Laughter

My children play hard. Laugh hard. Their made-up games occurred indoors many days in a row, giving me a close-up view of childhood. The main ingredients? Thrill and delight. They love being together, that's the delight, and they love being thrilled. Locked in a dungeon, or hiding in a cave and waiting for a bear to arrive. Or being a bandit running from a sheriff. Or a hiker hiding from a wolf.

Along with the Holy Spirit, they opened my eyes this week. My word of the year? I chose balance. I perceived an imbalance, thinking it pertained to time management. Wrong.

There's an emotional imbalance in the adults here. We don't live for thrill and delight, the way our children do. We don't laugh enough, often exuding stress instead. Our children live happy in spite of us, most of the time. Their delight in each other is their daily salvation.

Not long ago Peter remarked: "Mommy, you aren't as happy as you were before Beth's arthritis. I remember you used to turn up the music and dance with us." He grieved when he said it; he wasn't accusing me of wrongdoing.


A few days later he found a photo of Daddy, laughing. "Will Daddy ever be that happy again, Mommy?"

Don't get me wrong--I delight in the Lord; He gives me joy. But laughter is pain medicine too. Laughter bonds. Laughter starts in fellowship.

So my revised, narrowed-down word for 2012? Laughter.

I'm going to participate with my children in the thrill of chase. As an act of love, I'm going to make them laugh every day, regardless of whether I feel like it. I'm going to be obedient to the Holy Spirit's promptings in this, leaving the rest up to God.

Children need to hear laughter from Mommy and Daddy. Play signals wellness. It's an outward sign that everything's going to be okay.

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Upside-Down Living

She nursed at least twenty times in twenty-four hours...as a three-year-old, not a newborn. I once read that breastmilk is a natural pain reliever; I'm inclined to believe that. Her arthritis medicine is certainly not meeting her pain needs.


While she fared better the first half of the day, her afternoon crashed. Her long nap ended in pain and stiffness, leaving her unable to walk. We dealt with hysterics for nearly an hour, stopped only by me nursing her again and again. It quieted our frazzled nerves.


I pleaded with God. How do I handle this constant pouring out? How do I handle the despair of seeing a three-year-old live with chronic pain? So many other issues and duties here, too, besides arthritis. My OCD son goes to the dentist soon. He fights the notion that they're possibly evil and will do something deadly to him. The more stress the arthritis causes, the more his OCD acts up.


I'm helpless, other than my Momma milk. Thank you for that comfort, God. Where would our family be without it? The therapist explained that the pain of arthritis is like an on-going toothache. Daytime activities can distract from the pain, but at night, it screams louder. 


Nursing quiets her pain in the middle of the night, so the other children can get sufficient sleep, and so she can go back to sleep


His answer to my pleas? At least a dozen names of people who need prayer. He has me walk in and out of prayer all day. When trouble piles here, that's His answer, along with everyday graces and blessings:  


~ Sunshine turning new snow into glitter. 
~ Bright red cardinals landing in the snow near our window.
~ The cutest things coming out of young mouths.
~ Bonding over baking and eating cookie dough.
~ Cuddles on couches.
~ Beautiful storybooks.
~ Children who love Him.


Intercessory prayer an answer to a despairing heart? How does it help those under my roof, when we need something from Him?


Why does He ask more of me, when I'm pleading for relief?


The Christian life, when lived well, is an upside down phenomena. When you need more love, love more. When you need more time, give more of yours. When you need comfort, give it away. When you need prayer, pray for others. When you need Him, be Him to others. 


It's a profound mystery, but it works. My despair gives way to joy. My self-involved thoughts abruptly end, so I can love others. We can't love when we focus inward. Love is a pouring out. 


Jesus poured out everything. He calls us to do likewise. The keywords? Outward focus, not inward. A heart that has received His love, can pour it out.


1 John 4:7-12
Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. ⁸ Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love. ⁹ This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. ¹⁰ This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. ¹¹ Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. ¹² No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.

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You Always Have to Trust God, Mommy!

We're driving in snow, late for a physical therapy appointment and I'm angry for the first time since Beth's diagnosis. A nasty flare started two days into her new medication. Did the doctor prepare me for this possibility? No. She said nothing about any changes we might experience. So I naturally assumed a smooth transition, punctuated by my daughter eating better. She is eating better.


It took all of us to get her walking today. When she could finally put weight on her legs, her gait looked scary, with one leg swinging around straight, as though wooden. 


I'm angry, God, and I don't want to be...not after reading this:


Upon reaching Darwin’s house, I found three children sleeping in a small room with no windows or doors. The youngest was in the best spot, an old and dirty baby carriage; his 6-year-old brother was on top of him. I heard the cry of a child alongside his brothers. He was lying on the dirt floor among wet stones. It was Darwin. He was using dirty clothes as a pillow and was crying from pain and cold.

When I saw him I felt his pain, poverty and distress. I couldn’t contain myself and I cried. At that moment I felt the pain of a mother, sister and daughter. It was the Holy Spirit who grieved at the scene.


Courtesy of Compassion International: http://blog.compassion.com/a-spirit-of-power-and-love/#ixzz1jt5S4qgC 



My child suffers; her face advertises pain. But is her pain the result of a world who bought Starbucks lattes, instead of helping the poor? Is she in pain because no one cared enough? (Some don't even realize abject poverty exists. That's why I write Compassion posts).


