Monday Morning Meditation – Choosing Joy

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James, the book of James, has so often been the older brother I seek for advice when life gets sketchy.  I will honestly confess that I don’t always listen to him, but I do love the simplicity of his words.  The integrity of his example.   The genuineness of his message.  When James says to me, “Consider it pure joy…”  I look at the mountains in my life and remember his.  He walked with the Messiah, side by side. His half-brother, the incarnate God.

A life and legacy that had such a price. One that he paid. WIth beatings and persecution. With prayers and supplications. With wandering and arguing believers looking to him for peace making, for guidance, for direction.

It was James who took Paul and met with him after he returned to Jerusalem all those years after the road to Damascus.  Only James who met with the man who would change nations at the beginning of a ministry while the church in Jerusalem quaked in fear of the man who had persecuted and killed so many brothers and sisters.

James.  My older brother speaking, strong and kind, from eons past.   It is his voice asking me to consider… To “count” in the King James.

Not to number or to evaluate.  This is not the analytical exercise of pondering what the trial is and how we ought to value it.

No.  This consider? This count? Is to lead, to guide, to direct, to take over the control.

It is hēgeomai in the Greek:  to command.

So… Let’s read that again.

Command it all joy, my brethren, whenever you face many kinds of trials…”

Not every trial is joyful.  Not every circumstance destined to end in bliss.

But I will lead, guide, direct this life by choosing joy. This pure joy.  Which can only come from the Master’s hand.

I joined up over at Monday Morning Meditations for this exercise in choosing joy!   Go over there and see what the other folks are saying about the Word.

FMF – Song

Song

Echoing through our defenses and whispering past our preoccupations effortlessly, no matter how diligent our determination to remain stoic, unchanged. Immovable, the melody of living and life wraps our hearts in gossamer strings binding us stronger than words merely said could ever do.

Music resonates.  Bypassing cynicism and the stale breath of a life lived poorly.   The stuffiness of a life lived arrogantly. The shame of a life lived without reverence for those things which are holy.

From the simple lines of a few keys pressed gently on glossy black and white to the resounding crescendo of a climax as voices are lifted within faces upturned from hearts and mouths wide open we are engaged in the song. Carried on waves of identity as it ebbs and flows.

This song, sung quiet or loud, powerfully or weakly, expertly or fumbling with keys and lyrics, merely reflects our purpose.  Our divine premise for existence: to cry out toward Heaven and speak to the One who created us. Pouring our hurt, our love, our joy, our hope, our despair… Outwardly expelled into a living, breathing Omnipresence…. And He hears.

You’ve experienced that moment.  I have too.  The mystery of a lyric written by a stranger mirrors the hidden prayer not even our closest loved one sees.  We’ve sat frozen and captivated by a sound both completely foreign and intimately familiar.

We are unable to turn away, lost and yet found in the music.  Until we join in…

Sing.

1. Write for 5 minutes flat for pure unedited love of the written word.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Be generous and leave an encouraging comment for the person who linked up before you. That’s the best part about this community.

Monday Morning Meditation Isaiah 40:11

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He is like… And He comes… Feeding, gathering, carrying, gently leading.   The One who counts the oceans by handfuls and spans the sky with a ruler.  The One who knows the measure of dust, puts mountains on scales, and balances the hills.

The words tell us a few things:

First, He has many attributes, many skills, many gifts.  But who is He?

A shepherd.  Feeding, gathering, carrying, gently leading the mother sheep.

And that resonates in my mother’s heart on this day after Mother’s Day with all of its pageantry and brunches, flowers and gifts.  Underneath all of it…

He cradles the lambs tenderly against His chest and gently leads the mother sheep…

That’s me.

He carries my lambs, His lambs,  and shows me in sweet kindness where I should go.

It was a bright summer morning and I was overwhelmed with one, resounding, echoing thought…

“How can I know that my boys will follow Christ?  How can I insure this legacy of faith we are building to invest into our children?”

They were little, 6 and 8, and couldn’t care less about such big ideas.   But my heart ached for some kind of confidence that I could let go of this anxiety that welled up in me.  What are the odds?  What are the statistics?

For Christian children to leave their parent’s home and maintain their faith is becoming an anomaly, not the norm.  And I pondered my own journey and the struggles within our family trees until fear gripped my heart.

