What We've Left Behind

It’s quiet in my house.


This rarely happens. Right now it is because of the extreme good will of a man who knows me better than I know myself, a man who looked at me last night and said, “I’m taking the kids out tomorrow and you’re staying here.”


So at the end of a blur of a week, my three kids and my husband and my mother-in-law are sitting in a canoe on a lake while I am just sitting.


Two of my babies had birthdays this week and I am not that old, surely not old enough to have been a mother for a decade, surely not old enough to have moved completely past the “four years and under” stage.


As far as Wednesday I still had a nine year old and a four year old as my bookends. But at the end of the week I find myself wondering, what have we left behind?


On Thursday the sweet girl who first made me a mom left behind the single digits. Soon I think she’s going to leave me behind as her head is now up to my ear. On Friday my favorite little boy left behind the “preschool” years, and I tell him every time I pick him up that I’m not going to be able to this much longer and soon he’s going to have to pick me up instead. We have left behind the days of potty training (praisethelord) and squeezable applesauce packets. I don’t have to dress anyone or bathe anyone (praisethelordagain), and even the expectation of feeling a little hand in mine as we walk is not a given anymore.


Yes, time seems to be gaining speed. I’ve always heard “the days are long but the years are short” and I always knew it was true, but it seemed like a cruel trick. Yes, I am aware that these moments are fleeting but I am powerless to make them slow down, and now my children range from ten years old to five years old and I feel the weight of that.


But even as I thought about what we have left behind, what we are leaving behind each time the sun sets, my gaze and my breath are caught by the sunrise. Instead of being afraid and trying so desperately to hold on to what time seems to steal away so quickly, maybe what is ahead is even better.


Double digits may leave behind the simplicity of childhood, but they hold the promise of deep conversations and the earliest seeds of shifting from mother/daughter to friends. Five may look so much bigger than four but it opens the door for greater adventures and discoveries. In early seasons we focus on knowledge but as we press forward, knowledge becomes understanding and understanding becomes wisdom. We plant seeds of faithfulness and character and hope, and as time flies by we are beginning to uncover the fruit.


Rather than weep over what we leave behind, I’d like to “laugh at the days to come.” Because as surely as His mercies have been enough for ten and seven and five years, I know that when the sun sets tonight and rises again tomorrow, His mercies will still be enough.

The Not Fair Day, and How You Are Known

At 9:14 this morning you missed three words on your spelling test, and from there the day was over.

Also, the guitar case pinched your finger. You fell on your head while trying to do a back walkover. The cereal box was empty. You accidently kicked your sister completely off the couch and had to have all couch-sitting privileges removed for the morning. And at least 18 arguments erupted in which you were involved but that were most definitely not your fault at all.

It’s really just not a fair day.

I know you – not completely and not perfectly, but better I think than you know yourself. I know that you light up the room, that you want more than anything in the world to be helpful, that you have the most contagious laugh, and that you feel things more deeply than perhaps people would imagine. I know that it bothers you to death when the picture you drew doesn’t measure up to your expectations, or when someone doesn’t want your help, or when you miss three words on your spelling test.

Being known doesn’t change the not-fairness of this day. But it might just be better.

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.

Though I wish I could tell you differently, not fair days will continue to happen. They’ll just move from seven-year-old concerns to thirty-six-year-old worries. They’ll be full of mistakes of your own making and things that are completely outside of your control. I know because I face them too. And sometimes I understand why things are the way the are, and more often I don’t. It feels like I’m looking through a foggy window. One day all of the questions will be answered, and loose ends will be tied up and the tapestry will be complete. One day it will all make glorious sense.

But today.

On this very not fair day, while the glass is still foggy and the mirror is still dim, we are fully known.

You in your meltdown and I in my inner turmoil are fully known…accurately, intimately, lovingly known.

Formed by the Creator

Recognized by the Shepherd

Acknowledged by the King

Understood by the Savior

And though we may not have answers or closure or understanding yet, we can be assured that there is One who sees, who cares, who knows.

When I tell you that I love you, you always tell me that you love me more, and I always say that’s not possible because I’m so much bigger than you. Maybe, even and especially on the not fair days, we can both learn to rest in the love that is bigger than us all.

A Tribute to the One who Made the Two

This could be a tribute to the one that I call Daddy.

