Raising Magnolias

My Purpose Driven Life

Several weeks ago, my Kindermusik families had gathered in my home and noticed construction paper signs I had taped throughout.

Goodness.

Gentleness.

Self-Control.

Love.

Peace.

Patience.

Kindness.

Just one word.

My friend says, “Did you get this out of a study or are you just a super mom.?”

Or she may have said, “Rock-star” mom.

Or it’s entirely possible I’m making the whole thing up and I just like to think of myself as a rock-star mom.

I laughed and said, “No, our verse of the week is the fruits of the spirit so the kids colored them and we hung them up to help us learn.”

Please don’t be too impressed. I’ve been a mom for 8 1/2 years and I’ve been committed to scripture memory for the past two weeks.

It started with a sermon of sorts on being intentional about faith in your home. The speaker read from Deuteronomy and that we are called to bind the Word around our necks and hang it from our gates and for me, that means construction paper.

And crayons.

Intentional.

That’s the word that stuck with me.

Some of you will remember that instead of resolutions, I choose one word.

One word, for 2014.

Last year my word was promise. The promise of a new year. The promise of God’s faithfulness. The promise of a future and a hope and as I circled and circled and cried out to the Lord, I reminded Him of His promise to restore the years the locust have eaten.

And He did!

And He will.

And 2013 was a year of promise, fulfilled.

So I’ve been waiting since early November to tell you my new word. I mean this is more excited that the announcement of the new American Girl Doll for 2014, right? This is big!

Intentional.

Well, that was my word and then on Sunday, Pastor Tom was praying and he used the word purposeful and I liked that word even better.

Yes. That is my word.

Purposeful!

Emma Claire will start Kindergarten this fall. I want to be purposeful in how we spend our time together. (And perhaps a tad more purposeful in how we comb our hair!!)

Coulter is here and there and a little bit everywhere so when he is home, I want to be purposeful.

I want to be purposeful in praying with my children, teaching my children, building into, wrapping around and raising  up.

I want to be purposeful in my writing. Sharing my journey, transparent and hopeful and humble. And when I do and as I do there are perhaps some who will wish they had behaved a little better. 🙂

I want to be purposeful in my training and my teaching and my building and growing.

I want to reach out to my friends and those whom I love and I want to be purposeful.

I feel ready. Like, I’m back, y’all!

No longer reacting to a past that I can’t change.

But purposefully looking forward to a future and a hope.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Purposeful:

1. having purpose; 2. determined; resolute. 3. full of meaning; significant.

Yes!

I am resolute and determined to make 2014 significant and full of meaning.

Synonyms? Deliberate. Firm. Intense. Intent. Steadfast. Strong-willed. Undeviating. Unfaltering.

And my favorite?

Unwavering.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Scattered throughout my home are several grapevines wreaths. Not just for Christmas. They are always out. My former neighbor grows grapes and her garage is overtaken so every time I need a new one I make a little visit. I’m a little bit obsessed, actually.

I think they are lovely. They circle round and round and their branches weave in and out in  what sometimes looks like a tangled mess and from that mess came sweet fruit.

God meets us in our mess.

Oswald Chambers says, if we are going to be made into wine, we will have to be crushed; you cannot drink grapes.

You cannot drink grapes.

And you can’t grow them if you’re not hanging on the Vine.

I have no intention; (or purpose!) to grow grapes. And I would like to think that my season of being crushed has come to an end (although I know He’ll keep pruning and crushing and molding and making,) but as I remember back to how this blog started—-how this binding around the neck and hanging on the gates—as I think back to the fruits that we write and we speak and we learn—-I see the circled wreaths and pray that they will serve as a reminder to be purposeful.

Purposeful in Love.

Purposeful in Joy.

Purposeful in Peace and Patience and Kindness and Goodness and Faithfulness and Gentleness and Self-Control.

