Emptied

I woke up, sleep deprived, to two sick kids, school to be taught, and a mess of a headache.

Maybe I should have just stayed in bed.

Malfunctioning toilets, smoothies-all-over-the-floor, math-crying (you know, the crying that accompanies math on days when everything else is already falling apart), fevers, Kleenex, a mommy-run-down, and only one lap to house it all.

I poured myself out today...completely and totally.  So much emptied that, by bedtime, I wasn't even surprised when the dog peed in her kennel.  My voice barely held inflection as I assured my six year old that the smoothie would clean out of her shirt.

I sent my nine year old upstairs to do her nighttime chores while I prepared her younger, under the weather, sisters for bed.  As I finished teeth brushing, nose blowing, and medicine giving, I climbed into bed with them, one on each side, and fell flat onto my back.

Empty.

The word floated through my aching body.

When days run into nights and sleep comes in patches, squeezed between two fever-ridden bodies...this is when the mother breaks.  When she is emptied.  And just as He filled the jars of the widow, and healed the ear of the soldier, so will he mend us. Bring us back to full.  And it's  only here...when there's nothing left...that His healing seems most miraculous.

As their breathing becomes slow and they drift off to a deep slumber that I pray will soothe what ails them, I close my eyes and breathe deep.  One more day.

I help the big sister get to sleep, then head to do the only thing I know to do when I have nothing left.

I grab my pen and my Bible and start copying.  I am writing through books of the Bible right now...mostly because it's the most effective way I know to meditate on the Word of God, even when I'm too tired to do so.

My breathing slows as I write methodically, eternal truths burning into my soul as they are etched onto paper...and the filling begins.

It takes a whole lot of faith for me to admit that I can handle no more.  It's  hard for me to come to the place where I throw my hands in the air and admit that I am void of any more giving.  But this truth...that I am a broken vessel empty of anything worthy to give...is true even on my best day.

Today is really no different...but it's always the mess, the crying, and the tired mama, that sends me running straight for the cross.

I thank God for days like today...the ones that put me in my place.  Humbled, brought low, muddling through with the sinking realization that I cannot keep going.  I love it when He shows up, picks me up and keeps right on walking.  Straight towards holiness.

So I Had A Birthday...

On Christmas Eve, I turned thirty-three.  That's three years removed from thirty.  Three years past what I remembered to be "old."  Or at least, as old as my mom.  Or my dad.  As old as a parent.  A grown-up.  And I'm now, most definitively, three years older than that.

Weird.

There's something that happens between twenty-three and thirty-three.  It's a phenomenon I think some would call, "maturing."

You see, the older I get, the less I seem to know.  The more years I put between adult motherhood and my college self, the less I know what the heck I'm doing...or which route is the correct...or which parenting guru-author is grounded in truth.  Twenty-three year old me had it all figured out.  Thirty-three year old me?  Not so much.

If this is maturity, maybe I don't want it.

I kind of liked knowing it all...or thinking I did.  There is a confidence that comes with having everything mapped out.  Black and white makes the world a little easier to navigate.

Nowadays?  There is a little more gray.  A little more uncertainty as I try, again, to find my footing on holy ground.

So I find myself going back to the basics.  Our pastor used to always say, "Do what you know and you'll know what to do."  In other words...these days?  I'm sticking to what I know.

I know God is good.  I know He has preserved His Word for this generation.  I believe in redemption and in restoration.  I know Jesus has walked on water, out of a tomb and into the hearts of all those who have called upon His name.

I know He is faithful.

I know that, at the end of it all, if the glorification of a Holy God has not been my focus, all my efforts are futile.

So right now, as years are beginning to scream by faster than I can fathom...as time slips through my fingertips before I can grasp the moments and hold on...I cling to Truth.

Maybe growing up is about letting go.  Letting go of guilt...of perfectionism...of thinking I know anything about anything.

The road from twenty-three to thirty-three is paved with whole lot of failure and falling down.  And once we get here?  We've been bruised and battered, healed and restored, crushed and repaired so many times that we stare down the next ten years with a little bit of hesitation and a whole lot more faith.

Maybe it's not so bad...all this growing up and maturing.

It does seem odd to me that the wisdom I need right now, in the thick of mothering, mentoring, and muck, will not completely descend upon me until I no longer need it.

