Just decided to do a little dusting over here, don't mind me...

I look through a gallery of paintings done by a friend and smile. She must feel complete, I decide. What a blessing it must be to do what it is you are created to do.

And so I think. And wonder. And ask. What is it that I have been created to be? Will I know it when I am doing it? Will it come easy and be easy or will I have to work at it to get it just right? Will I be generous or secretive? Will it be all for Him or is it meant to be shared?

It seems like I spend so many moments waiting, watching, hoping...and not enough reflecting, rejoicing, being. I have been given an incredible gift. What is it. What am I doing with it? Has it changed me? Has it changed the way I interact or does my lack of constant perspective cause me to counteract it's supposed powers of freedom...

Thinking. Prayerful. Wonderful God. So many thoughts to be marvelled at. Being romanced, embraced, loved. Just as I am. Really? Now?

Secrets for my heart waiting to be told on His baited breath. Then, a whisper, a heart, a confirmation extends my feeling of faith. But faith is not a feeling. Neither is grace. A moment of clarity is followed by hours of mystified silence. I balance them between my spirit and fist. Remind. Rewind. Entertwine. And then try to mesh two totally opposite arguments together inside my spirit...Collide!

A stride in the right direction. A narrow road.
Vines.
Mines.
Signs.
I grab my blanket and crawl into this. Bliss. Reminisce. A moment so clear. Tomorrow austere. I cling. Sing. Bring. An offering. A heart. To trust His heart.
Dust.
Must.
I thrust my head upon His shoulders.
Combust!
The dream forms notes of fragrant music...from within me.
I cannot control it, but it must not stop. Don't stop now. Show me how. To live. Fully. Yours.
No more scores.
No chores.
Just open doors.
And Your chest of drawers...filled to the brim for me.

The ABOMINATION

TONIGHT my cooking was
Purely Inedible
The fact that they all agreed…
That’s Incredible
Perplexed, I try to analyze
The spontaneity
In which I had devised
the tender glaze
of my demise…
Cuz I know it wasn’t the way
With which
I fried the noodles
Without a hitch
And it wasn’t the zuccini
Frozen and thawed
That truly made the dish
Become flawed
Perhaps it was the sausage balls
Wetter than Niagra Falls
Soggy, raw, and hardly meat
They gave away that I did cheat
Or maybe it was stale bread chunks
I threw right in
Thinking proudly with a grin
That surely this will make me win
Italian salad dressing truly
was a unique flavour
Although not enough to fully savour
When mixed with the tomato treat
It stubbornly professed defeat
Surely it was the combination
That created this abomination
As I sit back and think, think, think
It’s not ONE thing that made it stink
But nonetheless there was not one link
To keep it from the kitchen sink
Don’t know whether to laugh
Or cry
But tomorrow I shall
Give it another try…

Perpetual Checkmate

If my life were a game of chess, with Whom am I playing? Would I be trying to win... or if I started to realize I had no chance of winning, would I join the other side, start another game, or just give up and go home? My life isn't a game. But every once in a while there is a coveted sense of God's closeness, and my hands, although willfully submitted, are also fully tied. Checkmate.

There are only two teams. We're either for Him or against Him. Do I want what He wants? Then I actually want the checkmate. I embrace it. It is a cover of humility that I carry around with me that reveals a submitted heart to the One who is going to win the game.

"Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant..." (Phil. 2:5-7)

Rows and Rows of Nothingness...

Money to spend. Only me to spend it on. But the racks of clothing offered vague condolences. It was as unfulfilling to flip through rows of shirts as sorting through a haystack. So much straw. Not enough needles. Sure, I could use a few more shirts for variety in my daily life. But nothing spoke out, and I was lulled to listless discouragement at the repeating patterns and lying "sale" prices. Nothing spoke. Nothing called. And certainly nothing "jumped out."

I toyed with the idea of the seemlessly selfless act of giving it all away, leaving the responsibility to spend the gift of money behind me. But no one in the store jumped out at me either. Frankly, if they had, I'd probably hold more tightly to my purse.

So I faced a paradox today. To give...to spend...to hold. None of it felt right.

Meaningless. It's all meaningless.

Are you listening?

I assume that no one really hears when I speak. Sometimes I am okay with that. Other times I am mad at myself for assuming the worst. I speak briefly. With no detail. And. Summarize. Quickly. Before anyone can change the subject or get distracted. Because surely if that happens to me (again) that is a sign of disinterest. Neglect. That they don't care. Worthless banter. Again. And I wonder...

Yes, it is clearly in my childhood. I replay a video tape of a little girl repeating a comment over and over again as the adults in the room ignore the floating fragments like a stinky fart that wafts to and fro until it's power subsides and then extinguishes.

