What Do You Expect?

I've been thinking about the radical way we celebrate Christmas, and how, as Christians, it seems that we place almost too much emphasis on the birth of Christ rather than His resurrection or ministry. Shouldn't Easter receive more attention? Why is Christmas such a huge deal?

But then I got to thinking about the age-old adage about Christ being the best gift you can receive at Christmas.
Have you ever received a gift that wasn't what you expected it to be? You open the box, look inside, and say, "Ooh... thanks... it's great." And you're not upset about it, you're not sad, it just isn't what you expected it to be. Hence, your response is polite and grateful, but not exuberant.
Then you take the gift home.
And you begin to use it in your daily life.
And you realize... this is a great gift! It's awesome! I really like it! And you think, "Man, if only I could go back and open it for the first time again and be as thankful for it then as I am now."

I think that's why Christmas is a big deal.

We didn't know what we were getting. We expected a King, and we got a baby. Not a bad thing, just... not what we were expecting Him to be. And so the response to His coming was quiet; grateful, but not exuberant; thankful but not overwhelmed.
Then He lived His life.
He changed the very nature of our communication with God.
He ripped open the gate between man and Creator.
And we realize looking back... He was a great gift! If we had known what He was going to do, how He was going to heal the sick and work miracles and reconcile the world to Himself through one ultimate sacrifice and triumph, we would have been shouting our lungs out in thankfulness. And so now we think, "Man, if only we could go back and see Him coming for the first time again and be as thankful for Him then as we are now."

The original gift is so incredibly important, because it contains everything else that comes after. Jesus as the sacrificial lamb was inside that baby. Jesus as the resurrected conqueror was inside that baby. The One who threw the stars into place was inside that baby. The entire scope of His revelation and nature was inside that baby.
That's an awesome gift.

So I am now wondering to myself, what is my reaction going to be when He comes again? Will I recognize the immense beauty in the gift being given?

The shepherds at Christ's first coming are usually the most talked-about visitors, how Jesus was first shown to humble workers instead of learned scholars. But what about the wise men? These men, highly esteemed and intelligent and noble, found the same King in a young boy's body. They weren't thrown off by it. They didn't take a look and say, "Oops. Guess we were off. We'll just take our not-age-appropriate-gifts and go away." They fell down and worshiped Him. They knew what they were looking for. They had been following His star, they had done their research, they had spent years of their lives pursuing Him before they ever saw Him. They weren't disillusioned when they met Him.

I want to be like those wise men. I want to prepare myself before He comes again so that when I see Him for the first time, I worship and give my very best. I don't know what His second coming is going to look like exactly. It might not be what I anticipate. He may not be exactly what I'm expecting. But I know He will be the best gift ever imagined, and I want to be ready to receive Him.

10 Reasons Why I Should Be the Mother of Boys

A few months back I read a blog post (someone please stop me from reading so many blog posts...) about a mother who was so happy she was the mother of boys because she was okay with their craziness and didn't worry about their injuries and enjoyed their antics and let them be wild soon-to-be-men, not like those moms who worried over scrapes and bruises. I read that article and came away deflated.

I'm not that kind of woman.

I don't get into wild wrestling matches where someone will inevitably get injured.
I don't think farts are that funny.
I'm not into hunting.
I'm not into fishing.
I'm not even into sports all that much.
I don't like mud.
I don't understand the fascination with destruction and violence.

I like my house clean.
I like girly movies.
I like having pretty hair and fun clothes.
I like quiet activities like reading.

Seriously, why do I have three boys to my name?

Well, after pondering the question for the last several months, I have come up with the following list of reasons why I am a good mom for my three boys:

1) I'm okay with being a girl.
Seriously, don't underestimate that one. I am glad my boys will see a female who (at least most of the time) is okay with the gender I've been given. I'm not going to tear myself down every day complaining about how awful it is to be a girl. In fact, I am going to work to be thankful for it, even proud of it. Because if they see that a woman can represent her gender with peace and dignity, maybe they will have more respect for her unique challenges and abilities.

2) I like girly things.
Hey, they need some variety in life, right? And when they at last find the female of their dreams, they will know what a curling iron is, and how to say, "You look very nice." Maybe I will even produce offspring who enjoy a good Jane Austin film and that will aid them in their quest to find said female of their dreams.

But...
3) I also like having fun adventures.
Talk is good, but talking while walking is even better. I like having fun. I like doing things. I like making memories through activity. This mom will do things with them and love it.

