Her tiny fingers fumble towards the petals.  She touches the edge of yellow velvet and starts to peel it back.

I place my hand upon hers and explain the deep truth so many of us fail to see.

“You can’t peel back the tulip petal before it’s ready to bloom.” 

She looks at me confused.  ”But…all the others are already in bloom…I just want to help this one…”

Her dark eyes, so innocent, so pure, look searchingly into my own and I explain further.

“The flower blooms when it is ready. When the sun shines upon it at just the right time and the rain falls in just the right way and the flower is nourished and ready…then it opens. You can’t force a flower to bloom…it will only break the petals.”

Oh that we mothers would all take a lesson from the tulip.

We can’t force our children to learn any more than my daughter could force that tulip open.  But the tulips…they all bloom don’t they?  Some earlier than others…but eventually…when the time is right…the flower opens toward the sky and spreads her petals.

Every day we have a choice about our efforts.  We can pour ourselves into nourishing the soil.  Or we can force the petals open.  The former encourages blooming.  The latter disrupts the process and crumples beauty.

The child is forced to sit for hours and “learn” when she has not the capacity.  Phonics forced down the throat of a child who isn’t ready.  Handwriting demanded of a child who has not the fine motor skills to produce anything legible.  We’ve all done it.  We’ve all sat at a table and stared across it at a child whose eyes are glazed over and who isn’t processing.  And at that moment, we have a choice.  We water the soil…or we force the petals open.  

I read a quote a couple of years ago in Elaine Cooper’s book, When Children Love to Learn that sums it up well.

“No children should be kept in, sitting on a chair, anywhere in God’s world because someone has decreed that they, even though not developmentally ready, have reached “the age” when they should learn how to read.”  (p 32)

I love this.  Nowhere, on God’s Green Earth, should a child be forced to learn something before he is ready.

The tulips want to bloom.  All of them.  Their stems reach upward, their petals growing closed, there they stay until the day of their fulfillment.  The day which has been ordained for them to push forth and blossom completely.  And let us not forget that, when it clouds over, the rain threatening to pound against their vulnerability, they close up yet again. They protect the beauty resting within…that which we all strain our eyes to see as we pass by.

When it is safe.  When the sun shines bright.  When the roots are nourished…the growing complete…then, and only then, do the petals open.  They stand tall against the blue sky, bright and bold.

We behold their glory…and in it we see our Creator.

I was a horrible mother this week.

The state of it all…the house, the schoolwork, the meals…I struggled through it, dragged my children through the day and barked orders.  I lamented about time, about mess, about toys and books not put away properly.  I felt crushed.  Burdened.  Buried.  I tried to dig my way out, but I couldn’t get to the top of my laundry pile or to the edge of my sanity.

I failed. 

A dear friend offered to keep my kids for a couple of hours today so I could dig a little more. Get a little closer to the surface.  And what I found was startling.

After de-cluttering toys in the basement, filling two boxes for thrift stores, I climbed the stairs.  I was working fast…hard…only 2 hours and so much to get through.  I entered a closet upstairs, prepared to rid it of all its unnecessary necessities once and for all. (I know that, one day, if I’m not careful, the owner of this closet will end up on t.v., crying as the Hoarders Police carry away the puzzle she never liked but was “too much in her memory” to part with.)

I walked into the closet and faced the shelves jam-packed with items, books, toys and things with zippers.  I sighed as I stared, wondering where to start.

Quite suddenly, the scene faded and another took its place. Images flashed and startled.

The shelves looked pristine. White.  Empty. Clean.  Bare.

The image loomed and I couldn’t rid my eyes of its sight.  I stood, paralyzed as the box dropped from my hand and the truth of that image burned straight into my heart.  The clothes hung improperly on the hangars, the stuff placed precariously on the shelf, the shoes piled in the corner…it was all gone.  The mess was cleaned up, the clutter removed, the shoes but a memory.  And my heart ached.

