Messy Monday: Found

Yesterday was a moment to let dishes sit and lunch turn to crusty cement on our kitchen table, because my kids were ready to play outside. I was ready to play too.

 

We headed into the sunshine to run, bike, and roller skate while the men-folk played football in the yard. My three-year-old emerged from the cluttered garage with a packet of cilantro seeds that had apparently been shuffled into the unknown for the duration of the summer, as well as a package of Easter stickers from goodness knows where. She toted both in the woven white and magenta basket on her bike until a moment of enlightenment.

 

An impromptu game of hide-and-seek sprouted organically from our play. I climbed atop the tube slide, pressed against the wooden wall of our church's ark. I heard her giggles as she found her sister and they set off in search of me. One minute later a laughing face shouted, "I found you!" I was caught, but there was a consolation prize. "You want a sticker?" For each time she found me I was given a shiny Easter sticker, and of course so was she.

 

I drove to pick up our pizza, stickers emblazing the fact that I was a proud parent of a preschooler. I owned every bit of it.

 

To bear the marks of my daughter is a gift.

 

To bear the marks of my Savior, immeasurably greater.

 

For the run-down, bone-weary moments, we have a Savior who points to our lives and says,

 

Remember when I found you?

 

When we are tempted to feel failure as our very definition, He points to our lives and says,

 

Remember when I found you?

 

As though we could be emblazoned with days and moments that sing for joy, I belong to Christ!

 

 My soul will be satisfied as with fat and rich food, and my mouth will praise you with joyful lips,

 

As though we could roll out of bed to the sight of our Savior smiling in the morning sun,  Found you.

 

when I remember you upon my bed, and meditate on you in the watches of the night;
 

Remember when you hid behind your pride,

And I found you?

 

Remember when you couldn't see a way out of the darkness,

And I found you?

 

Remember when people were cruel and you cowered inside yourself,

And I found you?

 

Remember when the pain covered you with a patchwork of injury,

And I found you?

 

Remember when your anger was so great you feared it would consume you,

And I found you?

 

 for you have been my help, and in the shadow of your wings I will sing for joy.

Psalm 63:5-7 

 

Over and over until our whole lives are just enormous testimonies to the Founder and Foundation.

 

Five Minute Friday: True

I was writing in my head tonight as I patiently waited from my husband to amble up the concourse and into my arms after a 3 day conference.

I have to admit, it works radically with this week's Five Minute Friday: True. (If you haven't met here for a Five Minute Friday yet- a globe-load of wonderful writers meet together at Lisa-Jo Baker's place. Her task: to gift us with her prompt. Our task: to write about it for five minutes- no editing. Some of the most heartfelt words stream forth on these Fridays. Come join us!)

So here it is, at 12:40 a.m. I am writing this because I know the creativity juices may dry up if I wait until I have rested. And it's only five minutes, but it's an important five minutes.

GO

For my daughters:

I write to you so late because flights get delayed and airports are far, and I just had to see your daddy tonight.

I stood for virtually forever waiting for his sweet face. His gait. And I sent up silent prayers thanking God for your daddy's bald head- so easy to pick out of the crowd.

Flight after flight passed me by and with each man that passed I heard the voice of wisdom, wait for him.

Darlings, waiting for the one God has for you is a lot like waiting for your dad tonight at the airport.

A steady stream of people will pass you by, and you may be impatient with all the waiting, but it's worth the wait. Don't go throwing your arms around just any young guy who crosses your path.

Before you know it, couple after couple will join, embrace, hold hands, smile, whisper. And they will seem just so happy. You are going to want that.

Just wait. Wait for the one who is true.

You'll know him when you see him. The one who pursues you with the godly love. The one who loves Jesus as much or more than you do.

He is coming. He is on the way even now- who knows what stops he must make along the way.

But it is true- He is true.

STOP

Three Word Wednesday: Eight Days Later

I sit in the silence, rocking in the wake of yet another child's puking episode, but it is too close to rise and shine, so how about I get in that quiet time I have been neglecting? I open my study book and Bible and get down to business, making connections, having epiphanies, and all before 6 am.

 

I am directed to look up yet another passage when I feel that familiar tug on my lazy nature. "Just skip it. You know that passage. Ok, maybe if you don't you'll at least figure out what it is from the context of the lesson." Reluctantly, I will my hands to escort the fragile pages left and find myself eye to text with the story of Doubting Thomas (poor man to have a label like that, like Rahab the Harlot). I say a quick prayer as I peruse the words, that the Lord would open my eyes to something that sticks- something beyond what I've read before. It sounds altruistic, but really I am just tired and I want to make sure this is "worth it." (Yuck, Lauren. Really? Yes, really. I can be selfish even when I'm reading the Word.)

