Advent

Smoke wafts from chimneys across the valley; toes curl inside pink fuzzy slippers in anticipation of the snow that is expected tonight.



Hope is building as we work our way through The Glorious Coming, and the twigs my boys scrounged on a walk are now dripping with symbols from the Story.





But my to-do list is pages long...wrap ornament for exchange tonight...buy chocolates for nursing home baskets...finish Christmas letter... Unessentials side-by-side with essentials, and the days turn over and over. I find myself physically reaching out, straining to grasp at the thread of time that flows so quickly during Advent.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer spent his last two Advents in a Nazi prison during the final days of World War II. His view of the season from behind concrete walls speaks volumes to me...

"A prison cell, in which one waits, hopes, does various unessential things, and is completely dependent on the fact that the door of freedom has to be opened from the outside, is not a bad picture of Advent."
-Letters and Papers from Prison

How do we wait?

In a quiet, unexpected whisper while heads are bent to lessons… “He is coming…”

Faces lift, and mouths curve in knowing smiles. Eyes travel to our Advent calendar nearby; the inn at Bethlehem is open for business, shepherds are assembling, and Mary and Joseph? They wait…

How do we hope?

In an arm of comfort, stolen around the shoulders of a sobbing, penitent boy. "Will I ever stop sinning?" Looking into teary, amber eyes and telling the story again… how sin separated, and He simply could not bear it. And how the One we wait for brings hope in his wake, as stars gather in the tail of a comet. All is not lost.

This Advent, this preparation time, let us remember as we do various unessential things to wait and hope in the midst of it all. And if we listen over the hustle and bustle, we will hear the gentle knock of the One who has unlocked the door of freedom forever. Fling that door open with me, friends, and enter the season.


You are always welcome at my little place - A Path Made Straight

Puddles

I have been a puddle of late. A wet, messy, saturating puddle. And you know as I do that puddles creep, growing with moisture that is gathered at the edges. Where does this puddle come from? I cast gratitude heavenward with heart eyes for the answer to this morning cry...

Father, it is early. The day has really not begun, yet I am overwhelmed by the tasks. I can't hear you. I can't feel you. Speak! Draw near. I want to learn...

I am thankful for a God who sometimes answers with questions...

Tell me, Beloved, how it can be that one soul's misery contributes to the refining of another?

Puzzling, and foreboding, yes. But the day that followed brought clarity to His words.

For I rubbed bony backs as shoulder blades heaved over the toilet. I knelt to clean carpet saturated with the toddler's lunch. I held a weeping boy as he apologized for the mess he made. I came running at the weak, trembly call of, "Mama?" in hopes to prevent another carpet scrubbing.

My prayer that begged a lesson? It is not about you, Beloved. And those harsh, exquisite words create a puddle.

The Refiner's fire is melting this Mama down. She puddles around her pink fuzzy slippers, a soft smile bending her lips instead of a frown as she bends to the quickly-growing (and stinky!) laundry pile.

He is a refiner's fire, and that makes all the difference. A refiner's fire does not destroy indiscriminately like a forest fire. A refiner's fire does not consume completely like the fire of an incinerator. A refiner's fire refines. It purifies. It melts down the bar of silver or gold, separates out the impurities that ruin its value, burns them up, and leaves the silver and gold intact. He is like a refiner's fire.

-John Piper

I long to be separated from the impurities that ruin my value. Harsh words. A heart that longs to be doing something else. Unrealistic expectations, for myself and everyone surrounding me. Yet, every time one impurity is melted away, another is revealed, and the process is never-ending.

The work can wait... An impurity is added to the pile. His head hangs; I've been too short with him... Another is revealed. She is clingy, and I cannot put her down, so my writing will have to wait... The puddle grows.

Remember...

Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. (Lamentations 3:21-23)

Oh, Father, that this mess might reflect You, filthy as it is. Draw near.

And He whispers... I am.


You are always welcome at my little place - A Path Made Straight

The Manner in Which We Walk

I knelt by the side of my bed this morning, having shut the bedroom door ever so dramatically, just so I could have a moment in private.

I cried out. I laid bare my list of grievances. I wept and shared my frustration, worry, and my exhaustion with the LORD.

He listened kindly, of course, as on and on I went, telling Him what He already knew, bending his ear with my oblivious prattle.

But something happened there, as I lay despairing across the bed. Even as I secretly wished to be found in this posture, I knew I was behaving childishly. Even as I listed my annoyances, I knew I was reacting poorly to them. Even as I dripped tears of exhaustion, I was gently reminded of my choice, my desire to be a mama.

Every effort I made to feel sorry for myself was tenderly, yet firmly, rebutted.

I sat up and laughed aloud, thinking, “The days of genuinely feeling sorry for myself are over, aren’t they, Lord?”

