Christmas Letter 2019: Mosaic of Moments

Dear Everyone,

This past year was hard work... and lots of it. But this year yielded some major accomplishments and fulfilled dreams. Grad work - 2 1/2 years down, 1 1/2 to go! Working on building a house (the work is never finished) - and moving in! A long, arduous planting and harvest season for Eric along with a new business venture. The beginning of a ministry that is growing around our kitchen table. When the work is hard, it tends to be the smaller moments that create the memories.  So here is our year in review... the moments and snapshots that create our family portrait.

Precocious, independent and four years old, Samuel rules the roost with an iron fist and an adorable dimple. I don't recall watching episodes of Seinfeld around him, however, he has somehow channeled the personality of the infamous Soup Nazi. I can take him to our favorite bakery, buy him a delicious cinnamon roll, share my scone, and when I ask him for a bite, all I get is, "NO BITE FOR YOU!" He doesn't particularly like it when I wear my hair in a ponytail either. If I ask him for a kiss on days when my hair is up, I get a scowl and a "NO KISS FOR YOU!" Though he tends to withhold the love from his doting parents, he certainly does not withhold information about them. He told his babysitter that his "mom and dad drink beard." Sam can insert movie quotes into a conversation with artistic precision. For example, I'll ask him to pick up his toys. When he doesn't, I say "Sam, I asked you to clean up... what are you waiting for?" His response: "I don't know, something amazing, I guess!" (Verbatim from The Incredibles.) Sam enjoys putting together complicated, 60 piece puzzles. He sits on the floor, diligently putting these puzzles together piece by piece, without looking up from his project until he is done. Then he stands up, exclaims that he is finished, promptly sits back down, breaks it apart and puts it together again. When asked what he wants to be when he grows up, Sam informed me that he wants to be a "walkie talker." When asked what that meant, he replied, "A walkie suit police fireman thing. With a vest." Sam is quite capable of going potty on his own now, though our bathroom conversations have shifted dramatically from the topic of trains to his regular demand for privacy. Just seconds after he sits on the toilet, he'll exclaim, "Mom! Close the door, I need some privacy!" If I call to him and ask him if he needs help, I hear, "I can't talk to you now because I'm on the potty and that would be potty talk," (potty talk is strongly discouraged at the dinner table). However, when I sneak away to the bathroom and close the door, he has no problem blowing the door back open and storming right in. When I ask for some privacy, I get a definitive "NO PRIVACY FOR YOU!"

Gabriel might just be the most thoughtful and generous nine year old on the planet. He gives kisses abundantly, shares his most precious possessions, and always opens my car door for me before he climbs into his own seat. He comes home from school on Mondays with his Bible verse already memorized for the week, reciting it as he steps through the door with a sprawling, toothless grin on his face. He's always asking me to quiz him in Bible trivia, and will often grab his Bible and request to snuggle with me on the couch while I read it to him. His prayers are detailed and thoughtful, and remind me to think bigger when I pray. Gabe enjoys writing short stories and illustrating them (just like his momma did when she was his age). He also loves listening to music and singing his favorite songs. He can't seem to understand the lyrics, however, and instead chooses to make up his own. "Rocking around the Christmas tree... everyone's dancing merrily" becomes "everyone's dancing Beverly." We all like Gabe's versions better than the originals. His favorite band is Imagine Dragons. He's become a bit of an expert at singing their songs without actually singing a real word. The poor kid can't catch a break though, with an older brother who is constantly correcting him. But Gabe is learning to stake his claim against a know-it-all older brother and a four year old dictator. The other day I stepped into the garage just in time to witness Gabe and Jack throwing punches at each other in the middle of the van. Come to find out, Jack had raced Gabe to my car door just to be the one who got to open it for me. Chivalry isn't just a notion for my Gabriel, its a lifestyle. And he's willing to throw down for it.

Jack is 11 and is now old enough to do all things (apparently). He helps out with the farming operation by driving around the gator and tractors, and mows the lawn better than I do. Though he forgets to do most things we tell him to do, he has successfully managed to keep our beta fish, Saki, alive for 3 years. It is the same routine every night - I tuck him in and we pray together, I close the door and go sink into my own bed, and he strolls out 10 minutes later with sleepy eyes to feed the fish. Every. Night. He has transitioned well to public school, especially loving his science and art classes. He has such a unique perspective of how he views the world around him, his mind is always ticking with a creative thought. In addition to playing drums, he now plays all things percussion. Who needs an alarm when you can have your fifth grader wake you up with Mary Had A Little Lamb on his xylophone? Throughout the day, Jack will bust out with a drum beat on the counter or table top, and I see a glimpse of my dad in his musical inclinations. Jack still loves baseball and basketball, and remains faithful to both sports, though he has accepted that he might not be as athletic as the rest of his teammates. He says his favorite thing about playing baseball is being on a team, and enjoys encouraging his friends as they cross a base. After a basketball game, Jack excitedly exclaimed, "I felt like Michael Jordan there for a minute. Not because I was good at basketball or anything, but because I was so sweaty... You know, like him when he plays - all covered with dew." This past summer, we took a family trip to Yellowstone. Jack was my adventure buddy, braving the unknown trails with me to steal a glimpse of beauty. He is my conversationalist, always willing to open up and talk about anything - from how clouds form to a play by play of every individual reaction over the cookies I sent with him to school - he leaves out no small detail. Whether its on a trail or on his bed as I tuck him in, Jack invites me into his world. Its one of the things I treasure most about him.

