The lie of mommy guilt

I leaned close to her face and kissed her nose.
Her hair sprawled out on the rug all around her, a halo of chocolate.
She smiled, her face morning soft and her hand stole around my neck.

“You are my chocolate bar,” I whispered, and her eyes sparkled.
She and her blond sister look so different that we tease them about being chocolate and caramel, equally delicious but individual as can be.

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The winter wonderland outside pressed hard on the window panes, but the roaring flames in the fireplace fought back, warm winning in this old farmhouse. I reached for my coffee cup, half drunk. I always take my time, both because I burn my mouth so quickly, and because I love to prolong the warm goodness as long as I can. So long, in fact, my husband shakes his head sadly and hands me his favorite mug, now empty, long before I’m done.

My chocolate girl pulls her beloved blanket up over her face,  entirely hidden except her fingers “cornering” the worn corners out the top. She has bonded with this blanket, found comfort in an addicting sort of way. Skip the pacifier- we’ve hauled this lovely but chunky blanket everywhere we have taken this child; on the road trip from the east coast to the west, in planes and busses in Central America.

When the house is too quiet for too long, I’ll regularly find her sprawled on the floor somewhere, cuddled up to the blanket, her thumb in her mouth and fingers strumming against the corner. And while it is horribly convenient, I’ll be honest- I’ve felt guilty. Somehow this blanket provides the constant comfort and stability that I somehow feel as her mother, I should be doing.  If I were a perfect mother, she wouldn’t find the need to put herself down for a nap in a random room- I’d already have sensed she was exhausted and tucked her in.

I set my coffee cup down on the hearth, and she pulls me close.
“I love you more…”
Her squishy little arms wrap around my neck and pull me in.
“I love you too,” I whisper back, “more than french fries!”
She squirms happily, unaware that this mommy of hers faces a giant taunting lies and hurling insults every day.

I was unprepared for this thing of mommy guilt.
While I soaked in the intoxicating delight of my first baby, I didn’t hear the tidal wave of expectations and “a good mom will…” rising heaven high and ready to crash at my back door. I didn’t even realize they were there, those sinister voices, and dark faces, peering in my windows at night and standing over me in bed, till my little brood grew from one to three. By then, the rows of cloth diapers flapping in organized, color coded lines in the breeze gave way to bulging trash cans of loaded disposable bombs, waiting for trash day. The prepared and pre-thought dinners moved out and quick, thrown together breakfasts for supper moved in.

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It is always wise to listen to those who have moved on from your season of life and glean what they have learned. The gray-headed couple in the grocery store pause as my little parade passes, two in the cart, two trailing behind.
“Awwww, these are the best years of your life,” they nod. Their eyes glitter at the memory of their own wild escapades, and smile encouragingly, “Have fun!”

I’ll take that any day over the negative, “Oh my GOODNESS! You have your hands  FULL!” with the rolling eyes. Folks, I only have four. I grew up in a family of six kids; this is NOTHING. Children are stereotyped into a negative ball of work and sacrifices, how
hard these little beasts make life.

Let’s be honest- these may be the best years of my life, but man alive, they are the hardest. But negative comments? I don’t need to hear them.

Our house is a home, not a battlefield. Our family is filled with precious children and unique individuals who each add a valuable and irreplaceable element to our home. And while I take deep breaths and give myself mental pep talks each day, we don’t need any more loud sighs or pessimistic observations, thank you.

I know it’s not easy, as I kneel next to the heaving figure as they deposit everything they ate yesterday into the toilet bowl. The small shoulders shudder, she gasps for air. “Good job!” I whisper, as if anyone ever throws up well. I offer a warmed washcloth, and she wipes her mouth of the acidic residue. What I really mean to say is, “I’m sorry, honey. I wish I could take this for you. I’m here for you.” Instead I stroke her back, and she glances my way with tear-filled eyes, gratefully.

No one wants to watch someone throw up.
No one wants to strip off the dripping clothes and address the explosion that Huggies couldn’t contain.
No one wants to make supper, and clean it up too.
But we take the fresh smelling baby, and deal with the disaster in the bathroom that comes from bath time. We embrace the giggles, and wink at the hours of an upset stomach.

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As much as the grocer rolled her eyes and whispered words of pity, I wouldn’t trade my life for her quiet one. Her evenings alone in front of the TV have nothing over our afternoons at the park, or evening reading times, little arms laced around my neck.