Shoot! I so wish vine rhymed with 14. Or I wish it was 2009. Hangin’ on the Vine in 2009 only Praise the God from whom all blessings flow it is not 2009!

May your fruits be seen, May your grass be green.

May you life be full of purpose in 2014.

🙂

OK, whatever. C.S. Lewis, I’m not, but good grief, teen is super hard to rhyme with.

Please keep reading y’all, and Happiest of New Year’s my sweet friends.

Tarina, Dana and a Bleak Mid-Winter’s Night

This morning we were singing “In the Bleak Winter’s Night” or something anyway, about bleak winters and it’s not really my favorite hymn because winters in Nebraska are bleak enough without having to sing about it, but I’ve come to understand that you have to sing the hard stuff too.

It’s not all Joy to the World.

In the middle of this not-so-favorite hymn, I thought of two things or people rather.

My friend, Tarina and our covenant grandma, Dana.

Emotions sprang up and teared up and I was flooded—all mess and where are the sunglasses when you need them—

The ugly cry.

Tears, I know, brought on from the memory of singing that hymn last year—-sitting next to Dana as she held me tight, wiped my tears and absorbed my sobs.

Bleak Midwinter Night—something, something bleak.

Tears, I know,  brought on from the memory of the first time I spoke—

Out. Loud.

About my marriage.

Last week our Pastor spoke from Matthew and he’s a preacher and a  teacher (oooh, we should sing about that!) and he challenges my faith and grows my faith and helps me deepen.

My faith.

I’ve been a believer for the greater part of my life but I’ve never once given props to Joseph but here my Pastor is saying, “You dummy.”

How can you miss Joseph?

And Mary?

I’m just kidding. He didn’t call me a dummy. But it’s entirely possible he was thinking it.

It reminds me of piano. When a student messes up (practicing, not performing) I always encourage them—you have to go back.

Back to a  place before the mistake. Before the mess.

Before the stable and swaddling clothes.

Before the Baby.

You can’t start with the manger.

Mary listened to Gabrielle and she believed.

Joseph  listened to the Angel and he believed.

And on and on and on.

Every act of  obedience in what we’ve come to know as the Christmas story starts with faithful listening.

And my friend Tarina? That one fateful car-ride home? Sitting in the driveway of her home for what must’ve been an hour?

She listened.

And  believed.

My friend Jodi? My friend that I barely knew,  but knew I could trust?

She listened.

And believed.

Me.

Pastor Kyle?

Jenny?

Heidi?

Julie?

And I could write pages and pages of my faithful village.

Listeners.

And they, with my family and so many others walked through a freakin’ bleak midwinter, spring, fall, midwinter again, spring—

Yeah. OK.

But today?

Today, it’s over.

And I totally get that you thought this already happened. Say, back in August? But no. It’s today.

Today I check the single box. Or the divorced box. Or the “I once was married but now I’m not” box.

Today.

And Pastor Kyle asks this very day, what are you pondering on?

What are you pondering and continuing to ponder and I’m sure most Christmases I get it wrong and I’m sure most holidays I get lost in the hurry and the flurry and I lose sight and I  forget Christ, but this Christmas?

This Christmas, I’m pondering Mary and Joseph and village of listeners.

My village.

I’m pondering that God’s faithfulness really is to the heavens  and his mercies really are new every morning and his loving-kindness really is everlasting and not for a moment—

Did he ever forsake me.

Really!

Divorce is not something to be celebrated but endings marked with joy and hope for new beginnings are.

There is reason to celebrate.

And what did Mary and Joseph leave behind, believing and obedient and trusting that there were far greater things ahead.

And I wonder how many times God has sent a messenger to me—and I was too busy, too doubting, too scared, too mad, too—

Whatever—

To listen.

But I’m listening, now Lord.

“Here I am, the faithful servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” Luke 1:38

Here I am, Lord. Your faithful servant and the Joy of the Lord is my strength.

Here I am Lord, your faithful servant and I’m listening.

And laughing.

