends are honest with you. Be intentional in thinking about others. Make time for your family. Pray for strength and courage to be bold. Be a missionary. There won't be time for a pit vacation, I'd say. In fact, we'd be amazed if we knew what lies ahead.
Habakkuk 1:5-Look at the nations and watch and be utterly amazed. For I'm going to do something in your days that you would not believe, even if you were told.
Hold on, friends. Hold on.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Sleep is overrated
Anyone who has small children, did have small children prior to them now being adults, have babysat, or just hang out with kids in general, know that sleep is a precious commodity. Like oxygen for living. As in bread and water for survival. It's THAT kind of necessary. It's no shock to any of you that it goes in stages. Pregnancy to 5 years old is spent with either you pottying or snacking in the night or the 5 year old pretending to need to potty and need a snack rather than stay in his bed. Two solid hour increments of REM are golden gems we moms cling to. Like finding that rare pearl in the oyster. Age 6 to about 14 level off and sleep comes easier for the family. Except the rare times you find them staring at you, five inches from your face, in the middle of the night, for no apparent reason. This makes Jesus loving moms accidentally want to swear from the heart-pounding fear this causes. Remember, I'm being transparent. Age 15 to 21, you stop sleeping again because a mom can conjure up the most far-fetched situations known to mankind when their kids aren't under their roof. There's a ditch your daughter is stuck in. And I'm certain she didn't wear a jacket. And she turned her "Find My Friends" app off that dads study like combat maps during an enemy stand-off. Then there's the "someone has kidnapped my kid and I'll be getting a ransom call at any second" irrational fear. Oh, let's not forget the "I taught them better and I'm going to beat them in Jesus' name when they get home because they MAY be making bad choices" nightmare. I can't possibly be the only mother who has these reactions, am I?
Sleep is overrated. So, here's where it hits home. EVERY time I use my keen ninja skills to sneak out of my room to drink coffee and read my Bible, I seem to be interrupted. That's on the rare occasion that my 5-year old didn't wake me up early by physically opening my eyelids and telling me to use my words, rather than the normal "uh huh" I muster when I'm interrupted from my sweet slumber. I don't care how quiet, cat-like and savvy I am going down the stairs, it's a blaring alarm clock to the child to wake up and speak more words in five minutes than I utter in a day. Seriously, I've memorized all of the steps with creaks in them and I skip the wooden planks in the hardwood floors that may squeak. I'd make a sweet jewelry thief. But to no avail. So, let's face it. Lots of situations keep us up at night: kids, worry, stress, grief and fear. You name it. That's just what we do. Usually when our husbands are snoring and oblivious. Okay, that may sound like a slam. Not intentional, maybe just hypothetically.
Here's what I've come up with in my almost 45 years of life. And it's taken me about 40 of those years to actually cling to this truth. God doesn't work a 9-5 job. He's a 24/7 kind of Father. He sees our fear, intimately feels our grief, has record of every tear and is on duty when we are trying to muddle through life. Lack of sleep is no detriment to him. The more I read He speaks of it in His word often. It's no shock to him that we often soak our beds with tears. That we lay awake wondering how we will be saved from the enemy....whatever that may be for us. I found this nugget this morning between making scrambled eggs, looking for the Wii U, answering questions that no 5 year old should be asking and sips of cold coffee:
I lie down and sleep,
I wake again, because The Lord sustains me.
I will not fear though tens of
Thousands assail me on every side. Psalm 3:5
I passed over it quickly, but went back and read the footnote. Sleep doesn't come easily during crisis. David's son had gone off the deep end and was gathering his buddies to kill him. That may keep me up at night. Here's the promise I love. When we cry out to the Father, we can rest assured he hears us and this brings about a peace unlike any other. See the pattern? When we have assurance that God hears our groaning, sleep will come. Oh, sweet sleep. So, Mary, let it go, you aren't in control, get comfy and let God do His thing.
Sleep is overrated. So, here's where it hits home. EVERY time I use my keen ninja skills to sneak out of my room to drink coffee and read my Bible, I seem to be interrupted. That's on the rare occasion that my 5-year old didn't wake me up early by physically opening my eyelids and telling me to use my words, rather than the normal "uh huh" I muster when I'm interrupted from my sweet slumber. I don't care how quiet, cat-like and savvy I am going down the stairs, it's a blaring alarm clock to the child to wake up and speak more words in five minutes than I utter in a day. Seriously, I've memorized all of the steps with creaks in them and I skip the wooden planks in the hardwood floors that may squeak. I'd make a sweet jewelry thief. But to no avail. So, let's face it. Lots of situations keep us up at night: kids, worry, stress, grief and fear. You name it. That's just what we do. Usually when our husbands are snoring and oblivious. Okay, that may sound like a slam. Not intentional, maybe just hypothetically.
Here's what I've come up with in my almost 45 years of life. And it's taken me about 40 of those years to actually cling to this truth. God doesn't work a 9-5 job. He's a 24/7 kind of Father. He sees our fear, intimately feels our grief, has record of every tear and is on duty when we are trying to muddle through life. Lack of sleep is no detriment to him. The more I read He speaks of it in His word often. It's no shock to him that we often soak our beds with tears. That we lay awake wondering how we will be saved from the enemy....whatever that may be for us. I found this nugget this morning between making scrambled eggs, looking for the Wii U, answering questions that no 5 year old should be asking and sips of cold coffee:
I lie down and sleep,
I wake again, because The Lord sustains me.
I will not fear though tens of
Thousands assail me on every side. Psalm 3:5
I passed over it quickly, but went back and read the footnote. Sleep doesn't come easily during crisis. David's son had gone off the deep end and was gathering his buddies to kill him. That may keep me up at night. Here's the promise I love. When we cry out to the Father, we can rest assured he hears us and this brings about a peace unlike any other. See the pattern? When we have assurance that God hears our groaning, sleep will come. Oh, sweet sleep. So, Mary, let it go, you aren't in control, get comfy and let God do His thing.
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