Nobody Asked Me

Nobody asked me if I was ready for my eyesight to fade and my hair to gray. Nobody got my approval before gravity started to take its toll on parts of my body that used to be positioned a little higher. No one checked in to make sure it was okay for my oldest to sound more like a man than a boy and for my youngest to outgrow me (if not quite yet in height, for sure in attitude). Nobody got my go ahead for my husband and me to become middle aged.

And yet…

Here it all is. It’s as if this planet we live on has picked up the pace. Days that used to have 24 long hours, weeks that had seven slow days, months that had four long weeks, a dozen months that felt more like a baker’s dozen to get us to a year- I’m pretty sure all of those things are happening at an accelerated pace now. Nobody asked me if it was okay to change the speed of my life.

I don’t recall receiving a written inquiry as to whether or not I was comfortable with my parents becoming senior citizens.   Nobody asked if I felt adequately prepared to think about things like long term care and college payment plans and retirement.

I feel a little dizzy, really. The earth circling around the sun so quickly, spinning on its axis so fast my head is left swimming. I try to look up and catch my breath. Focus on a fixed spot in time, this moment, right now. Sometimes it works. And sometimes I’m left spinning, mouth open, lost in time, unable to take it all in.

Regardless, it’s become clear that nobody is going to ask for my permission, make sure I’m ready, check in or even pause for a second.  This life, it’s happening, with or without my approval and at a pace that I don’t control. Time is busy doing its thing. All I know to do is take a deep breath, say a prayer,  jump in and get to doing my thing right alongside it.  It’s that or get left behind.

 

When?

When did he start taking up so much space in the doorway?  His head so close to the top?  And when exactly did the soft curves of a little boy body give way to the harder edges of the young man he’s become?

When did she lose those chubby cheeks, the ones that little girls have, round and full?  When did her cheek bones become so defined, chiseling out the face of a young lady from beneath the fleshy softness of toddlerhood?

When did he put away his dinosaurs for Legos, and Legos for Nerf guns, and Nerf guns for video games? And how much longer before he puts it all away for a girl?

When did she stop pretending to take my order in her play kitchen and start actually creating things in mine? And when did her dress up bin full of costumes and princess gowns get passed over for hand-me-downs from cool older girls and real nail polish and make up replace the plastic look alikes?

When did they become so witty and capable and articulate?  I can’t find the moment. I can’t pinpoint a “before” and “after.”  It occurred in steady breaths, in moments doing the ordinary, over another dinner, while one more load of laundry dried.  It happened over many Tuesdays and random afternoons.

And when does it stop?  The excitement of watching them grow those wings; the ache of seeing them use them? When do their lives become more theirs than mine, and how do I prepare my heart for that?

When does “this time” become the last time, and will I even know it?  Will it arrive with an announcement or, like his growing body and her disappearing fleshy cheeks, will it just happen? No defining moment- just something extraordinary in the middle of the ordinary.

When?

 

Sometimes She Forgets

I think that all too often, women forget how very amazing they are.  My life is filled with women of great beauty and strength. Different in size and shape and color and station and gifts- a wonderous bouquet of humanity. Some are strong in a big “take charge” kind of way. Some have strength in a way that is quiet and steady. Others have strength in their fun-loving, joy bringing ways. Many are strong in ways they can’t even recognize in themselves.

The older I get the more convinced I become that part of why God fills our lives with other women is because we need to remind one another how amazing we are.  We need to help one another recognize the beauty within. The world is quick to show us our faults, to highlight impossible bodies, to glorify the artificial. But every woman I know, she has a gift or a talent or a characteristic that deserves praise. She is wonderfully made.

But sometimes she forgets.

On a day when her pants fit too tight, she leaves the house a bit late, her day gets away from her before all the boxes are checked, dinner comes from a drive-thru, and no one has clean pajamas, she forgets. She forgets that she is enough. She forgets she is amazing. She forgets she is valued. She forgets that she matters. She forgets that she is loved.

If I’m lucky, I can catch her on that day and send her a note, make a call, send a text. I can remind her that who she is is far more than the woman she sees in the mirror. She’s more than the wrinkles she sees, more than the number on the scale, more than the cleanliness of her house, more than whatever demon haunts her, more than the lies the devil tells. I can help her to remember that she’s an amazing friend, a great mother, a hard worker, a devoted wife, a loving person, a thoughtful woman. I can remind her that her presence in my life is God’s gift to me.- a great, beautiful, generous gift.

