The Perfect Gift

It's the most wonderful time of the year! The holiday season is in full swing everywhere you go. Twinkling lights grace the lamp posts in our quaint little snow-covered town. Wreaths with bright red bows adorn the doors of the shops. And who can ignore the gazillion commercials on TV, reminding us of everything we DON'T have but absolutely MUST have by December 25th? Rudolph and Frosty are the two most frequently watched shows in our house right now. At least 20 strands of lights are plugged into the electrical sockets of our house. The tree in our front yard serves as a beacon of light to every traveller making their way down our street. I'm sure Santa will thank us later for marking his landing strip so nicely.

And then, there is Tikki Tikki. Tikki Tikki joined our family last year when he first appeared the night of Thanksgiving. He is our stealth little elf, always moving about the house at night and surprising us the next morning with a new spot to observe our naughty and nice behavior. I have to hand it to him - Tikki Tikki knows how to dismantle an argument between Jack and Gabe without ever speaking a word or moving a muscle. His presence alone will cause the boys to "politely" remind each other that Santa will know about this particular sparring match, and the boys will promptly calm down and continue playing cordially. I really need to take lessons from this little elf. Jack reminds Tikki Tikki (who reports to Santa every night) that he wants a remote control El Chupacabra and a grain cart for his tractors. When Gabe is asked what present he wants for Christmas, his reply is, "A green one." Hopefully Tikki Tikki will find out what that means soon.

I can still reach back in my mind and just barely recall what that felt like... to believe. The magic of Christmas was such a powerful notion in my gentle childish heart. I remember staying awake as long as I possibly could on Christmas Eve, longing to hear sleigh bells in the sky.

Hope in something I couldn't see... faith that it would come like it did every year. Christmas.

When Eric and I were first married, we loved surprising each other with over the top gifts for Christmas... It was a competition. Now, if I am being honest, I typically beat Eric at, well, most things. Scrabble, P90X Ab Ripper, and the majority of our arguments are just a few examples. (He accepts this very well - or maybe he just lets me win - a good husband indeed.)  But never have I EVER beat him at Christmas. This man of mine knows how to shop - and does it very well. After the year I opened a new charm for my Pandora bracelet, a designer leather purse and a new kitchen aid mixer (which he informed me he had purchased at Kohl's without a coupon and I nearly had a heart attack), among other gifts, I had to beg him to tone it down the following year or else we'd need to take out a second mortgage. Luckily, the following Christmas we had a new little life to pour all of our love into, and our focus shifted from ourselves to our baby boy.

I absolutely love playing the role of Santa. Nothing brings me greater joy than to see my boys' faces light up with excitement and wonder. When they run into the family room to see cookie crumbs on Santa's plate and presents under the tree, their brilliant smiles and giggles bring tears of joy to my eyes. The magic of Christmas is affirmed every December 25th when dreams and wishes come true in the little hearts of those who believed. However, two years ago, after the presents had been opened and we had sung Happy Birthday to Jesus and blew out the candles on His cake, something didn't feel right.

A stirring began in my heart last year. Something was changing. When Eric asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I didn't have a reply. I couldn't come up with a list. There just wasn't anything I really wanted... or needed. I believe God started working in both Eric's and my heart at the same time. On a much needed date night, we sat and chatted over a delicious dinner about how blessed we were and both felt like we needed to shift our focus on what the holidays meant for us. We decided that we would choose to forgo our traditional gift-giving with each other and concentrate instead on giving to others in need. God prompted us to ignite a new ministry at our church, where a church family could adopt a local family in need and bless them with a Christmas dinner and gifts for the children. As Eric, Jack, Gabe and I walked down the aisles of the grocery store last year, the only items in our cart meant for another family, I was finally able to identify the growing discomfort in my heart.

Every year on Christmas I open presents on someone else's birthday. I tried imagining showing up to my own birthday party thrown by my friends and family where everyone was exchanging gifts with each other - but nobody had gotten ME anything! I am human, which means I am selfish. I admit it. As a tired, stay at home mom I can honestly say that when it's my birthday, I would prefer the day to be mostly about me. I mean, hey, it only happens once a year, right?

Last year Eric and I had followed God's calling to serve others, and it taught us in a mighty way that it is better to give than receive. But it wasn't until this holiday season that I fully understood why. I want desperately to give a gift to Jesus. A real, tangible birthday gift perfectly fit for a King. God revealed to me how to do so as He recently breathed new life in some Scripture I had read many times before.

           "When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his throne in heavenly glory. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep and the goats. He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.
           "Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.'
           "Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord,when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and cloth you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go visit you?"
           "The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me."    Matthew 25:31-40 (NIV)

I am certain that God is watching over us with great pleasure as we experience the joy of gift-giving on Christmas morning with our dearest family and friends. God is not human, which means He is NOT selfish in nature, and actually delights in watching others be generous and thoughtful with each other on the day we celebrate the birth of the most perfect and gracious gift ever given - His only Son, Jesus. But this Scripture brought me full circle. We are capable of bearing gifts to our King. He is not intangible. He is not unreachable.

Every time we donate a canned good to the local food pantry we aren't just feeding a hungry mouth. We are feeding Jesus. When we stuff a shoebox full of toys and socks and candy and crayons and send it to the other side of the world for children in third world countries to enjoy - we are blessing Jesus as well. When we go caroling in the nursing homes, spreading Christmas cheer, we are in fact singing for Jesus. When we wrap up toys and donate them to our local fire departments and hospitals, we aren't just giving hope to little hearts in despair, but we are clothing Jesus in thoughtful love. When we open up our homes to those who are lonely, forgotten about, (and what about the man that is always standing on the side of the road with the "will work for food" sign?)... we are inviting Jesus into the very heart of our home.

One of my all-time favorite Christmas songs is Sandi Patty's "The Gift Goes On." The song illuminates this never ending gift the Father has bestowed upon us. Essentially, in our desire to serve Jesus by feeding the hungry, visiting the sick, clothing the poor... we aren't just serving him, but rather being Jesus to a broken and hurting world. We are extending our gratitude towards our Father in heaven as we extend Jesus to those we encounter. What an amazing God we serve that works in such a glorious way.

Making Christmas an outward display of love (rather than inward and only blessing those in my close circles) is where the real magic of Christmas will reveal itself. People will start to believe again... having a hope in someone they can't see, and a faith in someone that will always come - every year, every month, every day, every moment our world seems to be falling apart, every time we are sad and weary, burdened... and overjoyed. Jesus. The most perfect gift.

