{And When HE Speaks}

Thank you, my dear, dear friends, for allowing me to share my raw little heart with you. It felt good. My last post would be sadly incomplete, however, if I did not follow up with an account of how the Lord has used this time to bless me.

I wrote then about how I might speak. Today I want to share with you how the Lord has spoken. Because His words bring life.

He spoke, first and foremost, through His Word. I knew that He would. It just took me some time to be still and know. He spoke when I just "happened" to be in 1 Samuel 7, quietly reading on Sunday morning.

I read and my eyes grew wide and I nodded assent, "Then Samuel took a stone and set it up between Mizpah and Shen. He named it Ebenezer, saying, 'Thus far has the Lord helped me.'"

Yes. I knew He would help. He already has.

He spoke through the daily devotional that I just "happened" to read in Spurgeon's Morning and Evening. Spurgeon draws the reader's attention to 2 Corinthians 12:9. "My grace is sufficient for thee." He writes,

If none of God's saints were poor and tried, we should not know half so well the
consolations of divine grace . . . . God's grace is illustrated and magnified in the poverty
and trials of believers . . . . If then, yours be a much-tried path, rejoice in it, because you
will the better show forth the all-sufficient grace of God.

Yes. It's all about grace. May I faithfully show forth His grace through any trials which come my way.

He spoke through my husband who gently gathered the family around the table and encouraged us to speak life to one another. What are we thankful for? What do we appreciate about each other? This is life. Gratitude. Grace.

He spoke through His creation as I walked quietly through the park, the crisp evening air nipping at my cheeks and ears and nose. The reminders of a winter passing.

As I walked, engulfed in self, the sights and sounds began to penetrate. The birds. Chirping again. The buds on the trees. Swelling with life. With hope. My pace quickened as I awakened from my winter slumber and allowed myself to warm to the pulse of life.

And He spoke through you, my dear readers. He spoke through your comments and messages, both private and public. Your hugs, your offers to help and your promises to pray. He spoke through the camaraderie that I felt among those of you who said, "Yes. I know this feeling oh, so well."

He spoke through those who said with honesty what I needed to hear. And He spoke through the wise who have trodden this path ahead of me and who continue to speak truth into my life.

I have prayed for you and thanked my God for each you -- yes, even those of you whom I've never met. You are a true blessing.

So again, I thank you. Now let us continue in grace, my dear friends. For He speaks. And it is good.

J.W. Waterhouse, Miranda

There Will Be Grace

Remembering grace when . . . .

*The washcloths are all missing and it's bath time. Because they make excellent shoulder pads for boys who want to play football in the back yard.

*Avery wants to pretend like she's a dog. This means lapping up water from a bowl on the kitchen floor. It also means rolling around on the bathroom floor after a bath with brother trying to dry off her "paws." (This is rather unfortunate because my bathroom floor is not the cleanest place in the world right now.)



*School takes longer than anticipated because Aidan just has to finish his bridge.

*Mud is tracked into the house because little people love to work in the garden.

*I come home to a messy living room because the kids can't stop thinking and learning and creating and exploring.



*I find tweezers on the front porch. Again. Because someone must have been listening when we read about insects today. (It also explains the jars of creepy crawly creatures on the nature table . . . .)

*Bedtime takes forever. Again. Because there's a law that sisters must whisper and giggle before falling asleep.

* * * * * *

The house is finally tidy. The children are finally asleep. I finally have a bit of quiet.

I know it will only be a matter of hours before the cycle begins again. The washcloths will disappear. There will be mess and mud and mistakes.

But there will also be grace.

I will need to fight the urge to hurry, the constant drive to cross items from my list. The instinct to race through the day and miss the beauty in the mess and the mud and the mistakes.

Because there will also be grace.

