Hush, Little Baby

     Hush little baby,

     Don’t say a word.

     The man touched you, sure,

     But let’s just ignore.

What’s done is done,

Speaking won’t solve a thing.

You think you need to talk,

But we like the silencing.

     Hush little baby,

     Don’t you dare speak.

     Standing up for injustices

     Will only make you weak.

If you become woke

Then what will we do

When we can’t rule the world

With the bottoms of our shoe.

     So hush little baby,

     Don’t you even breathe.

     Those people there in chains

     They don’t want to be freed.

They made their own choices

So just let them lie

In the state of their birth’s making

Until the day when they all die.

     Hush little baby,

     Don’t say a word.

     If you choose to rock the boat then

     That’s the end of our world.

So give me your voice,

And I will teach you to deceive.

And show you how lying to yourself

Is your only way to have peace


     Oh little baby,

     Your Father hears your voice.

     I see how you’re curled up

     And don’t feel like there’s a choice.

But oh my sweet child,

I’ve heard your unspoken cries,

And I know what’s happened

In the darkest of these nights.

     Oh my sweet baby,

     Come to Me. You can cry.

     And I will hold your broken pieces,

     Until your tears are all dry.

It’s okay my sweet child,

I’ve seen all the evils done,

And that’s why I’m holding you

Because you need to be the one.

     To go into this battle,

     With your head held high,

     And search out all of those,

     Who have been told not to cry.

I need you to hold them,

Like I Am holding you.

Show them My Love,

And tell them I’m coming soon.

     Because this is not forever,

     This home is not for you,

     There is a place being prepared,

     Where everything is made anew.

All the evil and injustice,

Will never come inside.

But all the judgement will strike

Against those who silence  My  children’s  cries.

     So don’t hush little baby,

     Yes, It’s okay to cry,

     They can’t hurt you anymore,

     For I Am by your side.

Rise up, little child,

And stand on solid ground,

For I gave you to this world,

To turn it upside down.

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Forty. Seven. Three.

Seven years ago, i started a journey of forty weeks. Forty weeks and a baby. Forty weeks and a life change. Forty weeks of being on two types of nausea medications because, well, one just didn’t cut it.

My first was born in February of 2010. My middle in October 2011. My last in June of 2013. Forty months.

Forty months and three tiny humans have entered the world.

Forty months ago my oldest turned three. And i was in round two of potty training him (long story for another time), and I had a newfound walker toddling around, and I was pregnant… and staying married felt like the biggest impossibility of my life.

Now, forty months later, and my youngest is about to turn three.

 

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Three is my favorite number. Or it was. Before my children turned three. The twos may be terrible, but the threes… well, the three’s will threaten your very existence as anything resembling a sane human being.

Three year olds haven’t just discovered the word ‘no’- they’ve discovered they can center an entire universe of a household around their very selfish souls. They’ll do things they wouldn’t have dared to dream of doing six months ago, incredibly self-absorbed things. Because they need the bubbles now. And they need food now. And bedtime can happen when they say it can, and reading a story doesn’t cut it anymore. Read five. Then sing a song. While tapping out a soft shoe.

Now snuggle.

And cuddle.

And go and get that book and read it again.

Basically, three year olds are the rulers of the toddler terrorists. They set the rules and you best d*mn well play by them. Or those Candy Land cards are gonna get it. …and how do you feel about an overflowing bathroom sink?

You can’t catch all of them. So you repeat, under your breath, and maybe over their angelic sleeping faces,

You may have won this battle. But I will win the war!”

And so you struggle and claw your way back to some sort of sanity. Maybe you stand at the top of the precariously drawn cliff you just peaked and survey the wastelands you’ve wandered and struggled through over the past forty weeks.

You hope and pray you will find a way to do the right thing at the right time just once. to make a breakthrough in your child’s life. to bestow upon them some rightness in their next steps or future steps.

you close your eyes and hope one day you can be the obedient child who enters into the place you are called to be and by doing so can be Hands and Feet and Light… and do it all right.

That’s when I realized – and maybe you do too(?) – I play the three year old with my Heavenly Father.

There’s a tiredness which arises in a season of waiting. It will seep into the sinews of your soul if you aren’t careful… and when a door needs to be kicked down, you may find yourself slumped down against it, a wailing heap on the floor, begging for someone to just open it for you.

