Acorns

Think of the self that God has given us as an acorn. It is a marvelous little thing, a perfect shape, perfectly designed for its purpose, perfectly functional. Think of the grand glory of a oak tree. God's intention when He made the acorn was the oak tree. He intention for us is "...the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ." Many deaths must go into our reaching that measure, many letting-goes. When you look at the oak tree, you don't feel that the "loss" of the acorn is a very great loss. The more you perceive God's purpose in your life, the less terrible the losses seem. 

[I] am being asked to trust, to leave the planning to God. God's ultimate plan [is] as far beyond [my] imagination as the oak tree is from the acorn's imaginings. The acorn does what it was made to do, without pestering its Maker with questions about when and how and why. We who have been given an intelligence and a will and a whole range of wants that can be set against the divine Pattern for Good are asked to believe Him. We are given the chance to trust Him when He says to us, "...If any man will let himself be lost for my sake, he will find his true self."

When will we find it? we ask. The answer is, Trust me. 

How will we find it? The answer again is, Trust me. 

Why must I let myself be lost? we persist. The answer is, Look at the acorn and trust Me. 

elisabeth elliot

I read these words early one morning and have thought about them since. I soon found myself in a park, standing beneath a tree on ground littered with acorns. I crouched and gathered them until my hand overflowed. I needed to look at them and remember their willingness to be planted. Planted so they could become what God intended for them to become. Become what He created them to be. To be what He intended all along. 


Their willingness. 

And then these words to a song that I sing and think of the small acorn that I have come to love so much:

Oh I've been pushed down into the ground

Oh how I've been trampled down

So many feet on top of me

I can't help but sink, sink, sink

Oh I've been pushed down into the ground

Oh how I have been trampled down

Lord I put my trust in thee

You won't turn your back on me

Oh I am a seed

Oh I am a seed

I've been pushed down into the ground

But i will rise up a tree

Oh I can see it won't be long

Till I break free from what I was

Your river of grace flows endlessly

You won't turn your back on me

Oh I am a seed

Oh I am a seed

I've been pushed down into the ground

But i will rise up a tree

I've been burned up in so many fires

From these ashes I will rise

Lord your power has rescued me

For you I'll always sing

Oh I am a seed

Oh I am a seed

I've been pushed down into the ground

But I will rise up a tree

Oh I am a seed

Oh I am a seed

Won't stay long here in this earth

When you rain your love on me

Lord, rain your love on me

david crowder band "i am a seed"

Elisabeth Elliot

My friend Elizabeth walked in the door with a bag full of books one night early in October. My eyes grew big as she sat the bag down, and I wondered what collection of books was in that bag. To a book lover, there is no better thought than the chance to read a new book. She sat on the couch and grinned at me.

"Those are all of my Elisabeth Elliot books."

"Oh really?" I was intrigued. I was familiar with Jim Elliot, after hearing him referenced in church and then studying him with the kids in school. Elizabeth had mentioned Elisabeth Elliot to me several times throughout our friendship. Elisabeth has been a hero of hers, so to speak, and she had been reading and loving her books for years.

And now she had brought them to me.

"I can't get to them right now," I said sadly. "I have too much other stuff going on."

I did take 45 seconds to dream about a weekend getaway with just me, a pile of books and a good stock of hot tea. But I had to be honest -I had no idea when I'd get to read just one of those books, much less the whole bag.

"It's okay," she grinned. "No rush."

It felt like she knew a secret.

Our conversation turned to other things, but I kept my eye on that bag of books.

It would be the middle of November before I could even think of that bag of books again. A rough couple of weeks stretched out before me, and for some strange reason, I went to that pile of books. I had a vague idea of what kind of books were in there, based on what Elizabeth had told me, but how I ended up digging a book out of that bag was providential.

I won't soon forget exactly where I was, sitting in the kitchen, stool pushed against the cabinets to create a makeshift desk for me.

I took a moment to savor the weight of the book in my hand. It was a hardback book, my favorite. I smoothed the book open to the first page, and soon the words were blurred by my tears as a coolness filled my body and I found it hard to breathe.

It was the difficulty and the sweetness of seeing my own feelings written by someone else's hand. Then I laughed through the tears in thankfulness to a God to brought this stack of books to my house and let them sit, unattended, until just the moment that He intended for this book to be in my hands. For this time.

