Black mold. Ready, go.
Deep cleaning.
Exhilarating. Exhausting.
If you’re anything like me (and you may not be!), you spend most days just trying to maintain. My cleaning philosophy is I clean it if it bothers me, and all the stuff I don’t notice (which is plenty) is just fine for now. I don’t care much about under the sink and inside the oven and those dust bunny colonies residing under our beds.
If we all have clean underwear it’s a big win in my book. Much beyond that is just really unrealistic. As the rhyme goes, “There will be days for cleaning and cooking (haha, as I typed that word is came out cookies–hopefully there will be days for cookies too!) … for children grow up while we are not looking.” I figure I’d rather watch my children than watch for cobwebs.
But then there’s that time of year when the weather changes and I need to dig around for hats and gloves.
That’s all I meant to do–pull out off-season clothes. Nothing more. I wasn’t trying to pick a fight with filth, really.
But there it was. All along the whole back wall of the closet.
Black mold.
Oh for the love.
My heart did a little dip as I mentally canceled the day’s delightful duties and embraced the fact that my morning would now be spent face-masked, on hands and knees attacking toxic spores with bleach. I shooed the kids out of the house, opened windows, and went for it.
I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed–just me and the mold.
Really, the weekend prior had been another sort of black-mold experience. Usually my retreat weekends are jam-packed full. Full of people. Full of interaction. Full of fullness. But this retreat afforded me some sweet downtime–enough to really sink into it, enough to let all the distractions fade away.
Enough to venture into the back of my heart-closet and ask God if there was anything I needed to clean out.
He showed me some black mold.
I’ll tell you what–the thing about God is, He’s terribly honest. He sort of just says it like it is. He doesn’t say, “Well, Kari–there are a few little cobwebs in the back, no big deal really. You can leave them there if you want.”
He points and says, “Black mold. Ready, go.”
And what we really need, for our hearts just as with our houses, is a periodic deep-cleaning. It takes a little time, and quiet. It takes sitting still for awhile, and asking God to walk through the rooms of our lives and see if there’s anything He’d like to draw our attention to.
And you know what? We don’t have to be afraid of this. He’s straightforward, honest, direct. But He’s also kind, gentle, loving. I’m so grateful He let me find the black mold before it got any worse. I was able to get rid of it all, air the room all day, and now I feel this sense of peace whenever I open the door:
I know it’s been dealt with.
It’s the same with our hearts. We might think ignorance is bliss, but I’ll take the true joy of confession and cleansing over the illusionary “bliss” of turning a blind eye to black mold. King David agreed–he dealt with some serious stuff in his life. He prayed:
Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. (Ps. 51:7)
God answered. Black mold gone. And then David wrote:
Many are the sorrows of the wicked,
but steadfast love surrounds the one who trusts in the Lord.
Be glad in the Lord, and rejoice, O righteous,
and shout for joy, all you upright in heart! (Ps. 32:10-11)
{Praying courage for you as you let the Lord explore the closets of your heart. Have a blessed week!}
*Originally shared in Spring 2014.
The Toothbrush {A Priceless Parenting Tip}
I packed in a hurry–distractedly grabbing Heidi’s toothbrush from the drawer and Dutch’s from off the counter. I’d just gotten him a new one, blue so I could remember it was his.
Once at the beach house, I unpacked the toiletries, and called the kids in to brush their teeth. Heidi grabbed her pink-dotted one, and Dutch grabbed his blue one.
They squeezed a dot of paste and began brushing away. Heidi glanced over at Dutch: “Ummm, that’s the toothbrush from beneath the sink, the one Mommy uses for cleaning the bathroom.”
I interrupted her: “Oh, Heidi, please don’t tease. No it’s not. That’s his new one. I packed it myself.” She quieted. They finished brushing.
A few days later, when we arrived back home, I unpacked the toiletries again and asked the kids to brush. Dutch grabbed the same blue brush from the toiletry bag, then opened the drawer:
Dutch: “Oh, my toothbrush is here in the drawer.”
