the advantage of being small

This past Thursday was one of those days.

Every little thing seemed BIG and the big things seemed GIGANTIC.

Even as I struggled to keep it together in the midst of constant squabbles and general mayhem, I knew in my head that the things that seemed big were really small.  And I knew there was grace sufficient for the really big things.  But somehow what I knew in my head wasn't making it to my heart.

I knew too I could bluster through and it would probably be pretty messy.

OR we could go on an adventure.    We chose the latter.

Six items from the McDonald's value menu, one phone call to a friend for directions, one detour to rendezvous with Jim and use the potty, and we were off!  Braley Pond was our destination.

Here's what I considered as we rode, explored, wondered,      and breathed.

When my surroundings are small, I feel big.  When I feel big, I feel like I have to manage it all.

When I get out where my surroundings are big and the incredible details of the created world - big or small - are infinitely astounding, I remember that I am really small.  And in my smallness, I realize that I don't begin to fathom the bigness of our God.

The limitlessness of His love and wisdom and power.

How I can trust Him!  How I can delight in being small and yet being loved!


Here are some pics from our Alice in Wonderland adventure, when big and small were all mixed up and I remembered the order of things in the process.

O LORD, our Lord,

how majestic is Your name in all the earth!

You have set Your glory above the heavens.

Out of the mouth of babies and infants,

You have established strength because of Your foes,

to still the enemy and the avenger.

When I look at Your heavens, the work of Your fingers,

the moon and the stars, which You have set in place,

what is man that You are mindful of him,

and the son of man that You care for him?

- Psalm 8:1-4

"no! it's only God's!"

At the kitchen sink or counter, cleaning up or dishing up.  I hear the voices from the girls' room, always partly listening to know when I'm needed.  To step in, to solve a problem, to speak a word of correction or encouragement, to restore order.

My ears prick up when the volume escalates and conversational tones get strident.  From the midst of the indeterminate babble I hear a strong declaration, "No, it's only God's!"

Elian.  Our not quite four year old philosopher.  Getting on the other side of a truth she's been taught to use it for her own ends.

Her sisters had told me this had become her battle cry in the dispute over the use of their things.  When they hold back a toy or book or doll she particularly wants to use, she challenges their defense of "It's mine" with "No, it's only God's!"

I was a bit amused when I first heard that she was doing this.  It told me that she was listening when we talked about Hebrews 13:16, "Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God."  I remind the girls that all that we have is a gift from God, to be enjoyed, yes, but to be held as a sort of stewardship, loosely.

Amused but also challenged.  How do we help her turn the truth back around so that she takes it by the handle and not by the blade, hurting herself as she strengthens her passions?

And then there was the day she used her weapon on me.

The refrigerator magnets that I use to organize the paraphernalia and scraps that organize my brain.  Small, brightly colored magnets that resemble thumb tacks without the point.  Very tempting to little ones but also a potential choke hazard, so ongoing correction had been countering ongoing disobedience in response to brightly colored temptation.

Papers were once again scattered and disarrayed, and the guilty party came trotting down the hall toward the kitchen with a magnet in her mouth and several in her hand.

Frustration.

"Elian, how many times have I told you not to take down my magnets?  You're messing up all of my papers, and Grace could get one in her mouth and choke on it!"

Chiding hardens.  I know that, but it's the path of least resistance, and I still sometimes find myself stumbling along its familiar terrain.

Little chin went up, and lash-fringed defiance looked me clear in the eyes.  "They're not yours, only God's!"

Her eyes saw mine clearly, and the chin went down a little.  "God's AND yours."

Problem was not solved, but I had cause to think, not only about the way I had mishandled correction, but also about the standard I am holding up for the girls.  Do I have the same standard for myself?  Do I hold the things I call mine loosely?  Am I ready to give, to share... whenever?

I assessed my attitude toward stuff, and I felt that I pretty much practiced what I preached.

Sigh.    I forgot for the moment that the label "mine" attaches easily to other than the material.


A few days later brought the question to the forefront again, as I was making up our bed in the long awaited white cotton with eyelet.  Freshly laundered mattress pad, pillow covers and cases, blanket, and quilt, all faintly scented with bleach - pleasant to me.  I looked forward all day, as I tucked and patted and smoothed the various layers fresh from the dryer, to the pleasure of climbing between all that crisp, clean coolness that evening.  When the girls came near in a game they were playing, I reminded them (no doubt much more strongly than usual!) that beds were for resting and quietness, not for playing.

Take your pleasure somewhere else; you're infringing on mine.