I am no longer the nineteen year old bride, who called her mama when she was angry at her lover. (Mama firmly told her to stop calling, please, and talk to her own husband about it!) I am no longer the newlywed who carried her hurt feelings as a crown upon her brow. I am no longer unaware of the impact I have on those around me.

Today stretched ahead of me, not even filled with anything yet, but my mind had already taken me through and instantly resolved that this day was going to be simply awful.

The manner in which you walk will determine the day, Beloved, not its' events.

As I dashed the tears from my eyes, and laughed again at the woman-child who knew almost nothing of labor, love, or longing; I recalled a quote from Stepping Heavenward that speaks volumes to me, as I am one who runs from difficulty and uncertainty.

“Duty looks more repelling at a distance than when fairly faced and met.”

What is the best line of defense against a day that threatens to overtake you? Dive into the middle and fight for it! Lying prostrate across my bed, weeping, did not start the laundry, wash the dishes, teach the lessons, or cook the meals; nor did it begin to organize the sudden events I was running from. The good that did come from those moments were by the grace of God, and grace alone. In seeking Him, and yes, even being rebuked by Him, I was led to the water, and when I drank, I was renewed.

And so I stepped back into my life, from the dramatic stage of my bedroom. With new eyes I took in the simplicity of my days – feed, love, lead.

Imagine my wonder as I found the joy within me to jive to the rhythm of the clunky washing machine with my baby, who finds all things bumping to be delightful.

Imagine the thrill as I heard myself call my husband back to kiss me at the sink before he left.

And imagine my pleasure as I witnessed the lightening of my children’s countenance, when they realized that Mama was again present, and she was content.

Now imagine His pleasure all the more!

The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing. Zephaniah 3:17

I was quieted, and He saved me.

And the day that nearly mastered me? It is over and gone. But as I kissed my children's brows while they slept, this one time; oh this once, I was at peace with the day.

You are always welcome at my little place - A Path Made Straight

Pleasant Places

Let not our longing slay our appetite for living. -Jim Elliot, in a letter to Elisabeth, his future fiancee.

I could stand in one place and pivot, setting my foot first in the bathroom, then the master bedroom, the kitchen, the living room, and the boy's room. It was tiny, our first home. Noises carried easily, the 1948 hardwood floors creaked and popped incessantly. The kitchen found me pivoting again, as I could turn from the oven to the countertop directly behind me without lifting my feet.

And yet, we hosted many people in our home! I could cook meals and clean up afterwards while friends sat at the little dining table directly across the counter; happily, I could still participate in conver- sation while I sudsed and rinsed. I found nooks for corner shelves to display my tea sets, accented by the cherry wallpaper I lovingly chose.

The steeply pitched roof was graced with icicle lights in winter, casting a cozy glow on the front door that we had stained dark walnut, a berry wreath adorning its' center. The back yard and aged trees were a delight to my husband, who often spent his time off mowing and pruning and feeding his special space. My boys learned to walk on that uneven lawn, Corban running from one end to the other when Daddy returned from his four-month semester in Texas. My husband will never forget the sight of his little arms pumping, feet pumping faster, as he raced across the grass shouting, "Daddy! Hi! Daddy! Hi!"

As I write this, I sit in an apartment that is larger than our first home. There is an actual hallway that defies my pivot test - I can no longer be in five places nearly at once! The kitchen is small, but I do have to lift my feet as I pull a steaming casserole from the oven and place it on the countertop behind me.

I can stack dishes neatly in an automatic dishwasher and be back to the conversation taking place in our spacious dining room before anyone notices I am missing.

But still, I have grieved and mourned lost time. Time for my husband to unwind from the ministry of a shepherd by ministering to the earth with his hands, planting trees and breathing deep the fresh air. Time for my boys to break from school and run wild outside, giving Mama a chance to breathe deep the quiet. But in my heart, I am reminded...

LORD, you have assigned me my portion and my cup;
you have made my lot secure.

The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
surely I have a delightful inheritance.

I will praise the LORD, who counsels me;
even at night my heart instructs me. (Psalm 16:5-7)

It is a pleasant place, yes. Our history timeline graces the dining room wall for all to see, for learning continues even during meals. The same lantern that has followed us from house to house since the very first sits atop our table still, and lights my early mornings. This home is quickly cleaned, easily maintained, and keeps us close and cozy, just the way we like it.

And, even better, it has been assigned by the One who knows best. It is safety, security, and will always be so if I stay within the boundary lines. I may stretch and resist, but in my heart, He continues to instruct me... Feed, love, lead... It is a gentle reminder of the gravity of my role, as well as the simplicity of these lovely days.

Within the measure of His perfect portion.



You are always welcome at my little place - A Path Made Straight

Yoke

A yoke is a burden itself, a burden in addition to all the other burdens; and yet it has a peculiar way of making the other burdens easier...We are well acquainted with the yoke of the draft animals. The yoke alone enables them to pull the heavy burden without feeling pain or torment in the process, and without getting sore skin from pulling it.

