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. 

Fear.

Sometimes, I try this idea of writing simply to spill thoughts on a page, for love of the written word, using a prompt from various sources. How? I start and end a post in 15 minutes. The professionals, they do five minutes. I do fifteen.And then I share what fifteen minutes gets me. Just fifteen minutes. Unscripted. Unedited. Real.I thank you in advance for enfolding me in your crazy grace.

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Today's Prompt:  FEAR

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I lay next to him in the dark because my presence is still enough to conquer his fears.  I’m squeezed next to his tiny body on a twin-sized bed that swallows his frame and I think how big he seems when he’s moving at the speed of life.  But in the silence, surrounded by his fear, I realize how small he really is and how this spinning sphere stands still when we are trembling in the shadows. And I whisper thanks that I’m the first soldier he calls to the battlefield and I pray that I am teaching him well about the One who comes with me, the One who goes ahead of us both.  The One who lights up a room because in Him there is no darkness.

Fear… it starts small in a child’s bedroom with the nocturnal sounds and the long shadows and the dark of night. 

Over time, it grows into adult-sized worry, or even full-on paralysis, keeping God-sized dreams in the shadows of our anxiety.  As I lay there, he has no idea I’m battling fears of my own.  He called on me because he thinks I’m courageous.  He called on me because He knew I’d come. 

As we nestle together and dream our what-ifs right there in the dark where danger lurks, I start to hear Jesus’ words in his deep, tiny boy voice sharing wishes that are bigger than both of us.  A child doesn’t know how to think within walls or dream with rules and boundaries or put limits on possibilities.  A child believes all things are possible as long as you have a Friend to walk with through the darkness, past your circumstances.  

“With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.” (Matthew 19:26)

He finally lets go, exhales his fears to the ground as his eyelids close soft.  I watch him breathe for a minute before I get up.  As I walk the steps from his bed to the door in quiet darkness, I smile knowing I’m in the presence of a great Friend, both in the darkness and the light.  And I pray that when the darkness closes in, suffocating my dreams, I can muster the courage to speak one word.

Jesus.

 

 

The Lord is my light and my salvation - 

  whom shall I fear?

The Lord is the stronghold of my life - of whom shall I be afraid?

 

One thing I ask of the Lord, this is what I seek:

  that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life,

  to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord and to seek him in his temple.

 

Hear my voice when I call, O Lord;

  be merciful to me and answer me.

 

My heart says of you, "Seek his face!"

  Your face, Lord, I will seek. 

 

(Psalm 27:1, 4, 7-8)

Here.

Sometimes, I try this idea of writing simply to spill thoughts on a page, for love of the written word, using a prompt from various sources.  Usually, I start and end a post in 15 minutes. The professionals, they do five minutes. Today, I tried to write like the big girls... I tried five too. This is what five minutes gets me. Unscripted. Unedited. Real.I thank you in advance for enfolding me in your crazy grace.

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Today's Prompt:  HERE

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My mind wanders.  It’s hard to keep it here.  With the people right in front of me.  I’m a dreamer.  And it’s hard to keep my head out of the clouds and down here.  Because I like to dream big.  

But the Lord has a lesson. Here. And He will not settle for anything less than me learning it.  Oh, how He hopes for me.  To grasp it.  The beauty of here.  The abundant, undeserved blessings He handpicked to decorate the walls of right here.  I keep looking there.  Beyond here.  As  I mumble my plans and dreams, I am missing it. This life that exists here in the grace that exists now.  As I learn I must also teach. About here. Go into all the world. Make disciples. 

 

The Lord is stripping me of old habits, of everything I once knew, my normal.  It’s flattering really.  That He would take so much time with me here.   His compassions never fail and He is grieving how wrong I’m getting this yet delighting in teaching me gently.  He is bigger than here. And He is laboring effortlessly, persistently on my stubborn heart so I will understand. 

So I will trust His faithfulness even if my faith waivers.  I will boldly ask Him to increase my faith and forgive my unbelief.  And I will beg Him to show me here.  Until I get there.  And I see Him face to face.

Stretch.

Sometimes, I try this idea of writing simply to spill thoughts on a page, for love of the written word, using a prompt from various sources. How? I start and end a post in 15 minutes. The professionals, they do five minutes. I do fifteen. And then I share what fifteen minutes gets me. Just fifteen minutes. Unscripted. Unedited. Real. I thank you in advance for enfolding me in your crazy grace.

