Sitting in a time of silence one morning, I felt led to pray for our son. In the words that poured out, I sounded like I was informing God of our son’s situation. Like He didn’t know.
I do this sometimes. Talk to God about my life like He needs more information. Like if only He really knew what was going on, He would spring into action in a way He seems to not be.
Alongside this news briefing is a desire to get God to care as much about the situation as I do.
As if He doesn’t.
I beg God to love my kids as much as I do. Care about this crisis in my life as much as I do. As though He’s indifferent.
Why do we do this? Why do we pray this way? God is not a sleeping giant we must rouse to compassion and action on our behalf. He doesn’t come help the ones who scream the loudest and seem the neediest.
God already knows
He is able to do more than we ask or imagine. We are engraved on the palm of his hands. Nothing escapes Him. He’s got this. He’s got us.
Even the care we feel about our part of the world pales in comparison to how He loves it. He IS love. I can’t say that about myself, even toward those who most have my heart. He aches for what we love, more than we ever could.
May that perspective fuel our prayers.
[ictt-tweet-inline]Rather than screaming for God’s attention, may we sink into the awesome awareness that we already have it. [/ictt-tweet-inline]The hairs on our head numbered. His thoughts of us more than the grains of sand on the shores of the world.
Every one of those thoughts fueled by love, goodness, compassion, grace, mercy. Fortified with wisdom, power, insight, sovereignty.
Then our prayers won’t be us waving our arms to be seen but raising them in praise and gratitude. Instead of wringing our hands, we open them to release these things we love and hold so tightly. Rather than pleading, our prayers will bring us to peace and perspective.
We join in with what He’s already doing for our people, the world. Step into the confidence that comes from knowing He is at work. Rejoice that our hearts are known, and already His plans are laid for us. He doesn’t need us to tell him anything. He just needs us to trust.
“I’ve been waiting for this moment and now it’s here and I’m not ready.”
This is what my daughter said to me the night we sat in our car on a dark street, waiting for another soccer family to pick her up and take her away for a weekend tournament.
The weeks ahead of that one moment were marked with anxiety, not knowing the family well, wondering how she would do without me.
So often life feels like that. Moments we knew were inevitable, but we just aren’t ready for them.
I Wasn’t Ready Either
Back then, I wasn’t ready for our son to drive on his own (could I just always be in the back seat?). I wasn’t ready for colleges to send him invitations (back, vultures, back!). Our kids were gearing up to fly to South Africa (SOUTH AFRICA) without us on a mission trip for 6 weeks. Life just kept coming at us.
If I thought I felt unprepared then, how much more now, as those college invites DID come, and he just left? And his sister, who also just got her license, and a job, will follow him before we know it.
Life relentlessly marches on, and these moments that feel unbearable keep happening.
I Thought I Would Be Ready
When they were little, I thought I couldn’t wait for these moments. I couldn’t wait for them to do it on their own. I couldn’t wait for my time back. I couldn’t wait.
I’ve been waiting for this moment – the moment when our kids would grow up and stretch out, becoming independent, learning to live without us.
And now it’s here, and I’m not ready.
But just like I told her at that moment, He is with us.
He has brought us to this moment, and He will carry us through.
And just like I promised He would be with her in those moments when I wasn’t there, I have to tell myself the same truth – He will be with them when I am not.
When we said goodbye to our kids that day at the airport, our friend who accompanied them saw the fear in my eyes for my 14-year-old and gently said, “We’ve got her. She’ll be okay.” And she was.
We walked through that, and college applications, and teenage drivers, and we’ll get through this too.
He’s Always Ready
Sometimes we’re just not ready, but He is.
From that first day of kindergarten to the last day of the place you love.
The first scary step into a new dream, or the death of an old one.
The last goodbye.
The first anything.
[ictt-tweet-inline]He is more than enough for those moments we feel inadequate to face. [/ictt-tweet-inline]
The next season that feels so huge, scary, undesirable even, you will get through.
