Waiting Room

I'm seated on the floor of my living room. A tall, warm cup of Trader Joe's chai tea warms me to my core. My sweet little baby is rolling around in his crib, drawing his elephant spotted lovie up to his face as he closes his eyes and drifts off... (the beauty of video monitors). The glow of the Christmas tree sheds a golden light onto my lap as I type, reflecting on the past few weeks.

These are some of my favorite weeks of the year... every year. We enjoy the best meal ever on Thanksgiving, lingering over empty plates smeared with remnants of sweet potato soufflé and crumbles of homemade stuffing. Friendsgiving follows, where the celebration of friendship becomes a banner waving over a dinner table arranged with new recipe attempts, sticky fingers, laughter and a long burning candle. The first week of December brings about our annual Christmas cocktail party, where Eric and I invite a ton of people into our cozy home for meatballs, bourbon balls, and spirited punch. Throw in a Bible study brunch and a book club meeting and there you have it - a bundle of holiday gatherings that fuel the body and spirit alike.

This past week, however, has looked quite different. A week full of waiting rooms. In fact, waiting rooms have become a part of every day life, it seems, these past couple months. Chest x-rays, leg x-rays, vaccines, well check ups, asthma diagnosis, chiropractic appointments, ultrasounds, blood work, more blood work... the Heaton household knows waiting rooms. These rooms aren't too pleasant either. There's the person with the plague who is not covering their mouth and sitting right behind my child, the visible smeared snot on the interior glass door that my one year old is touching with his bare hands, the dingy yellow walls that make every single person in the room appear to be stricken with jaundice, and the smell of disinfectant mingled with a sickly sweet cinnamon scented wall plug in is enough to usher in the stomach bug. The anxiety that these rooms bring me, in addition to the reason I am actually waiting in them is usually just a bit too much to bear. And although I try hard to avoid it - I stuff it down deep and I cover it in prayer and hopes and wishes and desperate pleas - the worry is still there, like a gnat buzzing in my ear.

Waiting is one of the harder things to do in this life. We are a Get It Done kind of people these days. We move forward before we realize our feet are moving. We step further into commitment before the word yes has even left our mouths. Going through the motions isn't even a thing anymore. It's just the way we operate. We are like wind up toys, we keep going until our battery starts to diminish, and then we chug a Redbull or a latte with a double shot of espresso or we squeeze in a quick manicure and consider ourselves recharged and ready to go. But, these past couple of weeks I have been forced to wait. My body is clearly communicating that something is wrong. The problem with waiting, for me, is that I am a chronic worrier when it comes to anything health related. When my child with asthma coughs, or one of my boys gets a hive on his face, or my baby runs a fever - I fall into a spiral vortex of fear that whips me around and around until I can't see straight. And right now, I'm scared for myself. Waiting on test results is like being present in a waiting room all the time - it just takes on the appearance of my living room, kitchen and other places I prefer to enjoy with my loves, but instead feel cold, icy and distant as the space around me is filled with uncertainty.

When I think about this time of year, I long for evenings that hold nothing but the presence of those who live in this house, laughter as we all play around the lit tree, with Christmas tunes carrying on in the background, serving as the soundtrack to our night. I dream of a cozy fire, crackling in the dark of our dining room, while the kids are sprawled across sleeping bags with their slippers and pillows and lovies. Maybe we read passages of Scripture that lead us into anticipation of the baby that came to change the world. Maybe we tell stories that we make up on the spot, as we often do - tales of dragons that save the boys from an earthquake, or an alien invasion that require Jack's MacGyver skills and Gabe's bravery to be overcome. Maybe I pull out a bag of flour at 7 pm and ask the kids what I should make with it. Brownies? Cookies? Cinnamon rolls? But spontaneity can find no place to settle in a life that has no waiting room.

Busyness is a murderer of stillness. I think sometimes I search for opportunities to create joy by planning so many things during my week - dates with friends, volunteer opportunities, even family friendly events that the kids are sure to love. But when every minute of the day is planned, I lack the very thing I crave... stillness. And I believe its what God wants from me right now, and though I hate the way I'm being reminded of that, I need to choose to be thankful for it. It's taken me a few very rough days to get to this point. I locked myself in a dark bathroom a few nights ago while my dearest friends celebrated life right outside the door. I couldn't keep the fear from overflowing. Whatever God has planned for me, however, fear isn't a part of it. He doesn't strike us with fear and depression and isolation. That's the enemy's style. And I refuse to give power to anything that God has not sanctioned for my life. So as I press forward, I'm choosing to wait on Him and nothing else.

It's time to jump off the crazy train. Fear be gone! (AND CURSE YOU INTERNET!) All I really want is to settle around the hearth of our home, cozy and calm, engaged and present. I want to anticipate unadulterated joy, the thing that surfaces when we make room for it... the thing that causes our hearts to sing when we've encountered it. We can transform our hearts and homes into waiting rooms. We can set limits on our busyness and create empty space that we can whole-heartedly trust God to fill with His spirit. Let's take Ozzy off the playlist, and replace the noise pollution that has completely derailed us - with stillness. Living my life in continual anticipation of God's goodness and blessings and answered prayers... these things are worth waiting for. And I don't want to miss them.

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I put my hope. My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the morning, more than watchmen wait for the morning. Psalm 130:5-6

During this season of waiting, whether you are waiting for test results, forgiveness, grace, healing, recognition, that bonus, understanding, wisdom, peace... know that the nights of waiting can be long and tiresome. Waiting isn't easy sometimes, BUT salvation comes in the morning. Our God never fails, nor does He sleep. He is with us in the trenches of the hardest seasons, and He's there to welcome us in the dawn where His mercies are new every morning. Let us wait upon HIM now - with great anticipation of what is to come - more than watchmen wait for the morning.

Scars

I'm currently reading a book that is completely wrecking me. For all the right reasons - it is challenging, eye opening, engaging, and tackles some of the most heart wrenching issues that encircle me and the culture I live in. The book, Little Bee, written by Chris Cleave, focuses on the horrific yet somehow hopeful pilgrimage of a young refugee girl and her journey into the heart of a woman who carries heavy burdens of her own. I share this excerpt from the beginning of the book with you; beautiful words that have left me reeling in thought:

          On the girl's brown legs there were many small white scars. I was thinking, Do those scars cover the whole of you, like the stars and the moons on your dress? I thought that would be pretty too, and I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty, ok? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived.*

I've been searching deep within my own soul, wrestling with these words ever since I read them. We don't talk about scars. No, that is not something I discuss when I'm out to lunch with a friend, or bring up in conversation as I sit and cheer on my kid from the sidelines at his soccer game. Scars are triggers for frightful memories, deep wounds, fears actualized. Scars - whether seen or unseen to the naked eye - imply a space in our lives where there was a previous wound. And wounds are something we want to leave sealed up with the scar - not reopen them with words and stories and explanations.

