A Worthy Life

scars of glory

She wears hers visibly, in plain view for the whole world to see. The tiny scar under her nose is her memorial, a witness to the story of her passing from death to life.

Told by those in the know that she would never survive her birth or, if she did, only as one horribly misshapen and void of even average intelligence, she defied what should have been by doing the only thing she had been created to do....live.

Today the line mars her flesh while proclaiming the beauty of her spirit and the goodness of God.

Six, almost seven years have passed since those days of God-wrestling in the waiting room of life or death. A proud mama, I continue to testify to the miracle in her while continuing to silently battle my own war within. Even while she resided inside me, siphoning from me the life she needed for her becoming, a bit of mine began to seep away. In the lonely tears and growing pains, my world began to shift from strong and healthy to weak and infirm.

I have never been the same.

The God-wrestles continue, this time in the private theatre of my soul. There are occasional days that find me weak and in pain, flat on my back but imploring face to the ground, hands to the heavens that same protaganist of Jacob of old. Prayers for healing and full deliverance, unabashed begging from one whose life exists only as a secondary character to the One whose plans and purposes construct The Eternal Story.

I continue to bear the scars of that mother/daughter journey, however invisible to the naked eye and buried deep inside. I too want life, one broader and more vibrant than this one of chronic affliction. In honest complaint I plead my case. I contend in faith, mano a mano with my God, believing, hoping that these trials can and will build my spirit stamina.

I will not waste this fight. Though trials touch my life, it will not mar the beauty of this life. Though pain and trial visit, yet will I raise my voice in telling the goodness of my God.

Whether healing or full contentment with my lot in life comes, I do not want to be found the same. I'd rather the internal scars bear some outward manifestation of this soul-beauty He is forging from the ugly fires of this life.

I'd rather be found beautiful in this waiting room of healing than sour and sullen, hiding the scars and denying HIm the glory due His name.

listening for his smile

Her question was for me, sincere and eager she pleaded while I waited for the pause. My answer in the affirmative came immediately, a full granting of her desire delivered with sweet enthusiasm.

But another voice answered, too. An antagonistic distractor from the backseat bent on malicious intent protested and denied her request, drowning out the words she had hoped to hear.

The tattles followed, fast and furious. "MOM! He said...and that I was a...and I want to...!!" and so loud was the crossfire zinging through from every corner of the van that she failed to hear my voice.

I smiled into the rear view mirror and, finding her eyes, urged her to silence. "Shh, just stop and listen, love, and you will know the truth. Stop. Don't listen to the rest, just listen to me. It is what I say that matters, it is what I answer that your life depends on."

It was a moment, brief among the others of the day, but my voice echoed the message I have sensed God wanting to speak to me as of late. I am a student by nature, always wondering, forever curious and searching out the answers to my questions and doubts and what ifs of life. So I read and I mine the minds of others that are seeking, looking for truths that lurk in the corners of gray that might shed light and certainty to my way.

The blogs and books and papers I scour all scream a million voices and choices but which is right, which is truth? And so bent have I become on absolutes that I have failed to hear the voice that really matters, the one on which all of life depends.

Looking back in my rear view at 2012, I would sometimes lose the smile of God bidding me come and learn, come and listen, come and linger. It wasn't that His smile ever went away, a scowling sovereign disappointed. It's that it faded from my view because it wasn't the object of my quest.

Knowledge became more than relationship.

I want truth and answers, I still want to know much about so many things. But not at the expense of knowing Him. 

This year my one resolution is to seek Him first. The books and opinions and teachings of others still, yes. But only after I have read His words and learned His voice and sought His smile.

Because there is always noise and distraction and enough "squirrels!" to chase down every fox and rabbit hole. But there is one voice that speaks truth every.single.time. and His is the one that I want to recognize above all the rest.

a better plan

The Plan was to write them each a letter, one at the beginning of every new year, to be compiled in a notebook exclusively theirs. Their papa and I would write them, desires and hopes and prayers and encouragements and challenges each uniquely customized for each precious child we call ours. Further, the plan was to write them sometime in the quiet and still moments of our holiday pause from school and work and commitments and obligations.

Except that pause never happened.

With emergency renos and a bout of The Mysterious Plague That Ails Me, there was only fast forwards to complete essential constructions before Christmas and crunch time pushed to full throttle in a schedule full of holiday appointments and a myriad of hosting responsibilities.

So, we failed in our execution of The Plan and, at the beginning of 2013, I went instead on my first date of the year with my eldest daughter Eliana.

