becoming - continuing the ramble

it is part of a becoming, isn't it?

i am not now, but I will be.

the words that spill out are so much dross from silver being refined.

...

i half wonder what my readers must think when i leave up posts such as i have written recently, when i so publicly display my questions and worries and doubts about God. if i have so many issues, it seems miraculous that i should believe Him at all.

or, that might be the point.

that i do believe Him, even when i feel i can't act on it. here i live, human, daring His wrath because i dare to trust His love that provides me such grace to fall. not that i want to fall. it is grace to fail too, grace for tired and trying to do too much in my own strength. grace to let me learn to look first to Him instead of wishing Him away.

which i spent much of yesterday doing as He reminded me to be gentle with pip, to not heap burden on burden - oh, how i want to hold things over her right now! i wished God away, wished His love away, because i wanted to be angry.

...

and i spent today in pursuit of an empty hope. it was so stupidly shallow i won't bother writing it here (do you see, there ARE things i hold back for embarrassment!). pete offered me more understanding than i could give myself - he said, "it's something you could look forward to that isn't what you always have right now."

i try not to duck. but i have been ducking. trying to perfect this and that and - did you notice that other thing? i've worked on everything from favicons to icons to buttons to watermarks in between discipline and nursing over the last few days. the shame of it is that i don't feel i've accomplished anything at all.

it is silly for this restless heart to try to force its own rest.

...

i have been shutting things out. trying to still the roaring in my head. trying not to look at ________ or at _________, trying to remember that they didn't start where they intimidate me now, realizing that they must have had some sort of becoming too.

tonight i let it go for a while. quit trying to think it out and make it better. went to "wommuhtt" with my family to pick up some dinner and a "huggabugga" (piper loves going to walmart; she saw a wendy's on the way and asked for a hamburger). i watched some scrubs with pete (when he wasn't policing piper) and talked with bredon for a bit (he loves his conversations with mama).

do you know, b has the sweetest poochie lip i've ever seen? when his daddy is holding him and he sees me, he pulls it out and lets me have it: "mommy, how can you let this man hold me when you're right here?!"

i value my dinner times. they are shorter than they used to be. i'm adjusting.

...

so i am neither here nor there; it has not yet been revealed what i will be when God is finished with me. the seed must fall to the ground and die before it can live again and bear much fruit.

i thought the dying was done. i hoped it was over, anyway. it's so... uncomfortable.

yet it is also beautiful, blown by Spirit-wind from the stem where i cling into the current of God-love known and God-love lived as i test this newest trust.

crucified, yet alive. a piercing paradox from a Master who became a servant, the Life who died, Love Himself who was hated by those He loved.

i don't have a heart for God, not lately, not most days. my own passion waxes and wanes, and i find it waning this week. He requires so much of me, it seems. still, i sense His heart for me, and i feel hope that i matter to Him, that He doesn't simply work in spite of me. i wonder if my prayers do make a difference to Him, if they are more than basic conversation or vending machine access, if He really wishes to take my heart into account in how He works out His plans for me.

you know. the plans for a hope and a future. the plans He has for His people.

plans. not wishes.

plans.

...

i'm not okay with sitting here, deciding i've arrived and this is the end, so i'd better conform to the highest ideals or accept my utter failure.

but i'm okay with becoming.

there's lots of room for hope in that. room for beauty. i feel silly admitting how i want that, how it has nothing to do with my outward appearance and everything to do with a quiet, God-stayed heart He is growing out of scar tissue.

my words seem to spill in what seems a long sigh - sometimes frustrated, sometimes tired, sometimes easing into rest.

He meets me here, too much for me, enough for me to approach Him for mercy, for love, for rest.

I Am who is I Am takes my dross makes me real like Him.

Yes, I am becoming.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

unsettled

I am blur and shadow lately. There is not much clear in my head; other things are more pressing than figuring it out.

Things like settling into our new house. Like spending time with a baby who is more awake than he was. Like fixing boo-boos against my toddler's will. Like learning to discipline her.

Learning to love them both, even if my love makes no difference, even if they push me away instead of seeking me out.

It is not the house that leaves me unsettled - since we moved only three streets over, we just transferred our things into their new rooms and didn't worry too much about boxes. And we have extra storage here to hide things we don't want to deal with yet.

Still, things feel choppy. Restless.

...

I revamped my blog the other day. Do you like it?

I should rename the thing "This Restless Blog Template." But it seemed to go with moving house, and I'd meant to do it for a while. I wanted less clutter, less distracting, something to give my photos a chance to stand out a little more without being overpowering.

I love the look. It's peaceful. Quiet. Unlike the noise in my head. Unlike the noise in my house and two lines on a blog post between interruptions.

...

The other night, I stayed up late after everyone was in bed. Wrote a few emails, caught up on my blog-reading. Thought my own thoughts and realized I am not as easy alone as I used to be. When I went to bed, I looked at Pete and saw me married, looked at Piper and saw me her mama, looked at Bredon and saw myself with a son.

Is it odd that I am shocked by it? As my own version of "what I want to be when I grow up" fades from view, I become an observer. I am not the me I was, not the me I thought I'd be.

Life happens with or without me, and sometimes in spite of me. Somehow, whether it comes in my way or in its own way, it comes if I am ready or not. Sometimes I try too hard to grasp time that slips too easily through my fingers like so much sand. I try to do more and be more, and I have more limitations than most.

...

My life is not all about me, but I am human, and we humans are the main characters in our own stories. Sometimes I don't notice the supporting characters in the midst of my own struggles, characters who are their own main characters in their own stories, however ancillary they are to mine.

But I have been seeing them, peering outside myself, observing me through other eyes, trying to put myself in their shoes.

I don't want my life to happen without me. I don't want to stay frozen so long that I miss the others the Author has placed in my story. Yet with that desire comes a knowledge that I must not do when God wants me to wait; I must not speak when He wants me to listen. Eternal God knows more about the work of time in hearts than I can imagine, and there is a time for everything - no matter how pressured I feel to make everything all right today.

I have never wanted to be "Supermom" or "Superwife." Living predefined roles is counter-intuitive to me. It means doing many things "the hard way" because I don't do anything by halves. God knows that. My yes is yes and my no is no. Too many years in between made me double-minded so I didn't know what I wanted. Now, He takes me slow into His will, renewing my mind, strengthening my heart to do within His grace sufficient.

And God knows this about me too: once I know something, I know it. And I am accountable to Him for it. So He does not ask me for everything at once. He remembers that I am dust; He promises not to break a bruised reed.

...

He knows how I struggle to keep up with the changes in my life - is all of life transition? What is it like to stay in one place for years and years and know all the same people and go to the same church and marry someone you knew when you were five and have kids with all your best friends?

I wouldn't know.

And I almost don't want to know. I don't know how to be that settled.

{This} Restless Heart - a name I stumbled on after a blog switch a few years ago when someone I didn't like was reading my words and commenting on them. I liked the romance of the phrase, the quote I had to go with it - I had no idea how it would come to describe my heart and my journey.

...

There are two deep things that I can see Him doing in me now. I don't know how to define them, because I don't know His end. I stand at the edge of something new, wondering how long the churning will last, staring fascinated at the whitecaps, trying to gain my balance. Looking down is dizzying.

...

