A Disciple, a Boy and the Multitudes

I’m not exactly sure how many times I’ve collectively heard or read the story but it’s been at least a million. A little boy.  A simple lunch.  And five thousand men to feed.  And my favorite part – they ate until they were satisfied and had twelve baskets of leftovers because the Messiah took what was offered and gave thanks. 

 

 

But this part I noticed just recently. 

 

“Philip answered him, ‘Eight months’ wages would not buy enough bread for each one to have a bite!’ Another of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, spoke up. ‘Here is a boy with five small barley loaves and two small fish, but how far will they go among so many?’”  (John 6:7-9) 

I think I have always focused on the boy.  Everyone says offer what you have.  Give Jesus your bread and fish and he will feed the multitudes. I’ve said that!  And I believe it. Completely.  Give what you have to give. Give thanks.  And watch how He can make it enough. See how He feeds the multitudes.

But the part I missed was Andrew, the disciple who recognized the gift and spoke up.  The boy was young.  And he humbly offered what he had with a childlike faith. And, I have a feeling if the boy offered it to Philip, Phillip would have scoffed and not seen it as enough and walked on by without saying one word to Jesus.

 

Andrew didn’t know if it would be enough. But he knew enough about Jesus to call attention to the boy’s gift.  In this passage of Scripture we see a stark contrast.  One disciple who sees the impossible and another who sees Jesus.  Phillip, who sees an insurmountable task and Andrew, who sees a boy with a gift to offer to the One who cares for the birds of the air and the flowers of the field, so how much more will he care for us? One disciple who cannot fathom feeding five thousand men plus their families and another who dares to imagine what Jesus can do with 5 small loaves and 2 small fish.  Andrew, himself, had empty pockets. Nothing to offer in this moment.  But, his eyes fell on one small boy while his heart was wrapped around the One who made all things possible.

I wonder… which disciple am I more like? Do I see in others, in my children, what they have to offer and encourage them in it?  Do I build others up so THEY  believe their gift is not too small or their talent too insignificant or that they are too small or insignificant for Jesus to use them, to multiply their offering?  Am I missing the beautiful landscape of gifts that completely surround me?

You know… sometimes… I just don’t have anything to offer.  Sometimes, my act of worship is to look for the best gift to present to the Lord - whether my pockets are full or empty - believing that the multitudes can be fed. 

 

“Jesus, we have a boy here with a small lunch.  What can you do?”

 

“Jesus, this little girl with an amazing artistic gift. How can you use her?"

 

“Jesus, this boy with a wild sense of adventure. What are the possibilities?”

Sometimes, I am the one with the offering.  But, sometimes I am the one who sees the boy and calls out his gift to Jesus. And sometimes, I am the multitudes being fed.  So often, I think I’m the one who needs to offer something.  Always digging deep and searching hard for what it is I think the Lord is asking me to give. Typical really.  This self-centered view.  Because I’m not always going to be the one.  I can't be... And does it really matter who does the offering as long as the multitudes are fed on the feast of the Lord?

 

We are the body of Christ, disciples of the One who makes all things possible.  And we live to breathe in His grace and breathe out His praise - together -  and that looks like encouraging each other, moving together, calling out each others gifts before Him – all for Him – in the shadow of the cross, where the ground is level and the glory is all His.

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.

 

 

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.

My Discipleship Curriculum

I’ve discovered something about myself. I’m hopelessly Type A with a ridiculously free spirit.  I’m not sure how those two things live within the same soul but here I am.  A big picture gal with a screaming desire for perfectly organized spaces.  A dreamer that builds plans I don’t follow.  An intensely creative spirit that pencils projects in my Day-Timer.   A detailed list maker that abandons it all at the first sign of a warm, sunny day.  It’s complicated.  Just ask the Chef.

So, when it comes to matters of the soul, these rivals battle against each other and I’m at a loss as to how to make disciples out of four-foot tall, strong-willed little humans, let alone all nations.  All these ideas floating in my brain begging to be organized into curriculum but there are books to read and songs to play air guitar to and pictures to draw and coloring contests to have and God’s marvelous creation to discover and laundry to do and meals to cook and people to love...  and would you look at that!  It’s 80 degrees.  So when do I find the time for the pen to hit the paper for a "discipleship curriculum".