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Today's Prompt:  STRETCH

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Photo Credit

This is what I asked for.  This is what God laid on my heart and I prayed about for over two years.  And then, randomly one day in the kitchen, the Chef and I made the decision. 

And for months, I’ve been riding on the euphoric cloud that God has answered my prayers and I can officially call myself a homeschooler.

And then books started to arrive.

 

And more books.

 

With “Teacher’s Manuals”.  For the teacher.  Me, apparently.  Because I had faith to pray to a God who listens.

And the calendar started to clear.  And more room appeared in those little white squares that count off a life. 

 

More space… to teach.  Less time… for me or fellowship or ministry.  Because THIS is my ministry. And this is where I will find fellowship.  With my own flesh and blood.

So now I sit in my house full of books staring at a blank calendar wondering what my life will look like and how I will emotionally put one foot in front of the other, how I will let those books build a bridge between us, not a wall.  

 

And I strike up the thought that sometimes our prayers are answered because He needs us to remember how much we need Him.  And in a quiet house, stocked and ready to learn, I feel incapable and alone.  So. very. alone. And I desperately need Him, the Teacher.

 

I am emotionally stretched.  Completely.

 

I have so many books to educate.  But they only give me the educational facts to communicate.  And my student closes her heart tight and these manuals don’t say anything about how to break open the heart seams, how to gently walk in and catch a glimpse, how to take note of its condition and saturate it with love and grace.  Tender love and wild grace.

 

And the kids have been acting up.  Fighting without ceasing and I want to pray without ceasing and the books, the ones for the teacher don’t say anything about this. 

 

And this is only the beginning.

 

And I’m stretched.  Beyond my ability.  Straight to my weaknesses.   And I see how this is what He intended all along.  What He always intends.  To stretch me straight to the cross.   Because without Him I can do nothing (John 15:5).  And without Him, hearts don’t change and weaknesses are not folded up into His strength so He may be glorified. 

Stretched to the cross I must lay myself down.  Because everything that is stretching me has one purpose.  To destroy my flesh.   Because my flesh will not educate any of us.    

 

So I reach for the only teacher’s manual I really need.  And I soak up every life-giving word from the Word.  And I pray for this year to come.  And I know.  The Teacher and His manual, they will take us to new heights and we will most certainly learn a thing or two.

Real.

Sometimes, I try this idea of writing simply for the love of the written word using a prompt from various sources.  How? I start and end a post in 15 minutes.  The professionals, they do five minutes.  I do fifteen.  And then I share what fifteen minutes gets me. Just fifteen minutes. Unscripted. Unedited. Real.  I thank you in advance for enfolding me in your crazy grace.

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Today's Prompt:  REAL

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The school year is almost over and for the last month my typical Tuesdays have been uncharacteristic and I’ve had to forfeit volunteering in Baby Girl’s class. It’s something I actually love doing, seeing her relate to her peers and work in her space and follow a foreign set of rules so diligently. She really is a good little girl.  And it's a space I have nothing to do with. It’s her territory but she loves showing me around, inviting me in, having me there.  And, during this time I’ve learned… she’s very hospitable. 

But work, I mean provision, manna has been consuming my Tuesdays and so we did some major shifting in schedules this week just so I could reclaim this simple pleasure.  So I could sit down and read with her and a few of her friends.  In her space.

But today the teacher didn’t need me.  Project Wild was today and no volunteers are needed as the children learn interesting facts about the real world of plants and animals, within the classroom walls. 

With the long to-do list I made for myself, Bubbs and I were quick to head out to tackle some errands.  I passed the school office and swung in for my first errand on the list.  Notify them Baby Girl will not be returning next year for 2^nd grade.  Message delivered. Form to take home and fill out. Check. On our way to the next errand.

After a few errands, lunch, a phone call, and a while soaking up the Vitamin D outside with Bubbs, I pull out the form to start filling it out.  The “Notification of Withdrawal” form. 

Long pause as it sets in. This makes it real.

Name of student… to withdraw from public school:  My Baby Girl. 