 

But you know the Lord (or if you don't, you should). He delivers on His promises even when we are tired and whiny, and His Word definitely did not return void. It hit me hard, and I've been puzzling on it for a few days now.

 

 Now Thomas, one of the Twelve, called the Twin,was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark of the nails, and place my hand into his side, I will never believe.”

Eight days later, his disciples were inside again, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.”  Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side. Do not disbelieve, but believe.” Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” John 20:26-29

 

"Eight days later?!" Wait, what? Did I know that? Surely I must have read that, maybe studied it even. But then why did I not see it before?" (Yet another case for rereading and praying while reading the Bible, no matter how many times you've seen it.)

 

Eight days later. A couple weeks ago my daughter asked what time period I would go back to if I could go for just one day. I would like to put this eight days in my top ten. It just has me asking these questions like,

 

- Jesus obviously knew what disciples would be present when He first arrived, so why did He come when Thomas was gone?

 

- Was it because of something with Thomas, or was He giving the disciples a chance to evangelize to one of their own? (Even us believers need some evangelism, no?)

 

- And if He knew Thomas wouldn't believe them, why didn't He just come back in an hour to show Him?

 

- Why did He let Thomas struggle in His unbelief when He could have just shown Him right then and there that He was back?

 

- Why didn't Thomas believe his friends? Were relationships damaged after the crucifixion? Was he just stubborn? Was He hurt that Jesus revealed Himself to the other ten, but seemed to leave Him out of it? (Ouch, that would hurt.)

 

- Was he afraid to face Jesus? After all, he had deserted Jesus too. Maybe he was afraid he had done something unforgivable. Jesus had spoken peace to the others. He had breathed on them, given them the Holy Spirit. Thomas had missed the crucial sending of the disciples and gift of forgiveness.

 

- Did Thomas try to make the others doubt what they had seen? Did he just have to be right?

 

I'm not sure of any of those answers really, but it did bring to mind some things I do know.

 

- We can evangelize til we're blue in the face, but if that person doesn't come face to face with who Jesus is and what He did, they won't believe. And half-pictures of Him are no good. He died AND rose!

 

- We can't make anyone believe, that's God's job, but that doesn't mean witnessing is a waste of time. Witnessing is a blessing from God. We have seen the Lord!

 

- It's not all about the outcome of our present circumstance. We want to skip the hard things, get to where things are good. So we rush it. We push our questions to the back burner and act like things are fine, because maybe if we act like it, that will make it happen. Jesus is okay with the struggles. He waited to show Himself, not because He didn't care or love Thomas. He knew exactly what Thomas needed, and delivered accordingly. God works within our struggles, and He loves us enough to wait until the time is right.

 

- Pride is always a snare. When our stubborn need to be right keeps us from celebrating the Risen Christ, we need to step back and be willing to conceive that maybe there is a better way beyond what our eyes have seen.

 

- You're mistakes don't have to define you. Failing once is not failing forever. Thomas had the opportunity to exercise true faith and he missed the boat. He wouldn't let that same mistake happen again. Years later he would have the opportunity to declare unbelief once again. Instead, he prayed to the Jesus he could no longer see and was run through with a spear. Sounds like a happy ending to me.

 

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Messy Monday: Schrapnel in the Sanctuary

There was a full-out war being waged during church yesterday morning, and the shot heard round the sanctuary was fired by my three-year-old daughter.

Let me preface this story with some facts pertinent to your grasping of the situation:

 

1. I am the praise team leader, so Sunday mornings can be pretty exhausting with the four kids and worship, and sometimes I feel like I need multi-tasking steroids to power through the service. (I would contend that most parents of little ones feel the same way.)

 

2. If you picture the seating of our sanctuary like a cross with the congregation seated down the middle of the tall beam and the altar at the top, our praise team "loft" is in the left cross beam section and slightly raised. Kind of like where a choir would sing or a handbell choir would play. Since our praise team pews are turned toward the center of the sanctuary, not the altar, my children are able to sit in the center pews just a few feet away and I am able to sit with them while we aren't singing.

 

3. I play an electric autoharp and sing as well.

A warm-up and some run-throughs and the service starts as usual. My husband welcomes the worshipers warmly and invites them to share the peace with those around them. As I don't play the first piece, I settle in to sing one of my new favorites, Take My Life. (A contemporary rendition of the hymn "Take My Life and Let it Be.")

Whether it was her middle-of-the-night excursion that put her into a more volatile mood than usual, or that she was just plain tired of asserting the independence she displayed all by her big-girl-self at Sunday school, I'll never know. But somehow the words to the first verse of our song trigger an immediate hunger, the pangs of which stab her poor tummy to tears, and that whole fifteen minutes since her last cupcake was fraught with carrying Sunday school projects and finding a seat in one of three of our usual pews, so naturally she has worked up quite an appetite that needs to be satisfied immediately. Did I mention IMMEDIATELY?

