Bonnie’s Testimony

 

It’s Testimony Tuesday! Bonnie is here to share her testimony with us:

A few short weeks after meeting my soulmate and future husband, we were already planning our lives together. Being an only child myself, we wanted to have both a boy and a girl and had their names already picked. We got married 3 years later at the age of 26 and began trying to start a family.

Much to my dismay, I struggled with secondary amenorrhea after going off the pill for the next few years. After finally seeking medical advice and having every test known to man to rule out any thyroid issues, ovarian cysts, or pituitary gland tumors, it was determined that the only way I’d ever conceive would be through fertility treatments and possibly in vitro.

I was told by the fertility specialist that it would take a “miracle” to conceive without treatments since I wasn’t menstruating, which is a crucial part of conceiving. My husband and I prayed for God’s wisdom and but just didn’t feel at peace about using “man’s” methods over His, and we didn’t feel led to adopt. So, we carried on praying and crying out for a miracle for another few years without any answer from God.

Finally, at the age of 34, seeking only God’s inexplicable peace and trusting Him completely for His plan in my life, I fully resigned to the fact that I would never become a mother.

I also tearfully told my own mother that she would never become a grandmother.

Although it shattered my heart initially, I gradually healed day by day with God’s grace and felt at peace about it.

Then, something completely unexpected happened. I got my period. And nearly 45 days later, I got another one followed by another one, a few weeks later. There was no logical explanation for it apart from God’s perfect timing! Then it stopped, and I found myself feeling incredibly sick in October of that year. I scheduled a doctor’s appointment and found out that I was eight weeks pregnant!

My heart rejoiced so loudly I could hardly believe it was true as I cried tears of joy! I’ll never forget that moment in which I told my mother that she was going to become a grandma! She hugged me tightly as we both cried the happiest tears ever while praising Jesus aloud and thanking Him for this unexpected miracle.

In June of 2015, I gave birth to our healthy precious son whom we named Alexander…just as we had planned nearly 13 years prior. He was and is our own little miracle baby!

But God wasn’t finished showing how miraculous He is.

Nearly two years later, I find myself expecting again…this time with a girl! God is so incredibly good and He makes all things beautiful in His time. If we fully trust in Him, He ALWAYS shows Himself to be faithful. Never give up hope when life throws “impossibilities” because with Him, NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE!


Thank you Bonnie for sharing this beautiful testimony of what God has done! And we rejoice with you over your son Alexander, and your coming baby girl!

And we also find encouragement to keep hoping in Him, even when there seems to be no hope from our bodies, or from the doctors. Like you said, “Nothing is impossible” with God.


If you would like to share your testimony of how God has healed your womb, or how He has healed, or is healing your soul (whether or not you have a baby) please email me at [email protected] and check out the writer’s guidelines at “Want To Share Your Testimony?” I feature a Testimony each Tuesday, you can also subscribe with your email address, or follow along on my Facebook Page

Love, Rebekah

 

 

The Beauty Of Right Now

One day there won’t be anymore smudges on my windows. I won’t trip over toys in the hallway. Or in the shower. Everything will be in perfect order.

I know this because when I go visit my parents house, it’s clean. Freshly vacuumed, and furniture polished. Everything is as it should be.

And I think, “Someday, my house will be clean.”

But you know what? In that day, I’m going to miss this. I’m going to miss them. Being little.

I will look out my unsmudged windows and cry for the fingerprints that once marked them. For the little girl who once stared out of them and dreamed.

For the baby boy who held me hostage to the couch, because he wanted to nurse 23 hours out of the day, and whose big blue eyes would lock with mine while he did, and nearly take my breath away.

And I will ache for a day…exactly like today. All messy and undone.

Someday I won’t wake to crying in the night. I will have eight hours of glorious, undisturbed sleep, every night. (If I want it.)

But, I won’t want it then. I’ll somehow want this.

I’ll want the nights back when the baby woke me up with his cries, and my daughter crawled in between the safety of our warm bodies to forget her nightmares. And remember her dreams.

Someday I will have time. Time to write. Time to shop. Time to do whatever I want. Too much time. I won’t have a baby boy nursing at my breast, or a toddler trying to hug (and kiss) that baby boy while he is nursing at my breast, because, “He’s so cute, Mom,” she says over and over again. And we won’t be piled on top of each other, into that one spot on the couch. (Because everyone knows when you love someone, you should sit on top of them.)

Someday I will cook dinner in peace. I won’t be tripping over my 4-year-old who steps exactly where I step, right before I step there. And I won’t have a baby boy strapped to my chest while I try to do the dishes and bounce him to sleep at the same time.

Someday…they won’t be strapped to my chest. They’ll just be strapped to my heart. I will wash the dishes and stare out the window, hating how quiet it is. Hating how easy it is. Hating how clean it is.

And all I will have are these memories.

Of us all piled together. Of me not having an inch of personal space. Of not getting a chance to shower, and instead getting showered in spit-up, and high-arcing pee during diaper changes.

And I will miss it. I will miss them–just like this.

I will miss them being little. 

And I don’t know why my daughter pretends she’s a mermaid named Elsa in the bathtub, or why she drenches the floor with her splash-kicks–except that, she’s little. And this is her world right now.

And I don’t know why my baby boy wants me all the time, or why he screams when I put him in his car seat, or why he wakes up the moment anything remotely romantic happens between me and his dad. But he does. And he’s little. And this is our world right now.

And I’m going to miss it.

The other day my husband popped in for lunch. I was not expecting him, and the house was a disaster. Clothes were in heaps in the living room, the kitchen wasn’t tidied. My hair was in a giant messy bun, and I had no make-up on. My son was asleep in my arms (in our usual spot on the couch), and my daughter was laying on the floor looking at her books.

