You Do Not Know

 "He who observes the wind 

will not sow,

And he who regards the clouds

will not reap.

As you do not know 

what is the way of the wind,

Or how the bones grow 

in the womb of her 

who is with child,

So you do not know 

the works of God 

who makes everything.

In the morning sow your seed,

And in the evening 

do not withhold your hand;

For you do not know 

which will prosper,

Either this or that,

Or whether both alike 

will be good."

(Ecclesiastes 11:4-6)

It's easy to look around at our circumstances 

and cease the labor that is ours. 

The conditions don't look good. 

The weather may not cooperate. 

Maybe my seed will go to waste. 

Maybe my harvest 

will be ruined by a storm. 

I may miscarry the child. 

I don't know how God works. 

But He does. 

And He has placed me 

in a specific place 

with specific tasks. 

My business is to do 

what He's given me to do. 

The conditions are His to govern. 

The rain or the lack of it 

is in His hands. 

The wind is His to direct. 

The growing of the seed 

is His handiwork, not mine. 

Mine is just to sow. 

And it may be that the early seed

is not the one that grows. 

But the seed thrown out 

at evening might. 

Perhaps the harvest 

will come from both. 

The one who plants 

and the one who waters 

aren't the ones to look to here --

but God who gives the increase. 

We are to not grow weary 

in well-doing. 

Whatever the sky looks like 

in your neighborhood, 

put your hand to the work 

He has for you. 

In due time, 

there will be a harvest. 

"It pleased the Lord 

to send us contrary winds." 

(From George Whitefield's journal)

To Be Their Mom

I scroll down through my Facebook feed, and I see so many mothers.
Sporty mothers cheering on young athletes.
Baking mothers who make my mouth water.
The ones who stay home
long after other mothers have taken up the soccer and ballet rounds
because they have one with special needs.
Moms with the beginning of a clan,
and some with just one little chick.
I see moms
who traveled to China and Guatemala and Ethiopia
to gather up their babies.
I know two who had children they weren't looking for handed to them.
I see my friends with empty arms, whose babies are not with them.
They had to lay them down to rest long before they wanted to.

There are busy ones, who race from one activity to the next.
Bookworm moms, who inhabit the couches with their kids and a good book.
Tatooed and pierced,
in overalls,
or dressed like tea party ladies,
we all have this in common:
We've opened our lives to our children.

Becoming a mother is to become vulnerable.
We don't know what we will end up with.
Whether it's carrying a burden for many long years,
as we work to lift children who can't carry themselves;
or bearing the grief of a loss too strong for words.
Will it be joy?
Yes, it will. Some joy.
Will it be struggle?
Yes, it will. And with the same child who brought the joy.
There will be years of chaos,
even if it's only Cheerios scattered over the entire house.
There will be messy faces and messy bodies.
There will be tears, and not just from the children.
Their pain is going to hurt you.

The kids are going to fail.
And you are going to fail your kids.
And if you do it right, there will be apologies and forgivenesses.
And they'll learn that love means hope for future good.
That love covers a multitude of sin,
and grace allows us to begin again.

And you don't have to be a cookie-cutter mom to be their Mom.
Each one of us is uniquely made,
and uniquely challenged with this sanctified relationship.
Our children don't match.
Our lives don't match.
But we are one in Christ,
and the goal is to hear, "Well, done, you good and faithful servant."
I can't help but think about Jesus's conversation with Peter
where Peter asked about John, "What about him?"
And Jesus replied to him, "What is it to you...? You follow Me."

Never mind the other mamas.
Each of us has our own race to run.
But follow Him where He leads you.
It's your own Master you have to answer to.
And He is able to make you stand.

My Dad Didn't

My Daddy.
Sometimes I think a lot about him.
He is sixty today.
He fathered two daughters before he got a son.
I am the first.
I got him when he had no experience.
When he was still young, and he worked so hard,
he was usually asleep in his chair before I went to bed.
He let my sister and me fill his hair with barrettes.
He chased us around the house on his hands and knees,
and tickled us when he caught us.
"Daddy! Play Tickle Monster!" we shrieked.
He let us ride his back and pretend he was a horse.
He has a broad, strong back,
and it was difficult for our little bodies to hang on and balance.
I loved him because he bought me a Tonka truck
that I could drive my Barbie around in.