From my earliest memories he easily moved from home to the pulpit and back again because he was the same no matter where he was. In the pulpit he taught patiently, line by line, word by word; he spoke confidently, because he absolutely believed every word that he said. In the pulpit he showed us how to study, how to drink from the fountain of life for ourselves, so that what we learned on Sundays stretched so far beyond that day. In the pulpit he was gentle; in the pulpit he was bold; in the pulpit he laughed (ahem, “The Donkey that Talked,” anyone?) and in the pulpit he cried. In the pulpit he said, “Let’s see what the Word of God has to say about this,” and “I wonder how it is with you today,” and “This is God’s invitation for you.”

At home he taught patiently, day by day, car ride by car ride; he read and spoke and helped us memorize the words of life so that one day we would have a treasure trove inside our hearts that would stretch far beyond those morning rides to school. At home we jumped on his back as he studied and prayed. At home he was gentle and bold and at home he laughed and he cried. At home he said things like “Hold the rope” and called me Janer and made a fish face at my bedroom door in the mornings and made a “place” for my stuffed animals at night.

This is the man who followed me to college two hours away to make sure I arrived safely; who never missed one of my basketball games; who cried when he left me in New Orleans and when he walked me down the aisle and who still regularly looks at me and says, “Have I told you lately…?”, to which I always nod and understand that he is so proud of me; who served for over 40 years in ministry and over 33 of those at the same church, shepherding a flock of people with the same love and tenderness that we knew at home. This is the man who I still call when I am stumped by something in Scripture or when I just need an anchor, to hear something that feels like home.

This could be a tribute to the one that I call Daddy.

This could be a tribute to the one that I call Mom.

My childhood memories are full of silly songs and laughter and safety because of her. She taught me how to celebrate the small things in life, like listening to Christmas music on the 25^th of each month or decorating the house in blue and orange before Dad got home on the night that Auburn beat Georgia. She sounds just like Karen Carpenter when she sings and I learned how to sing harmony by listening her in the car and on the front pew. She was my biggest encourager, speaking words of life and hope over me even before they were yet true. She celebrated my performance in school without ever making me think that it defined me. She taught me how to live as if life is a musical and called me "Shauna" and said things like, “Remember who you are and whose you are” each time I left the house as a teenager, and “Is this going to matter in eternity?” when dealing with problems that grew out of proportion. Those words till echo in my mind to this day.

Perhaps her biggest gift to me has come since I have become a mother and started walking the same road that she has been walking since I have known her. When I call her in desperation and say “I don’t know what I am doing…” or “I feel like I am failing at everything…” she responds with complete confidence – “You are doing fine. You will know what to do when you need to know it. Keep doing the next right thing.” That confidence is irreplaceable and, as I did when I was a child and then a teenager, I have come to realize as an adult and a mother, that my mom is still my biggest cheerleader.

This could be a tribute to the one that I call Mom.

This could be a tribute to the two who together walked through mountains and valleys that come with decades of ministering to people. I saw them flirt with and kiss each other in the living room or the kitchen each day; I heard their prayers through my bedroom wall as I fell asleep each night. They took us on vacation to the New Perry Hotel and listened to oldies in the car and are as different from each other as night and day, but couldn't fit more perfectly. I felt safe and accepted in their presence. I watched them struggle, rejoice, persevere – always together.

Yes, this could be a tribute to the two.

But instead, I think this is a tribute to the One who made the two.

Before I was born, before they were born, He knew the plans He had for them, for us, for me. He knew there was a little house in Milledgeville, a little church called Northside, a little place that He would plant the two, grow them, use them. 33 years has been fast and it has been slow, but it has never been a surprise to the One who made the two. He has guided each step; He has used each circumstance. He has been building His kingdom, equipping the saints, working an eternal weight of glory. At home and in the pulpit and everywhere in between, the story does and has always belonged to Him.

He is the faithful One. My dad and my mom, they taught me how to trust in Him, lean on Him, hope in Him – because He is faithful. All of my life I have been “Bro. Jerry’s daughter” and I have never once been ashamed of that; this week I will watch my dad and mom finish out the calling that God gave them over three decades ago and rest in His plan for them and for Northside. Things will be different and I may or may not feel like crying at random points every day, in such hypothetical situations as a small white dog snipping at my finger while I was out for a run in my neighborhood the other evening, followed by a completely disproportional reaction on my part as I bawled my eyes out, all the while trying to explain to the horrified owner of the small white dog that it really didn’t hurt that badly, it’s just that “My dad is retiring…” which completely explains my emotional breakdown in front of her house. Hypothetically.