The irony is that no one would ever know that I feel this way when I speak. Around those with whom I know well, I speak freely and with confidence. It's not an issue.

But around groups? And I am going to be in a group tonight. And I am often in groups of people. They need to hear what I have to say. But my tongue cramps up and my brain turns off. Tongue-tied with nothing to say, I behave properly and don't waste anyone's time.

But when I am on stage...I suddenly know that I am heard. And believe that what I have to say affects the lives of those who listen. Surprisingly, I do not even wonder or blink. In fact, in most circumstances, I am even unbothered if no one is listening. There is an intimacy between me and God and a vulnerability that appears when I am on stage. It if it exists purely between the two of us, I do not care. And it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks.

But why does it take a stage to effect this change in my personality? To others, they might assume I am a hypocrite...so quiet in groups, and so bold on stage...

Muffled words
uttered quickly
sickly
As though you do not want to hear
I appear
sheepish
cheapish
Behind my useless lips
In another moment
I become changed
My fear exchanged
with careful carelessness
Abandonment
to purpose
Oblivious
to your time
or my time
But being there in
just the right time.

"Don't jump out of the minivan...we're almost there!"

Hope floats.
Like a basket
with a baby inside
Lilypads
waving on the pond water
A canoe
with a red haired girl rehearsing poetry
A bird
quenching its thirst
They come
to the water
to be filled
refreshed
replenished
Hope is restored
When it once was floored

"What strength do I have, that I should still hope? What prospects, that I should be patient?" (Job 6:11)

"Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him," (Ps. 42:5)

"Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the LORD." (Ps. 31:24)

"Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful." (Heb. 10:23)

"No one whose hope is in you will ever be put to shame, but they will be put to shame who are treacherous without excuse." (Ps. 25:3)

"Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him." (Ps. 62:5)

"I hope you will put up with a little of my foolishness; but you are already doing that." (2 Cor. 11:1)

"There is still hope for Israel." (Ezra 10:2)

Am I a good mother?

I asked my daughter early this morning (before I had thought too deeply about it or I would have surely not asked the question) if she thought I was a good mother. "Sometimes," she responded honestly, likely recalling all the times I had refused her more sugar and the last time I raised my voice.

I was immediately sorry that I asked. Not sorry because of her answer, but sorry because it shouldn't matter. I'm going to mess up. I'll have good days, bad days, and medium days. The most important thing is that I'm serving them like Jesus served and giving them an example of love that they can follow.

That means reflecting joy. Not being so overworked that I can't smile and tell a joke. Peace. Requiring it of my heart and showing them that it's worth fighting for. Patience. Ahhhh...yes, the one with which I ask them to pray for me to have more of. At it's core, isn't patience putting them before myself? Why is it so hard to be late for school? Why must I always be coaxing them to go faster, be faster, do faster. Kindness. God's kindness leads me to repentence. How does my kindness compare with that? Goodness. I'm really at a loss about goodness. I have a friend who says my "goodness" makes her mad sometimes. I just can't see it. It's undefined for me right now. Faithfulness. My heart quickly clings to God's faithfulness. As a mother, my body is faithful to the midnight calls because I'm in their room before my brain has had a chance to wonder what just happened. In that way, faithfulness is like "magic" to me. It's supernatural. Can't plan it. And yet, there are times when you choose not to walk away. Gentleness. I have noticed that the more gentle I am in my tone with the kids, the lower their tolerance is. "Mom, be gentle with me..." they'll say when I reprimand them. Not sure gentleness is fully understood by me yet. Self-control. Ouch. There's another one. Especially this time of year. If I'm "sneaking" into the pantry, chances are it's not the first one I've had today. How can I require self-control of my children when I'm not displaying it in the simple area of "treating myself"? And what does self-control have to do with love? I guess it means loving myself enough to know that even though it tastes good, it's pleasure lasts for a moment.

So what is it that makes me a good mother? The way I think of it is whether or not I am loving. Love never fails. The problem? I am uncapable of loving in such a capacity. If I have not spent time quietly receiving the fullness of God's love for me...chances are my tank is dwindling. Where do I go to receive more love? That is also an important question...I am learning that God alone has what I need to be filled.

Does it matter that my daughter thinks I am only "sometimes" a good mother? Not really. She's six. There are things she won't even realize until she is an adult. Ways she was shaped by my misbehaviour as well as my behaviour. What really matters is what God thinks of me. Is my ambition to please Him or my daughter? I'm in deep trouble here if my ambition is to please her...the jury's still out on me as far as she's concerned. But if my focus remains on pleasing God, my motives and direction change. And they won't wander far.

"Christians make such extraordinary claims, but live such ordinary lives."

I want to live a life full with love...what extraordinary things will happen when my ambition is to please God alone and look to Him to fill up my heart with His love?