The Very Heart of a Woman

It was a relatively easy morning.  For a Tuesday, that speaks volumes.  It’s the one day both kids are in school.  Baby Girl is at my side nearly 24 hours a day, except Tuesdays for six.  And though I desperately need the time away, I miss her and all her eight year old self full of sass, charm, and giggles.  As we walk in to her school building, which is really a church, the parking lot is a sea of mamas and their broods washing up to the door like a tide. 

One mama in particular catches my eye.  Her kindergartner follows behind her and she has a babe in a carrier and a wheelie cart stacked high of boxes and bins and who knows what.  I ask if she needs help and she thanks me for my thoughtfulness but she’s got it.  Of course she does.  She’s a mama.  We don’t need help carrying babes and boxes, we need help carrying our burdens.  But we’re no sooner going to ask for that kind of help than we will ask for help with a load suitable for a pack mule. Bearing each other's burderns is instinctual, not invitational. 

 

As I walk back to my car, I think of all these mamas with their babes.  The ones they’ve left at this school and the little ones they take home.  I even think of all the ones we can’t see.  The ones lost too soon.  The ones their hearts ache for everyday in silence.  And I start to wonder… do we ever stop aching for a babe in our arms?  Isn’t that how God designed us?  Oh, sure.  We’re fine to wave goodbye to sleepless nights and potty training and being puked on and spit up on and peed on.  But our arms were made to hold the hungry, embrace the wounded, rock the weary and nurture the deprived.  And I wonder, is that longing really a God-given ache to hold the needy?

I think God made us this way for a reason.  When He asked us to take care of the orphaned, was He not somehow speaking directly to the heart of mothers, of women?  What mama heart can stand to see a child without… without love, without security, without food, without hope?  And really the mama heart is just every woman’s heart.  Whether we have babes of our own or not, there is something in us that rises up in compassion at the first sight of desperate need.  The cry of the broken might as well be like the cry of the infant and our first instinct is to open arms and cradle those who need comfort.

 

So, whether you have an abundant quiver or a barren womb, this day is really for all women. The way your tender heart bleeds compassion and how you rush to the needy across the world or across the hallway, the way you love those around you, the way you stop and bend and listen to the needs, the way you open your lives and your arms, the way you serve and give of yourself so generously without any expectation, the way you sacrifice day in and day out – these are the things we celebrate today.  This day is about celebrating the very heart of a woman and the way God made us, as His image-bearers, to love the least of these.

 

 

Love Wins

The reports pour in.  They are always so confusing amidst chaos and disaster.  Numbers fly but we know they don’t mean anything, not yet.  One thing is for sure.  Something awful has happened.  Terrorist attack, madman, political activist.  We don’t know.  But there are injuries and there are casualties.

In the ashes of disaster and chaos and evil, something inevitably occurs.  The beauty of good rises, the beauty of Him.  Long before the "why" can be answered, Who is moving swiftly through. At the hands of a few, evil strikes.  And at the response of thousands, God weaves a brighter, richer, more telling tale of His love and redemption. 

Only a handful are bent on destroying but the majority rise up to help their neighbor.

Countless first responders descend on the scene.  Bomb squad is first.  Their mission?  To be the front line, protecting civilians from harm.  They stand between the public and further catastrophy.  And they search every trash can, every unclaimed bag, every corner of every alleyway for any further danger.  And they don't stop there.  If they find something, they pick it up and remove it to a safe place for a controlled detonation.  

Fire and rescue crews disperse and take control of an uncontrollable situation.  It’s what they know, what they have been trained for, what they signed up to do.  It was a decision they made long before disaster struck – to be right here among the bleeding and wounded.  They can look past the horror to see the lives that need saving.  They sort through the mess to gather the living, the ones that can be saved.

City police are there too.  Blocking roads and locking down the crowd to find the perpetrator(s) and acting in a myriad of other capacities that we really probably have no idea.  They are the gap fillers.  Whatever is needed beyond physically treating wounds and dismantling bombs, the men and women in blue are there.  Tactical training and command centers at the ready. 

And then there are just your average citizens.  Spectators on the streets scooping up children and tending to victims and chasing down medical attention and wrapping arms around the broken.  Runners who ran 26.2 miles only to cross the finish and keep on running to the hospital to donate blood.   I can’t even imagine the ways the average citizen is rising up on the streets of Boston today.  Untrained and unskilled but compelled to act for the greater good.