Reason for withdrawal... from public school: Receiving Home-based instruction/homeschooling

Last day of attendance…. at public school:  May 31

This is real.  How am I going to do this?  What are we doing?  Why are we doing this?  Can I do this?

Bow my head. Take a deep breath.  Spill whispers to Heaven, to the real, living God. Because the only way to do real is in this posture.  A posture of humility.

This is what you asked of me…. Did you really ask this of me?  Are you real?  Because I’m not able to do this if you aren’t real.  I will need Your wisdom and understanding Lord. Keep me from disbelief, from fear. I need your strength to do what you are asking me to do.  Speak loudly and drown out the noise of this world.  Your voice is all I long to hear.  Real. Here. Now. Always.  Come, Holy Spirit, come.   

So this is real.  Hearing a real word from the living God and checking the box: receiving home-based instruction/homeschooling out of obedience, out of a desperate love for Him.  We are really doing this. 

Thank you Lord for this gift of time with Baby Girl.  Be with me as I teach her about Your creation, which she adores, outside the classroom... holding real as much as we can. Come,Holy Spirit, come.

The Only Thing

Fifteen Minute Friday:  Writing a post start to finish in fifteen minutes, for the love of writing.

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I woke up to a fresh blanket of snow, deeper than expected.  School is on a delay start and somehow we’re still late.  Our normal morning rush is just on delay too. 

“Get dressed. Brush your hair. Brush your teeth. Where are your shoes?  Do you have P.E. today?”  An extra set of shoes to find. I bark the orders while I’m packing lunch. 

A text message tells me our morning ride is calling her own snow day and we’re on our own.  I bark the same orders to the little brother who doesn’t normally participate in this mad dash as I fly up the stairs to get myself dressed, brush my hair, brush my teeth.  Where are my shoes?  Thank goodness I don’t have P.E. today. 

 

Find our three jackets, put two on, zip one up.  Gloves, mittens, hats, snow boots.  We scramble to the car, get in and get buckled and I’m not sure I once stopped to look at their little faces and I’m certain I don’t know where that extra ninety minutes went.  So focused on our task of getting to school, did I even say one nice thing yet? Whisper I love you?  Hope you have a good day?  Did we surrender our hours to God?  I say a silent prayer.  Forgive me, Lord. I am your lowly, humble servant.  Today is Yours. All Yours. 

I exhale once we are in the car, scraped and warmed by the Chef and ready to go.  {He's always ready.} I toss words in back, “Good job getting ready, guys!”  Silence.  Baby Girl wants to sit in the way back with no booster, alone.  I let her.  It’s a few blocks and she deserves a retreat after our morning scurry. 

We pull out of our driveway and start our ascent up the snowy hill to school.  A seven minute journey through the winter landscape, tops.  I look in the rearview mirror and see her gazing out her window.  She is processing what just happened, no doubt.  Replaying the morning, the words, the tones, the actions.  I don’t want to know her verdict of my role in this replay. 

The car is quiet.  We are all absorbing the morning shock.   She is the first to speak up as we climb the hill. 

“Mom.”  Her voice is innocent, observant.

I brace myself for what she might say, preparing to embrace what she says.  I don’t want to send her off in the world without knowing I completely and fully love her even when she can’t find her shoes.  So I listen, determined not to argue, rebuke, retort.  Just accept.  Offer grace.

Instead, she pours out the grace.  “The only thing God can’t do is love us less.”

I digest her words.  In awe and a split second, I cycle through my big adult thoughts. I think He could even do that but He chooses not to.  But, He would never choose that… no he couldn’t, he can’t.  She’s right.  He just can’t love us less.  It’s against His very nature.  

And right there in the car, driving my first grader to school, she schools me.  Her timing impeccable, dissolving my guilt. I immediately affirm her thought.

“You’re right, Baby Girl.  I never thought about that.  But that is the only thing He can’t do.”  

And I rest in this statement for the remainder of the trip, the day. I marvel at how well she knows this Almighty God already and how much He teaches me through her.  I wonder if I teach her nearly this well.

As we descend the hill home, I chuckle to myself for holding the thought that she might possibly go out in the world not feeling fully and completely loved.  She already knows... she is fearfully and wonderfully made. 

Thank you Lord.  Can you protect her little heart so she always believes that.  Don't let the world erode that truth, any Truth she holds.