Some scars are easily seen. We can see the discolored tissue, taught and pulling on the older, uniform skin around it. The indentations they leave on our bodies remind us that smooth skin was once there - perfect and untainted. A two inch ragged red line stretches across the right side of my back, where precancerous cells were dug out of me. Sometimes that scar itches. I can feel its tightness when I reach back to touch it. It's ugly. And I know, because of my family genes, that more scars like it should be expected to follow.

There are scars that are easier to hide... or so we think. The wounds that have been inflicted upon our hearts. Our souls. The damage that has caused wreckage in our minds, destroyed our self worth, restructured our identities, and controlled our behavior. These scars could quite possibly be more destructive than any visible one. And often, we don't know when we are staring at another person's scar straight in the face.

"... The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” 1 Samuel 16:7

As I was thinking about my internal scars, the ones that wrap themselves like dried ivy around my heart, I came to the conclusion that we absolutely can see other people's internal scars. We tend to look at man's outward appearance... We are in the check out line at the grocery store and the clerk is so rude, and we begin to respond. Sometimes we might speak out against him, responding with anger or resentment. But, perhaps what we are witnessing isn't rude behavior at all - if we take a moment to look at the heart of the clerk instead of his actions. Perhaps he just found out some heartbreaking news, felt betrayed, abandoned, overlooked for the promotion he was expecting. And what we are in fact witnessing is... a wound. It's overflowing right in front of us. Or its possible that the wound has already formed a scar, and his actions are his coping mechanism - a direct result of the pain he has been left to deal with.

Some scars we have earned through others, some ourselves. Some we have acquired through loss, infidelity, infertility, and death. Some have formed slowly through every heartbreak, every fear, every failure. Some scars we earned in the public eye. Others we have gained in secret. Scars can mar us - tainting the lenses through which we see, crippling our legs from walking upright, and keep a tight leash on certain parts of our lives that we share with others... the wounds.

Some wounds happened a long time ago. Other wounds are gaping wide open, spilling over into our lives like a sloppy mess, invading every ounce of our existence. Some wounds are drowning us, in our grief and mourning and confusion. The heartbreak is unbearable. We might be asking, Am I going to survive this? Am I going to heal?

So the soldiers took charge of Jesus. Carrying his own cross, he went out to the place of the Skull... Here they crucified him, and with him two others - one on each side and Jesus in the middle. John 19:16-18

Jesus had been publicly ridiculed, beaten, flogged, pierced with a crown of thorns, and there he hung - nails driven through his hands and feet, bearing the weight of his tortured body. In this moment, no one watching thought he would survive. His own mother and beloved disciples observed their precious leader take his last breath.

And then...

While they were still talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, "Peace be with you." They were startled and frightened, thinking they saw a ghost. He said to them, "Why are you troubled, and why do doubts rise in your minds? Look at my hands and my feet. It is I myself! Touch me and see; a ghost does not have flesh and bones, as you see I have." When he had said this, he showed them his hands and feet.  Luke 24:36-40

Precious ones, who are hurting and grieving, who have wounds that pierce you so deeply, who have scars that suture your broken heart and weary soul - Jesus has scars too.

God sent his son - like an arrow shot from His holy quiver straight to the Earth - in all of his glory and beauty and majesty, in flesh and bones to tread the same dirt we step on, to breath the same air we inhale. And when our Savior rose from the grave - the perfection of God's will in defeating death itself - he identified himself to his beloved followers by his scars. He could have stood before his disciples with perfect, smooth, unpunctured skin - how many times do we read about him healing the blind, the sick, and the wounded throughout the Gospels? But instead, he reappears with the evidence of his wounds and embraces his scars and their significance. And he stands there - not as a victim, but as a victor.

1 Peter 2:24 tells us, He himself bore our sins on his body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed. By his wounds you have been healed. By his wounds you have been healed. By his wounds you have been healed. That abuser that you fled has no power over you, because by Jesus' wounds you have been healed. That mistake you made last week that has left you with guilt and shame will not claim victory over you because by Jesus' wounds you have been healed. The loneliness you feel from betrayal and abandonment from your spouse will not minimize your existence because by Jesus' wounds you have been healed. The sickness that is wreaking havoc in your body will not wreak havoc on your spirit because by his wounds you have been healed. The tears you cry through pain and mourning will not swallow you because by Jesus' beautiful, flowing blood YOU HAVE BEEN HEALED.

Let us stand shoulder to shoulder as victors. We claim healing and restoration IN HIS NAME. We embrace our scars because they speak of our survival - of the work God has done and is doing through our very lives. Let us talk about our wounds, let us share our scars, let us come together as beautifully afflicted brothers and sisters. Through the evidence of our own wounds and scars, we can bring Jesus' healing to others.



*Excerpt from:
 Cleave, Chris. Little Bee. Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, New York. 2008. (page 9.)

Fireflies

It was dusk, on a warm August evening. The boys were piling out of the car after a trip to the local ice cream shop up the road. The sky was a deep shade of indigo, with streaks of hot pink and royal blue hovering over the horizon. The air was still, quiet with the sound of crickets chirping and birds singing their final adieu until morning. A tiny flash of light in the distance caught my eye, and then another, and I quickly grabbed Sammy out of his car seat and hollered for Jack and Gabe to follow me into the back yard. We ran through the dark shadows under the trees, straight for the open expanse of bean fields that bordered our yard. "What, Mom? What is it?" Gabe asked, eagerly. I simply looked out over the soft bean plants, a smile spread across my face. Jack and Gabe followed my stare, and after a long moment, gasped.

Like a blanket of Christmas lights draped over the entire field, thousands of fireflies danced and darted before us, twinkling in the failing light. The boys giggled and tried to catch some, stumbling over branches and pine cones in the yard as they reached for the tiny disappearing acts. Sammy kept his hand extended out, perhaps anticipating that one would finally come to him. It delighted me to watch my children as they laughed and reveled in this magical moment. Trying to catch a firefly is no easy task, they learned. They had to anticipate where it was going to reappear, and be ready to clasp it. As they jumped and bolted towards the blinking lights, I breathed the whimsy and merriment in deeply, like highly oxygenated air - so pure and necessary and cleansing.