He let me climb in the rafters of houses he was building.
Sometimes let me up on the roof with him.
But also reacted with alarm when he saw me go higher than I should have,
or act carelessly with things that required caution.

When Dad was building our first from-scratch house,
we lived in a garage he had built.
In laying a good foundation for the house,
he had to pump loads of soapy sand mixture into the footprint to level it.
I got home from school that day,
and my mom told me to dress in messy clothes and come help.
I think we were helping air bubbles to release or something,
but basically we were given permission to jump off the foundation walls
into a sloppy wet mudhole.
It was awesome.

He never acted like women and girls threatened him
with brains and opinions, or pink paint and flowers.
I remember when he was getting ready to teach out of John one day,
and he came to a passage Bible teachers argue about.
I was a teenager, and he read me the passage,
and asked me my opinion on it.
And then he listened to my answer.
We were not afraid to speak if we had something to say,
and he was never too puffed up to listen.
When he had sons, we weren't suddenly banished to the kitchen.
We were welcome around the dining table
when visiting pastors came to our house.

He corrected us calmly, when he had to do it.
Mom did more of the day to day instruction,
and he didn't undermine her authority with us.
He didn't come in and undo what she had asked of us.
He reinforced respect with his own respect.
He wasn't much of a voice-raiser, except when he was on the phone.
I wonder if his hearing was going,
because he always raised his voice to talk on the phone.

He is not a meddler in other men's business.
If asked, he gives wise counsel.
Sometimes he'll give wise counsel in spite of not being asked.
Usually because the consequences of the error being committed
are going to harm someone else.
But I have watched him teach things to other men,
and he teaches them in such a way that they feel like men
even though the mistake they are making is not too manly.

I wanted to be a building contractor when I grew up,
because my daddy was a building contractor.
I still want to be like him, but in my own woman-way.

My dad was so accepting of the personhood of his wife and daughters,
that I have found myself sideswiped a number of times
by men who claim to be Christians
and stomp down the personhood of the Christian women in their lives:
who shout them down if they speak truth.

My husband said to me one day,
"I think some men like to exchange 'shut up' for 'submit' in the Scriptures."
I'm glad my dad didn't.

Therefore I Have Hope

I opened my Facebook this morning
and saw one of those things
posted by Christian friends with good intentions,
hoping to stir up in you the perfect parent
and thus lead your family into a state of unmatched perfect outcomes,
never yet seen in the world.
That was how it felt, anyway.

Don't forget: everything depends on you.
If you fail to be perfect in parenting,
husbanding,
wife-ing,
and general citizenry,
all is lost,
and your children will lead the next pagan revival.

Honestly I didn't even read the post.
I have enough anxiety about my performance,
and the results of my performance
without reading it.
Maybe it was a truly helpful post.
But its title looked unbearably guilt-trippy and depressing to me.

And when a child in my house informed me this morning
that I 'was bearing false witness against them!' 
by requesting that the pan cupboard be straightened up,
knowing that particular child
had shoved everything into it topsy-turvy in a haze of daydreaming,
I lost my temper.

The bickering between this one and one other has worn me down.
I am tired of hearing pointless arguments
and contradictions without cause.
And snotty little comments made to provoke tears.
And denials of reality when reality is that the child is a space cadet,
and walks around putting things in odd places,
whether the places and actions are remembered or not.
And it was the last straw.

I did not bake some cookies to correct the misinformed little soul.
I failed to keep my cool.
And probably ruined all future hope of happiness and prosperity for the child.
Maybe of Christianity, too.
Although I did apologize,
and the child apologized,
and we hugged one another and forgave one another.

It says that if your brother has something against you,
go to him and be reconciled.
It doesn't say,
"If your brother has something against you,
you are obviously damned
because Christians never do wrong by each other,
and don't need to ask forgiveness of each other."

It isn't our perfection that sharpens one another, I think.
I think that where it says,
"As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another,"
it's more about friction than lubrication.
Sometimes I wish there was less to sharpen in me.

My husband texted me, "Broken people beget broken people.
If it wasn't for the Lord, what would we do?
He is strong.
He will hold us up."

Feeling like a jerk, I sat down and looked over a few blogs,
hoping to glean a little grace.
And my eyes fell on one of my favorites,
which was quoting a Scripture yesterday:
"This I recall to my mind,
therefore I have hope:
The Lord's lovingkindnesses indeed never cease,
for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning; great is Thy faithfulness."