I will need to remember that I just taught Little Miss how to tie her shoes. She can't learn it in just one sitting. I'll need to sit with her tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

I'll remember that sitting with my daughter while the world spins and jolts and rushes about me is the very best thing that I can possibly do. Because she'll figure out those shoes in no time. She'll skip away to embrace even bigger challenges. Challenges that will often be messy and muddy and full of mistakes.

And in those moments, I'll be ever so thankful . . . for grace.

Upon Reaching One Thousand

Like many around the globe, I've been mesmerized by the tally of grace. For the last few years, Ann Voskamp has challenged thousands to seek the thousands: To chronicle one by one the beauty in every moment, the grace in every heartbeat.

Last week I reached the big mark. One thousand.

When I started my notebook months and months ago, I was convinced that reaching the thousandth gift would be a huge milestone and worthy of much celebration. I couldn't wait for the joyous penning of #1000.

I was a rather inconsistent chronicler, but as the numbers soared and the gifts poured, I indeed felt the joy. I loved having a record of God's goodness in my life. My heart raced as I entered the 900s. I was almost there. I knew that my day of celebration was just around the bend.

But I was wrong.

You see, my gratitude journal is also a scrapbook of sorts. Each page contains not only my list of gratitude, but also my kids' memorable quotes, event ticket stubs, programs and brochures, pictures and sketches.

But this page in particular, this page on which I reached #1000, happened to hold just one piece of paper. A program from a memorial service. For a baby. Dear family friends whose daughter lived for a mere twenty days.

How could I record praise alongside death? How could I express gratitude when life seemed so unfair?

When I first started my gratitude journey, it was easy to focus on the beauty. The sunset glow on apple blossoms, the verdant forests, the taste of summer strawberries. What's not to love? It's easy to give thanks when "God's in His heaven and all's right with the world."



But what about when things aren't at all right with the world? Where is the joy in that?

This, dear reader, is the great paradox. The mysterious shift. The kingdom that makes no sense at all but is somehow absolutely perfect.

How do I know this? Because I've seen the greater, deeper joy that comes through loss. The joy that comes out of brokenness. Perhaps even a sliver of the unexplainable joy that Christ wraps around His children as they work their way through the agony of death.

You see, this thousand-mark page also recorded another series of events in my life. Time shared with my grandparents.



Just months ago, my grandmother lay in a hospital bed in Southern California with a dangerously low heartbeat. I cried and prayed and wanted desperately to hop on the next flight out. But I couldn't. So I kept on praying.

God intervened. Her heart and body miraculously gained in strength. As she healed, she ministered to those at her bedside, giving God the glory. We rejoiced to hear that she and my grandfather would indeed be able to make their annual trip north.



So for the past two weeks I truly reveled in the moments my Nanee and I shared together. As she recounted the events surrounding her hospitalization, she drew special attention to a word that the Lord used again and again throughout her healing.

The word? Joy.

My eyes filled with tears. There it was again. The eucharisteo that Voskamp writes about. The grace we receive from our Father, the thanks we give because of it, and the indescribable joy that fills our spirits when we dwell in a spirit of gratitude.



Because of my grandmother's experience, I was that much more aware of how precious our time was together. We came too close to not having it. So for the whole two weeks, we crammed in as much togetherness as we could. We lived in the moment because we knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that every single moment was a gift.

My eyes were wide open, that I might not miss a single gift. Especially the gift of now.



Throughout their visit, my grandmother demonstrated yet again the way she has perfected the art of living in the moment. I watched the way her eyes sparkled as she wove stories for my children. I watched the way she deftly pulled together darling outfits on our annual girls shopping trip. I watched the way she engaged in conversation with others, treasuring their company.



I watched her live and delight in the moment, the way she always has and the way she always will.

This, my friends, is the only way to live. In moment by moment gratitude. This is the lens through which we must view life in order to experience true joy. Yes, even joy in brokenness, even joy in loss. The lens that goes so far as to enable a young couple to treasure every single moment of twenty priceless days with their daughter. To treasure the little fingers, the little squeaks, the little pink bows and the little pink dresses. To store up in their forever memories the snuggles in mama's arms, the last waltz with daddy. And to count it all joy.