“Hi,” I said, with a smile.

I knew what it probably looked like. I knew it looked like I accomplished nothing. I knew it looked like I didn’t care. And…I was about to apologize to him. I was about to say, “I’m sorry…” For the house. For my hair.

But before the words came out, I noticed something.

Smudges on the windows.

Smudges because she had been standing there hoping he would come. Watching for his car. And it hit me like a ton of bricks: someday we won’t have smudges on the windows.

And in that moment, there was just something about the way her blonde hair fell into her face as she lay on the floor and looked at her books. And there was something about the way my son was laying, so comfortably in my arms, like he had melted into me–and suddenly the words, “I’m sorry,” didn’t seem to make sense any more.

And instead I said, “I have a beautiful, beautiful life.”

And I meant it.

Tears formed in my eyes. Because just for a second, I saw it. It was just a glimpse, but I saw it. The beauty of right now.

Right now.

I have a beautiful, beautiful life. 

And I’m writing this, so I remember.

And I’m writing this, so you remember. And so you don’t forget. Wherever you’re at today. Whatever you accomplished. Or didn’t accomplish. However clean or messy your house is, don’t let Satan steal this one glorious truth from you:

I have a beautiful, beautiful life. 

Right now. 

Today. 

And these days often feel long.

But someday, they will feel short.

So very short, the time that our kids were little.

And we will all long for it back. This time. With them.

It’s like a breeze. Like the wind.

You can’t take a picture of the wind. You can’t keep it. You can’t capture it. And you can’t take it with you.

You can only feel it while it is blowing.

And it’s blowing now. 

So turn towards it, and let it blow. Turn towards it and just…feel it. Let your hair fly and get tangled in it. Because someday, there won’t be any more smudges on the windows. And you’ll long just to feel it again, this wind,

their breath on your skin.

It’s blowing now. 

 


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“Am I Enough?”

To the Angels Without Wings

angels without wings

“We saw two abnormalities,” the doctor said, “On your son’s anatomy scan ultrasound.” I shifted on the white sanitary paper that I sat on, making it crinkle. “One is a shiny spot on the heart, which could be a soft marker for Downs Syndrome, or, another genetic disease. And the the other abnormality is an enlarged ventricle in the brain.”

My mind started to race.

“It could mean nothing, or…it could point to something more serious,” she said. “You need to get some genetic testing done, but it will take several weeks to come back. And then we will set you up with maternal fetal medicine, to do an ultrasound and see a specialist from out of town.”

I felt like I got the wind knocked out of me.

I wish I could say I walked out of there full of faith, with my head up, and shoulders back. But I didn’t.

I was deathly quiet until we got to the car in the parking garage, where I was flooded with emotions, and tears.

What did this mean?

Was he okay?

Would he live?

Did he have some deteroriating disease?

For the next few days, I felt like death. I was grieving. Grieving news I didn’t even have yet. Grieving results that didn’t even come back yet. I know I shouldn’t have been. I know other’s have recieved much worse news, and done better than me. But that’s what I did.

I usually try to be strong for the people in my life.  But during those weeks of waiting for results, I couldn’t hide how weak I actually was. It felt like my legs just gave out from under me. I didn’t know how to walk.

Or even stand.

But then God sent the angels…

To carry me.

I didn’t expect them to come.

I didn’t even know they existed.

But they came.

Not how you would think.

They didn’t have wings. Or halos. Or harps.

They didn’t appear with a bright light.

But they came. 

One sat on the edge of my bed, while I cried into my pillow the night after my appointment. He stroked my hair and whispered into my ears, the true things. The things that God says. He reminded me that the little one in my womb was God’s, and for God’s glory–no matter what that meant. He was a constant minister of strength to me. He held me against his chest and said through the dark, “Don’t be afraid.”

“You have to trust God now.”

And this angel was my husband. 

Then more angels came.  And they came like an army. Lifting me up, refusing to let me fall.

I didn’t call them with a heavenly trumpet…I called them with my old iPhone. And you know what? They answered.

They answered even though little ones were climbing up their legs, and the grilled cheese was burning in the pan–and they listened. To me.

They listened like I was the only one in the world…as I told them about my doctor’s appointment, and to please pray for my baby boy…and they listened when my voice cracked…and I fell silent on the other end, and couldn’t speak because the words got caught in my throat.

They didn’t speak to me in the tongues of angels. Instead they listened, and they reminded me of who God is. Some prayed for me—right then, on the phone, despite the chaos and noise going on in their kitches. And when they hung up, they cried for me. But they not only cried. They also cried out for me—with prayers and intercession to God.

They went to battle for me.

One drove hours to see me. And those who couldn’t come to me, sent text messages and voicemails, and Youtube songs (I would play on repeat)—and somehow, by the Spirit of God, they came close, just as if they were right there. And,

They lifted me up. 

They carried me.

And these angels were my friends, and sisters, and parents. 

Then more angels appeared in my church.

They weren’t dressed in white robes…but in business-casual Kohl’s outfits. Their eyes were wise and kind. Because they were moms who had already weathered these storms.

One sat next to me in the church lobby and laid her warm, healing hands on my belly. She didn’t care as people walked past that Sunday morning, and she prayed for me and my baby boy. She spoke life over him. And me.

Another angel, like this, gave me a message before worship started.

It wasn’t on a gigantic scroll…but on a simple piece of loose leaf paper, written in black ink.  She handed it to me, and said, “I spent two hours praying for you last night.” Tears filled her eyes. “And I believe these Scriptures are for you.”

She hugged me and I cried. Who does that? Who spends two hours praying for someone else…and their baby? Who sits before the Lord for hours…on behalf of someone else? Not me. But, this woman had. And I could not ask for a gift more precious. 