Harvest is in full swing, and Eric is working long days out in the golden fields. I take dinner out to him in the evenings, so the boys can see him for a bit each day, but this particular season is so draining on both of us as parents and spouses - time is so limited with each other. I find myself in "high speed Super Mario" mode from the moment I pick up the boys from school. Unload book bags. Snack. Homework. Cook dinner. Pack up dinner. Bring dinner out to Eric. Eat dinner. Get home 30 minutes later than planned (because, of course, tractor rides too). Rush through bath time, story time, prayers, lights ou- oops, forgot to go over Bible verse memorization - run through that real quick, then lights out. Clean up messy kitchen. Throw the wet clothes that have been marinating in the washing machine for seven hours into the dryer. Realize all the phone calls I forgot to make and texts I forgot to return. 9:30 pm. Tomorrow, then... Whew.

I was recalling our firefly adventure the other day and my heart yearned for that moment again. I crave those precious little blips of time, where nothing else exists but the present moment and the joy that is overflowing from it. Every year this season gets the best of me. The heightened responsibility that I place on myself as a wife and mother takes a toll on me by the third or fourth week of harvest. I'm determined that this time around, it will be different. I'm teaching myself how to savor - time, moments, opportunities. I'm learning that there is, in fact, a pause button on life. I have the remote in my hand and I absolutely have the authority to push that pause button. I'm exercising it liberally.

Last week, on a Tuesday afternoon, the boys were settling down with their post school snack. The house was unusually dark and dreary. Jack came to me and said, "Mom, it looks dark outside. I hope it rains. Can we pray for it to rain?" We long for the rain during harvest season for one reason - the rain brings Daddy home. We stood in the kitchen and Jack asked Jesus for the rain to come. It rained a short time after that, and within the hour, Daddy was home for the night. It certainly was somber outside, but inside the walls of our little house, a different story was unfolding.

Dinner was underway. I was trying out a new chicken and dumplings recipe. My hands were covered in flour as I rolled out the dough on the counter. Eric opened a bottle of red table wine we had been saving since our trip to Door County. I dusted my glass with floury fingerprints as we made a toast - to a rainy night in. Sammy was munching on some shredded chicken as he sat in his high chair in the center of the kitchen, in the middle of Eric and I as we danced our favorite dance - the one where we cook together. I cut the dumplings on one counter as he sliced open the spaghetti squash on another, then we high fived and exchanged knives as we switched spots. The Kitchen Waltz warms me from the inside out - not only because I am moving in rhythm with my favorite person, but that beautiful dance feeds the souls and tummies of the ones we both love the most.

The dancing was even more fun because of the stellar playlist I had created for the evening. I put "the classics" on... you know, the songs that were on the radio at the time you were falling in love, the genius arrangements and lyrics that moved you to tears in admiration and adoration as you looked into the eyes of your future spouse and knew without a doubt that the person you were going to spend the rest of your life with was staring back at you. I asked my mom what her and my dad's classic songs were - Elvis's Can't Help Falling in Love and anything by the Moody Blues were at the top of their list. Eric and I were singing and grooving in the kitchen that night to "The Story of Us" CD I had made for him back in college. Jack walked in at one point and asked, "What are you guys listening to?" My response was, "Why Jack, these are the classics! This is what Daddy and I listened to when we were falling in love. This is Nelly, kiddo."  Outkast, Fat Joe, Weezer and some remake of Bryan Adam's song Heaven spiced up the love story that was rewriting itself in our kitchen that night. The boys were dancing around, Sammy was head banging in his high chair - what he does when he really gets into a song, and at one point, Jack grabbed his drum sticks and started tapping on the counter in time with the beats. In the middle of the chopping and dicing, Gabe grabbed an envelope from his book bag and handed it to me. Eric and I put down the knives and opened it, reading out loud the beautiful words in the progress report of his first two months in kindergarten. In that moment, I could see them everywhere - the fireflies. They were hovering over the pot of chicken and dumplings, swarming around the children and their dancing, darting between Eric and I as we savored every second in the kitchen that night. Fireflies - the moments in our lives that make our very existence burst with light, excited and engaging and present.

That night was fuel for me. I was able to slow down, pause, and see what was happening around me. And it was beautiful. In the last week, I have been able to slow down enough to witness some precious moments with the boys. The kiddos and I decided to go on a walk after dinner one evening. The sun hung low in the sky, a brilliant display of oranges and pinks and yellows swirling in and around the clouds that stretched over the road before us. I was pulling Sam in a little red wagon behind me. He leaned far over the side of the wagon, grabbing at the wheels as they turned, running his fingers over the spinning tires. Jack was leading the way for us on his scooter. Gabe stuck by me, holding my hand, keeping an eye out for bears and coyotes. We spotted a few shadows that we were extra cautious of, you know, just in case something big leapt out and tried to chase us. And as we imagined and dreamed and pretended... fireflies.

Gabe had a soccer game recently where he scored his first goal of the season. It is one of the most precious and sweetest things to see him score a goal and immediately after the ball rolls into the net he looks at me and gives me a thumbs up. His actions speak, "Did you see that, Mom? Did you see me? Did you see what I did?" His team also happened to win for the first time that night, by ten goals. It was a big confident boost for the players, so we talked about it quite a bit that night after we got home. As I was tucking the boys into bed, smoothing the sheets, applying peppermint and lavender oils to their little feet and kissing their foreheads, Gabe says, "Mom, we are on the winning team." "Yes, I know! You guys played a great game today, buddy!" I replied. "No Mom, I'm not talking about soccer. There is a good guy and a bad guy, and you know what team we are on," he replied matter of factly, with squinty eyes and a closed mouth grin. Bed time in the Heaton house happens to be the instance where most of our deep, philosophical and religious conversations take place. Usually, I am so ready to grab a book and put my feet up to wind down, but I stayed put and soaked up my sweet 5 year old's encouraging and life-giving words. "Yes. Yes, we are, buddy."

Fireflies.

I could kick myself for all the moments that I've missed, due to busyness or agendas or tunnel vision, but that serves me no point. What I am learning is that the fireflies are everywhere, and I can choose to slow down enough to participate in the magic they bring. Sammy had his first ride on the combine with Daddy over the weekend. He pressed his wet nose against the dusty glass window and watched the corn pour out of the auger like a waterfall into the wagons. His eyes darted around, intently viewing the corn stalks being swept up into the combine, and then grabbing at every button and lever within arms reach. Gabe repeatedly honked the horn, attempting to alarm any sleeping animals of impending doom. I've learned that the same season, lived over and over, can be experienced so differently if I choose to participate with a view through a different lens. Instead of embracing Super Mario Mom, I'm pulling the wheels off my skates that enable me to go go go, and simply just slowing down. These days we are plastering ourselves in mud and playing with our food. And I am so very incredibly thankful.

