Category Archives: out of the mouths of babes

Main . . .

I gently reached down and touched her chapped hands. Tenderly they rested on the pew in front of us as we chorused our way through five verses of “We Three Kings.” Her hands have grown over the years, no longer balled into tiny fists; no longer reaching outward to explore a rattler or a peg board. Time has shaped her hands in accordance with the calendar, but I will always recognize them. No matter the weathering that life may bring to them, my daughter’s hands are forever burned into memory. As I stood alongside my Amelia and bravely sang the stanzas, I pondered this heart truth from my friend, Alicia:

This is“main” (Anonymous, pp. 18 – 21). “Main is not behind us. Nor is main way out ahead of us.” (Anonymous, p. 21) Yes! This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. Not tomorrow’s soon-to-be; not yesterday’s once-was. No, those moments aren’t here for me to hold. This one is. This is main. And this is enough.

I spent a lot of my earlier years striving for the main of my tomorrows. It would be easy for me to conclude (in these my latter years) that main has already been . . . that at forty-six, I’ve had my main moments. The rest of them, what’s left? Perhaps the crumbs or the last scrape of batter from the cake bowl. That’s what the world would have me to believe, the enemy as well. But God’s belief system takes a grand departure from the ordinary. God has something more to say about my main.

“I tell you, now is the time of God’s favor, now is the day of salvation.” (2 Cor. 6:2)

Now. Not yesterday; not tomorrow. Now salvation. Now deliverance. Now preservation. Now safety.

Now . . . Jesus.

There’s no greater main than Jesus. Hold him—touch his weathered hands while chorusing his weathered journey—and all moments become sacredly main.

Less looking back at a past hard to remember. Less staring into a future not easily predicted. Instead, more . . .  beautifully more, gazing into the moment right in front of me. In a pew; at the kitchen sink; sitting in traffic; under the covers; while conversing with a good book, a good friend, even with a blank computer screen. Wherever I am and whatever my hands find to do, these are all main because God is there with me. To delight in him and with him, even in the seemingly mundane, makes all of life a grand and glorious celebration. I’m not there yet, but I’m not far from taking hold of it.

“Glorious now behold Him arise,

King and God and Sacrifice;

Alleluia, Alleluia!

Earth to heaven replies.

O star of wonder, star of night,

Star with royal beauty bright;

Westward leading, still proceeding,

Guide us to thy perfect light.”

His star still leads me, and the earthly in me still cries out to the heavenly in him . . .

“Guide me, precious Jesus, to your perfect light.”

Today is main, no matter the moments in front of us, friends. Receive them sacredly, grasp them tenderly, and protect them fiercely. God’s light shines in them all. As always . . .

Peace for the journey,

PS: Today I have the privilege of making available to one of you, the audio version of Anonymous: Jesus’ Hidden Years and Yours by Alicia Chole. Leave a comment today, sharing with me about living your main in the mundane. Where have you found Jesus today? I’ll draw a winner with my next post. Shalom.

a prayer for the night . . .

simple trust . . .

“When you come to the door, kiss me on the cheek so that I know I am safe.”

So wrote my daughter on a slip of paper last week. She placed the note in the hallway, next to her bedroom door, so I would see it on my way to bed. At first glance, I thought these might be lyrics from a new Taylor Swift song that my daughter scribbled down. Upon further examination, I realized that these were Amelia’s sentiments, not Taylor’s. That, in fact, my daughter wanted me to kiss her on the cheek a final time before my own tucking in time. In doing so, she knew she’d be safe.

I suppose she reasoned that I would make it back to her bedroom before she fell asleep, but even if I didn’t, just knowing that I was coming and that she was going to be checked on and tucked in one final time was enough to rock sweet Amelia to sleep.

Momma will come to me. Momma will check on me. Momma will touch me. I am safe. I can rest.

There’s something about a parent’s love that soothes the unrest of the night . . . that moves in to overshadow the darkness and to replace distrust with certainty. Knowing that momma is on the move and making her final round quells the simmering fear of the unknown—the shadows of slumber that slip in and out of dreams, challenging reasonable thoughts.

I am not so unlike my daughter. Sometimes, I, too, need the reassurance of my Father in my darkness. Sometimes, the shadows loom largely on my bedroom wall, and my imagination gets the best of me. Sometimes, tomorrow seems like a long time in coming and a gentle touch on my cheek from a loving parent goes a long way toward soothing the fretful ache within.

