good to be home

{Written last weekend... yeah, it's a week old now but it still applies... enjoying being in our own space!)

A Russian disco beat from a local party floats up the hill on the breeze, into my banana-muffin-scented kitchen.  I haven’t been able to bake in a month.  Having something slowly turning golden in my oven feels good.  The timer beeps, and I grab potholders, open the oven door with a blast of hot air in my face, pull out my blue silicon heart-shaped muffin pan.  I balance it on top of the stove, letting the muffins cool in the breeze wafting in through the open window.  My red geranium sits cheerily on the windowsill, matching the red cherries my sweet Mom helped me stencil on the walls of my kitchen, during their visit two years ago.  Has it really been two years already?  

My little son sits contentedly at the kitchen table munching pieces of yellow apple.  Autumn is here already.  It’s hard to believe.  I feel like we blinked and missed summer.  My baby girl scoots across the kitchen linoleum on the seat of her pink pants, clutching a sliver of apple in her fist.  I sit at my kitchen desk, sip Earl Grey tea in my new china mug with the blue flowers, a gift from my thoughtful husband.  

My eldest son saunters in from the fresh air, hops into a kitchen chair, begs again to play our game of Connect-4. I had put it on hold while I kneaded and set to rise some rosemary-scented Tuscan flatbread which I want to tear and eat it, hot and golden, with our Sunday supper frittata.  (I’m inspired - I’ve been reading Marlena di Blasi all afternoon.)

“What color do you want to be, Mommy?”

“I don’t mind.”

“Ok, I’m red.”  The bright yellow and red plastic counters make a peaceful clacking sound sliding down their chutes.  He beats me, fair and square.  I reach for another muffin, sip my tea.  Consolation.  My son is growing up.  

My daughter pulls herself up using Ben’s chair for support, wobbles back and forth, loudly requesting more apple.  A few shaky steps and she’s clutching my pant leg, grinning cheekily up at me with cheeks bulging.  One little hand spread-eagled on my jeans for balance, she bounces her little knees and grins at me with each chew.  I blinked, and her first year went by.  

The second game of Connect-4 we fill up the entire board except for one final empty slot in the top right-hand corner.  He beats me again.  He’ll be smarter than me soon, I think.  Not much time left.    

I shoo us all outside to catch the late afternoon sunlight, grabbing Ruby under one arm, my kitchen scissors, the camera.  Ruby holds on to her stroller to practice walking.  I snip the last of the sunflowers and zinnias, snap photos in the slanting rays of light.  

James comes home, opens the gate, drives the car in.  Ruby sinks to her bottom, scoots to Daddy, holds up her arms.  He tosses her in the air.  She squeals with delight, flashing her lopsided dimples and enchanting little teeth.  

We trail back inside together, stepping over the detritus of our first full day at home - every available floor space littered with toys, the kids getting reacquainted with all their treasures after yet another month away from home.  I fill a Mason jar with water for the zinnias, place them in the middle of the chaos on the kitchen table.  The two tallest sprigs of sunflowers I stand up in a pretty china pitcher on the windowsill.  Behind me, the boys straggle in from throwing rocks in the canal, Ben whimpering over his latest war wound.  He pulls up his shirt to show me the scratch, I kiss his forehead.  

“Can we watch something?”  The inevitable, hundred-times-a-day question.  This time I say yes, tell them to agree on a DVD, turn on the player.  I go knead my dough, divide it into two oval rounds, set it to rise on a baking sheet under a clean towel.  The boys fight and bicker over the DVD, I threaten cancellation if they can’t agree.  I can hear Ben trying to pull the “wounded soldier” card: “I got an owie!  I want to pick!”  Finally, seeing no end in sight, I choose for them, and the strains of Curious George float peacefully from the living room.  

As I scrub the muffin pan, I think back over our summer.  Three weeks of June in Turkey.  One week at home, then a visa run which turned into a 25-day marathon saga.  The month of August at home, just 30 short days (10 of which, James was away).  Then we gathered the troops for a second visa run these first three weeks of September, finally climaxing last Friday with the grant of our long-awaited 1-year visa, the culmination of months of hard work and hassles….  