Eric is now 39 and still hasn't finished our house. It was supposed to be done when he was 38. We are all dealing. Regardless of the unfinished state of the house, we moved into it in April. There are moments when all five of us are sitting in front of the fireplace, the sound of giggles echoing in the vaulted, timber framed ceiling above us, and I just look at my husband with overwhelming joy. He built our dream. We are living in it. And I am so proud of him. The tile will eventually be grouted in the mudroom and the range hood will go up at some point - but in the meantime, memories are being made and the dream is being lived. Eric also began growing hemp this year. In the smoldering, summer heat, he was out in the field behind our house, hand-pulling weeds around 4,000 hemp seedlings to ensure the growth of each plant. He remained optimistic throughout difficult planting and harvest seasons, working long hours, and teaching our boys that hard work will reap a bountiful harvest. He has also shown unwavering support of a ministry that I began this year in our home, called The Table. He makes sure to be home from work early every other Thursday, to help prepare our home for dinner guests. Before the foundation was dug out or a single timber was cut, the very first thing Eric did in preparation for this home was building a table top for our dining room. A huge part of our dream was to create a space for people to come and gather around a large table - for community and discipleship to dwell within the walls of our home with the table as the centerpiece. Ironically, the table top is still sitting in the garage without legs. I'm not sure why it has taken so long for him to finish it. It's not like he has much else going on.

Last week, Gabe looked out the window and spotted a buck with tall, regal antlers strutting up the hill towards our house. An hour later, as I sat in front of that same window while reading for school, I watched a bald eagle with his charcoal wings fully extended, soar over our field. We have a pair of binoculars sitting on a shelf next to this window in our living room, that have given us close-up views of a beaver collecting corn stalks, raccoons rummaging and possums moseying, a "skipping" coyote, a family of three skunks who nest in the brush by the road, and hawks darting toward the ground in search of prey. There are small moments like these, sightings marked with beauty, wonder and expectation, that have brought this year into focus for me. God is gently reminding me to stay alert and keep searching for the small glimpses of his presence and work in my life. I see Him when my children sing grace around our dinner table, and when our house is full of people eating and sharing stories. I see Him when I watch my husband come home from a long, physical day of work and hang a light on our front porch. I see Him when I pray for endurance when the school work becomes overwhelming and a friend invites us over for dinner. I see Him when I ask Him to help me find my voice again, and He gives me a platform to speak. For me, this year has been one of tremendous growth and inward reflection and transformation. And all of the small, vivid moments shaped like colorful pieces of glass have come together in a stunning mosaic reflecting His light and love in our lives.

I hope this letter finds you in a place full of peace, love and hope. And may you sense God's presence and recognize his fingerprints in your small, day-to-day moments.

Love,
The Heaton clan

When There is Mystery in Your Purpose

One of my favorite things to do on a rainy, cold day is to plop down on the floor with a cozy blanket draped over my shoulders in front of a big, complicated puzzle.  There is something so gratifying about finding two small pieces in a sea of mayhem that fit together.  Its easy to sift through the pieces and find the obvious partners - the hand of Tinkerbell connecting to a sprinkling of pixie dust, or Cinderella's bare foot poised above the glass slipper (I have a thing for Thomas Kinkade Disney puzzles).  It is much harder to construct the sky or a grassy meadow dotted with white flowers.  And this is my life right now - a giant puzzle laid before me, puzzle pieces scattered across the floor like stepping stones, and I am jumping from piece to piece in search of a match.  How does it all fit together?  What will the image look like upon completion? 

I've been caught up in trying to figure out what is coming next.  What is God equipping me for through seminary?  What else should I be doing right now to prepare for... what's next?  I've been wrestling with these questions for quite some time, feeling like I haven't wholly found my place in this world.  I'm staring at an unchanging face in the sky, which is spurring me on me through subtle encouragements.  I'm trusting that my days are building up to something, sure that tomorrow will come and I will be ready for it.

