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.

The Day That You Did Not Like Me at All

I would say that we had a pretty smooth day today, as evidenced by the following annotations found on your schoolwork from this morning…

No. No, it was not a smooth day. It was a long, rough day. It was a day that you did not like me at all.

On the day that you did not like me at all, I saw you. I saw the epic struggle of the ages settled into your eight year old eyes, the dissonance between what you want life to be and what life is. I saw your frustration with your own limitations underneath your protests. I saw how unfair it all felt to you, and I know. I know because I was born with the same loathing of anything that feels unfair. The difference is that I’ve had 35 years to learn that my definition of “fair” isn’t always accurate. You don’t have that advantage yet, and you are still at the front of a long road to attain it.

On the day that you did not like me at all, I prayed for you. I prayed at every tense moment and in between. I prayed for your heart and for my sanity and for wisdom and patience and understanding. I prayed that you would find rest from this struggle in Christ. That you would grow in grace and knowledge and truth. That you would see foolishness for what it is. That you would remember and believe that you are fully loved.

On the day that you did not like me at all, I needed Jesus as much as you did. This parenting journey has brought me to the end of myself more than anything in my life. It has brought me face to face with my own weakness and fear and insecurities and selfishness. I’ll let you in on a secret that’s not really a secret at all – I don’t really know what to do 80% of the time. But what I do know is that the Lord of Hosts is with us, and the God of Jacob is our stronghold. I know that He is perfect in all of His ways and that He turns ashes to beauty and that He is the very definition of love. I know that He is our Shepherd and Counselor and King. I know that He redeems us from the pit and that His faithfulness is great and His mercies are new every morning.

On the day that you did not like me at all, I loved you. I loved you imperfectly, yes, but fiercely nonetheless. I loved you, not because of what you do, but because you are mine. I am not disappointed in you at this end of this day; I am for you, and you bring immeasurable joy to my heart.

Tomorrow is a new day with new mercies. No matter what it holds, I am most privileged to be your mom, and to lean into this journey of grace and redemption alongside of you.

I love you today, and I love you tomorrow; I love you as deep as the sea…I love you in joy, and I love you in sorrow; you can always come home to me…

On Guitars and Motherhood

On a hot Friday in July I turned seventeen. I walked in the front door after a spending a week at a youth camp in Laguna Beach and found sitting on the couch a brown acoustic guitar adorned with a pink bow. It was a gift that would change my life.

I still remember and am sure that my parents also remember (bless their souls) those first days and weeks with “Daisy,” as I promptly named her. I remember exactly how my fingers awkwardly walked to the right places on the right strings – index on second string, second fret; middle on first string, third fret; ring on bottom string, third fret – and pressed painfully into the steel as I played my first G-D-Em-C progression over. and over. and over. and over again. “Jesus Lover of my Soul.” There’s a good chance I never played that song again after the seven thousand I played it that first two weeks.

What amazes me now is how I don’t think about it anymore. I see a “G” on a chord sheet and my fingers involuntarily end up at the right places on the right strings. I hear the music fall into the minor third and without thinking I find my fingers falling into place. Not painstakingly walking into place anymore. Not mechanically counting strings and frets. Not pausing between chords to find my way.

The other night I sat in the driver’s seat and sighed. You probably heard me whisper, “I feel like a playwright.”  You probably also had no clue what I meant, but that’s okay. See, I had spent all day writing lines for you. No, honey, you need to say “May I please have that when you are done?” instead of grabbing it out of his hands. Buddy, you need to say it like this - “Where are we going?” instead of “Wheeeeerrrrre are we goooooooooooooooooooiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnggggguuuuhhhhh?” Try it this way. Say this instead. For the love.

There are times when I wonder if it’s going to bear fruit. I want to get to the heart of the matter every time, and I wonder if this rote overwriting of your dialogue is even helpful at all. But then I think about my little aching fingers walking to the notes…and then slowly, slowly, remembering. Remembering where to go, until it was second nature. And then – only then – being able to enjoy the beauty of the music that was being created.

So much of this mothering is maneuvering awkwardly to help you find the right notes. So often I do feel like we are playing the same chord progression for the one hundred millionth time. But this uncomfortable, tedious process – it’s leading to something better. I know it is, because He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it until the day of Christ.

So even though sometimes I do sit in the driver’s seat and sigh, or sneak into the craft room and pretend like I just can’t hear World War III breaking out in the living room, I want you to know that I am most privileged to help you find your way in these days. And one day, I pray the notes and chords will be second nature, and the music your lives produce for the King will be just right.

When Mother's Day Ends Unprettily

Sometimes Mother’s Day is full of flowers and lazy afternoons and all the kids smiling and getting along marvelously.

And then sometimes Mother’s Day comes at the end of a very long and intensely busy week and it ends with me falling asleep in the middle of reading a book aloud to you at 7:00 PM and then waking up to hear screaming protests from every.single.bedroom in the house because Daddy is trying to make you go to bed even though you are NOT TIRED AT ALL. And then the next day is Monday and my goodness is it ever Monday. And Monday is full of headaches and whining and quarreling and emotional spirals and a mom who is desperately awaiting the next bedtime.

Motherhood is tired, and sometimes I forget to see the hope.

Motherhood is frustrating, and sometimes I forget to see the point.

Motherhood is messy, and sometimes I forget to see the beauty.

Motherhood is slow, and sometimes I forget how quickly the years will pass.

Motherhood is helpless, and sometimes I forget to lean on grace.

But you. You are spent and sobbing through yawns and fighting sleep with every ounce of your six year old strength tonight. You are outside of me, and I cannot tune your heart or make you see reason. You are outside of me, but you are a part of me, and I love you so much that it aches.

Motherhood is tired, but it is staying up and whispering words of hope and promise into the dark over your sleeping form.

Motherhood is frustrating, but it is embracing the long view and knowing that the good Shepherd never lets the journey go to waste.

Motherhood is messy, but it is willingly entering into the mess beside you and entrusting my mistakes into the hands of a Potter who turns ashes into beauty.

Motherhood is slow, but it is living in the day as long as it is called “today”, and walking by faith the path laid out beforehand.

Motherhood is helpless, but it is not. It is depending on the Helper who loves you better than I ever can. It is crying out every morning for wisdom and every night for mercy.

I know today was a hard day for you. It was hard for me too. But even on a hard Monday, you are full of hope and purpose and beauty and grace. You are full of the image of God and motherhood is growing with you in that image. Motherhood is hard, but I want you to know - even on the hardest Monday after Mother's Day - that you are worth it.