I wiped away the tears and read more. Then a thought sent me off my stool in search of my journal, where familiar words had been written months and months before.

Early in the year, I had read a book that changed things for me. In it I had read this quote:

I had repeated this quote to myself a hundred times in the days after reading it.

It was an easy quote to read, but exactly how did one trust God with the "next thing"? The unknown next thing was a large part of my anxiety.

Slowly God and I worked it out. For me, in this stage, the next thing was the tangible thing right in front of me. (Ignoring, of course, the looming and unknown larger next thing) So how did I trust God and do the next thing?

It usually began when my eyes opened in the morning and I thought, "I really don't want to do this day."

I would remember this mantra. God would whisper, "All you have to do is trust Me and get out of bed."

I could do that. Nothing more. But I could physically push back the covers and stand up.

Then He would say, "Trust me and walk down the stairs."

I could do that.

Then I would repeat to myself, "Trust God and make the coffee."

"Trust God and make breakfast"

"Trust God and spend time in His Word"

"Trust God and pour out your heart in trust and faith while you pound the pavement under the sky"
     (that was the hardest and yet my favorite)

"Trust God and make lunch..."

"...and pay bills, do laundry, clean the kitchen, go to the bank, do school, return emails, cook..."

"Trust God and breathe..."

and go to bed and trust that He will help you do it all again tomorrow.

That's how I learned to trust Him and do the next thing.

{the big stuff would come when and how He intended. it always does. He's in charge of that. not me, thankfully}

As these memories fell back over me, I turned my attention back to the book face down still opened to that first chapter and knew that Elisabeth Elliot and I were going to spend some precious time together in the near future.

And we really did.

I poured over this book with tears and hope. I scribbled reflection after reflection in my journal. I serendipitously found another copy of that book at the thrift store, just by chance of course, and poured over it with a friend, then another friend and then another.

And then the day came when I read the background to the quote that taught me how to trust God more:

From an old English parsonage down by the sea
There came in the twilight a message to me;
Its quaint Saxon legend, deeply engraven,
Hath, it seems to me, teaching from Heaven.
And on through the doors the quiet words ring
Like a low inspiration: “DOE THE NEXTE THYNGE.”

Many a questioning, many a fear,
Many a doubt, hath its quieting here.
Moment by moment, let down from Heaven,
Time, opportunity, and guidance are given.
Fear not tomorrows, child of the King,
Thrust them with Jesus, doe the nexte thynge.

Do it immediately, do it with prayer;
Do it reliantly, casting all care;
Do it with reverence, tracing His hand
Who placed it before thee with earnest command.
Stayed on Omnipotence, safe ‘neath His wing,
Leave all results, doe the nexte thynge

Looking for Jesus, ever serener,
Working or suffering, be thy demeanor;
In His dear presence, the rest of His calm,
The light of His countenance be thy psalm,
Strong in His faithfulness, praise and sing.
Then, as He beckons thee, doe the nexte thynge.

--Anonymous


The more I read of Elisabeth's book, and the Word that it pointed me to, the more I felt that calm and peace and reassurance that I knew could only come from Him. That hard period of time I had dreaded faded into the rear view mirror, colored again by all the shades of His faithfulness made tangible by the gift of this book and the ones to follow.

And of course, as things seem to go in my world, things seem to appear in "random" places. Things that made me smile. Things the proved that this amazing woman's walk and subsequent ministry would touch more people than perhaps she ever dared hope:


There was this post  and this this one and this one. I read them and smiled, thankful for her love for Christ and dedication to serving Him.

And then I began to read more about her first husband, Jim. My thoughts about him will probably have to wait until another day. Suffice it to say that his passion and dedication to Christ and His mission occupy my thoughts frequently.

I think about them throughout my day, my new friends Jim and "Bet." And now that my world has once again gotten busier, I don't have the chance to read these books daily. I find myself missing this couple. I look longingly again at this stack of books which once again sit, abandoned by other more urgent studies. I'm happy to know that they are there, waiting for me. {and i sneak peeks here and there. I miss them too much to leave them alone for long} I'm thankful for what they have taught me. I'm thankful for how they have strengthened my own faith, my walk, my love for Christ and for His Word. I am thankful that they provide comfort in a world that sometimes, oftentimes, feels completely foreign to me, even though it's my own.