Blaze of Glory

Autumn. It is by far my most favorite season of the year. The highly anticipated festival of colors is finally on display. A tall, sprawling maple with candy-apple red colored leaves overshadows our driveway and garage. The leaves are like broken pieces of stain glass as they flutter to the ground, creating moving patterns of red and burnt orange on the front of our house. The drive through town is so beautiful and pleasant. Fall themed decorations flood the quaint little storefront windows. A rainbow of warm colored leaves blows across the street, swirling around the lamp posts. A huge tree with blazing topaz leaves hovers over a picnic table, creating a dappled golden glaze on the top of the table and surrounding sidewalk. When a cool wind blows through, it appears as if handfuls of fire are cascading to the ground, while the leaves on the ground stir and swirl up to meet the leaves ablaze midair. The crunching of the leaves under my feet remind me of my childhood when my three younger brothers and I would wrestle in the piles of leaves around our house. My own boys had fun playing in the leaves the other day... embracing the changing of the seasons, one armful at a time.

To me, leaves have the most beautifully dramatic death. They are crisp and green throughout the summer, fresh in scent and full of life. When it comes time for them to die, however, they turn a most magnificent color - it is like a final adieu (perhaps to their own version of the von Trapp's "So Long, Farewell"). They announce to the world - "It is time for me to die." And then they float and fall with a gentle grace, landing in a pile of spectacular color splashed across the ground.

It is this time of year that we grab our cameras and take our family pictures that will be plastered on our Christmas cards. You just can't beat the beauty of this season, that happens the same time, every year. I savor the fiery warmth from the trees and cling to it... knowing that a blanket of white is soon to come.

And just like nature's steady seasons, coming and going in a consistent and predictable pattern... I have seasons of my own. I have my seasons where I am growing, learning new things, thriving in opportunity... my springs. Then there are my seasons where I am reaping a harvest of abundant blessings, blooming friendships, successful moments where life seems bright and full of beauty... my summers.

And then, there are my seasons where I begin to feel the tug. God wants me to change. Something needs to happen in order for me to draw close to Him again. He reminds me directly in Luke 9:23, "Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me." The Greek word for deny in this case is aparneomai, which means "to affirm that one has no connection with a person." As I picture the beautiful crimson and gold leaves pulling away - disconnecting themselves from the trees this time of year and gracefully floating to the ground, I realize that fall is the season in my own life that I dread. It is not natural for a human being to deny themselves. When I sense God calling me to make a change in my life - whether it is walking away from a relationship, changing my attitude towards someone, or the ultimate biggie - laying down an idol, some sort of internal balance is thrown off kilter and whether I like it or not, I am thrust into an intense season of "fall" where I am clinging to the things I'd rather not deny myself from.

But, lucky for me (and you) we serve a God whose mercies are new every morning. Denying ourselves isn't a one time only deal. He instructs us to deny ourselves and take up our crosses DAILY. I find this so comforting. Every day I have a chance to turn to him first, and deny myself. Every day can be a step towards Him, allowing the Refiner to refine me. And when I finally choose to submit to Him, winter comes.

          "Come now, let us settle the matter," says the Lord. "Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool." ~ Isaiah 1:18

And just like that - my sin, idols and everything else that I needlessly cling to - flutter like crimson stained leaves to the ground. Pure, white snow from the heavens falls upon me, cleansing and washing me... my winters. A crystalline blanket covers the ground and the bare trees, encapsulating everything it touches - nothing can escape its touch. And with this cleansing love comes a time of pruning. Dead branches that no longer bear fruit are broken off of the tree, allowing the other branches to grow taller and stronger... when spring comes.

Whenever I think of the cycle of the seasons, I always picture spring as the kick off. Something is born, it grows, it fades, it dies. Spring, summer, fall, winter. I have come to realize that this just can't be possible. In order for ANY life to exist - death must come first. Jesus' blood flowing down the rugged, wooden cross will forever be remembered as we gaze upon our fiery red oak trees in the fall. His blood cleanses us - over and over and over again. As winter comes and settles in around us like a sparkling blanket of diamonds, we are made new. Safe in the perfect love of our Heavenly Father, we are given a second, a third, a fiftieth, a five hundredth chance to start over again. And as He prepares our hearts for His good and perfect will to be lived out through us, He waters us with melting snow, blows a cool spring wind, and allows us to bud. Growing and stretching towards Him, we continue to grow and thrive, blooming and bearing fruit, giving praise to His name. Until another season comes along where He requires a change within us... and His redeeming love is ever present again.

          They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor. ~ Isaiah 61:3

What a beautiful picture of God's love for us, displayed season after season, year after year. His blood shed for us, covering our branches, flowing to the ground. Cleansed from our roots to the tips of our branches by His forgiveness and love. Encouraged with warm sun to help us grow. Blessed with abundant life. We are oaks of righteousness, displaying the Lord's glory and splendor, with each passing season.

 

Broken, Fragrant and Beautiful

It is a sight to behold when 3,500 mothers of preschoolers from around the globe gather in one room. Feather boas draped around necks, tall leather boots adorning the lightest feet, contagious boisterous laughter echoing off the walls, hugs galore, happy tears, chatty mouths with grins stretching ear to ear. Why? Freedom. Freedom from wiping snotty noses. Freedom from eating cold meals at odd times of the day. Freedom from interruptions. Freedom to speak in complete sentences. Freedom to pursue intimacy with friends. Freedom to focus, or refocus rather, on the One who often is neglected as a result of our daily demands of motherhood. Freedom to be a woman, in all of her essence, as she was created to be.

I had the privilege and blessing of being able to attend a MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) convention this past weekend in Kansas City, Missouri. It is always so good for my soul to be able to step away from my hectic life and have an opportunity to miss my family. And I did miss my men - all three of them - in the worst way. Just knowing that I am almost 500 miles away from my most precious loves makes my heart ache. But I needed this four day moment to refresh my perspective on mothering, engage in sessions meant to equip me as a ministry leader, and most importantly, reconnect with my God who hadn't been receiving much attention from me lately.

Being a mom is hard. Motherhood is physically and emotionally exhausting. It requires a full time commitment to placing the needs of my children above my own. I fight - hard - for my children's well being and security in all situations. I stay up all night with my sick children, comforting them, singing lullabies to calm their weary souls. But all those things I gladly do, with little degree of difficulty. It is in my blood. I am a mother - a warrior woman who will happily jump on top of a grenade if it means shielding my precious children from a blast. Those choices are not hard to make. At all.

What makes motherhood so hard are the lies I tell myself. I am not good enough. My children will grow up hating me because I screamed at them for ripping pages out of their bedtime stories. When I give my kids pop tarts I am doing them an injustice and they will most likely develop a rare form of cancer and it will be all my fault. I am too overprotective. I am not protective enough. Despite my professional grade camera, and the fact that I take a zillion pictures of my beautiful children every day, I have never paid for professional pictures to be taken of my kids and that is just not fair to them. I don't entertain my kids every minute of the day and if I stay at home with them this shouldn't be a problem. Because I stay at home my four year old should already be able to read and write, tie his shoes, ride a bike... I just don't do enough. These lies have been added to my very being, like sandbags tied around my waist, weighing me down, turning every moment - every decision I make as a mother - into a resonating question in my mind - "Is what I am doing good enough?"