My work took me to another part of the house, but shortly I was drawn back down the hall by sounds of hilarity emanating from the bedroom.  I rushed back to prevent the thing I feared - girls playing on the freshly made bed - only to find girls playing IN the freshly made bed, bouncing and shouting with laughter between the sheets, every bounce and shout stealing... my clean, my crisp, my cool.  My moment of pleasure.

Again, frustration.
Again, coming down too hard.

And in the moments after the chastised but not truly sorry girls left the room, I took my chastened and truly sorry heart before the LORD, knowing I had labeled something mine and not been willing to share, knowing that I had missed an opportunity to extend grace and in doing so connect with the hearts of my girls.  Had I really considered a mere moment of pleasure more important than guiding my girls' hearts into the love and grace of God?

A fleeting earthbound moment rippling influence into things eternal.  If I had stopped to think, if my vision had been fixed, I would have handled that moment differently.

And I thought more broadly about the things I call mine.  

my time 

my abilities  

my energy  

my desires 

my goals  

my work

my hurts

my struggles

my joys

my fears

my reputation

my relationships

  

my family.

With sobered awareness, it occurred to me that the problem begins with the label, with calling things mine that are really not.

The earth is the LORD's and the fullness thereof,

the world and those who dwell therein,

for He has founded it upon the seas 

and established it upon the rivers.

Psalm 24:1 

I need to take to my very heart the truth that I am not my own.  That I have been bought with a price.  That my treasure is not here.  

Whom have I in heaven but you? 

And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you. 

Psalm 73:25

I pray for the grace to be ready to give, to share ... whenever, whatever, with whomever for the sake of Christ.  I want to live remembering, and embodying, His words, "And whoever gives one of these little ones even a cup of cold water because he is a disciple, truly, I say to you, he will by no means lose his reward." (Matt. 10:42)

When I think in terms of "mine", I have the anxiety that goes along with holding on, with taking care.  When I remember that all of these things belong to Him who made me, loved me, died for me, and is healing me, I can rest, hands open, knowing that HE is holding on, HE is taking care.

And when my heart is tempted to grab on and hang on and His Spirit within me eases my hand open, I thank Him for the freedom as I say to myself with the determination of a not quite four year old, "No! It's only God's!"

Only God's.

jawlipops (aka jollypops)

A friend of mine told me that research has been done that proves that sugar has no real impact on children's behavior.

I was kind of excited to hear this, because historically we've been a bit of restrictive with our girls' treats, hoping to help keep emotions and behavior on an even keel.

Now, I believe in the scientific method and all, and I'm not saying the research was wrong.  

And I'm not saying my friend was wrong.

I guess I'm just saying that the study... 

... didn't include my kids!

Not pictured but present - one mama with a yellow, banana-flavored ring around her mouth (yep, mama's going bananas!) and a smile to match the girls'.  

Because, as they say, if you can't beat 'em (...hmmm), join 'em!

And the sweetest part of all was hearing, "Mama, you look like a kid.  Well, you look like a teenager."

Much nicer than the "you look like a chicken" and "you feel like a chicken" I received a few weeks ago!

laundry bliss

Today has been laundry day.

By that I mean that nearly every waking moment of today has been spent in or near the laundry room.  Yes, I've prepared (and eaten) meals, cleaned up dishes, helped little ones dress, read stories, put the baby down for a nap, but as each of these things were accomplished, I dashed off as quickly as I could down to the laundry room to check the status of the washer and dryer, buried my nose in clothes just out of the dryer to check their freshness, folded another load before they cooled and wrinkled, sorted, stain treated, stain treated again.  

I am still in my pajamas and haven't showered (which I normally can't stand), because I don't want to interrupt the laundry cycle.  I have resisted the lure of the playful breeze outside and the delight of grubbing in the dirt, foregoing the pleasure of being a part of planting the garden, captured by the siren song of the spin cycle.

And it has been bliss.

Really.  I never knew laundry could be so much fun.

Even Jim seems to have a fresh relish for the laundry process, heading down occasionally to the recesses of the basement and then coming up to tell me, "You ought to see that spin action!"

What has turned an ordinary household chore into a source of such enjoyment?

Well, for the first time in many, many months, the washer is working the way it is supposed to.  Thanks to about $300 in parts, and the hard work and know-how of my husband, I am not standing in a puddle of water when I approach the washer, and the machine is actually spinning out the loads, getting clothes clean!  I can actually fill the washer to a "super" load and expect results.

BLISS.

The pile on the laundry room floor is... still a pile, but it is shrinking!  

Stacks of clean, folded clothes are waiting to fill little girls' drawers (practically empty as our laundry dilemma had reached crisis point in the last two weeks).

Fluffy, white towels exude a freshness that will not make one feel the need to bathe again after one's bath. 