She ordered a hot chocolate then a vanilla steamer then an apple fritter before contenting herself with an orange juice and coffee cake and I had what every person of discerning taste has when at a coffee shop - tea.

We settled in nicely together, tucked in the corner on a little round table with our drinks and treats and notebook between. I had a New Plan, one I secretly wondered if it wasn't all together so much better than the original. We would fill this notebook together, me and mine (and him and his), in dates shared together through the years.

Sure, there would be dreams and desires but they wouldn't be mine alone. She would speak hers, I would voice mine for her and we would scribble each in pages blotted with rings of tea and smears of sugar crumbs. There would be favorites and jokes and questions and fears and we would share them all in moments stolen from the hurry and flurry of our lives quick passing.

And this, I think, is A Better Plan - a far, far, far better plan. Because while I often imagine that I know these little ones and conjecture as to their futures and ways they might go, I am still only student, learning as they lead with their choices and interests. We, the papa and this mama, have so much we desire for them, so much we aspire to pass on to them, and yes, certainly instincts and perceptions that come through our daily observation of them.

But we, parent and child, are together yet on this journey of life for some years more and I don't want to miss a thing because I was blinded by my own vision or was marching to the beat of my personal agenda.

I want to script their lives and my role in it with goals and plans and actions we form in words spoken in the company of each other.

It wasn't The Original Plan.

But for the excuse it gives my husband and I to carve out priority of individual time with each miniature us, it is a much better plan. Maybe even The Perfect Plan.

breath of heaven

There is no more, let it snow. Snow has come.

We are home, tucked safe into beds and couches enjoying the warmth of tea and cuddles. While we await the celebration of Jesus' birth, the remembering anyway, there is contemplation. Gratitude for how much we've been given, for how far we've come, and the many, many dear friends who are witnesses to both.

This has been a good year for us. One of immense growth and healing, one of burgeoning confidence for each of the tasks before us.

Now that a stronger foundation has been laid, or merely strengthened as our Cornerstone has never faltered, we look forward to a new year, one with greater steps forward and broader leaps outside our own good fortune and blessings and on to increased pouring out and sharing of what we have been given.

In a world as cold as snow, grateful I need not walk this path alone...

Breath of heaven
Hold me together
Be forever near me
Breath of heaven
Breath of heaven
Light up my darkness
Pour over me your holiness
For you are holy.

Held together this year by God's outstreched grace, we await the new measures of grace in the coming new year.

Merry Christmas, friends.

thank you, baby jesus

These are the smiles from forever ago, from that holiday of turkey and thanks that gets us remembering about how and when it all began. The plan was for the whole family to travel back home to celebrate. I'd bring the Native Americans and my sister would bring the Pilgrims, all festively dressed for the purpose of stuffing our faces and going round the table to give thanks for what we are most grateful for to the One who has granted it all.

It's a common practice for us, this going round with prayers of thanks. But these days it's hard for me. Hard not to shrink back with embarrassment over what we attribute to God's goodness, hard to keep confessing my meager thanks when it's so much stuff and temporal rubbish.

For the new couches paid for by insurance and new running shoes, I'm grateful. For the holiday sales that will keep my kids with clothes on their backs for one more year, thank you, Jesus. For a good paying job, the cars that keep us safe on the roads, for the piano and guitar lessons, for friends, for food, for fresh laundry and warm bathtubs, I am so very thankful.

But does God really long to give me better, newer couches? Does He want to give me more when so many do with less? Is it truly in His heart to lead me to clearance racks full of name brand jeans while others call on Him wanting only their daily bread?

This week my friend stands before Vietnamese authorities to be questioned for her faith. She longs to minister to the poor and orphaned in the name of Jesus and travels hours by moped to bring food to the most impoverished. She sleeps on the floor and eats watery soup and prays for strength and joy for this life of sacrifice and suffering. If anyone needed a couch or even two, maybe this one, Lord?

I'm reading of dozens of young girls in Asia exploited for their beauty and sold for a day's wages, sometimes by their own family. They long for warmth, for love, and for salvation while losing their youth and dignity to the beasts that would devour their spirits. If ever there was one in need of provision and safety, would they not qualify first?

I admit my angst to my husband. I struggle as I articulate my heart, careful not to slander the faith or the Person on which it all is founded on. If this list of wants and needs is being checked off by the very hand of God, where is the jolly benefactor with loaded sack of peace and joy for the rest of the world?

If Jesus, this newborn gift of love and eternal deliverance, isn't the problem then it must be us. We who have become so easily contented with comforts have been lulled into believing that our God's greatest desire for us is to prosper. We who would squander our privilege to pound on heaven's gates revel instead before minor pleasures while our sisters and brothers live with major need.

