Am I ready for this?

I plopped down in my school chair at the school table, ready for a first day back after two weeks off.

I was ready.

Coffee in hand, schedule out. 

Let's hit it.

Not 15 minutes into school, tears started pouring down my daughter's face. 

I sent the boy off to play {"What? Play? No school?" He happily scampered off.}

What gushed out of my sweet daughter was weeks of pent up feelings, thoughts, emotions and prayers that she had been struggling with on her own.

I had no idea.

As I sat and listened to her, my emotions flooded together. I struggled and mentally cried out, "Oh, Lord. HELP!"

As she shared her heart, what flew against me was that she had wrestled with an issue, just she and the Lord. She asked Him for direction, and He gave it to her.

She said, "Mom. He told me what to do. I finally heard Him..."

She'd been wanting to hear His voice. Wondering when she would.

And what she came to me with was such an assault on my senses. Huge grown up issues that she had been wrestling with and wanting answers to.

And she confronted me, with tears and gentleness, about why I haven't shared things with her that she wanted to know. 

As we talked, I had my open Bible in front of me. I kept touching it for reassurance, sharing with her God's plan and God's Words.

I'm so out of my comfort zone here. Gone are the days of potty training, Sesame Street and sleep issues.

Here we are. Teaching and learning how to follow Christ in all of His ways.

I'm not ready for this.

Or am I?

Have I spent enough time in His Word? Have I prayed enough. Have I meditated on His Word enough? Enough to parent well through these hard days?

Maybe. Maybe I am ready.

It was hard. Hard to look in her eyes and confess through my own tears that I hoped she wasn't sorry that I was her mother. That I worked hard to be the kind of mother that she could love and be thankful for. 

This was not what I bargained for when I sat down in my school chair.

As I look, even know, out the back door at her as she walks in the grass, thinking, pondering and praying, I know that I have to trust Christ to care for her. I know that I am teaching her how to be obedient to Him, to hear His voice, to be in His Word and to serve Him forever. I know that He will continue to carry her like He has the past few weeks. 

And what else did I learn from today?

As I asked her to trust me, to trust that I knew, guided by the Spirit, what was best for her, I heard God whisper to me, "And this goes for you too. I know what's best for you."

As I asked her to trust me, I heard God whispering, "And you have to trust Me."

This parenting thing. It's tough. It makes me rely on Him more. Seek Him more. Pray more. Cling more.

And you know what? It makes me tired.

Is it bedtime yet?


I hear my daughter singing and catch a glimpse of her twirling, in a new hand-me-down dress, past the door of the room where I sit, exhausted in so many ways.

I see the lightness of heart in her. I see the bounce in her step. I hear the lilt in her voice as she sings. Loudly. She feels lighter. A burden shared and then, released.

And strangely I feel more weighed down. I know what she faces. I  know what she's up against. I know what seeks to steal her away. I know what wants to take her joy. I know the devices he uses. What God created that He meant for good that she was questioning me about today. He will try to use it against her.

But greater is He that is in us, than he that is in the world. (1 John 4:4)

I'm so thankful for that. As I go, to pay bills, gather tax documents, clean, cook and direct the bedtime routine, I feel the song sweetly echo in my thoughts...

Perfect submission, all is at rest; 

I in my Savior am happy and blest, 
watching and waiting, looking above, 
filled with his goodness, lost in his love.

I struggle to release my burden to Him who says that His yoke is light. His burden is easy. (Matthew 11:30) He carries the load.

He is my resting place.

Shells

The kids and I love to collect shells at the beach. We walk along, scooping up shells and wash them in the waves.

I was the designated shell bag holder. As the boys would scurry to me, holding piles of shells dripping with wet sand, they would exclaim each time, "Look, Mom! Look at this one!"

I would admire each one before it was dropped into the shell bag. 

I noticed not long into our shell expedition that my shells were only complete shells. I only picked up perfect shells with no broken parts or missing pieces.

The boys picked up any shell that caught their eye, even if it was just a fragment. 

I found myself wanting to say, "But that's just a piece of a shell..." but I didn't. I let them drop those pieces in the bag. The pieces came to rest among my whole shells.