Heidi: “Yeah, I told you — that one you’ve been using is the bathroom cleaner one from beneath the sink.”
Me: “No Heidi, I packed it — it was on the counter. I never leave it on the counter, it’s always down beneath the sink.”
Heidi: “I know but I used it to clean out a mess in the sink right before our trip and I must have left it on the counter. I’m sorry.”
#mommyfail
~
Parenting Tip: Clearly distinguish between your toilet-cleaning toothbrushes and your children’s toothbrushes.
{Happy brushing! 😉 Thanks for reading.}
My Unraveling
I’ve never had this happen.
Where did you GO, Lord?
It was nothing earth-shattering, just showing up for a conference, and having this strange sinking feeling. Something along the lines of: This ship is going down.
Not a good feeling.
It was strange, and I think perhaps only perceptible inside. I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think anyone else sensed the Titanic drowning I felt, like, “Um, Lord — You and I do this, remember? We go places and You tell me what to say, and I say it. Remember? But this time, um…Where are You?!”
In the midst, His Word gave me a word: 2 Corinthians 4:6-10
But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies.
It was clear enough: God was allowing my clay pot to be shattered a bit, to show that the surpassing power belongs to HIM, not us. I clearly got this memo. He leveled me, broke me, made me desperate. And He did prove faithful. Apparently anyway. But even as numerous women came up and proclaimed how God had moved mightily in their hearts that weekend, how He was so present to them and speaking clearly to them, I inwardly responded: “Oh good, I’m so glad He met you. I wonder why He didn’t meet ME!”
Just strangely alone, that’s all.
I came home. Everything was fine. But I was weary. Sad. Oddly discouraged. I kept going through the motions, getting up, doing the Bible study, praying (pathetically), journalling a line here and a line there, trying to keep smiling at my kids but wondering where my joy had gone, where HE had gone. Two long weeks go by.
“What’s God teaching you these days?”
She had asked, full of anticipation and smiles. A question I usually love, usually brimming with way too many words to share in response, I sat there awkwardly, agitated that I didn’t know.
“I think it’s just to remain faithful even when I don’t see God moving, even in the not-fun seasons.”
I felt like the ultimate downer. But how do you say, “Actually, I feel like God left me and I don’t know where He is right now?!”
The next day, a last-minute turn of events necessitated my accomplishing about 537 things in a short amount of time (you know those days!) and then filming a last-minute video shoot at my house for an upcoming conference, a video shoot for which my grand total of all preparations made was ZERO. Awesome. I’m supposed to talk into a camera and say something that will encourage women to seek God — but I don’t even know where He is! I was absolutely unprepared, overwhelmed, trying to keep a smile while I urged the kids to finish homeschool lessons, cleaning the house (although really, does the videographer care if the floors are swept?! Come on, Kari.), and willing myself to not care about the huge zit that surfaced on my face just in time for the camera. *sigh*
God, where are You?
Just then, a text comes through:
“I was praying for you … and this verse came to mind. Not sure the importance of the verse but maybe it will make more sense to you: “When ambassadors arrived from Babylon to ask about the remarkable events that had taken pace in the land, God withdrew from Hezekiah in order to test him and see what was really in his heart.” (2 Chron. 32:31)
So, yeah. This has to be about the least encouraging word I’ve ever received. I already felt God had withdrawn from me, and now this just sealed the deal. To see what was in my heart? My heart is nasty black selfish muck! That’s what’s in my heart!
I knew it was from Him, though: This is a dear friend, and I trust her completely. I tried to keep helping the kids with math, but I couldn’t hold back tears. I could feel everything crumbling.
Unraveling.
I slipped away into my room and got down, face to the floor, and just sobbed out to God.
“Why?! Why are you withdrawing from me? Why would you do this to me?”
And so clearly, I heard in my heart:
“Because I love you.”
Ok, I confess, my knee-jerk response was, “Well that’s not a very nice way to treat people you love!”
But even just “hearing” His voice, brought comfort.
He loved me.
That’s it.
That’s all I knew. I didn’t know the whys or hows or when this would end or whether the videographer would show up and I’d burst into tears and ruin the whole thing.