Because sometimes she forgets.

Nervous to wear #servelikesarah

Since yesterday after picking up my beautiful #servelikesarah t-shirt, I’ve been feeling a bit nervous and also like I need to apologize in advance.

I never had the great privilege of meeting this lovely girl, but since she left us, it has become abundantly clear that she leaves a mammoth footprint, a huge shadow. Stepping lightly and lovingly in the world, and definitely leaving a wonderful, giant, gentle mark.

And all of the sudden I am acutely aware of how inadequate I feel to wear this shirt.    Proud to honor her, grateful to be able to have a visible way to show support to her family, glad for the chance to increase the size of the Lottie Moon impact… but nervous to put it on.

Sarah was an example of surrendering and serving.  I have much to learn from her.  So when I wear my shirt, it will be a visible reminder to myself of what it means to surrender and to serve. I know I’m not always going to get it right, and I’m afraid that I won’t always be worthy of HER shirt, but much like our Heavenly Father, I believe that Sarah won’t hold it against me.  Still, I feel like I need to apologize.

The journals she has left behind and that her mother has so generously shared with us, have taught me enough to know that she’ll be pleased with my effort and my desire. Not for recognition of her own name, but that it works to expand His kingdom and give Him glory. That I want to grow closer to God, to be His hands and feet, to say His will, not mine be done- that is how I’ll wear my shirt. And this is how she’ll know that I am her flock.

Mindfully putting on this shirt, it will be, for me, almost as if I am wrapping myself in a prayer. A prayer that God will use me in a way that will touch hearts, that in my own life and community I will be on mission.  Just as Sarah continues to be on mission.

But when I am wearing the shirt and fall short, my prayer will be that I never tarnish the good name of #servelikesarah, that I never tarnish the name of the God she loves. It feels like a great privilege to wear this shirt and a huge responsibility.  But with hope and courage, I will proudly put it on as a reminder to do my best to #servelikesarah.

20 Years Later

Today my husband and I celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary. Twenty years!? How in the world can that be?  It feels like just yesterday. And it also feels like an eternity ago.

We were so young.  One of us out of college, one still in.  We were living in different states, and all we knew was that any moment more that we had to be apart was way too many.  Poor and young, we decided it made financial sense to get married and pay one rent rather than living separately and paying two. Practicality over our financial situation outweighed the advice of all of those “wise people” telling us to wait.

And so it began.

We stood before God and a congregation full of people and made promises that neither of us truly understood. We exchanged vows that sounded nice but whose gravity it would take years to really absorb. We began a life together that I don’t believe either of us could have accurately imagined in our twenty two year old minds.

The reality of two very different worlds colliding was not always pretty. Arguments over mundane things- which way the toilet paper goes on the roll, how to properly pronounce and use words, how long to look in the check register for the lost $.05; there were plenty of things to disagree about.

But the feeling of a warm body to lie next to, the joy of coming home to someone so special, the electricity of shared laughter, the unnoticed opportunities to catch the other singing when they thought no one could hear; there was so much beauty.

In twenty years, we’ve done many things together. Lots of giant things- building a career, bringing kids into the world, watching a beloved mother (in-law) pass away, choosing to stay when we both wanted to walk, run, away. And we’ve done plenty of nothing together- endless hours snuggled up napping, binge watching series of favorite shows.

I don’t believe either of us knew back then that it would be like it is today. Something powerful happens when the butterflies of new love settle into the steady flow of more ordinary love that are replaced by the deep, choosing it every day in both the best and very very worst of it, love. When you don’t want to, but you do it anyway; that’s where the surprising love lives. And that love, that’s the love that you build twenty, thirty, forty years on. It’s the love that creates giant pockets of joy in the midst of hard times. That’s the best love of all.

In twenty years we’ve had valleys we never would have chosen. But the peaks, the peaks are far greater than any I could have dreamed. The view from twenty years is pretty extraordinary. I can’t wait to see what it looks like in twenty more.

Busy Hands, Grateful Hands

I’ve never been so grateful for work.