My spirit broken, my resolve crushed, I stood and stared.  More foreshadowing thoughts invaded the scene.  In the wake of perfect shelves, cleaned and pure, I saw a woman with time.  Full and in abundance, she was blessed with the commodity.  She was able to contemplate a never-ending stream of thoughts without interruption.  But there was less to contemplate.  She walked through a pristine house.  But she was alone.  She wrote to her heart’s content.  But she had less to talk about.  

The mother who, just some short years ago, yearned for clean and put together suddenly longed to see crumbs on the floor.  She ached to see messes, to hold hands, to teach multiplication and read stories.  She longed to  go back, do it again, this time with a calmer spirit…with a heart that understood the brevity of these years.

I’m not sure how long I stood there, staring, before the rightful image took its place.  Slowly it came into focus…the mess reappeared and I saw something different.  Instead of a messy shelf and unruly clothing, I saw a sensitive heart and a mad dash to save the memories lest they cease to be.

I glanced at the empty box in my hand…back to the heavy-laden shelf…and through my spirit into the longing that lingered.  I closed my eyes tight…yearned for a new heart, a new beginning, a chance to do the week over and embrace the messy that is motherhood.

Beckoned by the cross, running to the throne, I chose grace.  Cleansed…washed white…a new beginning.  Oh that I would embrace it fully!  That I would refuse to let the enemy steal my sunrise and knit regret together with failure.

I resolved to try again.  To make more effort to hold the hands responsible for the mess and help them, yes, learn to clean up their own…but more than that I desired oh so desperately to love them unconditionally. To live this out together…to experience a peace and calm in the bits of chaos that envelope this life.

I left the closet as I had found it, carried the empty box back downstairs, and journeyed to gather my children.

I was disappointed with the sunrise this morning.

The clouds overshadowed the glory and spread the foreboding message of a quenching fall.  Over the whole land, there was light…the clouds did not succeed in eradicating the rays of fire altogether…they managed to escape and somehow, someway, the land was getting brighter.  But there was not the shining, powerful glow of so many other mornings.  The sun, drenched in beauty and power, remained hidden by moisture-laden clouds come to cleanse, purify and nourish this dry world.

I sit here, most mornings, and it is almost as if the desire of my heart alone pushes the glorious orb into the morning…almost as if it dawns just for the sake of my soul.  The light cleanses and in it I see redemption and a new beginning.

But not today.

To keep reading, follow me over here.  I am guest posting at Sisters In Bloom today.  Come be part of the community!

“Watch mommy!”

She climbs, unhindered, high into the tree and my breath catches.  I worry about scrapes and bruises and broken arms.  I worry she is climbing too high, that the next branch might be slightly out of reach.  But I smile.  ”I see you!”

She beams.  She needs this.  She needs to hear her mother ooh and ahh over her accomplishments, praise her efforts and support her endeavors.

The truth is…we need it, too.

Sometimes it’s easy to get lost in the math lessons, the history readings, the laundry folding, the food preparation.  We feel invisible or, worse yet, buried under it all.  And sometimes we just need someone to praise our efforts.  Ooh and ahh over our accomplishments.  To whisper heartfelt words of encouragement.  To say it out loud.

I see you.

We walk home, basking in the sunshine, carrying our tokens of nature, and I wonder who sees me right now.  I wonder if anyone cares that I’m constantly sweeping the kitchen floor and wiping away crumbs.  I wonder if anyone notices the long hours I spend in the kitchen or the effort put forth in the education of these minds.  I wonder if I’m truly being buried under my workload…invisible to the world as I labor and love.

“First one to the house wins!”  She voices the challenge loudly as the house comes into view.  We all take off and I, the last one there, come rushing into their joy.  My baby girl throws her arms around my leg and says it into the cool air. “I love you mommy.”

And the Voice I have come to know so well speaks tirelessly and the words quicken my heart.

They see you.