Christmas from their hearts

There have been a couple of blogs that have posted recently about Christmas that really struck a chord in me. I don't know what to do, if anything, yet. I do know that my heart longs to do things differently. And I have absolutely no idea how to do them. 

Christmas Conundrum

and 

Whose Birthday is it Really?

He Came

The calendar was unapologetic. 

December 1

Here we are again. 

December. 

I  knew it was coming. My culture's love for this month begins to spill forth long before the month actually arrives. There are declarations of excitement about shopping to go along with a plenitude of sales, pictures of Christmas trees on social media as they are erected, Christmas music in every conceivable type of store, cars and vans dressed as reindeer, inflatable decorations in yards,  yards sparkling with lights, and on and on...

If one wanted to avoid this holiday, it would definitely be impossible. 

And I knew that wasn't possible. 

It's not that I actually wanted to avoid the month of December, though honestly if given the opportunity, it would slide from my calendar without a single regret. That wasn't possible, so there was only one thing for me to do.

Fix myself.

I do hate that I'm broken here. I hate that it takes me a monumentos effort to put on any sort of holiday spirit. I hate that I don't eagerly anticipate the holidays with the giddiness of a light soul.

As I exercised this morning, I noticed that my favorite tree had shed it's gorgeous wardrobe. It stood bare. I pretended for a moment that it too was mournful that the change of the calendar had brought it to this stark, ugly state. 

Silly, of course. 

In the frosty cold of the morning, I begged God to hear my heart concerning this season that boasts to be all about Him and his Gift. 

It's not fun to be here, the outsider looking in on a warm celebration which one feels no part of. 

And I'm not alone. Perhaps if I had to list the reasons that have led me to this place of discontent, near the top of the list would be the hardships that this holiday brings for so many that I love. Not that I'm trying to shoulder their burdens for them, taking them on as my own, but as I think of them, my heart aches for the brokenness they too feel.

The list reaches on for a bit - reasons that I dread this season. They range from the trite to the deeply buried and pushed aside issues of long ago.

I felt deeply in me, though, the beginnings of a tiny fire of the longing to worship during this season the God who not only understands the reasons I fear but also gave His Son to remedy the brokenness in me. 

"Heal me, Lord..." I pleaded as I looked up at the cloudless sky. "I don't want to stay here."

He is able. 

This phrase had found me in the last few weeks in a new way. I had repeated it constantly almost as a mantra. 

Today it took on a new ending.

He is able. Now let Him. 

It is so easy for me to stay in the hard sometimes. Staying where it's hard because it's easier than receiving His comfort or healing. 

I just want to stay here, because the hard is easier. 

Being healed means that I have to be honest about how I got here in the first place. I have to say honestly that when I get to this place, I got here because I am most concerned about me.

This is hard for me. 

The rational part of my brain said, Get over it.

It's not really that simple, but the Lord so graciously reminded me again that He is able. And though I wanted Him to repair me in one fell swoop, He instead reminded me that I only need to trust Him one step at a time. 

I don't know how exactly to have a carefree December, but I do know how to do the things that send me deep into His love.

I found my favorite Christmas sermon and played it loudly, diving into the text:

"And you know that He appeared to take away sins..."

And my hurt and my failures and my shortcomings and my longings and my disappointment and my fears and my sins.

He came.

Everything in me wants to celebrate that.  

My love for Him can push past everything in me that would rather be hurt and sad and angry and tired and fearful - that would rather stay here. 

My love for Him can allow Him to heal me, through His love for me.

It takes a willing spirit to be healed and comforted. And it didn't happen in me by the time lunch was prepared. 

But I feel His peace. And I feel His love and careful provision along with His compassion and His mercy. They flow from Him, inviting me to celebrate His greatest gift. 

I can do that. 

I can celebrate Him. 

Sweetly, quietly, humbly and secure in His loving arms, trusting Him with all that is hard about this season. 

"Glory, glory in the highest...

Just a child born in a manager, with the hope of the whole world on His shoulders..."

10 Years Ago...

I sit here, emotional from looking through ten years of photographs. 

