{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.

{Playing Dress-Up}

If I'm given an opportunity to dress up, I frequently say, "Why . . . sure!"

If I'm given an opportunity to dress up in Victorian costume, I say, "I'll be there immediately. My dress is ready."

So it was with great delight that I donned a frock this weekend to help a friend during her holiday home tour.

Annie shares all about it over at Dusk. Won't you join us? We'll be happy to pour you a cup of tea.

{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.

{Home}

The golden morning light greeted me that first day. I had been lulled to sleep by the chorus of spring peepers, and I felt like a child again. The familiar sound, the familiar place.

Home.

I walked the neighborhood in the silence of breaking daylight, past familiar homes. My friends from elementary school had lived there. My youth pastor's family, just down this street, here.

The house at the other end where my sister and I quietly left a May basket, rang the doorbell, and bolted, giggling wildly.

And some homes, still sharing the same love and the same people that were shared with our family long ago. Ready to welcome, ready to "share an egg" or a "cup of flour."

Neighbors. Home.


The clock is now hung. Our "shepherdess."

We're settling in. And it's the most peaceful, right feeling in the world. I love nesting. But this nest, this childhood home of mine, has been feathered before. By my own mother.

To tend it now, as a mother myself, is surreal.

The rhythm of our days picks up and falls into a whirl of something resembling normality. School hums merrily in the study where, years ago, we set up our first, bulky family computer.

The china cabinet holds my china -- my grandmother's china -- just as it once held my mother's things. Pieces from family, passed down. Like this home.

Even sweet Maizy seems to know that all is well.

Serene and restful. I think of Gideon's peace. He asked the Lord, "Show me?" And the Lord revealed.

So, too, the Lord revealed that this is the home for us. For this time. And we are so very grateful.

Miss Kate scrambles up to the loft, not minding one bit that it's time for some quiet. Nestled among books with tea and CDs where I remember sorting through Sports Illustrated volumes with my dad.

Home.

The rain pounds its rhythm on the skylight above me. The geese congregate in the nearby wetlands, seeking shelter among the reeds.

We, too, have sought shelter. Many times. And the Lord has faithfully gathered us into His arms. And every time, we've found home.

{Operation Simplicity: Why I'm Laughing}

The Lord has a wonderful sense of humor. He knew all along! He knew that as I organized my home, cupboard by cupboard and drawer by drawer, it would prepare me . . . to move.

Just a few short weeks ago we were presented with the opportunity to purchase the home that I grew up in. The kids are beside themselves with excitement, and Jamie and I are, of course, thrilled to be moving into a home of our own.

So my efforts to simplify have already paid off. It should be a fairly easy move (if one can use the words "easy" and "move" in the same sentence). Our soon-to-be home is already vacant, so we're able to move loads over at our convenience. It really is an ideal situation.

The official move will take place toward the end of March. In the mean time, I'll continue to simplify, purge, and pack, eager to bring a sweet little home to life.

We've done it before, and we can't wait to do it again.

{Today's Project}

My kitchen is coming along, one drawer at a time. I'm realizing, however, that a kitchen is a tricky thing. Because when I clear out one drawer, I quickly see the wisdom in rearranging and mingling other drawers and cupboards with each other to make the spaces work more efficiently. It's almost like I'm moving in again. So it's a (sometimes messy) work in progress.

Even so, my kitchen already feels much more user friendly. I actually like working in it. Which is the goal. (And I kind of get a kick out of watching Jamie open cupboard after cupboard to find a bowl which is no longer in it's original spot.)

I'll share more about my kitchen endeavors next week. But for today, I decided to attack the creepy Tupperware drawer (and even allow you to see a picture of it). Why is this always the one to cause so much trouble? It must be those lids and mis-matched pieces. It took longer than the 15 minutes I allotted, but since it's a quiet Saturday that's okay.

Do you have a terrifying Tupperware success story? How have you solved the problem?

I don't have cute or spiffy organizing bins, but this already feels so much better. I moved the plastic kid cups to this drawer (they had previously been in a cupboard) since Miss Kate was prone to ascend the counter tops to reach for a glass when thirsty. I think this is a much better option. I also paired off the lids and containers to see how many superfluous lids I'd accumulated. Quite a few. They got tossed. Operation Simplicity . . . success!

A number of you have updated me with your various clutter-clearing efforts. A drawer cleaned out, a closet spiffed up, a bag filled and dropped off. Hooray! It's so fun and encouraging to work on our homes together.

What have you been working on today?

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?