But God’s name be praised. Because the story doesn’t start or end with me or with my parents. No, we are all just a piece of the story of redemption, and it will go on and on until the coming of our King. What a privilege, and what a comfort.

I couldn’t be more thankful for the legacy, the foundation, and the continuing encouragement that God has given me through the two that I call mom and dad; but more than that, I rejoice in the faithfulness, wisdom, and love of the One who made the two.

When All the Things Change, Except for the One

Homeostasis.

I still remember the first time I heard the word from a straight-backed wooden desk.

“the tendency toward a relatively stable equilibrium between interdependent elements…the tendency of a system to maintain internal stability, owing to the coordinated response of its parts to any situation or stimulus that would tend to disturb its normal condition or function…”

I might have jumped out of that desk and yelled if not for the fear of living the rest of my high school days as the girl who, well, jumped out of her desk and yelled during a lecture on homeostasis.

Homeostasis. It’s what our bodies do all the time – seeking stability in the face of change, maintaining equilibrium and steadiness and constancy. And it resonated with my 15 year old heart because it put a name to the thing I had always sought. I had a new goal now.

When I grow up, I want to be homeostatic.

I crave stability. I respect steadiness. I want to be like a tree firmly planted, and I would rather everything around me value that quality as well. Can everything please just stop changing?

But it doesn’t. Because since the beginning of time it has been winter, and then spring, and then summer, and then fall.

I remember the summer. I remember the hot, sticky day at Vacation Bible School when I moved from the old life to the new. I remember all of the hot, sticky days at Vacation Bible School after that year, full of dried macaroni crafts and fruit juice and songs, where I learned to love the stories; I remember precept day camps, full of colored pencils and triple spaced papers, where I learned to love the words that contain life; I remember the ice cream socials and watermelon seed-spitting contests and fourth of July celebrations on the lake. Later I remember summer camps and mission trips and growing into the faith that had sprouted in a little upstairs room at Northside Baptist Church.

And you were always there. You, with your servants’ hearts and your laughter and your willingness to love a clumsy, sometimes “know-it-all” preacher’s daughter with thick glasses and a sensitive heart.

You were there in the summer.

I remember the spring. I remember music – children’s musicals filled with ridiculous costumes and dance moves, a band in youth group that was just starting to feel our way through what it means to lead in worship. My hands and heart beginning to discover keys and strings and putting words to melody. Five part harmony, choir cantatas, solos. Pianos and organs and guitars and voices.

And you were always there. You, smiling through all the awkwardness, encouraging me each step along the way, allowing me to make mistakes and grow without feeling judged, giving me space to serve, teaching me gently what it means to come together with the body of Christ week after week and sing in spirit and in truth.

You were there in the spring.

I remember the winter. I remember sickness and surgery, I remember addiction and grief. I remember death. I remember conflict and moral failures and fear that things would never be okay, but they always were.

Because you were there. You were at the hospital with support or at the house with a meal; you were writing letters or calling on the phone. You were at the funerals. You were here, promising my family that you wouldn’t leave or give up when disunity threatened our little piece of the body of Christ.

You were there in the winter.

But there’s something about fall, isn’t there? We came to you in the fall 32 years ago, and now we are leaving in the fall. I remember you sending me off to New Orleans in the fall, with prayers and love and excitement and support, and then you folding me back in a month later, during one of the most uncertain times in my life. I remember having my first baby in the fall, and your prayers holding me up even at such a distance until everything was okay.

You were always there in the fall.

You have helped to raise me; you have taught me, challenged me, planned my wedding, gave so generously when Spencer and I were living in the “gospel ghetto” at Southeastern, welcomed my children just as you welcomed me. You are home, and without you I would not be who I am.

But it’s time for the fall. Time for change. And what I am coming to understand about the seasons is that everything under the sun will change, but there is One who will not.

So I want to leave you with words that come from the pen of an awkward, clumsy preacher’s daughter, who has learned, thanks to you, how to rest not in my own ability to control the change in my life, but in the One who has been writing this story all along…

How firm a foundation we hold in our faith
From one generation to the next proclaim
His steadfast mercy, His enduring love
In every season, He remains the unchanging One.