These bursts of light that bring me life and energy and joy are heavenly gifts from above. I wonder, what do such moments look like to God? I have this cliché image of Him, in my limited capacity brain, sitting on a golden throne in elegant, white robes, looking down on me and these precious moments. Does He see the fireflies? Do our lives with all of their priceless encounters appear to him as the bean field appeared to me that night? What if I miss out on a golden opportunity to experience something unique and special with one of my children - is that like a firefly that doesn't light up? What if the only heavenly light they reveal comes through thankfulness of such a moment? Am I thankful, in all things? The new lens through which I am choosing to see is that of thankfulness. If my day is governed by recognizing that which God supplies - not what I demand - I am so much more grounded. Content. And full.

Reclaimed

For the past 8 or so years, Eric and I have been staring at the same set of house plans. Our someday dream home that glows and twinkles in our daydreams, like a mirage in a desert, is merely a drawing on paper that we long for in reality. We've met with kitchen designers and looked at alluring gas fireplaces and received bids on window arrangements and stone to wrap the timber pillars around the outside of the house. We've met with an architect and finalized layouts, beam lengths and how many switches we want on the wall when we enter a room. I've even purchased a few things - like a charming, rustic wine barrel rim chandelier and frosted glass pendants to hang above the countertops. I've convinced Eric that its better to start buying all the things now, because if we wait until the moment when we are ready to install such things, we won't have any money left to buy them. This makes perfect sense to me.

I have even conceded to the thought that I don't have to have everything from Pottery Barn. I don't need the fanciest or the shiniest, the fluffiest or the newest of everything. Since I have moved to this quaint little farm town, I have been teaching myself to love old things, because, honestly, there aren't too many new things here to behold. Many of my dear friends enjoy hitting up the flea markets and antique malls which run rampant here in the same way Starbucks dominates Chicago city streets. At first, I didn't see the draw. Why buy something old, when, for a hundred dollars more you could have it new and bruise-free AND delivered right to your front door in two to three business days? Finding the beauty in old things has become a treasure to me - like discovering a part of myself over and over again, parts of me that I thought I had lost or had forgotten about. The history and stories that come with items that lived their shiniest moments in the past are beautiful if not for any other reason than the fact that they survived. They lasted. And now they are being reclaimed and layered with new stories that increase their richness and value.

Eric has been ripping oak planks and timbers out of an old family barn, with the intention of using the wood to build our house. He has been scouring the local salvage yards and acquired timbers that provided structural support for hundred year old barns. We have quite the collection of beams, hewn with chiseled edges, weathered and worn, nails protruding from the strong, earthy wood. They are discolored, smell of must and time, and display age with splits and cracks. I have no doubt in my mind, though, that these planks will transform into beautiful hardwood floors. They will be sturdy shelves in my pantry and provide a rustic elegance stacked against the wall to which my bed will border. Making old things new is the name of the game. To find the treasures hidden around us and breathe new life into something that is willing and able to receive it. To reclaim what was lost and turn it into something full of vitality and purpose.

I recently visited Eric at the barn, to get a glimpse of the treasures he was unearthing. As I ran my hand over the ancient, rustic timbers, I thought about a recent season in my life when God was reclaiming me, recovering me from the ashes of a mess I created. Back in February, I had felt a stirring, deep within the depths of my soul. God was calling me out of the depression that had crippled me for months after Sammy's birth. I longed to find myself again, to remember who I was in Him, my identity as a woman after God's own heart - one with a burning desire to create beauty, but just couldn't find the time to do so. I longed for Him to make me new again.

Around the same time as this stirring began, I was offered a job as an art teacher at my childrens' school. Of course it was a sign of an answered prayer, right? Here I was, struggling day to day because I had no time for myself, aching to sit with a pen in hand and pour my heart out on paper, or splay watercolors across a blank canvas. Art teacher seemed like the cure for my pained longing, like a dose of doing something meaningful and profound for my children and the children of my dearest friends would halt the tension that was building inside of me. I pursued the opportunity with fervor and immediacy and felt anxiety with every step that took me closer to the start of the new school year. Eventually, I couldn't take another step. I knew deep down in the most tender parts of my identity that I could have been an excellent art teacher. I would have had so much fun with those precious kids and would have savored every minute of it. But my prayer all along had been for God to make me new again. I wasn't praying for new things. I deeply needed him to transform me.

I needed to be reclaimed.

This is the word that came to Jeremiah from the Lord:  “Go down to the potter’s house, and there I will give you my message.” So I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel. But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him. Then the word of the Lord came to me. He said, “Can I not do with you, Israel, as this potter does?” declares the Lord. “Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand, Israel.
Jeremiah 18:1-6

God takes each of us - marred and lumpy and useless as we are, and persistently molds and remolds and remolds us. And He doesn't just reshape us into some haphazard sculpture project - He's not aiming for a B+ in His ceramics class. No, He is a Creator of beautiful things, things that take shape and grow wings and fly. He takes what is old and makes it new, every day, day after day. With every rebirth, every renewal, every time we are lifted from the ashes of a hot pruning fire that burns away all the impurities and disease that plagues our souls, we are reclaimed in His name.

Sometimes, a new job or a fresh opportunity is part of the transformation. But as God spoke tenderly to my heart, I realized He was reminding me that I had everything I needed to thrive, already inside of me. He lovingly nudged me to check the back door to my deepest longings and desires. He had left it open for me... even though I thought it had been slammed shut. When I finally turned down the teaching job, a deep sense of peace washed over me, cleansing me of anxiety and fear. What sprouted in its place was self discovery. I began to yearn for remembrance of the shiny stories of my past, the history that created me. Newness is enticing. But sometimes, old is the way to go, and that is because I have value. I have value not because of what I can be but because of who I already am.

The rustic timbers dusted with rich history and destined for the pitter-pat of little feet lasted all of these years in a dilapidated old barn. They survived the groaning earth that settled and moved. They weathered the storms that blew shingles off the roof and siding off the barn. I lasted too, through the storms and self-made oppression. And the old parts of me are being made new again - parts that have been reclaimed in His Name.