As I sat in my chair this weekend, listening to amazing Godly women pour out their hearts in pure unadulterated honesty and vulnerability, I began to witness a beautiful, colorful thread weaving its way through the stories of these women. Real women. World renown Christian and inspirational speakers with published books, highly successful Bible studies, blogs, and thriving BLESSED ministries. Sharing stories of their brokenness. Weaknesses. Mistakes. Shortcomings. And it hit me - THIS is what unites us women together - our brokenness. Our weaknesses. Our mistakes. Our shortcomings. When the stone walls that protect our pulsing, vulnerable hearts come crashing down and we are left exposed like Achilles' heel - this is when our true essence is able to emerge.

         essence (n) - 1. fundamental nature or quality. 2. a substance distilled or extracted from another substance and having the special qualities of the original substance. 3. PERFUME.

This word... essence... has been on my mind lately. I am currently leading a Bible study with my fellow MOPS moms, and the question we have been asking throughout this study is "Do I have beauty to unveil? If I do, how do I unveil it?" How do we strip off the sandbags that weigh us down, the added baggage that pollutes our fundamental nature - our very essence? This past weekend I believe I got a glimpse of the answer. Mark 14:1-9 and John 12:1-8 reveal Mary's heart, a woman who poured an entire bottle of expensive perfume (worth a year's wages) over the feet of Jesus and wiped his feet with her hair. First of all, Mary did this publicly, and was criticized for it. She didn't care. She pushed any insecurities she may have had aside, knelt before her King and poured perfume over his feet. But I don't believe it was just perfume that she gifted Jesus with - it was her very essence - her vulnerability, her devotion to her purpose, her pure love for her King, that she poured over him.

I love how God has the ability to speak through Scripture that I have read so many times, and breath new life in it over and over again. In thinking about my essence - which by definition could also be my "perfume," I recalled a verse in Psalm that I used to sing back in college worship services. Psalm 141:2 (KJV) says, "Let my prayer be set forth before thee as incense; and the lifting up of my hands as the evening sacrifice." The Hebrew word for incense in this verse is qetoreth, which can also be translated in the Bible as perfume.

I need to interject here that I LOVE pulling out my Strong's Concordance and uncovering the deeper meanings of the words used in our common Biblical translations. I have Beth Moore to thank for this (who, by the way I had the IMMENSE pleasure of meeting at this conference... if I lived in the 60's the Beatles would have had nothing on her.)

So we have this image of a wonderfully fragrant perfume being poured over Jesus. Could this be the ultimate picture of what it looks like to unveil our beauty - to reveal our very essence? May my prayers be sweet smelling incense... may my heart pay no attention to the criticism that resounds around me AND in me of myself... may I willingly and generously pour out my own fragrant perfume that is uniquely found in my soul alone over the King that longs to be covered with it.

I have spoken with so many women who long for transparency in their relationships. We CRAVE intimacy with other women. We have been made in the image of Christ, and this desire for authentic, transparent relationships stems from that likeness we share with him. Revealing our true selves - broken and choosing to recognize the beauty in that brokenness - will not only help us engage in deeper, meaningful relationships with other women, but also draw us into Jesus' arms, who is so jealous FOR us... how can we not feel beautiful in His presence?

My mind has been reeling ever since I got home from Kansas City... questions rolling through my mind of how I can improve my ministry, what I can write about that can even somewhat capture my experience... so much that I forgot to bring my 3 year old to preschool this morning. I think on most mornings I would have beaten myself up over this. But this morning, as we finished a late breakfast while all three of us got dressed - in less than 3 minutes - to get Gabe to school an hour late, I was thankful for the relief of the pressure to be a perfect mother. It's in my imperfection that my children will learn how to trust in their God. It's through my mistakes that my children will learn how forgiving their Heavenly Father is. They will learn that it is ok to be imperfect, broken and have moments of weakness because there is a God who can refine, fix and make strong absolutely EVERYTHING.

Being a mother is hard work. But being a mother who finds freedom in surrendering her heart to her King makes being a mother a whole lot easier.

View From the Top

My happy place. Encompassed by towering pines and golden aspens, bathed by a brilliantly warm sun, while breathing the pure, crisp and cool air - standing in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. Enjoying some much needed time alone as husband and wife, Eric and I ventured into the heart of the Colorado mountains, seeking nothing but adventure. We had no schedule, no reservations of any sort, and for the first time in a long time, time was on our side. Visiting an area we once called home, Eric and I trampled our old stomping grounds, and explored a few new places as well - one of which was Steamboat Springs.

An old friend's wedding brought us back out to the mountains that I love. A beautiful ceremony in the middle of an aspen grove, the sound of the trembling aspen leaves whispering in the background of two people professing their love to one another - a perfect reminder of what Eric and I were seeking last weekend as we embarked on this trip - a rekindling of our love, in a place marked by beauty and memories.

One of our favorite things to do while traversing through the mountains is just to drive - with nowhere in mind, no destination foreseen. Eric enjoys searching for beautiful homes. They inspire him, giving him ideas on how to plan for building our own future home. I, on the other hand, tend to keep my eyes peeled for state parks and roadside stops with trails that venture into the unknown. During one of these drives, where Eric was admiring the timber frame mountain homes and I was appreciating the beauty of the fall colors splashed across the towering slopes, the road dead ended at a hiking trail - Fish Creek Falls. It was a no-brainer for me to get out of the car. Any trail with "falls" in the title has me - hook, line and sinker. We had a few water bottles and some trail mix that we threw into a back pack, and we were on our way.

It was a quick 1/4 mile jaunt to the first waterfall. As we descended into the valley, the growing sound of the waterfall served as our guide. A bubbling creek with swirling eddies behind every protruding rock bordered our path on the right, and a sharp upward slope of pines sprinkled with fresh snow on our left kept us on course. A wooden bridge led us across the stream, with a picturesque view of the cascading falls before us. I could almost taste the clean mountain water in the air as the water rolled and turned over the smooth, interrupting rocks. The sound of the falls echoed in the canyon, creating a steady roar that vibrated in my chest. The waterfall stood at 283 feet. A mighty beauty to behold.

Fish Creek Falls

 

 

 

As we crossed the bridge, we overheard a couple of hikers talking about another waterfall 2.5 miles up into the mountains. Another no-brainer. We began the trek that led us out of the canyon, up the side of a mountain, through forests of pines and aspens, and along snowy and slushy trails. Eric and I have been on quite a few hikes throughout the Rocky Mountain range, and this was by far one of the most breathtakingly beautiful trails.

 

The bright warm sun broke through the stretching trees creating freckles of moving light on the forest floor. Emerald green moss blanketed the rocks, the powdery snow clinging to the soft sponges. The sound of the falls became a distant hum as we climbed further up the mountain. Cold drops of melting snow kissed our foreheads as we walked under the canopy of pine trees. The earthy scents of the various pine trees all intermingled into a fresh spicy scent that left me longing for Christmas time. The sun shown through clusters of bright red berries encapsulated by snow, which gave the appearance of jewels embedded in crushed diamonds.