And resting in the peace that surpasses all understanding.

I’m celebrating Jesus.

The Christ-child.

Who came—

And is coming again.

And when He does? Look out, Y’all! Glory to God! And I don’t know how it’s all gonna go down, but I am fairly certain I won’t ever, ever, ever have to sing (or live) the bleak mid-winter night.

Ever.

Again.

Merry Christmas, friends!

Piercing the Cloud that Brings in the Light

Emma Claire is on her way home.

Home from the city that never sleeps.

Most people seemed a little shocked that my parents would take a 5 year old to New York City and I’m thankful for their surprise because it reminds me that yes.

It’s surprising.

But not for the reasons they may think.

My mother knows the Broadway district of New York City better than I know downtown Omaha. She’s been planning this trip for 5 years (and probably more) and there’s this magical age when you’re not to young to appreciate it and not to old to be captured by it and these pictures keep coming in (blurry at best and I’m thinking my mom needs a new camera or new contacts) but you can see it.

And for Emma Claire the magical age is 5, but maybe for my parents?

It’s still magical at 60-something?

Life always looks more hopeful, brighter, merrier when seen through the eyes of a child.

A few weeks ago we were in the car and Emma Claire said to me, “Mom, you know how God holds us in His hands?”

Yes.

“Well, I think Coulter and I are next to each other.”

Coulter interrupts. “Mom, why is it always His right hand? I mean, what’s wrong with his left hand?”

And he’s not being a smart-A. He’s sincere.

And I’m not smart enough to answer. “Let’s ask Pastor Kyle about that.”

And then he gives me this answer that supposedly Pastor Kyle had given him, but I think it can’t possibly be right so we are going to re-visit it.

Anyway.

I’d never thought of it, but yes, Emma Claire. I bet y’all are next to each other.

A few days later, snuggled in tight, she brings it up again.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Emma Claire.”

“You know how God holds us in His hand?”

“Uhm. Yes.” I’m thinking we’ve really already covered this to the extent of my theological, you know, smartness-level.

“I think God closes His hand around us at night. That’s why it’s dark.”

Seeing life, the light and the dark through the eyes of a child.

A little bit speechless at this child who’s so much brighter than her mom and remembering a text from Ann Voskamp’s blog about being hidden in the shelter of His wings as He passes by and maybe it’s His wings and maybe it’s His hands but my daughter in her five magical years just hit on a point that a best-selling author wrote about and all I could say was—

“Yes, Emma Claire. I think you are right.”

We are closing in on a year that I have seen more darkness than at any other time in my life. It seemed to come crashing down all around my friends and my community and a friend put it this way—

There is a cloud over Fremont.

There is a darkness.

Husbands lost. 30-something widows.

That was plural.

Marriages imploding. Trust wasted and broken.

That was plural.

16 year-old babies given back into the hands of Jesus.

Mourning mothers.

That was plural.

Mothers, fathers, friends and—

And.

And how do we sing of this, “The most wonderful time of the year?”

But I know it from my own story and I know it from a 5-year-old. He is closest when it’s dark. He hides us in the shelter of His wings. He holds us in the palm of His hand.

And it looks dark and it feels cold but when we stop wrestling and just lean into Him, we will feel it.

We will know it.

He holds.

This morning a hymn—a familiar line that caught me by surprise.

Pierce through the cloud that brings us light.

Hold us, Lord, but open up your hand.  Pierce through the cloud.

Please.

And bring us light.

*****************************************************************************

New York City. The city that never sleeps.

And this blog would work so much better if she had been to the city of lights.

What city is that?

Technically, NYC is also a city of lights. I mean how else would they never sleep?

And the trip is shocking and the trip is surprising not because she’s five but because her grandparents have shockingly generous hearts.

Sacrificial in their giving.

In the two years of God-controlled chaos and even for a time before, my parents have not gone on vacation. They’ve been in Fremont and while I’ve come to love my little town here, let’s be honest.