I'm learning to keep my eye on my back door... it seems to be the one God is using more frequently these days.

Letter To My 25 Year Old Self

I have been spending some time lately, in retrospective thought. Not dwelling on the things of the past, rather, but focusing on how I have grown and changed. What is incredible to me, is how almost ALL of my dreams and goals have changed over the course of ten years. I am still the same woman, with the same longings, fears and passions... but my eyes see the course of my life so differently now (and not just because I require a stronger prescription contact lens.) I am continually on a journey of self-discovery, pruning, refining and bearing fruit - trudging through harsh winters, staggering across dry deserts, and rolling in colorful flower beds of summer. Life has brought twists and turns that in turn have brought marvelous changes and challenges. I would not alter a single part of it, but I do wish I would have tackled these past years with more grace, compassion, and objectivity. Oh, the things I wish I could go back and tell myself ten years ago...


Dear 25 Year Old Self,

I see you sitting on your back porch, the late morning sun warming your legs as you sip your white chocolate mocha, with open, blank pages before you. It's almost time for you to head into work, to a job you love - and a job that loves you. You are growing every day, in your love for the Lord, in your desire for your husband, and in spiritual maturity that is drawing you into the woman God designed you to be. Be affirmed, that the obstacles and frustrations you face today are simply shaping you into a woman with an important story. God has designed you to be a storyteller, and every situation you encounter will add depth and richness to your life story. Don't be afraid of anything. You will survive it - all of it, and come out on top of it all, stronger and better for it.

You have a couple of challenging years of marriage under your belt. I know you are discovering new things about yourself as you grow in unity with this man. He makes you feel alive and wanted and desired, all things you crave. I also know that you struggle at times, wondering if you married the right one. Marriage is a delicate, intricate dance requiring the fancy footwork of communication and forgiveness and grace. Your husband loves you so much, though he doesn't always show it in the way you want to see it. He may not, either. But he loves you so much. Be tender towards him. He tries so hard to give you everything you want and more. He longs to make your dreams come true. He wants to be your hero. Let him. There will be plenty of times where you won't agree on the method or manner in which something happens, but please remember - you both want the same thing. Take a time out in the midst of the struggle, whenever it presents itself, and remember that the journey is just as important as the destination. Love each other through it all. The Lord has some incredible blessings in store for you... three of which have blonde hair, blue eyes, and smiles that will melt your heart. And for the love, if you ever feel so inclined to chuck a glass plate and an English muffin at your husband, just don't, k? You would be totally justified. But just don't.

I challenge you to think about how you spend your time. Your house is spotless. Your movies are in alphabetical order. Your underwear drawer is a splendid rainbow of lace and silk, all neatly tucked in place. Enjoy the order and cleanliness now (and thongs - they are a PRIVILEGE). You will not always have the luxury of indulging your Type A personality forever. Don't let the brownie crumbs smeared into the soft, new carpet from the tenth grade girls sleep over the other night bother you. Trust me, teenage girls got nothing on your future. Get used to messes. In fact, make some messes of your own. At least you can control them. It might be liberating for you. And watch a little less TV. In fact, don't bother with Grey's Anatomy. You will love the show and then years into it when you feel like your very existence is entangled in the fate of the characters you mirror, the Dreamiest main character dies and makes you feel like hours and hours of your life - equipped with tears and heartache - were completely wasted. You've been warned. Instead, read more. Reading is something you will struggle to find time for someday, and you will wish for it desperately. Reading inspires and challenges you. Read as often as you can.

I know your heart aches for sincere friendship. Its been a struggle for you, to find girls who also crave what you do - authentic intimacy. Not everyone is an open book like you are. Don't be discouraged. Invest your best self into every relationship that falls upon the pages of your story. Don't push or pull. Don't make something into what its not meant to be. Just allow yourself the freedom to breathe and trust that God has very special people in place to dramatically enter your life right on cue. Like a catchy tune you hear for the first time and can't get out of your head, or a new flavor of ice cream you decidedly can't live without, so will be your future friends...  ever-present, comforting, and full of rich, deep flavor. Your friends will season your life with the best of ingredients - like an aged balsamic or a smoky Mediterranean sea salt - they will be there for every joy and every heart ache, covering you in prayer, basting you in warmth and grace, smothering you in hugs and kisses, and sprinkling humor and laughter into your wide open gaping soul that more than welcomes such things. Be patient. These friends will become the sisters you never had.

Now about the Starbucks... and the Anthropologie and the J.Crew... and the P.F.Chang's... and the Maggie Moo's. I know they make you happy and that you enjoy spending your hard earned dollars at each of these establishments BUT it really isn't happiness that they bring you. They are merely a scratch to an itch. You love playing dress up, and you always will. But there will come a time when your husband will feel called to leave ALL THE THINGS behind. And it will feel hard to do. Leaving all the things behind is never fun, and rather, unsettling. But it is so worth it, because ALL THE NEW THINGS will be waiting for you in some other place, a better place that will bring you more joy doing what you never dreamed of doing. Practice the discipline of letting go of comfort as you now know it. You will find comfort in the most unexpected places someday... in the most simple, humble settings void of bells and whistles and scarves and crab rangoons. There are going to be some big things God is going to ask of you, and it would be so awesome if you anticipated that and began saving your pennies now.

You are wonderful at your job. You love the teenage girls you have the blessing and honor of ministering to every day. Some of these girls will become life long friends. You will attend their weddings and watch them become beautiful mothers. You will cheer them on as they head to other countries, ministering to others and living out adventures you always knew they were capable of living. Sharing your life story with these young women is so vitally important. I know you often feel misunderstood by others that you work with. Always remember this - God knows your heart. He alone calls you to the ministry He has set apart for you. And ONLY YOU can carry out your calling. Press into Him when you feel discouraged or alone. He will place you exactly where you need to be. He will also shift your ministry calling. Be aware of how He leads you, don't fight it. What is on the other side is exciting and shouldn't be feared or dreaded. It is a miracle at all that our God would have us do anything for His sake, broken and weary as we are. When He calls, always answer Him. Always walk with your head up high as you step out in faith into the unknown. Feeling uncomfortable will actually become something you crave. Change helps you thrive and grow. Embrace it. And expect God to call you out into deep waters. Because He will.