 

Every turn, every step we took, lended itself to a more beautiful view. A grove of tall, stretching aspens greeted us as we neared the 2 mile mark. The quaking, delicate round leaves were the only proof that there was any wind at all. The honeyed leaves were ethereal - adorning the trees like a net of golden flecks. I could sit and listen to their hushed melody all day long. The smooth white bark reflected the sun's rays, illuminating the path that meandered through the forest.

 

Aspen leaves

 

Soon after the forest of aspens, we encountered some rocky and slippery terrain which the melting snow had turned into a trickling stream bed. Clusters of wild sage grew in the clefts of the rocks. We followed the rock path higher and higher until the sound of rushing water alerted us to the second waterfall nearby. The view at the top is always worth it. No matter the obstacles - the sludge covered trails, the thinning air, the slippery rocks - the view is always worth the work. Always.

  

 

As I looked out past where we had come from, I could see for miles and miles. The valley walls opened up to sweeping slopes that rolled on and on. The shifting clouds gave the illusion that the hills were moving and breathing. Something is awakened in me when I stand in the heart of the mountains - like a dream that becomes reality or a wish being fulfilled. The untouched beauty of the mountains, so majestic in nature, invites my heart to sing. As an artist, every view inspired me to want to paint. And as my mind narrated my journey through the mountains, and my eyes took snapshots of breathtaking views, and my nose captured scents that Yankee Candle could never match, and my ears were fancied by the sounds of nature's heartbeat, and my lungs breathed the cleanest and purest air - I thought about how much God must be delighting in me, delighting in His creation. I wonder if He just took His fingers, as He was Creating, and ran them along the earth... molding it like clay... his finger tips forming valleys, the mountains building up in between. The wilderness, in all of its glory and splendor, invites us to be still before its Creator - the beauty around us nothing but a dazzling display of God's love for us and a desire to reveal a bit of Himself to us - a mere glimpse of His glory and splendor.

 

 

 

A Mother's Tears

It was November 17, 2008. The number 17 was a lucky number in my family, full of significance - having claimed birthdays, anniversaries, and soccer and basketball jerseys. I was still a week from my due date, but I just KNEW Jack would make his first official appearance on the 17th. Sure enough, my contractions began that evening and my precious first born son was born 28 hours later. The first time I held him in my arms, I felt so blessed, so thankful, so overjoyed, so tired. But it wasn't until I was being wheeled into my recovery room, baby boy wrapped in blue nestled in my arms, onlookers in the hallway peeking into his blanket as they passed us by, that I shed my first tears as a mother. They were proud tears. Jack hadn't done anything but look at me - and I was so so proud of him.

I am a sap. (Thanks, Mom, for that trait.) I still can't get through the beginning or end of Finding Nemo without bawling my eyes out. Folgers commercials have a way of tugging at my heartstrings - and I don't even like coffee!!! When I was pregnant, Wheel of Fortune even had a way of opening the flood gates. It's ridiculous, people. I would like to interject here that I am an emotionally stable person, however, I am extremely empathetic - which is a blessing and a curse all at the same time. If I ever thought I was sappy before I had kids, however, I had no clue what I was talking about.

If I bottled all of my tears over the past five years of being a mother, I'd have enough salt water stored up to fill an Olympic size pool. Thankfully, tears stem from lots of different places, and many of these tears have been shed in pure joy. Jack and Gabe's first laughs... and their first steps. The first time each of my boys said "I wuv you, Mommy." My boys' budding sense of humor, each with their own ability to make me laugh until I cry. And then, when one of my boys crawls into my lap at the end of a hard day, just to snuggle. Tears of joy.

Then there are the moments I waited for... watching my children explore new things, knowing the joy and thrill each new discovery would bring. The initial run - no sprint - from our beach house to the brink of the vast ocean, and the first seconds of the waves washing over tiny toes that just can't decide where to dig into first, the water or the wet sand. The moment the castle at the Magic Kingdom came into view, as we meandered through a crowd of eager onlookers... the heavy feeling of anticipation lifted, tears of excitement overflowing.

Sometimes God uses my kids in mighty ways to minister to me. When Gabe (age 2) remembers to extend his hands at the dinner table, reminding us to bless our food. When Jack remembers to pray at bedtime for a family member or a friend who is sick or hurting. When I see my tenderhearted boys reach out to a friend in need on the playground, or approach someone who appears to be sad and alone, and big smiles replace sullen faces. These tears are filled with blessing... they are a gift.

There are also tears shed in pain, fear and anxiety (and there are oh so many of those.) When my 3 month old Gabriel was fitted for his shaping helmet, his tiny little head wrapped tightly in a mold while I held his squirming body and listened to his cries. The night I carried my 4 year old into the ER at midnight because he woke up unable to breath. Losing a child in the middle of the largest theme park in the country (the longest six minutes EVER). Every day of the journey of Jack's testing for autism. And just last week, I sat in the lobby, waiting to hear the screams of my child echo through the dentist's office as his cavities were filled. Tears of fear and anxiety are the worst.

However, through all of this, my tears were never shed alone. When I was filled with awe and wonder over the little miracle I was holding in my arms for the first time, God was there too, admiring the sweet boy He knit together in my womb (Ps. 139:13). As I enjoy the special moments with my children as they experience something new for the first time, God is there too, bearing fruit in my life that stems from the Spirit (Gal. 5:22). As I sit back and observe my children and their tenderness towards others, God is there too, reminding me that "whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven" (Mt 18:4). And when I sow tears in fear and anxiety, God is there too, telling me AND my child not to fear, for He is with us, He has called us by name, and we belong to Him (Isa. 43:1).

As a mother, it is hard to turn off the fear and worry. I am so thankful for a God who doesn't need my strength to carry on - He goes about His work, supplying what I need when I need it. I wonder what He saw as He looked down on me in the waiting room at the dentist's office last week. A mother, wrought with anxiety, feeling like she was going to puke at the thought of her child never speaking to her again after such a traumatic experience of having his teeth drilled... But, at the same time, He was also looking down over my Jack, who was as happy as a clam in the dentist's chair, the only issue he was facing was whether he was going to have time to play with the pet chinchilla when he was done. I had prayed for peace for Jack - so had many others - but I had forgotten to pray for myself. When the dentist's assistant came out and told me that Jack was doing great, I started crying anyways (the flood gates were already open, I was just waiting for the cue) but instead of tears of sadness for my boy, God blessed both Jack and I in that moment - giving Jack peace, and his momma relief. I am so blessed to know that my tears are never shed alone - in joy and in sorrow, in pain and in fear - God is with me, catching each tear as it falls into His hand.

Psalm 126:5-6 tells us, "Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. He who goes out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with him." God planted these children, like seeds, in my life... and I am watering these precious seeds with my tears. Every moment, whether a joyous one or a hardship, brings about the opportunity to love my children and teach them about their Heavenly Father who loves them even more.