And I've come to realize that I've been asking the wrong questions.  I have put so much pressure on myself to figure out what is to come, that I am missing the point of the present.  Yes, my schooling is teaching and equipping me, enhancing my gifts and igniting a fire within me to serve in the ways that God has uniquely called me.  But He has been gently reminding me that there is purpose in today too, not just tomorrow, not just in the completed puzzle, but in each individual piece.  Each piece is vital to the overall picture of completion, and I'm beginning to think that the day the puzzle is complete will be the day I'm standing face to face with Jesus.

What if there really isn't mystery in our purpose?  What if we are really just wrestling with the ghost of confusion when we find ourselves struggling to make sense of our lives?  We find ourselves in a sea of mayhem, swimming in a pile of puzzle pieces that seem to be mismatched... but all that really needs to happen is that they need to be rearranged, by someone other than you and me. 

There are some threads that weave through every narration of the Bible, themes that draw stories together, patterns that create harmony within the voice of Scripture.  One of these threads that is currently grabbing my attention is the fact that God chooses unlikely people to carry out his purposes.  He meets them in the midst of their every day life of threshing wheat, tending sheep, and gleaning in fields.  These people are often outcasts, marginalized in society, the weakest or youngest in their families.  They are far from perfect, but they are willing.  Willing to say yes, willing to move forward, willing to be brave and do the seemingly impossible thing that God is asking them to do.  And not once do they have all the pieces of the puzzle before them.  They say yes, and then they move.

I am a dreamer.  I have a sketch book filled with book ideas, projects, sketches of art work that I long to transfer to an actual canvas, and ministry plans.  I tend to focus on the dream, the big picture, the finished project - which makes this season of life so challenging for me.  Not knowing where I'm going is frightening to me.

The apostle Paul had a dream of going to Spain.  It was high on his priority list, though he most likely never made it.  But this dream of his, to spread the good news to surrounding nations, spurred him to write the book of Romans.  In his commentary on Romans, N.T. Wright says, "...half our great plans, the dreams we dream for our churches and our world, and even for ourselves, are dreams God allows us to dream in order that, on the way there, we may accomplish, almost without realizing it, the crucial thing God intends us to do."

Our journeys are often more important than the finished puzzle.  The journey is where we discover and write our story, where we find our voice and learn to speak, where we learn to walk bravely on the water with our eyes fixed on Jesus.  Our stories tell of our purpose in this world.  And whether we have a goal in sight or we are stepping blindly into the unknown, each story begins with a yes.

Today I embrace the journey - with all of the plot twists and turns and crescendos and valleys.  I welcome the mystery in confidence.  I'm not going to set out a fleece tonight, but trust in the One who called me by name.  And I'm just going to keep on moving.



Excerpt taken from The New Interpreter's Bible Commentary, Volume IX, p.655.

Stepping Back to Move Forward

Written in July, 2017

It amazes me at times, to see how God pulls the circumstances of my life together - gathering them like stones, sifting them through His fingers, allowing them to shift and morph within the rhythms of His own movement. One minute and my world feels as if its caught in a landslide, pitching itself towards a cliff hovering above a rocky shore. In the next moment I find stillness; I have finally landed, not unscathed but with a better vantage point than before.

The past few weeks have been marked by frequent trips to our land, as the boys and I eagerly anticipate the progress Eric is making on building our house. Since I am not a home builder, I have no idea how much time it takes to complete any specific task. It's been three months since my husband broke ground, and I am still staring at invisible walls. My insightful, rational way of thinking placed me inside a discernible house with walls and a roof by the 4th of July (and I must add, if my husband worked at my pace and did it my way we would have no septic tank or plumbing anywhere in the house). Apparently there is a bit more to preparing the foundation than I ever realized.

I've been keenly aware of how the progression of our land (clearing rubble, planting trees, building a work shed, digging a hole for the foundation of a house) has symbolically paralleled the movement and growth within my soul. And today I sit with my dreamy-eyed boys planted in the grass beside me, watching their daddy smooth sloppy, wet concrete into a basement floor. The foundation is the most important part of the house. If it is askew in any way, the rest of the house will be as well.

For eight (or more) years I have been dreaming of this house and the way I want to design it. From the colors on the walls, to the layout of the kitchen and the art work I will create to match each imaginative space. Each detail paints a portrait of my family; every color choice and light fixture and framed photograph is a brush stroke that brings the melody of our home together. But none of these design elements will hold up if the foundation gives way.

I recently went through a period of time where God fell silent. No matter how hard I dug into the Word or prayed, I just couldn't hear him. I continued serving and pursuing opportunities that I thought would bring Him glory. I had become so focused on the details - the dream of the future and what I thought it should look like, that I quit paying attention to the still, small nudges coming from deep within, warning me that I was stepping off course.  I was blindly doing without actively listening. But I pressed on anyways, because the ways I thought I was moving towards him made sense to me. I could not see that they were pulling me further away from Him.

