a handful of quietness

Flying hour upon hour through the air, jumping over oceans, sleeping in borrowed beds... this is our life.  Last week we crossed from one hemisphere to the other, and have crash-landed in Sonoma, CA.  Wine country.  Rolling green hills covered with vineyards, Spanish moss green on trees, the wet smell of rain-soaked earth.  We're eating smoked-paprika fish tacos with mango salsa and my Mom's delicious assortment of Christmas cookies, watching movies, enjoying her glittering glass-bedecked Christmas tree, and trying to catch our breath and readjust to America after a 2-year absence.

I click on Ann's links and enjoy the high-speed internet on my new smart phone... this fast, digital age - this era that's leaving me behind, that I feel breathless trying to keep up with.  My "failure" tugs, nags at me... and suddenly I'm angry for feeling like a failure, because it isn't even really failure at all, because who cares if I can't communicate on Facebook, and if my phone only has the bare essentials because I can't be bothered looking up all the fancy time-wasting apps I could have?

This post of Ann's speaks to me - this is how I feel about my year 2012, too: that I didn't blog enough, memorize enough, parent gently enough... that I didn't succeed with the things I wanted to do, that I kept persisting in the sins I wanted to quit.

But guess what?  Time doesn't stop flowing just because I feel like a failure... The New Year has already rolled over, the holidays have come and gone, we are 9 days into 2013, and the days keep ticking by.  I can either flop over in defeat, or I can stop and slow, and live in each next moment.  So I haven't made any resolutions for 2013?  Or even set any large goals?

Maybe I actually am setting goals, birthing goals, I'm just not fully aware of them:

Develop a homeschool philosophy of. my. own.
Enjoy my three (three!) children.
Drink in each moment.
Begin to organize my thoughts and learn how to write better.
Bravely spend my snippets of extra time on creating music.
Memorize more Scripture in this other language, tell more stories about Jesus.

I do have goals.  They're rolling up in my heart, surging gently to the surface - I stop here, in this space, listen for a few brief moments and they're there, the next things the Lord wants me to do.

Wants to do in me.

Quiet.  The year of quietness.  I hear Him whispering it to me:

"Quiet your heart, quiet your mind.  Let this be the year of sitting quietly with Me.  Drink deeply in My presence.  Let your roots go deep, let Me blossom you."

I sense this verse waiting patient in me:

Better is a handful of quietness 

than two hands full of toil and a striving after wind. 

~Ecclesiastes 4:6

I admit, I am a striver, born and bred.  Mostly, my two hands live stretched way out in front, grasping wild, flailing fast.  And most often, when I live stretched out like that, I grasp wind - empty, formless, nothing.

I want a handful of quietness.  I want to live with my hands cupped, waiting.  I want to receive what is in each moment, not grasp after the next, or the last.  I want to live the better.

Live with me, the Year of Quietness?  

There might be quite a bit of noise swirling around us, but I want to keep a quiet heart.

how to give thanks when your heart is breaking?

I stumble out bleary-eyed from too much sleep, thankful my baby girl has slept an incredible 8 hours in a row... and the radio is squawking out more details of this nauseating, heart-breaking thing.

This thing that defies belief.

This thing that has me screaming silently at the sky, "Are You there, God?  Are you GOOD?"

How can You possibly be good if You allow 7-year-old lives to be brutally shattered by bullets?  If You allow families to be torn apart without warning, on just another a normal blue-sky day, just like the one we had yesterday?

How. can. You. be. good. if You just stand by and watch a twisted human being, made in Your image, explode sweet, creative hearts into a bloody mess?  Shred parents' hearts into a mess of bleeding grief?

How is it possible for one of Your image bearers to inflict this horror on other human beings?

I numbly chew my toast and drink tasteless tea as I battle in my spirit with You: How can I keep thanking You for Your goodness when my heart is aching?  When their hearts will never quite heal?  

I was splashing in waves with my own sweet boys yesterday...

Why do I get to keep my kids, when they had to kiss theirs goodbye?

In the shower, the sluggish thought surfaces: Today is Monday, a day for giving thanks. 

Today is always a day for giving thanks.  How do I give thanks for this?

I don't have answers.  I just don't.  I won't offer trite words that would sound hollow.  I will just say how utterly, desperately sad I am for each family plunged into this nightmare.  And I will say that I do still believe what the Words tell me, the only Words that are self-authenticatingly true:

I still believe it with my head, doggedly, that He works all things together for good, even unbelievable atrocity.  

My head believes; honestly, my heart is struggling.  I am wildly flailing with the ache of how unfair it seems.  

But. I. am. thankful.

I am thankful for life, today.  I am thankful for each moment with my sweet children.  For their soft skin, their sparkling eyes, the sound of their laughter.  I'm thankful for the sweaty grip of their hands in mine, that I get to kiss their ow-ies and put bandaids on scrapes, that I get to tuck them into bed at night and feel their wet kisses on my cheeks.

I am deeply, truly, achingly grateful.

And no, it isn't fair.

I didn't have the answer to what to write in the second half of this post until just now, walking back from the post shop where I sent a tiny Christmas package full of music, nail polish and dinosaur tattoos to a friend who also has three gorgeous children....  Children who at this very moment are alive.  Breathing.  While someone else's gorgeous children are dead.

While I walked, I couldn't breathe for the ache of it.  I was struggling for breath, walking down the street, pushing my brand-new daughter in front of me, when these words scrolled through my brain.  At first, just this phrase:

"He who did not spare His own Son..."

I nearly stopped walking.  My brain repeated that one line, over and over, fumbling around for the rest of the verse:

"He who did not spare His. own. Son...

but gave Him up for us all...