Even the difficult moments are good, when I look deep in my heart and see how my own anger lashed out and slapped words of anger at my 9-year-old, who is facing the rough waters of child-meets-man.  It’s here that I meet my need for God, again.

Motherhood has stripped me raw and naked, and I stand gasping, seeing my own need for grace. My need for God to fill this person, all too quick to speak and too slow to listen.

Have you ever watched the lady at the park walking her dog, her perfectly exercised body and french manicured nails whispering that her’s is a life as it should be. I look down at the hands pushing the swing and see a body that has carried little ones, has grown people, has held people. I feel insufficient. I feel like I don’t measure up. My own expectation of perfection higher than I will ever be able to reach.

But I’m learning to stop there, and spit back. Spit at the lies, laugh in the face of tomorrow. You see, mothering IS hard. But it is such a special season, a gift, really. Little feet that come running to me first, because my arms offer the safest place on earth.

David wasn’t even a grown man when he stepped out onto that battlefield. Behind him, a row of resentful and mocking brothers was no support. But David gripped the leather strap and fingered the smooth river stones and walked ahead confidently. He had learned to listen to the right voice. To act on truth and not the undermining agenda of the enemy of doubt.

Because David knew his God, he moved from a cowering little child to an offensive, dangerous soldier who could reek havoc on the enemies plans. Instead of tucking tail and running from the conflict, David dropped the all too heavy armor of expectations, and faced the battle in the unique way God had prepared him. All those months in the desert watching the flocks, listening to God and singing back to Him suddenly became the foundational training ground for today.

“You come to me with a sword and with a spear and with a javelin,
but I come to you in the name of the Lord of hosts,
the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied.
This day the Lord will deliver you into my hand,
and I will strike you down and cut off your head.
And I will give the dead bodies of the host of the Philistines this day to the birds of the air and to the wild beasts of the earth,
that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel,
and that all this assembly may know that the Lord saves not with sword and spear.
For the battle is the Lord’s, and he will give you into our hand.”

God is calling us to be powerful mothers.
Women who can stand up to the lies of the enemy and come back with the word of God. Mothers who know their own needs, yet lean hard into the force of grace, and walk in the power of God flowing through them. It is not because of who we are that we pose a serious threat, but because of who we are looking to.

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Your enemies today are not the little children in your home. The laundry and dishes and dirty floors aren’t even the foes. This place is your training ground. Recognize the darts of the enemy.

“You are a failure,” fell silent on Moses’ ears when he followed God’s call back into Egypt, the place from which he had fled.

“You are too inexperienced,” meant nothing to David, the boy shepherd, because he was listening to God, who was reminding him of a dead lion and bear.

“You are just a watchmaker,” slowed to a stop in Corrie Ten Boom’s heart as she leaned into what she knew God was asking her to do, and stowed valuable souls into her bedroom closet.

“You are an angry person.”
“You never had a good relationship with your own mom, how can you be a good one to your kids?”
“Your years of sin and depravity disqualify you from being able to teach your children to walk in truth.”

The lies are endless. And they are powerless if you choose not to listen.
Fill your mind with truth. Arm yourself with weapons that will cut down the enemy.

Jesus’s words to those who had believed him were these:
“If you abide in my word,
you are truly my disciples,
and you will know the truth,
and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:31-36)

Free.
This is what He created us to be.

Free from lies, and free to throw our arms wide and embrace who He says we are.
Free to love lavishly, and pour our lives out with purpose.
Free to be a good mother.

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That’s what happens.
We go from cowering in assumed failure, to standing tall and strong, confident in who God is.
By knowing Him, and letting His word live and breathe in our hearts, the truth of it all sets us free.

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When Shadows Die

The evening light dances across the yard, the tired fall colors suddenly glow hues of bright yellow and gold. Leaves that an hour ago were just tired brown are flaming bronze. The air is glittering with lavish beauty.
Long dark tree shadows stagger across the gravel driveway and reach their thin jagged arms into the grass.

Shadows.

You know the kind that seems to reach deep into your heart?
Where the warmth of the sun grows clammy cold?
We were meant to be filled with life and light.

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We gasp suddenly.
The world is plunged into darkness, and our eyes desperately look for even a glimmer. The shock we feel when suddenly the warmth fades, it  leaves us gasping.
A sudden word, a childish squabble, a painful trigger to a long ago wound we thought was healed. The peaceful air in our hearts is shattered with a chilling scream.