-A Testament to Freedom

"Opeeze, Mama!"

Her dimpled fingers open and close as she stands by my side, and she alternates between patting my leg and pulling on my apron strings.

A helpless glance at the table reveals that the schoolbooks scattered about are still there, the workbook pages remain blank. The sink is full of dirty dishes for the second time today, and an equal number of laundry loads have been run, though they lie in piles on the unmade bed. As a chicken boils in a pot on the stove and the casserole dish lies waiting to be filled, I reach down and grasp Eliana's hand, determined to hold off her request until I finish one more thing.

But now I can't remember what it was.

I turn my back to the dirty, covered counter and slide down the cabinets to the floor, pulling her on to my lap. She tucks her thumb into her mouth and slips into a "huggle" in my arms - our name for a hug and a snuggle. When my to-do list catches my eye from where it flaps over the edge of the table, I chuckle wryly and tip my head back.

"Up, please, Father."

Eliana tips her head back, a smile lighting her tired eyes. "Opeeze!" We rub noses, and settle in deeper for a few moments of respite. It is 9:15 a.m.

Oh, how high my hopes were for this day! Busy, yes, I knew this, but arising earlier than usual and attacking it with a vigor was supposed to be more effective. How quickly the minutes flew by, how vast the list grew, and how effortlessly the plan flew out my window, on the wings of the sparrow, perhaps, who lights daily on the edge of our deck.

I'm supposed to be able to do this - be a Mama - it's all I ever wanted! My older ones are such a help, too, I have no excuses. What is wrong with me? And before I can remind Him that the question is rhetorical, he draws near...

Beloved, it is my yoke. I close my eyes and breathe deep.

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." (Matthew 28:11-30)

If the yoke is easy, why do I resist putting it on first, before my toes even uncurl from the warmth of my bed and reach to the floor? It is the burden that overwhelms me, but it is not noticeable until I've pulled it, alone, for much of the day. It rubs my flesh raw, tormenting me until I cry out, "Up, please!"

Jesus wants to put us...under such a yoke so that our burden does not become too heavy for us. He calls it "my yoke." It is the yoke under which he learned to carry His burden. His burden is a thousand times heavier than all our burdens precisely because He carries all of our burdens.

-A Testament to Freedom (emphasis mine)

I sigh contentedly and huggle deeper into His chest, the pleasant weight and warmth of my little one reminding me of the joys of this role.

"Up, please," I had whispered. And He did not attempt to accomplish anything more before pulling me into His arms, and slipping the yoke, His yoke, over my head, its pleasant weight reminding me of the joys of sharing in this role of being yoked. With Him.

You are the rest, you are gentle peace, you are the longing and the one who stills it. -Friedrich Ruckert

You are always welcome at my little place - A Path Made Straight

Singin'

I am shy.

I admit it. Freely. It’s better to just get that out in the open, for I struggle daily to move beyond my safe place and into that arena of mild discomfort, riddled with the pitfalls of drawing a blank and saying the wrong thing.

But God must have thought I needed a giant shove nudge. He has given me two sons who redefine the boundaries of my comfort zone minute by minute; one such moment occurred during dinner while we were on vacation last fall, visiting my husband's sister.

“So, what are you two going to sing?”

The waiter leaned over the booth and ruffled Micah’s hair.

“Sing?” my husband asked.

“Sure – they can stand up on the bar and sing a song, and we’ll give ‘em a card for free drinks-er-soda for the rest of their lives!”

Corban and Micah looked at us excitedly.

“Can we, Mama, can we, Daddy?” Corban begged. My husband smiled at him and said, “Of course!” I caved in on myself. Are you kidding? Stand up on that bar and sing a song in front of (gasp) people? I could never. Not now. Not ever.

For the rest of the meal at O’Dougherty’s Irish Pub in downtown Spokane, Corban and Micah whispered to each other. Visions of silly nonsense songs I’ve composed being sung to the entire restaurant flitted through my mind, but I fought the urge to offer suggestions of “suitable” material, and I even refrained from asking repeatedly, “Are you sure you want to do this? There are going to be people watching you, did you know that?”

When our fish and chips, Irish stew and soda bread were finished, we gathered up the stroller, jackets, toys and sippy cups, heading to the bar by the door. There were only about six people gathered around it, all eating quietly and not really looking up. Until…

“We’ve got a treat for you today, folks! Corban and Micah are going to sing you a song!” And the waiter swung first Micah, and then Corban up onto the wooden countertop.

I frantically grabbed for our camera, my heart pounding. My hands shook as I opened the lens, avoiding looking at anyone but my boys. I prayed silently, God, please don’t let them be humiliated!

There was a pause as they conferred in a whisper, and then, the sweetest sound fell on my anxious ears.