It’s not a hopping vacation destination.

I’m thankful for the look I get and the surprised  that registers  because it reminds me of the gift.

And how easily we take gifts for granted.

The gift of grandparents.

The gift of Jesus.

The gift of His birth. Of His death.

The gift.

Of His life.

*****************************************************************************

Working with a client in the gym, I see a friend’s husband. More condolences to offer. He’s been to at least three funerals in the past year and those are just the ones I know of.

I say to him, my guess is your sick of funerals. I don’t know him well enough to go much deeper than that. He laughs. Yep. Ready to ring in a new year.

And I thought Hale Yeah and hallelujah to that! It’s time for a new year. But as I walked away I wish that I had had the courage to go a little bit deeper for there was this piercing truth that struck my heart.

Our hope is not in a new year.

Our hope is a new heaven and a new earth.

Our hope is in Christ.

And this year. I don’t want to forget the gift.

Come, thou long awaited Savior. Pierce through the cloud that brings the light.

A Picture of Thankfulness

Yesterday I met with a group of women whose only real commonality is that we are a group of believers. We were in the home of my former neighbor who has been a surrogate grandparent to my children and she knows me well. Across the table was a woman who I workout with 5 days a week and I call her my Nebraska mom. To my left, my dear sweet (and first fremont) friend and next to her my friend the banker who helped me make some early (and hard) decisions for which I am forever grateful. But also scattered around a table were practical strangers. I don’t know all of their names and I do not know their stories.

At the conclusion of our meeting, the hostess asked if we might stay a bit longer and share one thing we are thankful for this season. Unfiltered (shocking, I know), I blurted out.

“Well, I’ve got lots!”

I gave a not-so-brief explanation of the past two years and then, trying to wrap it up and bring it all together, I blurt agin (and again, in front of friends but also strangers)—

“Divorce! I’m thankful for divorce!”

Good grief.

The table of thanksgiving continued.

Friends.

Family.

Faith.

Health.

Good grief.

Yes. Divorce and those too.

I then asked for another turn. Like a re-do. Something to recover and redeem and ya know, just an opportunity to say something a little bit more—more—

Uhm.

Yes. More appropriate.

And I did. Or at least I tried.

But somedays there are no words. (Well, not so much that they’re aren’t words. I’m pretty sure my friends will attest that  I can always come up with at least a few,) but maybe there aren’t enough words.

Or the right words.

Maybe silence would’ve been better.

Or a picture.

Better, still.

Maybe some days a picture captured by a very talented photographer says more about my gratitude; more about my thankfulness; more about my life than mere words ever could.

Maybe today is that day.

Happy Thanksgiving, Y’all!

*picture of gratitude by Courtney Fitzgerald Photography

Slow but Sure

I called my cousin tonight. I needed her help. Evidently spending $1200 on a computer is not enough to actually have a program that allows you to write and save a document. And I’m new at the book-writing thing, but I’m pretty sure that you need to be able to write a save documents.

Ya know. Just as a start.

I opened an email she had sent on October 3rd with a link to Microsoft word. A generous gift considering that Apple was going to charge $100, but I couldn’t figure out what to do so I called her.

I didn’t want to call her.

I didn’t want her to know that almost two months had passed since she sent me the link.

But I’ve been humbled by less so I called her.

She laughed and she said, “Oh Myra! You know what they say about Myra! She’s slow but she’s sure.”

Slow.

But sure.

It took about 1/2 hour to complete all the downloads. I am now the proud new owner of Word. I can write and type and save and well just all kinds of fancy things.

But as I sat and watched the little blue downloading line get longer and longer and longer, I thought about what she had said.

Slow.

But sure.

And I think she kinda nailed it.

When I think about how slow I was to seek and find and acknowledge and yes—-

I am slow.

But once I make up my mind.

Once I step out and spread out and jump right out—THEN—

I am sure.

And there is no turning back.

