When Your Dog is Dying

 Bullseye's first day with us

The sun is glaring off the snow and yesterday's rain has crystallized on the sidewalk in intricate patterns.  I know this because I have spent a good part of the day sitting with my dog, Bullseye, in the snowbank.  He is dying and prefers to keep his watch in the yard rather than be inside.  So I have joined him, telling him what a good and loyal friend he has been.  Reminding him of the time he protected our yard from the snarly badger and still wears the scar.  Letting him know that I'll have to start sweeping the kitchen floor again, since he won't be around to clean up the crumbs.  Thanking him for shepherding our children for almost 9 years, and for never failing to entertain us with his repertoire of fancy tricks for treats.   

The vet say he has pancreatitis, which means bile is leaking into his system.  He has stopped eating and is very weak.  He can't even keep water down.  

Our loyal friend

Bullseye loving Ginger

A year and a half ago, a little, starving, limping kitten wandered into our yard.  Bullseye immediately bounded over to her and began to lick and snuggle her.  Soon after, she joined our family.  Today, she is staying near Bullseye, occasionally rubbing against him.  I think she remembers what he did for her and wants to return the kindness.

Playing along with the kids

The children are handling it in their own ways.  The youngest is shedding many tears and talking about what it will be like in heaven for him.  Our middle child is trying to hold back the tears, but she snuck him out for a walk earlier, as we watched from the window.  He made it to the mailbox.  When they turned around, she was crying, which made my husband break down.  My son has been distracted, acting in 5 performances this weekend at the local theater.  He will have to process this later.  I have cried my tear ducts dry.  

Bullseye's favorite person in the world, my mom, came to visit him this morning.  He even followed her inside the house, accepting her tears and tenderness, if not her pocketful of treats.  Thank you, Mom, for loving your grand-dog so dearly.

As our hearts break for Bullseye, we heard that our niece, Brooke, is in labor with her long-awaited first baby.  And so I pulled out the Bible and read from Ecclesiastes 3:

There is a time to be born and a time to die...a time to weep and a time to dance.

Super Stubbs...A True Story

I just grin and shake my head every time I think about the ending to this story.  Six years ago my brother-in-law and his wife were hanging Missing Dog posters in their neighborhood in Denver. Their magnificent little Boston Terrier, Stubbs, had disappeared, and apparently, according to the account of a neighbor, had been dognapped by an anonymous maintenance worker.  They even hired a private detective to rescue the little guy, to no avail.  This dog was BELOVED.  

The kids  and I were heartbroken for them.  We wrote a little story imagining what might have happened to Stubbs and what grand efforts he was making to return to the Pearson home.  Let's just say it included magic tomales, a super-hero cape, and a helpful prairie dog with a map of Denver in his pocket. Grace illustrated the story.  She was 3.  We entitled our story "Super Stubbs."  

Here is the opening paragraph:

There once was a dog named Stubbs.  Everyone loved Stubbs, but his family loved him best.  Why did they love Stubbs?  He was small but he could jump as high as 100 stacked corn dogs.  His nose was smooshed into his face and his tail was a big as your thumb, but it could wag 100 miles an hour if he liked you.  He would lick you like a popsicle  and he could drag you down the street on a leash if you weren't careful.  (ask Noah about that!)

At the end of the story, Stubbs is joyfully reunited with his family with a big happily ever after.  We color-copied the story and gave it to Aaron and Stacey, so hopeful that Stubbs would find his way home.  It didn't happen. Eventually, they bought another Boston named Henry, equally adorable.  But we kept our copy of the story on our book shelf for posterity.  

The end.  NOT!

We returned from our vacation on Monday to some incredible news.  Stubbs was home.  Six years later, a lot grayer, partially blind, but still remembering their hand command to sit!  Stubbs had been found by animal control as a stray, scanned for a microchip, which Aaron and Stacey's vet had placed in him as a puppy, and **TAH-DAH** returned to his real family!  

Now that is a better ending!

My singular question to Stacey...was he wearing a cape?