Oh God, you are my God,
And I will ever praise You!
Oh God, you are my God,
And I will ever praise You!

I will seek you in the morning,
And I will learn to walk in Your ways,
And step by step You’ll lead me,
And I will follow you all of my days!

And I will follow You all of my days,
And I will follow You all of my days,
And step by step, You’ll lead me,
And I will follow You all of my days!

From the top of that sticky wooden bar, surrounded by half a dozen people, praise to the God of creation flowed. A declaration of two little boys’ faith, seven and four; they knew no shame, and at the top of their lungs, off key, off meter, they belted out the words to their favorite worship song.

I looked at my husband out of the corner of my eye; yes, he was crying, too. He caught my eye and laughed through his tears.

See, Beloved? They sing when you cannot. But teach them. Lead them. And they will only grow in their boldness.

I know I don’t need to stand up on a bar to proclaim my love for Jesus. I don’t even need to sing. But I do need that nudge once in awhile. I freely admit it.

Pulling my boys down from the counter afterwards, I looked in their eyes to see what was there – but instead of relief, disappointment in their performance, or even pride, I simply saw… happiness.

We left the restaurant, and Corban grabbed his daddy’s hand as they walked ahead of me, but I could still hear their words.

“Corban, I am so proud of you! You just told those people about your love for God!”

And Corban said, “Really? I was just singin’!”

Whether we're talkin’, or singin’, or even just livin’, may our love for God and His love for all of us be as evident as if we were singing it from the mountaintops. Or a wooden countertop.

“O, Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will declare Your praise.” (Psalm 51:15)

You are always welcome at my little place - A Path Made Straight

Bloom

Stretch, Beloved. Grow. Be malleable...

He whispers to me when my heart begins to beat faster in anger. Fear. Worry.

From our third floor apartment, the autumn breeze is blowing through the screen door on our deck. We sniff appreciatively and smile to ourselves; our favorite season is beginning.

But before too long, our noses wrinkle. My head begins to ache, and I realize that the cool breezes we were inhaling have been tainted with the smell of cigarette smoke, from the neighbor on his deck below. In irritation, I slam the sliding glass door against the smoke, and, unfortunately, against the beautiful crisp air we were enjoying.

Heads bowed over school books, the dining room is quiet. Eliana, for a moment, is also peaceful in the living room, poring over her board books from the library.

But in a moment, it is over. Through the thin walls, shouting can be heard, and the voices are not kind. I rub Corban's back as he tenses, and gently turn Micah's chin back to his work as he looks up in anxiety. Mama holds it together on the surface, but below the surface, emotion is roiling.

As I stand at the kitchen sink peeling carrots, my boys wrestle in the living room. I smile as they tumble over each other, shouting in laughter; from time to time, someone cries out in pain, but soon they are rolling again. They move out onto the deck to continue their wild play - a 4x8 space that can hold little else but our grill and my husband's bike, and yet they find enjoyment.

All too soon, I think of the home we left. The wide open country spaces, no fences; rivers, trees and tall grasses for little boys to explore. I begin to fret that my boys will be stifled in this small space. I regret that I cannot send them out to run for a fifteen minute break from their books. I feel guilt that I do not pack things up more often for a walk or a roam on the grass down below.

Beloved, I do not send the fear, nor the guilt. I send opportunity.

An opportunity. Yes, Lord. I understand.

An opportunity to smile as I pull the glass door closed quietly, instead of with a bang. As my children look on, I show them how to handle these moments with grace. Stepping lightly to the baked apple pie candle on the counter and lighting it, filling the rooms of our home with delicious, autumn scent.

An opportunity to speak words of truth to my little ones as the voices we hear through the walls bring fear.

When I am afraid,
I will trust in you.
In God, whose word I praise,
in God I trust; I will not be afraid.
What can mortal man do to me? (Psalm 56:3-4)

Let's pray and ask God to help them, shall we? Bowing our heads and offering up our neighbors to His care. Singing aloud the song of David. Remembering that perfect love drives out fear.

An opportunity for creativity in the face of what seems a stifling of that gift. Heading to our storage unit and pulling out a box of games we had packed away for lack of space, making room for these good things. Preparing a schedule that runs the day in a way that makes individual time with Mama a priority, and bringing me to my knees in the morning for inspiration.

Then I realized that it is good and proper for a man to eat and drink, and to find satisfaction in his toilsome labor under the sun during the few days of life God has given him—for this is his lot. Moreover, when God gives any man wealth and possessions, and enables him to enjoy them, to accept his lot and be happy in his work—this is a gift of God. He seldom reflects on the days of his life, because God keeps him occupied with gladness of heart. (Ecclesiastes 5:18-20)

I turn my face to the Son, unafraid to send roots down, even here. Bloom, Beloved.

I intend to.