One deep thing has to do with Piper. She is heavy on my heart now since my visit to my parents' house, since listening to their counsel, since acknowledging the thing I've been afraid to acknowledge, the hard thing, the coming-out-of-hiding thing I've been avoiding. I am learning to see her. To do more than react. To love her differently. I am learning what needs of hers to release to God, learning what needs I should be meeting. I am learning to listen - to her and to Him.

...

The other deep thing has to do with people. Specifically with other believers.

I read through the second half of Revelation on our way home from my parents'. There is an endless stretch on I-26 between Columbia and Charleston that makes for some very solid reading time.

As I read, I found myself overwhelmed with the amazing picture of God presented in Revelation. The Holy God who will endure sin no longer. The Alpha and Omega - the one who will finish it all. The triumphant Son of Man reaping the earth with the Word of God, the one who Himself is named the Word of God. The inescapable wrath of God that will supersede all platitudes and nicetudes and drive people to curse Him and be destroyed. The perfect justice in His judgment, long-deserved.

I am awed at that God. I love that God. I wept as I read, realizing that it is not for me because I am in Jesus. That before this God of wrath and judgment, my testimony is not "Jesus, but..." It is Jesus Christ and Him crucified.

It is finished.

And I am not afraid.

But when I face the prospect of walking into a church, of interacting with other believers, I am terribly afraid. There are voices in my head, lies long-believed, unfamiliar, frightening images of a graceless God who demands perfection as long as someone has a paintbrush in hand to wash my dust in faded white that pales in comparison to the light.

White that this photographer knows must disappear in the bright, for His glory exposes more than we imagine. Really, it is the Light that makes even the dust beautiful.

...

I stand on the edge, wishing the clouds away, but half-glorying in the storm and the wind and the blur and the shadow. My arms are opening. My eyes are opening in spite of the rain; I am learning again to love the wildness in this restless. It is passion. It is intimate. It is something I am doing with Him, something He is doing with me. I walk a path no one else has walked; no one else can walk for me.

I am unsettled lately, changing - yet I am deeply settled too. I don't understand it, but I'll take it for now.

...

I have no idea how much sense this post makes; it's the first real opportunity I've had to sit down and process anything since getting back to Charleston after my week in VA. I'm just thinkin' for right now. Thanks for bearing with me.

...

AND as a completely random aside, I'm a finalist @Greeblemonkey's March photo contest. Please click over and vote for my photo: "Learning to Breathe."





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

I Am Not Pregnant

An abrupt statement, I know.

A relieved statement.

A definite answer after a week and a half of days that were weeks long for the lack of one.

I drove four hours yesterday for the answer after a local OB/GYN refused to see me because I had done a home birth with Bredon.

I know I promised part IV of my God-love story today. I know I may not have time to write it tomorrow before the cable provider comes and moves our service to the new house.

Which does not yet have a working kitchen sink.

We are hardly packed.

We have no one coming to help.

My husband is working early and late at the office.

I have three loads of laundry begging a folding. I have another two loads to run.

I have cried often lately.

I am overwhelmed. I am barely moving today.

Pete is sick, too. I think he may have walking pneumonia. Not that he'll go to a doctor. Not that he has time.

There is no way out but through, like labor, like life. I can't turn off the things that come at me, no matter how hard I try. And I can't run away, as much as I want to.

I don't think I could have guessed that my life would ever look like this. When I left home, I could run my Mom's house for her, manage the eight of us kids, cook meals, do laundry, take care of her goats, keep the house clean. I used to do it. Why can't I do it now? I write and take pictures because I have energy for little else. Why does it take a force of will that is greater than I am to get me up out of my chair?

The kids are fed. Their diapers are changed. They are clothed.

That is all I can manage. You can imagine what my husband is doing. Pray for him, please.

I don't think I am writing for sympathy, so please don't offer. I'm so befuddled; I'm just trying to figure out what I'm doing today, and this is the first quiet moment I've had since 5:30 this morning when the baby woke.

Someone is praying "wherewithal" for me today. She pressed God for a word to pray for me. Strength, healing, and wherewithal.

Does that mean that He thinks I can do this with Him?

Paul said that the secret of his contentment in any circumstance was that he could do all things through Christ who strengthened him.

When the rubber of my faith meets the road, how much do I truly believe God will come through for me, for His own glory? Especially when we are told to glory in our weakness? What does His coming through even look like?

I am a physical person. My needs are intensely physical. It is part of being dust.

I am worrying about tomorrow when God is speaking of me today to someone else. What is He seeing to for tomorrow that I don't know? I want to know. About twice per hour these last few days, I conclude that I cannot go on, I cannot keep living like this. Grace only goes so far, I think to myself. I have to get up and DO something.

I don't laugh much right now. Bredon does. He giggles already. He invites me into his happy. And Piper... I can't knock her fun out of the park just because I don't have energy to clean up after her. But I cried on the floor after taking those pictures. Because I just stared and stared for an hour before I could figure out what to do to clean it up.

I used to keep up; why not now?

I know God loves me; I know His love doesn't mean that my life will be perfect. Or easy. But it can be honest.

As I was crying over Piper's powder, washing her in the tub, bathing Bredon while I was at it, I thought of my own mess. The mess that is my life right now.

Messes get cleaned up.

But sometimes, there are more immediate needs.

Needs like deep trust-growing. The sacrifices of God - bruised reeds and broken hearts. Wherewithal - "That with which to do something; means or supplies for the purpose or need."

I think the wherewithal is not for the physical today. I need it for my heart. To hold on. To thank God. To be satisfied that He is enough; to believe and rejoice that He is my reward.

I wish that I were the sort of person who would draw near to God without having my own strength stretched so. But He has given me much; I am rich in know-how. It is hard for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Being poor-in-spirit; that is something I am learning. The poor in spirit get the whole thing.

Paradoxical, this faith is. Choosing impoverishment to gain such Treasure as cannot be imagined. Dying to live; believing without seeing.

God becoming man.

It is not the meeting of my physical needs that settles my heart.

I am not pregnant.

Unnecessary as the weight was, it is gone for now. It is not much. But it is something. Something I feared. Something God did not allow.

He could have. And He could have been strong for me in it. But I am so, so glad He didn't. I hope it is okay to admit that.

...

I will share the unfinished Part IV of my love story next Thursday. Sorry for the wait. It's an ongoing thing. I expect you get that.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

White.

I'm doing the picture thing this week. The words aren't coming so easily. I can't even read very well; I'm miles behind on my blog-reading.

There are various reasons. Bredon is becoming more active, Piper has been sick, we have medical appointments four out of seven days this week. My Google searches would tell more, but I don't feel like sharing.

But I've been taking pictures at least. Looking at pictures. Spending less time at my computer and more time doing other stuff. This other stuff, it's important. It makes me want to be quiet. To be white, for a while.

I'm not keeping up so well. It feels like we've been sick for months - really, it's been about two months, though, since Bredon was born. One thing after another, and Piper threw up this morning.

So I've been removing myself from the loop. Not Twittering so much or posting so much or reading so much or emailing so much. Ann Voskamp's auto-response gave me courage to let go... I've been resting, instead - well, slowly learning to rest, learning where I can let go, starting over again at the "I have nothing to give" stage and changing my priorities again. And again, and again. The schedule keeps changing.

I've never done anything like this before, this mothering-two thing. I used to be afraid that my dolls would be jealous of one another if I spent more time with one than with another. I imagined they fought over who got to sleep at my right side. It's even scarier with children.

