A Worthy Life

mr. valentine

Mr. Valentine, mine:

Every year I fail at sending out the family Christmas card. I thought this less stressful holiday might be a bit more apropos for sending howdy-do and how-are-you notes to our friends. So I started my love letters weeks early; I didn't want my words rushed or my gesture a mere hasty afterthought.

(You know how I pity those husbands rushing through the grocery checkout line with a fist full of roses and a box of chocolates shoved securely under pit, scribbling obligatory words on papers bent up on dusty dashboards.)

I secretly hoarded gifts for the kids weeks ago and conspired successfully to finish all my festive preparation while their fingers danced along the ivories and skipped among the wires during music lessons. When they came home to merry surprises and sang their thanks through squeals and giggles, I knew they knew they are loved.

When you came home, I was cycling downstairs in your office. You were the second one to interrupt my workout, after our offspring who came to proudly display your tokens of affection to them wrapped in silver paper.

In your arms were a dozen roses and, ever the practical man, a new tee for me to christen with tomorrow's sweat and tears.

In return, I sighed a mandatory thanks though it was obvious I was anything but grateful.

It isn't you babe, it's me.

It's just that I love this holiday for it's darling ideals of love and friendship and long to celebrate it at this it's shallow intent. Bring on the chocolates and heart shaped sound bites, all hail to hugs and honorary loves!

But I hate it too, hate that it has concocted contrived obligation from what should be spontaneous, frequent celebration of who we are, of who we know each other to be.

You know now that I hate roses, this a few dozen of dozens of bouquets later. (Sorry, roses. It's me, not you.) And yet, roses, red ones, is what you my love gave to me. It didn't matter to me that they weren't the cheap grocery store variety, what mattered was that you still didn't know something about me that I felt you should.

You scrambled to make right what had somehow gone so wrong. You promised that you would get me something else, something more, something, anything that could convince me of your love.

I said I already knew and hoped you knew that I knew that you loved me.

We don't need this day of roses and red, don't need the notes of love written on a deadline. What I need, what I want from you I get every single day.

You give yourself to me, your time, your devotion. You build me up, make me believe my wild dreams are possible, that together there is nothing we can't do. You work for me, you pray for me, you stand with me. You serve me, sacrifice for me. Your look alone, it whispers things I never would have believed before I met you.

All I want is more of the same. More years, not a day. Years to continue this conversation of hearts, this sharing of ourselves, this sharpening of each as we brush against the other.

Now do you understand? It wasn't you, wasn't even so much the roses. It wasn't that your gift, your sincere desire to make my day special wasn't enough. It's just that at that moment on that day it seemed compulsory, the required enactment of billboard propaganda.

This love, our love, cannot be contained in heart shaped sound bites, "a minimum of sound to a maximum of sense." I want no minimum, no annual deposit. I want the maximum, a daily profusion of our commitment in word and deed.

Last night you whispered in the dark, wondering what my favorite color was. My favorite number. So many of the things of which you realize that even in a decade of sharing we have never plumbed the depths of.

I'm excited to tell you, longing to know yours.

In the meantime, all I ask of you is patience. While we continue to discover and reveal this lover beside us, let us celebrate where we are today and continue to share our hopes of who we long to be one day together.

Though not finished nor delivered yesterday, this is my letter of love from this mutinous heart to yours, hopefully at just the right time.

xo, d

Adding mine to other marriage letters here, too.

answered prayers

There were over 600 of them, names of people that never got their miracles. Waiting for what for many has been a lifetime, the names and maladies of these desperate 600 had been gathered from across Togo by missional seekers offering the gift of hope.

In villages and streets, their stories were given and in return, a possibility of healing and new life.

Many of their fellow countrymen had done the same and, when they were summoned, soon found a temporary home aboard a giant life preserver floating in Togo's coastal port. The staff, all volunteers, of Mercy Ships had been able to restore health, reverse death sentences, and rekindle hope for hundreds of such patients.