When I was pregnant with Jack Ryan, I studied the Psalms of Ascent in a Bible Study. I came across Psalm 127, and it became my prayer for all of my future children. "Sons are a heritage from the Lord, children a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one's youth" (v.3-4). I decided I would raise my children to be arrows in the hands of the Lord... mighty warriors for Him. Arrows need sharpening. My tears are just one example of what that sharpening looks like. Some teaching moments are more difficult than others. Some moments leave me feeling hurt. Other moments are harder on my boys. But God is our Healer, and he reminds us in Psalm 126 that as we continue to sow these seeds, we will return with songs of joy and a bountiful harvest.

The name of my second son, Gabriel Arrow, is a steady reminder of the commitment I made to God to raise my children in a manner which will strengthen them to be leaders among their peers... strong mighty men ready for the Lord's work. Every day is a new page in my story, full of life lessons, joys and hardships. But God has reminded me that its not just my story that I'm responsible for. As Jack and Gabe's mother, I am instrumental in helping them write their own stories - every step of the way, by caring for and watering my precious seeds... with tears and all.

 

The Story Before Your Story

Part of my childhood consisted of my parents, my three younger brothers and myself piling into our wood paneled minivan, driving all over the East Coast to visit our relatives. My dad's mom and grandmother lived in Long Island (pronounced Lawn G-I-land - in case you didn't know), so at least once a year we would make the six hour trek to visit my grandma and great-grandma. I have memories of helping my grandma make cole slaw (hers was THE best), in her small little kitchen. I recall seeing my great-grandmothers teeth soaking in a cup in the bathroom we shared. I'm pretty sure I tried them out. I don't have many recollections of my great-grandmother, as she passed away when I was twelve. But I do remember this.

She would always sit in an arm chair in the living room at the front of the ranch style house. The chair set back in a corner, away from traffic. Away from noisy great-grand kids. But, I was a young little dreamer who loved to walk around the house, belting out Debbie Gibson tunes. I mean, I just knew I would be singing back up for her someday. And as I would sing, pirouetting past her like a clunky snowflake, she would frown at me and yell, pointing her finger at me, in Russian. She was the tiniest little Russian woman I have ever seen, but man that lady was INTIMIDATING. I grew fearful of her, always bringing my melodies down to a whisper when I would pass her by, avoiding eye contact at all costs. And then once, after avoiding eye contact with her for years, I decided to look at her. I don't know what possessed me. But I am so glad I did.

I had been singing and floating about, and she gave me the biggest smile! Her soft, wrinkled face gave way to a huge toothy grin, pushing her deep, weathered eyes into tiny little slits. She slowly rose from her chair, the smile still remaining, and grabbed my hands and began to dance with me. "Oy yoy yoy!" she sang and twirled me about. I'm not sure I breathed during this entire encounter. After a quick little dance, she sat back down, stern look back in place, and I quickly sauntered out of the room.

Something prompted this memory to emerge in me the other day, and it got me thinking about legacies. What has been passed down to me over the years? What do I hope to leave for my children? When I am long gone, singing much better than Debbie Gibson with a choir of angels in Heaven, what will be remembered about me? I am so thankful for the fun memory I have with my great-grandma. But that is the only memory I have of her. I never knew her. I never knew her heart, her fears, what her life was like, why she was the way she was. This thought really bothered me this morning. What was her legacy? Surely there is something important I should know about this woman that greatly impacts my story. I wanted to know more. So I picked up the phone.

My children have been cursed with My Mom Is On The Phone So We Need To Be Very Needy And Loud And Fight ALOT Syndrome. This is why I never pick up the phone and call people. EVER. So I did what any good mom would do - gave my kids a bag of popcorn, popped in a Caillou DVD and locked myself in my bedroom. And I called my grandma. We had a lovely conversation. I asked her questions about Great-Grandma and her upbringing, and about her own childhood and how she met my Poppy (who passed away when I was three.) I learned alot today.

My great-grandma, Elizabeth, immigrated from Poland when she was of high school age. She came to the States alone. She had two parents and a brother and sister that she left behind... and she NEVER saw them again. My grandma's reason for why Elizabeth left her family behind was because she wanted a better life. Poland was under the ruling of the czar, and Elizabeth dreamt of a new life. My grandma told me that she knew nothing about her mother's life before coming to the States. Elizabeth never talked about her childhood. According to my grandma, her mother's story began when she arrived at Ellis Island. After getting settled into a community in New Haven, CT, Elizabeth met my great-grandfather, a Russian man who immigrated about the same time she did. They were married, moved to Philly (where my grandma was born), and then ended up in Brooklyn.

My grandma grew up in an ethnic neighborhood. Her parents formed a club with other Russian families in the community. She met my grandfather through this club. They were childhood friends who grew up together and eventually married. My grandma said most of the girls and guys in this club paired up and married later in life, which included her sister as well. As I continued to listen to my grandma tell her story, I was amazed at how much I felt I had missed out on, simply not knowing my family history... my roots.

You see, my story didn't begin the day I was born. The legacy I leave behind doesn't just encompass what I have done during my little blip of a life that's marked on a massive timeline that begins with Creation. My story began with Creation. All the days ordained for me were written in His book before one of them came to be (Ps. 139:16).

Ruth the Moabitess. A woman who so very long ago was called out of her homeland to follow her grieving mother in law to an unknown future in a new and unfamiliar place. Ruth left what she knew behind, and trusted in God's promise of provision.

My great-grandma Elizabeth. A young teenager who dreamt of a better life. She had no small amount of courage as she waved good bye to her family, most likely knowing that she'd never see them again. All for the sake of an improved life - and having no idea what would be awaiting her.

Then there is me. I didn't move to another country (though I do have to admit, leaving city life and moving to farm life was a huge life-altering event), but I did leave what was familiar behind. I said goodbye to a life I felt entitled to. Simply submitting to God's calling in my life to become a farmer's wife, I ventured into the unknown.

The stories of our history - of those in God's Word, and those of our ancestors - season our own stories with hope, encouragement, and expectation. Ruth's story gave me the courage to follow the Lord's calling in my life to become a farmer's wife. Ruth's story became a part of my story. My great-grandma had to have had a crazy amount of courage and strength in order to make the choice to leave Poland. Had she never set foot on that rocky boat that carried her across the ocean, I wouldn't... be. Part of the legacy I inherited from my great-grandma is her inspiring story to dream big and DO IT. I can't imagine what it was like for her to experience a wedding, childbirth, and all of life's blessed moments without her mother, sister, father or brother. But the benefit of what she expected far outweighed anything else.