Tomorrow, I'll be posting part three in my God-love story. Today, I'm doing laundry and dishes and house-cleaning. Assuming the little guy will let me have a hand free. The baby-wearing just knocks my back out...

Huh. There is a period after my title, "White."

I want something that finished. That clean. Maybe it's the photos. I'm tired of shooting around the clutter. I'm constantly looking for white space to frame my photos - maybe that's why I shoot so much macro - the details are cleaner than the full, messy picture. It's a challenge, making the mess look beautiful. I focus on the parts, rather than the whole.

That says something interesting about me, I suppose.

At any rate, I have to get back to my mess. I'll leave the clean and finished for the blog.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Love Today

Wednesday.

The week is blurred on both sides; it is only the moment that comes into focus, like a permanent shallow depth-of-field.

I hear the windchimes outside the house that will be ours for only a few more weeks. Already, we are moving stuff three streets over to our new/old/new house. Pete needs to put in the lighting there. We need more hours in a day.

But the windchimes are singing here today. Loudly. The wind that blew out the clouds overnight and brought the sun in this morning is determined and cold, frolicking as if spring is here, teasing.

I'm a little disoriented. Wistfully disoriented, I think. I feel a bit trapped inside my body today; I am annoyed with my physical limitations. The world is blurred. I am awkward. My legs don't work very well. Neither does my voice. I am weak today.

I've cleaned my inbox, quieted enough to string answers together and reply to a few letters. I don't sleep well in daylight so I haven't napped; I slept until 9:30 this morning, because Pete stayed home to help with the little ones. Now he is feeling ill, and the babies are sleeping.

Finally, I am alone with my thoughts.

...

Wednesday.

Ann Voskamp is hosting her "Walk With Him Wednesday." I have been thinking of how to love like Jesus, but all I can scribble here (is it scribbling to type the words, really?) is vivid memory-etching from Sunday's dim-lit worship, nameless faces, hearts indwelt by Christ.

He came to be me, came to be them, that we might all be washed in grace, clothed together in His righteous. I don't know them. I didn't have to know them. I didn't have to be hurt by them or forgive them to recognize Him in them.

The Motrin has eased the throat-pain now. I try not to be distracted by the fresh chill. I turn up the heat.

Ann has written of love during her family's sick time. I didn't know when I began this post. "One can't love too much," she says. But one can love too little. I am not good at this sort of love. Giving or receiving it. Both require stepping outside of oneself. And that is hard to do, when I am falling apart, body and mind.

But not soul. I can't remember the last time I felt well. I pull myself up, remember my mom's encouragement - "endurance," she has offered me many times. "Sometimes, you just have to get through it."

She is right. The living cannot just stop. Time goes on. Needs don't go away.

I wish for someone to bring a meal tonight. I think I can manage it, though, if I stand long enough. I need to get it before the baby wakes again to eat.

The loving can't stop for weakness.

It endures, doesn't it?

I remember the strep infection I got when Piper was four weeks old. I had a fever, 104 degrees. I was barely conscious, still waking to nurse her, burning hot flesh against my husband in bed, freezing too deep to get warm.

This is not so bad as it was then.

The sun is setting. Day is nearly finished. We'll be up for a few more hours with Bredon's colic now.

...

Wednesday.

Loving like Jesus. It must be done here, in the now - whether I am ready or not. This is how He loved. His eternal God-love met with flesh-limitation, and He sought rest too, bearing burdens, yielding His body to meet our desperate need, giving His life as He traveled with no place to lay His head.

It must be done in today, this loving like Him, leaving yesterday's failures there, taking no thought for tomorrow's grace not-yet-measured.

This love seems stronger than all the other times I love. It is life-giving, life-laying-down. It requires much, more than I know how to give; I grasp what strength I have and hope He will bridge the difference.

And if He doesn't? Well, I know about that. That's when I free-fall. That's when trusting His heart gives me strength to say anyway that "God is good, isn't He?" Sometimes that is more of a question than a statement. And sometimes it is just what I know, because I know His love deep now.

...

Wednesday.

The learning to love like Jesus happens quiet. It is not glamorous like I'd hoped. It is daily, kairos framed in chronos.

Kairos because it is outside time, because Christ-love never fails. Kairos because Jesus is God, God has no beginning or end; God is Love - I cannot fathom the infinite.

I grab another water bottle from beneath my desk. I need to keep drinking, swallowing help over my sore throat, so Bredon can have enough to eat. It is nearly dinner time.

Time to love, I think.

------------------------


This post also linked at Holy Experience for Walk With Him Wednesday.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Drive-By Shooting

a rather battered white,
our once-replaced CRV begs replacement again,
chattering,
chugging,
chirping.
the chirping, I think, cannot be a good thing.

but away we go,
chirping along to pick up fresh vegetables,
babies in back,
camera in hand,
limping along
in our tired CRV, and we watch
out the window to see a good thing.

and we find it - we do, but
we're going so fast as to almost miss it, the
light on glass,
silver on green,
sky on ground-water.
but we don't quite; camera shutter is fast
and the good thing chirps home with us.

long after the car stops its chirping, I think
I hear it still in my soul, perched
with feathers
and yellow
and hope
to open my eyes to grace-captured good things.

my fast-paced two months gone,
life spinning on and passing my eye-lens
too fast
too slow
too something
and now I feel older than I was, older than I have been,
and sometimes I forget the good things

but for the chirping drive-by.

-----------------------------

Written for L.L. Barkat's Random Acts of Poetry prompt at High Calling Blogs. Leave your own poem in a comment at her blog, for a link and possible feature at HCB.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Rhythm

This is my afternoon sunspot. I sit on the bed for our afternoon nursing, or rock in my glider rocker and watch the sun and talk to baby.

We've settled into a rhythm here at last, and I'm starting to add little things to my day. Laundry-doing so my husband won't have to do it on weekend. Sitting in sun to play my little-used piano, remembering God's faithful as I sing songs I have sun before, as my fingers remember their place on the keys. Picking up around the house, planning meals, answering emails, returning comments. Making time for necessary conversations, for reaching past the comfortable, for choosing vulnerable and welcoming tears.

Sometimes, on the hard days (I've had two this week), I have to make myself stop. Sit down. Breathe. Recognize that no matter how much I do I will not be able to accomplish all I have planned, all I feel I need to accomplish. Let go of the me I think I should be and remember with God that I am dust, that it is His Spirit in me that gives me strength for anything, His grace that must be enough for my not enough on every level.

It helps me. He is my safe place now. There is rest I haven't appreciated before now.

I am sick on top of sick on top of sick right now - a cold and cough on top of yeast on top of gall bladder on top of lyme - I guess this is what happens when you're not sleeping so much. It's always kinda cool to me to get regular sick, the kind that runs its course. It's an odd thing to be thankful for, I suppose, but there it is.

My new computer is almost here, and I will be able to play with the pictures I have taken: Piper's silly, Bredon's smile, his first bath, our new fish, my bright tulips from last weekend's grocery run. I filled an 8-gigabyte card with photos and started another.

And we have a new dream now, one that is coming true, one that will change and freshen things, a new home and an easy move three streets west, with one room that is full of light now and new floors and new paint and two bathrooms instead of our one and four bedrooms instead of our two and a garage for the cats to play. It's not much on the outside, and we had refused it months ago before they removed the fireplace and added a sliding glass door, a wall of light, but now we can't turn it down, this offer for some safe from Pete's boss, from God-who-provides.

