Stumbling Around in The Light

A Freed Heart

His heart is free.

Monday before last, we sat in the cardiac ICU of Denver Children's Hospital, and watched Caleb's heart beat strong and free, after being compressed for so long. 

The compression happened gradually, almost imperceptibly, so that Caleb didn't feel the slow pinching of his heart muscle, the indolent squeezing of his lungs.  For three years now, his central ribs have grown increasingly malformed, curving S-shaped inward to press sternum toward spine, crowding heart and lungs ever tighter.

We've known the surgery was coming.  It's been on our minds for years, on the calendar for months.  And yet, we were unprepared for the severity, the complications, the suffering. 

Aren't we all?

  

There's a measurment, called the Haller Index, defining the extremity of compression; Caleb's was a distressing 4.7 on a scale that ranges from 2.5 (normal) to 3.25 (medically severe) to 5.5 (dude, how are you breathing?).  So - instead of the less-invasive Nuss procedure, the cardiothoracic surgeon felt that the safest & best longterm option for freeing Caleb's heart, was the much-more-gruesome Ravitch procedure.  Which basically involves opening up his chest, cutting out the abnormal ribs, disconnecting all the muscle, tendons & ligaments from the sternum, then reconstructing it all on top of a mesh base.  Um-hmm.  Yucky.

Adding to all that joy was the complication of Caleb's shunt, placed when he was a baby, to drain cerebrospinal fluid from his nonfunctioning brain ventricles.  So the shunt tube went from Caleb's skull, down his neck, and yes, you guessed it, right in the path of the surgical site.  Thus the shunt had to be externalized by neurosurgeon Dr. O'Neill, prior to the work done by Dr. Campbell...then would have to be replaced, in another surgery, several days later.

I won't bore you with all the gory details (as if you've not had enough already), but let's just say it was a long, difficult, okay - horrific week.  Just as Caleb began to heal from one thing, he'd head into some other complication, and by week's end, would sport eight surgical incisions.  If you want to read all the gory details, you can check out his care pages here:
http://www.carepages.com/carepages/CalebUpdates

In the midst of it all, more than once, I looked heavenward and muttered furiously, "why Lord? why? hasn't he been thru enough?"

And then, with near-instant revulsion, would bend fearfully over, repentant, disgusted at my lack of gratitude.

Because the bottom line is this:

My son is well.  He is here, home, healing with superhero speed...on his way to becoming stronger and healthier than ever before.

And who are we to have been given such a gift?

I don't understand the ingratitude that has gripped me.  The encompassing fury so easily erupting; words, tears, flinging arms, boiling anger. 

Somewhere along the way, ever-so-imperceptibly, my heart has become constricted.  By my own hands, my own will.  And it wasn't just the encroaching fear of Caleb's impending surgery.  It's been brewing for months, this relentless squeezing of my heart's ability to embrace the fullness of life before me.

Perhaps it began with my cyclonic return to 41-year-old, mother-of-seven, hormonal-storms, as baby Nekoda weaned down to fewer nursings and my body started a new roller-coaster of emotions.  Perhaps I can blame it on my voracious Eve-cursed hunger for control, and desire for man-pleasing.

But perhaps doesn't change anything, and wallowing in the why doesn't free my strangled heart.

I know God had something more in mind for me.  I've gotta believe God's design is for my heart to expand, to inhale the life-blood of these overabundantly-flowing blessings, to encompass all He has for me.

And yet - I can see it now - in the past months, as life has spun faster and more frantically out of control, I've gripped tighter.  I've held on for dear life and in the process put a strangle-hold on any chance of enjoying the dear things in this life.

I don't even begin to have it figured out.  But He's leading me somewhere. 

He's showing me the truth of my own self-induced, ungrateful, heart constriction.

And I look at Caleb, once again such a glory-of-God miracle before me,
and I long for my heart to be freed also.

---------------------

click here for more on 'TheCalebMiracle' -
part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, Watching Him

So This Is Love

On the stairs, seven parts-of-my-heart, from final-born cuddle-baby Nekoda, to first-born man-child Caleb.

Eager to see Daddy's Valentine's Day surprises.  Thoughts of roses, chocolates, sweet treats, and matchbox cars. 

"So what are we celebrating?"

A chorus of little and big voices: "Valentine's Day, Daddy!"

"And what is Valentine's Day about?"

Six year-old Ian: "About loving Jesus, Daddy."

Kevin and I stop in our tracks, eyes connecting.  Did you tell him to say that?  No.  Did you?

"And...how do we love Jesus, Ian?"

"By loving each other!"

Roses and chocolates and sweet treats and matchbox cars wait on the table downstairs.  We all stand, staggered in the stairwell, watching, smiling, eyes filling, hearts overflowing.  Even the little ones know:  truth has been spoken, from the mouth of child. 

To such belongs the kingdom of heaven, He tells us.

So this is love:

Loving Jesus.

Loving each other.

Truth spoken, with childlike faith and simplicity.  For Valentine's Day...for the celebration of romantic love...for reflecting His glory in my marriage, it all comes down to this:

Love Jesus.
Love each other.

If I can love Jesus first, then the other will come.  If I can love Jesus, if I can receive His love, if I can let His Love fill the broken places in my soul...then, I can love the one He gave me.

Love is not a feeling.  Love is an action, a choice, an obedience.
We all know this.  But do we know it?  Does my knowing bring that truth into my living?

Love is something I do, something I stop doing, something I put on, something I put off, something I give, something I receive. 

Love is going beyond the natural feeling and pursuing the Holy Spirit for strength to do the unnatural.  To trust a man, when the green-smoke lies of the enemy coalesce to convince me no man is trustworthy.  To submit, when Eve-within wages war against my good intentions. 

Love is a strange and beautiful, rainbow-reflecting, oil-and-water swirl of conflict and resolution.  Love is a cheek-aching night of laughter with treasured friends, sharing stories of first kisses and wedding night snafus and cold-in-the-night, cuddling-for-heat confessions.  And love is also wee-morning-hour sobbing and retching and comforting and careening-away and drawing back, and covering it all with love-in-action, fear-ignited fervent prayer.  Love is being held when everything falls.  Love is sticking it out even when the holding has to be Heavenly Hands, and the free-falling is the waking-nightmare of seeing the hole in my soul that leaks black-bottomless-darkness onto the one He gave me. 

