{Dancing in the Light}

This morning when I woke up, the sun lavished its dazzling promises through our loft windows. I inwardly grinned (it's hard for me to outwardly grin first thing in the morning), thankful that the day was starting on such a good note. I snuggled on my pillow and propped my Bible up on Jamie's so I could read while he got ready for the day.

Again, I found myself lingering over one verse in particular:

A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.

Proverbs 15:1

How easy it is to choose the harsh when I know full well that gentleness is always the answer! I tucked the reminder in my heart and began my day, only to be reminded of yet another promise. As I walked out of our room, I was met with a very familiar sight, one that always thrilled me as a child. The morning sun, when it hits our house just so, streams through the peep-hole in the front door and casts a small circle of rainbow-light at the end of the hallway. 

Jessie Wilcox Smith

I used to dance in that light, like a fairy caught up in a magical swirl of color. My brother and sister and I would giggle when we could catch the vibrant circle on each other as we jumped in front of the rainbow and away again. We could never hold it, but if we were very still, we could momentarily cup it in our hands.

This morning, as I see the color slipping away with the measurable march of time, I'm reminded to hold on to the promises of this day. I know that I will struggle with gentle answers and that my children will do the same. (Especially when, oh, say, my child approaches the computer with puffed out cheeks and I squeeze the cute things, not at all expecting her mouth to be full of tea.) But I also know that we have a Friend who sticks closer than a brother and not only does that Brother dance in the light, He created it. Because of this, we can let our gentleness be evident to all -- the Lord is near (Phil. 4:5). He speaks truth and life and light into our spirits, enabling us to speak with His accent, with His gentleness.

One day we will really, truly hear His voice. But in the mean time -- today -- we have His Word and we have the ability to convey His gentleness in word and deed. May it be evident to all as we dance in the glorious light of His love.   

{From the Journal: The Wise Woman Builds}

In my last post I mentioned that I've been working my way through the Psalms and Proverbs this month. It's been quite a feast, I tell you. There is so much going on here.

One of the methods I've used lately in studying my Bible is simple yet meaningful. Although I'm reading through the Bible from beginning to end, my goal this time around has been quality over quantity. In other words, sometimes I read just a chapter or two and really mull it over, and other times I swallow several pages in one gulp. Either way I've feasted and come away feeling satisfied and blessed. 

After I've read, I go back over the verse or verses that really jumped out at me, comparing them in different versions. (I'm currently reading the NIV but refer often to my well worn NAS, which has been marked by my hand since I received it at age twelve.) I then jot that verse down in my journal and the scribbling begins. It's amazing what can come from one verse. I pray over that verse, around that verse, with that verse, through that verse (forgive me -- Aidan and Avery are studying prepositions) and ask the Lord to teach me.

Yesterday I read Proverbs 14, but didn't get very far. In fact the very first line stopped me in my tracks:

The wise woman builds her house . . .

My mind did the pinball thing, and I realized how much was packed into these six words. It was both inspiring and daunting. When I picture a wise woman building her house (and naturally I want to be that wise woman) I think of my dad's days in construction. Building requires a number of things, but this is what I came up with when thinking about how we women can build our own homes.

Walter Langley: Mother Love (As shared over at I Take Joy)

1. Building takes time. Building is a process, not something that just happens. We must continue to nurture our children, to build them up, to train them, to love them . . . forever. This verse is written in the present tense. A wise woman builds. It's an ongoing project.

2. Building takes patience. Because it takes time, and because we (and those for whom we care) are flawed, we need a whole lot of patience to make this thing work. Again, it's an ongoing process.

3. Building takes effort. There's so much emphasis today on "taking care of yourself." Of course I understand that it's wise and necessary to take time to refuel and to make sure that our tank is able to efficiently run. Please do that! But parenting requires sacrifice, too. Years ago I heard a wise, godly woman in our church break mothering down into the simplest terms: "It's my life or theirs." Daily we have to choose, which isn't always easy. However, we have the comfort and example of knowing what our Lord chose while He walked this earth. Thank God He did -- and His spirit ministers to us as we, too, make little (and big) sacrifices throughout our day.

4. Building is most successful when the builder follows a blueprint. You'll forgive the obvious analogy, but unless the Lord is building our house, dear mothers, we are laboring in vain. His Word is our infallible blueprint and it contains all we need for life and godliness. We don't need scores of parenting books, we need wisdom. God's Word and Spirit are ready to provide it to willing hearts and ready hands.

5. Building is rewarding. Building is exciting because we can see things take shape right in front of our eyes. We can see our plans coming to fruition and, if we've received them from the Lord, they will turn out so much more beautifully than we expected. Again, it takes time and patience, but the shaping does happen. 