We all walk into the house together.  I gather up the jacket and gloves and begin, again, in the kitchen.  I smile as I work and I know it is true.  They are watching right now.  They can’t comprehend the work or the effort.  And they know nothing about selflessness or motherhood.  But they see me.

The life I pour into their souls and this home is worth the effort for a lot of reasons. But today…the reason that touched my spirit…is this truth.  A mother chasing hearts and nourishing souls is a woman to be noticed.  Not by the esteemed of this world fallen…but by the hearts of these children given.  And that is reason enough.

I sit outside, under the warmth, in the midst of song and I struggle for words.  The leaves scuttle across the walk in front of me and my soul aches to etch it all, make it timeless, help me remember.

For whatever reason, words are how I make sense of life.  Maybe you too?  Maybe you make sense of it all a different way.  But as I sit in the midst of beauty, my kids playing underfoot, my fingers itch to make sense of it all, breathe life into it all, by giving this glorious moment words.  And I have none.

So I scratch it onto paper bound and sitting precariously on my lap:

How do you give words to the song?  How do you reduce the scattering to mere verbiage? How does the wind on my face permeate my pen and find life?

Perhaps the moments God truly comes near and enters in are too big for words and are best left just to be.

Perhaps the act of “just being” is worship enough and the inability to fully remember only increases the majesty of future moments.

Sometimes fear drives my pen.  I am scared I will experience moments in life and forget them.  That is how I feel right now…amidst the leaves, the birds and the sun…that it will all dissipate as soon as I enter my home, fallen and messy and work-filled, and I will forget.  

But maybe forgetting is the gift of brand new.

It may be that those moments serene that capture our hearts are best left alone to discover again another day…in another moment, surprised by beauty.

It may be true that we should read more than we write, listen more than we talk, be still more than we are busy.

Maybe sitting at the feet of Jesus is enough.  Maybe I should try to be more like a Mary and less like a Martha.

I turn to the oh-so-familiar story as the wind rustles my pages and am comforted to see something I hadn’t noticed before.

Luke says that Martha was “distracted.”  But Mary?

“But one thing is needed, and Mary has chosen that good part, which will not be taken away from her.” (Luke 10:42, emphasis mine)

Mary didn’t sit at His feet in vain…a memory that will fade into nothingness as her days stretch out into years.  A serene moment only to be pushed out by living and striving.  A promise…this moment, tranquil at the feet of our Savior…”will not be taken away from her.”

Sometimes in a mad scramble to remember sacred moments, breathe life into an experience, they can almost become desecrated.

It is true that the giving of words to all lessons and moments holy in my life is an act of worship.  It is true that God is glorified when we stop and give credence to our thoughts and experiences by recording them.

But it’s also true that maybe…sometimes…our words are lacking, our vocabulary too minute, our pens to slow to capture true beauty.  Maybe…occasionally…it is enough to just experience the beauty and sit at His feet.

Perhaps there are moments where, instead of penning words for worship, we ought to forsake words for the sake of worship.

Maybe, sometimes, it’s enough to whisper thanks.  Say it is good.  And breathe deep of His splendor.

Continuing to count in 2012 at slow, but steady pace.  Searching for joy…in every place the Lord leads me…

69. Friends who make me a better “me”

70. The sound of rain

71. Wisps of little girl hair, smelling of sunshine

72. Sixty degrees in January

73. Homemade pizza with neighbor friends

74. Warm fire

75. Rosy cheeks

76. Clean sheets

Its absence is hardly noticeable in the stack that stands before me.

I think back 12 years and see a young girl, barely college age, walk into a bookstore. Heading straight to the shelf marked “Bibles”, she looks around, her ignorance in this task falling hard on her soul as her eyes squint to make out the titles on the shelf above her.

She chooses.  It’s is white, paperback, with trees on the cover. It says something about “College” in the title and was one of the least expensive on the shelf. She buys the book and, in the car, crinkles up the pages so it looks well worn.  So the others at the Bible Study might not know hers is brand new.