My soul feels tired.  

Even though we are only renting this house, it’s full of the things we love and the pieces of ourselves that make it feel like home.  The afternoon sun bronzing the walnut leaves outside, the sound of Curious George, the scent of rising rosemary flatbread, the familiar red cherries on my kitchen walls... 

The sum of all this leaves me feeling suddenly wealthy.  

The little local boy who tends to turn up at meal times pokes his brown head politely around my kitchen door.  “Assalam aleykum,” he greets me with a grin, adding, in his frank little way, that he’s just had a muncha (shower) - probably a once-a-week experience at best.  I grin back, and motion to the living room and the Curious George watchers.  He ducks his head and disappears.  

Ruby starts her pre-dinner shriek, and I rack my brain to think of what I can feed her as an appetizer… Oh, right.  Fresh-baked banana muffin.  

She grins her cheeky, toothy grin at me and presses one little hand to her bib - sign-language for “please”.  

Aaaahhhh.  It’s good to be home.  

of weeds and hearts

It’s been a long day.

Discipline, discipline, brothers fighting, screaming fits, long time-outs… more discipline.  

And I’ve been hacking weeds out of my own heart, along with my sons’… Becoming more patient, by having my patience tested.  Becoming more loving, by having my love stretched.  Today I knew the depth of my love for my kids, felt Jesus hold me as I held my thrashing three-year-old until he finally calmed down in my arms.  

But the sin, oh, the sin!

I finally hustled everybody outside, gasping for a breath of fresh air.  I was still damp with sweat from the latest tussle, and as I stepped outside and the breeze met my face I breathed a sigh of relief.  

Standing at the top of our steps, my gaze fell on the huge, spiky weed that’s been growing, well, “like a weed” in a crack in our sidewalk, right next to my herb garden.  Every time I climb to our front door I want to hack it out; there’s just never time to reach for the hoe (arms full of baby, bags, etc.).  

Today was the day.  Time for an object lesson.

I picked up the hoe and beckoned my boys close.

“See this, right here?”  I pointed at the big, ugly, spiky weed.  “What’s this?”

“A weed,” Will said promptly.

“Is it good for you?” 

“No.”

“Is it healthy?  Can you eat it?”

Ben: “NO!  It’s all spiky, and the spikes will stick in your THROAT!  Blech!”

“Right,” I said (hiding a smile).  “It’s bad for you.  It’s bad for the garden.  What should we do?”

“Get rid of it!” 

So, I picked up the hoe, and started hacking at the base of the weed.  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Will flinch.  He’s my sensitive one, and I knew the lesson was going in because we’d already talked about gardens and hearts and weeds earlier this afternoon - during our long conversation about lying.

As I hacked, I kept talking.  “See?  Your sin is like this awful weed growing in your heart.  And Jesus tells me in His Word that I’m like your gardener - I’m supposed to tend your heart by teaching you to obey.  When I discipline you, I am obeying Jesus.  If we don’t get rid of those weeds in your heart now, they’ll grow bigger and bigger until they’re so big they wreck your life.”

Silence.  Two pairs of eyes stared, motionless, as I kept hacking at the root.  The awful thing was so thick the hoe kept sticking in the core of it; the sounds were pretty graphic. 

I did the best I could, until the weed was lying in tatters on the ground, and then I drew them close.  

I laid my hand on each of their hearts, one at a time.  

“I. love. you. so. much.  I am willing to do whatever it takes to get those weeds out of your hearts.”  

They hugged me back, and we all thought the lesson was over, until...

I walked over to look at our sunflower seedlings, and noticed a new crop of tender weeds flourishing after last night’s heavy rain.  I called the boys over, pointed out the healthy green sunflower plants, and then showed them all the little weeds.

“Ok guys, let’s get rid of some of these weeds... make sure you grab down near the bottom so the roots come out too," and I held up a sturdy specimen trailing root strings.

Plucking away, Will noticed how easily the roots were coming up. 

“That’s because these weeds are still tiny,” I explained, “not like that weed-monster we just tried to kill by the front steps.”  

And then I had an epiphany.  Part two of the lesson.