And we’re only nine hours in. There are stories yet to be told, miracles yet to be heard, beauty yet to rise.  Long after evil retreats to the shadows, goodness is still shining bright, outpacing the dark, fueled by love.  And Love always wins. Always.

 

 

Father, let faith arise on the streets of Boston.  Let Love overtake the darkness.  May you bring glory to your name. So many will turn to you in anger, will curse your name, will ask so many questions, will stand in disbelief.  Lord, help me to remember that you do not need me to defend your reputation.  Help me remember you are working in the midst of it all.  Lord, your word promises that you are near the brokenhearted and that you save those crushed in spirit.  I claim those promises now for the victims and their families.  Be so near to them, Lord. So near.  Lord, thank you for the first responders and for the average citizens and for everyone you will work through in your own perfect timing.  You are good.  You are love.  And I trust in your name alone.  In Jesus' name. Amen.

Even One

I signed up months ago.  The email came asking for help on Easter Sunday at the 11:00 service.  It wasn’t in an area I would confidently say I am gifted, but I was happy to help.  I didn’t know then what God was orchestrating.  But now I see.  As I clicked send, He grabbed His maestro stick and rose in His compassion.

Weeks passed after my Easter sign-up and through a myriad of events, I was reconnected to the ministry God had laid on my heart months earlier. God had nudged me toward being a Prayer Partner, someone to step out into the aisles during service worship time, to take the hands of the broken and cross the threshold of the Holy.  I started up with the Prayer Partners again just weeks before and as Easter Sunday approached and emails were exchanged to ensure Prayer Partners were allocated among the services, I felt this pressing from the Holy Spirit.  Gentle, yet unwavering… to serve in this capacity at the 11:00 Easter Sunday service.  But I had already committed my time elsewhere and so, I dismissed it.

Easter Sunday arrived and after spending Saturday night dressed up in cute high heels that left my feet blistered, I selected my bright red “Join the Family” serving t-shirt, comfy jeans and cushioned running shoes to join the preschoolers in their too-cute-for-words sweater vests and spring dresses.  In the preschool room, we waited for children to show up.  First, a little boy who reminded me how big and loud the world can be when you feel scared and alone.  His mom was in a rush to drop him off so she could find her seat in the crowded sanctuary and his big brown eyes told me everything.  He was shy, he liked his mom and he couldn’t imagine spending the next hour without her.  He clung to her skirt and in a quiet rebellion, he refused to move.  I walked over and offered my hand.  To my great surprise he took it. Tightly.  Like it was a life boat.  And he held on for dear life for at least five minutes. 

 

 

We finally got two more children, little girls dressed for the occasion, and to my delight, my new hand-holding friend was comfortable to let go and played remarkably with his new found friends.  I watched as the three played in all their imagination together.  Strangers. To each other and perhaps to this place.  But I could see so purely in these children how much we need each other.  This was fellowship at its most innocent and bare.  And it was beautiful.   

Before long, the service had started and our room count was at three.  On Easter Sunday.  At 11:00.  The preschool staff was reeling wondering whether there would be a mad rush or if they should accept this as it.  As I stood baffled, they made the decision that I wasn’t needed and moved our three littles to another room.

The minute those tykes were taken care of, the Holy Spirit gently pressed again, reminding me of those weeks before and how He’d been whispering about the 11:00 service as a prayer partner.

So, about as underdressed as you can get on Easter Sunday, I walked down the hall, grabbed my white Prayer Partner lanyard, and entered the sanctuary.  I quickly found a seat, sang and worshipped and gave thanks to my Abba Father, who allowed me to corporately worship Him with our worship pastor and the choir leading the way not one time, not two times but three times that weekend!   

 

photo source

Prayer partners were summoned from the stage to take their positions around the room and after a brief observation, I filled in a gap along a wall.  It wasn't long before I saw her coming, headed straight for me.  A friend.  And she was broken.  I could see this long before she made it to me.

As she walked up, she smiled through her tears, called me by name and said, “When I saw you, I knew I had to step out.  I wasn’t going to but then I saw you.  Please pray for me.”  And she went on to explain her need.

I prayed.  We left the sanctuary and spoke for a few minutes in the hall.  I offered what I had.  She left and returned to her seat… smiling and claiming she felt better. 