It was the first Bible I owned.  I read it sporadically, made notes randomly and carried it everywhere.  But it would never become well-loved and worn like the ones that stand before me today.

I smile faintly as I see the my favorite, the one I’ve had now for ten years, and I think of how many times I’ve run my hand of the words, as if I could drink in the glory from my fingertips.

My eyes roll over the titles and I know that first Bible, white with trees and the few sporadic notes among the purposefully folded pages, is missing from this stack.

Another memory flames  bright and I see a young girl, not much older than the one who sought out the Bible in the bookstore, speaking with an almost-stranger in a jewelry store.  They both sit behind the counter, the customers sporadic at best, having spent the bulk of their coin during the Christmas season that had now, quite suddenly, come to an end.

“So, why exactly did Jesus come to Earth?  Just to see what it’s like?”  The questions erupted honest from her tongue and the girl, void of theological training and barely sure of simple answers herself, answered her the only way she knew how.  She spoke simply of a Savior, muttered something about Jesus standing in the gap, and spoke plainly about sin being a condition of our souls more than individual acts during our day.

She continued to pepper the poor, ill-prepared girl with questions.  She answered the best she could and drove home that night, heart aching from the empathy, spirit crushed from feelings of inadequacy.

Armed with No Wonder They Call Him The Savior by Max Lucado and the white, tree covered Bible that was one of two she now owned (due to a Christmas gift that year), she entered the jewelry story one day later.  And she lent them to the curious girl.

The book was returned…but that first Bible…it was kept a little longer.  And the young girl, new in her faith and unsure about a whole lot of doctrine, knew this.  She would never ask for it back.

And I never did.

It was never returned…she moved away, got married after a whirlwind romance and I’ve not seen her since.  Sometimes I wonder about the Bible, where it is, if she ever picks it up…if she’s ever scoured her house looking for something else entirely and come across these words of life, etched onto paper.

And today, again, I think back to that time…think back to a gift accidentally given…and know it was no accident.

I stare at my stack…the God-breathed words of our Savior layered upon my shelf…and think about the people of Vidunda.  These people have no Bible that can be accidentally given to them at a jewelry store, on the street, or anywhere else.  Because no Bible contains words they can understand.

What if they had even one verse? What if they could read, in their own language, the words of our Savior?  What if the Sword of the Lord would come alive in their hearts and in their lives and what if they, too, would have the privilege of scouring their house and finding His love letters poured out?

Make no mistake about it…Jesus is faithful and speaks to this ravished nation.  David declares in the Psalms:

The heavens declare the glory of God;
And the firmament shows His handiwork.
Day unto day utters speech,
And night unto night reveals knowledge.
There is no speech nor language
Where their voice is not heard.
Their line has gone out through all the earth,
And their words to the end of the world.
-Psalm 19:1-4

The people of Vidunda see God.

But imagine tears rolling silently down the face of a man reading these words for the first time.  Imagine how he nods his head and whispers, in his own language, “It is true.” He opens the new book, gathers his children on his lap and read them a story they have only felt in their core and seen in the heavens.  Suddenly, the glory of God is manifest through words.  Life-giving words that bring healing and a Sword to a people lacking both.

This is why we preach to the nations the glorious deeds of our Lord.  This is why we work tirelessly in our endeavors to see God proclaimed among the nations.  It is why He came. Jesus, himself, quoting Old Testament scripture, said it was so.

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me,
Because He has anointed Me
To preach the gospel to the poor;
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to the captives,
And recovery of sight to the blind,
To set at liberty those who are oppressed;
To proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord.”
Luke 4:18-19 

Today, the One Verse bloggers embarked on this project: to find every Bible we own and blog about the experience.  The other bloggers’ stories are linked up at My Journey to Authenticity.  What about you?  What if you scoured your house for every  Bible you own? What would you learn?  What stories would rush forth and demand to be told?

A game board rests on the floor, the pieces weary from the constant interruptions.  The game is taken up again, occasionally, when someone remembers its presence and calls us back to the task.