“You know, Will, when you listen to the Jesus Storybook Bible in the morning and then we talk about it?  That’s like plucking little weeds from your heart.  Every day, you can ask Jesus to weed your heart and show you what to get rid of, and then those little sins won’t have time to grow any bigger.”  

A little while later, I was back at my herb garden doing some more weeding, and Will came up close.  “Mommy,” he said, “wanna know what I just prayed?”

Squatting on my haunches, I turned to look up at him.  “What, honey?”

“I prayed to Jesus, and asked Him to weed my heart every day so no weeds can grow there.  And then I asked Him to grow the fruit of the Spirit in my heart, so it can be full of beautiful things!”

Music to my ears.  Now, if only Benjamin’s heart were that soft… 

Later on, at dinner, Ben came around and gave James and I unsolicited hugs, saying, emphatically, “I’m gonna obey!  I’m gonna obey you guys!  Jesus is in my heart!  He’s helping me!”  

“Aw, Ben, that’s so great!”  We hugged him back.  “But Ben, you’ve been saying those things for a while now, but there isn’t any change when we ask you to do something you don’t feel like doing… You need to ask Jesus to help you obey even when you don’t want to.”

“Ok, I will!” Big smile.  Kisses.  He is so affectionate.  Rambunctious.  Enthusiastic.  Lovable.   Sincere and emphatic in everything he says, but changeable, oh, so changeable!  One minute he’s hugging and kissing me, and the next minute he’s flailing and screaming in my face.  

Please, Lord, work deep into his heart-soil these seeds of discipline and wisdom we’re faithfully sowing every day, so that soon, we start to see fruit...

aphids of complaining, petunias of thanksgiving

 

I have two potted petunias hanging outside my front door.

One is thriving, one is dying.  

 

White blooms burst from the healthy one, while the sickly one can barely hold up its limbs.  What is making the difference?

Tiny aphids are draining the life from one of my plants.  

All the energy that should be bursting into beautiful bloom is being sucked away by these minuscule pests.  

I couldn’t help but see the parable: 

I have days like each of these plants.  

My full-of-life blooming days are characterized by flowers of thanksgiving.  

My depressed, grumpy, everything-seems-so-hard days are usually caused by aphids of discontentment.  

The trouble is, the more I complain the worse I feel!  

I’m realizing that every complaint is like one of those little tiny pests.  They don’t seem very important one by one, but taken all together, they will eat you alive.  

In contrast, the more I thank, the more I bloom.

Every time I breathe quiet thanks - for cheese, for a knife to cut it with, for hot running water in my tap, for a mug of tea, for a working toilet - it doesn’t seem very significant.  Mundane, really.  How could this possibly be making any difference?

But guess what?  I’m happier.  Really.  I. am. happier.  I’m less grumpy, less petty than I was a year ago (I hope).  Replacing complaining with thanking is actually changing me.  Whether my hours are rolling out neatly or full of interruptions, whether I’m feeling tired or rested, giving thanks is gradually changing my perspective, my heart-space, the flavor of my days.  

I am quietly starting to bloom.  

What are your “aphids” today?  What things are you tempted to complain about?  Could you give thanks for those very things, and watch your day change from feeling sucked dry to bursting into bloom?  

six thousand cups of promise

{A amazing glimpse into one of my husband's current endeavors...}

Nestled in dark dirt, surrounded by a white plastic sheath, a cherry seed waits.

Lovingly planted by careful hands in the dead of winter, it slept long months in its cup of earth in cellar dark, biding its time. 

Yesterday, its cup was placed in a wooden crate with forty-nine other cups containing its brothers and sisters.  The crate was lifted and carried up and out, into the moist, spring air.  Other crates are carefully placed beside the first, until the ground is covered with six thousand cups of promise.

Now the seed stirs.  Stretches slightly in its earthen bed.  Thinks its first, faint, cherry thoughts.  The spring sun gently warms its bedclothes.  Warmth seeps down into the dirt in the cup.   The seed feels moisture all around, senses warmth above. 

Then, one day - pop!  The seed-case cracks.  A tiny, green, living tendril noses its way up between particles of earth.  Its green point blindly breaks the surface skyward.  

