{Paths of Peace}

A few weeks ago my sister casually mentioned that she was stepping back from facebook for a while. As she did so, I quickly noticed that, without her voice in my little facebook community, the banter was just . . . different. I missed her sparkly little quips and the lively friends who stepped in to comment on her antics. I didn't quite know what to do with this.  

Enter Lent. I soon found myself thinking, "Maybe I should ease off a bit, too. Focus on other things, you know." I didn't make a proclamation or even develop a hardcore plan. I just altered a few notifications so that I would pretty much just see if anyone had tried to send me a message or if my extended family had any fun pictures or updates to share.

I expected to have more time on my hands as a result, and I did. What I didn't expect was that my brain would calm down, too. There were fewer images flashing across my mind throughout the day, fewer details about other peoples' lives to log, and fewer chances to be distracted by my own perceived inadequacy.

Because social media is so quickly developing, I sometimes feel (especially while raising children) that we're caught in a turbulent storm of information, and it's not always clear when to say "yes" and when to say "no." I'm pretty sure that I'm not alone in this.

Lately I've seen several articles written about the dangers of portraying our "half truths" to the world, especially on facebook. (Even here we're caught up in self: the whole world wants to know about me!) It can be harmful to us and harmful to others. As Shauna Niequist shares in a recent post, Stop Instagramming Your Perfect Life,

"Seeing the best possible, often-unrealistic, half-truth version of other peoples’ lives isn’t 

the only danger of the Internet. Our envy buttons also get pushed because we rarely check Facebook when we’re having our own peak experiences. We check it when we’re bored and when we’re 

lonely, and it intensifies that boredom and loneliness."

Sound familiar? 

Not only that, but we can be downright mean. The internet (and facebook in particular) gives us a chance to spout out any information we want without being accountable. Again I appreciate a post written by Heidi St. John who warns,

The Internet has provided a new generation with the opportunity to practice a brand new 

form of passive/aggressive behavior—simply using vague, online hints.

We're also far too ready to jump to conclusions about others in an attempt to assuage our own feelings of guilt or to elevate our personal choices. (Check out Dear Mom on the iPhone, I Get It.)

This swirling, whirling information has caused me to wonder: What if we were to vow with one another to share only the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? If we did that, I would tell you that I'm sitting here in the messy school room with weird hair and no makeup on. I'm not sure yet what we're doing for dinner, and I really need to figure that out. My kids have been squabbling over whose turn it is to play the ukulele, and they've been playing the Wii for far too long today. It's pouring down rain and, as much as I love it, I find myself fighting depression when it gets too gray. I haven't exercised regularly this week, I've eaten too much sugar, and I have a to-do list that still has plenty of to-doing to be done.

But I can also tell you another truth. I can tell you that whenever I let my brain have a rest from social media, it leaves room for other voices. Voices like those of my husband, my children, and my God. This morning I was reading Proverbs, and I was drawn once again to the desire to seek wisdom. In fact, while still in my bathrobe, I grabbed a piece of chalk and scribbled a charge to my family on the kitchen chalkboard:

Blessed is the man who finds wisdom, the man who gains understanding . . . 

[wisdom's] ways are pleasant, and all her paths are peace.

Proverbs 3:13&17

Did you catch that? The way of wisdom is pleasant and peaceful. This means that when we are quieting our minds before the Lord, He will share with our hearts when we need to say "yes" and when we need to say "no." In the listening, acknowledging and obeying, we will find peace. Peace in our minds, peace in our homes and even peace as we portray the truth to others, both through the internet and in real life.

I'm going to be honest. I like blogging and I like facebook. But I want to be sure that I'm using them as tools of peace in my own life and, so far as it depends on me, in the lives of others. Sometimes that will mean stepping back for a while, sometimes that will mean publicly sharing what's on my heart, and sometimes that will mean shutting down my computer and playing with the kids. Each choice has the potential to bring peace, and each choice has the potential to bring glory to my Creator. My prayer is that I heed the words of Solomon and choose wisely.