Possessing Nothing

My mind keeps wandering to a hospital room.  To a family gathered around their son.  To the aching decision to pull the plug.  I can barely put myself there in my mind, and yet my friend has lived it the last week, watching her 29-year-old son, who was hit by a drunk driver, struggle for life and lose the battle.  

Just weeks ago, I sat next to her planning a children's musical.  Now her life is forever marked by tragedy.  I am stunned by the speed in which a person's story can change.  

When I read A.W. Tozer's devotional today, about how God pried Abraham's fingers from his son, Isaac, in the second most painful act of sacrifice in the Bible, I thought of all the things I clutch to my chest.  My husband and children, my home, my stuff, my time, my will.  They are beautiful gifts from God, but they can be His rivals in my heart.  

I can't call this story of Abraham allegory or history.  I can't say, "I'm glad I'm not in Abraham's shoes,"  because God says, "You are Abraham.  You have the same two alternatives.  Possess the world and everything in it, or possess nothing."  Tozer calls it the blessedness of possessing nothing.

I pray for Becky and her family, that they run to a deep and bottomless well of grace.  

And I pray that I continually learn the lesson of possessing nothing to gain everything.  

Recommended reading, The Pursuit of God by A.W. Tozer

Graffiti Grace

Their story captivated me.  How creative you have to be when you live in a country where 3% of the population is Christian and God has called you to be a missionary there. 

"How do we do this, God?"

"Graffiti," God answers.

And so began their campaign to erase the prolific graffiti from the public surfaces in their town in Spain.  It was a brilliant plan.  What city and neighborhood leaders wouldn't back a plan to beautify their environment? 

My favorite part of the story:  a tunnel, a mural, an artist.  First they paint black over the graffitied walls of the tunnel.  Then the artist on their team begins to paint his beautiful vision.  Who should wander up but three young, delinquent, graffiti artists and taggers, curious about this project.  (Why does the number 3 always make the story better?)

In a stroke of inspiration, the artist puts the boys to work helping with the mural.  It catches the attention of the newspaper.  In the end, there is a community celebration and private prayers that the tiny seeds planted along the way would lodge and grow in hearts and eventually grow into a church. 

I love a good story, but when it rainbows a bigger truth, I am truly moved.  God takes the grimy, graffiti-stained walls of my life and paints them fresh and blank.  He gives vision and community to slowly, faithfully paint the mural, which tells the story, which is meant to be shared and celebrated.

My life mural is not finished until my last breath, but there are milestones to be celebrated as portions of the picture are completed.  When He brings unlikely people and circumstances to contribute to the painting, doubt and resistance flare up, and I must remember He is there in the tunnel holding the completed sketch and nodding approval, as He reassuringly whispers, "It's OK.  You think they are going to wreck your painting, but actually, they are painting the most beautiful parts, and they are making you a better artist."

Because I loved their story so much, Rob and Nancy, the missionaries from Spain, left an envelope for me on my music stand with the words "Thank You" written in crayon.  Inside was this pastel drawing by the artist in their story. 

My eyes blurred with tears when I saw it.  COME, He says.  Be fully in this story and trust Me all the way.

Drips, Stains, and Restraint

This is the story I read the morning I stepped out on my deck and screamed.

I am a child and it is nearly Christmas.  I stand on a kitchen chair pummeling cookie dough with a rolling pin.  I wallop the bag of flour right off the counter and it explodes in a cloud of white dust.  I do not move, waiting for my mother's reaction.  "What's your favorite cookie shape?" she asks.  I find my voice.  "A star."  Smiling, she hands me the tin cutter.  "Make lots of stars while I clean up," she says. -Sue Monk Kidd, Firstlight

This story seared my conscience.  How I've shamed and belittled my children for much less than a flour bomb. 

Later that morning, I stepped into the lovely dappled light on our deck and looked down.  Then looked again.  Then let my eyes trail down the steps and across the lower level.  Then hurried down to look across the length of the deck.  The deck that we built last year.  The NEW deck.  Then I screamed through clenched teeth. 

From one corner to the other, up the stairs, and across the top level, were splatters of dark red stain, like the drips across the driveway from a sprinkler-soaked child.  For a moment I thought someone with a severed limb had run to the kitchen, but no, it was not blood that stained our blond wood.  It was, indeed, stain.  The color of the newly stained playset. 