{sigh}

 

{deep sigh}

Humbled doesn’t even scratch the surface here.  A woman, a friend opened her heart and shared a brief paragraph of her story because she felt safe.   And, oh how I wished right there that we would all make each other feel this way.  Safe enough to be two or more gathered at His feet, mess in our hands, strengthening each other to bend together and lay it down. 

That she would have forgone stepping out except that she saw a familiar face in a sea of people… and that this time, God orchestrated me as that face to call someone out of the shadows…  No. words.  Well… maybe a few.

“Who am I, Sovereign Lord, and what is my family, that you have brought me this far?  How great you are, Sovereign Lord! There is no one like you, and there is no God but you…” (2 Samuel 7:18, 22)

On a day that calls the masses to the pews, God spoke so vividly to me about the importance of even one. One lost sheep is worth a search party.  One scared little boy is worth a rescue crew.  One broken sister is worth moving mountains for a friendly face to stand out in a crowd. One mess of a Jesus girl is worth sending the broken to affirm the willing.  And only One is worth what little we have to offer and He will feed the multitudes right before our very eyes.

A willing heart offered in faith and He will use it to move heaven and earth for even one, even me, especially you.

Operation: Reconciliation

From the archives

He knew I deserved the Crown of Thorns yet He let it rest on His head.

He knew I earned the flogging in the streets yet He took my place.

He knew I could never settle the wages of my sin or tear the veil on my own, yet He wanted a relationship with me that would last for eternity.

He knew that I, the wretch, would need a Savior, so He hung on a tree, pierced for every single transgression He knew I would commit.

He knew that I , the powerless, would need the power of His resurrection, so He conquered death, leaving my sins in His grave and giving me freedom to live life abundantly.

He wrote the greatest story of reconciliation the world will ever know in His very own blood... for ALL the people, all for LOVE. May you be reconciled this Holy week, this Holy life to your Savior and also to each other - all for Love.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perserveres. Love never fails." - 1 Corinthians 13:4-8

The Undone

It isn't the thing you do, dear,

It's the thing you leave undone,

That gives you the bitter heartache

At the setting of the sun;

The tender word unspoken,

The letter you did not write,

The flower you might have sent, dear,

Are your haunting ghosts at night.

 

The stone you might have lifted

Out of your brother's way,

The bit of heartfelt counsel

You were hurried too much to say;

The loving touch of the hand, dear,

The gentle and winsome tone,

That you had no time or thought for,

With troubles enough of your own.

 

These little acts of kindness,

So easily out of mind,

These chances to be angels,

Which even mortals find --

They come in nights of silence,

To take away the grief,

When hope is faint and feeble,

And a drought has stopped belief.

 

For life is all too short, dear.

And sorrow is all too great,

To allow our slow compassion

That tarries until too late.

And it's not the thing you do, dear,

It's the thing you leave undone,

That gives you the bitter heartache,

At the setting of the sun.

 

                                   - Adelaide Proctor

 

 

The whole of it is beautiful.  But the bold stanza... well it is bold indeed. 

 

Lord, may I act upon the whispers you impress on my heart so as not to leave at least these things undone.  And may I trust your Spirit to guide me and lead me according to your will, without allowing my own circumstances to restrain me or contain me or define me.

 

"Out of the most severe trial, their overflowing joy and their extreme poverty welled up in rich generosity." (2 Corinthians 8:2, NIV)

 



Ordinary.

Sometimes, I try this idea of writing simply to spill thoughts on a page, to quiet the noisy editor in my head, using a prompt from various sources. How? Usually, I start and end a post in 15 minutes. Today I'm playing with the big girls.  I really did it - in 5 minutes just like them.  Thank you for your crazy, wild, embracing grace. Here's what falls out of a wanna-be writer in 5 minutes.  Oh, you should try it! 

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Today's Prompt:  ORDINARY

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I am afraid of being ordinary.  Lost in the mundane.  Doing every day the same.  As the years pass, I feel even more ordinary.  No milestones in sight.  I’m not about to graduate college or about to get married or expecting my first baby… or any baby.  This little body is not so little anymore and my blonde hair isn’t so blonde anymore and ordinary is creeping in and settling down deep and I try not to let it overtake me.  But what if it does?  What if ordinary takes over all of me and I let it and it even takes over my pride so something bigger can happen.  What if ordinary makes me humble enough for Extraordinary to rip right through me.  What if Extraordinary finds a spacious dwelling place and decides to show off a bit.  Because in an ordinary vessel, there is only one explanation for Extraordinary.