I squirm a little to admit that I have already considered that we might have room to have a third and even a fourth little person in our world. I squirm because Bredon's birth is still fresh in my memory, and who would willingly put herself through that kind of pain again? And yet the life...

Every day, I hear echoes of my own birth cries, remember me helpless against the shocking pain of transition, remember how I cried out to God - at God - or against Him - or for Him... Some feelings cannot be defined; some moments can only be remembered, never described. But I know what the earth feels, how it groans to be subjected by His will. I know its travail, the sound of its cry. Even so, come quickly, Lord.

He is near to me now, and I can't define Him or pinpoint Him - I just know it. I have quiet joy, peace I don't understand and I look at it and touch it gingerly and try smiling and it doesn't disappear, not even when I consider that bad things happen and dreams get deferred and hearts get broken and kids scream and laundry piles up and things are just hard sometimes.

That is my light right now, the bright that insists on piercing the dark that haunts me, that has been here since before my baby was born, in the questions, in the frustration, in the fear that God would not come for me. I haven't lived this before, this free.

It is a lovely rhythm, this. It is not too much. It invites even more.

I love that.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Glory - A Ramble

Spring starts in January here. I love that the warm weather doesn't wait, that we get to breathe spring while the light still carries its gorgeous winter roses around.

It's our third day sunny since our last bout with clouds. My eyes chase the light still, trying to save it, satiate myself with it.

Sometimes I think that I will miss the sun when God creates a new heaven and a new earth and lights it all up with His glory. I have never seen His glory, so I scrabble through dust after familiar beauty, beauty subjected to frustration because of me, because of Him, because of hope.

I think it will be like a smile, like waking up to my baby's happy, when his eyes light up as he sees me and he grins big. Or like saying "yes" to my Piper when she wants something special from me and her eyes dance with excitement and I miss her regular color because there are so many other colors sparking around in her deep eyes. Or like looking deep into soft, bright brown love that spills over innocent and deep and full from my husband's heart.

How can I describe light, describe glory? Words are not enough, not in any language. Perhaps aching on my knees, raising up my hands, closing my eyes, turning my head toward it to feel it, embrace it, welcome it, welcome Him...

I wonder what Jesus remembered of His glory when He came. I consider today His suffering, the dust He walked in, the dust He became, the dust He loved in loving us. He traded glory for sunlight and moonlight, for sorrow, for fellowship in our lives here.

How homesick He must have been, acquainting Himself so intimately with our grief.

Becoming like Him means becoming less, but not in the way we think it, not in the way we try to shut us down and ward us off in pursuit of His perfection. Becoming less - it means imitating Him, turning away from our own familiar light, choosing dust, choosing human, letting God be God - embracing the weight of His glory in our weakness, in our foolishness.

I think I can see it in my heart sometimes when I am broken, every knee bowing before Jesus, the Son of Man who is the Son of eternal God - who set aside His glory, who made Himself nothing, who humbled Himself before us - US! - and died. Eternal God chose death and died like us, died for us, bearing all the weight of all our griefs and sins and sorrows.

Even He knelt before God and asked not to bear it, but "Your will, Father, not Mine..."

I learn to yield. I learn that obedience results not from subjection or domination but comes by way of submission, by way of humbling, by way of opening my empty up to Him, offering my vessel-dust to be filled with glory.

Sometimes I think I'll miss the sunlight. But I have a feeling I won't notice its absence for looking at Jesus.

Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus:
Who, being in very nature God,
did not consider equality with God something to be grasped,
but made himself nothing,
taking the very nature of a servant,
being made in human likeness.

And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to death—
even death on a cross!

Therefore God exalted him to the highest place
and gave him the name that is above every name,
that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord,
to the glory of God the Father.

- Phil. 2:5-11

(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Metaphor

New Orleans.

Everywhere, you could see lingering evidence of the storm. Whole apartment buildings stood gutted. Water marks crawled up walls, seeking disguise beneath mossy grime. Houses that had been homes stood empty, windows shattered, gone. There was a boarded-up Walmart that was missing its sign. A Burlington Coat Factory with a Baby Depot hosted only shopping carts in the parking lot. Car lots with spanking new vehicles boasted only temporary or damaged signs. We drove over Lake Pontchartrain on a bridge that had been patched together.

After the storm, there was talk of abandoning the city. Leaving it a ghost town, a silent, eerie memorial to Katrina's wrath. So many were killed. So many lost everything. So many chose not to return.

But some did return. There were new houses, new siding, new landscaping in neighborhoods that still housed condemned and destroyed homes. The city's French Quarter was packed with humanity and gridlocked traffic around the famous Café du Monde. New Orleans was hosting some rather important football game in which fans for both teams wore red and white. And parallel to the patched bridge was a new bridge being constructed of pieces from the old.

At first, I didn't notice the damage still visible in New Orleans. Like any other city I have visited, I was first struck by the character of the city. I could taste its wildness, its passion, its pain, its memory. As we left the city, however, I saw. There was an ache that brought tears.

Aftermath. That was the word. The word that focused the emotions of my journey, my personal storm, the word that focused what I was seeing all around me. And then, hope.

After every storm, there is life. Not everything dies. But the damage - that stays. Unless someone returns to restore it. Unless someone rebuilds what was broken. If someone can see hope for future in the ruins of what was, even what was can be raised again to bring life.

There is no measure to time out the aftermath. It is what it is, and each day is a new day, when piece by piece, old bits of rubble may be gathered, removed, salvaged, turned into something new. It will never be what was, but then, who knows yet what it was meant to be?

...

I ran across this post in my archives the other day, first posted in January of last year, and I thought it bore a repost, which I often think when I reread my old writing after a while. This, of course, got me to thinking that this must be some sort of shameless, narcissistic self-promotion, and I wondered if anyone else felt that way about a favorite post of theirs.

So I decided to turn my self-promotion into an other-promotion opportunity and give you a chance to link up one of your favorite posts from your archives. Yes, this is your chance to promote yourself too. I am being an enabler. I hope this is okay.

When I get my computer back, I'm sure I'll come up with a button for this, but for now, just repost your favorite on your blog today with a link to my blog and drop the permalink into the MckLinky below before Sunday at 11:00 p.m., EST.

Oh yes, and be sure to leave me a comment after leaving your link - just so I know you're here!

If it goes over well, I'll make it an every-other-Friday feature.

And for a promotional bonus: next Friday I will feature a shout-out to a favorite from the posts left here, in addition to my own repost.

...







(Image © SXC)

Jesus for My Children

He makes my small hands look large with his tiny.

Sometimes he looks up at me when I'm doing something or saying something, and I look down and catch his wide-eyed wonder.

And he smiles. Just for me right now. Goofy smiles for giggling. Happy smiles for flying. "I want to stay up smiles" that come by night-light late when I'd much rather be sleeping than rocking. Smiles that make me feel so loved when he meets my eyes as if he is talking to me, sharing his little happy heart.

I think he likes me.

This amazes me.

Already he is growing. Already his skin is losing that new-baby softness. Already his weak is stronger, his eyes are brighter, his voice is louder.

My heart is planting dreams, hoping stories for my children, for our family, praying laughter and conversation and silliness and dancing and happy and together-growth. I picture my children talking to each other, saying one another's names.

Names that we chose for them...

I imagine Piper's first crush, Bredon's first ballgame, girls' night out, boys' time...

I think we should get a dog. A family needs a dog. That would really annoy our house cats. They would so deserve it.