This is life.
How do the moments of brilliant joy and then the shocking brokenness reconcile? How can heaven and earth clasp hands, mortality caught in the struggle?

Sometimes those long jagged shadows in our hearts are there because of deep childhood wounds. We whisper silent vows to protect ourselves from ever being hurt again. We’ve watched hypocritical lives say one thing and live another, burying seeds of resentment deep in our hearts. “I will NEVER be like them…”

Through the ages, God has sent many to remind us that that HE is light, and in Him is no darkness at all…

No darkness.
Imagine a world with no shadows, no night, no caves hidden from the sun.
No lies, no moral failure, no cancer or death.
A world untainted by sin. So brilliant my eyes wince in the blinding light.

DSC06581But this world carries heavy shadows.
Sometimes it is the very moments of deepest darkness and desolation that show us how full the light really is. Who could have imagined the irony of finding deeper life and commitment to God at the edge of a cold, unwavering grave? But that truth has changed me forever.

Moses’ life of prestige was tossed aside as he baked under the hot desert sun, his identity being sanded and scoured below anything he ever dreamed. Going from being pharaoh’s son to a nomadic sheep herder must have been dizzying. His soft hands giving way to callused and worn tools of the trade. Gone were the days of pleasant food and ease, now it was a daily fight for subsistence.

I think of Isaac as he lay on that hastily constructed altar, his arms bound and his heart pounding. The warm love between him and his father suddenly cold as the knife blade hovered above him.
Time freezes. This is where we find ourselves.

Where is God in these moments?
Where is God when the sun is ecplised?
When all we held dear slips between our fingers and shatters into a million pieces?

I was speaking with a friend today who is braving some very dark waters.
She is being peeled back layer after layer, and finds herself gasping as her life dismantles before her eyes.
Everything she has ever known or wanted now lies vulnerable and helpless.

But it is there that the miracle comes.
Even in the shadows, He sings over us.
His banner is one of love. Of commitment. Of dedication. He is not daunted by our need. He is not threatened by our questions, our sobs, our moments of un-doneness.

Fall apart in Jesus’s arms.
Pour it all out before him.
You’ve tried so long to do the right thing you’ve locked away the little child that’s terrified. Terrified of failure, of not measuring up.

 

Don’t rush through this. This place is pivotal. It is priceless.
Do not rush to get past the discomfort.

It’s hard. It’s terrifying.
It’s like stepping naked into a bright light.
But it’s only once you’ve stepped out of the closet of shame that you can discover how fully you are loved.
You don’t have to impress God.
You don’t need to BE anything.


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David knew it well-

“The Lord is my light and my salvation;
    whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold  of my life;
    of whom shall I be afraid?

Though an army encamp against me,
    my heart shall not fear;
though war arise against me,
    yet I will be confident.

You have said, “Seek my face.”
My heart says to you,
    “Your face, Lord, do I seek.”

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Wait for the Lord;

    be strong, and let your heart take courage;
    wait for the Lord!”
(Words from Psalm 27)

It is walking though seasons of hunger and unanswered prayers that teach us that God sustains us. It is in the seeking, in the waiting, that the seeds of faith are sown deep in our hearts, far beyond the clutches of fear and shame.

Soak in the truth of who He is.
It is there that the reality of who we were made to be is discovered.
Even in the moments we cannot see the light, He is there, holding us.

The sun slips beyond the horizon as the hush of evening pulls it’s sleepy self over us. The night is here, but we can face it unafraid.

We know the morning is coming. And God will not forsake us this night.

 

 

 

The Cake of Culinary Hope

Food has never been a strength of mine. Preparing it, that is.
Eating is no problem. I grew up with a mother always humming in the kitchen, effortlessly preparing tasty and attractive meals that I took for granted.

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Then I got married.

My husband had spent months far back in the mountains of rural Honduras and had mastered cooking rice to perfection and unbeatable beans. I remember standing timidly next to him as he gently explained how rice is to be made.

One day he asked, “When you were at home, who did the cooking?”
I smiled sheepishly. “Mom!”
Of course, with five girls in the family, we were all in the kitchen every meal prep time. But that’s just it- I was prepping, not cooking on my own.
I’d do the chopping and toss the onions into Mom’s fragrant pot and then tackle the sink bulging with dishes.
When we sat down to eat, we all dug in gratefully- it HAD been a joint effort.
But as for masterminding a menu and executing the recipes on my own- NADA.