When my children were learning to speak, we used simple sign language to help them communicate their basic needs. One of the first phrases they learned to sign was thank you. (I see gratitude as an essential need!) It was so cute to see their little hands extend from their mouth forward as they attempted to say thank you through out the day. They all caught on pretty well, but even after they had the speaking part down pat I realized that little people still needed to be reminded to express gratitude to others. It seemed as though I was forever gesturing to them with my own signs, reminding them to say thank you. 

But I know now that that's a part of the patience required in building. The teaching and building is continual. It takes time to teach not only the "signs" our children need to use throughout their lives, but it also takes time to teach them when and how and that they must do so with perseverance. 

A few years ago we were at the beach, and Aidan was digging a hole with a pathetic little plastic shovel. He wasn't making much progress, and a man nearby offered the use of his metal shovel. I caught Aidan's eye and made the quick sign for thanks as a reminder to him, and he immediately turned to the man and said, "Thank you!" 

At first I found myself wishing that he had thought to say it on his own, but then I realized that we were building together. It became a beautiful moment where I was seeing firsthand the rewards of our work: He knew to look to me for guidance, he understood my hasty sign, he responded right away and was blessed because of it.

And so we mamas continue to build our homes. It can be hard, sweaty work that requires lots of hours and tears, and sometimes we'll see days go by with little reward. But if we keep the blueprint before us, we'll know that we're right where we're supposed to be, doing exactly what we're supposed to be doing. Our homes will grow and take shape, and we'll marvel at how the Lord delights in using a mama's willing hands to accomplish His glorious work.

{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.

{Are You Crying Yet?}

The other night when we shared our Christmas favorites around the dinner table, I mentioned two songs that I particularly like to hear on the radio. My younger kids don't quite get it yet, but to "like" a song (at least in my mind) often means that it brings tears to my eyes. (This is why I anticipate bawling my way through Les Mis in two weeks.)

I have a hard time explaining this emotion to them, but it has to do with the ache of beauty. I think you know what I mean. Isn't it strange that beauty can cause pain?

This evening as I was out running errands with Aidan and Avery, one of "my" songs played on the radio. I frantically waved my arm toward the back seat and shouted, "This is it! The one that makes me cry! That Canon one I was talking about!"

At this point I envisioned them quietly folding their hands in reverential awe. It didn't happen.

"Are those supposed to be boys singing?" She demanded. "They sound like girls."

"Well, sweetie, I think it's a boys' choir. They're young . . ." I explained.

"Oh."

I let my spirit soar with the strains, only to be brought down again.

"Are you crying yet?"

"Not yet."

We headed in the direction of Daddy's office. She knew that we were going there, yet still she shouted from the back seat, "Where are we going?"

Deep breaths. I wanted to soar. She didn't get it.

"Are you crying yet?"

Aidan chimed in, "Are you crying yet?" They leaned forward, hoping to see their mother's face in tearful contortions.

"Are you crying yet?" 

And believe it or not, I did have tears in my eyes. The music was beautiful (albeit interrupted) and the lively chatter of my children reminded me that I truly had much to be thankful for.

Would you like to take a listen? Maybe it will make you cry, too.







   

{Time Travel}

It happened again. You know, that thing where I turn into my mother.

We've been living in my "growing up house" for over a month now, and whenever someone asks, "Isn't it weird?" I say, "Yes . . . and no."

It is weird to be "the mom" in this home, and it is weird to feel like I'm living in a land where time warps and plays tricks on me. I'm young and old and in between all at once.

But it's not weird like creepy weird. It's more like a feeling of awe. And gratitude.

* * * * * 

I rest on the lawn with my book and every other page or so I'm compelled to gaze up at the trio of birch trees towering over the house. The trees that my dad planted when I was Aidan's age. Their silvery leaves shimmer in the afternoon sun, a foil against the blue sky beyond. I'm almost certain that if I look closely enough I'll catch a glimpse of the fairies darting from limb to limb.

A hummingbird startles me. She's found the new feeder. I welcome our new guest and return to Dickens.

I wonder who's practicing the cello and inwardly congratulate the diligent young student who keeps at it, even on a sunny Saturday afternoon. And then I realize it's a bullfrog, his sonorous song carried across the marsh. I laugh.

* * * * *

My mother heard these sounds, gazed at those leaves (or, at least the ancestor leaves), and marveled at the same blue expanse.