Its almost time for you to leave for work. I see you scribbling a few final thoughts on paper as you take your last sip of cold, chocolatey coffee. You are so diligent about journaling, and that is so necessary and good. This is a sacred time for you to pursue every morning as you start your day. You enjoy listening to the cardinals sing as they flit past you. The music of the birds, the rustling of the oak leaves as the wind awakens the tall trees, and the smell of the roses you planted with dreams of them overtaking your southern garden - inspire you to write. Never give up that desire to write... to create. God designed you with a gift, and life will get busy and there will come a time when writing will take the back seat - if you let it. If you stop writing, you will lose a sense of who you are. Your voice may be quiet, but it is strong, and God gave you something to say. So, say it. Say it with fervor, with passion, with desperation and intensity. Don't ever put your pen down. When God ignites your heart on fire and you feel scared because what you have to say may not be received well by many - write. It is your calling, and always will be. That daydream you had when you were a little girl... to write a book and be published... that dream can become more than a dream if you respond to the gentle nudges of your Creator, who inspires you and longs to draw you into the color-rich mosaic He has painted around you. Read as many books as you can and write as often as you are able. Always keep time set aside to read and write, it is essential to who you are and will enable you to become all of who you were meant to be.

As you head out the door, in your cute new yellow leather flats from J.Crew, keep this in mind - those beautiful feet will take you places you never imagined. But the reward will only come when you are walking on the path He has set before you. Those feet won't make it on their own. You think you are immune to the depression that has infused itself into beloved members of your family, but you are wrong. One day it will catch you, tangling you up into a net of despair and loneliness, if you are not alert. Keep your feet firmly planted on the path marked out for you. Step into His footprints if you are losing your way or life seems to grow dark. Stay rooted in His Word. Don't wait for the next Bible study to start. Leave the pages of the greatest love story open at all times. Allow His story to become imbedded in yours. It is the way to the fullest life.

And those yellow shoes will always be your favorite, so take good care of them. Don't wear them out in the rain.

With Love,
Me

Black and White

It was a few short months until my wedding day. Eric and I were in the throes of planning for the big day, which was set to take place in a beautiful little church in Memphis. I was sitting in a tall chair in a department store, the smells from the perfume counter overpowering my nose. A young, fair skinned woman was applying my eye shadow and blush, in an attempt to discover my "wedding day look." I had never had a makeover before, and I recall feeling special. Important, even. I smiled and let the make up artist in front of me do her magic. She was pretty quiet, until a few African American teenage girls loudly walked by. Then she started to speak.

"There are way too many black people that have taken over this mall. My friends and I have nicknamed Memphis - Memfrica."

My heart just about popped out of my chest. WHAT?!?!? I could tell my face was instantly flushed. She clearly didn't notice because she kept on going. I sat in my chair in complete disbelief. I went to school in Chicago. I had DEAR friends who were black. And I had just - as in A MONTH prior to this instance - returned from South Africa where I studied abroad for five weeks. The purpose of my studies were to learn about the history of the country, the progression and abolition of apartheid, the roots of slavery, the depth of racism in our own country, and efforts of reconciliation here and abroad. Her words made me physically ill. I couldn't even say anything. I stood up, with only one eye fully made over and simply walked away. I didn't feel special or important as I walked away. I felt shame. I felt dirty. I should have yelled at her. I knew I was privileged just because of my skin color. I knew it and I hated it. And I was mad at myself that I was so infuriated but had said nothing. I wasn't going to let that happen again.

I remember, years later, calling out a coworker for making a racist comment. His story began with "This car drove by... you know, a typical black man's car..." I couldn't contain my shock and disgust at that comment, so I spoke up.

And when a white friend of mine dropped the N word, I spoke up.

And when another coworker made comments about the way the black teenager who was filling her grocery bags talked, I spoke up.

Now, here I sit. I'm tired from a day of holding and comforting a teething baby. My back aches, my eyes are puffy. I want to go to bed. But not as badly as I want to speak up. My heart is breaking for this country. I just sat and watched the news, of rallies taking place across our nation - of people of every color standing up for black lives. "No justice, no peace," they chant. Moments later, the camera pans to officers down, people running scared. The nation I live in is crumbling. I can recall the times I stood up, with my hand over my heart, and proudly belted out our national anthem. Now I hear the words... "the land of the free..." and it causes me to pause.

Because this is not the land of the free. We are an oppressed people. ALL OF US. The black face is not the enemy. The white face is not the enemy. The Muslim face is not the enemy. Homosexuals are not the enemy. No matter the color, the religion, the sexual orientation, birth origin, level of education, whether you carry a gun or not, whether you are a conservative right or liberal left, or whether you are right or wrong - there is ONLY ONE ENEMY. Just one.

The enemy is a thief. He comes only to steal and kill and destroy" (John 10:10). This enemy is destroying the unity of a country that claims to be united IN ITS NAME. This enemy is stealing our humanity, turning us in on each other so that we point fingers at those who think and act and behave differently than we do in order that we can sleep at night all tucked into a bed of superiority and self righteous reasoning. This enemy is killing. He doesn't have a preference of skin color. To him a life is a life - and one more life without the hope of redemption is the name of his game.

Is anyone out there TIRED of playing this game??? Shouldn't our fingers be exhausted by now? How much longer can we point at each other and blame? How much longer can we ignore the truth of the state of our nation right now? In our own country in the past few years there are mass shootings that have taken place in an elementary school, movie theater, college campuses, nightclub, church, grocery store, military centers, THE LIST GOES ON. There are children, teenagers and adults who are trafficked right out of this country to be sold into slavery EVERY DAY. More than 46 million people live in poverty in this country. Where I live. Where you live. Where our children live.

I can't do it anymore. The "Hi, how are you?" "Good! Just busy, you know," kind of on the surface conversations that happen over and over again. Can we talk?? Please? Can we discuss the future of this place we call home and how we can try to stand united again? Can we have the difficult, uncomfortable conversations in our churches?? Can we challenge each other to see past the divisive diversion of race, religion, politics and sexual orientation and claim UNITY AND FREEDOM in the ONE who brings unity and freedom? Jesus was sent to bind up the broken hearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives, and release from darkness for the prisoners... (Isaiah 61:1). We may not live in the land of the free, but we can find freedom in the only One who can give it.

Black lives matter. I have studied much, travelled far and witnessed racism to the point of understanding it well - but I will never KNOW what it is like to be judged because of my skin color. In the same breath, I say that the lives of white cops matter just as much. I am proud to be a part of a family with generations of outstanding police officers and members of the military, who put others' lives before their own on a daily basis. The lives of every person on this planet matter. The life of a serial killer still matters to our God who has the ability to save it.