Love is consuming, pulling-into-one-another passion of gratitude for the one-given who brings healing to the wounded-raw parts of my heart.  And Love is jaw-clenching, fisted-hands determination to press-into-one-another, even when discovering that same given-one also brings wounding to the healing-raw parts of my heart.

Love is knowing there is pain in this world, and accepting God's truth that He is more concerned with perfecting us through the pain, than protecting us from the pain.

Love is believing through the pain, for the perfecting, and still with compassionate arms of love, protecting.

And the gushing-forth, dam-bursting words dwindle to a trickle.  Because who can find the words?  All just color-prism, fragmented hues of His single-light burning truth of the unmitigated mystery of love.

Loving Jesus.

Loving each other.

So this is Love.

 

Hiding Out (from all the Special People)

So I'm finally back online.

Three weeks hiding out from email, facebook, blog posts...

It was beautifully restful.  Easy.  Comfortable. 

And now I'm back in the game, catching up on all my favorite bloggers, and I feel...
Tired.  Overwhelmed.  Like giving up.

Because if I can't be special in this game -
If I'm just one of thousands others stumbling along mid-pack -
If I'm mediocre -
Then I don't really want to be in the game at all.

Isn't that what we all strive for? 
To be special?

A couple of days ago I peeved my husband, because I argued with him, in a public forum, that I'm not special.  I'm just a regular, stumbling-around mom, like a thousand other moms.  Sure, I can do some special things:  sing, dance, have babies, encourage, maybe even write.

But do I have greatness in any of those areas?  Not really.

Kevin gets all red-in-the-face-frustrated at me.  Telling me what a great mom I am to our seven children.  Insisting that I'm such a great writer.  That I have so much greatness to offer the world.  How great I am for juggling so much with our family, and still writing, reaching out, encouraging other women.

I sigh and nod.  But that's not it.  I'm not struggling with some low-self-esteem issue.  I have plenty of issues, don't get me wrong...but self-loathing isn't the favored monkey on my back or anything.  (Okay, well, maybe a few days outta the month.)  But generally, the problem is the opposite sin-monkey.  More like comparison.  More like ego.  More like pride.

Because, hey, I think I'm pretty "BAM," like 6-yr old Ian says, giggling with knuckles offered.  Then I compare myself with those other rockstar bloggers...and my pride gets all beaten down into this whiny-petulant-little-girl wad of self-pity.   'Cause if I'm so great, how come I can't keep it together to even post anything for like, 3 weeks straight???  All the way across the globe, Laura managed it.  So did Lisa-Jo, even with holiday travel.  And my friend Anne-Marie blogs practically every day.  Jamie took time to write, even about her irritation with blogging stupid resolutions.  And don't get me started with how encouraged & inspired & small I feel when I read Ann's posts. 

But Kevin would say I'm special 'cause I'm blogging at all.  'Cause I'm in the game.

Sure, I have plenty of friends who aren't even in the game. 
Well, not this game at least. 
But then again, they have their own game:   Teacher of the Year.  Missionary with the Most Converts.  Top Salesman.  PTO President.  Advertising Executive with the Corner Office.  Hippest Youth Pastor in Town.  MOPS Steering Committee Leader.  Volleyball Coach.  Homeroom Mom who brings the Best Snacks.

Most of us are in the game, in some way or another.
My friend Nate says we're all striving for Significance.  His wife says we're really striving for Love.
I think we're striving for Greatness.  We all want to be the Special People.

When I posted this quandary to my friends in Free Agent Academy, I got a slew of responses about how we are all special in Christ Jesus.  About how fearfully & wonderfully we're made;  "Oh, Teri, you're just super!"   And I think of that character 'Syndrome' from The Incredibles, saying, "When everyone's super...no one will be." 

So if we're ALL so special...then are we...really...special?

(From dictionary.com) Special: of a distinct or particular kind;  having a specific or particular function, purpose, etc;  distinguished or different from what is ordinary or usual;  origin - Latin - speciālis - of a given species

Hmmm...distinct, having a particular function, of a given species...

Maybe special doesn't mean exactly what I thought it meant.
Maybe it's more about Connection.  Relationship.  Belonging.

I just don't have it figured out, y'know?  I'm supposed to tie up the end of this blog with a tidy bow, with a scripture trail, with words of great wisdom, that leave you nodding & going, "...wow..."

But I can't get my head around it. 

So I write to figure it out.  A bit here, a bit there, dribbling onto the keyboard, from conversations and books and study and prayer and thinking and frustration and the busyness of life careening forward.  I write to share the vulnerable truth of how I know that I know that I know I'm walking in The Light, but I still stumble around with my blind ears and deaf eyes and world-saturated-Spirit-starving heart.

I know this:  when I flip up my computer screen and get into this blogging, emailing, facebooking, online game - I begin to strive for your approval.  I ache for greatness, significance.  I wanna be one of the special people. 

If I pass that feeling thru the filter of God's Word, it seems icky & wrong & greedy for applause:

But as we have been approved by God to be entrusted with the gospel, even so we speak, not as pleasing men, but God who tests our hearts.  - 1 Thess 2:4

So, okay, Lord, I hear You:  I am writing here, entrusted to press into truth & share & stumble around seeking His Light, in order to please God and not man.  Yet, just like Paul confesses in the book of Romans, I do what I don't wanna do, and don't do what I oughta.  And really?  Truthfully?  I'm not the only one, am I? 

I want to be special, cause I want to belong, cause I want connection and relationship.  And okay! duh!  My main connection needs to be with my Abba!  Again, when I put that thru the filter of His Word, He smiles at me, and chuckles, and strokes my cheek, and says,

Yes, I have loved you with an everlasting love;
      Therefore with lovingkindness I have drawn you.  - Jeremiah 31:3

So maybe I don't have to figure it out?  Maybe I don't write for fame or fortune or missions-support or orphan-care or the polished-poetic beauty that leads to book deals.  Maybe I'm just supposed to light my little candle, in my little house, on my little hill.

Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house.  Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.  -Matt 5:15-16

It is hard to leave the comfortable complacency of hiding out, and let this little light of mine shine.  'Cause my ego stomps around like a bullied-bully, saying, "aw, forGET it!"  My pride puts her nose in the air and plops that basket over the light-of-Him-in-me, and sniffs, "well, never mind!"