“Daddy, Father, God, when you come to my door, kiss me on the cheek so that I know I am safe.”

Safe to sleep. Safe to let go of what I cannot control and to, instead, rest beneath the safety of the night Watchman who has me covered from every angle.

A simple prayer to pray. A simple trust to offer. A simple childlike faith that believes the nighttime is the right time to count on a Father’s love. As always . . .

Peace for the journey,

What prayer keeps you safe in the night?

from trash to treasure

from trash to treasure

I watched her out of the corner of my eye. Tears were forming in hers. We’d just settled into our evening watch of American Idol when I noticed her sadness. The “boys” present in the room shrugged it off as insignificant. Boys are like that sometimes, not seeing past the tears to the deeper issue at work. But this momma… the girl in me… recognized her tears. I cried some similar ones in my younger years. Tears that now, in hindsight, seem frivolous and unwarranted, yet tears at the time of their initial release important in keeping with the moment.
A letting go kind of moment.
Let me explain.
My eight-year-old daughter is attached to her stuff. Whether it be her well-worn blanket (a.k.a. burp cloth from her infant days), her stuffed animals (enough to allow her only an eighth of an inch of her mattress for sleeping purposes), her hidden stash of Kit-Kats from Halloween, or her Sponge Bob Crocs from two years ago, my Amelia isn’t keen on letting go of her belongings. She’s a keeper of things, believing in their significance even if they’ve outlived their practical usefulness. She’ll fight hard for their survival, and last night would prove the same.
Occasionally, my daughter drinks from a sippy cup; she wouldn’t do so in mixed company, but in the safety of home, she prefers the cups from her toddler days. Over the years we’ve thrown several out, but two remain… until last evening. Alas, one of the screw-on tops to the cups did a dance with the dishwasher and came out mangled. My husband made the tragic mistake of announcing its demise and, subsequently, threw it in the trash can. My daughter was stunned by the revelation but kept her emotions in check. For a few minutes. Until the familiar intro to Idol began. And that is when I noticed her tears.
Amelia, what’s wrong?
Silence. More tears. (*Note to self… asking the question usually opens the floodgates to further tears.)
Amelia, are you upset about something?
Silence. Tears now freely flowing down her cheeks; body beginning to shake.
Amelia, are you crying about your cup?
Hesitantly she spoke, carefully camouflaging her angst so as not to attract the attention of the boys in the room…
Mommy, I need that lid.
I thought that might be the case, daughter. Would you like to keep it in your room?
Yes.
Then go get it.
Tears stopped, eyes were wiped, and a bee-line was made to the trash can and then to her room. Moments later, she settled herself back onto the couch and all was well with her heart. And I got to thinking.
About attachments. About the heart of a child that is willing to hold onto “things”… needs to hold onto things even though others deem them unnecessary, unimportant, limited in their usefulness. About what makes a “thing” more than a “thing.” About when a “thing” becomes something valuable and about why, as adults, we sometimes think it necessary to make that something lesser in its status.
As adults, we’re well-informed and well-trained with our “letting gos.” We don’t get too far into our maturing without experiencing a few painful ones. The capacity to “let go” and do so with some measure of grace is often the mark of maturity. We preach it, teach it, write about it, and live it. My life history is replete with such benchmark moments. I hope they’ve aided in my maturation at every level, but just last night I started thinking about it all. Wondering if maybe it’s OK to keep some attachments to certain things. To store them away and keep them hidden because they became a something to me in a previous season.
That maybe, sometimes we rush the “letting go.” That we are quick to throw away the “things” that have become something to us just because they’ve gotten a bit mangled and torn by the daily wear and tear of our handling therein. That, perhaps, by keeping a few of them, we’ll have a better chance of remembrance in years to come when recall becomes paramount to our moving forward.
Indeed, we need to “get on with the gettin’” on as it pertains to our growing up on the inside, but what if our growing up is, at least in part, related to our holding onto a few things? What well-worn things have we prematurely let go of in favor of shiny, new ones just for the sake of usefulness? I have no illusions that the lid to my daughter’s sippy cup will ever serve as a functioning lid again. But to her it is useful, at least for a little while longer. Why?
Because it’s part of her history.
She and that lid have some longevity. They’ve shared some years together, been as close to one another as a temporal thing can get to an eternal beating soul. When she was a toddler, she carried it with her everywhere she went. At eight, she limits her carrying to times of thirst. And I imagine in another year or so, she’ll outgrow her need for its companionship. But for now, it’s still something to her. And I find that beautiful and poignant and a message of grace meant for my own soul this day.
She needs her lid, and I need a childlike heart that is willing fight hard for a few things worth preserving. Things that are worth holding onto because they’re part of my history. Things that are meant for the treasure box and not the trash can. Things that are more valuable because of their wear and tear over the years and because of my handling therein. Things that, in the eyes of others may not seem like much, but things that are precious to me because they have “touched” my lips and made their way into my heart as a forever keeping.
I’m not into hoarding or collecting stuff for collection’s sake. And if you’re a regular reader of my words then you know I’m all about the “letting go” process. But I will tell you this… I’m a proponent of holding onto a few things that have become somethings to us. If we don’t have a few somethings, then our lives run the risk of floating aimlessly through our earthly tenures.
We all need an anchor in this season. A tried and true, reliable “holding onto” that will see us through to tomorrow. I don’t know what yours is—the one thing that you are willing to dig out of the trashcan and hide away as a treasure in the deep recesses of your heart—but I do know what mine is. And in many ways, it resembles a well-worn, well-chewed upon, overly used, and mangled sippy-cup lid.
A holding faith.
And I will fight to the death for that one, friends. Cry some tears over it and make sure that everyone in the room, including the boys, understand the fact that my faith isn’t made for the trashcan. That instead, I’ll store it away where my daughter has chosen to store her lid.
 