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There’s a resurgence period. When forty months leads to forty weeks of gradually regaining more to life than surviving the day to day. When dreams are remembered and passions are stirred and it all just seems to be waiting for you to take one.more.step. – smash the window… knock down the door… step through and step out of the waitful wandering…

It’s a process and that’s for certain. At times it may just feel like you are going to drown in the gradual slowness of it all. And you might just find yourself being a three year old. Again.

I have this insane calling to write a book, and how I see it at the moment is an enormous amount of time, thought, emotional and physical energy… and no promise of any recompense at the end of it all. I could finish and that could be that. Years of stories coming together in a few hundred pages may very well end at the end of writing it. It may go nowhere past that. In fact I’m kind of betting on it. … and hoping it doesn’t at the same time.

I have a dream to foster and adopt children, and bring them into a sort of refuged haven- away from any and all sorts of abuse and hardships they have faced in their short lives, and just love them in as safe a space as I can provide them with our family.

I long for a move to take me away from the heat which torments and destroys my body (literally), and a place which provides an easier year round interaction for me with my children. Because i just want to freakin’ enjoy every minute with them. And that isn’t easy when you’re constantly battling a heat and sun sensitivity causing the world to spin around you and your skin to feel as though it’s about to melt right off your body.

So i dream of finishing a novel. And adopting the daughter i’ve prayed over since i was eight years old. And living somewhere i don’t have to fight and struggle with my own body just to participate in life with the children i’ve always longed for.

I think we’ve found our dream home. And we only have a little over half of what we need for a down payment. So… donations welcome. haha, 😉
In one week and three days we will celebrate our baby turning three. And yes, we actually will celebrate. Because, despite the fact we are entering his “three year old” stage- we’ve already survived the three’s twice over, and i have little doubt we will get through this too. I mean, technically, if you think about it, turning three means he’s finished his third year of life –he’s actually starting the first day of his fourth year the day after he turns three … but… semantics.

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children may just teach you your own childishness

and we are all just children. the all of us here.

children.

yes, there’s a reason we’re not called God’s “adult-children.” and having children of your very own will teach that better than any writings or vocalizing on the subject.

children scream

because when those days come we get to hear God’s words through our mouths and watch our reactions in the faces of our children.

we question their refusals and rebuttals.

their disobedient acts and their flagrant disregard.

and disrespect.

their wandering hearts and their fickle emotions.

pirate tuck

we see it all.

i see it all.

i feel the hurt of it and the anguish. the desperation to get them to understand that what i ask of them is ultimately for. their. good. 

they don’t see the tomorrow that we see. a day filled with adventures and plans – which in turn requires a good rest the day prior in order to enjoy the activities of the next to their fullest.

and there is no reasoning  with a toddler.

we are asking them for something that is severely precious. anguishing to relinquish. and guarded ferociously.

their trust.

i am honestly not quite sure why we haven’t obtained it yet.

you’d think after all of the middle of the night feedings and diaper changes… the stroking of sick backs… the cleaning of sheets and clothes… and the fact that no matter how long it takes to get a meal made, they will still get fed… that we would have earned the right to be trusted by our children on all accounts.

without question.

despite all of the provisions and all of the gifting. there is a lack of trust.

of complete trust.

perfect trust.

and the belief that the child’s way will yield the best results. better than those of the parent. yes, that.

Tuck leap

you’ve seen a tired child. i’ve seen a tired child. that middle of the day meltdown where it’s so ridiculously obvious that poor kid is exhausted out of its mind- trying to control the laughter- while at the same time running down how to actually convince that child of the fact. you as the parent, or caretaker, or just keen adult observer, know this child’s needs.

most children don’t think they need sleep though. most fight it. i have one who viciously fights it.

i’m talking this kid gave up morning naps when he started to crawl. at five months.

he gave up afternoon naps when he started to walk. at eleven months.

and we did cry it out. sleeping in bed with me for nap-time. you name it, i most likely tried it.

he would scream for fifteen minutes. pause for one. then scream for fifteen more. and repeat.

for over an hour. 

he probably could have gone longer. but i couldn’t.

daddy Liam snuggle

there’s no reasoning with a baby. or a toddler. my kids aren’t at the other ages yet. but i don’t hold out much hope. because when i reflect back at my own actions with my own Heavenly Father, how much worse am i than them?

because i can understand not fully trusting another fallible human being.