But these 600 had not been helped. These were ones whose conditions were too serious or not serious enough, ones who missed their appointed time for treatment, or ones who simply could not be re-found before Mercy's mission had come to an end.

One nurse Ali was not ok with that. She wasn't ok with a gesture of hope but no final culmination of their deepest hopes. So she sent out a petition, recruiting other volunteers into the ministry of mercy; this mission being eternal, one without an expiry date.

She asked for warriors of prayer to lift each name up to the Great Physician, the one who knows their name and their need. Of the 600 names, almost half of them were matched with intercessors. I asked for and received 20 names of children, the first four perfectly matched in age to my own four.

The slip of paper with these names became my nightly prayer roster. Before bed and in bed when counting sheep seemed silly were there were souls to name.

Last week Ali wrote with an update while the ship was once again docked in Togo. It had been five months since her call for aid and that day they were admitting twenty of the 600 who were still waiting. I emailed her then to find out if, by supernatural happenstance, one of those patients might have been one of my 20.

If for just one my prayers were heard, I would have my faith strengthened.

If for just one their miracle had come, I would be reminded that God hears my cry.

If for just one new life was theirs, I would know that last August my own life mattered.

She responded to say that not one, not two, but TEN of the twenty patients they saw last week were from the list I had wept and prayed over!

"WHAT ARE THE CHANCES?!", to quote Ali.

What indeed are the odds that my God would care so much for little ol' privileged, safe, healthy, affluent me that He would send this clanging confirmation that even in a world of need and hurt, He sees ME, He hears ME??

The chances, as it turns out, are pretty good that God does not forget those the world has forgotten. It's pretty good odds that He is still in the business of answering prayers and delivering on miracles.

All we have to do is ask.

p.s. One more answered prayer, Ali is expecting her first baby in August! Would you go and leave a word of congratulations for Ali and, for me, a request that Canada be the first place baby visits after the hospital and grandma's house? :)

supernatural wife

I'm a natural mother, or so people say.

Loving my kids, sacrificing for my kids, serving my kids isn't something I have to will myself to do; it's something that to me seems as effortless as breathing and as rewarding as any other calling.

I do it because it's what comes easy, naturally. I do it because being Mama has always been highest of my heart's ambitions.

By contradiction, marriage is about as natural to me as being one half of a Siamese twin; I don't naturally operate well with some another head directing the same parts of a life shared.

While girlfriends in my youth sighed dreamily about Prince Charming and hoped his arrival might happen any day, I yearned for independence, a life free from yo-yo emotions and a steady resolution towards my plans and my dreams. One day I would settle down, perhaps, but the future held too much to risk sharing it while holding hands.

Ironically, I married before most of my friends. I married while quite young to a man I loved, one who shared so many of my same desires and vision. The pastor who married us counseled my husband, "This one (meaning me, who was sitting right in front of him, privy to this entire conversation!) is very independent (I could almost see the italicization of very in his breath!). This is a good trait though (obviously!), one that when directed well will prove your full confidence."

You can imagine my delight in his use of the word directed.

I didn't want to be directed or steered or led. I wanted to share a life with my husband and friend while staying true to me, not having to divorce myself from everything I was so that I could be everything someone else thought I should be.

I thought words like submission and meekness meant I was to surrender every aspect of the person God had started an eternal work in years before. I thought I had to swallow all of me so I could morph into him.

I understood serving as it applied to my children but when compared to my husband all I heard was servitude.

I understood sacrifice as it applied to my children but when compared to my husband all I heard was inequality.

I understood love as it it applied to my children but when compared to my husband, he spelled it r-e-s-p-e-c-t.

Thankfully, my confusion (and bitterness) was short lived when this pastor's wife shared with me a glorious picture of what my role really entailed and the value I had the potential to bring to my union.

The example was taken from scripture, a conversation between Jonathan and the man who walked into battle beside him carrying for him his armor.