“Please God, keep them!”, I whispered over the pile of soapy dishes while Mr. Rogers sang of fish and friendship in the living room. In that desperate moment, the quietest voice whispered to my  heart… With truth and conviction I have held onto these words as one would harbor a precious jewel.

“I am the perfect Father and yet, My children wander.  Trust Me with your children. Teach them of Me.  Trust Me to keep them.”

The anxiety melted off like mist, my shoulders straightened, and we moved forward from that day.  Peace filled my heart for I had been gently led while the Good Shepherd cradled my lambs on His chest.

Linking up with Girl Meets Paper for Monday Morning Meditation

A Letter to The Husband on Mother’s Day

brian.jpgHi Honey, it’s late and you’ve already gone to bed… I’m just sitting here thinking.  About life events.  Celebrations.  My desperate need for a pedicure…

You know, in a funny way, Mother’s (and Father’s Day) is really about parents more than it is children.  It’s a mile marker.  A “We Did It Without Killing the Children Day!!! Or leaving them at Target… for very long…

If you know what I mean…

I have to say that many aspects of being the parent I am today came from the lessons I learned from this man I married.  I am not a natural nurturer and being kind and compassionate does not come easily to me.  I often struggle with being careful toward weakness and gentle with those more fragile than myself.

Fortunately?  You haven’t.   Your example has led our family to be what it is today.

I owe so much to you.   There have been so many times you have been a testament of God’s care in the middle of our busy world.

Even from the very beginning.

See, I remember weeping (read: bawled all ugly and red faced) on the day after our wedding because everything was so new and overwhelming and there was no turning back. You kissed my forehead and held me until I fell asleep. Then you let me sleep.

When the babies, the toddlers, and the young men have cried because everything is so  new and overwhelming and there was no turning back?   I have done the same thing to them.   We’ve grown together, bound by love.

When I wanted to fight in public because tantrums are epic when observed and I knew better?  When the manipulation of a volatile, vocal, and emotional display was a ploy to get my way? You refused to fight and saved the conversation for when we got home.  When we could think beyond the frustration and see the real issues in front of us.

So, when our kids wanted to fight loud and dirty in public?  I remembered that lesson and took the disagreement somewhere we could work it out. Where we can take the time to bounce off one another and still love instead of raging and then leaving.

You were the one who took the time to explain how demeaning it was to be the butt of the joke to our friends while I aired funny, but revealing, tidbits about our life.  Those snippets you weren’t ready to share or didn’t want to have exposed.   You spoke of the feelings of resentment stirred up by careless words and I was able to see how sharing my loved ones with the world is a precious responsibility.

When I started writing and sharing our life story, all those years ago here in blog world, I remembered those long conversations.   Although I have not always succeeded, I have tried to be careful with what I share and have removed when over-sharing caused you or our children concern.

You and our sweet boys can rest knowing silliness can be spoken out loud but childishness and foolishness will be covered by grace.

You are the one who shows me how steady grace and consistent living are the keys to this whole faith thing…

Under the microscope of parenting, I am aspiring to that steady and consistent faith while knowing full well we all need grace.

Sixteen years ago, battling debilitating morning sickness that left me weak and wondering how to do this, I asked you to celebrate Mother’s Day with me.  I was pregnant, surely that counted…

You said, “You aren’t a mother yet!”, in jest,  and we  laughed.   But, honestly?  You were right.

Isaac said, the other day, “Just as children are born, so are parents.  And you grow up together.”

Being your wife gave me the head start I couldn’t have known I needed so desperately and I thank God for you.

Especially on Mother’s Day.

Because I couldn’t possibly have been here without you… And you remember when I forget the kids.

FMF – Comfort

Five Minute Friday

 

Comfort

In the rage of the moment, the cataclysmic cascade of tears falling silent, one after another into the broken places of my soul, I find You.

Catching the salty traces of disappointment, dreams broken, friends found faithless, hope smashed in a hand that only brings love.

In the quiet of a depression that muffles the sounds of living and puts blinders on a heart once wide open, I find You.

Pushing past the walls and battlements erected to protect.   Walking through doors long rusted shut.  You rest in the darkest corners where the ugliness I hide way, way, deep collects pain like a magnet.  Despite all my determination… There is a glimmer of light.

In the emptiness of life’s hallways when doors stay closed and the stuffy, stifling threat of stagnation looms, I find You.