And it's from Lamentations -- a bit of grace in itself.
'Compassions' are multiple.
'Lovingkindnesses' are multiple.
Unfailing.
Unceasing.
New every morning.
And strangely enough, though I am a Christian,
I need them again today.
Maybe you do, too.

There is reason to hope.
Though my lovingkindnesses stopped with six words said to me,
and my compassion probably didn't even get out of bed this morning,
His was new again, as ever.
And His faithfulness is great.

Have mercy on us sinners, Lord,
and sanctify our dirt-born lives.

Those Things Which He Lacks

This morning I was praying for my son,
and thanking the Lord for the gift that he is.
Asking for help in nurturing him:
that we would strengthen his weaknesses,
and encourage his strengths.
I was thinking about the way he sees things
and understands ridiculously complex concepts,
while struggling to form written sentences on paper.
And before I knew what I was saying, I prayed,
"Lord, thank you that his brilliant mind is handicapped.
Please cause him to lean on You in trust
for those things which he lacks.
You are good, and You do good."

And it hit home.
"Lord, I also lack much that I need to excel.
In me, I cannot find all that I need."
Ah, but I remembered:
In Him dwells all the fullness of the Godhead bodily.
"In You, I can do valiantly.
Help me, Lord.
Thank You for my lack.
In my helplessness, You make me trust You."

I was thinking about David's prayer,
when he said the Lord had made him to trust
while he was at his mother's breast.
A breastfeeding infant is a powerless person.
But for David it was a place of trust.
Later in his life, he said the Lord had trained his hands for battle,
and taught him to leap walls.
It was the same person who did both:
laid there, helplessly nourished by his mother --
and fought Goliath and lions and bears.
A helpless infant, and a mighty warrior.
A fleeing refugee, and a conquering king.
A cave dweller, and a palace owner.
A hotheaded man bent on revenge,
and a man showing mercy to his enemies.

Practice Makes Perfect

It's been one of those days.
They started in on each other early,
griping and ordering each other about.
Over and over again, I corrected wretched behavior,
and wretched words,
and ugly expressions.

While I cut up meat for the crock pot dinner this morning,
I heard a tumult arise in the living room.
One of them had unleashed frustration and smacked another.
The one who was smacked had been forcing a foot into the other one's face.
But it had been in retaliation for the smacker's foot rudely placed.

Part of training to be family, is being a family in training.
"This is not kind, and you will speak kindly to your sister."
"That is rude, and you will not do it."
"You speak nicely to him."
"No. Try again. That was the wrong way to do that."
"Be respectful. Speak politely."
Over and over and over again.

They are siblings already.
But they must practice brotherly love.
Years of practice and discipline
will (hopefully) one day be worked out in real love.
You see, my dear siblings and I
did not start out with our arms wrapped around each other's waists,
and longing to be together when we are apart.

We practice how we ought to behave,
and we mature to feel what we ought to feel.
We cry with joy over each other's babies,
and share our food willingly,
and stay up all night long waiting for good news,
or praying our fears into help,
and coming to the rescue when lives break down.

We stop responding to offered help with a punch in the eye,
and we grow to accept the massage,
or the steadying arm,
or the help dressing when we've become too weak to do it ourselves.
Because that is what brothers do.

Whatever Things

I had a child tonight whose antics were irritating me immensely.
Again and again I went upstairs to correct and rebuke
and finally shut his door and turned off the lights
because he kept getting up and keeping his brother up.
Within five minutes I heard more action, and prayed for wisdom and gentleness.
Gentleness is not mine by nature.
And parenting makes me feel bankrupt of wisdom often.
Oh, how I need His help.

I climbed the stairs wearily at 11 pm, saw the lights back on, and the doors open.
I went into the sinner's room and said quietly,
"This is outright rebellion. You are in complete defiance of what I asked of you."
He began to cry.
I sat down on his bed.
He apologized for it, but excused it because he was scared.
I told him it was wrong to obey fear and disobey his mom.

I asked him what he was thinking about.
At first it was 'I don't know,' but after a few minutes
he admitted he was thinking about scary things -- monsters and stuff.