Kevin says something along the lines of this:

If God created you with a purpose & a calling, and He did, then it's your duty, it's your responsibility to use it, to let it shine so it gives light to others.  And if you have a struggle with ego?  Well, that's your problem, and you gotta deal with it.  But don't let your little pride-insecurity issue snuff out your light.

When I run that thru the filter of God's Word - I sit here with my fingers still.  Quiet.  Re-reading. Listening.  Oh.

God has given each of you some special abilities; be sure to use them to help each other, passing on to others God's many kinds of blessings.  - 1 Peter 4:10 TLB

So I guess I'll keep stumbling around. 
Stumbling around in His Light, carrying the little light He has for me to shine. 
Sometimes dim & flickering, sometimes bright & steady.  Yeah, I snuff it out sometimes with my own sin-monkey issues.  But the next morning, the next week, the next month...eventually, there's a new spark. 

God created a special spark within me, with its own unique glow, fragrance, resonance. 
Don't have to light the world.  Just my little neck of the woods.

(Okay, maybe not so bad?  Somewhat in the general vicinity of a tidy-little-ending?  What - You think it took me four days and about 15 do-overs to write? well, yeah, so what...)

Got anything special you're stumbling around with, hiding-out under a basket? 

More Giving; Fewer Gifts

Seems like every Christmas we scale back a little more, a little more...

You'd think our older children would complain.  But really?  Our big kids are the strongest supporters for the idea of simplifying Christmas. 

I don't have any 5-step plan for helping your kids to make that transition, but I do know that being somewhat disconnected from commercialism, media, and peer pressure makes a big difference.  Okay, that's putting it mildly.  We've not had TV for going on 8 years.  And the kids are home schooled, so they just don't pick up on the consumerist fascination with all the newest ipads, ipods, and iphones.  (And seriously, doesn't that stuff give you the creeps just a little bit???  Every new gadget is preceded by the word "I" - surreptitiously disguised in lower-case - so we don't notice our culture's overinflated, self-infatuated, indulgent obsession with SELF.  Hey, I'm as obsessed with myself as the next girl..but sure don't want a series of "I" gizmos to remind me all the time!)

ANYway...the 'fewer gifts' part has come gradually.  Adding another baby every couple of years sorta contributed to the process.  'Cause it's one thing to have 2 or 3 gifts for three children...but something else entirely to do that for five...or six...or seven children.  And a couple of years ago, we realized the older children were trying to come up with cheap knick-knacks for the younger siblings, just to have another wrapped box under the tree.  It was ridiculous, 'cause seriously, a 3 yr-old is just overwhelmed with seven gifts to unwrap, and does he really need yet another Rescue Hero???






We started last year with having the children 'trade names' between each other, so that each one gives a gift to one sibling.  The big kids have so much fun hunting for that special treasure, and we help the little ones get a special present for their older sibling.  Then each child also gets one gift from Mommy & Daddy.  So two presents to open on Christmas morning.

Sounds sparse?  Well, this is what we've come to realize:
In our western culture, Christmas morning anticipation is all about the excitement of getting gifts.  What did I get?  What else?  Did I get everything on my list?  Is that all?

Yuck.

Christmas morning anticipation should be about the excitement of togetherness, slowing down, receiving the free gift of Jesus Christ, our Emmanuel.



My 10 yr-old, Eliza, is reading a "Little House in the Prairie" series.  With wonder, she's read aloud sections where the storybook children are above-all overjoyed to simply have family & friends with them on Christmas day - to get a piece of fruit and one candy stick in their stocking - where gifts are a homemade doll or wagon or pop gun.  They needed so much, and yet were satisfied with so little.



While we who have so much always clamor for more, and yet are satisfied with nothing.

I have so much.  More than I need; every week passing along another bag of hand-me-downs to goodwill.  I am obesely wealthy, grotesquely abundant.  And yet I want more.  A new hair dryer.  My favorite honeysuckle lotion and Eucalyptus-Spearmint Pillow Mist from 'Bath & Body Works.'  A pair of jeans from someplace other than Goodwill.  New rugs & towels for the guest bath.  Snow tires for the suburban, a brake job, a tune-up for the jeep.  Railing on the back deck, covered porch on the front, carport at the side entrance.  I need those things.  Don't I?

It's repulsive. 
There is nothing, nothing I need.
Every day, every week, every month, all my needs are met in Him.

"He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, how will He not also with Him freely give us all things?"  - Romans 8:32    

I know this, and still, it is hard to live my faith.  At Christmas, when we so easily say "it is more blessed to give than to receive" - it is so hard to really give.  Really give.  What is truly from the Spirit, of the heart, pouring out of a place of love & joy instead of duty & guilt.

Because who on your Christmas list really needs anything?  Not my sister.  Not my in-laws.  Nor my parents, or friends.  They are all as obesely, overflowingly abundant as we are.

Yet - There are those who need my true giving.  Our neighbors, who need a simple gift of homemade bread, a note of appreciation & encouragement.  My brother, who needs my continued reaching out with humility and reconciliation.  The woman at church with a troubled son, who needs my time & attention & hugs, and is longing for a cross collection to brighten her meager home.  Family across the miles, who ache with missing grandbabies, who rejoice over pictures & crafts & phone calls from 4-yr-olds.  Our  Compassion daughter, Nancy, in Tanzania, who writes that she was so happy to receive our letter, that she 'feasted' on beans at her auntie's house.

And my own children.  They don't need more gifts, they need more giving - of my time, patience, love, affection, down-time, delight.  When I have to press for ideas on a 'wish list' (isn't that the repulsively-self-indulgent traditional Santa-focused question for American kids?  "what do you want for Christmas???"), I know that my kids don't need or even want another present.  Not as much as they want my presence. 

The excitement of our Christmas morning should be for the onset of uninterrupted days of games & talking & laughing, our final Advent celebration of His Arrival, building a new popsicle-stick-village, hiking thru the snow-covered-lacey-bare Aspens to 'Quartz Hill', crowding into the kitchen to make Jesus' birthday cake, bowling with baseballs & empty 2-liter-bottles in the upstairs hallway.  Togetherness.  Loving one another.

"A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another." -John 13:34

So this year, we've tried to focus on more giving, but fewer gifts. 
Not as many presents, but more presence. Our presence, for one another - and His presence, in our home, centering our celebration.