In my treasure chest… my heart (I had to search hard to find it in her room this morning). There’s a history we share, my faith and me, that’s worth holding onto. May it be the same for each one of us. Let us not be quick to discard an old faith as unnecessary, unreliable, limited in its usefulness. Let us, instead, be quick to hide it as newly discovered wealth to serve as a continual anchor in the seasons to come. May your faith be your something… the one thing… you’re willing to fight for today.
Keep to it, my good companions on the journey. Keep to the road of faith. As always…
Peace for the journey,

PS: I’ll be MIA most of next week as I’m scheduled for surgery on Monday at 8:00 AM. I would appreciate your continuing prayers. Shalom.

on chasing fires…

“‘You know the way to the place where I am going.’ Thomas said to him, ‘Lord, we don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?’ Jesus answered, ‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’” {John 14:4-6}
 
 

Before Christmas, we received a note from Jadon’s teacher regarding his “lack of focus” in the classroom. The teacher is well-informed regarding Jadon’s ADHD diagnosis (attention-deficit-hyperactivity-disorder) and his trend toward straying thoughts, but she felt that, perhaps, something extra was being added to the mix of his confusion.

Accordingly, she pulled Jadon aside and inquired of him as to the reason behind his straying during her lecture time. He assured her that nothing was wrong… that he simply had lost focus. Not quite satisfied with his answer, she wrote me a kind note, letting me know of the situation, and asking me if their might be something further “going on at home” that might be contributing to my son’s distraction.

Immediately my thoughts turned toward my cancer, quickly followed by thoughts of the upcoming Christmas celebration. Rather than linger in my suspicions, I talked with Jadon regarding his straying in the classroom. In serious tone and with little hesitation came his reply:

“Mom, it’s like this. When I’m listening to the teacher at school, it’s like I’m on my horse, traveling on a path through the woods when all of the sudden I see a fire off in the distance. I turn my horse in that direction, and I begin to chase after that fire. Before long, I don’t see the teacher anymore. Only the fire in front of me.”

My concerns abated, I smiled. I looked at my son and simply said:

“Tomorrow, son, no chasing fires. Stay on the path with your teacher, and all will be well. If a fire happens while on the path, you’ll just have to step around it, hop over it, or walk right through it. But son, stay on the path with your teacher.”

He chuckled; we hugged, and he left the house for the great outdoors… I suppose for an afternoon filled with chasing fires of all manners. And I couldn’t help but wonder about Jadon’s diagnosis and if ever there has ever been a more apt description for the problem of ADHD, the problem of straying thoughts. I bet the experts would like to get a hold of this one, maybe even use it as a way of describing to the world what it is like to live inside the skin of a person who struggles with this label. A person who is easily distracted and would rather chase fires through the tangled forest than to stay on the path already blazed within.