Friends, let's have the difficult conversations. Let's listen to each other. Let's challenge our pastors to pray with our congregations for these groups of people who are being targeted - not by a single person, political group or religious sect - but by an unseen enemy who is trying to cripple us and prevent us from seeing the greater picture. Reconciliation can happen when we invite God to be a part of the ugliest situations. Healing can happen when we allow God to soften our hearts towards one another. Let's remember who the real enemy is, and begin showering each other with grace, humility, compassion and gentleness.

Lost and Found

February. In my opinion, its the worst month of the year. Winter seems to be dragging on and on and on... We have already seen at least ten rounds of sickness cycle through our house. Cabin fever has made itself very comfortable in our midst. A slight brushing of one shoulder against another can lead to an all out brawl on the kitchen floor between my two eldest, usually resulting in tears and time outs. And this is the month I begin to crave my garden tomatoes. Like, dreaming of ways to incorporate them into every meal. I find myself wishing for summer, when the cavemen that live in my house can get OUT of the house and I can enjoy fresh garden veggies and raspberries right off the bush in my back yard.

Here's the thing. In the month I hate the most, during a season that mirrors my emotions and ragged outlook, I feel like I am being pulled out of hibernation early. I can't explain it. I recently wrote about spiritual gifts and how I feel like God is rekindling my desire to tap into my own, to use what I haven't used in such a long time, to bring glory to His name. I literally feel like I am waking up from a really long nap, no, maybe a coma, to something I have been missing and needing for so long.

I love staying home with my kids all day. One of the best parts of my day is walking into Sammy's room in the morning, peeking over the railing of his crib, and watching his sweet little mouth as it turns into a wide toothless grin as he recognizes his momma coming to get him. I could play games all day with Gabe - Candy Land, Memory, Old Maid, Go Fish, I Spy, Bingo, the list goes on. We laugh and giggle and make pillow forts on the couch. We make up stories where we are the main characters lost in a foreign land made of candy and fly around on top of clouds and hang out with dragons and friendly monsters. Sammy keeps me company with his goo-ing and ah-ing while I fold the laundry. And sometimes I like to pretend that I am a budding chef cooking for the four toughest food critics in the world and the meal I am preparing will determine the fate of my future (in some cases, this is a reality). My day to day life is a blessing, a gift, an honor, a joy. The endless poopy diapers, spit up on my favorite shirt, countless loads of laundry, crusty dirty dishes from four days ago, and inability to have a personal thought - well, I don't really give those a second thought (probably because the inability to have a personal thought prevents me from doing so, but anyways...). I press on, doing what I love, loving who God has entrusted me with.

And then there is this burning in my heart. Heather, there is more. What do you mean, more??? I am exhausted. I have no time. I have no life outside of the walls of my home!! My boys just had to go to school wearing clothes out of their hamper - how can I fit more into my life right now? I want all of you. Um, I am SPENT. I give ALL of myself to everyone around me!! I wake up to a hungry baby, and then I am getting kids out the door for school. The day starts before I even have time to think about my plans for the day! Remember, Heather. Remember Me. And, like a car driving head first into a brick wall, the revelation hit me.

In the weirdest way possible.

I watched this video clip of a darling celebrity couple - Dax Shepard and Kristen Bell - who made a silly, lip synched music video while on a vacation (you can watch it here). As I watched it, a few things happened. First, the song triggered an instant memory. I listened to Toto's 80's hit Africa while riding across the South African landscape in a bus with some college peers. Springbok lept through the grasslands just outside the bus windows. I remember the moment well - like Joy put it in the Disney Movie Inside Out, we all have core memories that are vital to the development of our personalities. This trip to Africa played an important part in awakening my passion for racial reconciliation in this world, and this particular moment in time bonded me and that beautiful country together for life. The second thing this adorable music video did for me was help me remember. I had Eric watch the video too, and we both laughed... hard. Once upon a time, we were silly with each other. Then life happened. So many grown up moments sobered us up and we forgot one of the things that we used to enjoy so much about each other - our ability to be goofy and uninhibited. We could make each other laugh so hard our stomachs hurt. Eric can NOT dance like anyone else I know, and I love him for it. The watching of this music video inspired us to pull out a video we had a friend make for our wedding. In our video, Eric and I talk about our upbringings, how we met, our proposal, and our dreams and plans for the future. We showed our boys, who laughed at how young we both looked. Eric and I locked eyes over our giggling children a few times, laughing as we recalled fond memories, and exchanging a sweet smile when we both realized we were living out our dreams. We were remembering. Remembering what God called us to do. Remembering the reason we fell in love with each other. Getting glimpses of ourselves 12 years ago and recognizing how much we've grown... and how we've stayed the same.

I think I kind of lost myself for a while. I've been trudging through a winter season of my own, for quite a while now, and I hear God calling me to WAKE THE HECK UP. I can't just go through each day, forgetting the things He made me passionate about. Yes, He absolutely has called me to the joys of motherhood and I love every minute of it - well, maybe I don't LOVE blow out diapers, snotty noses and sassy mouths - but you get the idea. He wants me to do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him (Col 3:17). I know I am fulfilling God's current calling in my life.

I am passionate about my family - about loving and giving every ounce of myself to my sweet husband and three precious boys. Oh, and if you mess with my kids or insult my husband in any way, I am just as passionate about putting on my Mama Bear outfit and setting you straight. If you are a momma, you can agree - it takes very little by way of insult or offense to get your blood pumping in defense of your kids. My husband has come home from work with tales of others' disrespect for him and I found myself rolling up my sleeves before he even finished his story. That's passion. But I am passionate about other things as well, and its those things that I feel like God is awakening me to. He's asking me to fan the flames of some all but forgotten passions that have the power - when fully ablaze - to light me on fire with a burning desire to act in some capacity. As Eric and I continue with plans to move forward with adoption in the future, God has been fanning the flame of racial reconciliation. As I observe the constant combat between women and a degrading culture, my passion for drawing other women into Bible study and teaching God's truth as a weapon is seeming paramount. My love for food and cooking has grown a desire to invite others to gather around my table often. And something I have done both with and without Eric - is serving the Lord in the mission field in various countries around the world. I miss travelling and absorbing the beauty and culture of all of the stunning groups of people God has created. Standing shoulder to shoulder with those in a distant land, singing the same song to Jesus but in different tongues, sets my heart on fire.