How will I talk about Jesus with my children? I am only beginning to learn. If you ask Piper who made her, half the time her answer is "Mickey Mouse."

She is a silly.

We read to them before we go to bed. We go to bed at the same time right now, with Piper needing her normal and Bredon up late with evening colic.

I want them to know about God. To know how He makes me who I am, who I don't realize I am until I think about it.

I realize it takes courage to stand in Jesus and say "I am human; I am justified. I am dead to sin and alive to God now." I have been gaining that courage to live so free.

I feel so very young sometimes. So unready to be the mother that I am now.

I notice my hands as I hold my children.

They don't know how small I feel. They don't know that I am only me for them because of Jesus loving me.

I think sharing that love with them doesn't have to frighten me. It is just His bigger hand on my tiny.

Every day I pray for grace.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

southern frost

winter here is
gray
shot through with color
except
on some sunny mornings
(and on some cloudy mornings)
when cold is
white,

an unsoft white
pinching color.

then winter here is
gray
except for brittle,
scattering-light-and-melting
white
that isn't snow

like childhood without
wonder

...

I miss winter, real winter that comes from brown and gray and barren trees etched black against a rose-gold sky, the kind that paints every color of the rainbow into white down coverlets and transforms night-black into silver-blue.

But that is just me. I'm getting over it. This year, winter is incidental, except for its intrusion into my home with the cold that is colder because I've lost 25 pounds of baby and insulative water weight. Christmas was almost incidental. Our tree is still up because we've not had time to take it down, because I like its position in our living room, because the Christmas lights are just so comforting.

Yesterday, Pete and I braved our southern frost for a foray into Charleston, a photography trip for freezing and finding the sun on freezing flowers that were still blooming in a cemetery (thanks to a God seeing to it that the even lilies are clothed - in splendor that belies the finger-numbing, nose-encasing cold). It was hard not to get swept up into it. Pete had to drag me away, and then we ran back to the car.

Even with company in town, our days are shorter, lived up in little practical things: a clogged toilet, finding some delicata squash to replace the potatoes in that recipe (who replaces potatoes??? Oh, the things I have given up for my husband...), changing diapers, sorting maternity clothes/nursing clothes/work clothes/everyday clothes (I have four wardrobes, did you know?), waking and sleeping and waking and trying to wake, and planning meals and grocery shopping and using paper places so there aren't so many dishes, getting my computer repaired... It is a good time, a frustrated time, a fast time, a slow time. Ecclesiastes never explains that the times for everything can be all at the same time, and to live this without trying to control the times or change the times or legislate yourself to keep up with them means that nearly every moment is full of something, and isn't it beautiful when you realize what is happening?

It is so good. Seeing my husband with new patience for Piper, finding another ounce of strength to give I didn't know I owned, the triumph of beds made and dishes done, the laughter of my daughter with her grandparents, the soft, warm cuddling that comes between the crying, the trying that I haven't tried, precious gems of conversation and I love you and I love you too... It is so hard, but it is so good.

In my anguish I cried to the Lord, and he answered by setting me free. The Lord is with me; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?
- Psalm 118:5-6

Indeed, what can man do? Or toddler or baby or time itself - or the lack of it?

There are so many words in my head, in my heart, courage offered and received, prayers given and heard, comments from friends who know and from friends who are glad that I know, praises for pondering and proffering and sharing in another day when time is not so expensive as it is now. I am taking it all in, pouring it out here where you can't see and I can't write, and there is color and there is wonder in this frost-pinched cold world of mine, color and rescue and patience and learning to trust and live when I don't have a prayer for a plan.

I am so glad for winter mornings, even here...





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Do I Really?

The deep depression I experienced after Piper has made me consider more this time how much I need to be connected. I've been on my guard against it, taking my pills, using some gentle hormone therapy. The writing is a guard as well, a way to push out of the anxiety, put swirling thoughts down, get things out of my system. I try to remember so I don't forget the ones I love this time, so I don't miss them.

The thought crossed my mind yesterday, "do I really love God?"

I spend so much time thinking about Him, I must at least have a crush. But just as with my crushes, I am reluctant to come out and say it, say that I love God. It sounds funny coming out of my mouth.

I hardly say that I love my husband sometimes. I get embarrassed.

But sometimes when the days are hardest and nothing seems to be going right, I look up, and there he is Pete giving, or doing, or being - a good and perfect gift God told me he was long before I fell in love with him - and my heart would explode if I didn't at least whisper to him of my love.

And I've been saying it a lot lately.

I wonder if he will be there when we come out of these early days with little sleep and lots of change. I know neither of us will be the same. I think many people just live their way through this and accept the changes that come. We think about it as we go, though, and cling a bit harder to what we were.

But we're parents of two now. Last night, Piper was in her own bed for a while, and for a few short minutes before sleep claimed us, Pete and I laid together and held one another without a baby in between. I felt like a married woman.

How does a woman go about being a helpmeet for her husband when there is a new baby in the house, when her heart is going through so much, when she feels fragile and shell-shocked and uncertain? When he is at work and she is at home, when the babies have needs even at night, how does she make a place for him, give him the life she longs to give?

I realize I have been unconsciously setting me aside; I am afraid to need my husband - he is doing so much, and I want to offer him a place to rest that seems impossibly out of reach. But oh that ache for him that is constantly there...

I think it is something like the ache I know for God sometimes when He seems far away, the one that draws me near to Him to look up into His face for a moment, just to be sure of Him.

My love is so very limited in its scope. God Himself is love; how can I expect that any real love would be comprehensible, reproducible? No, I think the only love I can have - for God or for my husband or for my children or for anyone in my life - must come by way of His Spirit in me, and I wonder if perhaps I will never be able to define the why or the how behind it all.

Today, I'm okay with that.

I'd rather be in survival mode with a little God-wonder left than fighting it out with the anger and empty I've lived before.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Where We Are

Day six, and if my husband were a blogger, he would write a post called "Juggling," and I would comment that he is amazing and wonderful and say something about grace for the moment, because isn't it wonderful that we don't have the next two years to live today, when cat and toddler nearly escape outside and baby needs to eat and I need to rest while the clutter grows around us for a season?


Almost Christmas, and our tree is lit, and there is Christmas outside my window and blocking my parents' driveway and waiting to deter us from a hoped-for holiday visit with family, rerouting heart-thoughts and advent ponderings because my Christmas baby is in my arms making me ponder Mary's heart for her little God-son who would become a man someday - did she know then the sword that would pierce her heart? I think not. She was falling in love.

This is the way it will be for a while, I think, hearts and responsible tangled up and tumbling over one another as stones are refined smooth against other stones in a noisy, incredible mix of rough color - the eternal mingling into the daily, pinging light in prism-rainbows around the where-we-are.

The now-grace is for the now, not the next time, and we learn to breathe over again this time. If we're not singing on-key yet, I think there is joy in our noise.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Reflecting - A Gratitude Ramble

"Well, I'm outta here. See ya later!" He threw up his hands with an intentionally crazy grin and danced away to the tune of the toddler's "it's the end of the world!" mourning. She was prostrate on the floor in the living room, loudly making her case for another day home for Daddy.

It was a sweet (and Sauer - groan if you must, I had to say it!) testimony to a few things I've been collecting on my gratitude list this week, in spite of the sick and the ick we've had at our house.