A heart of thanks, this is my prayer. But a heart that wisely discerns that what I have chosen to give myself comes at the cost of sharing it with another.

Yes, Lord, for the house and car and clothes and food that comes through your provision, thank you. But may my appetite for more and bigger and better never be excused as having been your gifts to me. Rather, may my gratitude be the overflow of contentment and my heart one that turns prayers of thanks into prayers for direction on how I may best give of the overflow of all you have entrusted.

As the world pauses to remember heaven's King, may my celebration be in the gifts and offerings I bring.

new becomes old becomes new becomes

Our back living room is currently cordoned off from the kitchen and the rest of the house by a thick industrial plastic and emptied for the the removal of its ceiling. As I read quickly through our history lesson from our front row seats at the kitchen table to the deconstruction happening around us, my voice began to echo through the barrenness that the couches and picture frames and toys and tv had left.

I was reminded of our first tour through this new house in 2006, those first steps bouncing off freshly painted walls and shining hardwood. We had just delivered baby #4 to a hospital in the east end where she would live out the first couple months of her life in the NICU. With an expanding family and my husband needing a home office because of a recent providential job change, our tiny townhouse needed an upgrade.

This new house was 2200 square feet, a mini-mansion in our eyes, and boasted multiple living spaces, hence the necessary previous distinction for the back living room. We debated with the builder about the possibility of rebuilding an existing wall farther into our massive master bedroom to allow for more space in the one beside, never imagining for a minute that our needs would demand the expanse of this new and improved master suite. Our ensuite could be bedroom #5 and our walk-in closet was ample space for the nursery, these were the jests of our first impressions. This dream house was bigger and better than any childhood home my husband or I had ever lived in.

Yet, in the years since, our circle of friends has expanded to couples who live in houses double or triple the size of ours. One lives on an estate with multiple homes on the property with an indoor pool, outdoor tennis courts, and a workshop larger than our townhome. 'Our new home' has become 'this old house' and the empty spaces have been filled with life and stuff with a daily battle over which will conquer more.

Over the years, what once was excess and wide open spaces has dwarfed to average and our gratitude with it.

The new couches that arrived on move-in day are now scratched and rather conspicuously mended with duct tape and recently soaked with the overflow of the ensuite toilet, thus the renovations happening now behind me. Their absence from our daily perspective is what first awakened in me this new one, this thought of how quickly we forget the wealth so easily recognized when first presented.

My sweet Jesus, the one so dearly loved and fully believed on as a child, was once my everything. Through hard days and sparse provisions and impossible requests, He was my only, more than enough. These days though, I've much more than Jesus. Provision and companionship, distraction and opportunity have now decked the halls of my merry life and Jesus gets a reserved spot of an allotted recess in this life of excess.

My desire for Him has now dwindled to the space and time and attention I daily allow Him.

How quickly I have forgotten all that He is to me, how easily I have abandoned Him when He is not all I have.

This old house, this freshly renewed vision of God's provision, has become full, sometimes too full of what I want over what I need. As the new ceilings go up and fresh paint once again adorns these walls, new habits, new choices, new priorities must be the makeovers of my life that allows my spirit to breathe anew the openness of soul baring before my God.

He may not be all I have but I want to live again as though He were, remembering daily that all the rest - this house, this life - are from His hand. And so may these halls and walls always remind me...

weekend worthy

One week from today I'll be driving south with my kids, going home to celebrate how much we have to be thankful for. I'm stitching up some costumes so that we can represent the Native American among a family full of Pilgrims at a reenactment of the first Thanksgiving. I don't know if I'm more excited about the resulting photoshoot or just being with family. For the sake of my mother who reads this, I'm going to say family. :)

The Silver Pages: A new EP of classic hymns with a modern spin is getting some play on my computer these days. This collection is a collaboration between brothers and former members of Remedy Drive and it's a treat to continue to watch their journey continue as their passion for music spills over.

The Skinny of the Jeans: So funny, I really did laugh out loud! For anyone who's ever tried to pour themselves into skinny jeans, or attempted to force their body into any fad-ish mold of the moment, this post will assure you that you are not alone. I actually love, love, love skinny jeans and wear them all the time but almost all of them have a high percentage of spandex!

"Take a deep breath before you put on skinny jeans, because the oxygen in your lungs will have to last you eight hours or until you can get back home and change into your yoga pants.

Fasting is not just for the spiritual.  It is for women who pour themselves into their pants."