but the Creator of the Universe? the One knitting together of DNA into marvels? miracles and life abounding from His touch? and my very breath evidence of His very Grace? what is the reason for not putting my trust wholly in Him and His Holiness?

why haven’t i been able to teach my heart that the more i seek the Joy in Christ, the more i will be in-Joy. en-joy my life. my children. this grace gift given at highest cost?

mirroring my attitude of child to the King back in my mind- i see all too well the screaming for my longings and fleeting desires. all the while He stands bent over stove and agonizing over what He is making for my life to become.

with calm voice and gentle hand, He repeats to me, “I am working all these things together for your good. for My purpose.” (Romans 8:28 paraphrased)

Liam toss

we teach our children to ride a bike with training wheels. looking to the day when the training wheels come off and the child flies off on two wheels and a grande feat accomplished.

one of the firsts.

and not the lasts.

us parents are already looking to the next.

we labor over the learning of letters and numbers. singing alphabets and counting to ten… so they can write their names and count their ages. for starters. 

why then do we not believe that Christ is working in us? that every refining moment has a purpose-  equipping us- readying us- for when we need those tools we will also need to know how to use them.

that is what this life is.

all moments that lead to deeper and more. all purposed and planned. diligently. intricately.

and we are meant to enjoy it all.

trusting in Him. naming the grace-gift of this life. and its moments.

even when our children are red-faced and refusing to rest their weary selves. even those moments can be a refining fire.

 

tuck's lashes

so may i encourage you as i remind myself- to not miss the opportunity to be refined. it may not be what you are wanting. but it may be what you are needing.

(a good way to tell when you are in the midst of this? when you feel like throwing a tantrum yourself. generally that means you are being told to obey a Father who isn’t acquiescing to your requests. and instead insisting that He knows what is for your best. And isn’t that just so incredibly good? Hard, yes. but GOOD.) 

What IF: we became a generation willing to suffer…

So- What IF?

what if every single person cared so much about every. other. person. in this world and those to come that they wanted to come along side the poor. the hungry. the homeless. the orphaned

 and gather everyone up into this same. standard. of. living: 

…mentally?

…physically? 

spiritually?

when it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of Heaven- and maybe that man is in reference to us? – that the standard of life we live here in first world countries is considered the wealthiest in the world-

and, yes, that does in fact make us the “rich” of the world. 

And then does it start? Those immediate defenses that spring like geysers – those mental images of that handful or group of others who have more or do more or spend more than you ever could or would or do– spring to mind?

and that makes you any. less. wealthy. ? 

And what if wealth had no actual meaning in regards to earthly endeavors and possessions but solely those that are for eternity and His glory? … And are we wealthy then?

Are we being the true last?

Are we serving the orphaned?

… the widowed?

… the sick?

… the lost

And when the preacher is standing at the pulpit on Sunday morning and your blood starts to surge through all of those depths, because just YES that is where you want to go- those unreached people groups– that your heart is so pulled for that that you end up ignoring the fact that you are where you are in this season for this time- that His reason for keeping you somewhere will be the same as His reason for sending you over oceans.

That calling to live the Gospel- waiting until His plan and timing reaches utmost perfection– and you may just board that plane with a solitary one-way ticket – the lost just as much there as they are here. 

And we are living in His timing now

And if God provides all the needs for His people, why do we not see ourselves as being a part of His body as a provision?

That He has provided us to do His work.

That His work may in fact be something that puts us right in the middle of suffering?- 

That despite the friend, the parent, or even the stranger who looks at the sacrifices and the sufferings of your life and declares “Enough!” – they are in fact not God? – That you are in fact NOT here to do their will, but rather you are here to do His will and obey His commands? 

And oh are we missing this!

For those who look at the orphan crisis, human trafficking, or even just the general third world conditions that exist today- and sit back, “broken hearted” and. do. nothing.- 

 

My son recently opened a fortune cookie. Delighting in ever crisp piece he placed between his lips- humming to himself that song of lovely contentment…. when he handed me the little rolled up white piece of paper.

Tiny printed black words, which I was expecting would read something along the lines of: 

“Fame and fortune will soon be yours.” 

“Something lost will soon be found.” 

“The sun always shines after the downpour.” 

“The star of riches is shining on you.” 

But instead read:

“No one would remember the Good Samaritan if he only had good intentions.”