It's true that as I recorded my one thousand gifts I wasn't counting on brokenness. I wasn't counting on loss. But because of them, I've tasted the true depths of joy.

And the result? I simply cannot stop at one thousand.

Walking, We Wait

The passage jumped out at me this morning:

Yes, Lord, walking in the way of Your laws, we wait for You;
Your name and renown are the desire of our hearts. My soul yearns for you in the night; in the morning my spirit longs for you . . . . (Isaiah 26:8-9)

Walking . . . we wait. How is this? The two seem at odds.

Yet when I pause and let the words settle a bit, I picture a child, toddling alongside his parent. He stays close by, knowing that daddy is strong and that his way is best, safe, secure. He walks with his father, but he waits, letting daddy lead the way.

In the same way, our Father has shown us the way. His Son charted the course that we may follow, that we may walk. And while walking -- while moving forward with confidence -- we wait. We anticipate so much. We anticipate His will for our lives, we anticipate answered prayer, and most of all we anticipate His glorious return. We wait.

How do we know if we're walking and waiting the way the Lord would have us walk and wait? It's in the next line: Your name and renown are the desire of our hearts. That's it. That's the walk. Every step . . . His name is our desire. Every word spoken . . . His name is our desire. Every thought, every reaction, every human interaction . . . His name is our desire.

Unfortunately, we don't always live like this. Yet there is such encouragement in the next phrase: "My soul yearns for You in the night; in the morning my spirit longs for You . . . ." Whether or not we know it or acknowledge it, we are yearning for Him. We wake up yearning, we go to sleep yearning.

Many times that yearning is misunderstood. We ache for Him, yet fill it with something else. We long to be with Him, yet we seek communion elsewhere. We long for beauty, for comfort, for peace with what seems like an unquenchable desire. Don't you see it? We. Want. Him.

And He wants us.

So we ask for His help and treasure His ready-and-waiting abundant grace. We pray with Isaiah that these words will be true of us. That we will be people who walk in His ways while waiting eagerly for Him. That we will satisfy the yearning of each evening and the longing of each morning with His name and with His name alone. Walking, we wait. It's the desire of our hearts.

Bombarded

I can't get away from it. It's like the green Volkswagen van that our friends used to drive: once you've seen one, you suddenly start seeing them all over the place.

But it's no longer green Volkswagens that pursue me. It's grace. Moment by moment grace.

Two years ago I was first intrigued by Ann Voskamp's blog -- and now her book -- through which she explores the idea of looking for God's gift in absolutely everything we encounter, from the beauty of a delicately falling snowflake or the scent of freshly baked bread right down to the hard "gifts," like pain and suffering.



I started chronicling these gifts. I'm over 800 now. But only because my mind is still limited --  still thinking small -- and my hand simply cannot pen the grace fast enough. The gifts are everywhere. Even now, I feel the sun's light shifting on my face as I sit at my desk and type away. A bird trills from a branch just ten feet away, and my girls are giggling upstairs in their dress-up clothes. Gifts. All of them, gifts.



When my mind drifts away from seeing each moment as a gift, I'm soon reminded to look closely and try again. Recently, I couldn't get away from the reminders. God clearly had a message for me.

I opened my Spurgeon devotionals and read, "Beloved Christian reader, in matters of grace you need a daily supply. You have no store of strength . . . . It is a very sweet assurance that a daily portion is provided for you. . . . Enjoy your continual allowance." Yes -- a daily portion to enjoy. Even an hourly portion. Dare I suggest a moment by moment portion? If my 800-and-counting list is any indication, then I would answer a hearty, "Yes!"



And then again the reminder came on a Sunday morning: I am called to be faithful in the moment. Each moment, I submit in faith. And what better way to submit in faith than to praise the Giver of gifts for every blessing that has been crammed into that moment?