Tonight we have friends over. Little ones. Friends whose parents are at a school fundraiser and I think back to two years ago this very week and I remember the exact dress that I was supposed to wear and we never dressed up and we never went out so I remember being excited but I also remember hearing a voice from the Lord asking me when I was going to do the hard thing that I’d been called to do.

Hard.

Slow.

But sure.

I did the hard thing. In an email.

In my defense we talked first and being a better writer than I am “talker” I told him that I was going to write down what I was feeling.

Yes. I did the hard thing.

My husband replied. I don’t think you should go to the fundraiser.

He went. He told the table I was sick.

And that was probably true.

I was sick.

Two years.

Two long, slow years.

Today on the way home from day care, Emma Claire, out of the clear blue sky says, “Mom. I wish you and Dad weren’t divorced.”

She was so young when we separated that it’s all she knows.

She’s only now beginning to process what it all means.

Slow.

But sure.

I said, “Emma Claire, I wish that too.”

And with the exception of Santa and Jolly Sparkle, the stupid elf that I have to buy over and over again because he flies to the Pole and never comes back….yes, with the exception of that I think it’s the first time I’ve ever lied to my child.

But the truth is too confusing.

I don’t wish that we weren’t divorced.

I wish that our marriage had been different.

And I don’t wish at all.

I pray.

And I believe.

And I am slow.

But sure.

My marriage wasn’t different.

So I don’t wish for anything else than what is.

Right now.

Today I got a call from a friend who knows betrayal and knows heartache and her story could not be more different and her story could not be more—

The.

Same.

She fought. She believed. She was slow.

But now she is sure.

And her journey toward freedom is beginning and I know the voices because I’ve heard the voices.

“How sad.”

“How could she not have known?”

“I just feel so sorry for her children.”

It’s not sad. I know exactly how she couldn’t have known and I rejoice for her children.

Hard? Yeah!

Slow? Yeah!

Sure! HALE  to the YEAH!

Yes, I am slow to act but I am sure in my faith and I Praise the ever-living God from whom all blessings flow that His love never fails and He never gives up on me.

Slow but sure.

Leaving it to the Word

Emma Claire, combing through her hair had looked up at me and said (as if to start in the middle of a conversation that wasn’t actually taking place)—

“It’s not that you’re not funny. I mean, I don’t mean to be unkind, you are funny.

It’s just that Dad’s funnier.

He lets us say funny words.

Like butt-crack. Dad found a butt-crack in Coulter’s pumpkin.

I mean, it is funny. You don’t think that’s a funny word (insert the implied but never spoken “which makes you totally lame”).

So, ya know, that’s why Dad’s just a little bit funnier.”

Yes. I know.

Dad is hysterical.

From the time Coulter was a baby (and I suspect that our family is not so different than others,) Dad got to be Fun-Dad. I would feed and clothe and play and oh! time to feed again and ooops! time to clothe again and how can that much *stuff* come out of such a little body and it’s nap time for the non-nappers and it’s book time and then—THEN— there’s this glorious 20 minutes at the end of the day, Fun-Dad comes through the door.

The Hero.

And it’s wrestling and tickling and tossing and—

Shoot! I can’t think of anything that rhymes with tickling.

Fun Dad.

Emma Claire continues—

“Mom, what’s that word when you have a lot of rules?”

She thinks and thinks and thinks and then it comes to her—

“Strict!”

“Daddy’s not strict. He doesn’t have rules like you do.”

And I wonder—

What 5-year-old knows the word strict?

“You make us use manners at the table and we can’t eat on the couch and I’m not trying to be mean, mom. You are fun. It’s just that Dad doesn’t have  rules.”

Coulter interrupts, ever protective of his mom. “Mom’s not strict.”

“Thank you, Coulter!”

Uhm, wait!

“Yes, I am!”

But I am fun, dangit! I throw balls and I kick balls and I have an entire basement full of glitter.

A basement full of glitter? Come on! That proves I’m fun, right?