"So his armor-bearer said to him, “Do all that is in your heart. Go then; here I am with you, according to your heart.” (1 Samuel 14:7)

Here I am with you, according to your heart.

I had fallen in love with my husband because of his heart, because of his heart for me and for the life we envisioned together. Trust me, our minds might (and do) not always agree but because I was and am so convinced that his heart holds only the highest desire for me and for our God, my willingness to be his helper grows, my eagerness to support him is authentic because his successes become our triumphs.

Because his heart is for me, I have tremendous sway over the direction his heart chooses to go. And as I respect him, he has full confidence that what my heart desires is locked on the same eternal purpose as his. Sometimes I challenge his heart, sometimes he questions mine; it's a leadership of love, submission by trust.

Even as great as it sounds, rarely does it all come naturally to me (I wasn't born a Siamese twin, after all).

That's why I'm eternally grateful that God's directives for wives never come without the certainty of supernatural aid. Sure, I may never quite perfect being Super Wife but I'll happily settle for Supernatural Wife any day.

 

salvageable faith

A faith in flux. The dark night of the soul. Wrestling...

These are the descriptions of Christians, true believers, who for a period of time, however brief or lengthy, have found themselves questioning the foundation of their faith.

Perhaps this uncertainty comes because of unimaginable tragedy that visited when they had somehow thought their God would shield them from any and all suffering. Perhaps because of popular secular opinion and theories that shatter their already weak convictions.

Perhaps because of an unsettled discomfort that maybe all this is little more than a ruse, a cleverly devised fable that caught fire but is now nothing more than smoldering ash. Perhaps the darkness descends when reality hits after the mountaintop encounter and doubt encroaches where vibrant faith dulls to a flicker.

Perhaps a shaken soul comes with as little as silence from an absentee God, a life void of all the emotion and experience others said were sure to follow a life given over to God. Perhaps it visits when others tell you to divorce your mind from your heart.

Perhaps it pounces with the aggression of legalistic zealots whose desire to purify often comes with pain and punishment. Perhaps it slips in between the sheets of cooling lovers who wonder at the mystery of marriage and how something of God's design could be so difficult, the solutions so muddled in love and respect.

The whys and hows of it's coming are varied; the souls and minds wherein it settles range from the simple to the intellect, the long-time saint to the newly converted sinner.

For some time now, I have found myself possessing a different mindset, one visited by dark nights of the soul and foggy days of wrestling with unresolved questions; this new one far removed from the simple, unquestioning faith of my youth.

Then, I was willing to accept everything I was told and taught, assuming that what I read or had read to me straight from God's word must be digested and absorbed without argument and without dissent.

Now, I am growing more and more willing to be the one asking the questions, moving away from being the one who had to have all the answers.

Questions like mine, confessions like ours are unsettling to so many. Fearful of rocking the boat, of challenging authority, and apprehensive about a faith teetering on the edge, other believers are quick with their cliches, hasty to offer a scriptural band-aid to a heart bleeding on the inside.

Last year my only resolution was to avoid religious extremes, groups and affiliations and trends within the Christian community that take a harsh stand on what we must do or else pay the price.

When my local Christian homeschool community published articles stating homeschooling was God's direct command to parents, I opted out of my paid subscription and occasional article submission. Instead I chose to integrate into the broader homeschooling community, most of which are not religious, and have had my faith strengthened as I reached beyond my self-centered and self-serving insulated world into a deeper, solidified conviction of who I know God to be.

When others around me talked apocalyptic bunkers and self-preservation for the end of the world, I knew that this wasn't what God's word taught. Even had I believed myself to be living through such times, I knew the only appropriate action would be increased missional living so that the truth of Jesus Christ might be known to more and more as we near the brink of eternity.

This year my resolution, keep wrestling.

Though I've seen my faith bruised, "no faith is as solid as a wounded faith" (E. Wiesel).