But then?  Maybe someone else will need me.  Another twenty-three year old mother will stand at the back of the church, clinging to her baby, looking for all the world both scared and solidified in her stance.

Maybe I'll have to guts to walk up to her, take her baby, bounce her on my hip and whisper, with a twinkle in my eye, "Honey, you don't know anything..."

Learning to Walk

She begged. She pleaded. She insisted. She would wear nothing else.

No matter how much I encouraged and explained, it became quite obvious...she was going to wear flip flops to the neighbor's house. Socks or no socks, one size too big, Hello Kitty embossed...they were her method of transportation this morning.

Oh I could have insisted...I could have played the mom card, picked the battle, emerged victorious amongst a myriad of tears and protests. But I chose to let it go.

As I watched her stumble across the driveway and into the grass, barely staying upright, I kind of wanted to shout, "I told you so!"

But I didn't. Instead, something clicked and I muffled a giggle.

She turned and shouted, "Do I look funny!?" I smiled and encouraged her, "No! You look great."

And she did.

She made, not the wisest choice, but the one she thought best. She'll learn...maybe next time she'll choose different shoes, remembering her difficult trek across the yard. Or maybe she'll choose the same shoes and walk it a little taller, having gained the experience.

I have to think our Father looks at us the same way occasionally. We moan and complain. We demand to have things our way, try it this way...just this one time. While our choices aren't always the wisest, they also aren't always directly in defiance of our Savior. So, occasionally, I think He chooses to let it go.

Maybe He picks His battles, too.

And as we walk through our season of life, draped in our clunky, ill-informed choices, perhaps he stifles the desire to whisper it into our souls, "I told you so."

Maybe He just lets us walk. Let's us stumble and even fall. He giggles (this I'm sure of) as we fumble along...and as we become uncertain, we turn and ask, "Do I look funny?"

"No," He says. "You look great."

Perhaps He gives us this autonomy, this freedom to stumble around in shoes that don't fit, so that we can choose more wisely next time. Or maybe He lets us muddle through, knowing that eventually we'll learn how to walk in whatever shoes present themselves.

Maybe the point is that we keep walking...keep moving forward. Refusing to stand still. No matter the less-than-ideal choices we've made.

But maybe...quite possibly...I'm taking analogies too far these days.

Perhaps it's just a four year old in flip flops...golden hair blowing as she puts one foot in front of another, learning to walk in a world unstable.

Today

Today was the third day of our second term.  It was also the third day of our  newfound schedule.  I want to post about our schedule...about how I've learned that the children having their own schedule to carry around was very helpful yesterday.  I want to share the order we've found this year and how it is so very freeing to me.

But I can't to write about that today.  Today my schedule was broken, my plan disrupted, and my soul almost unraveled.  This is the story I want to tell.

While eating breakfast, I gave the girls their own task.  Since my foot is fractured, I can't walk or stand as much as usual.  So I gave them the job of making the crescent rolls for dinner.  I explained how to roll them out, how to butter them (lavishly) and how to cut them into triangles and roll them back up.  This, they have all done before with help.  Today would be their first day going it alone.  It was a proud moment for me as I tried to hand over a task I knew they could handle...until it began...

The unfairness of who was doing what, the discontent utterances, the flailing four-year old...I almost gave up and resolved to do it myself.  I about handed out a consequence of no cooking and made them believe they are incapable.

But instead I grabbed by Bible.  I read about envy and self-seeking and the confusion and unhappiness that accompany.  I read about being transformed and about choosing to be happy with the tasks handed to us.

The clock ticked as I launched into the story of Corrie Ten Boom and how all she could do was hold out her hand and the Lord was faithful to supply forgiveness in her heart.  I assured them that if we would only hold out our hands and hearts, God would be faithful to supply good will towards the sister deemed bearer of the yeast.

Then, quite suddenly, we were propelled into World War II and The Holocaust.  Before I knew it, I was helping them start their own lists of things for which they can give thanks.  The clock continued to tick, my checklist stood blank, yet minds were active and hearts were being filled.

I added to my own journal and there, among the words, I scratched boldly, "broken schedule."  

It's always the broken, disrupted, and cast aside that are used for His glory.  And it is no different with our best-laid plans.