You are always welcome at my little place - A Path Made Straight

Take Heart

Heart, take heart!

I know I am not the only one who needs to speak such words to that traitorous organ, for it makes promises it does not keep, yes?

Young heart staunchly declares independence: I don’t need anyone! Then one dark evening, as the deadbolt is locked, a new and frightening rhythm of loneliness taps throughout our being.

Despairing heart vows to build a breach-less wall and never love again, then pounds out a rhythm of betrayal when a dear friend hurdles the makeshift barrier and changes everything. Forever.

When loss penetrates and then passes, heart soothingly whispers, I am whole again...never fear... And days later, nay moments, a reminder of that loss sweeps over and heart cracks and crumbles, emitting scarcely a quiet thump to indicate that life ever existed at all.

It is treacherous, this heart of mine.

It holds patterns akin to the weather - cold and brittle one moment, warm and comforting the next.

Heart, take heart! I know there are ups and downs, I prepare for them! But heart, you are so easily swayed, and you take me with you.

Let us not make empty promises to each other, shall we?

Do not be quick with your mouth,
do not be hasty in your heart to utter anything before God.
God is in heaven and you are on earth,
so let your words be few. (Ecclesiastes 5:2)

Let us number our words and speak truth together! Let us behold the mighty hand of God working in us and in those around us, and cling to His promises, His goodness.

I would have despaired unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. (Psalm 27:13)

Let the winds buffet. Heart, take heart!

Let the waters threaten. Heart, take heart!

And take refuge.

In the Hands that will sustain a steady rhythm and shelter us when life bullies.

Take heart!



You are always welcome at my little place - A Path Made Straight

Hear the Beauty

I carried our wind chimes in from the back porch; one of the very last items to be packed. Three solid days of careful thought when labeling boxes "apartment" or "storage" had resulted in an empty and echoing house.

As I firmly shut the door, the flapping of the tattered roof of the ancient barn behind the parsonage traveled across our yard and followed me inside. The chimes in my hand rang out and I felt a tugging at my heart for the small town we were leaving. The cows meandering through the pastures, the wheat fields bending in the hot wind blowing over the mountains, the deer bounding through meadows and delighting us on our family bike rides.

This is the only home Eliana has ever known. It is a place where my sons learned to relate to the sweet people who were ten times their age. Where a deeper relationship was forged between my husband and myself, for at times it surely seemed we were the only two people our age for miles.

It will always be so. Home. I did not want to leave.

Eliana came running as the beautiful notes tinkled across our the empty room; I knelt in front of her and watched her face as she breathed, "Ooooooh!" My sister, Maddie, knelt next to her, and we smiled across the little blonde head at her obvious delight.

Then her dimpled fingers reached out and clasped the nickel-plated chimes, and the notes ceased. At her confused and disappointed look, I laughed and gently loosed her fingers, saying, "No, Sunshine, you must let go to hear the pretty!"

The words echoed again in my heart as she settled onto her bottom and clapped joyfully at the music that once again filled the living room.

Yes, Beloved, you must let go to hear the beauty.

Here we are. We have left the tiny town that brought us such joy, led us through such growth these last two years. But my heart delights in the future for that small community; the hope that once again infuses their hearts, thanks be to God, not us.

The notes ring out of my heart in delighted anticipation for what the Lord has in store for us here, in our new home. I've let go my tight grasp that stifles the beauty He longs for me to hear.

And oh, it sounds lovely.

(Listening to and inspired by more beauty over here... )



You are always welcome at my little place - A Path Made Straight

Fine Tuning

Come Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wand'ring from the face of God;
He, to save my soul from danger,
Interposed His precious blood.

As I sat at the dining room table Sunday morning and prepared a lesson for my children, the words to this hymn poured out of our stereo. And the second line, one I've sung a hundred times, caught me by surprise.

How I have needed a fine tuning of late.

As we prepare for a move to a new state, a new parish, new everything, and the sale of our current home lies dormant, so my soul has closed its' stirring song of praise to the Father. I've forgotten how to remember His grace.

Grace that comes unexpectedly, as in the words to a much loved hymn being sung as background to children playing, birds chirping, laundry running.

It is not easy, this praising Him through the storm, is it? But how lovely, how Providential, that He is the one who can tune our hearts to lift melodious praise...to Him.

We fall out of tune when our worship stagnates, its' position stolen by worry, bitterness. Busyness. Without practice, the notes turn sour, when they are actually played. He deserves so much better.

He is a Master, yes? And in His gifted hands our hearts are safe. With every twist of the tuning pegs, we feel pain, but the gentle pressure of His fingers on our heart strings brings such comfort. As a violinist, a cellist, or a guitarist would never dream of sending their beloved instrument into the elements without their cases, so the Father shelters us as we weather these storms. We are not unprotected.