I saw the can of stain and the paint pan neatly placed on the rocks where they should have been.  And then it dawned on me.  The sponge brush was tucked in its Ziploc bag in the refrigerator, waiting to be used for final touches on the playset.  Someone who shall remain nameless did not realize how drippy a stain-drenched paintbrush is when carried from playset to kitchen.  Gulp.

I had a choice to make.  Somewhere in my brain was an arsenal of shame-based words that no parenting book ever had to teach me.  But those go-to words had been covered over during my early morning quiet time by a story of a wise and tender mother who chose the path of love and grace. 

I went inside and drank some more coffee and washed up the morning dishes.  Then I took my beautiful gift of a child onto the deck and said, "We're going to figure out how to clean this up the best we can.  You can help." 

"I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't know.  I'll help."

Imago Dei....What I Saw at Bluewater

I looked up from my shady spot under the tall red pine to watch a young boy and an older woman dipped back into the cool lake waters.  They had come before this group to declare their devotion to Christ through the ceremony of baptism.  In God's immense creativity, He designed a beautiful symbol that will forever be a step in the Christian faith: descending into the waters of death, then bursting forth new and sputtering and dripping with life. 

I remember Dave standing next to me, smiling a nervous, encouraging grin as we took the same drenching journey almost 20 years ago.  Our dabbling, half-hearted interest in Christianity had taken a dramatic turn into full-blown faith, and baptism was our way of saying, "No turning back.  No turning back."  Since then, God has slowly, steadily taken over my eyes, as I've honestly sung and believed the words "Be Thou My Vision." 

What I was really paying attention to as I stood under the pine last Saturday was not the baptism, but something that caused a sting of tears in my eyes. Four children from four different families were all within feet of each other.

Joswe sat on the ledge.  He is the son of missionaries from Spain.  He has a chromosomal anomaly which you don't notice until he tries to communicate with you and is difficult to understand.  He makes you listen more intently than you listen to others, because you find that you can understand him if you make the effort.  He is enraptured by rhythm.  I had asked him to play the djembe drum during one of our worship songs and he was perfectly amazing. 

Near him sat Ariana.  She has a physical malformation that renders her small arms permanently bent and out of proportion with her body.  But God gave her a tender sweetness, a self-determination, and a servant's heart.  Earlier, I had watched her wash the tables in the dining hall.  To move the wet cloth, she had to have her cheek nearly on the table, and I wonder how far we are willing to bend to serve others. 

Young Levi is the pastor's son.  He also has a chromosomal issue and is difficult to understand.  But I loved his fresh, unfiltered comments.  "You're strong," he told me, looking at my bare arms.  "I lift weights," I told him.  He nodded, approvingly.  That sealed our friendship for the weekend.  He wants to have 9 children when he grows up.  Six boys and three girls. 

Next to Levi was Mariah, moving in her dance-like way.  Her seizures got so serious that Mayo doctors severed her corpus-callosum, which connects the two sides of her brain.  It corrected her seizures, but it makes her a handful for her two amazing parents.  Kind of like a permanent 2 year old in a 9 year old body.  My goal was to persuade a smile out of her over the weekend.  I didn't quite accomplish that, but I did take a damp towel and ran it gently over her warm, sweaty face, and she looked at me squarely with her large gray eyes with something like a thank you.

I'm not sure that anyone else noticed these four special kids so near each other in the crowd.  But I believe I was meant to notice, because in my vision, they were glowing and the phrase imago dei was flooding my mind.  Image of God.

These child-souls were drenched in the image of God.  Washed in the glow.  Baptized in sacred love.

Since I Turned 40

Since I turned 40 in April, I have sensed a tightening, like the dragonfly on the dock in Canada, confined by a dark, hard exoskeleton, while pushing her bright green head out the tiny opening. 

I watched her molt all morning, emerging, growing, brightening, spreading, until she was many times larger than the shell she would leave behind.  Then she was gone.  Maybe she was the one who landed on the slat bench next to me on the last day of vacation, reveling in her next chapter.  I was envious.