Our stories were prepared by those before us, and our own legacies influence the stories of those who follow us. Part of what I can leave to my children is the knowledge of where they come from... where I come from. And it matters. Another word for legacy is inheritance. In Matthew 25:34, Jesus says, "Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world." Knowing God's Word - stories that were breathed by the Creator of all things, the Master Author of the Book - is a vital part of the legacy I can leave to my children. Claiming the inheritance that the King of Kings left for my children, is their birth right - and it is up to me to make sure the legacy I leave points to that inheritance.

When I look back on Ruth and Elizabeth's stories, I see how our faithful God blessed their courage. Our history reveals Our God in mighty and powerful ways that we can share with those that we encounter. I never would have guessed that the old lady with the steely eyes and furrowed brow who always sat in the corner, would be someone I would someday come to respect... and relate to. I wish I could talk to her now and ask her about the trip from Poland to the US. I want to know what her childhood was like... what was she feeling when she stepped on foreign soil, so young and alone? My unanswered questions leave me with my next thought.

It is imperative to share our stories. Our testimony of God's greatness in our lives is the greatest legacy we can leave our children. Seeing growth and change span across generations is a marvel to me. And I don't ever want to forget the story before my story. God weaves our lives - our stories - together like an exquisite tapestry, each thread dependent on the previous one, tightly bound into one beautiful masterpiece.

A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes...

I think I have successfully erased the majority of my memories from middle school. I usually complain about my permanent loss of brain cells during pregnancy, but when regarding the years of 5th grade through 7th grade, I am forever grateful to the miracle of forgetfulness. I was usually one of the first kids on the bus in the morning, which meant sharing a long ride with kids that didn't particularly like me (and let's be honest, I didn't like them either.) But, bus rides had a funny way of bringing 'not usually' friends together, just to stay entertained during the bumpy ride. The kids on my bus liked to play MASH.

Mansion. Apartment. Shack. House. A game where you hoped the odds were ever in your favor as your fate was determined by someone who didn't care if you lived in a shack someday with Pauly Shore, had 18 kids and worked in a toll booth. But everyone DID care... when it was their turn... hoping to be paired up with the cutest guy on the list of possible husbands (JTT was a fave) and hoping that guy was a rich lawyer and lived in a mansion. Even as a middle schooler, ideals and standards had been set in our minds as to what the perfect "dream" life would look like when we were older. And a scribbled game on a torn piece of notebook paper was the preteen tarot card of our future.

Now, I absolutely adore Disney movies. But the story of Cinderella really set our young, impressionable hearts up for disappointment. I would have LOVED a fairy godmother to swoop down, hours before my sophomore semi-formal and turn my short-sleeved brown - yes, BROWN - dress into a shimmering, head-turning beauty. Let's face it, every little girl wants to grow up to marry a prince and live in a castle. It's the ultimate fantasy. Fantasy.

I'd had different ideas of what my future would look like. By the time I was a college student, I knew a couple of things for sure. I wanted to be married. Soon. Like the day after I graduated. It just made sense. I also knew that I wanted to have kids, probably four or five and really hoping for a set of twins. I wanted to be a working mom, and actually, I think 'saving the world' may have been on my list of tasks to conquer. Dreams for me have always been BIG. Go big or go home. Oh, how God must have looked down on me and laughed at me when I said that. "Go big? You think that's big?" He'd ask. I can just picture Him laughing, saying, "Ok. We'll go big." And I had no clue.

I think I often get stuck in 'dream' mode. I see the end result and I want to get there so bad. My dreams are perfect - I am in control of them and they always turn out exactly how they should be. The odds are always in my favor. But here's the thing with my dreams - the parts where I have to work really hard to get to the 'dream', the parts where obstacles arise and new plans need to be made in order to overcome them, the parts where the characters and circumstances change... all those get left out of my thought process. That's because a dream isn't just a dream. It's a journey. And a journey isn't something we can plan out. It's an unknown adventure. And as much as I desire to arrive where I set out to be, I will never get there if my dream doesn't line up with God's vision for me.

In Psalm 20:4 David presents this prayer, "May he give you the desire of your heart and make all your plans succeed." There were so many times I prayed for God to give me what I wanted. A better job. A different boss. Friends in new places. Healthy babies. A bigger house. More time. Patience. Smaller stretch marks during my second pregnancy (I really should have prayed for NO stretch marks the first time around, kicking myself for that one!) So often my prayers were centered around me - my plans - what I thought would be the best thing for ME. As my faith and relationship with Jesus deepened over the past few years, I came to understand that Scripture in the Psalms differently. Instead of asking God to give me what I want - I have begun to ask Him to make the desires of my heart like His.

I don't have the best track record in knowing what is best for me. Plenty of times I have said "no" to God - whatever He was asking me to do just did not fit into my dreamy vision. And as many times as I have said no, God has come back with a big fat YES and proven me ever so wrong about what I thought I wanted.

Thirty-two years old, married to a farmer, two kids in tow, living in a house owned by my husband's grandmother, in a small town with no Starbucks or Anthropologie... Had I had this glimpse of my life five years ago, I would have been singing the Sesame Street song, "Which one of these things doesn't belong here?" But I know now what I didn't know then, and that is the journey I took to get here. And I wouldn't change a thing.

I am much different than I was five years ago. Though there have been some hardships, disappointments, and BIG changes to MY plans, my life's journey that God has allowed me to experience has taken me all over the world, meeting some incredible people. He has allowed me opportunities to use my gifts and talents in ways I never would have been able to create for myself. The Lord has blessed me and my family in unimaginable ways. And I am proud of the hard work my husband and I have put into creating this dream life for our family. It's no easy task raising two little boys (twins, what was I thinking?!?) and there are many days that I dream of a bigger linen closet where our sheets, blankets and towels can each have their own shelves. But, I am learning to appreciate and anticipate the journey, more than dwelling on the end result.

This past week, the Lord gave our family a big leap forward towards our dream of building our own house. We closed on a nice little chunk of land out in the country. A creek with a line of trees borders one end of the property, and there is the most perfect sledding hill with a lovely narrow valley nestled in between. Our dream home will sit perched on top of the hill, surveying the lush green acres below. It is going to be hard work - cleaning up the land, tearing down barbed wire fences, excavating the ground, and of course all that goes into building a house - but when I remind myself of Galatians 6:9, "Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up," I recall God's promise to me, His plans to prosper me with a bountiful harvest.

I am excited about this life that God has blessed me with. Though I had always pictured something different, God wanted to go bigger. And although I haven't saved the world yet, nor do I even aspire to do such a thing (I've learned my limits), its moments when my two and four year olds climb into my lap and tell me they love me, and I feel like a superhero. I am so thankful to serve a God who knows me better than I know myself.

Tonight, the boys and I brought some homemade pizza out to Eric who was tearing down some old fencing and rotten tree stumps on the new property. We set up a little dinner table amidst the alfalfa and ate as a family, in a spot that will hopefully someday be an actual dining room in an actual house. Cinderella can have her castle. I'm loving every bit of this BIG dream that God created for me... and I'm along for the long haul.