Lisa Leonard's Gold Line: I've bought a handful of her customizable necklaces as gifts but never really saw anything that popped out at me that I'd want to buy for me. Until now. Lisa just introduced her new gold line and I'm smitten! This would make an excellent birthday gift for later on in the month, just in case anyone is looking to buy (hint, hint...mom, sisters, please?!). Plus, keep your eye out for an upcoming reality series with Lisa and her family, such an inspiration!

Kids at Home and Play: This series of kids at play in their most natural habitat, home, makes me want to look for more creative ways to capture my kids' passions and creativity while at play. This week, my youngest transformed a cardboard box into a change room, race car, giant book, and slippy slide. Wishing now my camera had been charged in order to freeze those moments.

Duck Dynasty: Oh my goodness! If you're looking for a fun, family friendly show, this is the one for you. This family of rednecks whose family business selling duck calls has made them millions richer will keep you smiling through one crazy antic after another. Even after watching an entire season, I have no desire to hunt beaver or eat possum but each episode is well crafted and full of ridiculous one liners from one loopy family member or another. Dad, wait until I get there before watching...I want to be there when you start your uncontrollable girlish giggles!

embracing bangs

I got bangs.

And a stealthy photo bomber.

You know which one I'm most excited about?

Yep, that little guy in the background with his toothless grin and contagious joy.

A stranger at the gym noticed that I had changed up my do and said I looked like a teenager.

Alright, ok, I'll take it! But my secret?

That little man and the three little women he calls sisters.

Keeping up with them, learning alongside them, and laughing our way through the good days and the not so good days, that's what keeps me rising each morning like a kid on Christmas Day. Wondering, what's in store for us today? What new thing will be discovered, what new gift will I unwrap today?

With Emily.

beautiful people

Selena stood Sunday on a stage in front of thousands. She patiently listened to her introduction, demure in her waiting. Black hair, dark eyes downcast. She wasn't there for her glory - she went for His.

My daughter often gets told she looks like Selena. Selena Gomez. The tween tv actress, teen apparel capitalist, and emerging movie/music star has similar dark brown hair, wide brown eyes, and pint sized figure. She performs before thousands, is seen on the big and small screen by millions, and isn't known to shun the spotlight. My daughter hates the comparison, partially because she deplores any association with tween fads and probably because she wishes she was more known for being her than being someone else's look-alike.

But if I had to choose, and I hope if my daughter were given the choice, the first Selena I mentioned is the one I'd prefer she emulate.

This Selena is an older woman, not much in her beauty or her composure to garner attention. She appears meek and quiet, speaking only to tell God's story at work through her hands and feet going where very few have gone before. Her life and journey remains largely unnoticed as she spends these few weeks in Canada before returning to the years already invested in Cambodia. There she runs three different programs for the disadvantaged and disregarded, the headquarters of her work the same as where she lays her head for the night.

Her moments on stage were brief. There were many in the audience who probably have already forgotten her only two days since. But this woman, this is the role model I want my girls to watch and to imitate. Hers is the kind of story I want them to write with their life choices.

It might not require of them a going, it might not require huge sacrifice and harsh environments.

But it will require that they exercise a voice for grace and truth. It will require the courage to stand before others, perhaps one on one or to a clamoring crowd, and sing of the glories of their God and King.

Such a life pays little dividends in the here and now. But such a life will be rewarded with beauty -"How beautiful are the feet of those who bring the good news!"

And it will resound with the triumphant cheers of heaven's hosts welcoming the lost that they helped to lead to the eternal home of Him who loves them so.

As my girls walk the paths God lays before each of them, I pray that they will dare to be those Selenas whose beauty only continues to emerge through the long years as, by their example, they lead many souls to glory.

embracing junie b. jones

This is our afternoon spot, warming hearts and toes while reading by the fire. She is a voracious reader, I am the voracious mother - each excelling when we engage our full selves in the labor before us.

Junie B. Jones could be her twin, the winsome quick wit and sly manuevering to satisfy their childish curiosity are inbred characteristics in each.

I love Barbara Parks' ability to speak like a child while relating to children, all the while amusing the parent who sees the truth behind the silliness and the innocent immaturity that come so naturally to our sons and daughers.

We laugh. She peeks up at me to see if I caught the humor, if I rememered when she's done the same. I file this moment away, the moment of shared connection and I'm grateful for the bond that ties - words on a page compiled into stories.

And I dash quickly upstairs to record my own, words that memorialize a moment. These words from these days, the story of this wonderful life.

With Emily, again. :)