(And if you think this thankfulness makes me very spiritual, you really need to visit our house to see just how UN-spiritual I have been this week. From wanting credit for my service to whining all day yesterday to pretty much giving up because I haven't felt appreciated - I'm NOT exactly the Proverbs 31 woman here...)

No, I've just been listing goodnesses I noticed this week. I suppose you could say I've really been collecting graces - you know, the stuff God gives in spite of me. Nothing I deserve and all that.

*35: Watching dad and daughter bond through a week of sick.

*36: Finishing my final wedding processing before baby

*37: A Saturday with no processing hanging over my head

*38: Time to enjoy with my family without job responsibility to anyone else

*39: Money that came with exact timing to meet exact need

*40: Two friends with babies safe-birthed in the last two days

*41: Hot showers and steam for congested lungs and heads

*42: Kleenex and symptom relief

*43: A chance to take pictures because I want to

*44: Needed perspective for thankful seemingly overdone

*45: Six days of gray to enjoy a warm house with Christmas cozy

*46: Sunlight after gray.

*47: Christmas tree in the corner with unlost lights in sun. (rearranging miracle, let me note!)

*48: Heart-tender for hard conversations

*49: Scattered rest at night - with breath for sleeping

*50: Nothing pressing on my to-do list.

The photo above is a reflected self-portrait I shot in a shop window during our walk on King Street last year, a walk Pete offered to repeat this last weekend as my health deteriorated. Sigh. I have it as my background photo on my computer now, a reminder that Christmas is coming, a reflection of who I was a year ago.

I'm not so different now, I think. Sure, I'm a mom to two instead of one now. Freed from photographical responsibilities until I choose to take them on again (oh, I'm loving that one!).

Suddenly finding unfettered time to reflect a little, driving around a bit by myself last weekend, I find I am less weighed down than I was. I've been reflecting lately, looking for my reflection, checking for baby-weight and heart-weight and learning to rest and wait for God to convict if He wishes.

Sometimes, all I can do is lay out the "Search me, O God and know my heart" and let Him decide whether He wants to tell me what He knows or not.

This is grace too, I think. He doesn't burden me with me before affirming my knowledge of His heart for me.

Still pretty foggy today - please bear with my rambling. At least I'm mostly conscious!

------------------------


This post also linked at Holy Experience for One Thousand Gifts.

(Well, when Ann returns to it after an incident with scissors, it will be linked.)





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

This Would Be Me

It's one of those days when I really have nothing to say. It's a mood thing. We've seen the sun for the first time since Sunday, and I've actually done something with my hair and put. my. make-up. on. It's been a month, people.

I've made the bed (first time all week), and I've got a few baking projects in mind. I know what we're doing for dinner (SHOCK - last night, it took us an hour just to decide we didn't know what to make, so we'd go out for dinner), and I'm cleaning up Pip's yesterday-mess.

Aaaand I'm having braxton-hix contractions and my ligaments are straining to accommodate the young Master Sauer while my hips and pelvis pop in and out. It's getting funny.

I'm also plotting Christmas decorations to go up in the next few weeks (since we're practically skipping Thanksgiving anyway b/c I can't travel), and I'm seriously hoping to get out and do some shooting, just for the fun of it, since I'll be finalizing my last wedding this weekend. Hence the photo for today's post. One of my very favorites, ever. :-D

We've got to hit a thrift store for warmer clothing for Piper and a few little things for Button, and finish off the few Christmas gifts we're gonna be able to send to people this year. Sorry, peoples we love - we'll send a new year card and photo, but the baby needed our money - he's already sucking us dry!!!

Um. I think I'm in a good mood. A random mood. But a good mood.

And I seriously want pickles for breakfast.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Daybreak: I Recognize Desire

For background to this post, you may want to read Friday's post, Trusting Love: A God-ramble from a Broken Heart

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I didn't always doubt love.

Once, I trusted easily. Too easily, it seemed.

That was before God let my heart break...

He let it break like a wave on the shore, leaving sand and shells and foam and litter behind to fall back into the sea and break again against Him, tide flowing in and out, a restless broken heart always seeking rest, never still until He stills me.

By the time I finished, the realization that I'm still aching for His love - in spite of everything I've been through with Him! - left me bemused, disillusioned.

I think I should have noted that I have been here before; I am always here again, because I do not do the things I want to do, and the things I don't want to do, I do.

I assume that even His "yes" will eventually become "no," so even the good gets rejected, and I am afraid to accept what He gives. The bad lesson pain too often teaches.

My surface-grievance is become habit, and I ramble and bumble my way through feelings and theology and what-I-know-that-I-know. I share the scribbled questions without resolution.

Faith doesn't require my answer - but I look anyway.

I ran across this last week, and wondered if God was trying to convict.

There I was minding my own business, relishing some bitterness about my grandmother, and the Holy Spirit broke into my thoughts with an unusual assertion... that I was being an idolater, putting myself up on a pedestal in an act of self-worship over and against my grandmother.
- L.L. Barkat, excerpt from an interview at Holy Experience

Nothing moved in my spirit. Just a still and quiet "wait."

A friend left this in her comment on Friday's God-ramble. Surely, this must be His confirmation of conviction.

One of the most telling Scriptures in support of this fact is "You shall have no other gods before me." If I say, "God, I can't be happy without such-and-such," I am essentially telling Him there is something I want more than Him.

- Excerpt from Christy's comment

Again, I looked inward, searching, asking God to search. But no. Still the quiet, "wait."

"What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ--the righteousness that comes from God and is by faith. I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead."

- Phil. 3:8-11

I read, and reread, and something soft and real and alive with joy pinged in my heart, ringing like a clear bell through the too-familiar clamor of the questions. Something that had nothing to do with "He gives and takes away" and everything to do with "blessed be the name of the Lord."

A year ago, I didn't want Him at all. Oh, I had no choice but to believe He was there, being God. Some things just are; He is one of those undeniables.

But I. couldn't. choose. Him.

My reasons were many: perhaps then it entailed some of the idolatry detailed above; perhaps it was my humanity, sin striving against Spirit for an assumed right.

Thus my heart was grieved,
And I was vexed in my mind.
I was so foolish and ignorant;
I was like a beast before You.
Nevertheless I am continually with You;
You hold me by my right hand.
You will guide me with Your counsel,
And afterward receive me to glory.

- Ps. 73:21-24

I tried to push Him away. He was too much for me, for my heart. His kindness seemed only to hurt me more. He could not be my greatest treasure, the object of my desire.

Do you remember how Hezekiah laid his enemy's letter out before the Lord? Sometimes, I have to do this with the questions, with my feelings, say "this is what is here, God. I can't figure it out."

In Jesus, "sin shall not have dominion over [me], for [I am] not under law but under grace." (Rom. 6:14) As I acknowledge His Life in me, I know I have done - and can do - nothing to earn this grace to doubt and fail. I lay me out in front of Him, and sometimes in front of the world, embarrassed at my humanity, my foolishness, my easy disillusionment.

Finally, on the heels of the wait comes a phrase from a prayer, a quote mixed up in the whisper of desire... "how high, how wide... the love of Christ."

For this reason I bow my knees to the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, from whom the whole family in heaven and earth is named, that He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory, to be strengthened with might through His Spirit in the inner man, that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all the saints what is the width and length and depth and height— to know the love of Christ which passes knowledge; that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.

- Eph. 3:14-19

He is not holding out on me as I have feared. He is granting me Spirit-strengthening. Love-grounding. The questions I have shared are the beginning of comprehension - of width and length and depth and height - the beginning of knowledge of the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge...