And I think the Lord gave me wisdom.
I opened his Bible and turned to Philippians chapter 4.
"Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, 
whatever things are honest, 
whatever things are just, 
whatever things are pure, 
whatever things are lovely, 
whatever things are of good report; 
if there is any virtue, 
and if there is any praise, 
think on these things. 
Those things, which ye have both learned, and received, and heard, and seen in me, do: 
and the God of peace will be with you."
And then I talked to him about practicing those thoughts.

We began with thinking of and saying out loud things that were good -- 'God bringing Seth into my life'.
Lovely? -- 'looking out the window of an airplane and seeing the clouds brush the wings'.
Then I taught him the ABC game.
Naming something about God's character for every letter of the alphabet.
It's just an exercise in taking your thoughts captive. It gives you a framework for meditation.
You might even argue that David did it if you are a reader of Hebrew.
The Psalms several times use alphabetical acrostics.

My son's eyes lit up as he racked his brain for each word. We took turns.
'D' stumped him. I offered him a suggestion: Daddy.
He looked puzzled. "He's our daddy?"
I nodded, smiling. "The Bible says that the Holy Spirit puts it into our hearts to call Him 'Abba, Father'.
'Abba' means 'Daddy.'"

We read more of Philippians 4 together, and it ministered to me, too.
I wish I always seized an opportunity, instead of getting mad.
Maybe that's what redeeming the time is --
grabbing back the cause of anger or irritation or anxiety, and turning it into the right path.
I came downstairs at 11:30 edified and reminded to put my mind on things above,
and the God of peace will be with me.

Wednesday's The Hardest

I was given a heritage I hope to pass on.
A heritage of grace.
A heritage of prayer.
A heritage of privilege -- the privilege of being a part
of seeing the Lord's hand of help extended in answer to prayer.

Several years ago my Papa mentioned to me his method of praying for his family.
He has five children.
Plus their five spouses.
With their children and their children's children,
he has sixty-two people he considers it his responsibility to pray for regularly (if I counted correctly).
That's just unsolicited prayer because we are his.

I also want to be faithful in praying for my family.
So I paid attention.
He told me he gives one day to each of his children,
and prays for all those who came of them on that day.
He said, "Wednesday's the hardest day -- that's the day I get to your mother.
I have to allow a little extra time for them -- I start on Tuesday."

Will one of my children, in my lifetime, represent 30 souls?
Because that's how many souls are in the family just under my mother.
He told me he knows the name of every one of his grandkids and his great grandkids.
Many people never meet their great grandparents.
My children are prayed for by name by theirs.
Every Wednesday.

After my first conversation with my Papa about this,
I wrote out the days of the week,
and distributed my husband, my children, my parents, my grandparents,
my husband's parents, my siblings and their offspring over the days.
And a few pastors, missionaries, and churches I feel responsibility for.
It looks a lot less daunting to pray for a short list daily than a list I can't possibly get through.
It isn't a life habit to me yet.
I first began a couple of years ago, and have not spent all of those days carrying it out.
But I hope to hit my stride in it and run with endurance.

Book Review of Babywise: How 100,000 New Parents Trained Their Babies to Sleep Through the Night the Natural Way, by Gary Ezzo

I've heard this author referred to as a "milk-Nazi", and having read the book, I understand the reference.
"The natural way?"
Hardly.
I've had two tongue-tied boys (that makes for inefficient eaters, unhappy tummies, and frequent feedings).
The advice in this book is harsh and without compassion for children.
I think his response to baby's hunger is in effect answering the cry for food with, "Here: eat this stone, kid."

Jesus had compassion on hungry adults.
God the Father had compassion on the children of Israel.
He pities His children when they cry to Him for help.
Babies are people, and they are not identical.
Some of them are criers, and you have to learn which cries to respond quickly to.
Some of them are not criers, and when they do cry, you know they have a real need.
It's idiotic to make hard and fast rules about how long to let the baby cry.
And if your baby is hungry, feed him, Mom!
That's why God gave you to him and equipped you with breasts.

Good Boys and Girls

"Some talk to children about such things as being good boys and girls; that is to say, they preach the law to the children, though they would preach the Gospel to grown-up people. Is this honest? Is this wise? Children need the Gospel, the whole Gospel, the unadulterated Gospel. They ought to have it. If they are taught of the Spirit of God, they are as capable of receiving it as persons of ripe years. Teach the little ones that Jesus died, the just for the unjust, to bring us to God."

(C.H. Spurgeon, Spiritual Parenting)