One woman speaks.  “Remember that meltdown I had a week or so ago?”  We all smile and nod and listen as she confesses the same truth we all know to be true in our own lives now and then.  “It turns out, it wasn’t as big of a deal as I originally thought.”  We all laugh and smile and someone tells her she has an excuse for dramatics since her husband is out of the country.  We all giggle like girls and embellish upon what could be excused by this truth.  And I think we all hurt a little inside as we say it, but we keep smiling…keep upholding her in love as we walk this journey together.

Then we talk of mothers and how we overcompensate for our own and their shortcomings.  It grows quiet for a moment and I think we all are contemplating our own weaknesses and how our children might overcompensate for the ways we continuously fail them.  I think someone whispers something about grace…or maybe it’s just my soul whispering it inside my own self…but I know we all hear its song.

A sister mentions her mother-in-law and we all groan a little and laugh and smile and, in loving jest, remember our own moments of angst with the mothers of our husbands.  Then we look to the mothers of boys in the room and say the things their daughters-in-law might say about them and we all laugh at the thought and know that, even then, we will be there to hold each other’s hearts.

We talk of being grandmothers and how we will love our children and theirs and the legacy we want to leave and I think we all wonder what that day will look like.  We remember forward to a time when we might all sit in the same way, on the floor, and tell stories of a new generation.

We speak of Biblical wonders, of falling hard, of receiving grace, of failure and of triumph.  We look into these weary, loving yes and we whisper it silently.  I know.

You see, only another mother knows what it is to be up all night in sacrifice.   Only another mother knows the crushing pain of guilt as we fall hard every day in our endeavors.  Only a sister can see inside your soul and know, even without speaking, the hurt that lingers and the joy that abides.  We know and we empathize and our empathy is the most forceful of its kind because it flows from a heart of having lived it too.

I think briefly how tired I might be tomorrow as someone runs to the kitchen for chocolate and another gets out a new game.  We joke about who is winning and who has lost but we all know it doesn’t matter because the game is not why we are here.  The game is not what dragged us out in the rain late on a winter’s night away from our families.  The game is not what anchors the mother with the nursing baby to this carpet, rocking her cherished, the fourth one she’s birthed.

It’s this.  It’s the loving, the living the laughing and crying.  And I forget about being tired and think about being real.  We eat chocolate in the warmth, our faces aching from the joy, and are nourished.

It’s Friday again!  I,  miraculously, had five minutes today.  Five Minute Friday is the brainchild of  The Gypsy Mama.  The idea of writing straight, for five minutes, letting our minds run wild void of the worry of editing and re-writing.  It’s fast, fun and oh so freeing. In her words:

Around here we write for five minutes flat on Fridays.  We write because we want to, not because we have to. We write for fun, for joy, for discovery.

We just write without worrying if it’s just write or not.

Today’s word:  REAL

My daughter’s birthday is tomorrow.  Today we baked a cake…created beauty and made a mess in the process.  This is real.

Real is understanding our messes are what make beauty tangible.  Real is living life beside our children and letting them see us fall…and watching as we cry out to the Lord to be lifted up again.

Real is never pretending and always embracing the messy kitchen that is life.  Real is setting aside perfection for the sake of grace, striving after our God for the sake of redemption.

Real loving…real living…real mothering means never being afraid to pull out all the dishes, spill cocoa all over the counter and eggs on the floor.  Because, at the end of it all…after the messiness dissipates, all that’s left is the rising splendor, baking our mistakes and spills into miraculous beauty.

Real memories invade our souls as we make messes and grace raising up our own for His glory. Childhood is fleeting and sometimes we forget the memories and the mess will, someday, be all that is left of now.

I’ve always loved the Sermon on the Mount.  It’s one of those times in Jesus’ ministry when He proclaimed a different truth than this world likes to embrace.  He stood up, spoke to the meek and the hurting and said, “The kingdom of heaven belongs to YOU.”