I don't believe these passions are a thing of the past. My college class that explored the history of South Africa, racism and reconciliation which led to my journey through that beautiful country thirteen years ago has played a part of equipping me for something... and I might only be starting to understand the magnitude of what that something is. It was inspiring to watch that video of Eric and I, as we sat on a plaid blue couch in his parent's old farmhouse, doe-eyed and optimistic, as we vocalized our big dreams. We haven't strayed from that moment - that sweet, fun night as we laughed during takes and tried to get through our stories without forgetting our punch lines. We are still the same Eric and Heather. Our passions that fueled us back then, still fuel us now. Our dreams have come to life. Our plans have worked themselves out, maybe not in the exact way we thought they would, but better - with a richness and depth that life lessons bring. As I gaze at my precious children, I wonder what will they be passionate about? Missions? Serving others? What will make their hurts burn and push them to fight? Racial inequality? Social injustice? What am I teaching them to care about? What I am showing to them that matters? How do I fuse my passions and my day job as a stay at home momma?

As a parent, I invest a lot into my children. I bring them to children's museums and zoos and Disney World and the beach and play dates and art classes and soccer games and church and private school and many other one of a kind experiences that I hope will enrich their lives and help them discover who they are and what they are good at. I imagine God feels the same way, in the way He has brought me through my life, enriching me, teaching me, and enjoying the moments where He gets to surprise me and I cry with excitement. God has made an investment in me, from the day I was born, and NOTHING - no memory, moment, experience, or lesson - is wasted. He is calling me to remember who I am, because in doing so, it reminds me of who He is.

He is a passionate God. He longs for racial reconciliation among His children. He loves His children, no matter the color of their skin, because He doesn't look at outward appearance, He looks at their heart. He has a heart for those struggling with poverty. He teaches us in His Word that whatever we do for the least of these - the hungry, the thirsty, the needy - we do for Him. He has a heart for missions. His Word tells us that the feet of those who bring good news are very beautiful indeed.

God wants more of me. I think I got caught up in the busyness of day to day living, and forgot about the world around me... and the bigger role I play in it. My prayer today is that the fire in my soul would burn... so bright that it spreads to others like a rapid wildfire, unable to be extinguished or controlled. May this cold, dreary winter fade away into a brilliant summer blooming and bursting with colorful passion.

Gracious Gifts

When I was 5 years old, I would sneak into my parent's bedroom, locate my mother's bright red nail polish that she didn't carefully hide in the top drawer of her dresser, and slide under her wooden bed. Several minutes later a shiny new masterpiece could be found painted on the bed frame... a secret little work of art. I am so thankful for a mom who - despite her shellacked bedroom furniture - recognized my love of and giftedness for art at a young age and encouraged me to use my artistic talents throughout my life. Along with my love for drawing and painting, came my passion for writing. In middle school I enjoyed creating short stories, and illustrations to go right along with them. It was quite obvious that I was a "right side of the brain" kind of girl, and as I grew older and painted my way through an art major in college, my talents continued to strengthen.

I majored in art because I loved to be creative and express myself through different mediums. I minored in psychology because I enjoyed working with people... and I wanted to have a job when I graduated. I was able to use my psychology background for a couple of jobs, and occasionally an opportunity would arise that allowed me to tap into my creative side. However, once I had my first sweet little child, my art easel and everything else I could pour onto it, got relocated to the basement. There just was no time for creativity to sprout.

I grew up in a church where speaking in tongues was occasionally seen. Beautiful, angelic voices would belt out hymns and songs of praise on Sunday mornings. Every now and then I tuned in to the sermons about spiritual gifts... wondering what mine were... or if I had any. My mother always encouraged me by telling me to use my gifts... but were my loves for drawing and writing something that God gave to me to use to glorify Him?

Absolutely. In fact, that is exactly why He gave them to me.

It wasn't until my job as a youth minister that I discovered how I could use my gifts to glorify my Heavenly Father. I recall hearing Louie Giglio speak at a National Youth Workers Convention and he said something that completely reshaped my view of worship - at the end of the day, worship is simply our response to the greatness of God. As I chewed on that nugget of revelation, I realized that by NOT using my gifts to glorify Him, I was in fact withholding worship from the God I so aimed to please.

In 1 Corinthians 12:4-7 the apostle Paul tells us, "There are different kinds of gifts, but the same Spirit. There are different kinds of service, but the same Lord. There are different kinds of working, but the same God works all of them in all men. Now to each one the manifestation of the Spirit is given for the common good." The Greek word for gifts in this context is charisma, which is "a divine gratuity... a favor which one receives without any merit of his own. It is a gift of grace, a gift involving grace (charis) on the part of God as the donor" (Strong's). Paul continues on to discuss how a body is one unit, made up of many parts that function together as a whole - every body part playing a vital role, and not being able to function at its best without the other parts. So it is with us as Christians. As the church, we are members of the body of Christ, and each of us plays a crucial role essential to the church body. The following Scripture instructs us in how to use our gifts.

1 Corinthians 13:1-3 says, "If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging symbol. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I posses to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing." My NIV Bible uses the word love in this chapter. The KJV uses the word charity in the case of love. Charity in this context is derived from the Greek word agape, and literally translates into "a love-feast." Agape love is described as the love and attitude God has for His Son.

Any gift or talent we have is God-given. Our spiritual gifts are a manifestation of His Spirit in us, which He bestows upon us with the intention of us using them to edify one another and build up the church. No spiritual gift offered up to the heavens will be received unless it is given in pure, selfless charity... a love feast... a response of worship to God's awesome greatness in our lives.

A couple of years ago, I was asked to paint during the worship segment of our Sunday morning church services. It was in those moments, when I was singing out loud and praising the Lord with each stroke of my paint brush, that I felt like I was worshipping Him with everything I had. My paintings were my love-feast to Him.

My boys gave me a coloring book for Christmas. I dusted off my box of colored pencils that hadn't seen any action since my college years, and began to reconnect with a part of myself that had been dormant for quite some time. As I have been coloring the pages of this book, I feel God stirring my heart to use my gifts... to remember why I had them in the first place. With a five month old and a five year old at home during the day, it is difficult to get the laundry done and dinner on the table at a reasonable hour. My world is consumed by three precious little lives that are dependent upon my own, and a husband whom I love dearly. But, and I mean BUT - God DID give me unique abilities that I am meant to use to bring Him glory. I'm praying now that He leads me in the way He wants me to use them. My head is filled with words to pour out and my fingers are itching to draw and shade and paint and color...

Lord, use me.

References: The New Strong's Exhaustive Expanded Concordance of the Bible. Thomas Nelson Publishers, 2010.