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you . . . for I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.” Isaiah 43: 2, 3
My daughter and I recently watched a few seasons of Survivor. It’s fascinating. I would be terrible on Survivor for so many reasons, one of which is that I get seriously hangry when I’m deprived of food. I would be useless in the challenges. Grumpy around camp. They would vote me off SO fast.
Nearly starving yourself in extreme conditions looks insane, but that’s the way many of us can live. I’m not talking about food. I’m talking about truth.
Why We Starve Ourselves
When we get busy, one of the first things that can get pushed out of our schedule is time with the truth.
We might have the best intentions to spend long periods of time soaking in scripture, parsing verses, digging deep into a word study. But then we stay up too late and sleep in and decide to skip the word that morning.
Or the responsibilities pile up and instead of feeding on truth, we take up the time with one more task. I know that’s been the case with me the last few weeks in the rush of graduating a child. It’s, “I’ll pray while I walk,” or, “I’ll listen to a spiritual podcast while I (cook, do laundry, etc).” But instead of praying my mind wanders, and instead of spiritual podcasts, youtube seems more entertaining.
For a while, we can get by that way. But if we do it for too long, we begin to be people who truth snack our way through life. We eat just enough to get by. When our souls feel a little weary, we throw them some scripture, a short devotional, a few minutes of prayer.
And so we starve.
But why?
Why do we just get by, when we could be gorging our souls on what they desperately need?
We can gorge ourselves on truth.
If there is one area of our lives where we can eat until we are stuffed, it’s on truth. Reading scripture. Spending time listening to God. Filling our minds with what is true, instead of listening to ourselves.
And we need food for our souls not only on a regular basis, but even more so in those difficult times. The times when our souls are strained, pushed to the limit, when more is asked of us.
When we are most tempted to get by is when we need to stop and gorge ourselves. Admit our human need for something greater to sustain us, and eat what is good. Feed on the bread of life. Drink the living water. The more we do, the better able we are to face the trials that come.
Feeding Ourselves Takes Time
In some seasons, I wish things were easier and I didn’t have to eat so much. I wish I didn’t feel so needy, or that it didn’t slow me down. But that’s when we need to get over ourselves and surrender.
In Isaiah 55, God invites us,”Come and eat. Buy wine and bread without cost. Feed on me.” Why would we say no to this invitation? There’s no reason for us to starve. We can always be going back and asking for more, finding that truth that satisfies our souls, that carries us through the day.
Our son is going to college this summer. We had to choose a meal plan-either pay through the nose for an all-access plan in the dorms, or do what they call, “Declining Balance.” In other words, put money on a card that they can use anywhere. This plan leans heavily on finding cheap ways to eat-think cereal and ramen. Seems like a sure fire way for our son to lose weight and/or contract scurvy from lack of vegetables.
Friends, we don’t have to choose. We have the all-access plan, and the glorious part is that it’s free. We don’t have to live on a declining balance. Stopping to eat does not slow us down-it fortifies us for the journey.
So friends, let’s eat.
“Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and you will delight in the richest of fare.” Isaiah 55:2b
“I don’t know if I’ll ever find what I have right now again. There’s just so much that’s unknown.”
That was our son’s deep cry as we talked one night. He’s slogging through the final weeks of his senior year of high school, staring down freshman year at one of the country’s largest universities. It’s a big transition.
His days are consumed with studying for AP tests, shifts at the local grocery store, graduation parties, and college prep. This chapter is closing in a flurry of activity, so much so that finding the emotional space to prepare for the next chapter is difficult. He despairs in the loss, and fears for the future.
We all come to places of transition where the temptation is to despair or fear. Instead, we can choose to grieve and hope. Read the rest of the story today at SheLoves magazine.
I’m in a season of grief right now. Oh, I’m not sad all the time. It surprises me, actually. It comes in waves, like the ocean.
I’ve become more acquainted with the ocean now that we live 45 minutes from it. I love walking along the beach at sunrise. The waves are so unpredictable. They surprise you sometimes, coming up further than you expect. You can’t predict them.
Sometimes the water stays far away. Other times it stretches out and touches your feet, even washing up to your ankles if you’re close enough.