And I felt such peace as I leaned back in my chair, lifting my hands and whispering, "Tune my heart, Father, to sing your grace." And so He does. It hurts, and it stretches, but it is good.

It is my hope that, just as with a stringed instrument, much tuning of my heart will signify the outpouring of beautiful melodies of grace.

Sing away.



You are always welcome at my little place - A Path Made Straight

Open House

O God, I have no way of telling at the day's beginning
Who will come to my door on an errand of business or friendship;
Who will arrive to be my guest in my home or to sit at my table.

Let me show loving care this day in the cleaning of my house, the buying of my stores, the cooking of my meals.
Let me show loving care this day in the tending of my linen, the tidying of my cupboards, the doing of my flowers.
Let me show loving care in the freshness of my person and the neatness and niceness of my clothes.

From the beginning of homemaking in modest tents on the sand, women have served their families, and their guests.
From the beginning of homemaking in simple homes of baked mud, women have whitewashed and scrubbed, and set out their pretty things.
From the beginning of more comfortable houses, with handwoven carpets and furniture of cunnng craftsmanship, women have kept open house.

May Christ be my guest this day.

Rita Snowden - A Woman's Book of Prayers

Oh, Father, please know that I intend to make my home open to You today. I don't have any balloons to announce it, and the sign blew over in the wind, but my home is open nonetheless.

I'm purposing to raise my head from my work today, to keep watch. When You step around the corner, I will be ready, a baby on my hip, a dripping wooden spoon in my hand, a mind fatigued from school lessons. Not the royal welcome you deserve, with the fragrance of flowers on the breeze, but with an open heart for sure.

Whatever form you take; a parishioner, a wanderer, a neighbor, a lonely child who longs to play with my own, I promise to welcome You.

Not all of my home is lovely, but all of it is loved. May I share it with You?

The pots bubbling merrily on the stove? I am filling the refrigerator to feed my men while I'm away. May I fix You something?

The washing machine rocking loudly on its uneven feet? It's full of dirty clothes, coming clean. May I wash Your feet?

That strange smell? Well, please don't ask.

Oh, let me not fall too deeply into my work; I pray to invest myself in the important things going on around me. My children. My husband. My faith. I pray to be ever-mindful of Your arrival; to dive deeper into this day than simply beautifying it in preparation; again, I purpose to raise my head from my work, and take in the gifts that surround me.

Beloved, I am coming. How I long for the greeting of your smiling face! Forget about the mess - it's you I came to see.

Oh, I knew You would come.

Welcome. To my open home.

Won't you prepare for Him today with me?



You are always welcome at my little place - A Path Made Straight

Riding With Micah

"Mama, is that God's hot breath, do you think, blowing in our faces?"

I blew a wisp of hair out of my eyes and wiped away some drops of sweat with the back of my hand. Smiling at Micah, I thought for a moment.

It was seven-thirty in the evening, and my chance to have some quiet time had been foiled when Micah overheard me talking to my husband about taking a bike ride. The baby was asleep, and the evening was cooling down (a bit), so the quiet country roads were calling to me.

"Oh, Mama, can I go with you? Please?"

At my quick, "No, Micah," his face fell, and his neck hung low. I glanced at my husband over the top of Micah's cowlick, and he smiled and tipped his head, giving me a look that said, "Why not?"

And so, there we were; our helmets strapped snugly, exposed skin covered in bug spray, with a half hour to roam the countryside together.

The kildeer shot from their hiding places in the gravel at the sides of the roads and called frantically, flying ahead to distract us from their nests. A deer bounded across the field to our right, and we skidded to a stop to watch it disappear over the hill.

In the midst of all this beauty the smell of cows, warm grass, and fresh growing mint were carried past our noses by a stifling wind.

The breath of God?

It was relentless, carrying the bodies of tiny gnats into our faces, catching in our teeth. It was stifling, letting up only when we turned our faces to catch a cool breath. It was unbearable at times, when the heat of the ground and manure joined the wind and assaulted us, burning our throats and eyes.

I told Micah this story, how Elijah stood in the presence of God. How the Lord sent signs through nature, but He did not inhabit it. How at that precise moment, simply a still, small voice denoted His presence.

"So maybe, Micah, God sent this hot wind. Perhaps He is not in it - but can you hear His voice?"

"Well," he pedaled slower to stay by my side. "Not really. I think it would be easier to hear Him in the shade!"

We laughed together and increased our speed to reach the grove of trees ahead of us.

And sure enough, a cooler breeze awaited.

We listened for a moment, one foot on the ground, resting our forearms on the handlebars. "Yup," Micah affirmed. "I can hear Him now. But you know, I think He was in the hot wind, too. I don't think it's so bad if He's there, too, do you?"

I thought of all the moments in the past few days that had seemed unbearable, how my space was stifling me with all the responsibilities of being a mama, and how relentless God seemed as He sent trials my way to strengthen my quick prayers for patience and energy.

