Sacred Mundane: The Blog

It was like deja vu, them sitting there on the couch saying, “I don’t know.”

Them, missionaries to Africa, like the missionaries to Papua New Guinea who had sat on that same couch a few months earlier and that sudden comfort and encouragement and strength welled up in me when they said those words:

“I don’t know.”

I look up to both couples so much. Those Yoders and Hunters who have counted the cost and sold the farm, so to speak. Their lives seem other-worldly, filled with third-world tales of the miraculous. They loom large, so godly, in my mind, and I love and respect and adore them all at once.

And then they both said, “I don’t know.”

We chuckled as they both recounted similar experiences. When greeted, as known missionaries “home” from the field, the usual peppering of questions usually involves, “When are you going back? What’s next? What’s the plan?”

And they smile, restful, and say, “I don’t know.” 

The Hunters, 30 years senior to the Yoders, are more restful when they say it. (Smile) They’ve lived seasons and seen loss. They’ve made plans enough to see them changed more often than not and to know the goodness of God so completely that it’s become easy to let those words slide off the tongue:

“I don’t know.”

And when we asked them about culture-shock, and what it’s like being back in the States, the Hunters’ one commentary on American culture was surprising. They didn’t remark about material things or how greedy and godless we’ve all become. They just said:

“It’s odd. No one here seems happy.” 

I raised my eyebrows.

They went on to explain. That “poor” Africans laugh and sing and dance and joke. But back here, they keep looking for happy people. Where are they?

Why is everyone so solemn? So sad? So heavy?

So serious?

Could it be that they–these “poor” people who don’t have a pot to pee in (his words, not mine), take God seriously but themselves, not so much? That even though they don’t know where the next meal will come from, or if the crops will succeed or fail, or if the baby will survive, they do know the God who knows all things and this allows them to smile and say, 

“I don’t know.”

Could our heaviness be the burden of believing we have to know it all? Have to have a plan? Have to have it all figured out?

Could it be we take ourselves too seriously and God not enough?

That the reason we have to know it all is because we don’t actually believe He does already?

And so these missionaries–lifelong friends–sat on our couch and when we asked about the future they smiled restfully and said, “I don’t know.” And again, something inside me lept, comforted and encouraged and strengthened all at once. And I felt–yes–happy. Because they didn’t know and yet they knew. They knew Him. They knew His goodness, His love, His faithfulness. His power, His sovereignty, His grace.

Knowing Him means we don’t have to know everything else.

And so I sat there, listening, encouraged and comforted and strengthened, because there is just so much I do not know. And the more I take myself seriously the less I take Him seriously.

And when I list out all the unknowns in my life, each one ending in a question mark, I can calmly pencil in beside each one:

1. …? I don’t know.
2. …? I don’t know.
3. …? I don’t know.

But I do know. I know Him and He knows me. The hairs on my head and the number of my days. He knows my thoughts before I have them and every word before I speak it. He knows my coming, going, lying down and rising.

Because He knows all things I don’t have to. My trust is not in the certain outcome but in the Certain One.

And, in this there is peace.

{May you find rest and peace and joy in every “I don’t know” you face this week. Thanks so much for reading.}

Yesterday I had to discipline a certain child. It was approximately the eight-thousandth time I have disciplined this child. For the eight-thousandth time I chose to follow through and give consequences and for the eight-thousandth time I hated it and how hard it is. BUT, I reminded myself of this forgetful grace …

~

Heidi whined again and I swatted her bottom with my hand.

“Heidi, use a nice voice,” I said firmly looking straight into her eyes.  She understood and changed her voice but my conscience nagged. Was there anger in my voice? What about in my heart? Did I swat her bottom in frustration? How do I be firm but still pleasant? Am I disciplining my children in anger? Why can’t our days be fun? Why are they filled with reminders, rebukes, corrections?  I do try to praise more than I correct but they just need so much stinkin’ correction!

I reminisced back to my childhood days. ”I don’t remember my mom ever being harsh with me,” I thought to myself.

To my continual amazement, even when I’m at my worst (or I feel that way) my kids always want to snuggle up, always want to rock or read together, always want me to carry them and be silly.  I’m so glad they do but the haunting question still nags me, ”Will they remember a barking mommy who spent her hours endlessly correcting? Will they ever remember having fun?”

I got them settled in for their rests — Heidi snuggled into her crib and Dutch playing quietly in his room. Relieved but feeling defeated, I laid down on my bed, prayed, again thinking to myself, “I don’t remember my mom ever being harsh with me.” Why can’t I be more like her?

Then it struck me.

“I don’t remember my mom ever being harsh with me…”

“I don’t remember …”

I don’t remember!