Love,

The Middle Pickard

Five Months to Change the World, or Maybe it Looks Different Than I Thought

As a child my expectations were never restrained even by reasonable limitations. Ask me what I was going to be when I grew up, and on any given day I could have told you with certainty that I would be anything from an Olympic figure skater to a veterinarian. Never mind that I lived in middle Georgia where frost on the grass counted as an ice storm or that I would climb my Daddy like a tree if I even thought that any creature with more than two legs was within seeing distance. No limits. I knew I could grow up to be whatever I wanted to be. I knew I would grow up to change the world.

My career expectations grew slightly more judicious as I aged, although Grammy-award winning musician or future wife of Prince William occasionally snuck in. But even as maturity reigned me in, I still had confidence that I could do something great for the kingdom of God. Whether through music, or mission work, or public speaking, the platform I always had in my head was large and visible and important. Whatever it was, I knew it would be a platform to change the world.

The stages of life changed as I wondered and anticipated. After high school? After college? When would my season arrive? The time of life that I would take hold of that grand calling and make my mark in the world? I studied, I served, I took hold of the opportunities in front of me all along the way. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I was still waiting for the “big” moment, the one job or opportunity that would make all the difference, that would define my life, that would pull together all my desires and passions in an eternally significant way. I was still waiting to change the world.

Maybe it would be seminary. New Orleans. 2005. But Katrina came and washed that one away. No, not seminary.

Maybe it would be teaching. Second graders in a Title 1 school. A chance to mold little lives into world changers themselves. But every evening ended with me in tears and eating break-and-bake cookies in my bed, dreading the next morning when I would have to go fail in the classroom again. So no, not teaching.

Maybe it would be marriage, and a second chance at seminary. Maybe after three years I would finally earn my M.Div. and then I would be ready. I would grasp my calling and the Lord would give me my place and I would inspire and create and finally change the world.

Three months before graduation, an unexpected gift – We were going to have a baby. From February to November she grew. I graduated. Spencer got into PT school. We moved to the mountains. He started the program. I became a mother.

Technically, between the time that I finished seminary and the time that Claire was born, I had five months.

Five months to change the world.

That’s a lot of pressure.

And guess what? Nothing extraordinary really happened in those five months, except a lot of milkshakes because THE BABY NEEDS CALCIUM.  Then on November 7, 2009, the world flipped and I suddenly understood love and fear and beauty in a way I never had before.

Fast forward nearly ten years. Three little lives, not even babies anymore. The youngest is now a pretty mature four years old, and today I find myself saying things like, “Why on earth did you eat chicken feed?” And that was not even directed at the youngest.

Suddenly, or maybe not suddenly but over my entire lifetime, I am realizing something.

Changing the world looks different than I thought.

Yes, there are names that conjure up the image “world changer.” Explorers. Kings. Missionaries. We read about them and admire them and are inspired by them. But how many humans in all the generations of the history of the world have actually made it into the history books?

I grew up believing I could do anything, and that by doing something extraordinary I would change the world. And maybe God still has that something extraordinary for me to do. It’s not beyond Him. But more and more, I am beginning to see that changing the world looks more like...

One generation shall commend your works to another, and shall declare your mighty acts…

They will come and proclaim His righteousness to a people yet unborn--all that He has done…

We will not hide them from their children, but will declare to the next generation the praises of the Lord and His might, and the wonders He has performed…

It was never about me and what I was going to do for God.

It was always about being a smaller part of something so much greater.

It has been His plan all along – to proclaim the faithfulness of God to the next generation. It is a commission for us all, though how we go about fulfilling it may look different. It may look like my friend in Texas who is pouring out her whole life in a gospel-centered social ministry to immigrants. It may look like my parents who have spent decades serving faithfully in the local church. It may look like my brother who pastors or my sister who is getting ready to foster.

And for me, at this season, in this place, it may look like teaching my children Scripture, helping them navigate what it looks like to love the Lord and their neighbor in each situation, or yes, even explaining the folly of trying the chicken’s food. And because the plan is so much bigger than me, and because I know the Author of it all, and because we walk by faith and not by sight, I have confidence that even though life so far has turned out differently than I had imagined as an Olympic hopeful, I am in fact changing the world.

