{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.   

{My Father's Song}

"Mom! I found what I wanna write!" Aidan dashes into the school room with his nature reader in hand. He sets the volume down in front of me and points to the paragraph.

I glance quickly over the words and continue to help Avery with her math while Aidan pulls together a paper and pencil for his dictation.

"I'm ready, Mom." Aidan's pencil is poised.

"Okay. Where are we starting?" I have one hand on the book, the other keeping Miss Kate within reach lest she bolt.

"Right here." He points out the section. "All the way to here."

I begin to read aloud as he copies the words.



"It is curious to hear a young blackbird or thrush beginning to try a tune. First he sounds one note, then two or three. They are not always in tune, but he tries again and again."

"Okay. That's all." Aidan is ready to put down his pencil.

For the first time since he handed me the book, I actually start to pay attention to the passage. "Wait a minute, honey. I want to include just one more sentence. I really like it."

I continue.

". . . he tries again and again . . . So, little by little, he learns his father's song."

Aidan scribbles off the last line, but before he rushes away I use the moment to really teach. Not just the copywork kind, but the heart kind.

Because I need to hear the words, too.

"Doesn't this sound like us, Aidan? We try our little tunes. Sometimes they sound good, and sometimes they're not right at all. But like the blackbird, we try again and again."

Aidan nods, and I get to the main point. "Do you know what tune we're learning? We're learning our Father's song. Just like the bird who copies his father's tune, we are learning to copy our heavenly Father in all that we say and do." I give my boy a squeeze and send him off to LEGO Land.

I reflect. He chose this passage out of the blue, but it was just what my heart needed at that moment. It sure feels like my notes are all warbly and erratic. But I continue to try again and again.

Aidan wanted the dictation to stop before we reached the last line. Sometimes I do the same thing. I try again and again. (And again and again.) But forget the main part. I forget that it's my Father's song that I'm learning.

Avery pulls me back to the present, demanding a drink or a snack or something prosaic like that. I focus on the task at hand, reminding myself that this too is part of learning my Father's song. This quiet, daily tending. Perhaps this is actually where my tune is most often refined. Right here, right at home. No one watching but the little ones. The little ones . . . and our Father.


Dictation taken from "Birds of the Air" by Arabella Buckley

{A Time to Speak}

There are times when I have nothing to say. Not because there's nothing on my mind, but because I'm too overwhelmed by the weight of it all. So I don't write. (Or, when I do, it's a glib little anecdote that barely passes as a tolerable read.)

But if I could speak, these would be my honest words:


My kids have been bickering. For weeks. I'm tired.

We haven't had a "normal" school day for . . . I'm not sure how long.

I haven't been able to motivate myself to follow my exercise routine.

It's become a habit to ignore the alarm in the morning.

The meal planning? Not going so well.

And, of course, the laundry. (Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.)


My honest words. So why do I feel as though I can't speak? Because I don't have the answers. I'm out of "bickering kid" solutions. I'm not sure how to liven up the school day. (Instead I've considered enrolling them a number of times.) The exercising, the nutritious meals, the eight hours of sleep. It's all lacking. And I don't have any answers.

You see, I'm the kind of girl who likes to have the answers. I like to offer solutions to peoples' problems. I like to put in my two cents' worth pretty much whenever I have the opportunity.

And I can't do that right now. Because I can't even handle a shrieking six-year-old. (Although can anyone, really?)

But what if -- now humor me for a moment -- what if this is actually a good time to speak?

A time to speak and let you know that I don't have all the answers. A time to speak and let you know that you're not the only one who struggles. A time to speak and let you know that it's okay to feel like you don't have it all together.

Because no one really has it all together. At least, not on their own strength.

Which is why I'm so very grateful that I can speak with certainty on this point:

I'm surrounded by grace, and I'm filled with hope.

Because I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that God is good. I know that He'll faithfully redeem these "lost days," just as He's done many times before. And that's definitely something worth speaking about.

Like a crocus in the snow
I stand, knee-deep in winter
Holding springtime in my heart.

Joan Walsh Anglund

Woman Writing at a Table by Thomas Anchutz

{Everything I Needed to Know I Learned From a Six-Year-Old}

She says what she thinks. Sometimes it's embarrassing. Sometimes it causes me to immediately turn around and seek a different aisle in the grocery store, lest we pass someone who might bear the brunt of her candor.

And sometimes she speaks wisdom. Like a perfectly outlined sermon, my six-year-old has recently set before me three points that I just can't get out of my mind. Perhaps the Lord is speaking to me? You know how it goes, "Out of the mouths of babes . . . ."

So if you'll allow me, here's a bit of gospel preachin'. From a first grader.

1. Contentment
The other day, Miss Kate was perched on the bathroom counter as I rolled up her hair in sponge curlers. She loves this ritual and would probably sit through it daily if I had the patience for it. As we rolled and she gabbed, she gazed at herself in the mirror and in a very matter-of-fact manner declared, "I like being me."

It was cute and sweet and earth shattering at the same time. Not everyone can say this about themselves. But when we acknowledge that we've been created in His image and when we seek to live in that perfect design for our lives, we can truly begin to say that we like who we are. This is the key to contentment.


2. Dependence
She really wanted to pour her own milk. From the completely full gallon jug. I said okay. It sloshed and spilled and she very quickly realized that help was in order. She wasn't discouraged or frustrated. She simply set down that jug and asked for help with the admission, "I'm still not quite capable." How easy was that? And again, very eye-opening as I completed the milk-pouring mission.


3. Trust
We were walking through the park when she announced that she really needed to use the restroom. Now. Thankfully, there were a number of public restrooms nearby. It was quite discouraging, however, to find that they were locked. She danced and wiggled. I knew that there was another restroom across the park, behind a large cluster of trees. I promised my fidgety girl that I'd get her to the next stop, although it was a bit of a walk. She peered ahead then looked up with complete trust in her sparkly blue eyes. "I don't see it, but I believe you." She grabbed my hand and stepped forward.

Amen.

In review.

* The key to contentment? Be thankful for you.

* The cure for pride? (Lest we get too carried away with point one . . .) Admit that you're not capable on your own.

* The best way to walk? In complete trust. He sees beyond the trees. (Aren't you glad?)

And now if you'll please stand for the benediction: "May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit. Amen."

You are dismissed.

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.

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.

My Faith Rests

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.
~C.H. Spurgeon~

Winslow Homer's 1873 "Girl in a Hammock"