Blessings to you, my dear readers. I so appreciate you. I enjoy hearing from you, both here and via facebook, and I'm thankful that we get to share "real" together. Have a pleasant, peace-filled weekend, my friends.

{The Return of Peace}

"I'm frightened," she simpered. Little Miss wiggled on my lap as we waited for the Christmas program to begin. It had been a hard day for her. Contrary. Belligerent. Defiant.

I tried not to let her see the exasperation in my face. Always so dramatic. Frightened? Good grief.

She said it again, but this time she gave the reason. "I'm frightened that I won't be able to see the nativity."

The sea of heads in front of us blocked the stage, and she didn't want to miss the manger. I took a deep breath as I pondered her response. I didn't want to miss the manger either. I didn't want to let my frustration, my impatience, my selfishness prevent me from seeing Jesus in that moment.

The program began, and for most of the evening the action was visible from where my Little Miss sat. But as the manger scene drew near, I realized that I'd have to move in order for her to fully see the baby. The lights dimmed and I quietly ushered my daughter to the aisle. I checked to make sure we weren't standing in front of anyone, and then we positioned ourselves in full view of the manger. She was satisfied. 

Too often I make comfort my objective. I want to stay seated, comfortably watching the show. But the squirming one on my lap reminds me that sacrifice is often necessary in order to show Jesus to others.

The next morning these thoughts were still on my mind as I opened my Bible. Nehemiah encouraged his fearful people, "Don't be afraid of [our enemies]. Remember the Lord, who is great and awesome, and fight for your brothers, your sons and your daughters, your wives and your homes." (Nehemiah 4:14)

Remember the Lord. Fight for your children.

These words are even more sobering a week later as I look at them in light of the recent tragedy in Connecticut. Our nation is rocked. We are fearful. We hold our children closely and we cry, "Why?"

Shortly after I read Nehemiah that day, I found Spurgeon's evening devotion to be a source of great comfort and hope. The timing was uncanny. It was five days before the shooting, and I was quietly wondering how to minister to my own child in her own need, how to cultivate peace and joy in our own home.

The Scripture he drew upon was Isaiah 32:18.

My people shall dwell in quiet resting places.

This, friends, is a promise. My people shall. Do you hear the confidence of the Shepherd? His protection? His hope? His loyalty? There is so much packed into this one line. And we need every word of it.

Spurgeon responds with the solution: "The person of Jesus is the quiet resting-place of His people, and when we draw near to Him in the breaking of bread, in the hearing of the word, the searching of the Scriptures, prayer, or praise, we find any form of approach to Him to be the return of peace to our spirits."

A week later, my own domestic struggles seem so petty. But in my own small way, I long for peace. In a much greater way, our nation longs for peace. And the answer to both is found in the nativity.

The thing is, we can't stay seated. We might miss it. This is frightening. We must stand. We must take our children by the hands, and we must take them to the manger. We must show them the beauty of Love. We must show them how attractive it is to serve, to sacrifice, to give. And there, as we fall down in worship, we will indeed find the return of peace to our spirits.

Dear ones, let us linger long before our Prince of Peace, today and always.

{Simple is Beautiful}

This morning when I woke up, I had a feeling of excitement about me. I tried to think through the day's events to determine what was worthy of this anticipation. I finally realized that it wasn't an event I was looking forward to. It was a lifestyle.

The more I read Organized Simplicity, the more eager I am to live intentionally, deliberately, fully.

Yesterday the afternoon sun began to dip toward the west, spilling light over the kitchen table. Bethie had placed her book next to the centerpiece, and my eyes couldn't get enough of the beauty. Light and shadow danced through the crystal. The flowers and greenery took on new shades and heightened vibrancy. I kept smiling and glancing back at the display, praising the Lord for that moment.

It was so simple, so perfectly beautiful.

I've been keenly aware of the way I use my time lately. I want to live simply and beautifully in this area, too. Last night I chose to avoid the computer in favor of spending time with my little Miss Kate. I told her it was her night. We played a silly game and laughed and giggled until the others begged to join us.