The first truth in this passage involves the condition of our spirit.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” -Matthew 5:3

According to Blue Letter Bible, the greek word used for poor is ptochos: lowly, afflicted, destitute of Cristian virtues and eternal riches; helpless, powerless, reduced to beggary; destitute of wealth of learning and intellectual culture.

The greek word for spirit in this passage is pneuma: the disposition of influence which fills and governs the soul of any one.

In other words?

Blessed are the women whose spirits are afflicted.  Those of you whose souls are governed by helplessness.  Those of you who are uneducated, lack Christian virtues and are so burdened, you are reduced to beggary. The women who see their spiritual poverty, bow low and beg for eternal riches. You. Weak and powerless mother.  Yours is the kingdom of heaven.

You see, our Lord’s kingdom is upside down.  The first shall be last, and the last shall be first.  The poor in spirit…the women who are aching, alone, and afflicted…not only will they enter the kingdom of heaven…they will rule in it.

Remember Mary Magdalene?  She was poor in spirit.  She was so afflicted…so troubled…so destitute in her spirit, she was reduced to beggary.  She saw Jesus and knew He had the power to heal.  She threw open the door, charged in uninvited to the dinner party, bowed low and washed His feet with the best of all she had.

In this way, she begged for mercy, served the King and was ridiculed for doing so.  But not by Jesus.  What did He say?

“Assuredly, I say to you, wherever this gospel is preached in the whole world, what this woman has done will also be told as a memorial to her.” – Matthew 26:13 

He praised her broken spirit come to heal.  He spoke this truth on the mountain and He spoke it again at the dinner table.  Blessed are you child. Blessed are you, woman afflicted and spirit poor.  Wherever My story is told, so also, yours shall be told. Because the kingdom of heaven belongs to you.

Then there’s Ruth.  Ruth, the widow who chose to follow hard after the God of Israel.  She abandoned her heritage and family, followed her mother-in-law and travelled to a foreign land to serve a foreign God.  She knew about this God from her husband…from the family into which she married.  She knew enough to know He was worth following.  She was poor in spirit…afflicted after the loss of her husband and living in poverty.  She chose to glean (beg…take the leftovers…be content with whatever was accidentally dropped in the fields) and found her savior.  Boaz was the owner of that field.  She showed up…uninvited…and her aching, troubled spirit begged for mercy.  A picture of Christ, He redeemed her and her household.  He redeemed the woman whose spirit was destitute and raised her to a place of power in his kingdom.  The Lord, also, raised her up and set her in the lineage of our Savior.

And let us not forget Rahab…grandmother of our beloved Boaz…the prostitute who, like Ruth, chose the True and Living God over the heathen gods of her ancestry.  It may be that no woman can know true affliction of spirit until she has given her body and soul away, day after day, for the sake of worldly treasures.  Redeemed by the spies in her land, a harlot turned wife, she, also, was given a special place in the ancestry of our Redeemer and Lord.  The kingdom of heaven.

These women…they all suffered despondency in their souls and ached for redemption.  But they refused to live there: in a well of self-pity and hopelessness.  Instead, they ran hard after a Savior, clamored for Hope, and found redemption in the arms of a Servant-King.

Blessed are these women who saw their affliction and turned toward redemption.  Blessed are the hurting women of our time who wake up every day, full of shortcomings, failures, and emptied out spirits.  Blessed are we for our Redeemer lives.

Dear afflicted woman…run-down mother…listen to the still and quite voice that beckons our redemption and beseeches our devotion.  Listen as He speaks into the well of our soul the same words He speaks on the mountain high and through the lives of the burdened women who have gone before us. Blessed are you…for yours is the kingdom of heaven.