There is a knot that needs untangling.  I haven't been talking about it.  Or praying.  Or writing.  Or thinking, really, but it's not going to untangle itself.  It will have to be written smooth, because most of the problem solving in my life happens internally, spilling into written words.  Such is the way of the introvert writer.

When a woman has everything to be thankful for, like a faithful God, a rock solid husband,  healthy, cheerful kids, good friends, and a lovely home, she takes that nebulous angst and palms it like a ball of clay, making it as small as possible.  Then she swallows it and lives with the pit in her stomach.  Sue Monk Kidd calls it "an obscure longing for something I cannot name." 

The Bible says that "while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened."  2 Cor 5:4  There is a groaning in me that cannot be ignored, a nameless burden.  Is it a longing for heaven?  Is it an invitation to a new chapter or bigger wings?  I don't have an inkling of the root or the purpose, but I suspect it's a univeral experience, and that, like Lady Dragonfly, I am simply molting.

Do I Matter?

I have taken a breather from blogging and immersed myself in research for homeschooling next year.  I am enthusiastic and a little frightened about entering the high school phase with Boy Becoming Man, while teaching my middle and elementary school girls, but we seem to figure things out as we go.  Preparation and flexibility: my motto. 

A worthy topic has captured my heart and pulled my attention away from the Ancient History syllabus and Biology labs: three teen suicides in one week in my area of Minnesota, with much buzz about bullies, school responsibility, and social media. 

My heart aches.  I want to shake everyone, from the precious child about to end her life, to the parents, the administrators, the media.  Don't you understand?  What lies beneath it all is a lack of understanding of the value of your soul.  I would throw every school book to the wind if I knew my kids were wondering, "Do I matter?"

My job as parent and teacher would be worthless if I could not tell my kids over and over:  you were created by a loving God, you have a purpose in this world, you have access to God's mighty power and healing comfort, you were designed to reflect His glory. 

But so many parents don't tell their kids this.  They don't believe it themselves.  Public school personnel can't say it, whether they believe it or not (though the good ones do!)  Children can't hear it enough.  So they believe the lies from their peers, the media, themselves. 

I get it.  I grew up believing my value came from pleasing others and succeeding in the task before me.  I craved male attention.  I see in my children something different.  A solidness, even as they experiment with fashion and music and figure out their talents and interests.  I know there is and will be wrestlings, wanderings, and mistakes made, but we have given them a foundation that is not made of the shifting sands of the world.

On Christ the solid rock I stand.

To Hold a Dying Baby...guest blog

When a lovely, young woman you barely know has a powerful story to tell, and you realize in some small way, you are part of the story, it's one you want to pass along.  May it bless you today.



I can not believe it - I have waited my whole life to go to China and the time has finally come. It is the middle of the night as I look out the window of the plane and see the lights of Beijing below me. I'm home. How can a strange country I've never seen before feel like home?

Only God knows.
Only God puts a dream on a little girl's 7-year old heart... giving her a Chinese baby doll and with it, a dream to one day have her own real daughter from China.
Only God can make that dream grow stronger every day, every year.
Only God knows why we must wait so long for what is on our heart so strongly.
Only God can give me patience.

I'm home. At 21 years old,  every last detail has been worked out and I'm about to spend a life-changing month of my life, working in a special-needs baby orphanage in China. I know it will be years until I'm eligible to adopt, but I can't stay away any longer. I am here to see the situation of orphans in this country with my own eyes and to better know how to pray for them.

Every moment of every day is filled with memories... memories that bring out of me nearly every emotion I know. Love, joy, deep sorrow, pain and hurt, laughter... even anger. I walk among the rows of cribs, praying over each precious, abandoned child that they hold. I change more diapers and feed more bottles than I have in a long time. I snuggle the babies tightly and try to understand this world we live in where such  beautiful little ones are left in fields or train stations to either be rescued or die...

... Carissa...

...I've heard the name every morning as we pray over the children at the orphange. At 4 months old, this little girl has a heart condition and is in such critical condition that she hasn't even come to the orphanage yet. A staff member found her under a bridge a month ago, and she has been in the Beijing hospital ever since.