Holy restlessness. It's like ivy that wraps itself tightly around a trellis - when it grips your soul it doesn't let go until you pull it back and reveal what is underneath... the foundation. I began to understand why I couldn't hear God's voice. My foundation was askew. It had cracked, becoming unstable. What one would see when looking at me was not a clear representation of what was thrashing around inside of me. I felt unsettled and unfulfilled. But even in the silence, God was still tending to my soul. A holy restlessness cannot be ignored. It's a symptom of work that needs to be done; a blazing red flare high in a dark sky that urges immediate attention. A rescue mission needs to be put into place, or the whole house is coming down.

Jesus has redeemed me, over and over again. He's there in the quiet whispers of the morning, and in the loud chaos of a life with three small boys. And as I began to pull back the ivy that had entangled my soul, Jesus was there too, with a machete in hand, hacking away at the stuff that was wreaking havoc in my life. I began to feel naked, like I had been stripped of everything I thought was certain. I was either on my knees, begging for clarity from a God I couldn't hear, or just simply whispering His name, hoping I would make a connection I could see and feel. And in those raw, vulnerable moments, I began to hear him.

Peeling off the layers of a busy and perfectly crafted life to tend to the foundation of our souls is a messy, inconvenient and gut-wrenching thing. I've learned a lot about who I am, who I am not, what is important to me and what I can live without. I can hear and feel God's pull on my life in new and unexpected ways. I have begun to feel his movement around me, gently pushing me forward. The details are beginning to take shape, framing my life in a fresh way, and firmly set on a strong foundation.

No more restlessness. Now its time to build.

Written on February 21, 2018

I sat down today to write something new, and saw this unpublished piece from months ago. Not coincidentally, it mirrored my heart and thoughts today. As I consider where I was, and where I am right now, something stands out to me.

This time last year, I was running around like the Energizer bunny. With fully charged batteries, I was banging on my drum, but I was running straight into a wall... over and over again. The holy restlessness was the Holy Spirit awakening me to the fact that I had been finding my purpose in the things I did, not in the One who called me according to His purpose. As God stripped the busyness away from me, it freed me to move. God made his point loud and clear: activity does not equal productivity. If I was going to be productive in the ministry God was stirring in me, then I needed to be free to move forward. Through prayer, worship and digging deep into God's Word, my foundation was strengthened once again, and I could finally hear his voice when He spoke to me. Moving forward meant taking a step back - away from many of the ministries and clubs and groups my hands and heart had helped build - and going to seminary.

Now, a major building project is underway. Through school, God is at work, building something new in me. He is slowly revealing his plan for me, for Eric, for our family and the role this house will play in our ministry. As I visit our house, which now has windows, dry wall, a roof and heat, I see more than a house - more than a home - but a promise that is full of hope and movement.

2017: Our Year of In-Betweens

Dear Everyone,

This past year has proven to be full of it all - highlights that brought joy bursting from our hearts and mouths, lows that briefly crippled our spirits, and all of the moments in between. I believe God speaks to us all the time, in the beautiful, picture-worthy moments as well as the dark, painful ones. But I've learned to value the in-between moments the most - the moments that fill our days with laughter, spur us on, and invest our lives with meaning. Rather than take you through our year by way of vacations, milestones and updates, I'm inviting you to join us in our 'in-between' space...

Samuel, our precocious two year old, has successfully learned how to insert "what da heck!" into any given conversation. He knows his ABC's, with a "T, U, V, double X, Y, Z" at the end. He enjoys having the same Thomas the Train book read to him over and over again, so I have developed a tune that I sing it to, usually incorporated during the third reading. The fourth reading I save for my British accent. Speaking of trains, potty training is moving quite along. For the past couple of months, Sam has been consistently telling us when he has to go, at least five to six times a day. I sit on the side of the tub as he sits on his little potty, and we chat about tractors, fire trucks and Barney. I've really enjoyed this time with him, because he sits there for quite a while. He has yet to actually go, though. When I told him that he had to "put pee in the potty" in order to get ice cream (his incentive), he looked at me crossly and exclaimed, "What da HECK!"