And as I am mic-ed for this song (and turning the mic off would be a bit obvious), I am forced to deal with the utterly public and nuclear meltdown transpiring before me and the entire congregation with a series of clumsy and ultimately futile gestures mixing baby sign language, mommy sign language, and dull stares by the only helpful child within eyeshot. (The eldest child politely minding her business a few pews back with some friends.) The boy  is staring at me, completely lost. I really need to learn more sign language.

I manage to catch a stray word amidst the singing and sobbing and something sounds like, "I need a snack! I can't find a snack!" I motion to check my bag (keep in mind I am still singing, and now glaring), but she insists there is no food in there. Not one crumb. (There is, and she has literally made no attempt to search its contents, but that's besides the point.) So, desperately and fully aware of the bad decision I am making, I point to the small Tuperware sitting beside my bag on the pew.

The Tuperware filled with cupcakes. The minion cupcakes our dear friend made for my son for his birthday. The minion cupcakes containing the dye that has tattooed many a little face with royal blue five o'clock shadows. "I can have a cupcake?" I shake my head wildly yes as I reach for the autoharp to begin our next song. (Grace Like Rain, my new favorite version of "Amazing Grace.")

I play and sing as my peripheral vision reveals the ruthless tearing open of the container. The invasion of little hands descending upon those pour, unsuspecting minions. Oh the carnage as minions are devoured whole, their remnants smeared on floor and pew. The only evidence of their existence: a smurf-blue lake of frosting ground into the church carpet and bits and pieces strewn down pew cushions.

Confectionary POW's

And all the while we sing, Hallelujah, all my stains are washed away. They're washed away... (No joke.)

The sacrifice is great, but I count it all worth it because the beast has been pacified until the chorus strikes her parched tongue. A scream of "WATER," and I'm back to square one...

  

I am painfully aware of the congregations less forgiving than ours. I hear the horror stories of harsh words spoken to struggling parents by people with a fabricated remembrance of when their children were little. Having forgotten the shame and despair that comes when you feel you have reached the end of your rope, they can't empathize with the exhaustion and feeling of powerlessness in the face of a disobedient child who knows better.

My girl knew better and she still did it. She was disciplined, but I'm not counting on her never faltering again. I love her just the same.

God chose us before the creation of the world. He knew what we would do, but He made the choice to create us.

He knew we would complain. He chose to satisfy anyway.

He knew we would wander. He chose to bring us back- even if we had to feel pain in the process.

He knew we would abuse He mouthpieces. He chose to raise them anyway.

He knew we would reject His Son, beat Him, taunt Him, yell at Him, kill Him. He still chose to send Him.

He knew we wouldn't fully "get" what our salvation truly meant while we were on this earth. He chose to let us live in that salvation and hope even now- not just after we die.

He knew we would bind ourselves to other gods, seek our own wisdom. He gave us His word, His body, His blood, as real-life tangible pieces of Himself to open our eyes to the God He is.

His sacrifice was more than just a mess made in a hasty attempt to shut us up- it was a choice. He planned it. It was messy, no doubt, but it was worth it.

Because I have a new life to celebrate today and every day, and I am full.

Five Minute Friday: She

It is Five Minute Friday and the birds are chirping away in the still utter darkness. But this Five Minute Friday just couldn't wait for the sunshine. If you are joining us for the first time, Five Minute Friday is a staple around these parts.

It's simple. You head over to Lisa-Jo Baker's blog and read the word for this Friday. (Today: She.) Write on the word for 5 minutes, no editing or going back. Just brave and crazy writing. You link your post to hers and get busy reading and sharing the love with all the other brave and crazy writers who also joined in. (To give you an idea, it's 6:36 and there are already 119 other people linked in.)

She

GO

I used to be jealous of her. At least I think I did. Maybe. It's been so long and we are so close in heart, though far in footsteps.

If you'd ask her what she thought of herself, I'm not sure what she'd say, but I could tell you what I tell everyone about my little sister: she's awesome. Amazing.

Our meetings happen by strict planning and plane tickets. By 18 hour road trips straight up and down. She's a Southern Belle. I'm a Midwest Mom. And when I happen to cruise down in my minivan with my super-husband and four little... super... kids... after days of driving, I meet up with new faces around her town and meet her friends, and they find out who I am (no longer defined as Pastor's wife, so-and-so's mom, I am now "Sarah's sister."), and they have to tell me about her.

She is amazing.
She is so good.
She loves her students.
She works her butt off.
She is so excited you are here.
She just cooked the most amazing...
She is a beast! (at CrossFit that is a compliment;))
She played a great game last night.
She...
She...
She...

And I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the way all those things that would have struck me jealous pierce my heart instead with pride. Because that is my sister.


STOP

 It's faces like ours that make Jumbo-trons around the nation.