One day the orphanage director tells us with great sadness that the hospital has denied further treatment to Baby Carissa, saying she is too small and not worth saving. She will be arriving at the orphanage this afternoon. Since one baby has already died in the orphanage while I was there, the nannies are having a hard time and so one nurse offers to take Baby Carissa home with her. They've been told that Carissa will only live a few days, and the decision has been made to hold her and pray for her until she dies. Only ICU nurses are allowed to touch her.

Through a story only God could orchestrate, the baby ends up needing help, and as well all know... God doesn't call the qualified, He qualifies the called. Which I suppose is the only explanation why I am chosen as the one to spend an entire night with her.

I'm taken to a village 10 miles away, by myself, without a single English-speaking person with me, and it is communicated that I will be picked up at 7:00 the next morning. In America, I wouldn't think of taking this risk. But right now God is leading, and I am perfectly safe.

As I settle into the room designated for Baby Carissa in the nurse's small apartment, it is dark and quiet outside. The only noise in the room is the baby's strained breathing. I pick her tiny frame up and nearly cry. She is 4 months old and doesn't even weigh 7lbs. Her skin tone is grayish and I can feel every bone in her tiny body. But her eyes are bright, and her finger grips mine tightly. As the night wears on, I settle into the blankets with the baby on my chest and spend the rest of that precious night alternating oxygen tubes, heart monitors, bottles, diapers, praying, dozing, medicine, etc.

As I sit there, the words of a song that my sister's friend wrote float through my mind... Sit down, lean back/ we've got the corner of your mat/ We'll carry you when you are weak/ to the Healer's feet... let us lift you up so Christ can fill your cup/we are here at the corners... and again the words of another song by the same woman, Jill Pearson, There is a hope that has fed my soul/ in foreign lands and here at home/It has come in the form of an angel and a song/Many prayers, many verses it has carried me along/It brings a peace that surpasses understanding... I have a hope that can't be shaken/I have a joy that can't be taken...

It is the wedding anniversary of the nurse who is supposed to be watching Carissa tonight, and the only human reason I'm here is because she wanted to get away with her husband for the night. But God had a far greater purpose for me - a young lady from America who has dreamed nearly my whole life of holding these precious, nearly-forgotten little ones on the other side of the world in my own arms - to spend an entire night holding a dying little baby. Verses of comforting Scripture are printed in English near my Bible and all night long I pray these verses over Carissa. And over and over, all night long, the words to those soothing songs from back home run through my head. I've only heard the songs a couple times and I'm not entirely sure I have all the words right, but I feel surrounded by the peace that being in the center of God's will brings.

Morning finally comes, and for the last time I kiss Carissa's little face, release her finger from mine, and lay her in her basket. I return to the orphanage, tears streaming down my face as my teammates surround me with quiet love. The orphanage director later tells me that it is a complete miracle I was allowed to be in the same room with Carissa, much less hold her. The hospital where she stayed did not allow anyone to see or touch her, and only 2 other people have ever been allowed to hold her. After being rescued, she has spent her life on her back in a hospital crib, alone. And yet I just spent a whole night with her, her frail body pressed to my chest so I could feel her faint heartbeat.

"We'll carry you when you are weak to the Healer's feet."

Three weeks later when I was at home, I received an email saying that Baby Carissa had died of heart failure in the arms of the nurse. While my heart is broken, hers is now healed. I will forever be in awe of the gift that God gave me -- to be a small part of the life of this tiny treasure, tucked away in the mountains of China. Only a few people ever knew this little girl, but I was one of them. And while I grieve, someone reminded me that Baby Carissa lived a life of blessing that few of us ever do... so weak that she was wrapped in the palm of her Father's hand day and night, and bathed in prayer by partners who loved her all the time. God is good.

I learned the difference between happiness and joy while I was in China. My time spent there was precious, beautiful, and so much more than I ever imagined. Carissa's story changed my life, as did so many others while I was there. I prayed that God would break my heart over the things that break His, and I learned how He answers prayers. And yet there is a joy that can't be taken.