It's a work in progress.  Haven't 'arrived' by any stretch of the imagination.  We're enormously inspired by Ann Voskamp's post here: 
http://www.aholyexperience.com/2010/11/christmas-its-just-deciding-whose-birthday-it-really-is/

Next Christmas will be another step in our pursuit of His Presence, as we continue to diminish the pursuit of wrapped presents.

More giving; fewer gifts.

On Your Birthday

I am poured out before you.

You and God.  You are the only two that really see me.  Really know me.

The good, the bad, and the ugly, right?  I show them the good.  But you see the bad and the ugly.  The complaining, the self pity, the discontent. 

And still you come to me, put your arms around me, and cradle my head against your shoulder.  Your quiet prayer puffs into the cold air, mists of tenderness, as we stand on the back deck.  The deck you built.  You, who are always building, building.  Building this home, building a business, building our family.


I complain, like an impatient child, that it's taking too long, and when will it be done?  I stamp my foot and cry and accuse and blame;  are we there yet???

Why is it that you, the one who loves me best, has to endure the worst of me?

For what I am doing, I do not understand. For what I will to do, that I do not practice; but what I hate, that I do.  --Romans 7:15

When I finally manage to extricate myself from the sticky, black-tar pull of my navel-gazing petulance...I find you doing more, working harder.  And I'm so sorry, so remorseful.  But I've done it again, and wallowed in a day of self-indulgent, self-absorbed, self-pity.  Self, self, self.

On your birthday weekend.

For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh) nothing good dwells; for to will is present with me, but how to perform what is good I do not find. For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice.  --Romans 7:18-19

Last night we stayed up late, facing each other cross-legged on the living room floor, talking, talking.  About Paul's struggle in Romans, our struggle.   About Todd's message of the sin-monkey we so desperately want to throw off, but then bump back up on our shoulders; a comfortable, miserable weight.  

You see all of me.  The bad, ugly, sin-monkey on my back.  Yet somehow you see the good too.  You see the good in me even when I can't.  And I want to be transformed.  For you, for me, for our children, for God. 

I want the 41st to be different.  That I might love you more than I grasp to be loved.  That I might be a new creature, freed from this monkey-sin that so easily entangles. 

We gave you presents this weekend, tucked in gift bags, wrapped in brown paper, colored & cut & glued & stickered by small hands.  Things on your wish list - just little trinkets, really - olives and movies and Irish Cream.  You wanted a date night with me too.  But little ones are still sick, and the night got so complicated, and we didn't go.  Mostly, I know, the thing you want is for me to be happy.  For at least one night, to dress up, and go out, and forget about the worry of bills and schoolwork and laundry and wood trim and beautiful, fussy, needy, precious children at home.

So this year, my gift to you doesn't come in a package.  I can't wrap it up, and you'll never be able to open it all at once.  This year my gift to you is the relentless, persevering pursuit of contentment.  Of slow-down, of daily optimism, of joyful acceptance.   Stearmanizing my world instead of awfulizing it.  Cherishing the wildflowers instead of pointing out the weeds.

I can't do it in the power of my own flesh, my own will.  I've tried it before.  "Get a grip!  Get your head out of your stinkin' donkey, Teri!"  But here I am again.  I've no idea how to change this, how to throw this addiction-to-self off.  

O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?  I thank God—through Jesus Christ our Lord!  --Romans 7:24-25

I'm poured out before you.  You and God.  Everything laid bare. 
You both see the worst of me, get the worst of me.   And you love me still. 

That alone, so remarkable, and yet also your love shows me -
You, Lord, that You love me still. 
And in that Love, I have hope. 
Hope that even if I can't change me, You can, Lord. 

I think it will be hard.  I know it will take time.  I definitely don't have a 12-step plan for how to get there.  But I wanna overcome, I wanna be delivered from this body of death. 

So I'm gonna believe You, Lord.  I'm gonna believe Your Word, that You can change me, through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Thank you for loving me, even so, Kevin.
Happy Birthday.

Wisdom the Hard Way

Wisdom is definitely not book knowledge.

I've read all kinds of books about how to be a more godly woman, a great wife, a good mommy.  Reading about it didn't make it so.  I've even memorized the scriptures about being 'above rubies'...about the Proverbs 31 woman.  Memorizing scripture didn't make it so.

Wisdom doesn't come from listening to self-help podcasts.  I can't seem to get Wisdom from music, or movies, or Christian magazines, or worship services, or sermons.

I don't even get Wisdom from being around other wise women.

I've been praying for Wisdom. 
Begging for Wisdom.

For my ever-wavering faith, marriage, mothering.

Instead of becoming wiser...I'm getting stupider.
Seems like every day my eyes are opened to the ridiculousness of my own ignorance & stupidity & immaturity.

"Committing a great truth to memory is admirable; committing it to life is wisdom."  --William A. Ward

Maybe Wisdom can't be read or taught or gleaned.

Maybe Wisdom can only be experienced, the hard way. 

But Lord, I want to be 'jacked in' like on The Matrix, so Wisdom can just be downloaded into my brain, my spirit.  When I pray for Wisdom...Lord, why can't You just download it into me?

Maybe Wisdom isn't something I learn, or strive for, or do.

"And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."  --John 8:32

Maybe Wisdom is something I be.

Maybe
Wisdom is
being who God designed me to be
making those tiny, minute-by-minute, common-sense, of-course-I-know-better choices
being with my husband
being with my children
being with God.

I wonder, when it's all said & done, if God will smile & say, "thanks for doing your Bible study, Teri, and for making that dinner, and for teaching 5th grade long division..."

No, I think when it's all said & done, God will smile & say,

"Thanks for being."

 

The Little Things

I miss my husband.

He's only been gone for 2 days now...but I feel all blue & gloomy 'cause he's gone.

He’s in Portland for a Donald Miller conference on 'Story' - and I'm truly excited for him to be there.  Incidentally, we recently went thru Don's new book, A Million Miles in A Thousand Years, with our big kids, for our summer reading.  I highly, highly recommend it; potentially a life-changing book.