Some pain screams for anger. But not the pain of arthritis. I have no right.


My thoughts toss wild the whole drive to therapy. While there, I notice the therapist's ring finger for the first time. Probably around thirty-two years old, the mom of two young boys, she sports no wedding ring. A single mom. I marvel. No faith and no husband. How hard is her life?


How long had it been since I'd prayed for Bea? Too long. Lost in the world of a special-needs child, I'd forgotten. 


Which sounds better...to live with the pain of arthritis for perhaps a decade or longer, or to spend eternity in hell? Beth will most likely go to heaven. But Bea? Where will she go? 


I'd been reminded during the Book of Revelation sermons. Hell doesn't mean horrible punishment, followed by death. It's eternal suffering; we are eternal beings, all of us. The question is...where will we spend eternity?


My anger melted right there. God wants souls won. He wants to save every person from eternal suffering. As Bea charmed my daughter into painful exercises, the main thing slapped me in the face. 

Later, driving to AWANA, the van sputters. Looking down at the panel, I notice the gas level. Beyond empty. We've got a problem. 


I enlist prayers and we all begin chanting our own versions of: God, please save us!


The engine gives out. My meandering thoughts to and from therapy? They kept me from noticing the gas level.


Roughly 10 degrees outside. Snowing. 5:45 pm. Husband not due home for 75 minutes. I drive past the AWANA church, knowing a gas station looms ahead.


Why didn't you drop us off, first?


I might need your help if we run out of gas.


You mean to push the van?


Um, no. To comfort Beth.


When the engine gave out, we'd just reached the top of a hill. I coast down, marveling at my Heavenly Father. Turning into the gas station, the steering wheel tightens. And the breaks? Barely working. Does the entire car stop working with no gas? I don't recall ever running out before--at least not while in the driver's seat.


We don't make it to the pump. I get out and try to push, to no avail. Peter's nerves give out some. Getting back in, I turn the key to off, and then try starting it again. Bingo. Just enough to park myself crooked, but sort of adjacent to the pump.


The older three make it to AWANA six minutes late, after much cheering. 


God, you are awesome! We love you! Thank you! You saved us!


Mary: You always have to trust God, Mommy!


I'll fall asleep fine tonight, thanks to the comforting wisdom of a five-year-old. I still don't like arthritis or a doctor who leaves me hanging. 


But God's purposes? They're not hard to understand. Every person. With Him. In Paradise.


That's why a young boy in Lima cries from pain and cold and uses dirty clothes as a pillow. That's why my daughter suffers pain and stiffness and needs to see Bea every week. 


Pain highlights His power and glory. He works wonders through pain. We're a distracted world, unable to see. But He sees and He knows. He saves, in spite of us.

Fighting Martha's Voice

Unfolded clothes taking over? And after dinner, baths, stories, and prayers, tackling the dishes right away just wasn't happening? Crusting over by now, are they?


Did the last hour of the day go awry? Did they fall asleep with the cantankerous echo of a drippy-faucet Momma in their heads?


The voice sounds. His voice. Sit and read your Bible first.


I know the other voice in your head. The Martha voice. If I don't tackle the dishes and clothes right now, the next day will go poorly. 


Mothers really are overworked. We become like hefty trucks, determined to plow through, working to stay afloat. When we take a break, we're behind, so we keep on plowing.


Martha is wrong though. The next day won't go poorly because of piled-up chores. It goes wrong because of piled-up sin.  Because we didn't bathe ourselves in Him.


Wash yourself in the Word first. When we put Him first, everything else falls into its rightful place. Trust Him to bring peace and harmony into your days.


Martha's voice is strong, but we must fight her lies. We must fight our notion that it all depends on us. On whom does it really depend?


Open your Bible, my friend. It'll make you smile.


Matthew 7:24-27
24 “Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. 25 The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. 26 But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. 27 The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash.”
source here

The Day The Lord Has Made; Rejoice

It's Sunday and we sit cozy in church. The 32-year-old pastor preaches Ephesians; a man should love his wife as Christ loved the Church.

He exhorts the ladies, joking: As you listen, don't make mental lists of all the things your husbands are doing wrong. Your turn is next week; remember that.

Before he begins I know I'm blessed. My husband loves well. I take his hand in mine, grateful.

At thirty-three and forty we fall in love on a mountain in southern California, hiking with the church singles' group. We waited long for our turn. Wrinkled and in slow decline, we parent little ones. God has us on a different road and we live brave.

The sermon? It's perfect and I marvel at the wisdom and humility of this young pastor, just given the reins. The senior pastor stepped down to focus on planting another church. God made him a planter, not a preacher.

I marvel at God's plans. Perfection.

I marvel at God for providing the perfect man for me. One who will hold my hand faithfully until God calls me home. Living brave with me, growing old with me...knowing me.

A man who knows love is a verb. Just the right father to delight my children. When he comes through that door at 7:00 pm, radiant, overjoyed children, four of them, open the door and they are glad in him. He loves them with his life and instinctively, they seem to know. My daddy is love.

All those years as a single woman? That was the picture in my head. A hand holder. A wonderful father. A wise man who leads humbly and loves much.

God's plans bring perfection. The only perfection that exists. There can be pain in the journey and it can look messy, but that makes our God-ordained path no less perfect.

Psalm 118:24
This is the day the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.


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