As we embraced she told me, “God is still forming this baby boy in your womb. And he is going to be a mighty man of God.” Hot tears filled my eyes, and I was not able to find words to even thank her for what she had done–it was so precious.

And do you know what? That piece of loose leaf paper she gave me, with scriptures she wrote out for me…is almost see-through today.

Because every single morning, as we waited for results, and appointments, I would come downstairs while the house was still sleeping, and I would sit on the couch with my coffee and read those hand-written Scriptures, and cry. And I would speak them over my womb. Over my son.

All my life I have wanted to see an angel. But suddenly, during those weeks of waiting, and wondering, and praying I realized—they were all around me. 

These were the angels God sent to me.

Angels without wings. 

Right when I needed them most.

I was falling, and they caught me.

I was weak, and they carried me. 

They lifted me up in their hands. 

This week, I left the specialist’s office crying again–but this time it was tears of joy.

God healed everything.

Our baby boy’s genetic tests all came back normal. The shiny spot in his heart disappeared. And as for the enlarged ventricle in his brain,

“It actually got smaller,” the specialist told us this Monday, “It’s in totally normal range now. Your baby looks great.”

(I’d never openly cried in front of a doctor, until then.)

“That’s exactly what we, and all our friends were praying for,” I said through tears I couldn’t hold back.

“It worked,” he smiled. “Prayer works. Intercessory prayer works,” he said.

I know that God doesn’t always heal–and He is still worthy of our trust in those times. But this time, He did heal. And I know sometimes people (even Christian people) are skeptical and think that the results for our son would have been the same–no matter if anyone prayed or not.

But I couldn’t disagree more.

I believe that these people praying for him–changed something. Because prayer isn’t man’s idea. Prayer is God’s idea. 

God tells us to pray. To ask Him. To cry out.

And His word says, “Pray for each other, that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective.” (James 5:16)

I don’t know what would have happened had these people not been praying. All I know, is what did happen because they had. And I am in awe of God because of it. So…

To My Angels Without Wings,

I don’t know why you came to me, but you came.

I don’t know why you prayed for me, but you prayed. 

I don’t know why you loved me so deeply, but you did. 

And because you did, something changed. 

I believe it’s because of you, that God has done a miracle in the secret places of my womb, where no eyes but God’s can truly see. 

And one day, I will tell my son about you.  I will tell him about the ones who went to battle for him, while he was yet being formed.

I will tell him, that while he was yet in the womb, he was surrounded by angels. 

Angels without wings. 

Why God Took So Long To Give Me A Baby

God gave me you

I was painting in the garage, and she was drawing a rainbow on the cement floor with chalk when she said, “I’m glad God gave you to me as my Mommy.”

I wasn’t ready for it. “What?” I asked, making sure I heard her right. She tried to say it again, but her words came out a little more awkward this time, and she said something like, “I’m happy your’e my mommy from God.”

Tears filled my eyes.

Then she prayed, “God, thank you for giving my mommy to me. And thank you (I couldn’t understand this part.) And thank you, she makes me breakfast. And thank you we’re going to make pumpkin spagotti (biscotti). I hope it tastes good. Do you think it will taste good, God?”

Then she opened her eyes, and went back to drawing her chalk mural–while my eyes blurred with tears, and a huge lump came to my throat. Where did that come from?

She’s three…and I didn’t know her little heart could hold such gratitude. Or that it would just burst out of her, during this subtle moment in the garage. Or that she would thank God, outloud, for me, right then.

Usually, she doesn’t even want to pray out loud–even with me encouraging her.  But today she felt something inside her.

Something beautiful.

Her little heart can hold more love than I often know.

Her little mind…is not so little as I think it is. She thinks far beyond what I would expect.

“Thank you, Selah,” I said, smiling. “I’m so glad God gave me you as my daughter.”

I would have hugged her right then, if my hands didn’t have white paint on them, and if there wasn’t so much junk between us on the floor. The drawers I was painting, and an old wooden chair.

“Did you have to wait a long time for me Mom?” she asked. (I have told her the story many times, but she wanted to hear it again.)

I stepped across the junk on the floor and came a little closer to her. “Yes,” I said. “I asked God for a baby over and over again. But He didn’t give me one for a long time.”

“And when me and Daddy found out you were in my tummy, we were so happy!” I told her.

“Do you know why God took so long to give you a baby?” she said.

“No, honey,” I said. “I don’t know.”

“I know why,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because…He was making me,” she said.

He was making me.

I looked into her deep blue eyes, that seemed to know something from another world, and her blonde tossled hair russled in the breeze. And in that moment, she seemed a thousand years old.

He was making me. 

And that answer was enough. And my heart resounded with the truth of it, “Of course He was. Of course, that’s exactly what He was doing, Dear One.”

Because now that I know her, and know how special she is–it only makes sense, that it took so long. I don’t know what God was doing with her up there. There is just something about her, that seems as if she spent a long time on God’s chest before coming to mine. Almost as if heaven didn’t want to give her up.

Selah. 

And I say this with tears, to you, barren ones…

Who are waiting for your baby prayers to be answered.

Who are praying every day for God to give you a baby. To give you life.

I don’t know why it’s taking so long. 

I don’t know if He will give you a child through your womb, or through foster care, or adoption.

But either way…if you are waiting right now, and you don’t know why it’s taking so long.

Maybe it’s because God, the Maker and Giver of Life and every living thing…is still in the process of making your baby.

We can’t even begin to comprehend what is happening in the heavenlies, in the unseen, and what, or who He is forming. 

His ways are not like ours. His timing is not like ours.

And perhaps if He’s moving so slowly, and He’s taking so long… It’s because He’s forming something so breathtaking and beautiful…it cannot be rushed.

He is in the process of forming a masterpiece. 