Whispers of promise, echoes of purpose, tiny peeks at heaven glow from the pages of The Book.

In the greatest storm, the highest wind, the mightiest battle, I find You.

And there is comfort in the finding.

 

The Cosmic Killjoy

walk the line.jpgYou’ve had that conversation too, haven’t you?  The one where “God’s telling me I have to quit doing (fill in the blank) and there’s all this the stuff I can’t do and I’m just trying sooo hard to be obedient…”

(insert tired look and insinuated need for compassion here)

I want to feel sorry because I get it.  Truly, I do.   If doing the right thing were easy, toddlers would be rock stars.

In fact, I say I “want to feel sorry” but the reality is I can’t let myself commiserate on why God is the cosmic killjoy of our arrested development party and childish sense of entitlement.

I can’t give in to that shared misery of walking the line between extravagant obedience and the almost commitment of “someday I’ll do just that, God, I promise”.

Why not?  Well, for starters, I don’t think walking that line is anything but sophisticated disobedience.

See, I trust God more than I trust myself to evaluate the situation and create a solution that works. I trust Him more than the clamoring voices of my emotional frustration and an embarrassingly infantile tendency to throw a tantrum as one of my shiny, pretty things turns out to be a rock wrapped in tin foil.

Here’s where the whole thing falls apart:

God isn’t out to steal our joy.   He isn’t some gnostic, pious, fun-hating Man on a Mountain eager to keep us from all those things we like best.

Honestly, the thing we are fighting to hold on to is likely to be the very thing we desperately need let go of in order to find peace, satisfaction, hope, and that ever elusive, joy.

Why do we believe this distorted view of God to be true?  Why do we stare down the double barrel of relational accountability and Biblical truth and decide that our current state, the one that has brought us pain, depression, frustration, and bitterness is better than making the change right in front of us?

Because we don’t believe.

We don’t believe that God is really bigger than our addiction.  Our soul’s craving for affirmation.  Our insatiable need to please ourselves or the people around us.

We have chosen, instead, to believe the lie whispered in Eden.  God lied.  We can do better.  His love restricts us.  His Words hem us in.

We choose, instead, to invest ourselves in a whole world of reinventing wheels and discovering the disillusionment of sin as it wreaks havoc on our hearts, marriages, families, and ultimately leads us to a solitude of rage while we sit on shredded piles of defiant rebellion blaming God for the situation we created.

faithful whisper.png We believe…

That faith in whatever defines us and creates a reality of its own where our destiny becomes intertwined with a multitude of tiny choices, on after another, toward light and peace, or fear and pain.

I choose to believe in the Father of Lights who created and “it was good”.   I believe in a kindness that disciplines the child BEFORE their childish behavior leads them to destructive behavior far beyond their maturity.   I believe in a standard of behavior, which demands I examine myself first, looking for the flaw inherent to me before scrutinizing the troubled face across the table. 

Perhaps the frustration I feel is the heat of an unflattering funhouse reflection of myself in the skewed perspective of another.

I believe truth always brings life where even white lies and well-intentioned manipulations are a little death every time they rear their ugly little heads until nothing is left of a relationship but ash and regret.

I believe that the One who created us is a far better Judge of what should define us than we will ever be.

I believe joy follows obedience and peace is the promised fruit of small choices, made daily, that reflect a study of Truth that has stood the test of time far longer than my vapor of existence and life experience.

God isn’t the Killjoy.   We are. 

His faithful whisper is a roadmap for us to find our way home. 

The Private Parent

I have the most interesting discussions with my sons…

On the veritable cusp of manliness, we talk more now than we ever have and our discussions range from “Why did you cut your own hair when you were 4?” to “Why don’t bananas turn smoothies yellow?”  All deep. All the time.

We have entered into what I have affectionately, and admittedly somewhat counter-culturally labeled ~ The Golden Years.

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I have no words for how much I adore my teen boys with their stark realities.  All those hard lines jumbled with relative idealism and a worldly naiveté that both frustrates and challenges me.  Convicts and inspires. Always refining. They are my heart.

We have a strong relationship, the boy-bots and I.  And that isn’t a pretense or wishful thinking.  We still hold hands driving down the road.   There are daily walk by hugs and kisses rained down upon my curly head. We sit long in the driveway and talk by the light of  motion sensors on the corners of the garage, waving hands to keep the lights on and the shadows at bay.