 

 

 

 

 

Puttin' Up Your Dukes

It was the most physically exhausting season of my life. I was doing 8 mile runs with hills and Indian sprints in the middle of them. Hours of calisthenics, intense workouts, sparring matches... gosh, I could do 200 push ups and hold my own. All I ate was pasta... for four months. I was the only girl I knew who walked the halls of my high school with a huge Nalgene bottle that I had labeled "Life Support." I was training for my black belt.

The training was intense. I didn't have much of a social life. The grades in my honors and AP classes took a hit. But I was determined to achieve the well-respected, honorable status that a black belt in karate would bring me. I worked hard. And victory never tasted sweeter. When I finally tied that belt around my waste, I knew in that moment that all the training was worth it. I had been equipping myself for three and a half years for that one particular moment. And even though my black belt is currently packed away in a box in our crawl space somewhere (not exactly sure where to display it... maybe next to my Willow Tree collection??), the resulting self confidence, attitude of perseverance, and whole-hearted devotion to anything I tackle, has remained embedded in my spirit (as well as the ability to throw a mean right hook, just sayin'.)

Earning my black belt was an intense commitment that required complete devotion. I could not have achieved that status without the proper training. You would never see a white belt spar a black belt. The white belt is just not equipped or physically ready to hold up against someone who has put in the time and work required to achieve and maintain such a high status. Can you imagine if our country didn't train its soldiers before sending them overseas into battle? I have family members who have served overseas, in dangerous places. The amount and degree of military training is extreme for anyone wishing to carry the well-respected title of Marine. Navy. Army. Airforce. I have the utmost respect for these men and women who march into battles - some seen, some unseen - on a daily basis. But the only way I am even ok with this a little, is knowing they are fully equipped for the mission.

We physically train for physical battles. We cram and study for exams in school. We go above and beyond our requirements at work to get the promotion. We put in the time. We equip ourselves. But there is another battle that is raging... one we need to be equipped for as well.

The apostle Paul tells us in Ephesians 6, "Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand."

How do we prepare for a battle we can't see? I struggle with this daily. Screaming kids, dirty dishes, dinner that needs to be made, groceries that need to be purchased, diapers that require changing, doctor appointments, the list goes on and on... When do I find time in all this mess of life to open up my Bible and attempt to hear God's voice? I can't even hear myself think sometimes! I am too tired to get up out of bed in the morning, and too tired before bed in the evening to discipline myself to have a consistent quiet time. But Paul is talking about battle here. And my mess of a life is living proof that this battle exists.

It happened all too quick. This past Friday night I was sitting at the kitchen table. The boys were playing in the living room. My husband, myself and a friend were enjoying the last few savory bites of veggie parmesan when my precious 2 year old, Gabe, fell and smacked the side of his head into the coffee table. The scream was still building in his throat when he placed his hand to his head and a steady stream of blood flowed through his fingers, down his neck, onto his shirt... A not too quick trip to the ER and three stitches later, I was tucking my sweet little boy into bed, praying a prayer of protection over him and his swollen little face. Not more than 16 hours later, my injured baby fell face first off his tricycle. Add a red, scraped up bump on the forehead, a bloody nose and a fat broken lip to his already punctured face. The poor kid looked like he had survived a fight with a pitbull.

As the injuries kept coming, the tension between my husband and I kept building. Who was to blame for this? We couldn't agree on anyone. Then last night happened. It was dinner time again. (Anyone else experience horrific dinner times??) My 4 year old, Jack, decided to get down from the table early. Monkey see, monkey do. Gabe pushed his chair away from the table but the legs of the chair wouldn't budge (probably due to the sticky floor that hasn't been mopped in five months) and the chair tipped back, slamming the back of his head into the door frame that was behind the table.

ENOUGH already!! I felt my emotions building. My anger was directed at God. My child was screaming, yet again, and the whole time I am silently screaming at Him - "Why are you doing this to my sweet angel? Hasn't he had enough this weekend? Give him a break! PLEASE!!!" Then, as my crying baby carried on, my anger overflowed. I scolded my husband (for simply breathing - when things got this bad, it just had to be his fault.) Then I yelled at Jack for getting down from the table. I wasn't standing my ground at all... I was falling apart. I needed someone to blame. Someone to take the heat so I could make sense of what was happening. I stormed out of the house and walked and walked. And then I realized what God was trying to show me in all this.

I wasn't prepared. I wasn't equipped for this moment. My armor was flung off somewhere, tossed in a corner or stashed in a box in the basement. I was wide open, completely vulnerable to an attack.

Accidents happen. Things go wrong in our perfect little lives that we have no control over. And there is always someone waiting for us to screw up, waiting for an accident so he can whisper lies that it is God's fault.. and when we are vulnerable, we believe him.

Training for spiritual battle is tough. But Paul reminds us of what we need to do so that we are prepared. "Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests."

As I read that Scripture this morning, I recalled my black belt training. I was devoted - giving of my body, mind and spirit to accomplishing a goal. Training was essential to getting where I needed to be. So when it comes to spiritual battles - when I am faced with a challenge where I can either choose defeat or victory in Jesus, I need to make sure I am fully prepared for such a fight! The military doesn't hold just one 2 hour training event a week for its recruits in order to prepare them for war. They are mentally, emotionally, and physically training morning, noon and night. Attending church Sunday mornings is vital to my growth as a Christian, critical in the development of my friendships that hold me accountable, and instrumental in giving me opportunities to serve the Lord by using my spiritual gifts. However, if I am to be fully prepared to stand my ground against flaming arrows and whispered lies, I need to extend that Sunday equipping session into week long training. I cannot expect to stay strong against an enemy that wants me dead - with little or no work on my part.

My busy little life that I have created often prevents me from my one on one training sessions with Jesus. He is always available - the ultimate Life Coach. He has won every battle He has ever fought, and will win every battle He fights. And He is CONSTANTLY fighting for me. For you.

Jesus tells us in John 16, "In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." I find such peace knowing that Jesus has already overcome every battle I will ever face. I just want to make sure that I am standing in victory with Him.

Busyness isn't an option anymore. If I am going to win these battles - getting into His Word DAILY is the only thing that is going to protect me from an ever present enemy. When things get rough, I want to have the knowledge and strength to turn to God for help. I want to be able to have teachable moments with my children - raising them up in the Word so that they know who to turn to when life hands them lemons. I want to be able to turn to my husband and pray with him when we hit our breaking point... not the alternative of exploding and regretting later.

I love what my Zondervan NIV study Bible says about the belt of truth. The belt of truth is symbolic for the clothing of the Messiah. Just like Jesus, character wins the battle, not brute force.

What flaming arrows have been pointed straight at you lately? I think its time we put up our dukes... we are in for the fight of our lives.

We'll be ready for next time!