And maybe one day, a little masterpiece will stand before you and say, “I know why God took so long to give you a baby.”

And you will say, “Why?”

And they will say,

“Because…

He was making me.” 

To The Woman Who Miscarried, Or Never Conceived

spring

To The Woman Who Miscarried, Or Never Conceived,
I’m thinking of you today. I see you every time I look out my window, I can’t help it. There is a daffodil covered in ice. There are tree buds covered in snow. And I’m thinking of you, dear one.

Last weekend, it was warm and breezy. All the earth was coming to life. It was the celebration of resurrection, and life, it was Spring. At last. We finally started opening the windows, and breathing easier. And letting the sun hit our naked skin, hidden under sweaters and coats all winter.

We started to thaw. And feel warm again. And let laughter in.
And we cheered when we saw the daffodils push through the dirt. And my heart lept when I saw the trees finally budding through my kitchen window. For all the life bursting forth.

And one week later (that is today) it snowed.

The winds changed. The north winds blew, and the cold fronts came back unexpectedly.

And the windows slammed shut. And the young daffodils are covered with ice, and fallen low to the ground. And when I see them, I cry for you.

For the fragile beauty, fighting to survive the frost.

I cry for the life in you, that wants to survive. And the way you bend low, like the daffodil, covered with ice.

I see you in these budding trees, that were just coming alive–and are now covered with snow.

I want to tell you something:
I know you feel like this winter will never end.
That there will only ever be death, and cold.
And any life will always be choked out by unexpected northern winds.

But that’s not true.

Today is the day your Faith, becomes bigger than your feelings.

Spring will come.

However long it might take.

The frost is powerful–but it is not the most powerful thing.

Life is powerful.

Life is more powerful than death.

And Jesus is Life–and He is powerful. And I am praying He comes to life in you today. Because even when Jesus was killed–He rose from the dead.

And “The same Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead, is living in you. And will also give life to your mortal bodies.” Romans 8:11

The death-defying power of the Spirit of God–lives in you.
I know what you might be thinking: Where was that power when I miscarried?

Where was the power when I tried to conceive?

Dear one, I don’t understand it. But it wasn’t your fault.

God is the giver of life. And He will give you life in Him.
I am praying that He raises you back to life today. That though you be like that fallen daffodil in the ice–that day will come and is coming that the sun will warm you again, and raise you up, and bring you to life.

You will stand tall and radiant in the sun.

And though your budding trees are covered with snow–
they will thaw, and live, and in time, flourish again.

And you will not be shaken. For God is with you.
So don’t fear the frost. This winter WILL end.

Spring is coming, Jesus is on the move, can you feel it?
And Summer will come. But as long as this winter lasts–do not lose heart. Direct your heart to the Lord, that you may say with great confidence,

“Though the fig tree does not bud
and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior.”
Habakkuk 3:17-18

When Housework Gets The Best of You

houseworkNo one saw me do it. But yesterday, in my bedroom, I rolled up a pair of my husband’s khaki work pants, belt still in the belt loops, and chucked them against the wall.

I was angry.

Not at him. I was angry at all this housework.

It just kept coming.

At that moment, in my bedroom, I had already folded one basket of clothes, and two more baskets lay in a giant heap on our bed, waiting to be folded. (The socks are still in a basket up there right now, as we speak.)

But for some reason, yesterday, I felt like the housework was never-ending.

We had just gotten back from a trip, so there was a lot more laundry than usual.

But, have you ever had that feeling you are running around from room to room trying to pick everything up, and make it look clean–but somehow, even though you do this all day long–your house still looks messy?!

I was trying hard.

But I was losing it.

I cleaned the bathroom, I cleaned the kitchen, I picked up all the toys down-stairs, and ran them upstairs. Somehow, the toys kept coming back downstairs. (This happened about 5 times.) I made a good dinner for my family. I cleaned up from the dinner. I loaded and unloaded, and reloaded the dishwasher. And then there was the laundry–which by that point, I was chucking clothes at the wall…like a crazy person.

And I did it all with a big, stinky attitude, that cried, “Look at what I’m doing!” “Look at how much I’m serving you!”

Sometimes, housework gets the best me.

But this morning, in the quiet of the house, (my semi-clean, semi-messy) house, I felt the Spirit’s gentle prompting:

“If you can’t serve your husband, or your daughter, who are seen, how can you serve God, who is unseen?”

I quickly remembered throwing the pants at the wall. And my heart was pierced.

I turned to the Scripture that spoke about this. And read, “If someone says, “I love God,” and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen, how can he love God whom he has not seen?” 1 John 4:20

I want to know God’s will. I want to share the gospel. I want to do ministry for the Kingdom of God. I want to change my community. I want to do all these great things. But then the Spirit whispers,

“But what about this?

What about this very small thing?

For the ones who you do see? Right in front of you?”

I forget what a priviledge it is to even be physically able enough–to do a few household chores. To get to make my home a refuge and a safe place, for a husband that faces the world each day, and provides so much for me, and a fragile daughter who needs my love and protection.

Who needs me to clean the tub, and fold her freshly washed, Snuggle-scented little 3T-size shirts. And the crumbs swept off the kitchen floor. And clean sippy cups.

And a husband who needs my hands to make meals, vaccuum the carpets, and open the windows, and let some air in this place. And make the bed, so he can fall into it after a long day at work. And who also needs my arms open wide, ready to embrace him. To love him.

(And not throw his pants at the wall.)

I don’t need a housekeeper. Or a nanny. 

I need a new heart.

I need to exchange this heart of stone, for one of flesh. I need Christ to come lead me, come show me how to be tender, and kind, and willing to bend lower and lower still.