And, the entire call overwhelms me to fear of failure. That I will fail to make Jesus known to my children. That I will fail to impress their hearts with His living, active word.  That I will fail to unearth these diamonds in the rough to shine for the Kingdom of God.  That I will fail to show them a lost and broken world in desperate need of the Body of Christ, of Christ Himself. 

And when I’m able to catch my breath, I breathe in deep and remember.  “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”

With thanksgiving.  Thank you, God.  Thank you for these four-foot tall, strong-willed little humans you placed in my care.  Thank you that my life’s work is this high calling to make disciples, with You by my side leading the way. Thank you that You are really the One who will unearth these diamonds.  May they shine for You.  May we all.

My first instinct, driven by the Type A part of my brain, is to search high and low for an effective discipleship program, a curriculum.  Something that tells me exactly what to say, what to do, complete with fun, field trips and authenticity built right in.  Where is that discipleship program that Jesus used?  How did the Master of discipleship do it wrapped in flesh? 

He lived. For God. Abided in Him. Had a heart perfectly positioned toward Him.  So He knew the Father’s will.   I’m certain Jesus did not have an outline or a calendar.  He had the voice of God.

And, He communed with the Father.
 

“Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.”  (Mark 1:35)

“But Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.” (Luke 5:16)

If He was awake, He was in the Father's presence. 

As He communed, He displayed servant leadership.
 

He didn't work behind the scenes and reveal a masterpiece at the end. He invited his disciples into His life.  Come. Follow me. Let me show you what I’m up to. Let me show you how I do it.  On His way to heal the sick and lame, feed the multitudes, raise the dead…. Come. Follow me. Let me show you how the Kingdom can come. Now.

He was intimate and real. He didn't need a curriculum for discipleship.  He submitted to the Father and allowed His actions, His life to speak for itself.  He spoke the Truth and many believed.  When He took people with Him to raise the dead, He didn’t first offer a weekend conference on Raising the Dead.  He displayed His faith, His spiritual discipline, His obedience, His courage to go where the Father led Him.

 

And, above all else, He loved extravagantly.

He loved the Father without apology and without compromise. He was seen praying. He was seen healing. He was seen weeping. He was genuine and loving with everyone He encountered. He healed with His hands. He ministered from the heart. He knew the Father and His word. 

He discipled out of an overflow of His relationship with the Father and He discipled within the relationships of His followers. He ate with them, traveled with them, and didn't hide His need for spiritual authenticity with the Father, daily.  Nothing about what He did here on earth was about tasks.  It was all about people.  Brothers and sisters of His Father in Heaven who needed Him... more than they knew.

So what does all that mean to my mothering, to my calling to participate in unearthing these diamonds in the rough. This is about when my mind screams for a curriculum that my heart can use.  Study this Scripture, say this prayer, tell this story. Sieve out this moral and conclude this godly character trait.

But Jesus, aside from God’s word, had no curriculum. Only a spirit-filled life. Spirit. Filled.

So when I’m sitting in my quiet, morning spot studying God’s word and my children catch me, that’s part of my discipleship curriculum.

When my children see me on my knees praying to a God who asks me to pray without ceasing, and there’s not a meal in sight, that’s part of my discipleship program. 

When K-Love is blasting in the kitchen and my children see me stop what I'm doing to lift my hands and praise this God that can’t be contained in a building on Sundays, that’s part of my discipleship program.

When we make meals for the broken, say I’m sorry, forgive each other, love each other, participate in a random act of kindness, stop in the middle of negativity to pray, explore God’s creation, help a stray dog, invite others into our home, serve at church, pray for the lost and needy all over the globe, read daily from God’s word, it’s all part of my His discipleship program.

When I bend to listen to their tiny voices full of needs, offer gentle hands, gentle words, gentle rebuke, gentleness. When I stop the tasks to see their faces, forget the law to see the miracles, when I read to them on the couch, curl up in their beds at night for pillow talk, dish out a Wacky Wednesday, leave a messy house for their favorite adventure, serve them out of love by doing a chore for them, discipline them for a foolish choice – it’s all part of this divine discipleship curriculum because it is developing the relationships that open the doors to their hearts. 