Gabriel, my darling seven year old, is fully embracing his place in the family. Flanked on either side by two worthy opponents, this middle child is learning how to stake his claim. Air-born hot wheels to the back of the head (courtesy of Sam) have proven to be his Achilles heel. Total domination is not out of reach for Gabe on the soccer field, however, as hat tricks have become the norm for this center-fielder. He also displays exceptional spiritual leadership, as he offers to pray in front of his family and peers, and easily ties in Bible stories to his every day experiences. He wants to be a missionary when he grows up... in Florida. His creative, artsy side is creeping forward which thrills me to my bones. Most days, Gabe comes home from school, grabs some crayons and a blank sheet of paper, and creates a masterpiece for me. Yesterday he watched a tutorial on how to draw Snoopy and Charlie Brown, then very successfully drew both characters. Then, he took a hot wheel to the back of the head, and in his anger, ripped the drawings to shreds. He can't wait to live on his own, and attempted to run away twice this year. Lucky for me, he never made it off the front porch.

Jack reminds us daily that he's only one year away from being in the "double digits." Since he is so old now, he has been given some chores and extra responsibilities around the house. He never remembers to do any of them. He does voluntarily conduct science experiments on a regular basis; his love for science in no way influenced by the old MacGyver reruns we watch around here, I'm sure. He has a real ear for music, and has been taking drum lessons since the summer. His shiny, red garage sale drum set is located in the basement, right by the air vent so no one else in the house can speak while he practices. His practice times are short however, because the basement is creepy and there is apparently a shadow of a "guy" who lives in the crawl space and watches him. Jack has also fallen in love with the game of baseball. His entire first season, bless him, he just could not hit the ball... until the last playoff game. With two outs on the board, and no occupied bases, Jack stepped up to the plate and nailed that ball. He made it to first base and opened the door for his following teammates to hit him home. The look on his face while crossing home plate left this momma a blubbering mess on the bleachers. After the game, in which he earned the team ball, he asked me, "Mom, how do you sign up for the major leagues?" I reminded him that he needs to be in the double digits first.

Eric has a lot of free time these days, since he is only wrapping up the harvest/ tiling season, and building us a house. Apart from the main trusses being all different sizes, 80% of the windows coming in the wrong color, and mounds of raccoon poop in the basement, I think he's happy with the progress he's making! I even helped him for ten minutes one day, sanding a square foot or two of a reclaimed wood post. I will proudly show everyone who sets foot in our house that little spot I sanded. I know that helped Eric tremendously. I have to say, I am so incredibly proud of my husband. Not only is he building our forever home, but he still finds time to dress up like a pirate for his son's birthday, take the boys out for dinner so I can stay home and work on a paper, and bake me warm from-scratch chocolate chip cookies at a single request. If he could just get his snoring under control, he'd be a perfect specimen.

Then there's me. This past year I learned the simple art of stirring pasta sauce while simultaneously changing a diaper, reffing brawls and reading a text book. I've enjoyed every minute of it too.

This year has taught me much about waiting, and pressing into God during the hard, bleak moments. At the start of the year I had no idea who I was anymore. What was I created for? I felt like I was a square peg trying to fit into the circle hole of the life I had somehow created... I wasn't fitting into it anymore. I wrestled with God... a lot. And now at the end of the year, I can look back and reflect on how God moved in me, bringing me back to a place where I can just sit at His feet and learn from Him. As I've watched the progress of my house being built, I've come to see it as a symbolic reflection of the work God has done in me. He reworked my shaky, questioning foundation, setting me upon a firm Rock. He carefully framed me up, building and steadying me with His strength, girding me with His truth. He placed a roof of grace, mercy and security over my head, instilling me with confidence to stand tall and claim my space in a classroom once again. And above all, He has fanned the flame inside of me that burns deeply with love for my Jesus.

We eagerly wait for the day when we move into the house of our dreams. We (in no hurry) wait for Jack to claim double digits and hold our breath every time he swings that bat. We encourage Gabe in his in-betweenness, as he yearns to break free from it. We wait (DEAR SWEET JESUS HELP US) as Sam decides if today will be the day he decides to go on the potty. And I wait, hanging on to a whisper, a breath of love that fell upon me months ago, urging me to trust it and follow it to seminary with a hope that my purpose will be made known to me at long last.

There is always a destination in mind... but I'm quite content with all of these unknowns. This house has grown accustomed to the words "not yet," which have shaped our lives and direction these past months. As we grow ever so close to December 25, I cherish the advent season of waiting, as it so adequately embraces the heart of our home. I pray that in these moments of waiting, yearning, expecting and anticipating, that we draw close to the Word who became flesh. I pray that we would find our sustenance and endurance in him as we press on. There is so much beauty all around us, all the time... especially in the small, in-between moments of our lives.

With Love,
Heather (and Eric, Jack, Gabe and Sam)

This picture is from Easter. I couldn't find a more current one. Clearly my kids are thrilled to be having their picture taken.