And the best part of Carissa's story?
She is no longer an orphan... she is finally home.

-Rebecca Ohnstad

Her Little Rended Heart

Rend your heart.  These three words from the Book of Joel draw me deep this morning.  Rend is not a word we use now.  It means to tear into two pieces, like the curtain of the temple splitting supernaturally, so that the barrier meant to separate, now falls away and we step with awe into the holy of holies. 

It's how I stepped into my daughter's heart the other night, when she came home rended and trying bravely to hold back the tears.  I quickly surmised her evening had not gone well when she shed her coat and lunged into my arms.  I felt my own throat catch with her pain. 

But the blessing that accompanied her rended heart was that I could cross the threshold, her little holy of holies, and hasten the healing, whisper words of truth in her ear, hold her close.  It came quicker than I expected, the healing.  I could see it in her eyes as she turned up her sweet little face and gazed gratefully at me.  I could hear it in the words that began to flow from her..."Maybe next time, Mommy." 

She told me that when she was sitting in the middle of the disappointment, she remembered a poem she had read, about how to find one, good thing, when everything is going bad.  She said, "I thought about how I had made a basket at my basketball game on Saturday, and it made me feel better." That's right, girl, you are learning "eucharisteo," the hard thanks.  

Tomorrow is the beginning of Lent, the season of fasting and reflection before Easter.  It's a time to rend my own heart, or allow it to be torn, broken, spilled out for my Savior, who did the same for me.  How do I do this?  I think about my heaping pile of sin.  I count my flaws and repent for all of us who turn our own way and twist every good gift from above into an idol.  Yeah, it's no fun.  I'd rather watch TV and eat ice cream.  But the sweets will go for Lent and the bitter taste will settle in for awhile.  And healing will come.  And Easter morning will be GLORIOUS!

Busyness Redefined

I regularly ask myself, "Am I too busy?"  Like most people, my schedule is full and I have to be pretty creative to get everyone where they need to be.  The interior of the car serves as dining room, prayer room, library, movie theater, coffee shop...you get the picture.  Some people are surprised to hear how much homeschoolers are not at home!  Think about it:  everything but actual bookwork is in other buildings (in another town!)...choir, gym, play practice, out-of-town games.  And I am THE BUS DRIVER! 

So back to my original question:  Am I too busy?  Are we over- committed?

No.  And here is why:  like Jesus, I do ministry "as I go."  If you read through the gospels, you note the oft-repeated phrase,"As Jesus was on his way..."  Did he even have a home?  He always had a destination, but he constantly stopped to minister, heal, pray, teach, love, and serve along the way.  He knew his purpose, and it wasn't just to arrive at the next thing on time.  It was to do his Father's work. 

I wake early each morning to meet with God and ask Him to direct my day.  I fill out my daily schedule and then acknowledge that the day is in His hands.  At the end of the day, I reflect a bit.  It's encouraging to realize that on most days, I am able to keep to the schedule, AND minister along the way, engage with people, notice little things to be thankful for, connect with my kids, serve a nice dinner.  It's about paying attention and inclining my ear toward God.  It's about having a swirling spiritual awareness on one level, while I move and breath in the temporal world. 

Yesterday, I received an e-mailed prayer request to my women's Bible study group.  A woman asked for prayers as her husband prepared to leave for a business trip to China.  Simple enough, but God gave me the insight to read between the lines.  He reminded me how it felt to send my husband into the exotic, temptation-filled world of Asia.  I stopped immediately to e-mail her.  The floodgates opened.  There was much to minister to between the lines. 

I was tired after a long day yesterday, and happy that I would have the evening home.  Then my daughter got sick and couldn't babysit for my friend's "small group" gathering...17 kids!  So I went in her place.  I got to read to a sweet toddler, hold a 5-day old baby, and have lovely conversations with some beautiful friends at the end of the night. 

When the kids were little, I wanted to be out more.  Now I want to be home more.  But my purpose does not change based on my stage of life.  I can glorify and serve God in all things...changing diapers, scrubbing dishes, spearheading fundraisers, performing concerts, emailing, blogging, babysitting, cleaning cat puke, driving the bus.  My home is a haven; my family is a gift and a mission; but there is much good to be done "on the way." 