When I fall but refuse to stay down, when I cry out to the God who redeems and delivers and covers me clean in grace, when I can't breathe or speak but can let the Name above all names roll off my tongue and they see the darkness flee, that's part of it, too.
 

And when they ask questions about God’s creation or God Himself, and I have to Google it or crack open the Bible to try to answer them, it tells them how big our God really is.  Even Mom doesn’t have all the answers… and I hope they can see in me a faith that moves mountains even when I don’t have all the answers.  But I also hope that it lights a path to all the mysteries of God that can be found in Jesus, who disciples us all.

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)

Teaching IS NOT My Gift

I taught my first bible lesson yesterday.  I was nervous.  And though I had prepared I felt completely unprepared.  But I knew I couldn’t delay any longer.  God was asking me to train them in this way.  To deliver His message.  So I took His courage. 

Then at the last minute I had an unexpected guest.  Obviously, an unexpected student only made me more nervous so when the invitation escaped my very own mouth, I almost turned around to ask, "Who said that?".

 

 

Well okay, courage, put your faith where your mouth is. 

 

 

And I did it.  I delivered the message.  It may not have been perfect but I know God’s grace covers the things I forgot to say or the things I said imperfectly.  The seed was spread, the ground watered.  By the Gardener alone.

 

Teaching is not my gift and I'm certain God wants me at the epicenter of my weaknesses. No wandering off.  So here I am teaching.  In more ways than I could have possibly dreamed.  And yesterday, with three sets of eyes focused straight on me, ears atuned to my words, I felt Him.  I know He was driving the train.  Because after all, teaching is not my gift yet I had a captive audience.

 

And His message fell the way He planned, on the ears He had intended all along, even if it wasn’t the way I planned.  And I almost heard Him whisper, "Well done good and faithful servant." Not because anything I said or did was done well, but because I (finally) offered Him my bread and fish.  All I had. Me.

Oh, did I mention the oldest was 9.  Yeah, that age makes me sweat bullets.  But God’s grace made me as cool as a cucumber.  And no, I didn’t use any cheesy metaphors and similes when I delivered my message.  Well, I don't think I did...

And my unexpected guest?  He asked if he could come back again tomorrow.  Well, buddy, tomorrow is Halloween.  How about the next day. 

 

 

So on the day after Halloween, I am expecting three bible study students.  I wonder how many will show up.

Reading, Writing and Arithmetic

It was early but her smile was bright.  I was armed with my daily plan, one I actually spent time planning.  And we started our new Monday Meeting tradition, looking at the seven calendar squares stretched out from here and getting a snapshot of which day she would dread the most... and the least.  Because that is who she is… she just needs to know.

And five minutes into our Monday Meeting, I had lost her.  Something about math and reading every day sent her over the elementary cliff and the next 30 minutes were an unpleasant blur. 

It’s painful, sometimes, how much alike we are. This girl and I.  After the climax to unpleasant, she went to her corner and I went to mine.  And I prayed my prayer I always pray from my corner. And I was ready. Not ready to fight. Ready to bend.

I decided to leave the talk of reading, writing and arithmetic out of the ring for now.  As I whispered my amen, I found the strength to swallow my pride, exhale through the tension that carried our agenda and climb from under the weight of all those expectations – mine, hers, the public school, other parents, strangers, this foreign land. 

We are making a new way, blazing a new trail – straight through the desert with Egypt in our rear view. And it's our trail.  Not anyone else's. And my God is faithful to bring forth the streams right here, in the land between the Red Sea and the Promised Land.  Because this is where He has led us.  And we need Him more than ever here.  Because we have no idea what we are doing or where we are going.  He knew it would take these measures for His strong-willed, free-spirited girls who tend to blaze their own trails.  Trails that lead to shackles in Egypt.

I entered her corner with one piece of paper.  Fourteen words.  An assignment.  Copywork.  It was risky.  But it was Spirit-led. And I took His courage.

"Pleasant words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones." (Proverbs 16:24)

Our memory verse for this week, divinely chosen last night.  She fought and wriggled at first and climbed in her blanket fort with the copywork sheet on her clipboard.  The muffled groans were an indication she was less than thrilled but she emerged with a full verse of scripture written out in decent handwriting.