And you know what? That is so me. 

I don't like broken. 

I don't like it when I'm broken. 

I feel like when I sin, or when I fail, or when I fall, or when I stumble, I have to clean my self up and "fix" myself before I come before God.

I feel like He won't love me until I get myself all squared away and "clean" again.

I have a hard time worshiping when I've stumbled. Even when I've asked forgiveness and repented. I feel like God is mad at me. I feel like I have to do pentance until I'm clean again.

It cheapens the Gospel. It nullifies what Christ did on the cross. 

And I hate it.

It carries over into relationships too.

I don't ask for help.

I just shut down and figure it all out.

I'd much rather say, "I really fell apart yesterday, but I'm fine today" than to say, "I'm falling apart. Please help me."

I've never been so aware of this more than lately.

It's hard to be vunerable and say, "Help me." I hate to admit, "I'm struggling."

I'd rather say, "Leave me alone until I get this worked out."

For me, it's even more difficult for me to allow someone to help.

But for the first time in a long time, I feel the pull to allow. To accept help. 

To ask for it.

And even more than that, I've felt the pain of not allowing someone to help. I've felt the pain of seeing what the words "I can do it by myself" can cause. We need to be needed. We need to be allowed to help. We need to hear the words, "I need you..."

It's okay to let someone help.

I want to be able to accept help humbly. I don't want to act like I can do this by myself, because I can't.

I'm learning that just because you ask for help, that doesn't necessarily make you a burden. It doesn't mean that you are a weight. It doesn't mean that you are asking for too much.

I don't have to be whole all the time. 

How much do I love that my boys found beauty in brokenness? How thankful am I that they love me so much in spite of all of my brokenness, both in parenting and in being a child of God?

Hi. My name is Amy. I am broken. And that's okay.

I'm learning to see the beauty in being broken.

A short story

Once upon a time...

...there was a cupcake...

...and I ate it...

...and it was very, very good.

So good, in fact, I am wishing for another one...


The end.

Spring in the Park

Eh, that's a cheesy title, but I'm tired. And I want to go watch "Chuck," although this third season really is not my favorite. 

And it's not really even spring yet. It's still winter. 

I know better than to blog when I'm tired. I get distracted in a big way. I'm going to try to hold it together for this post. 

Gosh, I love this kid.

And this one too.

Jude, "I feel like a monkey at the zoo..."

"Mom, will these things break?"

As soon as I saw these bowl thingies, I thought, "Man, he is gonna LOVE this!"

Nope. He didn't love it. At all. He wouldn't do it.

Quick family meeting. She'll do it.

Ahhhh, nope. She won't either.

Pondering the unconquerable bowls.

This is what happens when you won't pose with your mother. She makes embarrassing faces.

You can't see it,  but the words "You Are Beautiful" are on the side of the building.

By the way, I love this kid too.

Okay, that kid in the Thomas shirt rode up on his Thomas scooter in his Thomas helmet and reminded me of the kid in the movie "Up." I seriously wanted to take him home. He was that stinking cute.

Can I tell you how much I wanted to move that building a couple of inches to the left so this picture would be completely symmetrical? It's killing me.

He fought the pavement and the pavement won. On his cheek. That's why he's holding his cheek.

Can I tell you how much this made me laugh? Why does the pile have to be steaming? Oh. My.

He scootered all over that park.

Refusing to show the wound.

The day ended well.

Adequate

I have this huge post titled "Conviction or Condemnation?" in which I ponder endlessly the phenomenon of not measuring up to standards I place for myself especially when I compare myself to others. 

(This was all started by the cleanliness of a friend's oven. Really.)

Wow. It was kind of nice to summarize all that drivel in one sentence.

The conclusion I was coming to, before I gave up trying to sort it all out with words, was that sometimes those compressions spur me on to work harder, improve in some area and/or re-evaluate if I am putting forth a consecrated effort or simply slacking. 

(And perhaps clean my oven.)

And then other times they just make me feel like crap.

I really should try this sort of blogging more often. I'd like to point out that those are four scant paragraphs on a subject I've been wrestling with for several weeks.

I think I need some sort of blogging award.

Or chocolate.