I suppose it also mean that I  haven’t fully cleaned-up from last week’s pumpkin glitteratzi event but, whatever.

I am fun.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Soon after separating I blogged about the term broken family.

I emphatically denied that we were broken.

But I was wrong.

There was a break.

And there can only be so many cracks and so many breaks, and I think about those icebergs that are melting and breaking  into the ocean and the shifting of the earth and I wonder what it feels like to live through an earthquake with the shaking and the breaking and the earth opens right up and threatens to swallow you whole and yes—

We were broken.

And some days I feel as though I have lived through an earthquake.

But Jesus came for the broken and several days ago I woke up with a word.

Don’t y’all love it when I get a word! 🙂

His word.

Let My word be a lamp unto your feet and light unto your path.

What’s the balance of boundaries (what Emma Claire calls rules)?

What’s too much?

What’s not enough?

Let My word—His Word be a lamp.

So, sitting around a breakfast-table full of Nutella and breadcrumbs and coloring sheets and markers (and man! I need to clean my table,) I open up His Word.

We start small.

1 Thessalonians.

Being thankful in all things.

It’s not mom that expects you to say thank you.

It’s God.

And my kids love to say b00-yaw. And I have no idea how to spell that, but when I see the glimmer in their eyes, like Oh! We can’t blame mom for that. It’s God. Well-

I have a silent little “boo-yaw” moment.

I continue.

Ephesians.

Honor your Father and Mother. Obey them in the Lord for this is right.

God has called us to honor—

And obey.

Dang-it! God again!

And then I surprised them.

You know how Dad doesn’t make you say “Yes Sir?” Well, it’s because he didn’t grow up saying it. People in the Midwest don’t say it.

Coulter nods and adds. Yes, but people in the South do.

Right.

“Do you think Jesus cares if we say Yes Sir or Yes Ma’am?” I ask.

They stare into me hard. Convinced that this is a trick questions. The Sir/Ma’am thing runs deeps with the Coulter-Hale clan.

“I gotta say, I don’t think he cares.”

And if Jesus doesn’t care—

Then I don’t care.

But I do care that you honor me with your words and your actions.

I do care that you obey your Mom in the Lord for this is right.

I do care that I’ve been called to “raise you up in the way that you should go so that when you are old you will not depart from it” and so that’s what I plan to do.

Raise you up. In the Light of His Word.

Just a few short hours after getting “my word.” I open up my church bulletin and I listen to my pastor read a quote from Martin Luther.

I can’t say that I totally understood all of it. Well, actually I can say that for sure I did not understand most of it, but what I did understand—

What left me with prickly little tingles up and down my body was this. Luther says in reference to his work and the Reformation:

“I did nothing; I left it to the Word.”

Am I too strict? Am I a fun mom? The truth is, most days, I’m fairly certain I strike a perfect balance between the two.

🙂

His word is a lamp and a light and yes, I think I will do it best if I do nothing.

If I simply.

Leave it to the Word.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Several days after the I’m not funny conversation, Coulter hops into the car and he’s already laughing. Or still laughing, I suppose, because from the sound of it, the giggles had started much earlier.

“Mom!!! Bryce was reading and in Social Studies and he said ‘European Culture!’ Get it mom?”

And by now he’s doubled over.

Emma Claire is confused. I don’t get it, she wails.

Me either, Emma Claire!

“Emma Claire! It’s like over there where Paris is and where they talk British. It’s called European. Get it? You’re a peein‘!”

He is completely beside himself, laughing. And still uncertain why she’s laughing, Emma Claire joins in. And yes, even this uptight, strict ol’ Mother who hates potty words and sees absolutely nothing funny about a pumpkin with a butt-crack or a dad who would point out such a crude feature,  started laughing.

Coulter says, “now that’s funny, right mom?”

You’re a peein’?

Yes, Coulter. Now that’s funny.

🙂

That’s a funny word.