I sit, faced with the self-imposed challenge of marking my daughter's tenth birthday with an eloquent tribute to her first decade. 

As I sit, I fully appreciate the fact that this is an impossibility. 

It is a trite and overused statement, but when I look at this picture, it truly does feels like yesterday.

And then the years started to spin, passing more quickly than I was prepared for. 

It was over ten years ago when I set the pregnancy test stick down on the coffee table and looked at it, wide eyed. Married for six years with little desire to have children. Least likely time and place in my life to become pregnant, but I look back now and see God beginning the great rescue that morning. 

He set out to rescue me from myself. 

His timing is always perfect.

His plans are also. Usually so very contrary to my own. 

I decided I wanted a boy. 

He gave me a girl. 

This girl.

I'll never forget a single detail of her difficult birth. 

Thanksgiving Day.

Fourteen family members in a waiting room down the hall for hours and hours. 

Complications. People. Nurses. Doctors. For hours on end.

And then, in the quiet hours of the late, late night. It was just me. And her. 

I looked at that face and very literally though, "What have I done?"

No more ready to be a mother than I had ever been. Yet here she was. 

The journey that she and I embarked on that night as mother and daughter would teach me more than I could have ever imagined. 

I had heard the statement about becoming a parent and it was true: 

Making the decision to have a child is momentous.  It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.  ~Elizabeth Stone

As I look back over the last decade, I am flooded with memories. The good, the bad, the hard and the precious. It doesn't seem possible that it has been ten years since she came into my life.

I look forward to the next ten years with complete trepidation. This decade will be so different.

No diapers. No learning to talk and walk. No potty training. No learning to read and write. No rocking all night and no Princess parties. 

How is all of that gone already?

This decade sends me to my knees. It's a less physical role for me and more spiritual and emotional guidance. 

I feel less ready for this than I did in the dark that first night in the hospital. 

So I find myself again hopelessly dependent on the One who can, and will, provide all that I need for this next decade. 

He is able. 

I've heard this statement several times even today. I'm thankful that He is, because sitting here, I am less sure of my ability as a mother than I have ever been. This keeps me fully dependent on Him and His Word. And that is a good thing. 

My prayer for her now is that she will fully and passionately give her heart to the Lord. That to declare His glory will be her one mission in life. I pray that all that she learns will take root in her heart, and as Psalm 1 that she learned so long ago says, I pray that she will be like a tree, planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither. I pray that her passion for Him will take root deeply in her heart and never fade. 

She is a gift to me, and I will be forever thankful to God for that spring day when I realized that my life was about to change forever. I'm thankful for the daughter that I get to spend each day with. I'm thankful for the way we love and laugh. I'm thankful that at the end of the worst days, she'll still come and curl up in my lap, as best as she can, apologizing and forgiving. I still ask her if she'll always be my best friend. She's kind enough to say yes even though I know now we are moving in new directions. 

In some ways I don't want to stop writing this post. I know that when it's done, we will be even nearer to the next decade. I'll be glad, though. Each day I fall more in love with this child. She's a true gift. 

A repost for Veteran's Day

Thank you, Pop.

(clink link)

Adoption

It was one of my favorite days of the year - Secret Church. A time when a group of believers come together to study God's Word for 6 (okay, 7) hours on a Friday night.

I don't think we did school that day. I'm sure I was too excited to sit still for that long. I'm still such a child in so many ways.

The main thing that needed to happen that day was a nap.

I may act like a child a lot of the time, but this body knows what's up. In order to stay up until 3 am (we eat after) I was going to need a nap.

As I snuggled down ready to rest, I got a text. As I reached for my phone, I squelched down the irritation.

Nap. I wanted a nap.

My irritation melted away when I saw who sent the text. My friend who gets all passes. Everything stops for her.

She said, "Can you meet me at the park? Now?"

All thoughts of a nap flew from my head as I unfolded myself from my cocoon. I gathered the kids and scooped up my keys, pressing down the worry that was welling up in me.

She didn't ask for much. Rarely did she step out of her own self to ask for anything. Frustrating as it was at times, I had grown accustomed to asking what she needed, knowing that she would always be reluctant to ask.