4) I'm a good cook.
The way to man's heart is through his stomach. Those teenage guy friends are totally going to say, "Let's go to your house... your mom is making food." Oh yes.

5) I'm not depressed about not having a girl. And I will say that.
I kid you not, I was asked, by someone who I'm sure meant no offense, "So were you finally blessed with a girl?"
Uhhhh... "No. But we feel blessed anyway." (For serious???)

6) I am not an overly dramatic girl.
I have my moments, but overall I consider myself mostly level-headed and not prone to freak-out dramatics and hysteria. My boys will grow up seeing that women can be rational, practical, and not dependent on manipulating situations through emotional over-reaction.
I also am not easily moved by drama. Truly. Throw your tantrum somewhere else. (Because boys can be dramatic too.)

But...
7) I'm also a sensitive girl.
Mass hysteria, not good. Emotional stone wall, also not good. I think I have a good shot at showing them that vulnerability doesn't have to mean weakness, and tears aren't just for funerals and injuries.

8) I'm not a germ-o-phobe.
Need I say more?

9) I'm a country girl at heart.
While my boys are young and fascinated with all things tractors and machinery, it's kind of nice to enjoy living in farm country. And I even know the names of a few machines, although they are rapidly passing me up in that knowledge.

Last but CERTAINLY not least:

10) God gave them to me.
If He hadn't wanted me to raise boys, He wouldn't have given them to me. I am uniquely qualified to raise my boys. I have been equipped to raise three in a row. I have the approval and indwelling power of Christ to do so. Sounds like a good enough reason to me.

But please, don't let my personal ra-ra list make you feel inadequate! What are the reasons you are the best parent for your kids?

A Man Had Two Trees

A man had two trees.

The man was not young. His weathered hands and wizened face had long placed him in the category with grandfathers and sages.