My oldest ended up finishing most of her schoolwork, although she insisted on three days of grammar (I have no idea where she gets that...ahem...) and now they are at a neighbor's making play dough.

As for me, I have much to accomplish today...too many things went undone as my schedule unraveled before me.  But "today" are the days I love my job the most.  When I think it's all falling apart...when my spirit is almost unraveled...when I choose to give thanks and open the Word instead of give reprimand and open my mouth...these are the times the Lord opens my eyes to the glorious wonder of things undone.

I'm learning, slowly, to hold loosely to my plans and tightly to the cross.  After all, it's the clinging that frees us, redeems us, and makes us whole.

Dear Teenage Me

I've been visiting Emily over at Chatting At The Sky over the last few months.  She recently wrote a book for teenage girls and encouraged bloggers to write a letter to their own teenage-selves.  So, here's mine...to my over-active, distracted, confused, lost, loving, eccentric, hide-behind-the-chaos teenage self...

Dear teenage me,

Hi there.  It's me.  I mean, it's you.  I mean...oh just listen.  No really.  Stop asking questions and, for once in your life?  Just. Listen.



First things first.  Please stop wearing those bright orange and purple Adidas pants everywhere.  They aren't that cool and are too big.  Really.

You will be elected to student body president your senior year.  Being on the stage in front of the school will never bother you.  But at 32 years old, you'll think about it and you will feel nervous.

In several years, cell phones are going to have capabilities unlike anything you've ever seen.  Everyone will be carrying them.  And instead of calling each other on them, they will stare at them and type messages to each other.

A kid will write horrible things about you in an underground school newspaper and years later, your feelings will still be hurt.  Try not to let it bother you.  Everyone doesn't have to like you.

On that note, stop trying to make everyone like you.  Their approval is not the end of your worth.

You don't have to always be the one talking.  Spend more time listening.  You'll be glad you did.

Slow down enough to see the world around you...or at least enough not to crash into it with your car.

You will go away to college, only to go to three colleges.  What you are looking for you will never find in the next town or on the next campus.

You will sit on a bed in a college dorm room with a Bible in your lap, afraid to open it for fear of what you might find.  Open it.

You senior year, you will get up in the middle of the night to scribble some notes about a paper you are writing for your English class.  You will continue to do this.  Always.  And when you are older, words are how you'll make sense out of life.

You'll get an A on that English paper and your teacher will say you have a gift.  Listen to her.  Major in English or Literature.  Skip Psychology.

One significant conversation with a best friend is more meaningful than a group party.




You will learn the art of placing a tissue on your pillow when you cry yourself to sleep so you won't wake up to a soaking wet pillow.  No, I'm sorry.  You will never outgrow unleashing the day's burdens into your pillowcase.  But the burdens you carry now are not significant compared to the ones you will carry as you grow.

That guitar player at Young Life?  In a few years, he will take you to the mountains and ask you to marry him.  He will love you more deeply than you can fathom and you will spend years wondering why.  He will call you from work three times per day, every day, just to see how your day is going.  He will love dogs and mountains and music and Jesus.  And you will fall in love with him every time he opens your door.

You will have three daughters.  You will homeschool them and grind your own flour for bread.  No, I'm dead serious.

Denim?  No.  You'll dress normally.  You're one to talk, Miss Purple Pants.

You will listen to your babies breathe as they sleep and feel as if it's your own soul breathing in and out.  You will never tire of that sound.

Go ahead and break up with that boyfriend your senior year.  You will break up soon enough anyway, and there is no sense in dragging it out.  Oddly enough, he will die in his twenties from a heart condition.  You will go to the visitation and see his mother, pregnant with your third child.  You will feel guilty that you carry life when she just lost hers.

Your best friends will not be the ones you have now, save one.  This best friend will hate that guitar player...just for a short time.  Her grandfather will die soon and you will feel guilty you weren't there.  Try to be there.

One day, believe it or not, you will long for solitude.  Sometimes you will want to be quiet and just sit.  And knit.  Or read.  Or write.

Your Bible will be your most prized possession.  You will read of blood and sacrifice and a cross and a hill and it will all make sense to you.  And you will weep.  For the orphans, for the oppressed, for the lost...and for you.  For the teenage you that never really embraced Truth or understood the cross.