Though I've seen my faith highjacked by public figures whose lives are but a play of hypocrisy or whose words devalue and debase the truths I hold dear, I cling to the example of One who would address their Pharisaical ways and show Truth more by what is lived than by what is said.

Though I've heard and read words that oversimplify the cost to following Jesus and over-commit on the personal prosperity to be gained, I am persuaded that it is less about me and more about Him and His eternal kingdom.

Though I still question and struggle, I now understand that "if only the will to walk is really there He (God) is pleased even with their stumbles" (C.S. Lewis).

I.will.wrestle, like Jacob of old, refusing to resign myself to a faithless existence, believing though God may be absent He is not non-existent, and drawing still close to Him and His word that I may continue to salvage truth from fiction, light from darkness, and action from apathy.

My faith remains, rooted in the historical validity of scripture, in the proclamation of His glory as seen through creation, and because of this little light of mine that sometimes smolders and sometimes shines deep, deep down in my heart.

avoiding proverbs 31 in my new year's resolutions

I think that the Proverbs 31 Woman gets too much publicity.

Judging from the sheer abundance of bloggers that have either named their sites some derivative of her description from scripture or boast posts on how you too can be such a woman, I'm probably outnumbered a bazillion to one on this one. It's not that I think this chapter doesn't have merit, it does; it's just that I think we infringe on dangerous territory when we resolve to be everything that we read there.

This past month I've read dozens of blog posts by women who appear to do it all, often because of their self-appointed commission to become like the elusive Proverbs 31 Woman. Juggling mom duties and marital responsibilities, community outreach and hospitable invites, these women have their hands full and overflowing as they walk in simple daily faith with their Lord.

Yet even within these God-given and Jesus-led missions, they confess that they feel or fear a sense of failure or insufficient obedience because they have yet to take a shower and clothe themselves in fine purple linen or select which wool and flax will work best with the pinterest bible verse project they've been hoping to finish for their home.

In a manner of speaking, of course.

Having been inundated with the effervescent characteristics of the noble wife, they wonder to themselves what is remotely noble about bringing in your food from the nearby Costco or duct taping the recent rip in the store bought (read: not handmade) snow pants for the snowflakes that never seem to fall on their friends in Southern California.

Speaking, this time, in first person.

So absorbed with this specific descriptive, well-meaning women devote their lives to checking off each item as if on a spiritual to-do list: provided food for my family (here's to hoping it includes those female servants someday!), check; worked with eager hands (though I'm still working on waking in the middle of the night to run the dishwasher), check; went to three grocery stores far and away from my house (bringing food in from afar), check; made something and sold it (using the kids' lemonade stand as my front still counts, right?), check....

Not that there is anything wrong with any of these, by the way.

It's just that in our singular pursuit of becoming like one woman (who, by the way, probably wasn't even real; doesn't anyone read vs. 10: who can find her??), I wonder if we haven't set ourselves up for a Don Quixote-esque quest of a life God never called us to live. What was meant as a noble description is now used as religious conscription into a lifetime list of tasks to prove my wifely nobility.

Or worse, we use characteristics found there as justification for our own ambition or desires that weakens our impact in our own homes. While admitting life on the home front is frazzled and chaotic, I've heard women continue to insist that they too have a right to or must now secure additional vocations because, after all, good ol' Proverbs 31 Woman brought in her own income. I've heard women defend full shopping bags from the mall by insisting that every noble woman wears luxury designer fashion. There are even blogs that equate the effort to looking pretty on the outside to being spiritually beautiful on the inside and twisting verses to insist that a godly woman is one who looks good.

Please understand, I'm not calling for the resurrection of the 1940s housewife, perpetually barefoot and pregnant and forever ignoring the gifts and callings God may have endowed to you. I'm just testing the waters outside of the poetic world of Proverbs and smelling the burnt coffee in my very real world of La Mancha, questioning my own faithfulness in callings that matter most to my Father and my willingness to let go of those that only threaten to deplete and redirect my energies from where they are most necessary. I'm challenging too the trend to prove our spirituality by works rather than by an authentic heart that only God can see.