For Becky and the Circle of Hurt

My beloved friend, who stole my heart in the college dorms and has blessed me for two decades with her friendship, told me last night that she and her community are hurting in the wake of two suicides in the local high school.  Bright, well-liked, active boys now gone.  I wonder at the inner turmoil that can lead to such finality.  I have seen dark places, but the door was always cracked and a sliver of light was always shining through. 

What to say?  My heart aches for those who do not know the value of their soul; that they are created, purposed, beloved, empowered, redeemed.  When Evil tells them they are failures, worthless, hopeless, and powerless, I want to shout, "NO!  Don't listen to the lies!" 

It's too late.  Now there is just aftermath.  But in the aftermath, there is that sliver of light. 

I thought I would share the lyrics to a new song I am working on.  It's a song for the aftermath.  I wish I could sing the plaintive melody for you, but for now, just the words...

More of God Now

It's the hard thanks you give in the dark
Sifting through the ashes for the beauty
Finding the tiny, little spark
And you know, you know more of God now

It's seeing how a loss can be a gain
How to travel light and hold loosely to things
Reaching up and out of pain
And you know, you know more of God now
Deeper, wider thoughts now

It's when you have no words to say
you're hoping someone says them for you
Until your timid prayers turn brave
You know, you know more of God now
Deeper, wider thoughts now
The weight of the cross now

It's when you're emptied out and bleeding
and, suddenly, you're overwhelmed by grace
That bit of hope is what you're needing
And you know, you know more of God now
Deeper, wider, broader, higher thoughts now
The weight of the cross now
More of God now

Crossfire on the Homefront

One child:  peace.  Two children:  squabble.  Three children: warfare.  In our home lately, I have had to dodge the crossfire of words, angry looks, jabs and pokes.  I never know if it's going to turn into grumbles, tears, whines, or blows (no blows yet!), or how much to intervene.  Dr. Lehman suggests putting them together in a confined space until they work it out.  I might try that.  Is the coat closet too tight?  Another parenting expert said, "If you just spend 30 minutes a day with each of them doing what they want to do, they will not misbehave."  I wish I had an hour and a half every day to leisurely play.  Not on Planet Pearson!

Nurture.  One of my three words for 2012.  How can I nurture them through this?


The best I could come up with this morning was to revisit Galatians 5:22-23.  We gathered in the living room, opened our Bibles, and read together,  "And the fruit of the Spirit is:  love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control." 

The kids copied down the verse and then made a column of "opposites."  Hate, sadness, turmoil, worry, impatience, cruelty, evil, betrayal, harshness, impulsiveness.  I wish I could say they all put on their haloes and started sprouting fruit, but in the very midst of the devotional, they engaged in sharp responses and finger-pointing. 


I lit a candle and reminded them we have the Holy Spirit in us like a fire.  It can shed light on all this beautiful fruit in us. Then I blew out the candle and told them that our attitudes can snuff out the flame.  We become dark.  We leave behind the stench of smoke. 

We each chose a quality to work on for the day and prayed about it.  One chose kindness.  The second chose peace.  The third chose self-control.  I chose gentleness.  Our prayers were sincere.


By snack time, they were already quarreling, insisting they were innocent and another was causing the trouble. 


"She's whistling again." 
"He's being mean."
"She's asking dumb questions." 
"Moooooooom!"


I quickly felt my own flame sputtering.  I could smell the tendrils of smoke.  My eyes darkened with all that is opposite of Spirit fruit.  I turned my back to them, placed my palms on the cool counter, bridled my tongue, breathed deeply, and prayed the kids would hear themselves.  See the sin.  See the need for more of God. 


And then, suddenly, they were laughing big, hearty laughs.  Is that a flicker of a flame I see?  Is that a drip of sweet nectar I taste?  I joined the laughter as I swept off crumbs from the counter and told them, "This is Joy, kids, this is Joy.  Let's live here for awhile."  And we did.  For awhile.