But the thing that most startled me in this maternal transformation happened yesterday. The kids, hot and excited, jumped up and down shouting, "Can we go to the ice cream shop? We'll ride our bikes!" They've discovered the thrill of having quaint convenience stores and shops withing walking distance, just as my sister, brother and I did.

I agreed that it was a good day to pedal and happily joined them. On my mother's bike. She and Dad went for the more modern mountain bikes several years ago, so I happily inherited the vintage Schwinn (with a seat to die for).

If ever I've felt like my mother it was at that moment. The moment when I trailed in back of three children and followed that same route. The route that we used to take every summer for two weeks to Vacation Bible School.

Equally sentimental is the fact that Bethie has inherited my old bike, lovingly restored by Papa. She pedaled ahead with Aidan and Avery, just as I had pedaled along with Johnny and Krista.

We arrived at our destination and the kids made their selections. There was no hurry, no reason to rush. We sat down and rested in the warm sun, enjoying the dripping cones and neighborhood hum. I waited and let the children make the request to head home.

I suggested that we swing through the old church parking lot, the place where we had lined up for Vacation Bible School and, years later, the place where Jamie proposed to me. For it was there that we met. The children were properly awed, yet eager to get home.

We followed the road toward the birches and bullfrogs until we approached The Hill. I couldn't resist the temptation to zip down that hill. It's a great zipping hill. Once upon a time we had races to see how far we could coast before stopping. It's in my blood. I followed the urge, unleashed, and flew down that hill. I was eight and ten and fifteen and thirty-six all at once. Free, fully me. 

Into the driveway we soared: home. The home where I get to play house -- for real -- and be the mom. A mom who is daily filled with gratitude for the woman who taught her to be one.

When Mama Forgets the Fruit

Bedtime was rushed and frazzled. It's probably the worst time of the day to rush a little person (if indeed there's ever a good time to do it).

Little spirits need nurturing and quiet and peace at the bedtime hour, not a nagging mama who can't wait to close the door on a long day.

But sometimes mamas still nag and fret. Because that minute hand has already passed the hour and precious sleep is being lost and that means a cranky tomorrow morning which means a difficult school day. And who wants that?

So Mama borrows trouble from tomorrow and rushes the prayer with her son. She gets irritated when she's interrupted by another child who storms into the room wondering if shower gel is the same as shampoo. The frustration mounts, Mama forgets Who she's talking to and prematurely cuts off the prayer with a snapped Amen.


The listening boy is still and quiet. That's not how Mama's supposed to pray. He gently whispers the truth, "Mom, you forgot the fruit of the Spirit."

It's true and it hurts. Not only did she forget to pray the fruit over her child, but she grossly forgot to live it before him. And he noticed.

But guess what Mama read just that morning? She read in Numbers 14:18 that "The Lord is slow to anger, abounding in love and forgiving sin and rebellion." And she is so, so thankful.

She tiptoes back to her boy's room and asks for a redo. "Honey? Can I pray with you again?"

His face beams. It's noticeable, even in the darkness. He's more than willing. And this time, Mama doesn't forget the fruit.

A Child's Prayer by Jessie Wilcox Smith

{Day 28} :: What I See

What do I see as I sit and watch and love? Thought I'd share a little visual tour of our week with you this afternoon:

(Along with proof that I do sit.)

The gardens at Fort Vancouver . . . .

Teaching the children to sit, too. The girls are very happy about this.



(I love the way he's cradling his notebook while reaching for a cannon ball. Very realistic.)

"Let's pretend like we're running!"

Grammar with a tatted, tea-guzzling cowgirl who writes "toot" and "poop" on as many assignments as possible.

Kids with huge smiles, checking every other second to make sure Mama's watching. "Did you see that, Mom?!"

Paint is like a magnet to these children. I pull out the supplies and they come a-runnin'. They asked me to join them this afternoon. I did.

Because I know the days of Q-tip art and swim lessons and field trips are numbered. And I don't want to miss a single one.


Read about the thirty-one day challenge over here.

{Day 20} :: The Morning Hour

It is the early morning hours that offer the most peaceful sitting.

Peace again! The exquisite hour before dawn, here at my old desk --
seldom have I realized so keenly, appreciated so fully, these still, dark hours.

{Edward Weston}

These are the hours I need. The quiet hush that embraces the slumbering house causes me to be a better listener. Yes, I listen for the patter of little feet which will eventually descend.

But before that, before that -- I listen to the quiet. I hear the stillness.

I open His Word. I am still. I sit. I listen.

I listen so that when the little feet do descend, I am able to hear more than the clatter and chaos. I hear my children. My children. And I welcome them.


Read about the thirty-one day challenge over here.