That’s my experience of grief.
If only it were a linear, predictable process. Hard at first, and then gradually subsiding. Less and less over time, until you don’t feel it anymore. A clear timeline with a precise end date. You do your grieving and then you’re done, praise Jesus.
Instead, grief feels like a stranger popping out from behind doors at the most unexpected times.
When we walked onto the stage to stand with our son at graduation, I was surprisingly calm. Later, as one of his good friends stood there with her parents, I lost it.
When I have thought about graduation in the past weeks, I have felt more pride than sorrow. Then a week ago I read an email from friends overseas and the tears spilled over at how well they’re doing.
His graduation party was all joy, then last week I folded one of his never-to-be-worn-again uniform shirts and I broke down.
That’s the thing with grief-it’s all right there, but we can’t control or predict it.
I’m often frustrated by this unpredictable guest. Probably because it reminds me that I am not always doing as well as I would like (or like others) to think. It keeps me vulnerable, never knowing when a wave of grief might catch me off guard, when I might start crying about some random person’s life, when it’s really just touching my own.
But I’ve been learning these last few years that grief is a necessary companion. In fact, it is a doorway to wholeheartedness.
I know that part of the reason my grief comes out sideways is that I don’t want to deal with it. It’s easier to stay focused on my to do list, buying dorm essentials and harping on him to finish those thank you notes (I swear, he’s working on them), than to let the waves crash so hard I lose my footing.
But losing our footing in grief is what we must do sometimes. More and more I am learning to stop and walk straight into the waves. To let myself dwell on what we are losing, and how much it hurts to lose. To say a proper goodbye to this beautiful season we have lived.
When I do, I find that those waves don’t drown-they heal.
And I’m learning that I cannot navigate the waves alone. It’s easier to weather waves of grief when there are people walking beside us, holding us up. They hold our hands and make us brave as we walk into the waves. We need those people who will life preservers, keeping us afloat while we swim in the grief for a little while.
We can’t fight the waves. Instead, we can accept that they are a natural part of the journey. We can give space to our souls to process the grief when it comes. And we can invite others to hold space for us to feel all of it, so when the waves do come, we can swim.
Let the sorrow come and touch you. When we do that, we let ourselves be human. We live wholeheartedly. Let grief surprise.
A friend of mine called one afternoon, in tears. She messed up. No way around it, no sugar coating. She made a mistake. It left her feeling disqualified.
I resonate with the feeling. I’m an Enneagram 3-failure is my kryptonite. The accompanying shame is my greatest fear. That’s the kicker, right? The shame. The sucker punch in your gut that you can’t shake. That feeling not just that we did something wrong, but that there’s something wrong with us.
Mistakes happen. We all know that. We all make them. But there’s this pervasive sense that we shouldn’t.
If only we had planned better, worked harder, been smarter, caught ourselves sooner, it wouldn’t have happened. Mistakes feel like an indictment.
Lies, all lies.
We are too hard on ourselves
Gosh, I wish we could let ourselves make more mistakes. I wish I could let myself make more mistakes. Later that afternoon I texted my husband about a decision I made that resulted in us missing a deadline, and I told him, “now I’m questioning all my life choices.”
It was a $20 mistake.
His response, “So you’re questioning all your life choices over $20?”
Yes! Yes, I am. Let me have this! It feels proportionate!
But it’s not. I’ve said it before, and I will say it until my dying breath-we are too hard on ourselves. We are harder on ourselves than anyone else is. What feels disqualifying is just evidence of being human. It’s an opportunity to brush ourselves off, laugh, keep going, and maybe learn something in the process (like pay closer attention to deadlines).
When my friend called that day, she said, “It feels like grace has run out for me.” (One of those, “I know it’s not true, but right now it feels true,” statements).
I get it. That $20 mistake came on the heels of a much larger, much more life-changing mistake we made a few weeks prior regarding our son’s housing for college that stung. Hard. We’re understandably a little gun shy. It feels like grace could run out any minute.