And I could see it lifting.  The weight that restrained her smile, her joy.  And they soon broke free from her lips – pleasant words.  Just three.  “I’m done, Mama.”   Her soul smelled sweet.  And my bones... they were being healed only because I was bent.  At His feet, with His Word.

 

 

And before I knew it, she was going up and down stairs collecting Bibles.  Different translations.  And we were entrenched in a conversation based in these Pleasant Words, discussing the meaning of this verse and applying it to real life as she read from each Bible she gathered, using math and the table of contents to find it. 

And she decided.  This verse was her favorite.   And I decided, too. This is my favorite way to do reading, writing and arithmetic.

 

 

 

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A Field of Sweet Boys

I went out to gather the boys for dinner.  Five families with abundant blessings gathered to break bread together in modest square footage drives children to the open outdoor spaces and we always end up with a field of sweet boys.  There were a total of five of them scattered in the fields, each on their own mission.

 

 

 

 

The socialite was talking to the neighbors in their backyards.  The evening breeze carried his tiny voice down wind and I could hear him asking.  “How are you?” “What are you doing?” “Is that your mom?”  He wants to know them.   And I whispered it right there. 

 

Sweet boy, don’t run from your compassion but always stand this bold in it for Christ.  Always want to know them because knowing them is the same as loving Jesus, loving like Jesus.  Love Him and care for His sheep. 

 

The oldest was furthest away and off the beaten path. A path I know all too well.  As we age we tend to wander in our growing courage, our maturing strength – sometimes into the bushes.  Not that this particular boy is a wanderer but it made me think of the days when I found freedom and used it so unwisely.  I whispered it right there. 

Don’t be anything like me.   Be stronger than that, wiser.  God’s got great things for you.  I know this because He really has this for all of us.  Great things.  We just need to choose Him.  Choose Him, sweet boy, daily.

The three remaining boys were strewn along the middle of the path, each squatting near their very own discoveries.  Sticks in hand, poking and prodding.  Fingers in the dirt.  Because sometimes you have to get dirty to find the real Truth.  They eventually migrated towards each other.  They wanted to share.  Because if we learn and never share, no glory can come to the only One worthy of it.  And I whispered it right there. 

Never stop looking for Him, sweet boys.  Study His truth and spread it like wildfire.  Share it with all you meet.  Carry His grace with courage and love to this broken world, setting the captives free and glorifying the One who sent you. And don’t be afraid if you get dirty because you already stand clean. Whiter than snow, actually.

And as I turned to walk back, I whispered it right there for all us mamas too. 

Lord, may we become less so you become all.  May we have courage to let go of our dreams and take hold of Your plans for these sweet boys, for all of our children.  Help each of us see them like you see them.  Help us guide them, train them, disciple them for Your Kingdom.  Show us how to lead them. Give us the strength and wisdom to water them in this season and find joy in these trenches.  Come, Holy Spirit, come.

And as I peeked over my shoulder to see if any heeded the call to dinner, I noticed the quietest of them all boldly following behind me.  And I prayed right there, whispered it straight to heaven. 

Lord, let this moment be a constant reminder that I never know when they will choose to follow, so may I always be running straight to You.

Amen.

Motherhood

Motherhood.  One of the greatest honors that can fall on a woman.  A high calling fulfilled in dark places.  Like the great masonries hidden in the dark and dusty dungeons of beautiful cathedrals ever faithful with their labor, so mothers are concealed in the crumbs of minivans amidst runny noses, temper tantrums and sibling rivalry, chinking away at character stone, each doing her part to sift through the ugly, to sieve out the beauty in this unsightly world. Some days hold victories – an obedient attitude, a lesson harnessed, a loving act, a treasured glimpse into a tender little heart.  Other days seem filled with defeat, but we carry on, clinging desperately to the joy believed to be hidden in this motherhood. Faithful. Resolute.

Motherhood.  God’s intense training ground. 

We have a short breath of time here. This time when we have the opportunity to impress our children's hearts is a fleeting season.  With time on our heels, it begs the question: What is the mission of motherhood? When the nest is empty again and we are faced with simply womanhood, without the demand of on-site mothering, what in our reflections will we be most content with?  What will resonate well in our soul? That we loved deeply? It does cover a multitude of sins.  That we taught effectively? Wisdom does lead to righteousness.  Maybe it’s that we were intentional with our children, present in every moment we were given, every moment they were under our wings before they spread their own… Maybe.