So simple. So beautiful.

Yes. This is what I want.

Day 16: Sabbath Rest

Hello, friends! Just popping in briefly to wish you all a blessed Sabbath. My desire this afternoon is to truly sit and rest in the abundance of the Lord's goodness, to look deeply into my children's eyes, and to soak in my husband's presence. Since this is hard to do in front of a computer, I'm declaring it a cyber-Sabbath, too. Until tomorrow . . .

The Lord bless you, and keep you;
The Lord make His face shine on you, and be gracious to you;
The Lord lift up His countenance on you, and give you peace.
Numbers 6:24-26

Day 12: Unexpected

Sometimes we end up sitting and waiting when we previously had absolutely no intention of doing so. Or, at least, no intention of doing so in that particular way.

Let me explain. I knew I'd be doing some sort of sitting today, since that's what I've set out to do this month. What I did not expect was to find myself sitting in a Burger King off of SR-500 at 4:00 p.m. helping a distraught Miss Kate finish off her chocolate sundae.

It started on our way home from piano lessons. That strange clunking sound. I put two and two together and figured it was most likely indicative of trouble. Though my knowledge of cars is definitely limited, I do know that they're not supposed to emit steam and make strange clunking sounds.

It was at this moment that I began to pray. I also suggested that the children do likewise. I do not do well under pressure. Thankfully, we made it to the end of the exit before the van came to a very determined halt. It was done.

The poor children were convinced that the van was about to explode. I told everyone to get out. Perhaps I was a tad dramatic. Weeping ensued. A kind gentleman was immediately at our side. He helped me push the van toward the curb and made sure the children were safe. I turned on the hazard lights (hooray for at least some presence of mind), and we walked toward the nearest business. Burger King.

Drew was the man of the hour. His presence of mind was admirable. He whipped out his iPod and sent Jamie an SOS. I assured the children that it was only a matter of time before Daddy arrived. In the mean time, why not have a sundae?

There we sat, waiting for Daddy. I thought the sundaes would be a pleasant diversion, but the younger children were still quite distraught. So I decided to try and shift our focus a bit.

Hadn't the Lord been good to us? Just think! It could have been dark and cold and rainy. But it was a pleasant afternoon. We didn't even need our coats! We weren't stranded on a freeway or stuck in traffic. We had sailed right on down that exit and just kind of stopped. If you have to stop, that's the way to do it. And a kind man was right there to help us!

The mood began to turn around as we looked at the blessings. Funny how that works.

And then Daddy walked in. Boy, did he look good. He had been at a job only a few minutes away. Another blessing. The children jumped into his arms, each one eager to tell his version of the story.

We finally got ourselves and our vehicles safely home. The littlest ones were still a bit shaken up. In those moments of fear, we reminded each other of God's goodness. We focused on the blessings.

* * * * * * * *

Tonight I slipped into bed beside a drowsy yet anxious Miss Kate. "Mommy?" she whispered. "Can you pray?"

Yes, and yes, I can, my dear, sweet child. In fact it's the very best thing I can do.

We prayed, we praised, we rested. She drifted off in thanksgiving. And I plan to do the same. Won't you?

Day 10: Choosing Rest

I was again faced with a decision. Rush or rest?

It seems so obvious when printed out. Who would choose to rush when they could choose to find rest? Well, to be honest, I would. It feels productive. Efficient. It means that there are more checks on the list. It looks . . . impressive.

But it's also exhausting.

This morning, as I rushed the children through their school work and prodded them to follow their checklists, I glanced at the empty boxes on Little Miss Avery Kate's "to-do" list. She still needed to do a reading lesson. I could call Drew over to sit with her. I could ask Bethie to do the job. Even Aidan would gladly set his math aside for time with Miss Kate. It would free up some time for me to get in some serious rushing. And then I'd feel really productive. Efficient. Exhausted.