Put down the phone.  Don't get in your car.  Stop worrying about boyfriends and spats and squabbles and pep assemblies.  Find the hill.  Run to it...run hard and fast and don't stop until you sit on a mountainside and stare headlong into the eyes of a Redeemer.  Tell Him your story.  And listen as He tells you His.

Sincerely,

Me, You, Me,
Tia

The Quiet

There's something about the sun.  The way it rises and falls every day.  The way the life of all in this world depend on its rays.  Dependable.  Constant.  In it we find life, rest and warmth.

It's no wonder Jesus called Himself the Light of the world. It's not at all surprising that our savior compares His love to the source of all warmth.

This world is fallen and lonely and sin permeates every ounce of resolve.  The sun beating ceremoniously upon my being...it is here I find peace. The light of the world burns out my worries as the Light of the World speaks clearly from the throne.

This place.  It cannot be replicated inside walls.

Likewise, our Lord cannot cannot nourish our withering souls unless they stand clear in the open air.  We can put up walls...mount defenses...sit inside our air conditioned castles surrounded by moats of self-righteousness...and, while always shining, the Rays will bounce off the stone-cold walls of our hearts as we stand emptied and sick.

Healing can only come as we venture outside...as we remain vulnerable and clothe our weariness with humility.

Only when the screens fade and we sit in silence can our Savior be  heard.

He speaks in the quiet.  Our souls receive nourishment in the calm.  And our hearts are more stilled as we embrace the solitude.

Let us take a moment today...in midst of the hurry...and sit quiet in the Son.

"The warmth cascades over my shoulders.
The light burns bright as my soul responds.
Drops of tranquility slice the stillness and ripple into the blue beyond.
I, lone and purified, sit
And marvel as the beauty hangs low in the clear, vast blue."

-Anonymous

 

Encouragement for the New(er) Mother

My baby turned four this summer.

Something happens with the turning of four (in my house at least.)  Rationale becomes easier, fits start to dissipate, and in the place of the flailing toddler, there stands a little girl.

As outings and dinners out start to become pleasant and effortless, I find myself lamenting the loss of the babydom in our home and recalling with a sad smile the times I was humiliated at Target by someone's antics, or was so tired my eyes crossed after being up all night with a teething baby.

I'm thankful for many things as I journey into, what seems to be, a completely different season of mothering.  But mostly I'm thankful for other mothers who, through the pages of their books, taught me to never fear the trenches.

The trenches refine us.  They perfect us.  And they are necessary in this eternal endeavor. They are not to be feared, but embraced; and so wholly that the trenches fall away to billowing prairies and we find ourselves having come through the impossible into a connection inseverable.

Fear of accomplishing the impossible (the spoiling of a baby's heart and mind) drive mothers back from their God-given instincts every day.  Every day a mother, somewhere, cries as connections are slowly altered.

The fear and trepidation to simply parent from instincts alone has permeated American motherhood.  What if she never learns to sleep by herself?  What if I nurse him when he cries and he learns all he has to do is cry and he get what he wants?  What kind of toddler, young person, adult, am I raising if I give in to all of her needs?

I stand here now (okay, I'm sitting, but you get the idea), eight years after the birth of my oldest daughter, and I can, with a clear conscious, proclaim the above fears to be lies.

The tie that binds us to our babies is that of nurture and response.  I'm a failure on many levels (if you've read here long, you know this), but one thing I am thankful for as it all passes away, is that I am (mostly) free from regret.  I don't have to worry if I held my babies enough, if I loved them enough, if I gave enough.  I gave everything I had and, truth be told, sometimes I still fell short.  Not because I had needy babies.  But because babies need.

They need to be held.  They need to be fed.  They need to be nurtured.  They need to be rocked and soothed and cherished.  They need a mother.

So I encourage any of you today who are reacting.  You, tired and fearful mother, who, all day long, move from one emergency to the next.  As your child makes you look like a horrible mother inside Wal-Mart and as your parents and friends tell you to stop rocking your baby or she'll die, smile and know that your child will survive it.  You will survive it.

And as the babies disappear and leave young children in their place, the twisted truth is that you might actually miss the tantrums and all-nighters.  Just a little.  Just enough to assure yourself you gave it all you had.

I have to think it's all the giving that connects us so forcefully to our children.

And, as I always say...deep in the well that is mothering, there is Living Water.  Give fully, immerse daily, and drink heartily.