But it won’t. It doesn’t. Not for us. Not for her either. Cause grace doesn’t run out. (say it again, this time with feeling!)
Grace. Doesn’t. Run. Out.
[ictt-tweet-inline]Mistakes don’t shut the door to grace-they open it. [/ictt-tweet-inline] They are an invitation to others to come alongside us and speak the kindness and gentleness we need. It’s easy to believe that people stick around because we’re doing it right. Every time we fail, we give others the chance to prove that those who really love us stick around regardless.
Look to The Source
Oh sure, the reality is some won’t. From some people, grace may run dry. But (and I say this with great love for all the people) people are not a reliable source of anything.
A source, yes, but not THE source. And those who can’t offer grace usually don’t because they struggle to receive it for themselves. People can’t give what they don’t have. So while we may hope for grace from others, we can always rely on the Source.
The Source of grace never runs dry. God is overflowing with unmerited, never-ending grace.
So let mistakes be a reminder that our souls are thirsty, and the well is never empty. Let them lead us to admit that we’re human, limited, fallible, weak, and needy. Failure humbles us and causes us (hopefully) to reach out for just a little more grace.
Be a grace giver
And friends, we need to grab that grace. Not only for ourselves but for others. The more we give ourselves permission to make mistakes, to be human, to stumble and fall and get back up, the more we let the people around us do it too.
Then we end up living in a world where we’re all less afraid. We take risks because failure isn’t fatal, just humbling. When we learn to live with mistakes, we become the grace givers. And the world needs more grace givers.
So where did you fail today? How will you give yourself permission to make some mistakes? There’s more grace for you. There’s more grace for all of us.
This is the phrase older parents throw out to younger ones when our kids are little.
As if it’s not enough trying to figure out how to sleep through the night, let alone do the dishes or laundry, now you have this forecast of impending doom. Fabulous.
It’s like when you start a new exercise program and people say, “Oh, just wait until you get to week 5. Week 5 will kill you!” Now I don’t want to get to week 5.
I used to imagine that our sweet, enjoyable children would turn into zombies when they became teenagers. All we had invested in them would be wiped clean. Despite our best efforts, they would slide into the inevitable. I kept waiting for it to happen.
I waited. And I waited.
Friends, I would like to report that, contrary to these dire predictions, I really, really, really love being a parent of teenagers. Let me tell you why:
Why I love being a parent of teenagers
They are independent
The day we realized we could leave our kids at home alone felt like the clouds parted and the angels sang. Sure, there are phone calls like, “Hey-you told me to go to the dentist, but you didn’t leave me a car,” and “help! I left the cardboard under the pizza and now the top’s done but not the bottom!” (seriously, these things happened), but it’s all good. Not having to meet all their day to day needs means we have more energy to simply enjoy being with them. They’re learning to figure out life on their own, and we get a little bit of life outside of parenting back. Win-win.
We have adultish conversations
Gone are the days when I’m desperate for an adult conversation because I get to have them on a regular basis with these kids who suddenly have minds of their own. More and more, we get to engage in deeper topics with them-faith, politics, relationships. Bonus? While they can talk on this level, they’re still willing to listen to our viewpoints and generally believe them. One of my greatest joys? Our kids are versed in Enneagram, which is one of my favorite things in the whole world. It’s like they just showed up to my party.
They challenge me
While I love seeing them, our daughter, in particular, keep up with my snarkiness, that’s not the only reflection of my character I observe in them. Nothing like seeing your own faults in a mirror, right? Yet it’s a good check in my spirit to reflect on myself and what I’m modeling for them. But more than that, our kids are gaining wisdom of their own. One day, my husband walked into the kitchen and commented on the challenges of leadership. Our then 16-year-old replied, “If you’re leading, and everyone still likes you, you’re probably doing it wrong. ” Indeed. They drop these wisdom bombs on us from time to time.