After researching this fortune I discovered it to be a Margaret Thatcher quote, the second part of which is “He had money too.” But we do have wealth, in abundance, both in the Gospel and in this first world life-style of ours! … so what is our excuse for not #endingitALL –

All the abortions?

the deaths

the lies?

the poverty?

the starvation?

the sickness

the thirst

the abandments?

the slavery?

the brokenness?

the abusing?

the unreached

So how do we sit here, in our air conditioned 21st century lives, and be just plum okay with Satan having a freaking playdate with all the lives of all the lost? 

And what if we weren’t

What if we lived, actually lived, the Gospel?

What if we lived in submission to God’s will for our lives, instead of our loved ones’ wills for our lives?

What if we up and stopped trying to please others and rather focused solely on pleasing Him?

What if we actually loved the Gospel so much we were willing to suffer for it?

What if we did something to #enditALL that required more from us than just clickinglike?”

 

entry twenty six

And do you seek God when you already have all the answers?

when the doctors say “do this.”

when parents say, “avoid that.”

when esteemed speakers say, “follow this.

and you would not believe the violent wrestling within my heart of hearts. on days like these.

the hours   d r a g.    s   l   o   w.

agonizingly slow.

like the second hand is pricking the senses until the exhaustion sears white and through lips.

for years like these. and the begging aching of no more babies carried by my body, oh please, no more pregnancy. the sickness of nine months and the desperate angry exhaustedness that comes with their tiny perfect pinkness.

Lord, I cannot do this another time. But, I’m not going to ask You what Your plan is in this. I see how You are using these tiny humans to break me and mold me and cause me to cling white bare knuckled to the all of Your hem. But, Lord, I’m done. 

And I am.

My flesh, my desire.

And there it is.

And desire does not always fall in line with God’s desire. And if He is Good… well, what does that say about this desire of mine, if it in fact is not of Him?

And there’s the struggle

My black and white laws of processing the orders of this world in accordance with His Word, they fall. short. And I am at loss.

 

Something I am afraid to truly surrender at the foot of the throne?

I pray about it.

But I don’t surrender it, not    f  u  l  l  y .

so then is it praying? This grappling? 

See, I have these dreams still, silly me, of how my life is supposed to look- in the next five years. And nothing much of where I thought I would be five years ago is where I have found myself in the today of this moment…

So here I am… not. learning. a. single. thing.

The surrender is hard. The exhaustion is bitter. The word “sleep” echoes haughtily through my mind, a cruel joke.

And the deprivation of sleep creates the black hole that will swallow and shorten and downright run you dry into dust.

everything takes on an enormous ferocity. panicked urgency. and a stain in a carpet can just about upend your day before it even starts.

and the focus narrows, and suddenly all you can see is dark. and to forget that the dark can be holy.

That when you find yourself clawing for a way out of the black, you may find there is a reason you are already on your knees.

And the baby cries, and the emotions run hot and cold and all together polar. the tears run streaks down your own cheeks til you can’t see straight anymore. and as the mind begins to feel so far lost you don’t think you will ever find it again, the brush of His hand.

The sound of His feet.

You’ll feel, hear, and see Him as these moments fade into memory. As you look back at these darkest moments.

And if He has been there all along, is He not who to go to when you might have everything all right wrong?

And if what we do makes sense to the world, are we truly doing all right?

Letting go just might be the hardest of things. until the fist unclenches, and we let ourselves go from the sinking pit. maybe when we unclench our fists,

and release our dreams,

H e   w i l l    b e    a b l e    t o    f i l l     u s      u p     o n c e     m o r e   ? 

And His dreams may cause a rest to the wrestling.

And peace may bring the sleep.

 

entry twenty four

it’s the black and the white of the world and the do’s and don’t’s and should’s and shouldn’t’s all begin to stop making perfect sense all of a sudden. and how and why the stress of something fleeting can fill up the mind and burst from the mouth?

why the tired of the day yields to the exhaustion of the constant and comes out all anger and ugly? why women need more sleep than men? or we’ll get mean. when the hunger sneaks up through the midst of perfect child chaotic mess of a day,

and the ugly

it.  just.  retches.  itself.  all.  out.

before it can be swallowed back?

when there’s so much love and yet none at all– and the thought of no longer hearing the tantrums and the tired sits okay enough within that the thought of leaving it all behind doesn’t seem horrid but pulls pleasant?

and you, you thought you were made for motherhood but all that fills you is resounding failure. that at the end of the day, what was it that was accomplished that won’t need repetition the very next day?