I wonder if, beneath the looming shadow of our erected Proverbs 31 homage, we're also losing the significance of so many other women whose lives and histories dot the 1,188 other chapters in the Bible.

Women like Ruth, whose main honorable virtue was remaining loyal to her mother-in-law and picking through leftovers for their daily food, who God chose as the great-....great-grandmother of Jesus. Or further back, Rahab whose notorious profession really had her working it, and yet it was her unabashed, simple faith that earned her too a vein in Jesus' family tree.

I wonder if Jesus' own mother concerned herself more with what she was wearing on any given day or what at-home business she should start than continuing to ponder in her heart the things God had promised.

Perhaps I should be more mindful in my daily reflection of examples such as Martha's sister Mary who left her work to soak up more precious moments with her Lord and Master or Hannah whose heart's only cry was for a child to raise, whose heart recognized the value in raising little ones to dedicate to the service of her God.

In my reading of His word, might I seek His calling and purpose for me, not striving to perfect one that others may find commendable but may for me be complete rebellion against what God is asking of me.

Were I yet eager for another prototype of biblical womanhood, Titus 2 depicts one complete with a checklist of her own. And between you and me, if I was in the proverbial playground with Proverbs 31 Woman and Titus 2 Lady as captains picking for the Modern Maiden playoffs, I'd be all, "Yo, Titus 2 Lady! Pick me, pick me, pu-lease pick me!"

And then all I'd have to do to be an all-star was avoid gossip, stay out of alcoholics anonymous, love on my husband and my kids, keep a good house and be a good wife - a heck of a lot more achievable credentials than what those on the other lady's team got's to do!

This year, I can fill my days with tasks leaving me with a feeling of accomplishment and purpose. Or, I can purpose to concern myself more with the matters of my heart, trusting that a heart for Jesus will overflow in a life that reflects His greater purposes for my life and the lives of others.

Your thoughts?

roar

The pain comes roaring in without warning, my body and emotions are swept up in it's powerful blast. The exhaustion, it comes too, a deep growling as if the beast of affliction were not yet content.

It comes frequent enough, sometimes in spurts, sometimes it lingers as if hopeful to make more than an acquaintance.

It is still my enemy.

Unwilling to fully succumb to what is my cup to bear, I drink bitterly of what I must, eager so soon to indulge in a diet of my own choosing.

I sometimes wonder, why me, for what greater purpose, where is my help coming from?

Until yesterday when I wondered aloud, "Perhaps it's because He loves me THIS much."

Perhaps the giant roar of interruption to my best laid plans, my pursuits for here and now and then and there someday eternally, is a gift. A gift of slower days, less energy to do so that I can be still and know.

What if, for little ol' me, He intervenes to draw me nearer? What if these days of tasks undone and friends unmet and services unrendered are for me?

What if the lion's beastly roar is for me, to allow me to lie down and draw soul comfort from the Lamb?

What if He loves me that much? Enough to pull me from a Martha's fury of activity to evoke a Mary's heart of seeking at the feet of the Savior.

What once to me was a dreaded foe is now an unlikely ally, working in me something deeper and purer and heaven sent than all my grandest desires and noblest pursuits could ever accomplish here on this terrestrial ball.

Because He loves me so...

It's Five Minute Fridays, a welcome break from vacation mode for me to write.

the power of a middle name

 

Would you have read Anne of Green Gables if the author was just plain old Lucy Montgomery instead of the illustrious and noble sounding Lucy Maud Montgomery? I didn't think so.

Or what would have become of J. Edgar Hoover? I doubt he'd have amounted to much of anything with a common moniker like J. Hoover. I mean, J. Hoover could have been any one of hundreds of boys and girls with that last name and certainly not a someone who gets a movie named after himself.