When the alerts and text messages and calls starting blowing up my phone a week ago, and the horrible news of the terrible bus accident came in, I felt sick. Unsure which of my friends’ children were on the bus, uncertain of the severity of the crash, I felt dizzy and trapped in slow motion while the world turned faster. And I had no idea of what to do. There was an invisible weight upon me.

Certain something terrible was happening, hurting for those that it was happening to, I had no idea how to help. I fell to my knees and lifted my cries up to the only Help I knew. On bended knee I prayed for protection and peace and understanding. I prayed for safe travels for the families that would be driving down to collect their children, mothers, husbands. I prayed that the early reports of a fatality were wrong- maybe a station wanting to report first did so before they had all of the information.

My life kept going on that day. Kids still had games and practices. My family still needed fed. But I was walking around numb and in a daze. My mind wasn’t on the immediate. My mind was on the wreck and those families.

The only thing I was certain of was the absolute feeling of helplessness I had.  I felt this huge sense of urgency. Something needed done; people were hurting; there where hearts to mend. Surely there was something I could do. But there wasn’t.

I was not sure why, but I felt like I needed to go to the church. Maybe gathering there to pray, maybe being in His house, maybe then the feeling of helplessness would go away?  Maybe I could be useful? Maybe hugging someone would make my idol hands feel better along the way?

I prayed, I hugged, I cried, but the helplessness stayed heavy on my heart. “Lord, give me work. Help me to have something to do.”  Then I overheard someone telling a friend, “we are serving food.”  I didn’t care how that sentence ended, I just clung to “serve.”

I asked the woman that had spoken to please put me to work. I needed my hands to be busy, to be as busy as my mind. Rocked by my shock and grief, I happily cut sandwiches, iced cups and filled drinks. Like a balm on an open wound, being busy in service lifted some of the weight of the helplessness. Offering a smile and a cool drink to those hurting, many far more than me, was like therapy.

While I was there, I felt filled with the strength of the Lord. I could courageously offer a smile, bravely speak words of comfort. I have never been so grateful for work. My hands were busy, and it lifted the burden on my heart. In the midst of helplessness, I had a job and a purpose.

I can’t tell you the extent to which I cherished that opportunity or express how grateful I was.  To serve in chaos, to make some small order out of so much tragedy, it gave me relief.

It also made me realize the importance of making room for and allowing other people to serve. How many times, when someone has been hurting for me or my family, has she offered to help, and I have declined?  “No thank you, we’re fine.” When all she really wanted was a chance to have busy hands, to lift the burden on her heart. I know how grateful I was to have work during a time when I was witnessing so much grief. Who am I to take that from someone else?  Next time I hope I’ll be quicker to let someone else serve me, being reminded that they want to be part of God’s purpose.

Beauty Out of Ashes

I am a believer that we have a Creator that makes beauty out of ashes. He takes broken things and makes them new. He takes that which we deem as “beyond repair,” and He recrafts, recreates and repurposes it.

I know this to be true, as He did it with me. Once broken and covered in stains so deep they went nearly to the bone, I fell before Him begging and pleading and asking to be forgiven and remade. Ashamed and defeated and feeling worthless, I cried out. Even the creatures crawling on their bellies on the earth were higher.

Crushed nearly to dust, I came. With nothing but hope for what He might do, I came. Knowing there was no way left but through Him, I came. Clinging to His promise, I came.

“And the God of all grace, who called me to his eternal glory in Christ, after I had suffered a little while, did himself restore me and make me strong, firm and steadfast. To him be the power for ever and ever.” 1 Peter 5:10-11

It wasn’t overnight, as restoration can take awhile. But slowly, bit by broken bit, He gathered me up. Like a master puzzle worker thoughtfully flipping over each piece, edge pieces here; corner pieces there, He worked.

What He made, the beauty He made out of the ash that was left of my life, there are no words!  Gently He lifted me, often with the hands of His people. People that would be proof of His abundance and His lavish love for me. Support from behind, love from the left and right, He brought the people that would help me see the new creature He had crafted.  A creature that was shiny and new and worthy of love.

And my scars, oh the beauty of my scars. They are proof that I am mended. Like a badge, I wear them. Like an accessory that brings attention to the place we want people to focus on, I let them show. Because how else will people come to know the handiwork of the Father?  How else will they see what beautiful things He can do with nothing but ash?

 

Unhappy Anniversary

Not all anniversaries are happy. Not all of them bring with them a feeling of celebration.  Today I experience one.