And tens of thousands of times after

and it all wears thin.

and naming the grace gifts have been far from me. held off at arms length.

the race pulls at me and all i look for is the ending and the gentle soothe of knowing it is all over and i am all done. and the wanting that it won’t come fast enough.

and i am at loss.

for the desire may be good, the looking for the eternal, but it’s in such a desperation that it leaves all loathe for the place i find myself in … the here. and the now.

and how is that glorifying? and do i even care?

i want to whisper the thought – has my heart become so tired that it too has turned to all ugly? 

can i not wake long enough to name the grace that surrounds and abounds.

infant child “nu nu” sounds

young son’s desires to be as big brother

big brother desires to be baby once more

and the thought process there… oh son… you too will grow… and growth is an awfully big adventure. and sometimes it may feel all awful, that’s true. but the grace, it’s here, son. and the joy that comes from fully giving of a thanks that fully fills… to experience that, son. I pray you will live the majority of your life experiencing such a joy.

but that means you have to continue to grow. and the growth will be good. it will be hard. and it will end good.

our flesh is incredibly weak, child. and the pull of this world is wickedly sweet. but bypass the happiness to find the joy, you will find no regret there.

and here, when the desire for sleep leads to the demanding for rest and when respite is refused… to name grace. and when this feels like the hardest thing, to give thanks for the exhaustion. to give thanks for the crying. to give thanks for the never ceasing constant serving cycle of the day.

and maybe it’s time to rewrite the black and the white according to the serving of Christ that does not make the perfect of sense to the outside looking in.

-and to be okay when it’s met with the backhanded whispers and the shaking of Miss Manner’s head.

-when entertaining people may be bringing them into the realness of what is instead of a facade of something that’s all together perfect tidy.

-to fully relinquish that which causes stress and to realign priorities.

for the   eternal.   to.   matter.   more.  than the clutter that will burn and fade to nothing. 

 

entry twenty three

And the eyes ache. And the human patience has its limitations. And when eyes are pushed, and patience trembles, and all inside wants to shout out and curl into tiny quiet places- because does a woman ever have just one emotion?

and it’s all right about to be ruined.

It feels like dropping a ball over and over and over and over again… and the ferocity of it all makes me want to pick up each of these orbs and instead of catching them one. more. time. … just throw them like hot potatoes as far and fast away from my nervous system as is humanly possible.

because it hurts.

there is ache and exhaustion and a constant state of servanthood is not an easy supplication.

and the cry of my heart is to be as Christ like as possible… and with the opportunity to give all of myself on a daily basis, here I am wanting to run for the hills.

To be Maria on the mountain top once more- and to think she never would have come down if she had only known she would end up being a mother to seven.

And children are blessings? And everything for good?

And the baby screams instead of accepting sleep, and screams for days. and weeks follow slow. and this is blessed?

I sit mother over child. I stand and sway the unable-to-be-soothed-babe against my chest, and hold tight when it hits hard. For my mother heart knows the eyes need rest, and the body is weak and it is weary, but the boy-full-of-sobs doesn’t understand and he builds up defiance deep within his lung fibers, releasing bellows of indignation right to my face.

And how often do I scream at God? I am pleading for something I am not receiving, and does He not hear? And how as Father does He not just silence it all right then and there? For we are but children, and are unaware of what it is He is preparing us for, of how He is trying to give us exactly what we need in this present time… And in that black pit of the depth of my heart, am I sitting here thinking i know better?

“Shhhh” is the sound I give to my child. Eyes red and swollen, circles formed deep underneath. And more often than not I believe are faces bear similar markings of just right exhaustion. Or maybe we are fighting against the thing we need most. When we cocoon within our own commiserating and refuse to let in the light which might just warm us through to the very tips of our being…

the holding of grudges, the withholding of grace. forgiveness. thanks. we deny joy, and cling to the rot of our own misery. And we stand against the Father and declare we know better. And it all, all of defiance, may in fact sound like a tired defiant infant child.

And then thankfulness may fill up the heart and overflow out the mouth for the realization that the perfect Father is the one standing over this time- this life- and He. is. Patience.

Just as we want to give our children every good and beautiful thing- He gives us all good- all of Him– for all of us, and of that good there will always be enough.

And the baby quiets, the sleep-suckling takes over, and there is grace. and He is here. And we can rest in Him.

entry twenty two

Just watched this video.