Behind The Scenes

This past Sunday was the BIG day. We broke ground at our land. After a decade of dreaming, tweaking floor plans, meeting after meeting with a patient architect, mapping and flagging the location of the foundation, and the signing of our home loan - the digging began under the bright sun, a steady blue sky and the gaze of big dreamers. The earth moved and gave way to the heavy shovel as it scooped, lifted and dumped the chocolate brown dirt in a pile that continued to stretch towards the sky. My boys climbed and slid around in the clay earth that molded to their footprints. As we kicked around the fresh dirt, we would guess that we were standing in the future living room, or pretend we were opening the front door. It is such a gift - to see a dream slowly make its way to reality. I've been learning a lot about waiting and God's timing, and about the importance of the work that happens behind the scenes.

When we see a movie, read a book, shop at a cute boutique, or eat a plate of fantastic food at our favorite restaurant, we have the immense pleasure and privilege of entering into someone else's actualized dream. I often don't think of the prep work that goes into experiencing the things I enjoy. But someone else dreamed up that story line and movie script, wrestled with the right words to put on the pages of that book, took a risk at creating an inspiring place for others, and diligently chopped and sliced and sauteed those veggies so we could savor every bite. For a while, I felt like the dream of building a home was always going to be out of reach. So much work needed to be done before we could get to the main event - moving into a beautiful, new home. But the preparation is everything, because without it, we would not be equipped to move forward and failure would be imminent.

And such is life. The past couple of years haven't been golden for me. In fact, until recently, I've probably identified with Eeyore more than Pooh - longing for the sweet taste of honey but stuck under a rain cloud that won't disappear. Postpartum depression is no joke. I was in a pretty dark place for several months after my youngest's birth. It was something unrecognizable, like a new dark shadow of someone whose face I couldn't see but whose voice was all I could hear. I couldn't explain my feelings and I couldn't shake them. I withdrew to the confines of my home and suffered alone. I would cry out to God but never listen for His voice. All I could focus on was my pain and the fact that I felt like I was drowning and losing myself to a dark, unnamed abyss.

I've always been a big dreamer. I have hopes and desires that have taken root in my heart and spread throughout my soul. They pull me and push me and drive me and inspire me. But during that dark season of struggle I could not see my dreams. They were a cloudy vision, turning to mist in a fog that had consumed my thoughts. I wanted to write. I wanted to paint. I wanted to create and inspire and laugh and find God's voice among the songs of the birds and His beauty among the blooming flowers... but I just couldn't. And because my dreams and creativity are tethered to my soul, I felt so lost and disconnected to myself and everyone else. I couldn't be a good wife or a good mother, or a good friend. But what I see now, as the fog is long gone, and the sun is shining brilliantly around me once again, is that my recent journey with depression was part of the preparation for what is coming my way.

The past two years have not been wasted. God is already using them. Even in the darkest moments, I continued with my Bible studies. Though I may have been broken, God's Word and training slipped through the cracks of my fractured heart and sustained me. God was equipping me - and still is - for whatever may come my way. My season of pain has been relabeled as behind the scenes work my God was doing and is still doing in me. I have sensed Him calling me to trust Him and I feel His steady hand in my life, reminding me...

"As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it."  Isaiah 55:10-11 

As I watched the shovel break into the blanket of emerald green grass, cradling it in its jaws and dumping it into a messy pile, I saw the past two years of my life personified before me. God was digging out the things in my life that needed to be removed in order to build something new in me. He has been making my heart fertile again, ready for the seeds He intends to plant there. Depression had shifted my foundation, and God has been strengthening me by breaking up the things that had taken root in my life that were not supposed to be there. And though it was messy and painful and I felt lost and confused, I am starting to see His vision gently unfold before me, with much anticipation, hope and excitement. I have learned a lot about myself, my needs, and my God these past couple of years. I know, because He showed me, how to take better care of myself. And I've learned that no matter how hard and painful life can be, the more I lean into the pain, the more I lean into His chest where His arms are open to embrace me.

The work that happens behind the scenes is hard. It's tedious, boring at times, and can be unfulfilling, confusing and discouraging. But as I recognized that which God was doing in me, I was able to embrace it willingly, shifting my focus from the difficulty to the hugely anticipated main event - when I can say, "So this is what all that was for, huh, Lord?" I've come to appreciate this season of learning, where I sit at His feet and press in, like an eager student, wondering what truths will fall upon my ears. And as He builds me back up again, I'm confidently claiming my identity in Him.

Abbie

I first met Abbie at the community pool. All the chairs that bordered the swimming area were occupied with damp towels and sopping wet kids, so I found myself at a picnic table in a grassy area apart from the commotion. Abbie was there too, with a cute colorful scarf wrapped delicately around her head. I knew who she was, instantly. Several friends of mine had told me that I should "meet her" because we'd be "instant friends." Our eyes met for a moment and we introduced ourselves and chatted. I remember thinking that her smile was amazing. I knew that my friends had been right. A girl with a captivating smile does make a great friend.