We sat across from each other at a picnic table. The cold November wind whipped around us. I still remember its rub on my face and the chill it sent down my spine. I can still hear the kids laughing and yelling across the playground. I looked across the table at the face I loved and cared about so much. I forced myself to be still and wait.

"I need to tell you something," she started.

"Are you pregnant?" I burst out. I couldn't help it.

She laughed the laugh that I love, but had so seldom heard in the previous 7 months. Her eyes sparkled and I reveled in the beauty of her happiness. She's always beautiful, but I had grown accustomed to seeing sadness coloring the beauty. I studied the absence of the grief, the lightness, the shine, committing it to memory, selfishly to help in the next moment when the grief would return.

It's hard to grieve.

It's also hard to watch someone you love grieve.

Not as hard, but hard still.

She said, still laughing, "No!"

Her laugh quieted and her eyes held mine. I shifted a bit on the hard, cold bench.

"Then what?" I thought. I forced myself to be still.

She's calm. Quiet. Thoughtful. Reserved. Patient. Gentle. Qualities that I feel so deficient in. I forced myself to wait - "Be like her. Wait." I said it to myself. Reminded myself.

Her eyes held mine as she slid something across the table to me. It had been in her hand the entire time, in her hap. She'd been holding it. Clutching it, probably.

I peeled my eyes from her face and dropped my gaze.

Looking back at me was the most beautiful pair of chocolate brown eyes. The breath left me and tears sprang to my eyes. The most adorable girl. She looked so much like her oldest son.

Your daughter.

I don't know if I said it or thought it.

I struggled to breathe and a thousand thoughts flooded my head at the same time. I looked up and just shook my head, blinking back the tears.

There were tears in her eyes too. Never would she ever shed a tear that didn't honor her lost daughter. Ever. But these tears had intermingled with them tears of happiness. Again her beauty flooded me.

A mom, stepping out of her grief to rescue a child from the other side of the world. Pushing away everything within her and everything that the world would say that said, "no."

Because He adopted us. Because she loved Him. Because she had His heart. Because she would do what was right even if the world said no, and even if something in her said no too.

I watched her work harder than I've ever seen anyone work the next months. Raising her children, raising money, grieving her lost daughter, maintaining a house, a marriage, friendships, laughing, crying, determined. Stoic.

They decided to adopt a son too. The precious girl's best friend at the orphanage.

She worked even harder. Pushed herself past the point of exhaustion.

In the midst of a tornado, she was working on a fundraiser.

I was in awe. Inspired. Encouraged. Blessed.

She inspired others to adopt. To take up the cause. To help. To care.

I climbed back in the van that chilly November day to head home. The thought of a nap was far from me now. As I thanked God for all that had happened, I felt it. It whirled up in me and I begged God to suppressed it. I didn't want to feel it. I didn't want to be selfish. I didn't want to ask God why. I didn't want to think again about myself. And the desire I had. Or the desire He had given me. I simply didn't want to go there. I just wanted to feel happiness for my sweet friend.

A constant, selfish battle that rages in me, constantly screaming what about me?

And I hate it.

I looked at the face of another sweet friend as we had a much different conversation. A conversation about longing. Desiring until the physical pain almost overwhelmed the emotional pain.

"Is it like a miscarriage?" she asked. "Is that what this feels like?"

I felt the pain on her face. I carried it with me constantly.

"No," I answered. "That's something God gave and then took away. This is a desire that is constantly unfulfilled. It's like infertility."

She nodded.

What a blessing. That this selfish longing and desire has a community of people that understand far beyond the spoken word.

She gets it.

"It can render you a helpless friend. A bad friend. You have to be careful," I added more for my benefit than hers.

My desire can rob me of joy for my friends. The desire can even lead to jealously. Animosity. Division. Distance.

I battle that too.

 I will rejoice in the beauty of adoption. I will thank the Lord for my friends that have and will adopt. I will pray for those traveling the arduous road of getting these children home. I will pray for those who are struggling under the weight of the children they worked so hard to bring home only to realize that was the easy part of the battle. I will step outside of myself and rejoice, celebrate and pray. I will. I will trust Him.

I wil trust Him as I celebrate adoption.

I'll never forget that beautiful November day when I got to witness the beauty of adoption.