And it brings the topic to my heart that catches in my throat and threatens to drain me of all physical and emotional strength. To watch that and not feel emotion… I don’t think it’s possible. Then to realize that this child’s life was birthed into this world when he was in his second trimester of life- still within his mother’s womb… and how children’s lives are ending so violently… at this same age and earlier.

by choice.

How we the church don’t seem to be doing enough to stand against this?

We are beginning to hear the call of the orphan and that of the poor. The widow. Those fatherless many. The street kids. Maybe it’s an easier call to answer because there is always someone to give money to who will then go forth and love on these who so desperately need it.

Maybe we don’t know where to step in.

So we may occasionally line an abortion center.

And shout out in masses for a few days.

 

Or stand in a prayer line.

But does anything really change in our day to day knowing that human. lives. are. ending. in the thousands. on a daily basis?

It’s where my heart strings knot. Blood pulses fast. Runs right ice cold. And muscles tremble.

As I feel as though I am not enough. The cries to God and the clawing desperate of the throat for this to just right this world upended and end this all. That I so desperately long for a switch to flip to just stop this mass genocide going on in our cities. in our country. on our continent. in our world.

Is the church failing? Why do pregnant women choose this?

Is it because we are “promised” a life that we can have and be whatever we want? The shows and books and magazines and articles that blind the soul as they proclaim a person can succeed– and we live our lives by the world’s definition of success? To have laid out before you everything you have been promised- but a life comes in and messes up the “perfect”, so it becomes a choice?

What if we revolutionized the definition of success? And we took the excess out of its entirety?

What if we let our children realize just how true it actually is that giving is so infinitely better than getting? To hold onto the blessedness that comes with dying of ourselves…

And why does it seem so contrary to cultural beliefs to realize that, when faced at a crossroads of a life you desire to live verses another life desiring to continue to live– how    b  l  e  s  s  e  d    that experience will be?

and how exceedingly full of pure refreshing joy to-serve-of-us truly is – if we could just show that to others – to teach that to our children and the generations being raised up…

If we could emphasize – because we actually believed – that the conception of a child is a wondrously glorious blessing- absolutely regardless of circumstance– That yes, there is more pain and more suffering if a person chooses to have such intimate relationship (to enter into sin) with one they are not in a covenant relationship with – and how a child’s life is never a sin.

If we taught our children to protect their purity of hearts and their love for others- if when a relationship involving premarital intimacy is discovered we would be saddened and upset by. the. action. of. intercourse. infinitely more than we are concerned if they are being “safe” – because what message is that sending to their child-minds? And what is the true take away there?

-I actually have yet to hear of a girl who gets pregnant in a Christian home where the parents don’t emphasize the fact that obviously the daughter wasn’t being “safe” enough because look what happened- which. is. not. the. sin. the baby is not the sin. But is that what is being taught in the church?

Why does the one innocent in this time receive all of the disdain?

If no woman ever felt shame for carrying a life within herself…

If the church – the city – the country – the continent – the world – could rise up as one and stand for our humanity.

Something so precious.

So sacred.

I have so many thoughts on this – and every paragraph can be formed into at least a chapter of a book – and maybe those pages need to be filled.

But can we start to teach our children differently? Can we see sin as sin – and a child’s life (no matter the circumstance of conception) as the exact opposite of that? Is it possible to separate the two when we talk to our children?

It’s time to stop living each day with a refusal to fully acknowledge what is going on in the here and now. You’ve read about genocides in your history books. This is so much bigger. And it’s right down the street. It’s within miles of the Church.

 

And it needs to be over.

It is time for every child to be given the gift of life. And for every mother to feel the blessing of her newborn’s skin nestled safe against her chest. As the child falls asleep to the sound of mommy’s beating heart.

A life is a life no matter how small- and if you believe God is the Creator of all- Who made us to be the salt of the earth- can we not be warriors for each child’s birth? 

 

*disclaimer note- in case it is not clear- I do believe that premarital sex is a sin. Having experienced it first hand I am a huge advocate of choosing to wait until being one with your spouse. But that being said, all have sinned and have fallen short of the glory of God. And if this is an area where you have sinned, are sinning, there is forgiveness at the cross. Just as there is for every sin committed by any person. My argument here is that when a person becomes pregnant as a result of premarital intercourse- the two acts are looked at as sinful, and there doesn’t seem to be a true and honest separation between the act of premarital sex – the sin- from the conception of life – not sin. 

entry twenty one

It filled the empty space and then moved as if it would push through the very trees and barns themselves.