It wasn't until months later when she walked into one of my Bible Studies, that I had the chance to peel back the layers and get to know the girl behind the great smile. As her story fell upon my ears bit by bit, I felt drawn to her and the work I could clearly see God doing in her life. There are some stories that just scream at me - "God is here. He's at work HERE. Pay attention to what He is doing HERE." Those are the stories that pull me in, wanting to be close to the person who God is molding into a likeness of Him - because it draws me close to Him. And that is where I want to be.

Its a couple of years later, and her and I are sitting on my couch. Her youngest is climbing into her lap to play with her phone. I'm curled up with a pen in my hand, because the details are important. God is always in the details. And she pours it all out, with grace, love, power... and that smile.

I wasn't looking for a lump. I found it by coincidence, when Eli was only 6 months old, she begins. She took me back through the first weeks of her discovery. Through the first night she experienced with the knowledge that she had breast cancer. How she held her babies in their beds and sobbed, fearful of the unknown future, envisioning the letters she would need to write and the videos she would need to film so her kids could remember her, when she was gone. She took me through the days where she just cried and cried, mourning a loss that had not yet happened, not understanding that she could have a good prognosis. Then there were the days filled with tests and more tests which rolled into days after days of treatment. There was a whirlwind of busyness that left her demanding,"What is being taken from me?" But she only had her mind to wrestle with the answer.

And then there was the hair cut. A pivotal moment, as her hair was long and shiny and pumped full of prenatal vitamins. The physical landscape of her identity transformed before her eyes, leaving her caught in a web of change. Wigs brought her insecurity. Scarves served her better. But at the end of the day, I would look in the mirror and feel so ugly, she explains. She longed for her old self, but every day that passed as she pressed on deeper and deeper into her journey with cancer, left her feeling further from her self. She felt like she was in constant fight mode, anger simmering... just beneath the smile.

She fought, though, with both fists up and her whole self in the fight - and beat the cancer. She explains that though she was physically healed, she was still emotionally wrecked. The girl she saw in the mirror was not the same girl she knew when the journey began. All she wanted to do was go back to normal, be her old self, and claim the Abbie that once was. Jealousy consumed her, as she battled with the reality that the change that occurred only kept propelling her forward, not restoring her to her former self. The choice to have more children had been seized from her. Her short hair and her medications stripped her of her femininity. She lost control over her emotions. Her marriage suffered. She was full of anger that this had become her story. And her reflection in the mirror continued to be unyielding to familiarity.

She had been made new on the outside. But not the inside. Not yet.

Abbie couldn't keep going on fueled by anger. Eventually she came to the realization that she couldn't go back to the way things use to be, and she made a new goal - a goal to purposefully and intentionally live a new life. She found her way to church, through the invitation of a friend, and committed her life to Christ after she sat through the first sermon. She didn't like asking for help, but knew she couldn't do everything by herself anymore - the burden wasn't meant for her to carry alone. If she was going to claim a new life moving forward, she needed to let go of the old one for good. Motivated towards embracing this new life, she firmly planted herself in church and Bible studies and surrounded herself with people that would speak truth and grace into her life. And she grew.

God saved my life. He saved me from the depths of despair. I was about to go into counseling, but instead I started going to church. God saved me some money too. She laughed and stroked her little boy's head as he snuggled in her lap. I ask her how she has seen God show up in her life since she has invited Him to be a part of it. I see things differently now. My heart has changed. Now, as I wait for test results, I have hope... hope in a greater plan. God is also working in different areas of my life where I have been holding on to negative emotions, like my relationship with my brother. She pauses in thought. When people used to tell me their cancer diagnosis was a blessing, I thought they were crazy. But if it hadn't happened, I wouldn't have gone to church or met people who pray for each other. There was something bigger out there for me all along. This is what God chose, and it enriched my life.

I see Abbie with her son, sitting across from me, no fear in her eyes. No more thoughts of letters and videos. It began with a radical transformation on the outside. The Potter took the clay that He adoringly called ABBIE and carefully reworked it. He molded every edge, smoothed every lump. The clay looked different as He turned it over in His hands, however, it was meant to fulfill a different purpose now. The life of the vessel was changing too, and the proper changes needed to be made in order to accommodate His intended purpose for it. The exterior was transforming, as He worked and stretched the clay, paying attention to every detail. He took the old clay and made it new again, breathing life into every bit of it. And there He sat, admiring His work - a beautiful masterpiece reflecting His glory and sovereignty. His Abbie.