When I start feeling like, “Look at how much I am serving my family!” It’s usually because I’ve lost sight of how much my family serves me–all the time. I become blind to all the rich provisions and sacrifice my husband makes for me–daily and constantly–and without complaint. I forget how much joy and life and laughter my daughter brings to me. I forget what life would be like without her, or him in it.

Maybe my attitude needs to change from, “Look how much I am serving them!” To, “Look how much they are serving me!”

Because they are, all the time.

On our better days, my daughter and I play “Cinderella.” (Since we’re both obsessed with the new movie.) And she becomes my little helper with the chores. I call her “Gus Gus,” (like the mouse,) and she calls me, “Cinderellie.”

She stands on a stool next to the washer, and I hand her the dirty clothes, which she puts in, piece by piece. Sock by sock. (It takes awhile.) Then, I let her dump in the cups of detergent, and the creamy blue Snuggle. And with shaky hands, and huge smile, she does it. She’s so happy to get to do it. 

She’s so happy just to help me do something. 

And she begs me–to let her pull the warm dry clothes out of the dryer. And when I do, she looks at me and says, “Thanks Cinderellie!” Which I can’t help but smile at.

When I bring the baskets of clothes upstairs, and dump them on the living room floor. She runs and jumps in them like they are a big pile of leaves–and she laughs, rolling around in them. And I can’t help but laugh with her.

And I’m happy. Here. Doing just this simple thing.

With her. And for her.

She’s teaching me–what joy looks like.

She’s teaching me that serving someone can be fun.

Housekeeping doesn’t have to get the better of us.

It can instead, bring out the better in us. It can bring out Christ in us.

If we choose to let it.

 

It can bring out moments of joy, because your daughter is jumping in the clothes like a pile of leaves, and calling you “Cinderellie,” and giggling the whole time, like it’s the best place on earth. Because to her, it is the best place.

Or, you can do it all by yourself. With a bad attitude. You can run around from room to room and try to make it look like no one lives in your house. And you can chuck clothes at the wall. And think about how much you’re serving everyone. And forget how much they are serving you and loving you. All the time.

You can say about your chores, “I have to do this.”

Or, “I get to do this.”

If I can’t love and serve these ones here with me, who are seen, how can I love and serve God, who is unseen?

Don’t let housework get the best of you. Don’t let it steal your soul. Or your tenderness.

Be like Christ. Who joyfully lays Himself low, to serve and to love. And this laying low and  serving and loving–gives life to people.

 

Don’t let housework get the best of you.

But do let your family get the best of you. 

The part that laughs. That scoops up the crushed Cheerios off the carpet. That lets the kids jump into the pile of clothes. And who asks God for help when she feels she can’t give any more. And who asks God for help when she forgets how much she’s been given. 

And who asks God for help when she struggles to love and serve her family–who is seen.

For the God who is unseen, sees you. And loves you. 

And He sees it all. He is gracious, and kind, and tender. He pours out His love for you, He lays Himself low for you.

And no one can love, truly love, without Him leading the way.

And He will teach you to love the ones who are seen. As He shows you the love, of the One who is unseen.

“For we love because He first loved us.” 1 John 4:19

I pray you know His love. I pray I know it. Because without it–we have nothing. Just clanging gongs and cymbals. Just rolled up pants smacking against the wall. But with it–with His love–we have the power to give life in our homes, to move mountains, to part seas, and to make a way–for God to come through. In our living rooms, and kitchens, and bedrooms.

For the One who is unseen, can be quietly seen, in us.

When we love.

How Spilled Cheerios Taught Me To Laugh

high chair
“Watch this, Mom!” my daughter said this morning at breakfast. Before I could respond, I watched her toss her bowl of dry Cheerios up in the air, and try to catch them in the bowl. “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!” I screamed a deep, bellowing scream–as the Cheerios cascaded through the air and scattered all across the kitchen floor. “Ughh!!!” I screamed again. “Why did you do that!?”

“Don’t you know you aren’t supposed to throw your food on the floor??!!”

“Pick these up right now!!” I glared.

The look on my 3-year-old’s face showed me how terrifying I must have looked in that moment. For one, when I screamed, “NOOOOOO!!” it was the same pitch and intensity that Frodo screams in the Lord of the Rings when Gandalf falls off the cliff.

Pretty good for 8:10 a.m.

We were off to a great start. I’d like to add that I read this post last night about how God desires mothers to be gentle creatures. It was a great idea–gentleness. And it was a great post–I shared it with a bunch of friends before bed.

Too bad in real life (and especially before I’ve had my coffee), I’m not a gentle creature, but more like a creature from Middle Earth.

Realizing this, I knelt down…, “Selah,” I said, “Was that just an accident?” She nodded her head, looking up at me with her big blue eyes. “Were you trying to catch the Cheerios in your bowl?” She nodded again, and fell into my arms for an embrace.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I said, “Everyone makes mistakes. Even Mom.”

“It’s okay, let’s clean them up together,” I said.

We picked up as many as we could and put them in the trash. Then Selah said, looking dissapointed, “But I really wanted some Cheerios, Mom.”

I told her the ones on the floor were dirty–but I could get her a new bowl. “Here, I’m going to put you in the high-chair this time so you don’t spill. And let Mommy get them for you.”

I put her in her high-chair (which we don’t use much any more–except when I feel like she is acting sort of baby-ish.) I poured her another hefty helping of Cheerios into her little plastic Ikea bowl and said, “Be careful this time.” And…I kid you not…as I was about to hand her the bowl–I bumped my elbow on a kitchen chair–and the bowl and all the Cheerios went flying through the air. And then scattered all across the kitchen floor.

My jaw dropped, Selah’s jaw dropped–and then our eyes met.

And we burst out laughing.

We laughed hysterically–as we looked around at the plague of Cheerios that covered our kitchen floor.

And I swallowed hard. I was such a hypocite. And I knew it.