Chasing fires. When was the last time you stepped off the marked path with the Teacher in order to entertain the flames of a fire not meant for your daily deliberations? I imagine we all could recall occasions when we’ve been guilty of foraging for foreign flames rather than sticking to the sacred steps already blazed on our behalf. Times when the warmth and burnt orange of a distant flickering rerouted our thoughts and redirected our horses into dangerous territory—territory meant only for distraction and destruction, not for personal discovery.

Like my son, I’ve chased a few foreign fires over the course of my earthly tenure. It’s not served me very well. I’ve got a few burn scars to prove it. Even when the path before me has been an obvious leading from the Teacher, there have been those “out-of-the-corner-of-my-eye” occasions when the flames of another fire have captured my attention, and my learning disability kicks in. It’s called temptation. And whenever temptation is entertained, a straying is soon to follow. And whenever straying in the woods is chosen over staying on the path, the chasm between the two becomes a cluttered gap of trees and brambles and miscellaneous steps not easily retraced once the fire has diminished and lost its heat.

Fires like that… ones that burn to ashes… are never intended for our good. Instead, they temporarily flame for our distraction. For our straying. For our missing out on some steps with the Teacher—steps that can never be replaced, but steps that will have to be retraced in order for learning to occur. That being said, not all fire chasing is bad. Some fires are meant for our approach, our attention, and our purification. But those fires aren’t usually found off the beaten path. Instead, they usually present themselves along the way and as we go… in plain view and requiring our stepping around them, hopping over them, or walking right through them. On those occasions, we clearly see the Teacher through the flames, knowing that his holy veil has passed through them first, allowing us safe passage as well.

Oh for feet that are firmly entrenched upon the soil of our up head rather than our side to side. For eyes to clearly see the path, for wisdom to choose the path, and for a heart full of courage to stay on the path with the Teacher despite the fires burning all around us. It’s not easy to continue on course, friends. Not easy to stay fixed on our learning when multiple distractions line our daily lives with their interrupting flames. But stay we must if we want to pass the test and travel forward to the next assignment that our Teacher has for us—a task that will further our maturity and move us past our infancy.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to waste time in the woods with fires that are going to stunt my growth. Instead, I want to keep in step with my Teacher, believing that where he’s headed is where I need to be. He’s leading me on an odyssey of faith that will eventually land me safely home; I’d rather get there with fewer burns because of fewer fieldtrips to the forest. Thus, I say to myself this day the words I now speak to my son each morning before he leaves for school…

“Child, no chasing fires today. Stay on the path with your teacher, and all will be well. If a fire happens while on the path, you’ll just have to step around it, hop over it, or walk right through it. But child, stay on the path with your teacher.”

Perhaps, my friends, you need the reminder as well. Keep to the path of our Jesus; he is the Way, the Truth, and the Life… the only fire worthy of our chase this day. Keep your eyes fixed forward. As always…