And the ping of joy ringing in my heart?

I actually want to know it. To know Him. To be filled with it - all the fullness of God.

Somewhere in the struggle - or in pushing the struggle away and being still and letting Him be God - my desire has changed. Somewhere in my quest for relationship with Him, He has become the object of that desire. Knowing Him means finding a Person at the end of my questions, learning to trust His heart instead of my experience-concepts of the God of the universe.

It is the most surprising thing to me, this awakening realization of desire. I no longer own a "want-to-want Him." I almost don't want to want Him, because it leaves me so vulnerable. But like a woman who has fallen in love, I just know He's the One who is meant to hold my heart.

And here I am, being invited into His.

I think He expects to take my breath away.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

Trusting Love: A God-Ramble from a Broken Heart

I didn't always doubt love.

Once, I trusted easily. Too easily, it seemed.

That was before God let my heart break, before I knew the reality of loss, that choking, heart-wrenching physical pain of chosen vulnerability shattered, crushed, left for dead.

That was before I learned about God's sovereignty, His uncompromising, inevitable comforting ways that are higher than mine.

The story is not an easy one to tell. I was younger then, not so cynical as I am now. I don't want to think of myself as cynical, but I know that I am. Back then, it was a chosen cynicism, confirmed through minor experience that turned out to be my own misunderstanding of the situation. Now, praying for exceptions to what has become the rule of my experience yields little but disappointment.

Tuesday's post surprised me as I was writing it. When I began writing, I thought I was just frustrated with God for being God again. By the time I finished, the realization that I'm still aching for His love - in spite of everything I've been through with Him! - left me bemused, disillusioned.

I'm embarrassed to admit it. Embarrassed that He still looks like you-didn't-bring-K-back to me, embarrassed that He still seems only like God-who-takes-away to me, embarrassed to admit my non-thankfulness because I don't trust His giving. I half-laugh at my concept of Him - "God, the Indian Giver."

Pain changes things. Not always for the better; not always for the worse. My initial suffering (my health problems, work issues, dropping out of school) was minor compared to the soul-questions I have asked - no, screamed at - the God of the universe. See, I get that He is that. The God of the universe. That He is I Am. That He is higher than I.

What I don't understand in the deep of me is His care for me. I don't understand that from anyone. Not after once accepting, believing, trusting it, and having it crushed by the very person who once offered it.

I know God is not a man. I know God is Love itself - Himself.

I was good at Geometry. I loved having the solutions to my problems pre-defined. Just plug in the right postulate (this is this, then this must be that, now that must be this) and you can understand the problem. Similarly, there is much about God I can accept as fact, build a doctrine, craft my system of belief.

But in relationship with Him, the postulates only go so far. Because relationships are not pre-defined. They are not solution-driven. They are often a morass of miscommunications, misunderstandings, misconceptions - and emotions gone haywire over much of the above. Since my heart broke, simply "doing the right thing" when it comes to God has become nearly impossible.

I wonder if I have enough faith; then I wonder if the faith I have is misplaced. Is faith for something like moving mountains, or in Someone, the Person of Jesus Christ? And what does having faith in Him mean for accepting love in relationship with God?

Sometimes, I think if I just made up my mind to believe it, it would become real to me. But I know from long experience - that's not the way it works for me. I'm not really sure it's the way it works for God:

But as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, to those who believe in His name: who were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God. (Jn. 1:12-13)

You did not choose Me, but I chose you and appointed you that you should go and bear fruit, and that your fruit should remain, that whatever you ask the Father in My name He may give you. (Jn. 15:16)

The Psalmist speaks often of waiting on the Lord. I can make up my mind about what I'm going to do in regard to Him, ask Him for help, and wait for His response - if it doesn't come in my time, does that mean He has abandoned me, does it mean He doesn't love me or care about me? I don't believe it does - I clutch at His faithful, knowing He is stronger than I, that for all my struggle to comprehend faith that is solid evidence of the unseen, He yet holds my heart in His hand.

I am so afraid He will allow it to be broken again, and I know I do not yet comprehend His perfect love that casts out fear.

I fear God. I reverence and often rejoice in His higher ways, His immutability, His God-prerogative. Yet, this holy fear often caves to very human fear, the kind that has me hunkered into my corner trying to protect myself from being hurt again by Him, by others.

I am so out of control. I have often heard that trust is a command, but I wonder perhaps if it isn't more of a plea: "Trust Me. I am so good, if you will just believe Me..." He is not so helpless - He could force His hand, MAKE me trust Him. Just like He could MAKE my life go perfectly as I wish.

In both cases, though, relationship would be broken. In the first, His will would dominate and destroy - where my transformation through deeper knowledge of Him would serve better to strengthen mutual love. In the latter, my wishes would control, and God who is I Am would be subject to the whims of someone who doesn't see what He sees, no matter how much foresight the fruit from that tree gave to me. There would be no unity of thought, no oneness, no submission that fosters trust.

The strongest faith, I believe, is faith that does stand in the face of my why, that is solid in spite of my fears, faith that carries my heart beyond my shattered conception of God into the reality of Him and His real love. Twila Paris sings, "This is the faith, patience to wait when there is nothing clear..."

Wait when I decide to listen and He doesn't say anything. Wait when I ask Him for help and make up my mind to do better and fail miserably. Wait when His love for me doesn't appear to be the love I want.

Piper doesn't trust us for the "no" yet. Oh, when she's scared and wants to cuddle, she's all over us. But when we tell her "no" she doesn't yet understand that we have reasons we can't explain for our "no." She can't see what we see, hasn't seen what we've seen. She breaks relationship with her "stop eet, stop eet, stoppp eet!!!" and runs to hide from us.

She looks a lot like me relating to God sometimes.

Only I assume that even His "yes" will eventually become "no," so even the good gets rejected, and I am afraid to accept what He gives. The bad lesson pain too often teaches.

Years ago, when I chose to love at God's request and direction, I stepped out believing that God was capable of completely healing my heart, even if He never fulfilled all my wishes.

I would ask why the healing takes so long. I know the answer lies in His care for me.

He is incredibly patient, isn't He?

I learned this week that autumn leaves don't simply fall off trees. The trees must actually throw the leaves off, for the risk of blooming too soon and being killed during a warm winter spell would be too great if they remained.

He knows when my time to bloom will be. He knows how much of Him I can handle now, what must be shed from my soul for me to rest in His love.

This is what trust is about, I think; living as He created me to live, believing He will do what is best to sustain the life I now live in the flesh by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me.

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*This photo of mine got featured over at High Calling Blogs today! So exciting!
*Need an earlyish Christmas idea? Check out these images for prints - available for a limited time only!





(Image © SXC)

a broken still

Don’t measure God's mind by your own. It would be a poor love that depended not on itself, but on the feelings of the person loved. A crying baby turns away from its mother's breast, but she does not put it away till it stops crying. She holds it closer. For my part, in the worst mood I am ever in, when I don't feel I love God at all, I just look up to His love. I say to Him, "Look at me. See what state I am in. Help me!" Ah! you would wonder how that makes peace. And the love comes of itself; sometimes so strong, it nearly breaks my heart.

- George MacDonald

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Sometimes it is easier to write poetry than it is to put words to the emotional maelstrom that hits me every two, three days. I know I could write facts about events. I could even attempt to identify and process and organize the mess of me so that I am at least comfortable with where I am. But I don't always have the capacity to do anything but feel.