I see the beauty of Abbie's story in her smile. The way God worked through something so difficult and unwanted. The way He brought healing to so many areas in her life - through a physical sickness. The confidence that she has to share her story with others, bringing hope and sharing her faith. I asked her what she would say to anyone else struggling with emotional heartache post cancer. She looked at me and said with certainty, You're not going to go back to your old self afterwards, and that's okay. Cancer took a lot away from me, but I choose to be happy and grateful. I find myself in everyday situations, like moments where the boys are playing, and I close my eyes... and a peace washes over me. 

Abbie's story brings me so much comfort. Her life is a spectacular reflection of God's good work. And I am so blessed by her friendship and thankful for the lessons that God has taught her... so that she can teach me.

Arrows

When I was pregnant with my first born, Jack - nine years ago - I found myself praying for him in huge ways. I don't even think I prayed for myself in such a manner. I prayed for this unborn child to learn how to walk in the Lord's footsteps, to always point to Him in all that he did, and to grow into a man after God's own heart. At some point during my pregnancy, I came across this passage of Scripture, which forever shaped the way I prayed for all of my children.

Children are a heritage from the Lord,

offspring a reward from him.

Like arrows in the hands of a warrior

are children born in one's youth.

Blessed is the man 

whose quiver is full of them.

They will not be put to shame

when they contend with their opponents in court.

Psalm 127:3-5

I began to pray that my child would be an arrow in the Lord's hands - that he would be a weapon that my Heavenly Father could wield for His glory and purpose. As I prayed and dreamed over the precious baby growing inside of me, Eric and I settled on his name - Jack Ryan. We always loved the name Jack, and Ryan is Eric's middle name, so the spiritual and personal significance of having Jack share his father's name was important to us. We always want our sweet Jack Ryan to remember that he was made in his Heavenly Father's image. 

When I was pregnant with my second son, two years later, a Scriptural passage I had read many times was revealed to me through Beth Moore's Breaking Free Bible Study in a new, fresh way that made me smile and cry the moment it was unearthed. 

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,

because the Lord has anointed me

to proclaim good news to the poor.

He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim freedom for the captives

and release from darkness for the prisoners,

to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor

and the day of vengeance of our God, 

to comfort all who mourn

and provide for those who grieve in Zion -

to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes

the oil of joy instead of mourning,

and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.

They will be called oaks of righteousness,

a planting of the Lord

for the display of his splendor.

Isaiah 61:1-3

The Hebrew word for sent in the second verse is shalach, which means to send, or stretch forth. It also is the same verb used to describe shooting arrows to scatter the enemy, as in 2 Samuel 22:15. John 3:16 names Jesus as God's one and only Son. As I pictured God, in His glory and might, standing poised with a bow in His hands, taking aim at the earth and firing His one and only arrow, I wept at the way these Scriptural passages all intertwined so beautifully. 

The moment I became aware that I was having another boy, I knew the child was going to be a powerful arrow in God's hands. I felt, (and still do), that he would be involved in the mission field and embrace a lifestyle true to one of the Lord's warriors. Eric and I chose the name Gabriel for our second son, a fitting name for a strong, messenger of God. And as my eyes fell fresh on these verses, Arrow became his middle name. I want my precious Gabriel Arrow to remember who he belongs to, and what his mission is on this Earth.

My third baby boy came by way of surprise, after a year of trying to get pregnant. I had prayed earnestly for a third baby, much like Hannah did in 1 Samuel. It was a year of heartbreak and discouragement and confusion. And then God answered our prayers - in such an unexpected way. As Eric and I were discussing possibilities for names, I felt deep down that the waiting and the way God answered our prayers wasn't something to be overlooked with this child. God had a special plan in place for this baby, that I knew. Through the waiting, I learned how to discern God's voice. He was calling Eric and I say yes to something big - and used this period of waiting to speak to our hearts. The Lord used the year of waiting to shepherd my heart and teach me what His voice sounds like... so Samuel Shepherd became the name of our third baby boy. I want my sweet Samuel to know His Father's voice, and what a gift he is to everyone he encounters.

My three beautiful, strong arrows - Jack, Gabriel and Samuel - are a constant reminder of what God did for me when he sent Jesus to this Earth. I recently bought a necklace bearing three arrows - each arrow representing one of my children, to serve as a reminder of the blessing that they are to me, as well as how I should be spending my time with them. As I look ahead into a new year, one thing I know for sure - these boys have been given to me to equip, teach, encourage and discipline. Proverbs 27:17 reminds me that just like iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another. As I approach this new year, my goal remains the same as it always has - to build up the character of my boys so they are confident in who they are, trusting the Lord to guide them. May this year be focused on sharpening my children so that they may be sturdy arrows in His hands, unwavering from their mark, confident in their aim, sure in their journey through life - no matter who or what opposes them. 

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.