That’s it! Of course.  I don’t remember.

Just 30 minutes later my parents stopped by on their way through town.  Just to be sure, I checked with her… “Mom, did you ever just feel at your wit’s end…?” She laughed out loud, told me about plenty of times the only thing that kept her sane was remembering James Dobson’s words, “Someone has to be the grown-up.” So she’d coach herself through every moment, reminding herself she had to be the grown-up.  When I told her that I didn’t remember a single time that she ever grew impatient or frustrated she just laughed.

“Then that’s a miracle.”

I smiled, understanding.

Perhaps this is the miracle of mommyhood. Don’t get me wrong, there are always consequences for sin, and I understand that if I am sinning against my children it’s not as if it just disappears.  But as I, a mommy-sinner-turned-saint, grow in sanctification and stumble through my days growing in grace and falling on my knees and training and trying and loving and correcting and crying, by faith I trust that God weaves all my messes into a beautiful childhood for my children.

Someday perhaps they will look back and remember, by some miraculous forgetfulness, that their mother was always loving, always joyful, always kind.  Just as Sarah, in the Hebrews 11 Hall of Faith, is remembered as a woman who always considered God faithful. We read that and wonder, Don’t the biblical writers remember that Sarah laughed at God’s promises? Don’t they remember how she took matters into her own hands with Hagar? Don’t they remember how she made a royal mess of things before God brought it all to pass?

They must have forgotten, because all they have to say is that she lived by faith.

Perhaps, then, my fumbling attempts at motherhood are mingled with enough faith that, in retrospect, they will, appear to be something beautiful.

Perhaps, like Sarah, our lives are bathed in forgetful grace.

“For I will be merciful toward their iniquities, and I will remember their sins no more.” Hebrews 8:12

Nothing is wrong with God’s memory. He’s just extravagantly gracious.

His grace extends even to our children, to their memories.

To their moms.

This we must remember: There is forgetful grace.

–

{Rest in this today, dear mommy. Thanks for reading…}

It was two days before Jeff’s birthday, last year, when our world began to spin a little crazy, and everything changed, and I went for a run and bawled my eyes out and yelled at God and straight up told Him I thought He had a rotten plan.

That plan involved us leaving our comfortable ministry, job, church, and home, surrounded by security and love, and like a baby chick kicked out of the nest, getting flung headlong over the edge, flapping and screaming and squawking and flapping our wings like heck, our eyes bulging out of our heads.

Crazy scared.

His birthday last year was bittersweet. What would we do? Where would we go? How would this all work out? All we knew was something “new,” but what? And so his 34th birthday fell on Father’s Day, and he worked all day at church and I stuck a candle in the pie at lunch-time and we ate, grateful, but a little on edge.

What would this year hold?

What would Jeff’s 35th year hold?

And soon, slowly, like watching clouds form in the sky, this new venture began to take shape. It would be a church plant. It would be different. We would be weird. (Nothing new there.)  We would eat and drink together. We would move to the city. We would live in community. We would commit to generosity, community, prayer. We would give stuff away. We would talk about Jesus all the time. We would fail (guaranteed), but we would continue to trust the Keeper of our Souls and entrust this work to Him. We would believe Him, that He makes all things new. That he re-news all things by His power, His Spirit, His life. That the gospel takes old, dead things and makes them new, alive. And so it began to take shape:

RENEW

And there was nothing magical and no warm feelings came, and despite God’s faithful provision, month after month, we plodded along a bit weary, wondering why this was all so hard. We would doubt, often, and look around, desperate for validation, approval, affirmation. We would come up empty and lonely, then fall back on grace and remember, This is all His gig. It’s not up to us. It’s His. 

And we would be slowly blessed. We would look around us and see these saints, crazy faithful Rowells and Snyders, Smiths and Kent, Hardings and Hannas and so many others. We’d meet the Garrisons and shake our heads in awe at their humble service. We’d laugh long over meals and make peanut butter sandwiches for the homeless and write checks to World Vision, grinning ear to ear.

We’d discover The Revival Building and see the $800, 000 pricetag and get a twinkle in our eye and pray circles for months and not be one bit surprised when the keys were handed over, for use on Sundays. Of course they were. Do you know our God? 

And I’d watch as my man grew wings. As he sloughed off hindrances and layers and learned behaviors and began to lean, really lean, on the Savior. But still I’d cry often–often–on Sunday nights when my eyes weren’t on Jesus and I’d look around this circus we call church and wonder, Who on earth would want to come here? 

And I’d unload, brutally honest, on him afterward and he’d smile, unwavering, reminding me our job: faithfulness.