So Kevin is at this conference on living intentionally, making your life a story worth following...confronting fears, creating adventure, pursuing the epic.  And he’s there with his dad, Dan Miller, his brother, Jared, his Uncle Nate,  FAA professor Justin Lukasavige, and some other colleagues from Free Agent Academy.  I’m praying that he gets some much-needed quality time with his dad.  Time to address a growing distance, time to connect, embrace the mutual gratitude they ought to have for one another.  Something we all need to revisit in adulthood, especially with our fathers, and our ever-present, unavoidably instinctive need for their affirmation.

Lately I’ve been accusing Kevin of looking to me for too much of that affirmation.  I feel weary of his need for my constant ego-building encouragement and pursuit of intimacy.  Feels like he wants so much of me, in all the little things, when I feel so tapped out already.

The petulant little girl in me has stamped her foot, and whined, “but I don’t feeeeel like it...”

Out in the golden autumn sunshine today, a voice whispered in the wind:

Love isn’t about a feeling.

Love is about making a choice. 

Even when it feels like the asking is too much.  Even when I feel so overwhelmed already. 

In the big things, and especially in the little things.

I miss my husband.

I miss how he
Changes the baby’s diaper at 6:30am after nursing time

And does morning-duty with all the little ones
So I can sleep a bit more, or have quiet time, or take an uninterrupted shower
Brings me a plate of fresh fruit to start the day

Makes coffee just for me, just the way I like it 

Announces my morning arrival downstairs like I’m Miss America
Kisses me

Makes an extra loaf of beer bread well-done

Doesn’t put fruit in my pancakes

Hangs the dry towel by the shower for me
Tells me I’m a beautiful woman

Kisses my shoulder
Raves about my cooking even when its only tomato soup for lunch
Waves his arms in the air & sings ‘amen’ 

Kisses me

Sits by Serene AND Nekoda at mealtime

Splashes on a bit of Aspen cologne, just for me, just for no reason
Plays silly ‘theme’ music to match our dinner
Brings a glass of red wine & splash of peach schnapps, exactly the way I like it
Insists on sitting next to me, always

Kisses me

Puts the little ones to bed, giving me time to write
Wants me to walk the loop with him, holding hands, at dusk
Does final kitchen tidy & starts dishwashers
Locks up the house for bedtime
Leaves the closet light on for me if I’m up late
Gets me a clean pillowcase

Lights the candle

Prays with me at bedtime
Kisses me

Holds me even tho we won’t sleep that way

Pulls extra covers over to my side
Kisses my toes with his toes just as we’re falling asleep

I miss my husband.

I miss the way he chooses to Love me.  In big ways, and in so many little ways. 

Today I'm convicted that I’ve been focusing too much on how I feeeeel about loving him.  And not enough on choosing to love him.  Today I pray that he is receiving affirmation from his dad, and I pray that when he comes home I’ll be more aware & willing to serve, give, and choose to love him well.

O God, What would his list of ‘little things’ be?

Am I choosing to love him, in the little things?

Have I been missing it?

Do you need to choose to love, in the little things?

You Know You're A Mommy When...

You Know You’re a Mommy when...
...you finally go out on a hot date with your honey, and end the evening at Walmart buying eggs, diapers, & toilet paper.

And you have the diaper bag with you, even without the baby.

Yes, its true.

Had a much-anticipated date-nite yesterday evening.  Met up with another couple; some dear friends who have four boys, almost exactly the same ages as our youngest four. 

After the usual rigmarole of figuring out who is keeping the little ones, I did the frantic mommy-square-dance of flitting between dinner prep for the crew, trying to get ready, nursing the baby, and going over final school lessons for the day.

At the last minute I decided to leave the baby for the first time.  He is finally eating some veggies & drinking from a sippy cup, so I plotted out feeding & bedtime for him with the older kids, figuring I could wake him for nursing when we got home.  First date sans baby – woohoo!!

It was a lot to juggle, but pretty straight-forward...except for getting myself ready.  At seven months postpartum, I never know from one day to the next what set of clothes will fit.  I’m long since out of my ‘post-pregnancy’ sizes, and mostly done with my ‘transition clothes’ – but not quite into all my regular things.  Men roll their eyes at this, but women know:  having four pairs of jeans in four different sizes is practically a necessity.  At least during the child-bearing years.  (Just did the math to realize that I’ve been  pregnant or nursing for 10 years of my life so far.  Yikes.) 

ANYway...I was clearly demonstrating postpartum hormones & transition, as it took me almost 2 hours and trying on every shirt in my closet, to eventually find something to wear. 

We were finally heading out, only half an hour late, when I spilled purple juice all down the front of my just-barely-fitting French-blue button-up shirt, and denim skirt.  #$*%^&!*  You know what I mean???  No, there weren’t any kids around...

We decidedly did NOT have time to go back home & let me spend 2 more hours finding something else to wear, so instead, we whipped back down the driveway & grabbed the diaper bag, which held baby wipes & a little bottle of ‘Oxy’ stain remover.

Raced back out, heading to our friend’s house, and I’m #!%*$% all the way, diaper bag at my feet, scrubbing Oxy & baby wipes across my bust & down the lap of my used-to-be-cute-&-sexy little denim skirt.

Miraculously, it all came out.  Go, Oxy!! 

So we head to this fun restaurant in Manitou Springs, talking & laughing & having a great time.  Their 2-month baby boy slept peacefully the entire time...which was a gift to our evening, but I suspect cost them later in the night. 

At about 9pm we all started fading.  Still having a great time...but laughably showing our age & parental status, as we made fun of each other’s bloodshot eyes & jaw-popping yawns.

And then it happened:
My friend Amanda confessed that they had to stop by Walmart & get some diapers.  We were game, ‘cause after all, the fun was in being together, right?  And, uh...we urgently need diapers too... 

So we end up standing in the diaper aisle of Walmart, in all our date-nite perfumed & cologned & barely-fitting-denim-skirt glory, and my feet are killing me, ‘cause who goes traipsing thru Walmart in just-for-my-hubby, sexy black, sling-back-3-inch-heel-sandals?  And Kevin's hand is on my lower back as we talk about the merits of ‘Luvs’ verses ‘Parents Choice’ and how baby Nekoda has just moved up to size 3, and I look around & realize we are such parents.

And I’m okay with that. 

It’s a good life.  Even with the urgent-Walmart-diaper-run infringing on our date-nite.  I still thrill to Kevin’s touch as he surreptitiously grazes his hand across my rear at the check-out counter, and I search in my purse for any toilet paper coupons. 