But it didn't seem so bad when I remembered that He inhabits my days, and my heart.

As we traveled the road home which, by the way, happened to blow with a wind more blistering than soothing, we thanked God for both.

It is only the scorching wind that causes us to turn for cool refreshment.

And there He is again.



You are always welcome at my little place - A Path Made Straight

Regarding Trash and Treasure

As my boys walked down the hallway, their towheads inclined conspiratorially towards each other, I leaned closer from my position behind them to hear what they were saying.

Corban looped his arm around Micah's neck and pulled him closer.

"Micah," he whispered. "If you have anything really special that Mama thinks is trash, you might want to hide it in your dresser."

I smothered a laugh as we rounded the corner into their bedroom. So they weren't buying the claim that I wanted to rearrange their room just to make the most of their space! Yes, this Mama purges her house frequently. Clutter doesn't stand a chance.

And I'm continually amazed that it still finds its way in! No matter how often I clear my desk, papers and baby books and school books and cd's still manage to fill the space nearly the moment I've finished. Drawers in my kitchen collect odd twist ties and clothespins and toothpicks, seemingly by magic!

And that leads us to my sons' room.

Oh, it is a purging Mama's nightmare!
Little boys = legos.
Little boys = tinker toys.
Little boys = Playmobil knights.
Little boys = Lincoln Logs = Cowboys and Indians.

In other words, little boys = clutter.

I am getting better at accepting this fact. Really, I am! But I am definitely not content to let it get out of hand, so once every two months or so, you will find me as general of the troops, kneeling by bins of soldiers and matchbox cars, dumping and tossing and categorizing. The boys get excited with the process, exclaiming how nice the room is looking before we've hardly begun.

This month, we had a whole box of trash to pitch and a couple of larger toys to give away. Toys that only last purge-fest were held in the tight grip of a little boy's hand, his eyes begging me to reconsider. Somehow I knew he would be able to let it go at the next session, and so he was.

After we gazed in satisfaction at the room, sharing high-fives, I released them to play outside while I vacuumed. And curiosity got the better of me.

Would you like to hear what I found in their dresser drawers?

1 broken camera.
7 "gold" treasure coins.
1 handmade treasure map. Of Mexico.
2 knights, housed in a dirty, holey sock.
5 rocks
1 empty Carcassonne expansion box, now holding pictures of Daddy from high school.

Treasures. That my little boys thought I would view as trash. (I probably would have - at the very least, I would have given the knights a more merciful death - trapped in dirty socks? Ew!)

Now lost in thought, I quietly replaced their treasures in the drawer.

Purging is good for the home, and so good for the heart as well. Our Savior's home. It is wise to examine the contents regularly, and to decipher between what is trash and what is treasure; to take the time to ask, what is taking up vauable space that could better house a more noble characteristic? Better yet - What is disguising the good in my life?

[Jesus said,] "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. (Matthew 6:19-21)

In my haste to release those things that are deemed trash in my life, I pray for the wisdom to distinguish it from the treasure.

Let go of laziness, but don't forget to hold onto the part of me that will drop what I'm doing to lay on the floor and read a book with my children.

Let go of the irritation that arises when I'm feeling moody, but don't forget to share with my husband how I'm feeling.

Let go of the obsessive part of my nature regarding housecleaning, but don't forget that order and schedule play a key role in my family's well-being.

Let go of my worry when I think about the near future, but don't forget to meet my Father in prayer over the situation.

The treasures in the midst of the trash are worth holding on to, even though they may not look it - I think I will keep them when next I purge my heart.

And now a distinguished place to store my treasure is in order - perhaps the place of honor in a little boy's underwear drawer, alongside some stinky knights and a map?

Yes, I think that will do very nicely.

You are always welcome at my little place - A Path Made Straight

Written on My Heart

The words scratched into the painted, metal surface of the stall door caught my eye. Some were profane, some crude, and others gently whispered, “I exist…”.

Like this one: Leah wuz here.

She had scratched her simple statement into the middle of a particularly gruesome display of skulls, which were in turn surrounded by profound testimonies of undying love… “Angie *hearts* Rob”.

We have a need, don't we, to make our mark? Something scratched into the surface of this world that does more than simply mar its pristine surface. Our legacy, left behind, for others to remember.

I do not pretend to know why Leah carved those words into the door. More than likely, they did not come from a deep place in her heart, a desire to leave her mark on the world. There will be time enough for that.

But…She was here.

Three little words for everyone – and no one – to see. A short, voiceless letter, neither weighty nor shallow, and yet it takes my breath away.

What is my mark?

Graceless moments leaving my mark are better off forgotten. How can I demand a character trait from my children when I, in that moment, show utter contempt for the trait itself with my conduct?

In opportunities for ministry, to really share God’s truth, I have remained silent.