And she knew it. But she didn’t look at me like that. She just kept smiling.

Instead of screaming at me, or giving me the “ugly sigh.” (Like I would do to her.)

She giggled. And I giggled. And we couldn’t stop.

“I have accidents, too,” I said.

I got my broom, and said, “Do you want to help me?”

“Yes!” she cheered. I pulled her out of her high-chair and she grabbed her little broom and swept with a smile, and crushed some under her bare toes–but I couldn’t help but smile back.

I guess sometimes grace comes from the eyes of a child. And grace isn’t really as complicated as we make it. It’s simply laughing, instead of sighing. It’s biting your tongue, instead of screaming. It’s letting accidents be accidents. And it’s pausing to realize what your reaction (a.k.a. “wrath”) means to the heart of a child.

I think laughter is evidence of a gracious person. If you want to know if you are gracious–how much do you laugh?

She’s actually better at it than I am.

But I’m learning.

To laugh.

And to ask my 3-year-old for forgiveness when I lose it.

And to feel the power of recieving it from her.

And God is so faithful to expose my Orc-like heart–especially as a writer who wants to hide behind my words. He shows me my actions. Even the morning after I share great blog posts about “gentleness” with a bunch of my friends.

He humbles me. Whether it’s by me bumping my elbow, and spilling the Cheerios, or whether He sent an angel to smack them out of my hands (I really think it might be the second one–because they went flying.) But either way: He humbles me.

Right in front of my daughter.

And He reminds me I need Him even more than I thought I did. I need His love, and grace—and she needs it. She needs to see it on my face, and in my eyes. She needs to hear it in my laugh.

And He reminds me, in the voice of a little girl, that grace laughs.

And picks up Cheerios. One at a time.

mess

How Spilled Cheerios Taught Me That Grace Laughs

image

“Watch this, Mom!” my daughter said this morning at breakfast. Before I could respond, I watched her toss her bowl of dry Cheerios up in the air, and try to catch them in the bowl. “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!” I screamed a deep, bellowing scream–as the Cheerios cascaded through the air and scattered all across the kitchen floor. “Ughh!!!” I screamed again. “Why did you do that!?”

“Don’t you know you aren’t supposed to throw your food on the floor??!!”

“Pick these up right now!!” I glared.

The look on my 3-year-old’s face showed me how terrifying I must have looked in that moment. For one, when I screamed, “NOOOOOO!!” it was the same pitch and intensity that Frodo screams in the Lord of the Rings when Gandalf falls off the cliff.

Pretty good for 8:10 a.m.

We were off to a great start. I’d like to add that I read this post last night about how God desires mothers to be gentle creatures. It was a great idea–gentleness. And it was a great post–I shared it with a bunch of friends before bed.

Too bad in real life (and especially before I’ve had my coffee), I’m not a gentle creature, but more like a creature from Middle Earth.

Realizing this, I knelt down…, “Selah,” I said, “Was that just an accident?” She nodded her head, looking up at me with her big blue eyes. “Were you trying to catch the Cheerios in your bowl?” She nodded again, and fell into my arms for an embrace.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I said, “Everyone makes mistakes. Even Mom.”

“It’s okay, let’s clean them up together,” I said.

We picked up as many as we could and put them in the trash. Then Selah said, looking dissapointed, “But I really wanted some Cheerios, Mom.”

I told her the ones on the floor were dirty–but I could get her a new bowl. “Here, I’m going to put you in the high-chair this time so you don’t spill. And let Mommy get them for you.”

I put her in her high-chair (which we don’t use much any more–except when I feel like she is acting sort of baby-ish.) I poured her another hefty helping of Cheerios into her little plastic Ikea bowl and said, “Be careful this time.” And…I kid you not…as I was about to hand her the bowl–I bumped my elbow on a kitchen chair–and the bowl and all the Cheerios went flying through the air.  And then scattered all across the kitchen floor.

My jaw dropped, Selah’s jaw dropped–and then our eyes met.

And we burst out laughing.

We laughed hysterically–as we looked around at the plague of Cheerios that covered our kitchen floor.

And I swallowed hard. I was such a hypocite. And I knew it.

And she knew it. But she didn’t look at me like that. She just kept smiling.

Instead of screaming at me, or giving me the “ugly sigh.” (Like I would do to her.)

She giggled. And I giggled. And we couldn’t stop.

“I have accidents, too,” I said.

I got my broom, and said, “Do you want to help me?”

“Yes!” she cheered. I pulled her out of her high-chair and she grabbed her little broom and swept with a smile, and crushed some under her bare toes–but I couldn’t help but smile back.

I guess sometimes grace comes from the eyes of a child. And grace isn’t really as complicated as we make it. It’s simply laughing, instead of sighing. It’s biting your tongue, instead of screaming. It’s letting accidents be accidents. And it’s pausing to realize what your reaction (a.k.a. “wrath”) means to the heart of a child.

I think laughter is evidence of a gracious person. If you want to know if you are gracious–how much do you laugh?

She’s actually better at it than I am.

But I’m learning.

To laugh.

And to ask my 3-year-old for forgiveness when I lose it.

And to feel the power of recieving it from her.

And God is so faithful to expose my Orc-like heart–especially as a writer who wants to hide behind my words. He shows me my actions. Even the morning after I share great blog posts about gentleness with a bunch of my friends.

He humbles me. Whether it’s by me bumping my elbow, and spilling the Cheerios, or whether He sent an angel to smack them out of my hands (I really think it might be the second one–because they went flying.) But either way: He humbles me.

Right in front of my daughter.

And He reminds me I need Him even more than I thought I did. I need His love, and grace—and she needs it. She needs to see it on my face, and in my eyes. She needs to hear it in my laugh.

And He reminds me, in the voice of a little girl, that grace laughs. 