I am such a Mommy.

The Core

I recently heard someone talking about a fairly new movie, where the world comes apart at the seams 'cause the core loses its ability to hold everything together.

That's how I've been feeling lately. 
Coming apart at the seams. 
Lost the ability to hold it all together.

What I didn't realize until yesterday is that the problem was my core.

Intellectually, I know that God is my core; my faith in & pursuit of Jesus Christ.  And tightly intertwined with that is my marriage.

Everything else hinges on that core.  Everything.  And in the past couple of weeks, everything was coming unhinged...

As we headed into the new, busy fall schedule, with our neatly organized juggling of chores, caring for little ones, home school lessons, and the re-introduction of special activities for the kids - I forgot to make 'the core' my priority. 

It had been days & days since I'd gone out to spend time alone with God.  I was too busy. 
It had been days & days since I'd spent any one-on-one time with Kevin.  I was too busy.

And so I had a core meltdown, and my little world started to shift & quake...volcanic eruptions of anger, floods of frustrated tears...  It was showing up everywhere: the house has been a wreck, the little ones have been fussy, bills went overdue, and I actually ended up physically ill (head cold morphed into sinus infection). 

The worst was seeing it in my oldest three kids.  Eliza, almost 11, goes into nurturing overdrive, helping with the little ones, hugging me alot, asking how to help; she feels the stress & 'over-functions' to compensate.  Autumn, 14, does the opposite; she mirrors my cranky attitude, defies my calls for help, rolls her eyes, and generally 'under-functions' in response to the family anxiety.  Caleb, 15, simply withdraws; he pulls inside himself, becoming silent & unresponsive, escaping to his room to play guitar, and quietly 'distances' from all the chaos & stress.

At first I felt so mad at Autumn, so frustrated with Caleb...and then, thankfully, God opened my eyes to the truth.  They were simply responding to the disintegration of the core.  My core.  And here's the hard truth:  as the Mommy, my core is the core for this family. 

But interestingly, it took Kevin's pushing for me to see that I had let those core priorities slip.  Which leads to the next hard truth:  my husband IS part of my core.  So dealing with my core, means dealing with my marriage, which means -
the core of this family is my core PLUS Kevin's core...
irreversibly,
intricately,
eternally,
intertwined.

The Lord is helping coagulate my core again.  Things are settling back into place.  I've taken time to just be with God, to seek His peace & love & Presence.  And Kevin pushed on some marriage issues that had been bubbling under the surface, and finally erupted from the added stress-pressure.  It's been a hard couple of days...but really good.

The frustrating thing is that I know this will come again.  Another spell of stress will bring us to another point of meltdown...and we'll all suffer.  Yet I have to believe we'll also be made stronger for it.  And maybe we learn a little more every time, get a little more core-strength.

So I'll be keeping an eye on my core:
My God.  And my Marriage.

Everything else hinges on it.

Everything.

Had any core meltdowns lately?

Counting The Cost

(Part 5 of a 5-blog series; click here for more: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4)

Today was my second attempt on the new trail.  This time I was determined to go further, explore the entire course, take it to...well, where-ever it went.

Nekoda had already nursed, he & Serene & the boys were happily hanging out with the big kids, lunch dishes were cleaned up, and I had no pressing responsibilities for the afternoon.  (did I really just type that?  wow.)  I would even have time for a peaceful shower before having my arms full of babies again.

So I headed out, invigorated, excited, jogging on the now familiar path, toward the lesser-known section.
I picked my way across the narrow-ledge, washed-out switchbacks, coming to forks in the trail where I had to randomly decide: right & up, or down & left?  After each intersection I would stop & glance back, looking briefly at the trail from that perspective, so as to know how to make my way home.  To be honest, I’m not exactly great with directions.  Okay, I’m severely directionally-challenged.  Which contributes to my fear of taking off on barely-marked trails into national forest.

I was intent on taking the trail to some ending destination, assuming it would terminate somewhere down in Woodland Park.  So at each fork in the trail I took the downward slope, feeling energized, fast, & maintaining a steady jog.  The further down I went, the broader & more obviously traversed the path became.  Before too long I began to see rooftops, glimpses of asphalt road, a neighborhood water tank...and suddenly, there was an opening in the trees, and the wide open space of a cul-de-sac.

With a wide grin of satisfaction I decided I must’ve ended up behind a neighborhood on the north side of town, not too far down from Kevin’s office.  I tried to catch my breath, stood for a bit recovering, and savored the glorious afternoon.   What a gorgeous day!  What a place to call home!  Who am I, Lord?  Look at where we live!

A quick glance at my watch told me it had taken only 15 minutes to descend this course, so after another 5 minutes or so of praying, praising & relishing the beautiful CO day, I leisurely headed back up the path. 

UP being the key word here.  Within three minutes any false pretensions I had about my fitness were laboriously quelled.  Any attempt at a jog petered out within a few strides.  It was all I could do to lumber up the steep, sandy trail at a slow hike.  I pressed my palms flat on my quads with each lift of my leg, already feeling the burn after traversing only a few hundred yards.  I had to stop & breath every few minutes, and even so, ended up with the rasping cough of lung burn by the time I got to the first of the trail intersections.  I stood there, gasping, thighs & rear & calves aching, head swimming...
which way did I come from? 
I know it should head upwards, but both ways seemed to ascend?
And had I turned left or right at that little berm? 

I think you get the picture.  The bottom line is that I gave little thought to the steep trail while embarking on my new adventure. 
My quest began with excitement & speed & joy...
but I disregarded the most important part: how to get home.

While I had taken only 15 minutes to descend the steep trail, I now had to suffer through 45 minutes of precipitous climbing to finally have our rock-lined home-trail in sight.   Gone was my peaceful margin of time for a relaxing shower before little ones would need me.  And instead of feeling invigorated by my outing, I was utterly exhausted, sore, cranky, and wheezing from the unaccounted-for overexertion. 

As I rounded the corner of our Aspen-log sandbox & headed down to the house, I realized that this little episode paralleled so many of the ventures in my life.  Heading out with a vague goal in mind, excited, invigorated, hopeful...only to realize at the halfway point that I had not counted the cost of finding my way home...
and the way home was long.
 