I’m not sure how I did it. I am sure my little sisters would all agree that I coerced them into the hard work with a bribe that they would “get” to massage my feet that night, but that is a story they seem to remember so much better than I. And any bribery that I pitched towards them has more than been paid for in my recent years of mothering.
All years of ease lost in the memories of diapers and dishes and multiplication tables.
All debts have been paid.

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But food never ceases to be a need, and with four growing tummies around me at all times, we have done our share of quesadillas and soups, sandwiches and burritos.
And at the time of my life with it feels I am stretched the thinnest,
the need to learn to cook properly and with love has landed squarely on my shoulders.

My recipe board on Pinterest is a testament to my longing to daily crank out picture-perfect meals. But just because it has 2K likes, does NOT ensure a similar-looking result to be sitting on your plate.

Just the other day, cheddar biscuits to accompany the soup were dubbed “dumplings” and hid with shame under the broth.
Some things are best disguised under a veil of chicken, celery and carrots.

But I AM trying to prepare food that gives life and health and joy.
And even occasionally brave the dark, scary waters of gluten and dairy free, this last year has been a one of discovery.
Lots of failure, but a few great moments in the kitchen too.
The grocery store shelves bulge this time of year with blatant sugar and cancer in a can. And I scratch my head and wonder what I could make that would be festive without such a sinister air.

And so it was that I discovered this ancient twist on a fruitcake recipe.
Now before you slam the computer shut at the words “fruitcake,” I share the sentiment. In fact, the never-ending song- “Please don’t send me fruitcake…” begins it’s eternally long round in my head. But this is no fruitcake with green and red foreign looking wads of “fruit” preserved in a dark cupboard for weeks before it is brought to the light and wrapped with a red bow.

This is the original, long before food coloring was thought up.
At least, I think so.
The only color in this round springform pan is the genuine festivity of cranberry goodness.

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Thankfully, this time of year, cranberries hit .99 a bag, and I’ve learned that in order to meet my nine-year-old’s year-round pleading, I must stow several extra in the freezer. After all, why pay three times the price when you can easily grab four bags at Thanksgiving. Or six. Or ten.

He hinted that he wanted it for his birthday cake the other week. But I think it was just the boy’s way of saying, “Make it SOON.”

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So this afternoon I pulled out the butter (lots of it) and let it get soft, whipped the eggs and sugar for 8 minutes till they are fluffy and tempting. Next, I added the almond and vanilla flavoring and tossed in the needed flour and other odds and ends, and then scraped it into a springform pan with a soft spatula.

When we married, we didn’t have a registry. And I think we got a total of 17 spatulas. So believe me when I tell you which kind is the best. You want the soft tipped ones. Even better, the ones that are fully coated from tip to rump in the soft coating and you will have no wicked crevices that wish to hide batter remnants. THIS is the kind you will want to own. Or give 17 of them as wedding gifts.

Daniel wandered into the kitchen as I was just getting ready to slide these holiday cakes into the oven, and he nodded in approval. He has loved me through the thick and the thin. The thick clumpy oatmeal and the thin gravy. But this cranberry fruit cake makes his eyes sparkle. And of course, I do anything for that sparkle.

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(and of course, who cannot give into those pleading blue eyes just begging to lick the wisk? Everyone should have the delight of mixing and stirring with an eager baby at their elbow)

So here is the delightful recipe, which I found online and tweaked. It originally had a much heavier topping full of almonds, which must have been lovely, but I pulled up the memory of a simple powdered sugar and citrus glaze, and haven’t looked back since. Except to check and make sure the pan is empty. Which, once it is cut into, it never last more than a day or two. If that.

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Here is the recipe as I have tweaked it, with a serious nod of gratitude to Faith Durand  for the original recipe…

Cranberry Cake

Makes one 10-inch springform cake. Alternately: Four 4-cup loaves or 24 to 30 cupcakes.

3 large eggs
1 1/2 cups sugar
3/4 cup unsalted butter, cubed and softened at room temperature for 1 hour
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon almond extract, optional (but really, you NEED it)
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
2 1/2 cups cranberries (12-ounce bag)

Citrus glaze:
1 cup powdered sugar
lime, lemon or grapefruit juice,

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Lightly grease a 10-inch springform pan (or a collection of smaller pans. This make 10 to 12 cups of batter.)

Use a stand mixer or hand beaters to beat the eggs and sugar until very smooth and increased in volume. If using a stand mixer, beat on medium speed for 4 to 7 minutes, using the whip attachment. If using hand beaters, beat on high speed for 6 to 8 minutes. The egg and sugar mixture will double in volume and turn very pale yellow, leaving ribbons on top of the batter when you lift the beaters.