Motherhood. In the midst of noise and chaos it can be one of the loneliest places we are asked to go, the most desolate of terrain we are invited to plod through.  It’s a holy place and it's a humble place.  And these babes entrusted to us, they are far from commonplace.  Much is at stake and there is no margin for pride. The costs are high, the sacrifices many, the outcome completely unpredictable.  The growth immeasurable, the joy unfathomable, the love indescribable, the gift undeniable.  

So I pray to keep my eyes open and my heart intentional on the mission of motherhood: to introduce my children to the One from which they came, the One to whom they truly belong. To lead my children to the One who will complete the good work He has started.  And to be content in my soul that I gave what I had, everything I had, for this mission, His mission. And because of it the world will receive something it is not worthy of… something only God can claim, something that makes me stop and worship and praise Him, Abba Father, that I am allowed any part in it. 

Dream Big

I watched them from the back window.  As they stared up the steep hill together, Bubbs standing at his bike's side gripping the handle bars, I sensed there was a consultation in progress, a plan brewing.  I surveyed this field that holds wild grasses and wildflowers, their wild hearts unleashed, ready to explore, conquer, live abandoned.  A place where their uncontainable sense of adventure can be uniquely cultivated.  In the midst of miniature mountains and valleys, snakes and bugs and birds, flora and fauna abundant, my naturalist and my dare devil find common ground.  

This field holds something for each of them.  Baby Girl, she delights in the wonder of God’s animals, His creation, exploring every nook and cranny of this landscape.  Bubbs?  He’s all boy.  He believes God’s greatest work is found in speed, gravity and the law of motion and physics, which don’t always work in his favor.   But he doesn’t seem to mind and it only makes him hungry for more.  He dreams big.

As I watch, their plan is starting to unfold.  And I decide mama better be on-site for this one instead of struggling to let go from inside the house.  The Chef has a wide grin and a bit of pride spilling out as he assures me it will be alright. He’s all boy too and that apple staring up a hill clinging his bike didn’t fall to far from this tree. 

As we exit the house and find our places for the evening show, Bubbs faces his mountain, pushing his bike upward, Baby Girl close behind.  These two are thick as thieves, and I love how they continually educate me in relationships.  An adventure like this, it’s not a solo mission.

He’s got twenty yards, ten yards straight up.  I see his body double over as he starts his ascent pushing relentlessly higher, excitement building over the glory waiting on the other side of his labor.  And as the incline turns straight towards the clear blue sky, his strength gives out and he can’t push anymore.  He slips and his bike falls over.  But Baby Girl, she’s right behind him.  And she can taste his sweet victory almost as much as he can. I can barely hear her. “It’s okay, Bubbs.  Get up. I’ll help you.” 

I see him gain his footing, pick up his bike and the two of them push that Huffy straight up, conquering his mountain together. Because he dreams big.  And she loves well.  

With them at the top of their mountain, I’m at the base of mine.  Standing there with my mama heart outside my body as it mounts a two-wheel contraption meant for smooth bicycle paths, ready to ride straight down this dirt slope and there’s no stopping him.  And just like Baby Girl did for Bubbs, the Chef is by my side helping me push up my mountain, whispering his sweet comfort once more before show time.

And he wraps his arms around me just as the eeks and screams sound off and we all let go a little as that Huffy holding my dare devil teeters over that ridge leaving gravity to do its thing.  Bubbs comes blazing down the hill, living his dream, like there is no greater delight in life, laughing his contagious laugh and when he makes it to the bottom (in one piece and a New York minute), I exhale hard as I hear him scream, “That was awesome! I'm TOTALLY doing that again!”  And in that brief moment, our hearts are all wrapped in the joy of a little boy who dreams big, without fear.  Him? He’s already dreaming bigger.

And I got to thinking… maybe it’s time I started dreaming big too.  Because there are bigger hills than this around the corner.  And when we dare to dream big, isn’t that just saying we have big faith?  That Mt. Burden doesn't make us tremble or take us off course?  That we hope in this God who can dream bigger still. That we believe in El Shadday, God Almighty, who moves mountains with faith the size of a puny mustard seed? And what if I have the courage, a faith that is bigger than a mustard seed? 