It is God who brings the increase.

And then one day (When did it happen?) I looked around and tears filled and spilled over when I realized, Yes, this is a church! This is home. This is ME.

This is where I want to be.

And then they began to come. People! And I wondered if perhaps they were blind, to overlook our messes and faults and foibles and insist that this was home for them too?

That they liked it this way, just a little bit messy. And when that man, the new visitor, who hadn’t been in church for ages, later told Jeff:

“When you were preaching and you said, ‘I don’t have all the answers,’ I knew this was the place for me.”

Who knew?

That broken pots could hold glory.

That all the cracks make space for His light to shine.

And so, today, my Love, on your 35th birthday, I look back at this past year and that is what I see:

You, my beloved broken pot, have His crazy glory busting through your life like never before. This year has been the hardest one of our life.

But the best.

And I love you more than ever, in all your gray-haired glory. And it is my joy to keep journeying down this road with you, both of us limping, and in love.

Happy birthday. {Thank you, all, for reading.}

Many a man proclaims his own steadfast love,

but a faithful man who can find?

Prov. 20:6

Right now, as I type these words, I sit, blissfully alone in my quiet bedroom, tucked under a light quilt, the evening still bright outside. My husband is sitting in the yard, both kids piled on this lap, reading bedtime stories in the fresh summer air.

~

Early this morning my phone rang. The screen read, “Parents,” so I knew something was up. My dad doesn’t dial me early in the morning just to say hello.

“Hey baby. Mom fell and thinks she might have broken some ribs. We’re headed to the ER.”

I sigh. Not again.

Falls and spills and surgeries are the norm these days. And this man cooks and cleans and drives and shops and makes her laugh and pushes her to walk just one more lap.

The folks at the hospital, they don’t know what to make of a love like that, it’s so rare.

I arrived at the hospital shortly thereafter. We got a good laugh when the nurse had to ask her, “Ma’am, are you safe at home?”  We agreed she isn’t safe at home but it certainly isn’t Dad’s fault! When the x-ray was clean we teased her mercilessly about faking falls just so she could come to the hospital, which is right by our house, to see the grandkids. I left them smiling, Dad steering her wheelchair. Dad, always at the helm. Always driving her, protecting her, serving her.

~

Thursday night I dragged myself in the back door at 10:30pm, exhausted. We’d had evening plans 7 out of the past 8 nights. I. Was. Wiped.  I knew the day ahead was busy, my eyes burned with want of sleep, and for several days the overwhelmed feeling kept mounting. I knew the next night meant hosting another thing at our home.

Jeff met me at the door, took my jacket and purse.

“Guess what tomorrow night is?”

I sighed. Did he have to remind me? “I know, I know, we have that dinner thing at our house.”

He smiled. “I cancelled it. We have a night at home, just us. And Ben & Misty brought us pizza, so dinner’s covered.”

Relief washed over me. Such a small thing, but this girl was worn thin and this one small thing made all the difference.

The next morning he brought me coffee in bed and made the kids breakfast himself.

~

When 1,000 women ages 21-54 were interviewed and asked what the top desirable traits were that women want in a man, I was surprised to see the #1 answer. Above wealth, above looks, above sense of humor, the top quality was:

Faithfulness.

A faithful man, who can find?

Apparently that really is what we’re all looking for.

But sadly, it’s also the thing I most often overlook.

See, criticism comes easy for me. Too often I am fixated on what needs fixed. What he’s not. What I want. I remember in high school doing the same thing to my dad. I wanted my dad to be more “spiritual” (whatever that means), started getting all bent out of shape because he didn’t do Bible studies and what not. When the truth was I had the most faithful man I’d ever met staring me straight in the face and I was  so distracted by religious fireworks I didn’t recognize it.

The truth is, I was spend so much time looking for something I don’t realize I already have it.

The truth is, some of our men are rough around the edges. Maybe they leave dirty clothes on the floor. Maybe they drink beer or  (gasp!) smoke cigarettes. Maybe they cuss every once in awhile. Maybe they draft up batting line-ups during church (Yes, Dad I saw you do that when I was little. You’re totally busted). Maybe they’re messy or they don’t like to pray out loud.

But I know two faithful men when I see them, and I know we all have a choice:

Choose to look for and praise every glimpse of faithfulness we see in our men.

Whatever man God has put in your life–a husband, father, brother, son– choose to praise his faithfulness today.  The gift of praise is better than any power tool, tie, grill, or 6-pack. Be generous and be specific. Make a list!

Who can find a faithful man? You can!

Find a faithful man, and thank him today. 

{Thanks for reading.}