One morning the Lord handed me this verse:

"Not that we are adequate in ourselves to consider anything as coming from ourselves, but our adequacy is from God." 

2 Corinthians 3:5

It jumped off the page and landed in my lap. 

I was struggling with huge feelings of inadequacy. 

I can't do it all. 

Beth Moore reminded me of it again this week:

"I am too much and not enough."

~sigh~

And then God handed me that verse. Once He hands me a verse specifically, I know I have to do something with it.

So I pondered it. 

It seemed a little strange. God promises us that we are "adequate."

I don't recall recently telling one of my kids, "Way to go! You are adequate!"

"Adequate" to me said that you fell far short of what is good and acceptable, much less excellent.

Just good enough.

Like I get a grade "C" in life.

Great.

But as I pondered this verse, I knew there had to be something more.

I have an unnatural affection for the dictionary. I love to look up words, even words I already know the definition to. It's a weird addiction.

So I looked up the word "adequate." Surely there was a hidden meaning to that word that was going to shed new light on this verse.

Sure enough, this is what I found:

adequate: Sufficient for a specific purpose.

Huh. 

I am good enough.

Well, that's more encouraging. But why, Lord? Why not make me stellar? Why not make me awesome? Why not empower me with amazing shows of wonderfulness?

Because.

 Then I wouldn't have to lean on Him ever second of every day. Because then I wouldn't have to trust Him to get me through my days. Because then I would think that I have something in me that worthy, good, able and... sufficient.

If He gave me too much sufficiency, then I wouldn't have to trust Him second by second to uphold me, guide my step, lead and direct me. 

All of my sufficiency comes from Christ. And only Him.

Being sufficient (in Him) reminds me of this.

If there are times that I do coast, thinking, "Hey, I got this...!" I can be sure that a crash is coming right around the corner. (And it always does.)

I am sure now more than ever that I am only usable by Him when I am clinging to Him in desperation.

So what does that look like long term? I believe that I am going to be crippled, clinging to him in the midst of the storm that I am for the rest of my life. (I am my own hurricane.)

And you know what? That's good. I want my weakness to showcase His glory more. I want to tell people, "I can't do it at all. But He makes me able. Sufficient for this purpose."

Whatever that purpose is. 

Even if it's just getting the laundry done.

Baby Hands

I noticed my daughter studying the four year old's hand the other day. 

"What are you doing?" I asked her.

She replied, "He still has baby hands" while holding his hand in hers. 

I dropped down beside her and studied his hand. It didn't take but a few seconds for him to snatch his hand away, poking out his tongue at us at the same time.  Yep, that's Zane. Never one much for sentiment.

It's true, though. Even as time slips toward his five year old birthday, there are still remanents of babyhood that I can catch a fleeting glimpse of - his cheeks, a few of his words and those hands. 

Maybe we cling to the baby parts of him because he is the baby of the family. As much as I love having big kids, and as much as I love reveling in the ease that having older kids bring, I still mourn the baby days at times. And as I feel those baby hands rub my arm or pat my back, I fully realize that these days are quickly coming to a close.

And I'm okay with that. I don't have to think back too far to remember how hard those days were.

Whew.

God is good. 

I'm thankful to my girl for pointing out those baby hands. I need help in slowing down to notice the little things that will all too soon be gone forever. As I drove down the road and noticed that baby hand out the back window, it made me smile. 

Lord, help me notice and be so very humbly thankful for the little things.

Song in the night

Reading Acts 16 this morning~after Paul and Silas had been beaten and thrown into jail, and

"...about midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns of praise to God..."

Oh Lord, that you would always be my Song. Day or night. Good times or bad. You, Lord, are the Giver of songs. Songs sung in the darkness of night...

"His song with be with me in he night, a prayer to the God of my life." Psalm 42:8

I love what Spurgeon says:

"Any fool can sing in the day. It is easy to sing when we an read the notes by daylight; but the skillful singer is he who can sing when there is not a ray of light to read by...Song in the night come only from God; they are not in the power of men." 

"I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth. My soul will boast in the Lord... Oh magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt His name together." Psalm 34

Lord, You are not only my song, You are my happy ending.