It is my daily prayer to cherish each and EVERY moment of their presence.   Even the trying ones.

When they were babies I looked forward to toddlers and I wasn’t disappointed.  They made me laugh, cry, cackle maniacally, and pray.  Oh, how we have prayed.

But, honestly?  More than we prayed?  We worked hard.  We worked on manners like “Please” and “Thank You”, “Excuse Me”, and “Can I help you?”

We noticed people in the grocery store who needed a door opened, a cart returned, a cascade of falling change returned by eager grubby hands and smile saying, “Are these yours?”   We talked about big ideas like love, honor, kindness, grace, gentleness, and compassion.

You see, I have always had an end game in mind for my sons.  I know the vision of the men they can become. 

If we work hard.  Every day.

As they grew, and were welcomed everywhere we went, it wasn’t uncommon to hear, “You are SOO lucky!”   Honestly, the words always felt like a slap in the face.

Because really?

Luck has nothing to do with it.

See, you weren’t there for the fourth dropped cup of milk and the time out or spanking due to rude behavior.   No one else oversaw the treasured item boxed up for a month or two so we could relearn how to value the things God had given us stewardship over.   We didn’t have help settling rebellious 5,6,7,8 year olds who thought they should be able to go to bed whenever it suited them and not when it was time.  You didn’t see the gagging 6 year old who got to drink vinegar for lying and the red faced apology to the neighbor for behaving badly.

No one saw the cumulative hours we spent at dinner encouraging proper manners, kind conversation, or polite responses to new and unappealing foods.

No… When we went out our door, we had practiced and practiced until we were ready.  Then we ventured.

And some one would invariably say, “You are sooo lucky.”

Back to the conversation with my boy… We were talking about evalutating a difficult situation and his review of my job performance.

As a person, and especially as a parent, I don’t have many mountains to die on, however,  I’ve always strongly adhered to one common theme  learned early in our marriage.

Encourage in public.  Exhort in private.

Private can mean a group of close and trusted friends with the purpose of bringing light and encouragement.   Public could be in front of a single untrustworthy acquaintance.

Wisdom knows the difference.

But mostly?  Private means private.  At home.  With family.   Face to face.

That’s where my parenting happens.   Not with loud voices, or accusations, name calling, or volatile emotional outbursts that slice and dice tender young hearts until compounded anger, bitterness, resentment, and emotional scars block the sound of my love.   No… With clear instruction,  waiting for the opportune moment even if it is days away, discussion.  Bold parameters when conversation fails us.  It is our privilege and our responsibility to be the safe place, the immovable refuge, the unwavering boundary while they struggle.

We pray together.

It is a family mandate that we own our poor behavior and ask for forgiveness from each other.

Behind our closed door.  In the safety of upholstered seats and throw pillows we hash out our issues, and we have plenty, until we are ready to walk forward into the light of day.

Because once we are out that door?

The only thing I want my boys to think about is that their reputations, their struggles, their honor is safe. Upheld.  

More than encouragement and lofty praise, my soon to be grown men crave respect.

All the best intentions and carefully constructed relational safeguards are gone like a puff of smoke the moment I shred them in public, humiliating them by behavior better suited to an insolent toddler than the man-child towering over me.  I have become the enemy and they are blinded to me by the shame of their nakedness, their awkward becoming exposed to an unkind, mocking world.

Our children wear thin cloaks of dignity.  Easily shredded.   Difficult to repair.   Once gone?  Very expensive to replace.

So, when a situation raised its ugly head and we huddled to discuss quietly, my son, using his “right of a reasonable and respectful appeal”, offered to share his side of the story and clarity emerged so that the appropriate consequence could be found for the right individual.

I took a deep breath and listened.   I evaluated the people I knew in front of me.   I listened some more.   And then, together, we made a decision to act.

That conversation I’ve alluded to?  Well, in the car ride home, my boy said quietly from the back seat, “Mom,  thanks for talking to us privately and giving us a chance to talk.”   A long-fingered hand reached across from the passenger seat while an ever deepening voice said,  ”Love ya, Mom.”

They get it.

I’m on their side.  They trust me. It’s not luck.  It’s hard work.  It’s all the things we do at home.

Because if we don’t do it at home?

There is no point in even attempting the facade in public.