He gave up His own Son for us.  And I would question His goodness?  

"He who did not spare His own Son,

but gave Him up for us all,

how will He not also

with Him..."

We have His Son.  He gave us His only Son.  Gave Him to us, in every conceivable way.  Gave us His Son's blood, poured it streaming down a horrible cross.  Gave us the breath from His Son's lungs.

When we have lost our sons, our daughters - when He takes them away - we have His.  

He gave us His Son.

"He who did not spare His own Son, but gave Him up for us all,

how will He not also with Him 

graciously give us all things?"

~Romans 8:32

All things.  Things like... comfort.

Answers.

Hope.

Life, forever.

He promises He will graciously give us all things - with His Son.  In His Son.

When we have Christ, we have...

all things.

When I get home, I look up the reference.  Romans 8:32.  Just 4 verses after those other words I found it so hard to believe this morning: Romans 8:28, that He works all things together for good.  All things.  All things.  

Just 4 short verses separate the "all things" of our lives from the "all things" we have in Christ.

The God who did not spare His own Son, but who graciously gives us all things when He gives His Son to us, is the same God who works all things together for good.  

I can believe that, with my head, and my heart.

{With our deepest sympathy and prayers for the families of the victims of the Connecticut shooting. May the God of all comfort wrap you in His arms....}

 

why being a mother is possibly the most important job you will ever have...

Read Lisa-Jo Baker's words of wisdom on motherhood here... they were food for my sleep-deprived brain and weary soul!

Sparrow - finally here!

It's finally finished... 

...just in time for Christmas! 

I am so excited to share these songs with all of you!  They come from my heart, and I hope they minister to yours.  

From the booklet of Sparrow: 

These songs have blossomed out of thoughts and realizations from years of living a cross-cultural, transient life.  

I’ve recorded a few songs in the past, but this is my first original album on this scale, and even just agreeing with God to start the process was a huge step of faith.  I recorded the whole thing when I was nine months pregnant with our daughter, Ruby Grace.  

The title track especially captures my relief at being able to tuck my most precious treasures - my children - under God’s wings and trust Him to be our home.  

My prayer as you listen is that God Himself will draw near and speak to your heart, and that His presence and peace will become tangibly yours.   

Some photos from the making of...

May you know His presence and peace this Christmas, kind friends!   

rain smells so good

Sitting here, with a drowsy baby girl on my lap, watching the roses outside the living room window bob gently under a sudden rain shower.  The warm, earthy scent drifts in through the open window.

I listen absentmindedly to the boys in the shower, washing off remnants of their haircuts earlier... Happy chatter, Ben telling stories, Daddy managing brilliantly as he always does...

The kitchen already cleaned up at 7:39pm, after an easy crockpot dinner...

Life is starting to return to a semblance of "normal", and the washing sound of the rain feels fresh.

spiritual osteopathy

{Tomorrow being Thanks-Giving Day, but us being overseas, I'm feeling a bit disconnected... which reminds me that every day is a day for giving thanks... and today I'm thankful for my loose, free shoulders and spirit!}

“Come through!” she says in a cheerful voice, bent over her computer between clients.  I put my bag down, slip off my shoes, take out my earrings, and lay down on her table, surrendered.  Trusting.  

Her hands are so gentle.  She slides them underneath my back, in between my shoulder blades, right where the ache has grown and lodged over six weeks of nursing my brand-new daughter.  Six weeks of cradling her ever-increasing plumpness, of bending my neck for hours every day, gazing down at my girl as she drinks, not wanting to miss a minute of her sweetness.  

The osteopath shifts her fingers slightly, increases pressure in one spot, releases it in another.  She moves my ribcage around, shakes me gently, wiggles me back and forth, looking for tense spots.  

While she works, we chat about having three children, about her youngest being a bare three months old, about going back to work full time and still continuing to breastfeed.  I marvel at her dedication, at her love for what she does and her love for who she leaves at home.  

She moves to my head, grasps it in both hands, taking its weight.  She changes the position of her fingers ever so gradually, shifting my head on my neck.  I breathe deep.  

The conversation, the touch, the easing of pain all combine to leave me feeling free.  

Refreshed.  

Refocused.  

My back doesn’t hurt anymore.  I leave smiling.  

The next morning, we drive down the road to a group of women who meet every Thursday to pray.  

“Come in!”  The hostess greets us at the door with a warm hug, and we step into a room full of smiles.  Each woman embraces us in turn, and my touch-loving soul drinks up their love.  I sit down on the couch, feeling safe and loved.  Surrendered.  Trusting.    

The hostess turns on worship music.  The room is bathed in peace.  Ruby sleeps peacefully in her carseat, and I sit with my hands open in front of me, and give myself up to the Holy Spirit’s presence.  

As we worship, I can feel the Holy Spirit’s hands on my heart.  Gentle hands.  He finds the tense spots, releases pressure.  Wiggles my heart around, jogs my memory gently to remind me of things I need to repent of.  Thoughts float to the surface one by one.  

I can feel Him realigning my soul.  

By the end of four or five songs, my spirit feels like my neck and shoulders: loose, and free.  

Spiritual osteopathy.  

sojourning with children...

{Caveat to this anecdote: My children do have enough clothes - maybe not as many daily options as other kids from their passport countries, but if we're trucking their stuff all around the world, I figure we only really need about 3 of everything... makes for frequent laundry but light suitcases!}


Yesterday I was asking Will about his recent switch to morning preschool instead of afternoons.

I asked him, "So, are the kids the same in the mornings?"

He replied, "Yes they're the same - they just wear different clothes!"

I laughed. so. hard.


(For those who might be unfamiliar, here's the definition of a TCK, or Third Culture Kid...)