A cherry tree is born.

{Isn't this like our faith?  In the dark of a winter season, we can't feel ourselves growing.  We lose heart, despair of ever changing.  But then one day - pop!  The hard case of doubt cracks open, and suddenly we can feel again the warmth and love of God's presence.  We stretch up towards His light, and watch as His promises bear fruit in our lives, even through dark times - and sometimes because of them.}

growing green goodness

{This post from early March, just now finding its way to the light...}

My garden is calling to me.  

The moist, clean-smelling earth underneath the dead leaves and old, dried-up twigs of last year’s herbs and flowers.  I scrabble and scrooge (I think that‘s from The Wind in the Willows) with my hands under the dead stuff, and I find… green.  Living green leaves.  Mint.  Oregano.  Little chive spikes finding their way up to the light through holes in the detritus, reaching up bravely into the new year.  

I’m almost breathlessly eager as I unearth them.  Say hello.  Tenderly clear away around the base of each chive-clump, each curling tendril of mint.  Snip dead ends with kitchen scissors which I race madly into the house to retrieve from their drawer, and madly out again, not wanting to miss a moment of the green.  

Why is spring so exciting?

All this newness, all this freshness, compels me to be in it, out in it, breathing it in.  

I want it inside me.  

I want new, fresh spring life inside me, with the same vibrant array of possibilities for growth.  

Spring dirt is teeming with life.  It’s like the sleep of winter has held it captive for so many months, and the minute winter’s icy fingers loosen their grip, spring earth breathes a sigh of relief and releases the fragrances it’s been saving up all winter long.  

Aaaaahhhhhh.  You can almost hear the earth sighing.  Spring has come.  I’m alive.  Awake.  Growing.  Ready for seeds, for rain, for warm spring sun.

The sun gently caresses my back with warm hands as I bend over my herb bed, delighted with each new discovery.  I expected everything to be dead when we came back after seven months away.  I even brought back packets of all the same seeds, expecting to replant.  But no, out of five types of herbs, three are living!  And the long thin space for flowers at the front, empty now, I have lavendar goodness to fill it.  A long row of lavendar hedges… 

I ruminate on the front steps, sitting happy in the sun, inhaling the dusty fragrance of my pile of herb fronds.

Imagining growing green goodness.    

songs for heavy hearts

{With hearts still heavy for Boston, I humbly offer these songs as, maybe, a balm for sore spirits?}

She’s listening, and she says she feels better.

Both our hearts are heavy today for a mutual friend.  Already this morning I’ve prayed aloud with tears, the words stumbling slow, while she drinks belated coffee and tries to summon enough appetite for a banana.  She says she's just not hungry.  What if it were her babies in the hospital?  

What if it were mine?

Even after praying, the burden remains for both of us.  I cut up vegetables for chicken stock while I lift up every thought as a prayer.  

I’ve told her she can borrow my iPod whenever she wants, that she can listen to whatever she wants.  Today it happened to be set on these heart-songs when she arrived, and when I offer to change it, she says she likes it that way.  Says my voice is comforting, even though she doesn’t understand the words.  

She asks for my earbuds, plugs one in, leaves one dangling.  Connected to both worlds at once.  She wears the earbuds and my blue cap with the silver spangles out to turn over the garden.  I see heaven covering her head.  

I make chicken stock, and watch her spading earth through the window.  The stock simmers, and I join her, pick up a spade, shove it in heavy ground and lift.  The sun warms our backs.  I ask her: how does she feel now?

She says she's feeling better, listening.  Smiles, glances at me over the top of her spade handle.  

This music, almost all in a language she doesn’t understand… somehow, she feels my heart beating through these songs.  Somehow, God’s peace is filling her ears, her heart.    

This dear friend, she is sound as a good apple - sweet right through to the core.

It’s her ordinariness that rescues me from thinking too highly of myself.  She’s like a solid oak tree whose very presence is reassuring.

It’s her humble, laughing acceptance of the hardships in her life that humbles me, prods me into contentment.