I called my pixie over and set a few books out on the table. "Why don't you come sit on my lap, Sweetie?" I not only knew it would be cozy, but I also figured that having a child on my lap would keep me grounded. I'm not tempted to jump up and fold laundry when weighted down by a six-year-old. (This is perhaps a poor illustration. I'm never tempted to jump up and fold laundry.)

She gladly climbed up and snuggled in. "Which book would you like to read to me?" I questioned.

She cocked her head and said, "Read me a story."

I smiled. "Well, sweetie, I'll read to you in a minute. But right now it's your turn to read to me."

She erupted in giggles. "No! I want to read, Read Me a Story!" When I finally figured out that it was a book title, I too, joined in the belly laughing.

But we kept going for the fun of it. "No, sweetie, it's your turn to read . . . " More belly laughs. It was good, good laughter. The kind I almost missed out on in order to rush away.

We finally stopped giggling and settled in with our book. She read and read as I kept my arms wrapped 'round her waist. I kissed her head, felt her toes curl around my legs. I savored the moment. And I chose rest. It was the right decision.

It usually is.


Read about my thirty-one day challenge over here.

31 Day Challenge: Mat Sat. Sam Sat.

When my children were first learning to read, we frequently pulled out the Bob Books. The charmingly simple illustrations and silly escapades of characters like Mat and Sam made for a delightful introduction to the world of literature.

The first book in the series tells us (very briefly) of Mat and Sam's initial adventure. What did they do together? It's very exciting, so I'll tell you.

They sat.

And that's it. Mat sat. Sam sat. The book ends, and we don't know a whole lot about these guys. But we do know one thing for sure: They sat.



This month, I plan to sit. Like Mat and Sam, I feel that it's a pretty good way to begin. A good way to begin to sit quietly with my children, to linger with my husband during those evenings that are filled with a million responsibilities, to still my heart before the Lord, to make time for tea with a friend.

I sat with the Lord this morning, and He shared a special reminder from Exodus. Moses had just read the Book of the Covenant to the Israelites. Their response?

"We will do everything the Lord has said; we will obey." (Exodus 24:7)

My desire is to seek obedience as I listen to the Lord's prompting this month. It's hard to listen when I'm running about with hardly any time to sit and be still. Of course this is a life-long hope, not just limited to a thirty-one day challenge. But I trust that this will be a time of learning and growing.

I'm guessing it will probably be frustrating at times, too. October is filling up, and it will take discipline to find the quiet in those calendar squares that rigidly block out my month. I can already envision the post that will not exceed one line: "Today I sat because I was in the van taking the kids to their lessons and you pretty much have to sit down while driving."

But I know the Lord uses those times to speak, as well. To remind me that "good" can be the biggest enemy of "best." So what is the best way for me to spend my moments this day? It takes a listening ear to discern such things, and I want to be in that position. Ready to hear, ready to obey.

I want to be ready to sit at the table and color with Miss Kate. Ready to sit on the floor with Aidan while we play with LEGOS. Ready to sit at the sewing machine with Bethie. Ready to sit on the couch with Drew as he reads a Harry Potter chapter aloud. Ready to sit and listen to my husband's heart, to know his dreams, to share in his ambitions. Yes, ready to sit.

So here I go. It's time to let the sitting begin. Again, I'd love to have you join me. Let's sit together and find delight in the blessings that come to a quieted heart. Maybe I'll even write a book about it. In fact, I've already written a brilliant first line:

Julianna sat.

Sitting. For Thirty-One Days.

"Mommy, I just have one question, and then I'll go away."

Yikes. Ouch. And oh, dear.

Have I really been that bad? Yes, it appears so. She was being very sweet and matter-of-fact. Not acting neglected or whiny. Just calling it like it was. I obviously didn't have time for her, and she didn't want to intrude. Just one little question? Please?

Lately I've been thinking about sitting. Remember how I mentioned a couple of posts back about teaching my Miss Kate to tie her shoes? We've worked on that like, maybe . . . twice. Now, it's true that her delicious new brown boots may have something to do with that. They don't require tying.