And for the 5 minute commute back home, I got to be a fun mom.

Jesus as the Fat Lady

I never know when it’ll  hit me. Or even what “it” will be.

It sneaks up and creeps us and I’m light and I’m laughing and I’m free and then—

Wham!

And the tears spring fast and I bite down hard.

People are tired of seeing me cry.

A friend shares—

“I met (your friend).”  I’ll leave the name out to protect the not-even-close-to-being-innoncent.

“Oh. Sure. Yes.

My dear.

Close.

Friend.”

The one who drew the lines.

And I was left on the wrong side.

All those emotions came flooding back.

And the two friends, one new and one from a lifetime ago, I can picture them nodding and agreeing and awkwardly realizing they’re rooting for  different teams—and there are no teams—but each acknowledging just how sad this all is.

It’s just so sad.

And yet it’s not.

Getting your life back.

It’s not sad.

I’m not sad.

I’m ready.

So. (insert any bad word you can think of) Ready.

I saw the Fat Lady.

Seriously.

She was there.

In court.

Warming up.

But here we are, almost 3 months later and she still isn’t singing.

Sing, fat lady sing!

Two years ago. This month.

And 10 years ago. This month.

And I suppose 5 years before that.

Sing, fat lady sing!

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I’m reading a book on the meaning of marriage by Timothy Keller.

Reading this book is healing and helpful.

And Hopeful.

Keller quotes Jesus on the issues of marriage.

And divorce.

A radical concept, I know!

And I am blacker than black and red-er than red and it Jesus who makes us white as snow so I know I stand in no place to judge, but come on Christians!!

If you’re going to quote Jesus, and lecture me on the laws of God, please make sure you know Him first.

Make sure you read him first.

When I talk about the hurt of lost friendships, my family runs to me.

“They were never your friends.”

How humiliating.

How.

Completely.

Humiliating.

Fake? The whole time?

But as I read about Christian friendship, it turns out they were right.

Keller writes that Christian friends are to “bear each other’s burdens (Galatians 6:2), and be there for each other through thick and thin (1 Thessalonians 5:11, 14-15).

They were never my friends.

What’s worse?

As I continue reading Keller’s thoughts on the essence of marriage, the meaning of marriage, and the mission of marriage, I find (and I don’t say this to be hurtful), I find that–

I.

Was never married.

Wore the ring. Took the trip. Got the name.

But marriage? This thing called marriage that Keller writes about?

That Jesus writes about?

I know nothing of that.

And it’s hard to read.

And it’s healing to read.

And it’s hopeful.

To just.

Keep.

Reading.

We go back for another court hearing later this month. My prayers are that we can enter back in with soft and humble hearts and admit the failure and defeat and bury the dead and let it rest.

In peace.

My prayer is that we can enter back in with soft and humble hearts and remember that God makes beauty from ashes and He is the giver of every good and perfect gift.

Coulter.

Emma Claire.

My prayer is that we can enter back in—not into court—but into life with soft and humble hearts and remember that God.

Redeems.

He.

Is the Great Redeemer.

He is also the Great Reminder because as I write it “occurs” to me and by “occur”, I mean I’m being nudged by the Holy Spirit and this is what I know.

I don’t need the fat lady.

And I don’t need her song.

I don’t even need a legal document (although, admittedly  that would be super helpful in getting my  name back).

I just need Jesus.

He stood in my place.

And He is the one that declares.

“It is Finished.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I went back to the court-house today.

To walk.

And circle.

To pray.

I ran into an attorney that I saw quite often last spring and he looks over.

Stunned.

“You’re back?”

“I’m back.” I say.

“To pray?” He asks.

“Yes. To pray.”

“You mean it’s not finished?”

I just shook my head. But I wish that I had been braver.

I wish that I had been bolder.

I wish that I had said.

“Yes! Actually.”

It is Finished.

P.S.