And picks up Cheerios. One at a time.

spilled cheerios

 

The Secret Beauty Of Being A Mom

mom

She doesn’t know it, but the note she sent me stays by my kitchen sink. She doesn’t know it, but I’m still thinking about what she said to me on the phone today. She doesn’t know it, but I still desperately need her.

I need her words.

Her warmth.

Her love.

She lives 93 miles from me. But today when we were on the phone, and I sat in the parking lot of the grocery store and talked to her, and told her what the doctor said, and all the worst-case-scenarios I could think of—I didn’t feel like she was 93 miles away. I felt like she was right there.

She listened, and I could feel her nodding, I could feel her smiling. I could feel her coming through the phone and wrapping her arms around me, the way she did when I was little. When I would sit on her lap and lay against her chest, and I would press my face into her hair, and breathe in her scent. And I’d play with her watch, and make the time stop, and she’d let me take off her rings and put them on my fingers. And I always asked her again what each one meant. The diamond was for when Dad proposed, and the plain silver one, was the one Dad gave her on their wedding day. And the blue one, the star sapphire, he gave her just because he was in love. With her. And that one was my favorite, because it had a hidden beauty. When you held it just right in pure sunlight, a sharp white star appeared. And not many people could see it, but when I sat on Mom’s lap and slid her rings loosely on my fingers, I could see it. And when I did, I was in awe of the beauty. The secret beauty.

I have heard so many people say they don’t want to be like their mother.

But I just want to say: I want to be like mine.

More than ever.

Not because she was perfect. But because she was there. Always.

Mom was smart, and talented, and beautiful, and could have easily had a full-blown, successful career. But she gave up everything to stay home with us five kids. Because my parents believed something: that moms should be with their babies. And babies should be with their moms. And so, we shared rooms, we pinched pennies, we shopped at Gabriel Brothers, and always ordered water with lemon when we went to restaurants, (which were only rare and cherished celebrations.)

Mom would pack our school lunches, and dump the money out of her birthday cards just to take us shopping, and make us homemade pizza and birthday cakes. She’d fill the whole house with the sweetest aroma. And some mornings, we’d wake up to it, and run down the steps to find her in the kitchen. Baking away. With flour in her hair. And on her hands. And on her jeans.
And in those moments, she never looked more beautiful.

We’d come into the kitchen and she’d hug us so close that our cheeks touched, and the flour would spread from her cheeks, to ours. And sometimes we’d come down the steps in clusters and she’d just hug us all at once, and say, “I may not be rich in the world’s eyes—but I’m rich in my kids.”

And we always laughed when she said this, because, it was just a funny statement. But deep down, I knew she meant it. Because I saw it all over her face. I saw it in the flour on her jeans. The smile behind the glow of the candles on our birthday cakes. The scribbled notes in our lunches. The glorious Christmas mornings she and Dad stayed up all night to make special for us.

I saw it in her life. In the way she refused to let anything separate us from her. To let anything steal her motherhood. To steal her greatest treasure and joy. Her kids.

Mom sold homemade pies from her car when we were little—just to keep us together.

Because she believed in being a mom. No matter what the cost. And it did cost. I don’t know how women looked at her. I don’t know what comments the cashiers might have said. I don’t know what the bank tellers might have thought as they looked at our statements. But Mom never told us what we cost her.

She only ever told us—that we were her greatest treasure. Her riches. And her wealth. And in her eyes, this couldn’t compare to anything else.

We may not have had the latest tennis shoes, or the best clothing, or the most extravagant family vacations—but we had her.

And she had us.

And in the end, that’s all that really matters.

All the money in the world. All the riches, all the jewels. All the grand houses, and clothes, and cars—cannot compare with the treasure of having a mom who is there.

And if my mom taught me anything, it was something she taught me with her own life: Be there. Be a mom. Don’t let anyone steal this great joy from you. Because the world wages war against motherhood. And you have to fight back. You have to fight for it.

There will always be more money to be made. There will always be a better identity to be achieved. There will always be a better name to be made for yourself. There will always be more ministries to invest in. But your kids are with you for such a very short season. And then, they are gone. And they are precious treasure. To be discovered, and enjoyed.

I always used to laugh when Mom said she was “rich” in us kids. But now, as a mom myself. I am beginning to unfold this mystery. There is a different kind of wealth, that this world cannot know, nor can it offer. It is the hidden wealth of being a mom. Of discovering the treasure. Of obtaining the richness of love in your children. And letting them find it in you.

There is something so secret here. So sacred. A hidden beauty—just like the star in Mom’s star sapphire ring. It only shone in the purest light. Very few ever saw it, and yet it was there all the same. This secret beauty. That could only be witnessed by a little girl, who was allowed to sit on her lap, and play with her watch, and make the time stop. Who took off her rings, and and searched and waited for the bright star to appear–in her ring. And in her eyes. And in her love.

And I found it, Mom. I found the treasure. She is two-years-old, and wakes up with wild blonde bedhead each morning. And she is more full of life than anyone I know. And when I look into her blue eyes, gazing into mine, sometimes I swear that star appears. And the beauty catches in my throat. And it’s unlike anything I ever dreamed.

I found the treasure, Mom. And you were right. The world doesn’t see it, the world doesn’t know it. But I’m finding it, Mom. I’m finding it right here in the secret places. This hidden beauty, where no one sees. When my daughter now sits on my lap, and breathes in my scent. And makes time stop. And searches for the star in my ring. And in my eyes.

You have shown us, Mom, the secret beauty of being a mom. And what real treasure is made of.

Thank you for giving us yourself.

All of you.

Maybe you weren’t rich in the world’s eyes, but you were rich in us kids. And because you were rich in us, you made us rich, so very rich, 

in you. 