But laces or not, children do require sitting. With their mother.



That said, I've been mulling over a post challenge recently. It's a challenge suggested by Emily Freeman over here. The idea is to post every day for the month of October about something that makes us come alive. The topic I've selected? Sitting. That's right. Sitting. Very lively, huh? Sitting for one month.

Now, lest you picture me in a non-stop yoga pose for 31 days, I'll quickly explain myself. We are in high gear now with school and various activities vying for our attention. I often eat breakfast and lunch standing up. I sit down only to throw some math and grammar at the kids, and then I'm up and running again. This is not ideal.



Last weekend, I had Miss Kate all to myself. We enjoyed our time together immensely. One thing I noticed, however, was how hard it was for me to sit still with her.

During lunch, she took her time. She'd take a small bite, and talk. Then she'd take another really small bite. And talk some more. If her brothers and sister had been around, I'd have left the table and started in on the dishes. But I couldn't leave Little Miss all by her lonesome. So I sat. And sat. And sat. She chewed and talked. And chewed and talked. My legs did the impatient dance under the table, but I made it through the whole meal.

And I thought, "This shouldn't be so difficult. Something is wrong."

Hence my desire to learn the art of sitting. And sitting not only with my children, but also with my husband and with the Lord. I'm not sure exactly what my October posts will look like. But I like the challenge of reporting how and with whom I chose to sit each day. Some posts will likely be very brief; it would be wiser to spend blog-writing time with my family instead. Other posts may speak of regrets or failure. I hope they are few.



However it all comes out, my desire is to learn a little bit about the art of sitting. God's word has so much to say about waiting and resting and listening and quieting. I can't ignore it. And I have a feeling that a bit of sitting will show me how to really live.

So I'll take a small step this week, starting on the first of the month. If you're game, join the challenge with me. Perhaps you don't have sitting issues and you'd like to create your own challenge. Either way, I'd love to have your company.

Just imagine what can be accomplished in thirty-one days. It's enough time to start a pretty good habit.


Illustrations by Jessie Willcox Smith

The Spark

Yesterday I was seized by "The Spark." This is the name that my mother has given to the condition that suddenly comes over a person, filling them with the desire to attack a less than desirable duty. Such as cleaning the garage. My experience has been that the garage is not a warm and comfortable place to hang out. One does not naturally keep things orderly and quaint and bedecked with eye-catching trinkets. Indeed it requires nothing less than The Spark to whip such a beast into shape.

Well yesterday, I whipped. We've lived here for over a year, and I figured it was about time to finally eliminate those last few, nay, several boxes that have been filled with who-knows-what for who-knows-how-long. Such as the bag of paperback book remnants that I discovered. I have a hard time throwing things away that might one day prove to be useful. I must have convinced myself years ago that loose pages from an old Thomas the Tank Engine book might eventually come in handy. Perhaps for a collage. Or a lovely notecard. You just never know.

My former Thomas fan is no longer four. He's thirteen. Boy it felt good to toss that bag into the recycling bin.

This "spark" which led to a clean garage was, er, sparked by a new determination: I want to be content with my surroundings. Novel, huh? Let me explain. We've rented for years and will likely be renting for at least a few more years down the line. Because renting feels so temporary to me, however, I have a hard time embracing. I don't appreciate what I have. Instead I look ahead and place my hopes and dreams on a future home that doesn't even exist. I decorate something that is only in my mind.

It recently dawned on me that this is the only childhood that my kids will look back on. (I'm slow, but I do catch on.) They don't care whether we rent or own. They just want a home. They want to feel safe, loved and content. And they'll sense that safety, love and contentment as long as it comes from their own mama. No matter where they live.

We've been blessed with a lovely, comfortable home. It's time to settle. To use that "spark" as a starting point for maintaining peace and focusing on contentment. As I tend to this home and the lives within, I desire to love the here and now and to see the beauty before me. I want to embrace and embellish my surroundings with love, creating a warm haven that ministers to all who enter.