The Truth that is Outside of Myself

I unloaded my groceries onto the counter and listened to them. Two sweet little hippie girls, probably 18 years old, with nose rings and choppy hair and wide eyes, full of excitement and words and seemingly oblivious to the thirty-something-year-old mom standing in front of them. They discussed politics and books and travel and all the world of possibilities, chatting ninety miles per hour as they absent-mindedly rang up and bagged my groceries. I didn’t mind. I was them yesterday, it seems.

Suddenly the cashier made eye contact and shook her head sheepishly and said, “I’m sorry. We just got caught up in our conversation!” I shoved my card into the reader. “No problem at all. I enjoyed listening to you. I love to hear people who are passionate about life.”

A moment of silence, and then she leaned forward with glittering eyes and said, “What about you? What are you passionate about?”

I can’t imagine a more golden opportunity. Isn’t this why I live my life? For moments like this? To share the hope of the gospel and the life that is found therein? But there, in Trader Joe’s in front of these two eager girls…nothing. I froze.

“What am I passionate about?” I repeated. “What am I passionate about?” and I stumbled around and ended up say something about my kids and homeschooling and education. And those sweet girls nodded and helped me redeem it by expounding on the wonders of sparking excitement about learning in my kids and the opportunity to reclaim my own education in the process. And I smiled weakly and wished them well and then left them behind to their spirited conversation while I walked out the door and listened to the question still ringing in my ears. What about you? What are you passionate about?

Every day since then, I have thought about those girls and their questions and pondered. It’s not that I don’t know what I’m passionate about. I do. It’s Jesus, and the gospel, and redemption and freedom and forgiveness and life. It’s the pervasive nature of living for the glory of God, as a disciple of Christ. It is hope for the individual and hope for the nations. I think the problem for me in that moment was that I couldn’t distill all these things into a few, well-thought words for these beautiful strangers. I felt like I had failed, and I didn’t want it to happen again.

A few weeks ago you and I paced around our front yard probably three hundred times. You were trying to convince me of the utter futility of math, and I was trying to convince you of Romans 8:28. You were so fervent in your arguments, so sure that there is nothing good or fruitful about your having to complete your math assignment every.single.day. So frustrated by that day’s assignment and the problems you were getting wrong. So sure that you should throw in the towel. Such rage against the machine. And I was just as dogged in my attempts to instill a more eternal perspective. Just as passionate about convincing you, not just of the spiraling nature of math and the constant building upon what you have already learned and the relevance and value of math as a discipline, but mostly of the bigger picture – the hope that regardless of the practical advantages of doing your math every day, there is a bigger story being written. That God’s promises are true regardless of how we feel or what we see in front of us. That even if you don’t think any good can come out of doing your assignments, God has utterly promised to use even that hated math for good in your life. To produce character. To grow faith. To make you more like Christ.

It was a battle of the wills between two equally stubborn souls, and neither of us emerged as the clear victor. But I did emerge with an answer.

What about you? What are you passionate about?

If ever faced with that question again, I know the answer, thanks to a debate about math. What am I passionate about?

Truth. Truth that is outside of ourselves, and how we feel, and what we think. Truth that is valid all the time and for everyone, no matter what we believe about it. Truth that stands. That’s what I am passionate about.

For you, today, that truth is that God is using math as a part of the “all things” to work together for your good. You can claim that truth no matter how you feel, believe it no matter what your eyes tell you – or you can ignore it, forget, refuse to be comforted by it. It doesn’t depend on you. And I want you to know that the seasons and the circumstances and the struggles may change, but the truth will not. It is outside of yourself.

So when the trials seem unbearable and the loneliness too deep…

He is good.

When the grip of sin seems too strong and you fail once again…when you are sure that you are too broken to be loved or used for His glory…

He is enough.

When the path seems winding and your days run together…when the tasks before you feel pointless and you are overwhelmed by the mundane…

He is wise.

When things seem to be spiraling out of control…when you look to your right and your left and see chaos, and nothing is making sense or coming together like you think it should…

He is sovereign.

When it looks like the enemy is winning…when people disappoint you and even betray you…when the ones you love the most are being hurt, and evil seems to be going unnoticed…

He is just.