The service concluded with a song that left me in hallelujah tears:

What can I do but thank You,
What can I do but give my life to You
Hallelujah, hallelujah
What can I do but praise You,
Everyday make everything I do a hallelujah 

A hallelujah, hallelujah.

Again, what better way to make everything I do a hallelujah, than to praise the Giver of these moment by moment gifts?



As if that wasn't enough, a friend sent me a message in response to a recent post. She could relate to the frustration of raising a . . . spirited child. Her words echoed the message that I'd been hearing again and again over the last few days: "I'm trying very hard to not just look with hope to the future, but to also see the the daily gifts of now . . . ."

The daily gifts of now. Now. Each moment. Given as a gift, given that I may choose to accept . . . and praise.



I dare you. Stop for just a minute and take a look around. Do you see it? The gifts are everywhere. The sights -- yes, even the pile of laundry! (Father, thank you for clothing!). The sounds -- yes, even the commotion! (Father, thank you for children's voices!) The smells -- yes, even the diapers! (Father, thank you for . . . um . . . functioning babies!) All of them opportunities to accept the gift and offer praise. Before you know it, those green vans are going to bombard you from all directions. You'll never be able to get away.

"What Can I Do" by Paul Baloche

Let Me Count the Ways

I've been housebound for nine days now. Well, I suppose I did run down the street to get the mail on Saturday. And I did drop Drew off at his percussion class last week. But that doesn't count. For the most part, we've canceled lessons, invitations and events to tend fevers, coughs and sniffles.

The funny thing is, it wasn't until last night that I realized I hadn't gone out (for real) for over a week. Now if a mother of four can stay in one spot for a week and not notice, she's either delusional . . . or blessed.

I choose to think of myself as blessed.

It is a blessing to look at one's surroundings and see beauty, no matter how much laundry is piled up or how many legos are scattered across the floor. Now don't get me wrong. This isn't always an automatic reaction. Far too frequently, I fall into the trap of not seeing the beauty. And I miss out on the blessing.

God has infinite treasure to bestow . . . . Blind as we are,
we hinder God and stop the current of His graces.
(Brother Lawrence, The Practice of the Presence of God)

I don't want to spend my days missing the blessings. I don't want to fester in stagnancy when the current of His graces is so close at hand. So I pray that my heart might focus on the beauty.

When I see the watercolors and the brushes and the newspaper all over the kitchen table, my first instinct is to cringe. But as I bring my little one to the sink and wash the colors from her pink hands, I choose to focus on that moment: I hold that hand -- that hand that won't be so tiny for long -- and I wash away the mess. I force the smudges, the mess, the ugly -- that in me which fails to see beauty -- I wash it down the drain. I kiss the paint-smeared forehead, knowing that I've just taken part in a blessed, holy moment. Again.

So even though I might be hanging out at home for a few more days, I will continue to look for beauty. Perhaps put a little twist on Elizabeth Barrett Browning's words: "How does He love me? Let me count the ways . . . ."

*little hands stroking my face
*Drew's first youth group retreat
*Avery baptizing herself while taking a bath
*exchanging emails when I'm housebound (especially with my mom and sister who agree to the challenge of sending only correspondence that rhymes. This week we moved on to haiku. Please feel free to join in.)
*fevers dropping
*a friend who shares Scripture: Isaiah 55
*words of joy!
*hot soup on a cold winter day
*foggy mornings
*sisters sharing a stack of library books
*reading with Bethie over a cup of tea
*Aidan's paper airplanes
*steady work -- God's faithfulness!
*sunshine after endless rain
*rearranging furniture
*hearing the front door, knowing he's home
*surprise hugs and kisses from my Aidan

I will tell of the kindness of the Lord,
the deeds for which He is to be praised . . .
yes, the many good things He has done.
Isaiah 63:7