The Gardener

My husband, Eric, and I moved from Memphis to Denver three weeks after we were married. The draw - sprawling mountains with the promise of endless adventures. For the first six months of our lives together, we lived in a tiny, 500 square foot apartment with barely enough room to have a decent argument (like the one that happened after Eric walked in the door just having purchased a $200 pair of ski boots and a $50 pair of ski goggles for himself... with our wedding gift money.) Desperate for more space, we immediately began the building process for our new home.

Seven months after tying the knot, Eric and I became homeowners and parents to an adorable six week old yellow lab - all in one day. I had heard the same advice from about 87 people on our wedding day - "Buy a couple of plants first. If they are alive a year later, then buy a dog. If the dog is alive a year later, then you are ready to have kids." As I lay in bed the first night in our shiny new home, listening to the crying pup downstairs, I had a pang of fear and turned to Eric in panic - "I forgot to buy plants! We don't have any plants! What if I'm no good at this? Our dog is going to DIE!" Within several days, I had three beautiful, healthy green plants in decorative Crate & Barrel pottery, carefully placed in the sunniest rooms in the house. Two of the plants were dead within a few months.

My middle name is not Green Thumb. Eric and I have lived in several homes since our first house and I have only managed to keep about 10% of any plant I have planted (inside or out) alive. I haven't had a potted plant in my house in years. So when we got settled into our new rural home amongst the most fruitful, self-sustaining farmers and gardeners in the country, Eric about went into shock when I told him I wanted to plant a garden.

Wanting to embrace my new role as farmer's wife (I am an all or nothing kind of gal), I joyfully signed up for Gardening 101. I spoke to other gardeners for tips, read lots of books, and even learned how to can and preserve the fruits of my labor. Eric helped me build the garden bed. My older son, three at the time, helped plant the seeds and water the little plot of turned soil.

And the waiting began.

One week past... doubt crept in. Could I really pull this off? Two weeks past my planting, little sprouts finally emerged. I was elated. I was determined to be successful (especially after my husband lovingly told me, "Don't be disappointed if this doesn't turn out. It's your first time.") I had EVERYTHING to prove. I carefully tended to each seedling, packing soil around its delicate little stem and watered each one daily (I just so happened to start gardening during one of the worst droughts in twenty years.) I pulled every weed that poked its unwanted head out of the soil. This garden was MINE. I was its protector. Nothing was going to destroy it.

I used to think bunnies were cute. The morning I awoke to the little chewed nubs of my zucchini, pea and bean plants those furry little nuisances became my mortal enemy. Up went the fence around my garden. A couple of weeks later my garden was flourishing again, with my firstfruits of spinach and arugula. A salad never tasted so good! I really could do this whole gardening thing! By the end of the summer I had made 8 or 10 (I lost track) loaves of delicious zucchini bread and canned an abundance of tasty pasta and pizza sauce that lasted us through the winter.

(My latest homemade chunky garden pasta sauce using - get this -

 NINE veggies and herbs from my garden!)

 

 

I had impressed my husband, gained confidence in myself, and provided food for my family. God bore fruit in my life in more than one way.

God has taught me so much about His love for me through this whole gardening process. In John 15: 1-2, Jesus tells us "I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful." In verse 5 he elaborates "I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing."

NOTHING.

As I watered... as I pruned... as I grew fierce in my protectiveness for each little plant, God spoke directly into my heart - "This is how I love you, Heather." I wonder what He sees sometimes as He looks down on me. Some days I am perky and strong and bending towards His light. Other days I am wilting, drooping, my fruit in danger of becoming spoiled. I bet there are days when He sees me completely aloof to the danger around me... the days I forget to ask for His protection... but He is always fierce for me. Always.

I know with a fact that I had nothing to do with the prosperity of my garden. Gardens need water and sunlight or they cannot grow. I can provide neither of those things. I am only able to prosper when I remained attached to The Vine. He is my Living Water and Light of the world. Apart from Him I can do nothing. Like a piece of fruit that falls from its vine, I am dead the moment I pull away from Him. Subject to spoilage and disease. And even though at times His pruning process can be painful, I know that when friendships fade and circumstances change in my life, He is essentially cutting out the things that are taking too much energy from me, so that I can bear even more fruit.

What I really love, is that God was so incredibly awesome to create us in His image, then allow us to step into some of the roles He claims for Himself, so we can come to know Him better. Amen to that.

  Fruitful blessings

 For those of you who may have been concerned about the well being of our sweet dog, Zoya, the above photo was taken this past weekend on a hike in one of our favorite spots - Starved Rock State Park. She will be nine years old this November. I am very glad I didn't listen to that wedding advice... or I may just have never made it to this point in my life.

Finding the Treasure

I was a high school student, a native to central New York. The city of Syracuse, with its six-story Carousel Mall, roaring college life, and sprawling suburbs that offered every restaurant, recreational activity, and beautiful state parks with trails and beaches, was the perfect place for a girl like me to grow up in. Convenience had spoiled me. And I hadn't even been introduced to Starbucks yet.

I vividly recall this conversation with my mother. It's funny how God doesn't let us forget some things. We were standing in a clothing store, (most likely a J.Crew) and I was making my typical, pleading comment of, "Oh, I loooove this!" And my ever-loving momma looked at me and replied, "You better marry someone who makes alot of money to keep up with your expensive taste." My witty, unthought out retort was, "I'll marry anybody but a farmer."

I am now a thirty-two year old mother of two beautiful and rambunctious little boys. And I am the wife of a farmer. It is a very long story as to how I arrived here, but I AM here... living in a small, quaint little town, somewhere in the middle of Illinois. Corn and soybean fields encompass this little pocket of life. After years of pleading with God to bring me ANYWHERE but here, THIS is the place He wanted me. And the biggest shocker of it all, is that there is no place I would rather be.

Jesus was a storyteller. In one parable he tells us, "The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field. Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it."

I am a wife, stay-at-home mom, daughter, sister, and friend. I forget almost everything, love to cook but hate doing the dishes, and consider late night ice cream indulgence to be just as important as breakfast. And God has given me a story. Abandoning the life I thought I always wanted brought me to a place of new beginnings. A place where my story took a sharp right turn and landed back on the pages of His story. And once again, as God always does, He brought me to the place I have always wanted to be... a place overflowing with His grace, love and mercy. Standing in a field of pearls.

I have journaled (privately, in books kept in my night table for noone else to read) for 14 years. After resisting nudges from friends, and well, let's be honest, Someone I should have learned to listen to by now, I have decided to take the plunge and put my thoughts "out there"... Not for my own benefit, but for the sake of sharing about my struggles, hopes, fears, failures, and blessings with the faith that there are others out there like me... exhausted moms who love their children, wives who adore their husbands but who still struggle with insecurities inflicted by the world, girlfriends who have the greatest women in their lives but still struggle with loneliness, Christ followers who desire to have a heart after God's own heart but fail repeatedly, and others with... a story.

We all have one. As I look out into my backyard and see the tall, green fields of corn stalks swaying in the breeze, I am reminded of the treasure I find when I trust God's plan for my life. I am excited to see how this continuing story unfolds.