Beat in the butter, vanilla, and almond extract, if using. Beat for 2 minutes or until the butter is smoothly incorporated.

Use a spatula to fold in the flour, salt, and cranberries. The batter will be quite thick. Spread gently into the prepared pan.

To prepare the citrus glaze, squeeze enough juice until just the right consistency to dribble on and dry quickly instead of soaking into the cake. You want the thin lines of delight to be visible. 😉

Bake 60 to 80 minutes for the springform. Don’t remove it till the middle is starting to turn a lovely golden. For smaller pans, start checking after 30 minutes, but expect small loaves to take at least 40 minutes.

Cool for 20 minutes then run a knife around the inside edge of the pan and remove the cake. Cool for an hour before serving.

The cake keeps and freezes well. To store, wrap the fully cooled cake tightly in plastic wrap and leave in a dry, cool place for up to 1 week.

To freeze, wrap the fully cooled cake in plastic wrap and then foil. Freeze for up to 2 months. Thaw overnight at room temperature, still wrapped. But at our house, it never lasts long enough to freeze.

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The Redeemer of all things broken..

I still don’t understand how it happened.
Last night one child and I found ourselves facing off over a most unexpected situation.

What was started in jest U-turned into angry words and dead ended into deep sobs.
We both wondered “how on earth could that simple cup of milk end up being the source of a full blown relationship battle?”

But you know what?
It ended up with me sitting on a stool in the kitchen, holding the sobbing child.
Being the comforter when we’d been defaulting to odds all day.
I’ve been praying for a miracle, for deepening, for hope in this relationship.
And we ended up laughing and talking bluntly how we’d felt and what we had meant, not as it was taken. It even went so far as when we were retelling the situation to a concerned Daddy that we explained it from the other’s point of view.

Yes, tears were still wet on the eyelashes and hearts still felt salty raw.
But we looked at each other, this child and I, in deeper love and commitment.

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Today I’m walking in the fresh reality that God can use even a mistake to glue hearts together. And that there is hope when I feel hopeless.
He is the Redeemer of all things broken.

You were created, wounded, and healed for such a time as this

The shattering God has allowed you to experience became the opportunity for the amazing healing in your heart. It equips you to extend hope to those who will someday face the same thing.

When you choose to speak of hope after being stripped bare and raw, they will look at you and know hope is possible, even when they cannot imagine it, lost in their tears.

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Without your courage and your offered hand, many would feel alone in the storm.
Often, God uses people to speak his courage into weary hearts.
You were called to change the world, one tear and listening ear at a time.
That is the power of remembering that Jesus walked these dusty roads and felt the sinister sting of betrayal- He knows how we feel.
He has walked in our shoes.

Take courage, and share your story.
Speak words of life.
You were created, wounded, and healed
for such a time as this.

Your Kingdom Come

“Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your name.
Your kingdom come,
your will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.”

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They followed him, this God and man all in one. They saw the connection, the words other-worldly. They wished to reach across the chasm, too, and to know this Father he spoke of.
“Teach us to pray,” they begged. To reach beyond the separation, to have a conversation with this life-changing God. I find myself standing beside them, on my tiptoes, waiting for the answer as well.

Jesus looks at all of us and invites us to join in. First, this Being isn’t just a god. He is our Father. He is personal, He brought us life. And not only do we crave to know Him, He is already crooning over us, loving us, so proud of our accomplishments.
Even when we fall flat on our face, He is loving us.
‘Cause that is what real fathers do.

The role of father in my mind is a bit blank.

My dad didn’t choose to leave, but cancer ripped him from us when I was young. While my memories are a bit fuzzy, the ones I have are good ones. Tossing a softball, playing hide and seek in the house, him bending over a textbook at the dining table late at night making me feel all safe and protected because he was home. So while it feels like centuries since I had a dad on earth, my heart feels loved and safe when it comes to thinking about him.

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Holy is Your name.

And I? I am but dust.
I find it between my teeth, under my nails, in the grit of my soul. The depravity of my own soul leaves me gasping each day, and the distance between heaven and earth feels extensive and vast.

But He is here. He is holy. And He is undaunted by my need.
He loves me, in my mess, and keeps reaching out His hand, and draws me into a deeper relationship with him. His holiness doesn’t keep him from loving me.