Today he sat in the rocker on the front porch, hands grating along the oak arms without thought to their pattern.
"Nothing much changes, does it?" The murmur seemed absent-minded.
"Sir?" The boy on the floor glanced up at him. His hair was skewed and brown. No other color for it, just brown. His eyes were too probing for one so young.
The old man cast a glance at him. "Life keeps repeating." Eyes outward again. "Cycle after cycle. Year after year."
The boy remained silent. Silence has a way of asking questions words never can.
The wind scurried across the porch, taking with it a few remnant leaves from the recently departed winter months. It smelled vibrant and alive, full of all the promise and desire born of dormancy. The dried leaves tumbled to a halt in the orchard just beyond the porch, joining the first blossom petals.
"Life and death right next to each other," he mused. His smile was rueful, not bitter. Gaze drifting over the rows of neatly arranged trees, he observed the transition from withered memories to blossoming promise. "Do you see that stump over there?"
He didn't need to gesture. The gap was obvious. The boy nodded once with eyes on the spot.
"The first one here on the property. As if she had always been a part of it."
The boy's eyes indicated understanding.
"I was so young." Again that smile, this time framed by genuine affection. "We were so young," he amended. "Full of plans and dreams and everything that was going to go right." His cracked palm stilled on the oak rocker. "She was beautiful in full bloom. Perfect in every way, this beacon of solidity for everything else to grow around. She was strong from the beginning, never needed to worry about sheltering her from the wind or hail. She put her roots down deep. Nothing could shake her. Every year she flourished, even in the dry year. That was a rough one." His brows furrowed.
The boy had to lean closer; the old man's voice was never raised, always steady and low.
"Do you remember her?" A tremor there.
"Of course." A stray hunk of brown fell in those dark eyes. "We had a tire swing on the lowest branch. I got in a fight with the girls over who could swing first."
A soft laugh. "I remember that."
"There's a picture of my dad in front of that tree," he offered.
Silence slid over the porch. But the boy didn't hurry him for a response. The wood in his hand received a few more whittles. The cuffs of his plaid shirt hung loose around sure wrists. Slow and steady. No need to make a mistake.
"It was the first day of school." Old eyes were on the distant horizon again. "He didn't want summer to end. So he went and hid in that tree house. Did you know there was a tree house up there?"
Slight shake of the head.
"Huh." More rocking. As if rousing from another thought: "We built it the spring he was born. We were so excited about the adventures he would have up there. Of course, it was years before he made use of it. By that time the orchard was filling up - row upon row of saplings in the shade of that tree. One summer there was this big storm, and a pine from the grove came down. It would have crushed the new saplings if that tree hadn't caught it on the way down." Quiet reflection as the sun peered out from behind billowing clouds for a brief moment. "That was what ruined the tree house."
The old man stopped rocking again. A deep breath. "Every time I look at that spot..."
The boy's eyes followed his. Shoots of grass were beginning to surround and envelope the remains of a stump. Soon the spot would be invisible unless you knew what to look for.
"It doesn't matter how much time passes - that empty place will make me think of her every time I look at it." Hints of a crushing storm gathered in the old man's eyes. "Every time I see a solid oak. Or a hand-made tree house." The last was almost a whisper as his thoughts retreated back inside.
"Or a tire swing," the boy put in, turning his eyes back to his wood work. Tears were shed more easily when meeting another gaze. The wood in his hands carried his emotions back to a stable place. Away from the still-fresh memories of the sweet woman who had taught him how to climb on to the tire swing on his own. Of how quickly it all happened. "I wish there weren't so many things to remind me all the time." His words were breathless and harsh. Maybe those tears weren't pushed back so far after all.
"You wish-" For the first time the old man turned a full gaze to the boy. Oh, those concentrated lines in his face as he restrained his emotion looked so much like his own reflection years ago.
A rebuke reached his tongue but disintegrated upon forming. Had he known any better? Not at the tender age of wood whittling and lolling for hours in a tire swing, feet and head on the same straight line, as an afternoon was spent recalling nothing but memories. Those dark eyes were still fixed, set - a challenge behind the glistening emotion.
"No," the old man said softly. His gaze purposed beyond the porch again. "Do you see another gap in the orchard, boy?" His eyes never left their distant focal point. He didn't need to look - he knew where it was.
The boy's gaze searched. At last rested. "There."
The old man nodded. "Not a very big gap, is it?"
The boy shook his head and returned to his wood with a small scowl. Not rebellion, simply confusion at being turned away from his own question.
"A man, a young man, planted a seed there." A pause. His mind's eye held the image of the tiny gap in the orchard. "There was so much hope in that little seed: the first of the orchard, dreamed of and saved for. Nights lying awake talking of the future. How that one tree would be the first of many."
The boy looked up at the old man's sudden pause.
The old man's mouth cracked open, but it remained soundless.
The boy looked again to the spot. "But?"
The old man searched, but the only words that came were the most straight-forward. "There was never a tree." A deep breath and resuming of restless hands on the weathered chair arms. "Planted and watered and awaited, but never seen to fruition." His lips pursed and his eyes began studying the chair arm.
Confusion flickered across the boy's face. A moment passed as he waited for clarity. Upon receiving none: "Why be sad about that? There are more trees now." Gaze on the full orchard. "It was just one tree."
"So was that one." A simple lift of his finger in the direction of the once-magnificent oak.
"Yes, but," spluttered the reply. Anger and confusion bubbling together in a cauldron of unshed tears. "You never even saw that tree. You didn't build a tree house in it or sit under the shade on a hot day or even eat a single piece of fruit from it."
The old man nodded. "You're right." Misty blue eyes locked into brown. "And that's what makes it the most painful."
Question bloomed again in his face.
"I never saw that tree bloom, but I imagined it. I never pruned that tree, but I had made every preparation to do so. I never enjoyed its fruit, and so," and his voice cracked, "I have no true memories of it, only unmet anticipation." At last his eyes acknowledged the gap. "I remember that great oak so many times a day it's painful to simply walk out the front door. But at least I have memories. I have a true and solid part of my life that can be recalled and revisited with gratefulness for the time shared. But that gap? There are no memories, just the longing for them. The wondering. The eternal question of what could have been, should have been... but isn't."
The wind had stilled. Warm sun rays replaced the breeze, bathing the porch in an embrace.
"Memories are painful," the old man told the boy, voice solid now. "But they're beautiful because you can hold on to them even after the pain has gone."
The boy's face was now serene as he continued to stare at the gap.
The old man studied him a moment. "Do you understand?"
A nod. Gaze still on an unseen object.
The old man returned to his rocking. He was surprised by the quiet voice that interrupted his thoughts.
"Grandpa?"
"Yes." He had never seen the boy look this earnest.
"Someday you'll have all those memories, but without the painful part."
The man couldn't see the boy anymore. All he could do was nod as he swiped at his eyes with his shirt sleeves.
The boy unfolded his already lanky form from the porch floor and took his whittling inside. The screen door clattered shut behind him.
The rocker began again, steady and even, as the sun cast a few more rays along the orchard.