They still need their mama
Despite all the independence and adulting that’s happening around here, they still come to us for advice, encouragement, and help, and I love it. Most mornings, our son’s first stop is on the couch next to me, content to just be. I’m still the go-to for problems our daughter encounters (cause she still thinks I’m smart. That may change. Fingers crossed it doesn’t). They’re walking that line between child and adult, and it’s such a blessing that they still want us to walk it with them.
They are becoming their own people
One day after we checked out at Walmart, our daughter immediately opened our newly purchased box of Quaker Oat Squares and started eating them, which is exactly what I had been thinking to do. “We’re literally the same person,” she commented. Yes, but no, in so many ways. She can’t understand my love for the spotlight. I am baffled by our son’s engineering mind. She has far surpassed my athletic ability (didn’t take much, but still). They struggle with different Achilles heels (after all, they are different types than me on the Enneagram!). More and more they know who they are and who they are not. I love seeing their uniqueness unfold in this season.
I won’t pretend that parenting teenagers isn’t hard. Some days it’s, “I’m not cut out for this, where’s the counseling degree I need? Calgon take me away!” kind of hard. I’m fully aware that for many people, this is a turbulent, heart-wrenching season. Trust me, we’ve had some rough patches too.
But my desire in writing this is to call us to hope. Dire predictions can slide into self-fulfilling prophesies if we do not hope for better. My point is that it’s possible to enjoy this season, especially if we’re on the hunt for the good in it.
So chin up, future parents of teens. It might just be better than you think.
A panic attack out of nowhere led me to spend a week in bed recuperating, watching Hallmark channel movies to the point where there was nothing else in my YouTube feed. (I know, they’re terrible, but everything works out in the end. It’s so comforting).
The attack forced me to examine my life and make the tough decision to drop some significant responsibilities in my life. The mere thought of letting something go brought all the crushing lies of the enemy, “People will be so disappointed. This is proof that you can’t hack it. They’ll finally realize you’re not as great as they thought.”
Those lies dissolved the second I made the decision to quit and focus on less. The decision gave my soul freedom to take a much-needed breath and exhale fully.
But in this new found space, I wondered, “What will I do now?”
Pondering this question one morning on a walk, I felt the Spirit whisper, “What if you didn’t do, Gina? Why don’t you just be with me? Could you do that? Could you just be with me, and enjoy me?”
God continues to speak to me about slowing down and just being. Read the rest of the story at the Mudroom Blog!
Years ago, a hair stylist told me that I should always have bangs, and short, blond hair. And I believed her.
For years, I obeyed those rules. Whenever the crazy idea entered my head that I stray from them, her authoritative, expert voice rang in my ears, cowing me into submission.
I currently have long, brown hair, no bangs. And I like it.
Which makes me think, “What else have I taken as truth, and let guide my life, that isn’t necessarily true?”
Granted, a hairstyle isn’t life-altering. But let’s dig deeper.
What about my 15-year-old self, staring at that friendship break-up note that said I wasn’t worth being friends with anymore?
Or my college self, feeling the sting of a friend’s accusation, “You don’t care enough about relationships,” (oh yeah? tell that to 15-year-old me).
Messages about friendship. Our bodies. Our value. What we can do. What we can’t. How far we can go.
Not enough. Better to be safe than sorry. Be amazing. You don’t fit in. Be indispensable so others love you. Don’t rock the boat.
Along the way, we get marked with messages.
Those messages shape us. They shape how we see ourselves, how we present and protect ourselves. They tell us who we should be, or who we can’t be. But those messages don’t have to define us. They simply may not be true.
So we have to question them. Consider the source. Did they come from someone who was for you? Do they keep you from living freely? Do they stem from patterns over time, or from someone’s observation in a moment? Because friends, we are not moments.
When we learn to question the messages people give us, we can overcome them. Take a lesson from these fine people:
Modeling agencies told Marilyn Monroe she’d be better off as a secretary.
Rudyard Kipling was told he didn’t know how to use the English language.
Thomas Edison’s teachers said he was, “Too stupid to learn anything.”
Walt Disney got fired because he, “lacked imagination and had no good ideas.” (that one makes me laugh out loud).