Dishrags occupy the kitchen drawer so that I will not have to ruin another washcloth in kitchen tasks.

And I've been waiting for weeks to salute the arrival of spring by switching out espresso flannel sheets for crisp, white cotton edged in eyelet.  (Tomorrow?!)

As I have been enjoying a fresh perspective on a normally humdrum task today, I thought back to a book I read in which one of the characters always hummed or sang, "Whiter than snow, yes, whiter than snow" on her wash day.  And I couldn't help but think about the dirty laundry of the soul and the way that grace is somewhat like a washing machine that never malfunctions.

There is such joy in the simplicity of being able to take my heart made dirty by sin to Jesus and to have it made clean again by washing with His blood.

When life gets messy, and the overflow of my heart reveals grace need, I don't have to ignore the need or call it something other than what it is.  I don't have to mask the offending odor by putting a clothespin on my nose or overlook the grime by squinting or wearing sunglasses!  I don't have to take out the stain stick and get to work on myself.  I don't have to scrub myself raw on the washboard of condemnation and guilt.  

All I have to do is come to Christ and ask, once again, for cleansing, for forgiveness, for renewal.

Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,
 and cleanse me from my sin!  

… Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
 wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.    

Psalm 51:2, 7

It's mine.  Real, fresh, powerful clean.  


LORD, be pleased to make my life exude the freshness of the fragrance of Christ!

My sin - oh the BLISS of this glorious thought -

my sin, not in part, but the whole,

Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more!

Praise the LORD, praise the LORD, oh my soul!

BLISS.

Oops, gotta go.  I just heard the buzzer on the dryer.  Bring on the dirt!

a day with flat stanley

I was joking with Jim that I ought to have titled my blog "Saturday Evening Post", because it seems that I typically post weekly, typically on Saturday nights.  Last week, however, I didn't post at all, because we had a very busy week, ending with a very busy Saturday.

Something different about our Saturday was the presence of a little crayon-colored person named Flat Stanley.  He arrived at our home as a mere outline on a sheet of paper, folded up in a #10 envelope along with an invitation from the girls' cousin, Quinn, to participate in his 1st grade class project.  Our challenge was to decorate him in clothing similar to what we would wear, include him in our activities, and then share our experiences with Quinn's class via pictures, etc.  The 1st graders would then get to experience life in different parts of the country (and the world) through their little fold-up friend.

Here is an overview of our day with Flat Stanley.

In the morning on our way to Grace Christian School for the Walk for Life, I hastily cut Flat Stanley from his paper prison and scribbled on hair, a face, and clothes.  Cordelia insisted that I color his shorts darker purple, because she didn't want his skin to show through.

Unloading from the van, getting ready to walk.

Flat Stanley and Cordelia posed for the camera while Jim and the girls enjoyed watching Dotti's sweet little Teddy make friends with another furball at the ComfortCare Women's Health Center.

It's hard to smile when your mouth is full of Little Debbie treats!  Refreshments were one highlight of the walk for the girls.

It was fun to visit with friends while gearing up for the walk back.  Brenda and Shelby got a kick out of Flat Stanley, too.

In the afternoon, the girls helped Jim get the garden ready for tilling by spreading peat moss and sand.  Based on what came out of their clothes later, I'd say THEY were ready for tilling!

In case there's any question why Flat Stanley arrived in Conroe, TX a little smudgy, here's the reason.

Flat Stanley was as enthusiastic about sweeping the deck as Cordelia.

To round out the day, our cookout turned into an eat-in as it began to pour just before we sat down.  Our weekly Saturday guest, David,  brought friends who were passing through.  We enjoyed meeting George (American), Anna (Australian), and Tabea (German).  Though Staunton is not in itself an exotic locale, Flat Stanley got quite the multi-cultural experience during his visit.

Thanks for the visit, Flat Stanley!  Next time, will you bring Quinn with you?

the power of His resurrection

Earth expectant
Anticipating the morning
Sun, origin of sun, original Son
Time all before, all to come
Eternity in a moment
Rising

This week began with the celebration of the reason for our hope.

Garbed in fresh tie (Jim), and hats and dresses (the girls), we joined our church family to fellowship and be glad that our Savior is risen and that one day we too will rise to be with Him, to be like Him.

As I entered the week, and the celebration, the words "the power of His resurrection" reverberated in my head.  They sang out in the pauses, and I had my eyes and heart open to seeing that power around me.  And I saw much that gave me joy and encouragement.

I savored the touches of beauty and order with which the week began, expectant and hopeful.   

I include these pictures here to remind myself that these sweet trappings of earth that feebly point a finger at Beauty were, too, a part of the week to come.