One year ago today my beloved mother-in-law left this world behind. After battling cancer for the third time, her body finally lost. And our world was changed forever.

Without a doubt, a giant void has been left. There is an empty spot in the bleachers at my kids’ sporting events. There are no cards in the mail on holidays that truly only served as “a reason for GG to spoil her grandkids day.” There are fewer cheers for me as a mother.  And there is one less person in our world to motivate, direct and compel us.

The absence is tangible, and it is painful.

But she is with us still.  In the way my daughter uses her inherited gift to create art and crafts that my husband and I can’t even imagine.  In the way my son picks clothes that she would have loved to see him in, and in the way his chest puffs as if he can hear her compliment.  She is there when my husband recounts a tale from work where his “no excuses, get the job done, there is no quit” attitude shows. She is there when I go ahead and put “one more” load of laundry in, even when I’d prefer not to. She is in every banana split blizzard with pecans that I order (she introduced me to this delight).  She is in every song that my windchime sings.  She is with us still.

So today, while it is an anniversary we’d prefer to not have, I will celebrate anyway.

I think we will make her favorite strawberry cupcakes and eat them in celebration of her life. We will celebrate that she can breathe, full deep breaths without feeling like she can’t get enough air. We will celebrate that she isn’t walking around in a broken vessel whose extremities suffered neuropathy from chemo. We will celebrate that we got to keep her long enough that she leaves a mark on each of us. We will celebrate because she was ours.

Because whether she is here or not, she is worth celebrating!!

I Am Her Flock, #servelikesarah

IMG_3378In the aftermath of our church’s tragic bus crash this week…

I didn’t know Sarah Harmening, the sweet girl that gave her life last week. And by all accounts, my life is less rich because of it. But, when given the chance to meet with her on the other side of this life, this is what I would want her to know.

Your mission trip has just begun, and I am your flock.

My family and I had been more absent than present at church the last many months. A thousand excuses, no good reasons. I had neglected carving out specific time to spend in God’s word and in waiting for His voice.

I knew the church was sending a group to Botswana, as I had imported all of the youth activities onto my phone calendar. I am embarrassed to say that, while I saw it on my calendar, I hadn’t uttered a single prayer regarding it. I guess it was too far removed from me to even truly register.

Then the crash happened.

My phone went crazy with texts and calls making sure my kids were okay. It was then that I began to realize how many people I knew on that bus, how many of my friends’ children were involved. Suddenly it all registered in a giant way, and I fell to my knees in prayer.

And then, I “met” Sarah. Through her parents willingness to publicly speak, through them sharing her journal entry and her sisters sharing her text message, I began to feel her influence.

That young lady, in a single journal entry, expressed more active, living, trusting faith than I could have at 42. Her family, in standing, only hours after losing her, and boldly proclaiming their trust in God’s plan and their certainty in Sarah’s desire to be a part of it, even if it meant death – I began to see.

Sarah wrote about 1 Peter 5 in her last journal entry. She assumed that her “little buddies in Botswana” were the flock that she was going to shepherd. I have come to realize that I am Sarah’s flock. She has been an example to me, just as God called her to.

We serve a God that makes beauty out of ashes. The loss of this child, the injuries and wreckage from this crash, they leave so much ash. But what our Creator is doing with those ashes, much of which we can’t even yet see, beautiful.

Thank you, Sarah. Thank you for saying “here I am Lord, send me.” You thought you were going on a mission trip to Botswana, but you are on a mission trip that will reach far more people than the one you had planned on. The reach of your trip has truly just begun.

May, in the days, weeks and months ahead, we all work to #servelikesarah.

Words dance circles in my head, on my tongue, on the page. Leaping and twirling and full of life, they want to be put down, expressed, sung, heard. And I love them. I love what they have to say. All of the stories they produce. All of the prayers they can lift. The way they can construct masterpieces.

Lines, like melodies, singing to me. They seek to encourage and empower and entertain. Like bubbles rising up from the bottom of the sea, they pop and leave marks on those they touch. My hope is that the mark they leave will be gentle and good.

Spilling forth, they come. More and more. May they not just be babble, but may they paint pictures of perfection to be given as gifts to others. And the reward for me is being able to paint with words. To be an artist that creates, not with paint or clay, but with syllables and stanzas. That is my joy.