Imagine how different those lives would have been if they had carried those messages as truth. Friends, we wouldn’t have Disney World. Or light bulbs. Let that sink in.
I recently told my husband that he can no longer say this to me when I am discouraged, anxious, or forecasting the demise of some aspect of my life (as I am apt to do at times).
I’ve always hated when people say, “It’s going to be okay.” I want to slap them.
“How do you know?” I wonder.
How, in the middle of this really stinky moment in my life can you offer this platitude? (Trust me, I’ve had it offered to me at really, really stinky moments).
But lately, I feel like God keeps telling me exactly that, “It’s going to be okay.”
Really, God? Is it really going to be okay? How can you say that? When I’m sitting here waiting to hear the news that could be life-changing, it doesn’t feel like it will be okay if it doesn’t turn out the way I hope. When we’re staring down disappointment, broken dreams, loss, shalom shattered, sometimes it doesn’t feel like it will ever be okay.
But He repeats: It’s going to be okay. Here’s how I know.
It’s going to be okay. Why?
This past week at church, we talked about Jesus raising Lazarus. When Lazarus falls ill, they send for Jesus by saying, “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” I don’t send for people that way, but maybe I should, like, “Erik, the wife whom you love needs a foot massage.”
But that’s what defined their relationship. And just to be clear, John reiterates it in verse 5, “Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus.” Ah, so it wasn’t just them thinking he loved them. He really did. Our speaker pointed out how important it was to preface the story this way because, in the middle of the not okay that was coming, it would be easy to doubt.
It’s easy for us too.
He loves us
It’s going to be okay because He loves us. That’s the anchor where we sink our souls when life doesn’t look the way we feel it should. The God who loves us more than life is in it.
So it’s going to be okay. But not just okay. It’s going to be good.
Oh, but not necessarily good in the way we think it should be good. And that’s the problem.
The problem is that my idea of good is so focused on my comfort and happiness, focused on tangible, temporal things. In my world, the news is always what I hoped it would be. Jesus shows up in my time and my ways.
He is good
But It’s going to be good because He is good, and His purposes toward us are for our good. He is focused on our character and sanctification, on intangible, eternal things. He shows up in His time and His ways, that are so much better than ours.
His good is so much bigger. It’s a good grounded in the deepest love we can imagine, always working on our behalf.
It’s good in the way that Jesus didn’t just save Lazarus from illness, he raised him from the dead. That’s a better story.
He’s writing a good story
And that’s what I also know. It’s going to be okay because God is a good author. He is a good storyteller. He is writing a good story for us. And the story ends well.
We won’t see them as good stories if we hold too tightly to our idea of good. In my version of life, disappointment, broken dreams, and loss are not part of the story. But what kind of story would it be if everything was perfect?
A boring story, that’s what. The best stories have conflict. They have twists and turns and nail biting, “What will happen?” moments. And God’s writing the best story for each of us.
The stories God writes are stories of redemption. You can’t have redemption if you don’t have shalom shattered. You can’t have resurrection without death.
This week is a holy reminder that it’s going to be okay. Easter demonstrates His love for us. It is a testimony to God working good on our behalf. The story is one of triumph over the greatest enemy. He made everything okay.
We say this Friday is good, but it didn’t feel good to the disciples. It felt like the end of all their hopes. Disappointment. Broken dreams. Loss. It didn’t feel like it was going to ever be okay.
They didn’t know Sunday was coming. But God knew.
He knew that it was all for love. It was the greatest story ever written. All for us.
So when I slip into bed and anxious thoughts nag at my brain, I call to mind instead His voice telling me, “It’s going to be okay.” As I think about our son heading off to college this summer, and all the unknowns that go with that, He whispers, “It’s going to be okay.” I sigh my latest dilemma to my husband, and I hear him catch himself before he says it, but I nod, and say, “You’re right. It’s going to be okay.”
When life feels like Friday, it’s going to be okay, because Sunday’s coming.
He loves us. Everything is working for our good. The story ends well. Maybe not today, or tomorrow. Maybe not until we see Him. But it’s going to be okay.