Oh, the possibilities in ordinary. 

Grace Falls

 

I hear the sounds echoing through the house.  Deafening.  Wrestling siblings.  And the cackles and giggles end in the wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Just like it always does.  Baby Girl emerges victorious this time.  Bubbs screaming louder than usual.  He claims an injury to his arm, pain inflicted by his older sister.  Or at least this is what I gather between gasps for air as I make out his sister’s name every fifth word.  And he’s not moving his arm. At all.  So we wait. 

Hours later, he’s still not moving it.  I contemplate the emergency room.  But it’s still not swollen.  It’s not black and blue.  And we are still paying for the staples that mended his head whole from the last injury.  So a quick conference with the Chef and it’s decided.  Wait.  And see. 

While we wait, a snow storm moves in. I watch the round flakes fall soft to the earth.  A storm always seems to start quiet.  I scan the landscape and watch the quiet beautiful falling straight from heaven.  It’s raining mercy on this dry land.  And as this frozen wonder tumbles favor, the wind moves in sharp, sure. And it spreads winter grace furiously.  When it’s all said and done, this stark white gift covers the ugly barren land clean, new.  And it gathers to fill the empty plum full.  Amazing grace is a sweet sound, but it’s also a sweet sight.  I take in the fresh landscape and I try desperately to sear my heart with the image.  This is what He has done for me.  Taken the ugly, unspeakable and made it into something beautiful, new, presentable.  The crimson stain now white as snow.  Amazing, this grace he lays over us.

 

The storm comes.  And it goes.  And Bubbs, he’s still not moving his arm.  So we head to the doctor.  The gifts are still raining favor.  An early appointment with our doctor and a clear driveway thanks to the Chef who pumps Alaskan blood and shovels while it’s still snowing.  The doctor is quick in his assessment.  Nurse-maid’s elbow.  A dislocation of sorts and a quick flick of the forearm should set it back right.  I try not to throw up on the doctor and I hear little after he says “dislocation”.  Clearly I’ve seen too many movies.  I wonder if my “Boy Mom” card is waiting at the front desk or if they’ll just send it in the mail.  I decide not to ask.

The doctor takes hold of his arm and Bubbs is already whimpering.  I take my position next to him and tell him to look at me.  I whisper all the mama things I can think to say.  I see the doctor flinch and Bubbs starts crying loud.  Dislocation located.  The doctor leaves me to my mama work and I grip Bubbs close.  And his tears are falling fast and the crying is turning to screaming and I do the only thing I know to do.  The only thing that has calmed either of my children since they were babies. 

I sing. 

Amazing Grace.  

And somehow, he thinks the sound is sweet.  A grace all its own.  And as I sing this familiar hymn, my parched soul is drenched by each carefully chosen word, quenched by the grace-ringing truth of it all. 

“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.” 

And as the next line rolls off my tongue, “that saved a wretch like me”, I drink in every rich syllable, take hold of the truth again. And I beg God that I can hold on to it this time. On my own, I am a wretch.  I can do no better than that.  But grace. Amazing grace and this wretch can dwell in the shelter of the Most High.  How can this be?

 I’m still singing and he stopped heaving breaths and crying tears verses ago.  He’s calm, drinking in grace with me as I sing.  He gently reaches for his sister, whispers her name, the one that put him on that table needing his bones reset.  He extends his hand to her, extending grace.  And the amazing comes when she reaches back.  Let’s herself be held by us all.  Accepts the grace offered.

 

And I see it again, right there in that moment. The grace that falls on us, it’s not to be collected and stored but poured out fast and sure, spreading like the furious wind to those around us.  Generously give this unmerited favor that falls on us all – hand it out every chance I get.  Because after all, I am only a wretch.  And yet,  “He has clothed me in garments of salvation and arrayed me in a robe of righteousness.” 

Lord, may I never withhold the grace you have given.  May I never be stingy with life-saving, heart-healing unmerited favor.  Unmerited.  May I always remember the depths of the slimy pit You pulled me out of, deeper than most and still not beyond Your reach. And, Lord, when I forget these things, because You know I will, may I never forget Your grace falls still, making all things new. Amen.