That, my dear ones, is amazing. The very essence of Holiness isn’t afraid to reach into the gutter of complete devastation and corruption, and grasp hands with humanity, and pull us up out the sludge of sin and immorality. I love the story of David, who fell to the depths of moral failure, yet after repentance, God called him “A man after my own heart.”

Perhaps it is here, in the mystery of redemption, that we see best the depth of His kingdom come. The cross that spans death and brings life. Where not even a cold corpse and massive gravestone can hold back the life that God breathes into us.

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His kingdom comes, in our needs. The holiness of heaven isn’t daunted by my deepest struggle. No, it is here that God comes and brings life. Fresh hope.

It is here that His kingdom comes and changes everything.

The surgeon who bends over the transplant patient and carefully stitches a new heart into place comes to a point where he has done all he can. He stands back and pauses.

He waits, holding his breath for the miracle he cannot do. The old heart is gone, and the new one is put in place, all his years of training and skill laid bare and open for all to see. Nothing is hidden from the bright lights of the operating room.

But only God can give life. The heart turns a lovely pink as fresh blood floods in, and the rhythmic beating begins. He nods and takes a deep breath.

This is where we live- in this moment of expectancy. In the end, it all boils down to this. The kingdom of God come to earth is God Himself in us, mortal humans.

“Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

It’s a tall order, this living heavenly in a fallen world. That is, if we try to do it on our own. But when all is peeled back, and we lay naked and bare on the table, its simple. This story of life is about God in man.

About redemption.
About hope springing from devastation.
And suddenly the bleak story springs to life, and we find ourselves playing front stage in the most mysterious story ever told. So where your need catches you off guard and leaves you gasping, take hope.
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I shall not Want

“From the love of my own comfort
From the fear of having nothing
From a life of worldly passions
Deliver me O God.”

The words arrest me.
I pause and lean up against the cold kitchen counter, and tears sting my eyes.
I’m fine.
Really.
But they sliced past my busyness and made me stop.

“…From the need to be understood
And from a need to be accepted
From the fear of being lonely
Deliver me O God
Deliver me O God.”

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As a wife to a gifted, and busy man,
I am invited to view my times without him as an offering,
or a theft.

The long days of teething children or the challenges of prepositional phrases and writing letters neatly, it is easy to feel haggard and stranded in the ocean of parenting alone.
Stranded.
Abandoned.
Even when I know it is not true, the lies whisper sinister words.

I look out the window at the shower of yellow leaves dancing toward the ground,
of piles begging to be raked and jumped in.

How can life be lonely when filled with so much noise?
How is it possible to feel alone when nursing every few hours,
with little hands pulling on my skirt as I make supper?

Deliver me from the fear of this, oh Lord.

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It’s the fear that threatens to squeeze the life out of today.
To steal the joy from the little moments that are meant to be so carefree.

“…And I shall not want, no, I shall not want
When I taste Your goodness, I shall not want
When I taste Your goodness, I shall not want.”

“…From the fear of serving others
Oh, and from the fear of death or trial
And from the fear of humility
Deliver me O God
Yes, deliver me O God.”

But it is here in the vulnerability, in the being broken, that we are multiplied.
That the miracles happen.
It’s once the grain is crushed beyond recognition that bread can be made,
and given to countless hungry souls.

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“…And I shall not want, no, I shall not want
When I taste Your goodness I shall not want
No, I shall not want, no, I shall not want.”

I feel that sigh rising to my lips from a dissatisfied heart, and I’m ashamed.
Ashamed that I still feel angry about mopping.
That drawers left open annoy me.
I just washed these jeans two days ago.
The same old shoes are kicked off in the laundry room, just after I put them away.
One thing about motherhood that catches my breath again and again
is the mundaneness of it.

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Do I project the moments of turbulence my own heart feels to those around me?
Do I want my children to feel like burdens?
My husband needs a helpmeet, not a nagging, dissatisfied wife.

From the fear of humility.
The words haunt me. Is it really so hard to be humble?
To be honest about my needs and failures?

In the places of my deepest need.
In my seasons of giving, from sun up to sun down.
In the moments when my own heart staggers in my need, yet lunch needs to be made.
These are the moments when we taste His goodness.

“…When I taste Your goodness I shall not want
When I taste Your goodness I shall not want
I shall not want
I shall not want.”

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These are the moments when we taste His goodness.
And we shall not want.

Songwriters: Audrey Assad / Bryan Brown

Photo Credits to grettagraphy.com