P.s….email followers. I seriously have no clue why everything is showing up in bold. I’m not trying to yell at y’all. Just maybe still learning about my new computer.

THanks for reading! For writing back! For your cards and notes and emails and prayers.

So. Grateful.

Living Quiet. Under His Hand.

I saw it again this week.

When the bottom falls out and you have no place to stand.

And your world is flipped and turned and crushed and burned and you find that it is your time to walk through the fire and those of us walking with you are helpless, but it is not hopeless and we can walk and we can pray and we can encourage and this was prayed for me and I now pray it for others that you will walk through the fire—

And not be burned.

Not even smell like smoke.

And I saw it again this week.

Living in a post-eve world.

We fall short. We fall far. And clinging to my faith I know that it is only by His grace that we are picked back up—pulled back in.

I have fallen short. I have fallen far. Stupid unbelief.

There’s this story with my Grandmother Pearl and I can’t remember if she said it or my sister said it or just how it came to be but it has stuck around and whenever we do something stupid, we call it. We name it.

We say it.

“Dummy. Dummy. Dummy.”

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

And the heartbreaking part of the stupid and the dummy is that we live in community.

We “do” stupid in community.

And it ripples and ripples and ripples.

And we are left to ride the waves.

And just for the record, I’m not really smart enough to know or think of that on my own. I learned that my friend, Jodi.

And my pastor.

Kyle.

And my church.

Grace.

And from my own struggles.

At living in community.

And I saw it again this week.

My friend is broken. My friend is hurting. And I feel this weird sense of failure as if I should’ve known.

No. I know that I should’ve known. When you look back and you connect the dots and you realize—

I was never listening. All along.

Never hearing.

And I should’ve known. My friend is broken.

And it was my friend who helped.

In the breaking.

My friend is hurting.

And it was my friend who helped.

In the hurting.

And I wasn’t listening.

And I was reminded again this week.

I can’t remember who said it.

God’s Grace is enough for whatever realism we are facing today.

We don’t need a Pollyanna-life.

We need a Jesus-life.

We don’t need a fairytale-ending.

We need a Jesus-ending.

And in the end, there will be Jesus and there will be no more suffering and no more broken and no more tears and no.

More.

Stupid.

And I praise God most high, for that promise, because I have suffered.

Been broken.

Counted tears.

And yeah, been incredibly stupid.

My mom and I sat over tea and chocolate and tears this weekend and she asked of my own life; (and I’ll paraphrase)…

“How?”

“Why?”

And I could not answer. Not really.

It’s super hard to connect your own dots. I only know that for years and years and years I lived under the belief that I did not deserve better.

And I say “under” because it was a heavy weight and it was—

Holding.

Me.

Under.

I lived for a time believing that I was being punished and that I deserved less—

Than His best.

But, hello!?!?

Oh. My. Gosh.

How quickly we forget about Jesus.

And the cross.

And God has softened my heart.

Toward myself.

And toward others.

And I know that because of Jesus.

Because of the cross.

I don’t deserve to be second.

And I don’t deserve to be anyone’s secret.

You are a child of the most High God. And you don’t deserve to be anyone’s leftovers.

And you don’t deserve to be anyone’s secret.

He has shown me Grace. The grace that covers the dummy.

The grace that builds up the broken.

The grace that counts and wipes and holds our tears.

The grace.

That is enough.

H.E. Manning wrote (and I have no clue who that is, but his quote made it into a book that I love, and I think it makes me look smart to quote him, ya know, as if I really do know him.)—anyway, he wrote:

“Neither go back in fear and misgiving to the past, nor in anxiety and forecasting to the future; but lie quiet under His hand, having no will but His.”

And there’s that word “under” again.

Yes!

Today!

Because of His grace—

I am able to give thanks to a good God and I choose to neither go back in fear no look forward with anxiety.

I choose to live quietly—

Under His hand.

Having no will but His own.

And I pray that for my friend.

Both of them.

All of them.

I pray that—

For you.

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