I didn’t know anything. I couldn’t hold together my plan, I couldn’t hold together myself.
I unraveled.
And in the unraveling, He flooded my heart. His voice, His nearness, His Words, His guiding, His heart, His leading. Suddenly I could see clearly. I could see the pride, I could see specifically how Hezekiah and I were alike, I could see the drifting in my heart, how Self creeps in and sabotages all that is pure and sacred and holy.
And in this unraveled state, nothing else mattered but knowing His love.
Because nothing else does.
And this overwhelming, unexplainable, incomprehensible PEACE and joy filled my heart. Filled my home. My mind. I knew what to say. It was all about Him. He was all that mattered. All the cluttered chaos of selfish motivation melted away in the blinding brightness of His goodness.
He was WITH ME! Who cares about all else?! He was was HERE! Hallelujah!
It’s amazing how everything can change in a moment …
the moment we let ourselves unravel.
{May we live unraveled. Thank you for reading.}
Not what you had in mind …
I really just wanted to get out of the house … alone.
It was a great day, really. No complaints. But those littles woke up (why?!) at 6am and we’d been going strong for more than 10 hours and this Mama Just. Needed. A. Break. The library had a book I’d put on hold for Dutch, so I schemed up a secret slipping out the door and brisk 2 mile walk there and back. It’d be so quick they wouldn’t even miss me. Jeff came home, privy to my plan.
“Where are you going????!!!” Eagle-Eye Heidi calls out from the top of the stairs as I tiptoe toward the door. She is practically attached to me, you know.
“I’m just going to walk to the library super fast to get a book for Dutch, I’ll be back before you know it.” I smile wide, reassuring.
“I want to go WITH you!” Of course you do, child.
Jeff urges her back but I’m already resigned. It’s fine. Sure.
“Go put on your shoes!”
Of course this means finding adequate shoes for such a hike, after a long summer where all we wore were flip flops. They surface. Now we need socks. We find socks. Tug on over her clammy kid-feet. Shoes are somehow shoved on (Note to self: we need the next size up!). Laces tied. She stands …
“There’s a BUMP in my sock. Can you please fix it?!”
I close my eyes. Really? Off go the shoes. Off go the socks. Said bump isn’t found but she’s satisfied with my search. Shoes go back on. As I fiddle with her laces ..
“Mommy can I come too? I can’t WAIT to see my book!” Dutch has bounded down the stairs, is already digging for his shoes, eyes all light.
Jeff trails down the stairs, eyes apologizing. “Guys, Mommy needs some time …”
“It’s ok,” I interrupt, “Really. Let’s do it. Family walk.”
Dutch’s shoes are equally small and impossible. Finally we are all shod. Twenty-five minutes have past. I would have been back by now.
But then … we open the door, and I step into life.
I step into this life. This is the one I have and this is the one I will rejoice in. There will be year–years–for long walks alone. Too many years of it, probably.
So we skip. We bound. We race and feels our hearts beating and rest while watching garden spiders eat their evening meal. We smile and wave at people on porches and Heidi asked approximately 8,000 questions.
And after books are tucked under our arms, we walk–slower now–back. The hill seems steeper than before so the kids make a special request: “Can we stop at those benches and read?!”
So we do. And traffic blurs by while kids fall forwards into fiction worlds, pages turn, lost in imagination, while Jeff and I fraternize from opposite park benches facing each other, and I don’t know how long past but finally we rose to finish the journey home.
Then it started pouring rain.
And so, for the last half-mile, kids mounted high on our backs, we run, gasping for air up the last few hills, and laughing that of course it’s raining now. We arrive, exhausted and overflowing all at once.
This walk was not what I had in mind … but so much better.
That’s life right? This, whatever this is for you, is not what you had in mind … but so much better.
So much more exhausting and exhilarating. So much more challenging and rewarding. So much harder and so much sweeter.
It’s not what you had in mind … but so much better.
{For whatever walks you take this week. Thanks for reading.}
*Originally shared September, 2014