And we rise up, and call you blessed. (Proverbs 31:26)

 

How To Create A Schedule (Or Rhythm) For Your Week + Giveaway

schedule

This guest post was written by the first “mommy blogger” I fell in love with, during my first fragile months as a new mom. Her name is Jeanne Harrison from Loving My Lot and I am so honored to have her share some “real-life” wisdom with us when it comes to creating a schedule. 

How To Create A Schedule (Or Rhythm) For Your Week

Several years ago, I had some medical students over for dinner. Sometime during the evening while everyone was milling around the kitchen, one of them noticed my weekly schedule up on the fridge. Let me just say—it was a masterpiece. Color-coded, broken into thirty-minute increments, with all aspects of my life present and accounted for.

The medical student exclaimed, “Hey, look! We just learned about this in our psych rotation. It’s called Obsessive Compulsive Disorder!”

Okay. So it was a little over the top. That schedule lived on my fridge for months. In case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t follow it. That was my dirty little secret. But it was just too pretty to take down. I loved everything it represented. Order, rhythm, accomplishment, purpose.

When Rebekah asked me to blog about how to create a schedule for her homemaking series, I felt those same words bubble up inside of me. Yes! I thought. Creating a schedule is so worthwhile, especially for a SAHM whose days are a blank canvas before her. But where do you even start? How do you know which activities to choose and which to cut? And how do you make sure the schedule you create is one you can actually live out? I want to suggest three principles that can help answer those questions.

1. The first is this: build your schedule around your priorities. It may seem obvious, but it doesn’t happen by accident. What happens by accident is we build our schedule around what’s “got to get done,” and then we groan in frustration when a friend’s crisis interrupts grocery day. Or we build our schedule around all the things we “wish we could do” until we’ve got ten thousand commitments and not enough sanity to fulfill them. Or we don’t build any schedule at all, and we fly by the seat of our pants until we collapse into bed on Friday and wonder why we didn’t spend any time with the kids this week.

We need to start with our priorities. What do we value the most? What needs to be lifted off the bottom of our schedule, dusted off, and placed back on top? Is it a commitment to grow in our relationship with God? Is it a thriving, healthy marriage? Enough time (and sanity) to invest richly in our kids? Meaningful connections with friends? Evangelistic encounters with lost people?

For me, the answer is yes. Yes, yes, yes to all of the above. Those five values are among my top priorities. So as I evaluate my schedule, I need to ask myself: Are these values “showing up” in my minutes? And if they’re not, how can I reorder my schedule so that they are? Let me give you an example. Because my husband is a pastor, he’s off work on Friday and Saturday. One of the ways I try to build my schedule around my family is by busting my tail on Thursday. I make sure the laundry’s done and the pantry’s stocked, so that I’m all theirs over the weekend. Friday morning is sacred. While the girls are at school, I commit to nothing except spending time with my husband. Some days I’m helping him get things done at work, and other days we’re sipping coffee on the back deck. But barring extraordinary circumstances, I don’t schedule anyone or anything for Friday mornings. I build my schedule around my priorities.

The beautiful thing about orienting your schedule around your priorities, is it prevents the schedule from enslaving you. So what if little Lucy interrupts “dishwashing time” to talk about what’s troubling her? She trumps dishes. Your values drive your schedule. Not vice versa. As you build your schedule around the things that matter the most to you, you’ll begin to recognize which commitments need to go. But hold on just a second! Before you cross off everything “fun and relaxing” in light of more noble pursuits, let me share my second piece of advice.

2. Don’t forget to factor in time for yourself. Pouring into every person and animal that crosses your threshold while starving yourself, isn’t noble; it’s foolish. We need a little blank space in our lives. We need room to breathe, and rest, and take care of ourselves. It will make us such better wives, and moms, and servants of Christ!

So what do you enjoy? What re-charges those batteries? Reading? Watching a favorite show? Baking, blogging, jogging, scrapbooking…factor a little of that into your schedule, and guard it! Don’t feel guilty for saying, “Sorry, I have a prior commitment Tuesday evening.” You don’t have to tell them that the commitment is with Pandora and your bathtub. It still counts! It’s a valid commitment. You know why? Because you count! You are a valid person, and you’re worth investing in.

3. Finally, don’t be such a stickler. It sounds backwards, but I believe we’re more likely to maintain a schedule in the long run, if we give ourselves the freedom to scrap it every now and then. The pursuit of perfection always leads to burnout. (Hello, pretty little schedule on the fridge!) Order your chores so that they serve your family. Plan your week so that you’re investing in the Kingdom. Carve out margin for yourself. But also give yourself the grace to say, “I couldn’t stick to it this week. I’ll start over again next week.”

It’s not the most profound advice, but this is where I’ve landed over the past few years. If you came over for dinner tomorrow, you wouldn’t find a schedule on my fridge. But there is one in my brain. There is a rhythm and order to my life—imperfect and sometimes messy—but there just the same! And by God’s grace, this schedule reflects my values more than it has in the past. And by God’s grace, it includes taking care of myself. And by God’s grace, it’s allowed to be a work in progress. Just like me.


This guest post was written by author/blogger Jeanne Harrison of Loving My Lot. To read more her posts go to her blog, or check out her newly released book “Loving My Lot.”

Enter the contest to win it for FREE! (I seriously LOVE this book, and if I could afford to buy it for all my mom-friends and sisters..I would.;)

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

[Join the discussion on the Free Spirit Homemaker Series: How To Maintain Your Home, Without Losing Your Soul! Check out these posts if you missed them: What Is The Purpose Of Homemaking?, Why Free-Spirits Are Naturally Terrible Homemakers, and Introducing The Free-Spirit Homemaker Series . Share your own thoughts in the comment section, or visit my Barren to Beautiful Facebook page.]