C.S. Lewis. Can you imagine him as C. Lewis? See Lewis what? See Lewis run, see Lewis eat, see Lewis hop, skip, and jump? A favorite among theologians, apologists, and the rest of us who just like him because he writes so dang well, C. Lewis would have been a terrible way to preface such fantastical adventures as those in The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe and certainly not a name academics would have taken very seriously when debating against his sharp wit and energetic mind. Clive Staples Lewis on the other hand? Adds another layer of intrigue and mystery I'd say and yes mothers, it is now officially cool to name your child after common office supplies.

Joy.

That's hers, that bundle of smiles and giggles up above.

While her first name Emmanuelle means "God is with us" (something she's oft reminded of during the holiday season), it is her middle name and her boisterous manifestation of it that confirms to us that often unseen Presence.

Had we only the promise of God's presence but none of the manifestation, it would be far too easy to abandon the truth for a weightier experience.

Far better that He has guaranteed the promise with tangible joy, peace, hope, love, and security than to only speak of it from the distance as an absentee father.

Today I am holding on to many precious promises, His deposit in a heart so easily anxious and insecure. Yet the whispers of fulfillment both from Christmases past and present reassure me that I am not banking on an overdrawn account; His word is as good as gold, His life laid down the eternal security.

While we remember His promise each time we see or hear our sweet Emmanuelle, we dance in the expression of joy that His promises give.

This holiday season, as we celebrate the birth of Jesus, we remember that this common Judean name means "Yahweh delivers, Yahweh rescues", a token of the promise that God has delivered and God does rescue and God will deliver and rescue all who call on His name.

But we call Him also Jesus Christ, the distinction in the middle name meaning "anointed one, the Messiah". He was not just Jesus, a lowly Jewish boy. He was Jesus Christ, the one chosen by His Father to deliver and rescue His people from their sins.

As you sing "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" this Christmas, remember that God is with us, always present in the midst of our every circumstance, always the beneficiary of all our provisions. And as you sing "What Child is This?" may you pause as you consider that "This, this is Christ the King" and celebrate with "Joy, joy for Christ is born"!

 

the quiet before the storm

We said our teary goodbyes this morning to family visiting from the states during the Thanksgiving holidays. Today we're easing back into the familiar after enjoying the familial, a contented respite after the joyous revelry. After celebrating a holiday and birthday with gathered friends from far and near, I sense new comfort in where God has brought me in the journey this year.

In friendships and a new church family, restful contentment instead of soulful frustration. In a stronger body and better health, a continued dependency on Him as I draw daily on His provision. In marriage, a stronger union and united focus towards serving each other and serving others together. In duties and dreams, a clearer vision and renewed courage to offer all that I am for His glory, for His kingdom.

Finding myself in a better place, a lighter place, a stronger place, I find myself yet restless, not wanting to sit too long on restful laurels. As a friend recently reminded me with the words of Peter Parker's surrogate father, "With great power comes great responsibility."

With all the greats that I have been granted, from wealth to health, from passion to compassion, it's hard to ignore the whisper that challenges my heart on to greater responsibility, greater giving, greater serving. Waiting with open hands and bated breath, I wonder what will be asked of me.

My heart has ideas and suggested seasons of it's own. Serving my single mother neighbor over the Christmas holiday? Volunteering my time at church? Branching out to new relationships via photography? Writing to encourage others? Adopting a child domestically? Working with immigrants alone and lonely in a new world?

Or will it be in a heart's abandon, ready and willing for whatever He brings? A storm or light showers? A burden or a blessing? A place of prominence or a private purpose? For what will minister God's love to others or for what will draw my love deeper in with God?

The ordinary moments of my ordinary days stretch on, rising with the Son and holding desperately onto Him until the day has accomplished what it will. I'm learning to soak up each day, each duty as something longed for and eagerly accepted. The gravity of each gifted minute hanging in the balance as I consider sufficient grace was given for now, for this moment.