P.S. It's not too late to retrieve the Thomas pages. Anyone wanna make a collage?

Taste the Poetry

Before the work of the day, taste the poetry of the day!
Our poor, battered minds and spirits need the dawn. There is the calm of nature, the sanity of the earth, in each breath of scented air on a sunrise in June.

~Edwin Way Teale~

May you taste the poetry of this day, my dear friends!


Summer Woods by Joan Wolbier

Enough is Enough

I'm not quite sure why it is that children ignore the need to use the bathroom. I suppose they're just so caught up in what they're doing at the time that the hassle of leaving the room and taking care of business is just too much work.

I had an interesting conversation with Miss Kate yesterday about the importance of regular visits to the powder room. It went something like this:

Me: "Avery, I want you to be sure and go potty right away when you feel like you need to go." And, feeling the desperate need to include a consequence I added, "If you keep yourself from going potty, you could get an infection."

Miss Kate: "And?"

Me: "And we'd have to go to the doctor."

Miss Kate: "And?"

Me: "And you'd have to take some medicine to get better."

Miss Kate: "And?"

Me: "And isn't that enough?"

Miss Kate: "Not for me it isn't."

This girl likes her information, and she wants as much as she can get.

Lately we've been praying for several friends and family members who are struggling with illnesses, disease, emotional turmoil, and even death. It's been a season of aching as we carry the burdens of so many to the Lord. Miss Kate's little ears have been perpetually perked up to catch any details that she can. She's fascinated by specifics and asks us to tell her the stories again and again, especially if it involves a child. She wants to see the pictures, learn about the procedures, understand the process. A pat answer is never enough.

Hmmm. Sounds familiar. I've been processing Psalm 46:10 for months now. It's a familiar verse, yet the more I think about it, the more complex it becomes: "Be still and know that I am God . . . ." Upon first glance, I am comforted. I picture the gentle mother lulling her fretting baby, "Hush, my child. Mama's here . . . . "

Yet when I read the words in my New American Standard version, I find that it carries a very different tone: "Cease striving and know that I am God . . . ." I no longer picture the gentle mother. I picture the God of the universe with something that sounds almost -- dare I say it -- like a reprimand: "Stop trying so hard! Don't you know that I and I alone am God?"

And I know it's so. I'm trying too hard. I'm trying too hard to be good, to earn points, to keep my ducks in a row, to keep control of the situation. Like Avery, I'm given a single piece of information: "Trust me, child." And, like Avery, I'm not satisfied. I strive and ask, "And?" What else can I do? What else can I know? How hard can I try? It can't be enough just to trust.

But if I strive against the trusting, where does that leave my faith? I run the risk of living a life that suggests that perhaps God isn't to be trusted, after all. The work He has done, the things that He has promised, the words He has spoken . . . are not enough. I strive. And in so doing, I try to replace God.

This is a terrifying place to be.

I continue with the Psalm to gain some perspective, to get my feet back onto firm ground: "Cease striving and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations. I will be exalted in the earth." Do you see it? The confidence? The promise? "I am . . . I will . . . I will . . . ." Our God is not timid or passive. His glory and honor do not depend upon my acknowledgement or upon my trust. They will remain forever regardless of my actions. And I am a fool if I suggest that anything or anyone else deserves such exaltation.

The words of Spurgeon come back to me with a healing affirmation of that which I've always known to be true:

My faith rests not upon what I am, or shall be, or feel, or know,
but in what Christ is, in what he has done,
and in what He is now doing for me.

His track record is perfect. He is the God of the universe, and His desire is to wildly live and love through my simple little life.

I can cease striving. I can trust. That is enough.

Chocolate or Vanilla

Wide-eyed and breathless with anticipation, my children approached the ice cream counter. They had but one desire: chocolate. But as they peered into the case, fingertips pressed against the cold glass, their convictions wavered. So many choices—so many different kinds of chocolate! Chocolate peanut butter, chocolate fudge, chocolate marshmallow, chocolate ripple . . .


(Would you join me over here at Rio to continue reading?)