I don’t know what I’d do without her friendship.  She is the rock for me in this strange land.  Even though I have had to learn her heart language to communicate with her heart,  sometimes I think even if we couldn’t speak a word to each other, we’d still be friends.

And yet, she doesn’t know.  She doesn’t know what I know.

She doesn’t know where to find that welling up of joy, that spring of peace that flows in any circumstance.  She doesn’t know where to find wisdom that actually works, love that is tender and intimate, romance that surprises.  

She doesn’t know how much she is Loved.  

I am here to tell her.  

Thank You for this music.  Speak through it, through my stumbling tongue.  Fill me with timeliness, and courage.  Help me wait patiently until the moments are ripe, then help me speak boldly when You nudge.  

With all else wonderful that she is, she is not yet my heart sister.  

This I long for.  Every. day.  

of weed-wacking and complacency

“I borrowed a weed-wacker… I’m going to go wack weeds.”

Outside, he yanks the pull-start and the buzz whirs into action, determined, fierce, a little engine with spinning blades hewing down the thick, tall, stalks smothering our yard.  

Should I be wacking weeds too?  What would it take to clean out my overgrown heart?

I hear the sizzling sound as the blades slice through tough fiber, grown so tall and rooted so deep hands would work for hours to pull them up by the roots… and then, since our yard is all weeds, there would be no yard left at all, just mounds of rumpled dirt clods all uprooted.  

How deep do my weed-roots go?

Aren’t I doing ok, really?  I mean, how bad can it really be - the state of my heart?  I’m living in another country, raising my kids to understand another culture, speak another language.  I’m strategizing about reaching out to those around me in Jesus’ name.  I’m coping with water shortages, power outtages, nasty no-see-um biting bugs, freezing cold winters and unpredictable summers.  I’m enduring isolation, loneliness, relationship stress, culture stress, all for the sake of carrying the Good News in my skin to this group of people who maybe wouldn’t hear any other way.  

So where are the weeds?  Are they really there?  Doesn’t all this giving up for Jesus count for something?

I think about my ugly attitude last night, when I overheard frustration from my husband, took it personally, and allowed myself to sink into utter despair over my own failure buttons being pushed.  

I think about how I snapped at my kids and lost patience and even (shall I say it?) got sick of the sound of them, all because I didn’t get my nap yesterday.  

I think of how I tunneled into children’s fiction books for the whole afternoon, addictively escaping deeper into a different world to shut out my own - which is filled with what?  Blessings.  Beautiful children.  A loving husband.  Potential for blessing and giving all around me.  Nature singing God’s beauty right outside my doorstep.  I blocked it all out and buried my head in the sand - and the result was a late, unorganized, inadequate dinner, an unsatisfied family, and a sick heart.  Weeds galore.  

I think of the blog post I read - no, devoured - this morning that brought tears springing sharply and made my breakfast stick in my throat.  I think how I ache for my boys to grow up that way, to love that way, to give that way… and of how little and feeble my example is, me being the person they absorb life from 24 hours a day, as I hoard their best toys and teach them to give away only the lesser, broken bits.  Ugh.  

What are they sponging from me, as I greedily hoard my own time and heartily resent interruptions, sleep deprivation, and unexpected guests?  What are they internalizing as I put my own agenda first over people, so they can see I only give out in little, limited pockets, when it suits me - instead of lavishly, without reserve, like Mary with her perfume all poured out?  

What are they subconsciously tucking away?

All inside of me aches, and I feel the prickles of all those weeds in my heart.  The buzz outside continues, relentless, driving home the question: Will you submit to those spinning blades - will you let Me mow down all this ugly so I can have room to grow goodness?

 No matter where we are in the world, or what we think we’re doing for Christ, the battlefield is in our own hearts.  I could live this whole cross-cultural sojourning life, feeling and acting holy, and convince myself I’m giving everything up for Jesus.  But without true lavish Christ-love in my heart or a true willingness to sacrifice what’s actually dear to me, I am seriously only a clanging cymbal.  

Time to invite the Weed-Wacker.  

*****

What are some ways you convince yourself you’re “ok” spiritually?

What real weeds are subtly growing in your heart

that you need to invite the Holy Spirit to hack out?