Fog.

And not the eerily, creepy, fallen at dusk and full moon type… No, this was a heavy blanket of woolen mist. And it settled deep amongst the all of nature.

Still. Inviting.

The kind of kindness to light a morning fire and stay all day immersed within it. And there I was speeding my car down the grayed highway- when suddenly 75 miles an hour was 75 miles too fast. 

The pull started strong. And it grew ever stronger. This startling desire to park a vehicle and just race to the center of autumn woods that lined the empty road. To stand in the midst of that thickened air and breathe it deep… into. my. very. existence.

I needed a calming – one to rush forth and hold me fiercely. For my heart was racing ahead of my chest and my head was only slow to understanding.

My thoughts? Those all fog too.

And God does not just give you what you can handle, for what would the point of that be? And how would that be for His glory? So he gives you much and then gives you more and then stands there for you to place it all back at His very feet. And there, sitting prostrate at the throne of the cross, can you begin to see it?

Breathe in.

Sigh deep.

It. Is. Good.

And how the everything can be ever-good, and how He does not waste one single thing? Even the smallest, most insignificant and inconsequential of things?

When the ever-pouring of the day gets relinquished from my hands, poured out at His feet- when the clinging to the cross so tightly sends splinters to the very core of my soul. and His overflowing of all grace-joy rushes through my entirety.

And I can rest in the truth that God is always here. And He is always good.

And the fog, it will always lift up.

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“We won’t stop confessing He is good and we won’t stop thanking Him for grace and we won’t stop holding out our hands — and taking His hand. We won’t stop believing that “God is good” is not some trite quip for the good days but a radical defiant cry for the terrible days.

That “God is good” is not a stale one-liner when all’s  happy but a saving lifeline when all’s hard.

And we will keep giving thanks, yada, yada, yada, because giving thanks is only this: making the canyon of pain into a megaphone to proclaim the ultimate goodness of God.”- Ann Voskamp 

entry twenty

apple harvest. pumpkins. boxwood wreaths. crackling logs.

the crispness of autumn. the wash of refreshment colliding with bare senses. and it lightens the heart.

i’ve been told this does not ring true for every soul who experiences it. and that is such a sorrowful thing. for a breeze that sweetens the air sweetens into the very depths of me. i am passionate about the beauty that draws me to Him. and i could talk into long hours of darkness of how His creation stirs within me a deeper longing to know more of who He is.

and perhaps it is all me alone in this? that when autumn leaves shake down from trees ablaze in amber hues, my soul wants to rush the winds and meet Him in the race of it all? As though when the year begins to end that is when things are stirred into action. and slowed into gratitudes.

when we render thanksgivings and unite in the delighting of the end-of-year fruits…

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How we close each year in celebrating His coming as one lowly babe here to save us all from all our sin?

And how does the changing of the leaves and the gathering dark of the days not make one pant with desire to be huddled in close to His Word? The year’s ending brings us within doors to rest in front of fires, with mugs of something that warms us to the toes, and curl up close in everything soft- all just to be able to bury deep in a written living Word.

When white begins to blanket the hillsides and the trees have turned barren, and how can you not think of it all just up and ending? And so it will.

And the Savior’s returning. And this Grace here. This Joy now.

And how can this not fill one to the depths- this rosy cheeked, frosted breath, crisped freshness that surrounds us and bring us all in close?

when we allow ourselves to get gathered right up in the chaos of the season instead of the celebration of the season, and allow that panic to come right into our homes and burrow deep instead of immersing deeply in the Reason for it all.

when less is more just doesn’t make sense to the worldly cognition. and when generosity just doesn’t have a role to play within this life.

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maybe that’s when the steps need to be taken back a bit. and the childlike joy found in the changing of the months’ tides needs to be rekindled. when the realization of just how much you get when you give needs to be anthem-ed out and set ablaze…

feel that crispness penetrate through the skin and deep into lungs, and don’t be afraid to smile when you just. let. it. all. go. 

because that is the very start of how to beg in– it’s in the letting go. in the whisper of the freshly fallen leaves underfoot. in the apple’s juices ready to be relinquished. so too may we relinquish the juices of Grace and pour forth ever generous the blessings of the every day and those to come.