And I had to stop there.  I only got through one verse today.  I thought I might cover this whole section of scripture…ha!  I am considering going through the rest of the Beatitudes and applying them to us…His beloved daughters.  I have a list of projects I’d love to dive into…but the clock ticks, meals need cooked, and minds need taught.  I must make choices.  If this particular project is something that would bless you over the next few weeks, please email me or leave a comment.  I will take that into prayerful consideration as I strive hard to use my time as the Lord sees fit.  Blessings to you this week as you strive hard after the heart of our God.

The dreaded task of choosing.

Every day we are confronted with choices and decisions that need to be made concerning the well-being and upbringing of our children.  These are hard to make…require ample time on our knees and in the Word…and even then, we second guess what God has called us to do and question our resolve to follow through.

These tiny souls we are to nourish stare up at us every day and beg for food.  Their sustenance comes from us and we strive hard to provide exactly the right nourishment in exactly the right packaging.  We live by our convictions and base our parenting decisions on them.

We weave baskets of righteousness in our homes, fill them with the bread of our calling and offer them up to our families.  And, while living by faith and holding fast to our convictions is honoring to our Father, the truth is this: The baskets we weave are threadbare, the bread is stale and our efforts futile.  

People like to talk a lot about the promises of God.  Books adorn coffee tables with pretty promises scrawled beautifully onto expensive paper…we read them and feel a sort of peace about a God who makes (and keeps) promises such as these.

However, some of the most important and life-changing vows our Savior ever made escape these books and are only evident as our efforts seep endlessly through our baskets and our families chew long on the bread only to leave the table with stomachs empty and hearts undernourished.

He promises we will fail and disappoint.  We will be weary and endure temptation. We will go through trials.  He promises our children are sinners and will fall repeatedly as they grow.  He promises that some day…some how…these choices we make have to start being choices they make.  Ouch.  (That one gets me every time.)

The promise that living a Holy life in a fallen world is hard work saturated with failure and disappointment infiltrates the Word of God and teaches us that our efforts will never be enough.

So much for pretty promises on paper, wise choices and good parenting.

It’s not enough because we are fallen and sinful and, in the end, any decisions we make are flawed.  Our entire decision-making process is flawed…we seek the approval of men rather than God, we spend more time on Google than on our knees, and we forget our First Love for the sake of living life.

But it can’t be hopeless because God is Hope and He promises that Hope never disappoints.  Hope points to the Cross and reminds us that, while we are failures, He will never fail us.

So what do we serve our families?  What shall we weave in an attempt to instill Godly character, good morals and sound reasoning in our beloved children?

I wish I knew.

Some days I think I know.  I’ve gone through times in my life when I was quite sure I had it all figured out and if we would only follow this formula…weave this basket…fill it with this bread…then all would be okay.  Maturing means admitting I am sure of very little anymore.

The longer I live, the more I see families struggle, blown apart and trodden-down.  I see mothers fail, fathers falter and children go astray.  I see a world fallen, Christ forsaken and homes abandoned.  And every family…every mother and father and child…made different choices and lived by different convictions.

There is no formula.  There is no guarantee.

So I stick to what I do know.  Our pastor used to always say, “Do what you know and you’ll know what to do.”

I know Christ is King and His love sets us free.  I know the Bible is truth.  I know I cannot mother my children if I do not saturate my life with His word.  I know time on my knees is essential.   I know mothering is Kingdom work.  I know He speaks to me.  I know He knows my heart and He cares a great deal more about my heart than he does about my thought process.

I know that, right now, I’m in God’s will.  I know that tomorrow, I will wake up and wash laundry, dishes and souls.  I know I will fail doing it and that His grace will pick me up every time.  I know that today, tomorrow and every day, I will run fast after the heart of God.

I don’t know what will happen tomorrow to your family or to mine.  But these are the things I do know.  They pierce my heart and guide my decisions.  Grace does the rest.

We weave baskets of righteousness in our homes and breathe deep as the blood of our Savior completes our efforts and fills in gaps.  We fill them with the Bread of Life and bow low in service to our King.

We choose Life…and give Him ours. It’s all He ever really asked of us…and it’s the only choice that covers the rest of them in grace.