I wish sometimes I was less intense, that my reactions to life weren't so passionate - one way or the other. Over the years, I have come to accept this part of me, recognizing that God created me this way in order to glorify Himself. I am very Peter-like sometimes - a son of thunder. Or daughter, rather.

I have a favorite quote about relationship: "I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with the roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know" (Ralph Waldo Emerson). I admit, I treat my relationship with God with that "roughest courage" most of the time.

Pete says that God lets me get away with things he'd get struck dead for - you know, the point-blank, "I don't agree with You on this God" or the "I know, but..." or the "I don't get this, so I'm not going to deal with it right now." I think God knows I learn through experience, and He knows better than I the measure of my trust, the depth of our relationship. He is so kind to me, so patient.

It is truly the solidest thing I know.

Even on the days when all I can do is feel my human, when I can't make sense out of anything past the brain fog, when my temper is short and the cats get caged (because they really are too much trouble sometimes!) and the house gets wrecked because I need a physical outlet and not even music or writing or venting releases the pent-up emotion of change.

The day began for me with a sense that God is doing something new: the year of still I have lived is going to change soon, the waiting-for-direction is coming to an end as He reveals the work He has been doing in my heart, as He opens my vessel up to pour out for more than my family. The joyful anticipation mingled with equal parts terror and annoyance sent me into a frenzy that began with a justified nesting instinct for getting the baby's bed up and ready and expanded into a whole-house rearrangement that just. wasn't. working. with the furniture I own.

This, of course, grew into discontent over the state of our finances and "why can't I just go out and buy what I need for this little guy - I never even got to do this for Piper!" I saw my contentment slipping away. Well, actually, I sent it packing. The idea of the bigger house we've just turned down was growing more and more appealing, even if it would cost us several thousand dollars we don't have to make that move two streets over. A whole room for Button would be much easier than trying to make him fit...

At the end of the day, Pete took us out for donuts. We cleaned until 11:30, went to bed with Piper (who had merely napped at 7:30) at midnight, and I woke today to find I had enough again.

Living outside of my old condemnation leaves only the embarrassment of looking God in the eye and telling Him what happened (as if He didn't know already). I almost dare to ask Him "why did You make me this way?" and realize that the 14 hours I spent on my feet yesterday is a good indicator of how much endurance I will have for labor, a factor that has been scaring me lately - I've been so tired, I've wondered how I will get through it. Pete laughed last night over my furniture-moving stubbornness when I told him that "you can move anything if you're willing to move it an inch at a time."

I wonder if God feels that way about my heart.

I underestimate the patience of Love, the fullness of Gospel-grace. I try too often to deal with my own fears, to measure out my own strength. I think I assume it is too much for Him - doesn't He have other work to do? Shouldn't I get this by now?

The love comes of itself; sometimes so strong, it nearly breaks my heart.

Then there is no more room for words, for justifications, for fears - He is God, and there is nothing left for me but stillness in knowing Him. Peace I feared lost. A long, deep breath of remembrance - His provision, His work, His rest.

In my memory of frustrated yesterday, even in my glimpse of finite tomorrow, I won't lose the today-Truth of His unchangeable I AM.

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This post also linked at Holy Experience for Walk With Him Wednesday.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

treasures

It was supposed to be a short walk. Really, it was. It hadn't been my idea in the first place. But somehow, Piper got it into her head that we were going for a walk, and I've let her hopes down so often lately, I couldn't hand her another "no" for her growing boundary collection.

I took a break from my work to change her diaper, but she decided we were getting ready to "go-go!" and laid down with rare compliance to get the change, complete with "goop" for the diaper rash she's had this week. (She always makes sure we remember the "goop.") As I finished, she was chattering away about "pants" and "shoes" and how we were going for a "wa'k" (she hasn't got that "l" yet), and when she was dressed again, she ran to the gate in front of the door with such a happy, "one, two - SIX!" (she knows "three,' I know she does! Only it's "pfhree" with her...) - I just couldn't turn her down.

So we went for a walk. I intended only to go to the end of the street and back, but the first 200 feet took us 15 minutes, because Piper was finding treasure.


She stopped for handful after handful of acorns to put in her pockets ("pox"), and we found feathers and a red dogwood "beerwee" and a round rock. She likes those rocks. We found little white flowers (that wilted overnight).

Finally, after stopping every ten steps or so, I impatiently asked her if she wanted to go to the park (for the sake of getting somewhere, since I was already time-wasting in my mind) and we finally started walking, treasure-laden.

I don't think of fallen acorns and rocks and feathers and dogwood berries and random pink squirrelies as treasure. I've been so busy trying to record and process pictures of others' memories in time for Button's birth; it's all I can see most of the time. But I'm missing my own treasure, holding back my heart from her "until later," because I just have to get through this so she can have all the time she wants.

But I wonder, will she still be here when I'm done?

It is not as if I'm at work, putting her in daycare. But working from home has its own set of challenges, because the work is always here, always something I should be doing, should be getting done. I'm not smart enough to balance this; her heart-needs don't fit my schedule. They don't fit any schedule, stopping every ten steps to collect something that she values, something I roll my eyes at, because I just need to get to the end of the street and back so I can do what I need to do.

Last week, I worked non-stop, up early, up late, ignoring Piper as much as possible - and I didn't meet my deadline, because my baby-body is too tired. My eyes just quit working after a certain point; I couldn't stay awake. I don't know how I'm going to finish this month. I don't need any more interruptions.

But Piper's not simply an interruption. She's not even a break from my work. She's a treasure. I have to stop, pick her up, put her in my heart-pocket, even if I've only made it ten steps in.





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

a monday rain ramble

Sometimes the living is more than the processing of it; that is what my weekend was. We went to a wedding where I took no pictures, talked with the bride only briefly, didn't even meet the groom. I missed my camera when we passed a local cat taking in the status of the wedding guests at the church next door. The bells rang loud before my friend said her vows - the wedding next door ran shorter than hers - and her flower girl left her seat to gaze out the open window and find the music.

The reception was Chinese-lantern-lit beneath a high, full moon that the hired photographer didn't even notice, and I was sad; my friend missed some incredible pictures from her wedding day. We lived a few hours beneath a tent and ate home-cooked catering better than hired as we took advantage of the gratuitous bug spray, because outdoor receptions in South Carolina can get very itchy.

And we talked with friends, and the next day went to the beach with them - but we were late, because my phone had died so I missed their call. I left my camera at home again and missed a spur-of-the-moment wedding on the beach, and I didn't mind too much. We stayed long, since my little sand-Piper loves the water; Pete went for a swim, and I stayed dry and burned a little in the warm water-sun.

We had salmon for dinner last night, sautéed with garlic, tomatoes, basil, and capers - my happy meal. "Eat your heart out, McDonalds," my husband laughed as I raved contentedly on.

And this morning the rain came and the sun forgot to get up at our house, so I have puttered and doodled and it is four o'clock and I am not awake yet, spinning words and worlds on a rainy day, like spinning tires in flying mud and getting nowhere.

Sometimes the living is made better after the resting, if I forget myself for a little while and remember why I love it so.

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I'll post another installment in my authentic relationship series sometime tomorrow - I have a little one who needs a Mama cuddle.

ALSO - I have been using a widget on here with the "you might also like" links to other posts of mine. Is anyone particularly attached to this feature on my blog, or would you be sorry to see it go?





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)