Because really, the size of my dreams is only limited by the size of my faith.  And I just can't out-dream God.  I want to dream so big that I need help pushing. Afterall, God's blessed me with so many who love well.  I want to dream so big that when I'm riding down my mountain like there is no greater delight in life, laughing my contagious laugh, people turn to look only to find Christ.  Because it was His dream afterall, and I finally found the courage to take hold of it.

A Bargain Purchase

I look up through the barren branches, flat on my back taking in this pure blue sky that inspired songs and I ponder its color and how its blue because of the ocean but there’s not an ocean for 1000 miles.  This God of wonders never stops amazing me. 

My entire body is limp, my head barely holds a thought except the greatness of our God and the complete perfection of this moment.  And I think how far I’ve come. How far He’s carried me.  Every muscle in me is relaxed, not an ounce of stress tenses a single reflex. I stretch my short frame across two inflated sledding tubes under our only tree, atop a fresh blanket of snow, the winter sun warm on my face and shining proud.  

And I know this is it.  Complete peace, total relaxation.  Everything as it should be or as close as it gets on this sphere that spins time. 

“You’ll never capture my princess, Darth Vader!”  His tiny voice breaks through the silence but it’s not jolting.  It sounds sweet and innocent and ready to go anywhere their imaginations take them.

This really is it. Pure joy. I bought this moment and I don’t have a drop of buyer’s remorse.  As I recline on snow tubes resting on fresh powder, sun bathing in my front yard in the middle of February listening to my son fight villainous neighbor boys and defend the princess laying on the inflatable space ship, I am delighting in my purchase to the full.

It wasn’t too many Februarys ago that a moment like this was a mere dream from a dark office, every muscle in me tense with expectations, meeting deadlines and Board of Directors, managing unbuttoned projects and unbridled adults, with little room to breathe and little time for moments, not a defender in sight.  While I was enslaved by my calendar and always living three months from now, my children were in the care of another and did their caretakers see these moments as gifts?  Or were they in their own kind of trap with their own kind of dreams?   

And so I bask in this moment with all five senses.  I bought this moment and a thousand more like it nearly four years ago. And, I could say I paid a career, a six-digit salary, a full benefits package… all the things this world says are important.  But really, the price tag was my ways, my priorities, my selfishness.  I paid the price of me without Him.  And, I'm certain I got the better end of this deal, this bargain purchase, because what did I get in return? 

The minute I let my ways fall right out of me, I had room for Him, a space He filled with delight.

"Delight yourselves in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart.” (Psalm 37:4)

He gave me what I had been dreaming about in that dark office all those Februarys ago.  The gift of here and now.  The desires of my heart.  And frankly, it was better than a bargain purchase. It's like I bought the original Mona Lisa at garage sale prices. 

I'm not talking about salvation here.  I mean, that goes without saying.  An extravagant gift we can only accept.  I'm talking about what's next.  What comes after salvation.  Because I can live my whole life believing in a God I don't follow, drowning in the lies of my enemy. 

Or... I can walk on water. 

 

I can trust this Savior that gently shows me over and over how much better His ways are, how delightful He really is. I can look back and see I've had this Defender with me all my days, steadying the boat, clearing the path, laying a way for me, protecting me from the enemy, displaying His glory, painting the sky blue just hoping I would like it. I've been His unyielding pursuit, but it still requires my action, my choice, my obedience, my surrender. And then He'll take it from there. He WILL take it from my surrender. And boy, I better hang on tight!

I can open myself up to Him, allowing the Holy Spirit to consume me like a fire because what happens when my own faith is burned up and the Holy Spirit's faith rises from the ashes...in me?  It changes things.  It changes everything.  Because the Holy Spirit, He always believes God. Always. Yeah, that's the kind of faith I want to run wild in me.

So, I continue the quest for these bargain purchases, these opportunities to start a bon fire with my selfishness, my ways, to lay down more of me and take up more of Him... daily. 

"Then he said to them all: 'If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.'" (Luke 9:23)

It's not easy. In fact, some days are down right hard. I fail again and again. But I don't want to just get by, I want to live free with eyes wide open, so I try again because I don't want to miss one single moment, one single adventure, one single thing God is inviting me into.

I want a life lived to the full.

"I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full." (John 10:10b)