Longer than I expected.

So wearying that it obscured the joy of the journey. 

Oh, that I will learn!  Learn to count the cost, to figure in the steep, arduous parts of the path, on this road-less-traveled.  Have you too, found yourself out at the far end of your journey, forgetting to count the cost of your adventures?

(Part 5 of a 5-blog series; click here for more: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4)

Getting Braver

(Part 4 of a 5-blog series; click here for more: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 5)

Isn’t it funny how quickly we get used to some new path or new experience in life?  That new baby arrives & we are just giddy with excitement, carefully cradling the tiny, fragile head, delicately diapering the soft, pink bottom, and swooning over every little whimper.  Two weeks later, we’re nonchalantly slapping a diaper on his stinky butt, pulling onesies over his spituppy face, and while still swooning over his peacefully sleeping form, we’re also wishing we could flush him down the toilet when he squalls at all hours of the night.

The newness wears off.  The adrenaline rush subsides.  The once-scary process becomes second nature.

I’ve gotten used to my adventurous trail hike.  It doesn’t seem scary at all anymore.  What once felt like a long, arduous, risky path – now feels well-worn, fast & familiar, and easy to navigate.

So I ventured a new trail. 

I headed out the same old way; along the electric-line easement, left into the woods, up the ridge into national forest.  But where the path meanders thru a sunny Aspen stand & our familiar granite stone marks the left turn...I randomly decided to go straight.  I had some time; Kevin was still home with the kids, little ones were napping, Nekoda wasn’t due to nurse for another hour or so.

This trail wound down the side of Rampart Range, towards Woodland Park, and alternated between cool wooded areas & sun-streamed vistas.  The day was gorgeous, and I relished the screen-saver views & sound of high winds blowing thru the tops of pine & fir.  I realized after a few minutes that I had been this way once before with Kevin, over a year ago, not long after Serene was born, but before I was pregnant with Nekoda. 

Sections of the trail cut horizontally across the side of the wooded mountain, creating switchbacks to soften the steep grade, barely notched five or six inches wide into the crumbly decomposed-granite face.  And after a few days of intense afternoon rainstorms, these narrow paths are slippery & unstable, washed over with pine needles, pebbles, twigs.  Scary.  Risky.  Dangerous.

Okay, not really.  I’m sure Kevin would have run down them, sure-footed & swift, barely bothered by the skittering of granite rocks down the side of the mountain.  Plenty of hikers from town use this trail to head up into the national forest.  But for me, it was challenging, physically & mentally.  I slowed to a carefully hunkered-down walk, picking my way along the narrow passageway, keeping a steadying hand on the ascending face. 

For me, this was courage.  Just to continue forward, on the washed-out trail, unclear about where it was heading. 
I’m getting braver.

(Part 4 of a 5-blog series; click here for more: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 5)

Markers

(Part 3 of a 5-blog series; click here for more: part 1, part 2,  part 4, part 5)

Out walking & running again this morn, and was inexorably drawn off the main road, towards the trail that our family takes from the back of our property.  Only problem was, the prompting came when I was already out at the far end of the journey:  the peak up ahead, Rampart Range Rd under my feet, ‘the bald’ overlooking Woodland Park to my right.  I wasn’t really sure where that path was, or how to connect with it, from my current position.  To top it off, time was running short, and baby Nekoda was home with the older kids, due to nurse in another 15 or 20 minutes.

Enter fear.  But never-the-less, there was the incessant prompting to get off the easy road, fight my apprehension, and find the trail.  So I prayed, looked both ways, and ducked under the fence. 

The view up there is glorious.  The best.  Deep blue sky; that rare, azure, clarified color you only find up here above 9000 feet.  Wildflowers everywhere, washes of yellow & purple, with shocks of red sprinkled across the field.  Tall, fragrant, deep-green Pines, and cheerful Aspens, shimmering & applauding in the breeze. Towering over it all, the majestic face of Pikes Peak, still streaked with valleys of snow.

I jogged quickly across the wheat-colored field, not sure where fence lines marked private property or national forest, and headed over the swell of land until the road behind me dropped from view.  Yet I was disoriented.  My heart raced, more than just from the brief exertion, as I continued toward a line of trees, slowly descending the hill that eventually falls sharply to the edge of Woodland Park.  Where was the trail?  Where was the opening between Aspens I remembered emerging from, on hikes with Kevin & the kids?  Everything looked so different from this angle.  I stopped for a moment & strained to look back towards the dirt road:  maybe this was a bad idea, maybe I was in the wrong place altogether, maybe I should go back to the familiar, well-traveled street.

But I couldn’t shake the conviction that I was supposed to forge ahead & find my way.  I mean, its not like I was lost.  I was just...insecure.  And frustrated with my insecurity.  “Lord, help me!  This is just silly, but I can’t find the path, and I don’t know where I’m supposed to turn into the woods...and I need to get home!”

And then – there it was.  The silly, funny marker Kevin had left to show the way: an old sock, tied to a tree branch, stiff from months of weathering in the snow & rain & sunshine.  I laughed aloud then, and cried a little, and raced off down the barely-marked but somewhat-familiar trail.  All along the way were subtle signs of Kevin’s making: a tree branch here to mark an edge, a stone there to mark a turn. 

Signs of Jesus’ tender love for me, thru my pioneering husband. 
Markers that remind me of God’s call on my life,
to take the road-less-traveled with courage to overcome my fears;
and to trust, because
He has gone before me and marked the way with compassion & lovingkindness.

(Part 3 of a 5-blog series; click here for more: part 1, part 2,  part 4, part 5)

Time To Step Out

(Part 2 of a 5-blog series; click here for more: part 1, part 3, part 4, part 5)

When I shared my little revelation with Kevin this morning he was skeptical.  Not of what God spoke into my mouth, but of how I was taking it.     
“Don’t sell yourself short,” he told me. “You were walking a risky path when I met you; following your Broadway dreams, halfway across the country from home, dancing & singing at Opryland!”

Oh.  Yeah.  Another revelation moment.

I rocked the boat pretty severely within my family-of-origin, when I took off to do my own thing, to pursue the tangled trail of stage performance.  I guess that was a road-less-traveled...sure, plenty of gals dream of becoming a professional dancer & singer, but I was actually doing it.  Somehow I just never thought of it that way.