Shepherd. Redeemer. Counselor. King. Avenger. He is for us, not against us; redemption has been accomplished, the debt paid, the power of sin canceled; He is working all things together for the good of those who love Him, causing trials to lead to character to lead to hope; He is not unaware of evil and is not mocked. A man will reap what he sows. Faithfulness will be rewarded. The gospel will triumph, the saints will persevere. These things, they are revealed by our very Creator in His word and they stand outside of us. They are true no matter what we feel or think or see. They are true whether people acknowledge them or not.

And next time I see those Trader Joe’s check-out girls, I know what I will tell them: What is my passion? It is the truth that is outside of myself.

The Things I Think I Will Remember

You said so many things, so clearly, and they didn’t get it. Things like, “The Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.” Completely ambiguous and non-specific, right? But they just didn’t get it. Later they did. Later they remembered.

At first His disciples did not understand these things, but after Jesus was glorified they remembered what had been done to Him, and they realized that these very things had also been written about Him.

When it was all said and done, they remembered and it all came together and made perfect sense. But as obvious as the message seems to us on this side of the cross, to them it wasn’t clear at all. At least not at first. Not while they were in the middle of it.

Today I am in the middle of it. Today I can’t always remember the things that I think I will remember when today is over. Not when I am bandaging cuts that occurred after someone fell off the windowsill because obviously that is a very good spot to stand to watch the stump-grinder get rid of the remains of the tree in the front yard, or when I am answering questions like, “Mom, did I get all the ketchup out of my hair?” or “Mom, watch this! Are you looking? Are you looking now? Are you looking now???”

But one day, when the power struggles have faded to a memory and I am no longer finding piles of 8 towels used to dry off one small human being after a water-hose fight in the backyard, these are the things I think I will remember, and I think I will wonder why they seemed so hazy to me at all during this season called “today.”

You say, “Remain in Me, and I will remain in you. Just as no branch can bear fruit by itself unless it remains in the vine, neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in Me. I am the vine and you are the branches. The one who remains in Me, and I in him, will bear much fruit. For apart from Me you can do nothing.” And I hear You, but still I find myself running back to my own efforts and depending on my sub-par commitment to my Erin Condren designer calendar that looks pretty good through the first half of February, and then from mid-February to now looks kind of pitiful which is then reflected in my slightly overdramatic response to the mess in my house that obviously isn’t getting cleaned because I haven’t written it down in my calendar which was once so full of potential. Fail. Fail. Fail. And You are whispering over me, “Abide, abide, abide.” One day I think I will remember that and I will exhale and see with my own eyes that it really is the better way.

You say, “Beloved…be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.” And I hear You, but still I reach my 2:00 PM slump and have a moment of panic wondering what in the world I am doing with my life. And I repeat things like, “Keep your chair on the floor” and “Think before you speak” and “Let’s try that again” and “Think before you speak” and “What do you think you need to do right now? That’s right, let’s go apologize” and “How about this, let’s just don’t speak at all right now.” And I wonder, is it even making a difference? And You are whispering over me, “It matters.” One day I think I will remember that and see that it really does.

I say, “What must I do to do the works of God?” Must I rise early and go for a prayer walk and study the Word before anyone stirs, and what if I fail? Or what if I don’t feel the way I think I’m supposed to when I do those things? Do I need to say yes to all the opportunities to do good, and if I don’t will I mess up my children forever? What are the works of God and am I doing them well or am I doing them at all? What if I fail? And You say, “The work of God is this: to believe in the One He has sent.” I hear You and I want to embrace it and find freedom in it and still I find myself searching for a more involved, likely more self-sufficient answer. I wonder, what else do I need to do to make this life work? And You are whispering over me, “Believe. Just believe.” One day I think I will remember that and I will see that it was all that really ever mattered, because “this is eternal life, that we know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You sent.”

I hear many things. Love covers a multitude of sins…Let us not grow weary while doing good, for in due season we shall reap, if we do not lose heart…In Christ Jesus neither circumcision nor uncircumcision counts for anything, but only faith working through love. One day I think all these things will come together in a different way. But I am not living in One Day. I am living in Today. In the Middle, with messy little people and more dirty laundry than I understand. And as far as my mind and my heart can comprehend, I will hold onto these truths and live in them as deeply as I can, even now, even if I cannot see how they all will come together in the end. Because that’s what faith is – being sure of what we hope for, and certain of what we do not see.