Relentless: Thoughts on the song "Guns/Napoleon"

I'm not going to include the lyrics to this song, because you should really go and actually listen to the song before reading this. Or after. Or during. Or all of the above.

You know those songs that just "get" you every time you listen to them? Or, better yet, they continue to not only get you but grow on you the more you hear them?
Listening to John Mark McMillan's Borderlands album, "Guns/Napoleon" jumped out at me right away. (Maybe just because he used Napoleon in a song... it is a little bit of an awkward name to sing...) Whatever the case, I liked it. And then the more I listened to it, the more I liked it. And after having that CD on a somewhat endless cycle being I don't change the CD in the vehicle very often, I still like it.

So. Why?

God is relentlessly pursuing us. He is so relentless that He could easily be likened to a conquering soldier, invading our shores and breaching the defenses we have so carefully put in place, causing such overwhelming invasion that our only option is surrender. It sounds hostile, and yet... isn't it sometimes? I don't give up my territory easily - I fight and resist with all my energy to protect those areas I feel are "mine," that God should just leave alone. And yet He refuses to let me keep them. He pushes and pushes and advances until He breaks through. He is a force so powerful you can only watch with dread, knowing there is no hope except surrender. God is that powerful. He is that commanding. And, if necessary, that destructive. He can and will and does conquer us. There is no escaping His focus. There is no running from His advance.

There have been so many times I have screamed at God, "Will You stop? Will You stop poking at this area? Will You stop testing me in this? Haven't I given you enough of that? How much of me do you want??" I long for His retreat, and yet He refuses. He keeps coming. He keeps advancing. And He doesn't stop until He's gained my complete and utter surrender.

I hate how relentless He is.
I love how relentless He is.

Because while His invasion of "my" space is painful, it is exactly what I need.

"You fill the hollows of the walls
In the houses where I walk
You're hanging pictures on the walls
In the houses that I haunt"

What is it I'm working so hard to protect? An empty house? Walls that are damaged and bare?

He conquers, but only to bring life. He's filling up the holes I've just learned to live with. He's putting memories and beauty into the residence in which I've merely been existing. What I thought was a life, He is filling in with Life. What I thought was a perfectly fine residence, He is making it home.
He refuses to leave me in such a place as I have made for myself.
He refuses.
He will not let anything stop Him.
He will not be intimidated by my unwillingness.
He keeps coming on, like Napoleon.

And this time, I want to give up without a fight.

Rice Lessons

I hate cleaning up rice.

I don't mind making it. I love eating it. I love that my children love to eat it and it fills them up.

But I hate cleaning it up. All those sticky, tiny shreds of starch that you can't sweep because they'll just slime your broom and leave their remains on the floor anyway. Those deceptive granules cleverly camouflaged  in high chair trays and on dining room floors, just waiting for the opportune moment to attach themselves to your bare foot (gaaaaack! what is THAT???) or your sock (something is sticking... socks shouldn't stick...) or your shoe (Oh lovely... now it's collected friends). Yep, rice is just the pits to clean.

And yet today I found myself down on my hands and knees (creak, groan, lower pregnant body to the floor) cleaning rice grains off my kitchen floor. I probably could have avoided the situation if I had just made two trips clearing the table instead of attempting to pull off a balancing act in one trip. But no, haste was my doom.

And so I stood there, looking at the plate that was now upside down on the floor and the large radius of rice and corn that needed cleaning. And I actually asked aloud, "Really? The day is going pretty well, so let's just throw this in?" But I wasn't thinking about just the rice.

I don't know about you, but I hate not being able to accomplish a task quickly. It's probably why rice clean-up is so vexing. But it also applies to spiritual tasks. Yesterday I asked for prayer to be a better parent, and the very next day I expected myself to perform perfectly. Instead, I awoke to find myself human and flawed, just as I was yesterday.

Today I messed up in my parenting. I made the wrong decision. I took the wrong action. It wasn't even born out of a full morning of stress and hassle, it was just my natural reaction. And I became frustrated that I couldn't get everything right immediately.

Yet, down on my hands and knees, cleaning up the rice, I was given a moment of insight instead of shame. (Maybe that's what prayer does, not magically make me a better person.) The thought came to my mind that, instead of my journey as a parent being a quick sweep-it-up job, it's more like rice: it's slow going, you have to pick up each individual grain, and just when you think you got them all, one will probably get stuck to your sock later that day and be all nasty and squishy when you pick it off. But that's just the nature of rice, er, growth. No need to beat myself up. No need to give up and say, "What's the point of cleaning any of it up?" Just pick up the next grain whenever you find it.