Perhaps even now, these moments, these days as quiet preparation before the coming storm of His blessing or His proving, His calling or His sending.

However so, here I am Lord.

In the drenching, wash away what will burn away. In the sending, emptying what cannot be eternally stored. In the calling, whispering truth that will supplant the shallow.

In You, may I be found.

these thoughts are mine, on preparing my heart for tomorrow, for the holidays, for eternity. you can read others' here...

oaths and commitments

I'm (finally) applying for the kids' US citizenship and last week headed to the US Embassy to turn in paperwork. The last step was raising my right hand and swearing that the information given was true, to the best of my knowledge. (Trust me, birthdates of your children are hard to get wrong...those are usually also marked on the calendar as Honey, What Have You Done?! and The Day the Pain Never Stopped!!, not generally events one forgets easily.) The kids were amazed by the formal oath and couldn't stop asking questions about it for days. A few days before they had also been witnesses at a wedding of a dear friend of ours, hearing again spoken words of a promise.

One was an oath before a government official, one with authority to grant you citizenship and equal authority to deny or revoke it.

Weighty stuff, that.

The other was before friends, family, and God. The friends and family, by their presence, offered support and accountability to a couple about to embark on a most challenging and delightful journey.

Lovers put ink to paper, signing their lives to each other. Yet the same government authorities who require this have also made provisions for the quitting of such vows. Crazy stuff, that.

But their oath? Their oath was one committed together before God, an authority whose power reaches across country divides and whose justice reigns over His child and enemy alike. Their union invited Him into theirs, committing their lives together for a lifetime, joined for His glory and His directing. A loving authority, One that would prove faithful in His provision and strength, each necessary for the calling laid before them. One whose Word would provide instruction, a manual of how to live and love and respect and serve as one, as citizens of His kingdom.

This wedding reminded me of my own a decade ago. Their words convicting me of the very same I had spoken to a man I loved. Words that are more than poetic rhythms, more than official jargon, those words are a committment. A vow to love and cherish and protect the bond between, lest anything should sever.

One marriage under God, indivisible, together laboring for His purposes in this nation and across the globe...

Weighty stuff, that.

Stuff I'd raise, and give, my right arm to protect.

(Or both, if your presence on the dance floor demands it! :)

summertime and the livin' is easy

Summer is officially over, aka the season of exploration and randomness. Now that it's over, the mostly stress-free days are traded in for regimented schedules and structure, start times and strictly enforced pick-up times.

Fall was a bit delayed for us here, due to tardy mail packages bearing our school curriculum for the year. But no tears were shed, instead we've spent the last two weeks enjoying an extended break while feeling a wee bit guilty as the yellow school buses drove right on by.

I'm using the iPhone more and more to capture moments together. It's less bulky, incredibly handy, and is a great resource for finding the closest restaurant when we weary of gallivanting. I finally imported the pictures and each is a reminder of what I so want life to be: golden sunsets, lazy afternoons, joyful soundtracks, easy relationship, rockin' with my hands in the air, and nonstop smiles.

And yet, the reality of reality sets in and the rain trickles in with rainbows tucked between bursts of showers. Smiles come but so do the tears, the inevitable when life is hard and suffering visits. Success but only after much hard work, efforts paid for in sweat and prayers. The heaviness of life that should harden into muscle but sometimes only leaves blisters.

I suppose the cooler winds have brought a new season in my life, one of bare-boned honesty, with myself and others. I know that I so want to grow more, stretch further, gaze wider and I know that open authenticity often works the best and fastest. Paired with honest communication, controlling my would-be screams to so-controlled tones, perhaps we'll finally be getting somewhere.

You're welcome to come along for the ride, the oft bumpy but so blessed life we are all travelers on. With my anchor firm in a Savior who goes before, I'm excited about the lessons and levity to be gained as I learn to cast aside the burdens of this life that would weigh me down and trade them in for the yoke that would gain me a crown.