The Heart Wrenching Work of Not Fixing You

It happens when you set your jaw and narrow your eyes and I can tell that it’s going to be a longer battle than it has to be. When I know that it is fear that drives you and that the stubbornness you brought with you into this world can be a weapon for good or for destruction, and I can’t make you choose which one.

It happens when your perception of yourself is already skewed, and instead of seeing your worth you only see your failure to measure up to everyone around you. When I can clearly see your beauty and your value and the lies that pile themselves up around you and inside you, and I can tell you the difference but I can’t make you believe the thing that is true.

It happens when you fail and you hide behind your fig leaves and it takes you a solid hour to get up the courage to actually confess what you did, and when it’s over you are still weighed down. When we celebrate the strength and courage that it took to admit your mistake, and we tell you of the freedom of being in the light and not hiding, and still I cannot make you feel un-sad.

I can’t fix you, and it’s the hardest thing about my life.

The things I desire for you…peace, freedom, confidence…those are things I can’t deliver. I can say the words. I can fill up the room with truth. I can write it on the walls and sing it over your beds and read it at the table. I can want it for you so earnestly.

But I can’t be your savior.

So tonight I will lift up my eyes to the mountains.

Where does my help come from?

Where can I find the energy to keep doing good? The faith to sow and water and nurture and not have one ounce of power over the outcome? The courage to smile at a future full of unknowns? The strength to bear with you in joy and in sorrow? To listen and love without condition, knowing that you are each a soul outside of myself, that I cannot and should not control?

My help comes from the Lord

The Lord. Creator. Sustainer. Redeemer. Yes, Redeemer of mistakes and of sinners and of failures. Full of mercy and compassion. Teacher. Burden-bearer. Wisdom-giver. Lover of my soul and lover of yours. Savior. King. Sovereign, wise and good. So much better than I.

Maker of heaven and earth

Yes, Maker of heaven and earth. Maker of me, and Maker of you. Maker who has given me the task, the heart-wrenching task, of loving and teaching and guiding and delighting in you, but not of fixing you…but who has also given me the most beautiful hope of trusting His infinitely more capable hand, and resting in He who loves you more deeply than I ever can.

Under the Sun, It All Comes Undone

Vanity of vanities.

I have seen some things under the sun.

I have seen a sink that fills to the brim with dirty dishes 46 times per day. I have done three loads of laundry only to find that every hamper in the house is still overflowing. I have swept the floor and still found it covered with crumbs. I have seen 800 socks missing their friends.

Vanity.

I have done e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g I know to do to be on time and have still spent an entire Tuesday running late. I have cleaned off the countertops one evening and then spent the next day making breakfast and packing lunches and cooking supper and running into the house to make three snacks before we go anywhere and gone to bed that night with full countertops again. I have made breakfast and packed lunches and cooked supper and run into the house to make three snacks before we go anywhere and then closed my eyes every time I heard the words “I’m still hungry.”

Chasing after the wind.

I have seen bath time followed by mud pies. I have seen conversations ending unresolved. Discipline ending without restoration. Effort poured in, fruit not blooming yet. Shoes and half-sketched pictures on the floor in every room. 2 hours cleaning out the minivan, and full of coats and magazines and candy wrappers and leaking water bottles 2 days later.

The sun has risen, and I have seen some things under the sun. Like my to-do list. Like all the things I didn’t get done the day before, or all the things I did do that have been undone.

Because it seems like everything I do gets undone.

Laundry. Dishes. Meals. Advice. Correction.

Martha, Martha.

I woke up under the sun and listened.

You are worried and bothered about so many things..

I know, Lord. But it’s so much. And it all comes undone.

But only one thing matters…

But I only have ten minutes at most before they wake up, before the list multiplies. If I don’t get ahead now, I’ll be behind all day.

It is the good part, and the only thing that will not be taken away…

And that is where I stop.

It will not be taken away?

Everything else comes undone, but sitting at His feet…listening to Him whisper His truth over me…getting on my knees…pouring out my heart…burying my face in His word…finding out who He is and who I am…

It won’t be taken away. It infuses all the other things with meaning. It frees me to serve in the futility of this life with hope. It corrects my vision.

So when the tasks overwhelm, and the day stretches on, help me to choose the good part. To trade a few moments of productivity for stillness. To trust enough to lay down the list and sit at Your feet.

It’s the one thing that won’t come undone.