My Life as a Loaf of Bread

Have you ever made bread from scratch? I’m talking the get-your-hands-in-there-and-knead-it kind from scratch.

If so, you will understand. If not... perhaps you are not a loaf of bread.

When you start making bread, it’s just water and yeast and a little sugar. That in itself is enough to make your house smell amazing. Simple, sweet, the beginnings of a good thing. Add in whatever else you want for flavor and texture, and then it’s time for flour.

The first cup or two mixes in quickly, turning the liquid into a batter. Then the going gets a little tougher, your mixer might start to complain. And eventually you have a lump of dough that is too firm for a mixer but too sticky to shape.

That’s where I was for a long time.

I’m a sensitive girl. Always have been, hopefully always will be. Sensitivity is a beautiful thing. But extreme sensitivity is not always the best thing long-term.

With the dough in this stage, it smells good, looks good, tastes good... but you can’t really handle it. It’s sticky. It gets all over your hands and requires perpetual flour dusting to make sure it doesn’t stick to your work surface.

I was functional. Looked fine, was even palatable to those around me. But if anyone touched me, pieces of me would come off. I remember feeling like every small hurt was a razor blade. Tender to others, yes. Unsullied by pain, yes. But also unaccustomed to pain to the point of not being sure how to handle it.

Now I’ll be the first to say that it’s better to have a loaf be too sticky and work in a little more flour than to have it dry and dense and a door-stop impersonator. But the point still stands: sticky dough sticks to everything.

Looking back on the last few years, I feel like I’ve gone from that ultra sticky lump of dough to a more manageable lump of dough. I’ve had some flour worked in. Yeah, that requires a few bumps and bruises and getting pushed around a bit. But I feel more workable now. I’m still tender - properly formed dough is soft and pliable and promises to rise into a fluffy loaf of gluten goodness. But I don’t stick to everything. I don’t feel in danger of leaving pieces of me on everyone that comes near.

I’m developing a backbone, but I didn’t replace it with a yardstick.

I can shed water, but that doesn’t mean I never get near water.

I’m soft, but I’m not going to stick to everything.

And that feels like progress.

Keep it Simple (Please)

This is hardly a new rant for me.

I'm sick of all the "sides." All the dissension. All the biting comments. The immovable opinions. The constant barrage of recently-revealed-revelations that are relevant to 100% of the population.

I'm sick of politics: Church politics. Friendship politics. Social media politics.

Seriously, can't we all just grow up a little? Or maybe... maybe we all need to become like children.

Since when did complicating everything become so fashionable? Well, perhaps since eons ago - just check out Paul's reminder to Timothy not to get involved in lengthy debates about genealogies. Whenever I read that I think, "Who would want to spend time talking about that?" And yet it was a badge of knowledge and clout to know such things back in the day; the scholars and "wise" believers of the day were the ones who could banter about the theology involved in genealogies. And before you go thinking, "I'm better than that, I prescribe to the hipster Christian messages which come from everyday people," let me say that I have read and heard many a falsely modest Christian who is oozing his own "humble opinion" from every pore. You don't have to be a rocket scientist, or even a moderately listened-to Christian, to have an ego.

So, getting back on track, what do children understand that we don't?

Maybe it's the lack of understanding that's the key. Every time I get bogged down in frustration, trying to make sense of this idea and that idea, trying to figure out who's right and who's messed up, I end up crying out, "All I want to do is love Jesus!"

Life in a monastery or convent never sounded that bad to me. Just me and Jesus, with none of that complicated world to get in the way. It's probably why He chose to set me on a course involving constant interaction - it grows me in ways seclusion never could. But I have to be careful to keep my compass pointing north: Christ in me, the hope of glory. It's who is inside. And that goes for everyone. (Way to put everyone on the same level, right?)

Jesus said, "Remain in Me." Oh, what a beautiful command. Just remain, that's simple. In only Him, that's simple. Don't misunderstand - by simple I do not mean easy. I only mean simple. It's not complicated.

I am not skilled to understand
What God has willed, what God has planned
I only know at His right hand
Stands One Who is my Savior

My Savior loves
My Savior lives
My Savior's always there for me
My God He was
My God He is
My God He's always gonna be

It's that simple. It's that straightforward.

And every time I realize it, I want to sit down and weep with relief.

Jesus, all for Jesus. It's always been Him. It always will be. Why complicate that?