Peace for the journey,

post signature

therMOMmeter… {for Jadon}

“But you, man of God, flee from all this, and pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, endurance and gentleness. Fight the good fight of the faith. Take hold of the eternal life to which you were called when you made your good confession in the presence of many witnesses.” (1 Timothy 6:11-12).
My son got into a fight on the playground today.
Yep. That’s what I wrote. A fight. My almost ten-year-old, blonde haired, brown-eyed boy (who’s always been the tenderest in spirit of my four children) threw the first punch on the playground this afternoon, leaving his taunter, his teachers, and his parents in utter shock. Please understand… Jadon isn’t aggressive in nature; he is kind, gentle, and loves the life he’s been given, along with the people therein. He spent the entire last year at his former school being bullied by his classmates, refusing to tell anyone, let alone get physical with any of them (even after us giving him permission to do so).
So today’s news was a new twist in the story named Jadon. And while we are concerned with his aggressive behavior and in no way condone the physical harm of another individual, we cut him some slack. Why? Because of the reasoning behind his decision—
Me.
Apparently I was under attack during a game of “You’re momma is ____________.” You know the game—a series of taunts exchanged by young boys who are determined to get the upper hand where their genetics are concerned. I imagine we could all fill in the blank with some comedic responses, but to ten-year-old boys fighting for dominance on the playground, humor isn’t a priority. Control is. So, what did they say about me?
You’re momma is evil.
When Jadon heard that it was “game on.” I asked him to express to me his feelings in the moment that it happened. This was his response:
Momma, my therMOMmeter snapped. It was like all those memories of last year came back to me, and the cups were filling up, and when (culprit) found me on the playground and continued to talk about you, something in me snapped. I had to take him on. So I lunged at him.
His words; not mine. He didn’t mean to say therMOMmeter; again, it was a Jadon-ism at its best—him trying to find the right word but missing the mark by a slight margin. We all knew what he meant. Even more so, we all knew what was going on underneath the surface of his tussle.
Jadon is angry about my cancer. A month beyond my diagnosis, he hasn’t shown much emotion other than extreme love for and care over me. He guards me and takes great pains to care for my every need… sometimes even before I make my needs known. That boy would walk over hot coals for me if it meant I could skip this cancer and just feel better. So when a taunter takes on my character with a word like “evil,” Jadon’s all in… come what may.
And I am glad for the defense; not that I need it. Trust me when I tell you that there have been lesser things said about me. I can handle it. But a little boy confused and concerned about his mother’s condition? I think him less able to walk away from the assassination of my character. Jadon just wants to make it better for me, and today (in his mind) he did. He took up for his mom… the dearest love of his life… his “Faith Elaine.”
And I ponder the sacred parallel. About Paul’s charge to Timothy to fight the good fight of faith. To defend the Gospel and truth of Jesus Christ… come what may. To take up shield and sword for the King and his Kingdom and to rightly and justly divide truth from lies. To protect, guard, and preserve the name and character of Jesus Christ because of familial, sacred bloodlines—our connection as children to the Father because of the cross of Calvary.
God doesn’t need our defense when the world calls him out and equates his deity with evil. He can handle the taunts of the playground. Heck, he made the playground! But in our defending him—his name and his character—we take up for our Father, the dearest love of our lives. We stand for faith and fight its cause regardless of the consequences that will, undoubtedly, arrive for us on the other end. When God’s integrity is called into question, our “therMOMmeter” should rise. And while we should always lace our responses with grace and mercy, we should most assuredly respond. To do nothing is to live less… is to say it’s OK to make fun of our Father.
Christian… where have you compromised your life of faith? When have you said nothing in defense of your King? When have the playground taunts been too frightening for you, thereby relegating your response to walking away rather than to entering the fray? Does God mean enough to you to take them on? To go all in and to fight to the finish?
Our God is worthy of the tussle with the playground bullies; not that we should seek them out, but rather that when they come calling with their taunts in tow, we are solidly prepared to enter the fray because our God is too important to us to let the lies slip by as truth.
Today I’ve cried over my son’s pain. I wish it didn’t have to be. That being said, I cannot remove it from him. I can only allow it its shaping in him. In this season, his maturing may be different from the other boys his age. He’s been asked to handle something huge in addition to multiplication, Bakugan, and the latest episode of Swamp People. His mother’s cancer has been added to his equation, and he (along with the rest of us) will be forever marked because of it.
Today, Jadon turned a corner. Where it will lead, I’m not sure. But of this I am certain. When he is old and grey and his mother is long gone on to glory, he’ll remember the day when his therMOMmeter rose in her defense, and he will be proud of his response.
I am proud as well, my son… young man of God. Always live your life in defense of your family, your faith, and most importantly, your King. He is worth fighting for. He has traveled long and deep and far and wide in defense of you. His cross tarries as your reminder. Never fear the outcome of your valiancy. The battle has been won on your behalf, and we will all share in the spoils of victory together around his throne. I count it a joy to have you at my side in this battle. Fight hard. Fight on. Fight through. Finish strong.
I love you.
Your mom,
Faith Elaine
PS: Comments are closed on this post; not because I don’t value your thoughts, but mostly because I feel so guilty by not being able to respond to them as I would like. It’s been extremely hard for me to manage my life and my blog visiting in this season. That being said, I’ll be around to see you as I can. If you’d like to be in touch with me, send me an e-mail via the “contact” link in my blog header! Blessed Sabbath rest to you and yours this weekend. Shalom.
error: Content is protected !!