Because somehow, before the close of Easter day, everything rapidly became very messy and I found the words "where is" creeping in before "the power of His resurrection" and a question mark following.

There was the mess of living.  

Incidents (four tornado warnings and a funeral) and accidents (suture removal) brought the unplanned into everyday, leaving four little girls and two big people tired and grumpy.

There was the mess of being messy.  

Flip flops, rain boots, and Sunday shoes competing for space and spilling out of the shoe basket and off of the shelf (helped continually in their pilgrimage across the family room floor by an 18-month old with a shoe fetish!).  Winter clothes and spring clothes in various stages of trading places, colliding on nearly every horizontal surface and in a mountain on the laundry room floor.  Ongoing discovery of secret hiding places for the paraphernalia of living that come into play when the order is given, "Go clean up your room."  Goldfish crumbs strewn throughout the living room - which leads to the issue of the mess of disobedience.

There was the mess of relationships.  

The film of fractures felt rather than declared.  Words that glanced like a flat pebble across the surface and never plunged into the depths of the real.  Longing across gulfs.  Silences that scream, sharp words that hit false targets, concealing.

There was the mess of hearts still needy - including my own.

And in the middle of it all, there I was, hating all the mess, longing for beauty (and, incidentally, contributing to some of the above temporal messes as I neglected my domestic domain at times in order to seek to capture it through a camera lens!), longing to see the transforming power of the gospel in love and joy and communion, longing to see the arm of the LORD bared in working wonders, and wondering where the power was.  The lump in my throat took up semi-permanent residence.

A phone call with my brother Jack began to shift my vision away from the mess and back to my Source. As I shared a bit of my struggle, he said, "Al, the only way I've been praying for others lately is that God would pour out His grace on them.  Because sometimes real self-awareness can kill a person.  I mean, literally kill them.  All the promises I read of God's compassion and mercy are for them, too, though it's easier to see it for myself.  His Grace may mean that He works slowly, as much as they can stand at a time."

Aha.

In a moment I was reminded of how God has worked in me.  How patient He has been.  How He only revealed my heart to me in stages and how, when He worked in a big way, the massive upheaval I experienced brought me to a place of wanting to die, literally die.

I began to taste the dust in my mouth again and remembered again that I had forgotten that I had died.

A phone call and prayer with one of my sisters reminded me that I had been forgetting to praise, forgetting to believe and hold on to the promises of God.  We prayed the promises before Him, asking Him to do according to His Word.

And the dust filled my mouth completely as I reflected on how far I had wandered from a place of
seeking in stillness,
waiting willingness,
quiet expectancy and praise.

I rehearsed my heart, and it told that I had sought to be loved more than to love, to be understood more than to understand, to be encouraged more than to encourage.  It told how far I was from being like Jesus.

Asking for forgiveness, I realized that my vision had shifted to the pointing finger and away from the One to whom it points.  And my failure to be like Him was because I was failing to see Him - letting discouragement and hurt and impatience get between.

And discouragement, hurt, and impatience had gotten in the way of recounting the wonderful deeds of the LORD in that week, in that mess:
- the email from a friend that so richly expressed the mercies of God to us both;
- the movement toward victory in a little heart, prayer and the Word disarming defiance;
- moments of laughter and fun;
- grace given to make apologies, make oneself vulnerable;
- phone calls and notes that reminded us of God's continuing presence and continuing work.


When I recognized the ingratitude of my heart, I realized that the reason that I tasted the dust is that I am dust.

Until this mortal is swallowed up in immortality, I will always be dust.  Yes, I am being changed, being transformed to be like Him, but I will never not need to be in that place at His feet.

LORD Jesus, be pleased to bend down and write with your finger in the dust that I am words that bring hope and healing, that remove condemnation and judgment, and encourage others in righteousness.

I, even I, will sing unto the LORD,

For ever and for ever the Adored;

I, even I, though I be dust, will sing

To Him Who even now is conquering.

             - Amy Carmichael

I'm going to keep looking unto Jesus, somewhat the way Cordelia eyed this coconut cake, eager to see all that He will do in our midst.  Hopeful.  Expectant.  Patient with joy.

"My heart is fixed, O God, my heart is fixed:  I will sing and give praise." Ps. 57:7

egg-citement

getting organized...

...and they're off!

in spite of her slow start, the first egg is found by Grace

sometimes you can't see the forest, or the egg, for the trees

the competition is heating up

little sister studies big sister's technique

is it a keeper?

the master egg trader working a deal

do you get double the treats if you find the same egg twice?

Grace gets good advice for next year's hunt, like "golf balls don't count."

one person's junk is another's treasure