I never thought about the idea that maybe, just maybe, God calls me to the Free Agent life with as much noise as He calls Kevin. 

‘Cause this has been the pattern:  God plants this longing in us, to pursue something risky, awesome, outta-the-box.  I’m afraid, but Kevin forges ahead.  Things go badly, with boulders strewn in our path, brambles scratching our legs, raging rivers to cross....  (Just like it was in every Bible-hero story, where God calls his people to do his work, and then they encounter obstacle after obstacle, so that HE can show up & strengthen them or solve the problem, and get all the GLORY.)  And when things get tough, I’ve reacted like the Israelites in the desert, shaking my fist at the heavens, blaming Moses for my thirst & hunger & discomfort & insecurity. 

It feels good to blame someone, y’know?  To find someone to be mad at, when I’m overwhelmed with the butt-busting hard work of a life that bucks the system, when it seems the obstacles in front of us are impassable, when the bills come in but there’s not enough to pay them... 

And when you blame someone, you become blameless, and that feels good too.  “It’s not my fault.  I’m the victim here!  Poor me.”

But what if...what if I’m not the poor little victim? 

What if God calls me equally to this road-less-traveled?  What if, in fact, God placed some of these crazy longings in me?  Like the longing for lotsa children?  Like the longing to live out in the mountains & the woods, in a big, weird, straw-bale house?  Like the longing to do something really monumental, along the lines of taking our whole family to Mexico so we can help build an orphanage?

When I step back & get quiet & pray & listen, I know it’s true.  I can’t blame Kevin for this scary-entrepreneurial life anymore.  I never should have. My marriage is certainly not a mistake, and I have to trust that the Lord intended us to be together & He has a plan for me, alongside this frustratingly visionary man. 

God’s calling wasn’t just for Moses, it was also for Zipporah, and the Israelite people.  Blaming Moses was ridiculous; if I want to blame anyone, I can blame my God.  And I think that when I do, He will nudge me forward again, strengthen me, and pour out miracles of provision & paths that are all about His glory.

I don’t really understand it all yet, but I know it’s time for me to step out with courage, despite my insecurities, without blame or excuse, and pursue the path God is calling me to.

(Part 2 of a 5-blog series; click here for more: part 1, part 3, part 4, part 5)

Getting Off The Main Road

(Part 1 of a 5-blog series; click here for more: part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5)

I’ve started working out again - more than just the sporadic core-strength intervals I’ve done in the past weeks.  I’m four & a half months postpartum after our 7^th baby, and so it’s a minor triumph that I’ve finally laced up my old running shoes & hit the road.  I doubt that my body parts will ever fully recover from being pregnant with, giving birth to, & nursing our 7 children...but I’m trying.  And to be honest, the half hour of walking & brief attempts at running is more about talking with God than getting my body back anyway.

It’s mid-June in the Rockies, so the weather is perfect: sunny, breezy, azure blue skies, and a crisp 65-75 degrees that beckons everyone outdoors.  Feels like everyone in the state is heading to the National Forest behind our property.  The brown road that leads away from our small rural subdivision is fairly smooth & well-traveled at this time of year, but not paved, and I quickly grew weary of breathing in the road dust kicked up by the SUV’s & trailers, trucks & motor homes.  I trudged on, knowing that the spectacular view just around the bend would be my reward.

I like to think that I meet God out there, that I hear His voice in the wind blowing across the open fields, breathe in His glory ricocheting between the majestic face of Pikes Peak & the faraway symmetrical beauty of the Collegiates.  But today I was irritated by the interruption of summertime travelers and vacationers, on Rampart Range Road.

I headed back, thinking I might turn off at the old forest-service road that leads to a path toward the back of our property.  But as always, apprehensive thoughts filled my mind:  what if I encountered that brown bear we’d seen hanging around, what if I turned my bad ankle on the rough trail, what if I didn’t recognize my way...?  Another truck roared past me, the boat trailer behind it leaving a wake of sand & dust for me to choke on.  That did it.

Finally off the sandy road, I found that my footing seemed a bit more secure, the canopy of Pines & Aspens provided a welcome relief from the intense high-altitude sun.  Yellow & purple wildflowers were everywhere, brushing my legs, mingled with the high, green & brown grass.  The rich, extravagant smell of hot pine needles filled my soul.  I picked my way over the rough trail & started talking with God.  No, I didn’t hear His audible voice, but it’s just this sorta out-loud prayer thing I do, where I’m praying to Him...but also trying to open my soul & mind to His leading & speaking, so that the words He wants me to hear will come from Him, outta my mouth.  Does that make sense?  Maybe not so much...

But anyway, I was kinda talking with God, and praying for His guidance, presence, that sort of thing.  Prayed that Jesus would be so present in our home, in my marriage.  Prayed that Jesus would give me courage to take this rough path, to help me navigate the way home, despite my insecurity & apprehension.  And then I felt like He started kinda talking back to me - y’know, through my own praying.

And I felt like He put these praying words in my mouth:  “Lord, help me to have the courage to get off the busy road, to leave the common way, to dare a journey that so few traverse; give me strength & perseverance to take this rougher path, this road-less-traveled.”  And then the real revelation came: “Jesus, help me to take this trail, ...that...Kevin...already...forged...”  Oh.

I am pulled toward the uncommon path, but I’m afraid.  It seems...I don’t know...dangerous, risky, rough, dirty.  The road is just – easier.  Easier to navigate.  Easier to find my way; the way everyone else is going, the way that some government highway department created.  But the road-less-traveled is so intriguing, so inspiring, so worshipful, so risky.  And my husband went ahead for me, and forged a path.  He has led our family, many a time, up the hill to the National Forest, thru the wooded valley, out onto the spacious, open bald atop Rampart Range.  We’ve even marked spots along the trail; a boulder here to mark the left turn, a trail of rocks that margin the turnoff for our property.  And still I’ve been afraid?

And so I begin to see.  Maybe, just a bit of clarity.  That God is leading me, ever pulling me towards an uncommon path, a journey that will be rougher, riskier, scary, but resplendent with His reward.  And I don’t have to navigate it alone.  He has called my husband to go before me; he has led Kevin to forge the path, to guide the children and me, into a place of beauty & adventure & faithwalking.  On the road less traveled.

(Part 1 of a 5-blog series; click here for more: part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5)