A thoughtless expression, an unkind word, a raised voice... Elise was here!, my actions cry.

But as I traced Leah's jagged message on the bathroom door with my finger, He whispered to me...

...Beloved, you are my letter.

You yourselves are our letter, written on our hearts, known and read by everybody. You show that you are a letter from Christ, the result of our ministry, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts. (2 Corinthians 3:2-3)

A letter from Christ. And what is His message? This is my Beloved. The mark she carries denotes her sin, but also grace and pardon. Oh, let me not forget that, far more important than the mark I leave behind, is the mark I already bear!

And you also were included in Christ when you heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation. Having believed, you were marked in him with a seal, the promised Holy Spirit, who is a deposit guaranteeing our inheritance until the redemption of those who are God's possession—to the praise of his glory. (Ephesians 1:13-14)

Does my heart, as a letter, say "God is here"? In Jesus, through Him, because of Him, I exist. That is the mark I bear. If I carry it, the mark I make is sure to reflect it.

Father, may all of my actions be signed, “Love, God”. The world will be reading.



Feel free to visit my little place at A Path Made Straight

Schadenfreude

He weeps for her, my friends.

He does not laugh, as so many have done at her expense lately. He weeps. His precious daughter cries out in her fear, calling for her mother. And He weeps.

And as a shepherd leaves the other ninety-nine to look for the one lost, so He searches for her.

I do not keep up with the news so much anymore, but the story of the lonely heiress has captured my heart lately, in a way that has surprised me.

You see, I laughed at her.

And the moment I did, I felt His sadness. Oh, Beloved.

For I, too, have strayed. I left the safety of the fold and wandered, though tags still circled my neck... "My name is Beloved", and "If found, please return me to the Master". Like a bell, they tinkled and warned me that I wandered too far, but I pushed ahead recklessly.

And when I strayed so far that I lay weak and motionless, He found me. Carried me to the safety of His fold and secured me there, and then set out to find another wandering lamb.

Having been on both sides of the gate, my compassion is great for those who wander. And yet I have stood by and laughed at her pain, delighted in her quandary, safely munching on my green grass and surrounded by others who have been rescued.

"This is the supreme command. Through the medium of prayer we go to our enemy, stand by his side, and plead for him to God." - Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Jesus called to him, high in the tree, to come down for a dinner party. He knelt and wrote in the sand for her, leading all who accused her to drop their stones. He touched the shriveled hand on the Sabbath. Breathed the same air as the ten lepers. (Luke 19:1-10; John 8:1-11; Matthew 12:9-13; Luke 17:12-19)

She is not my enemy. Still, I am leaving the safety of the fold again, but this time it is to stand by her side, and plead for her to God.

Join me?

(The title of this post, Schadenfreude, is the German word for "pleasure taken from someone else's misfortune.")

You are welcome to visit my personal blog at A Path Made Straight

Neither Do I

(John 8:3-10) The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group and said to Jesus, "Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?" They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him.

But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, "If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her." Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground.

At this, those who heard began to go away one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there. Jesus straightened up and asked her,

"What is wrong with you?!"

What? He didn't say that? Oh, that's right. It was me. To my five-year-old. Who already knew his error. Who didn't need his mama to tower over him and ask him a question to which he knew no answer.

Poor Micah. His actions were almost comical this morning.

First, while holding his water bottle and an armful of magnets for his baby sister, he leaned over and poured the entire contents of the bottle on to the floor before he noticed. We cleaned it up, cheerfully, together.

Next, he did a balancing act on the salad spinner that baby sister had carried into the living room, and broke it. Then we had a conversation about distinguishing between what is and what is not appropriate to perform his circus act upon. (I also had a conversation with baby sister about possible sabatoge, since this was the second time she had been involved.)

Finally, he hopped up on the dining room table to listen to a story on cd, and knocked over a full glass of water. It was no longer comical.

Did Mama explain gently, while helping him to mop up the water, that sitting on the table is not acceptable? Did she hug his shoulders and use the moment as an opportunity to encourage?

No. I asked him, "What is wrong with you?"

Jesus straightened up and asked her, "Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?"

"No one, sir," she said. "Then neither do I condemn you," Jesus declared."Go now and leave your life of sin." (John 8:10-11)

I could almost see Jesus, out of the corner of my eye, kneeling on the ground and writing with his finger. I thought about how I would positively fall to pieces if He asked me the same question. Did I really expect an answer? I didn't, yet Micah answered, "I don't know." Head low, eyes filled.

No one here to condemn him but you, Beloved.

I saw his hurt and confused face, and I dropped my stone. It was time for a hug, and a conversation about the proper use of chairs, which are really more comfortable than the table anyway.

Now He speaks to me as I sit here in a quiet house, and Micah sleeps in his bed. I replay the scene over and over, my heart heavy, my spirit low - I fail so often. Too late! my soul hisses. It's too late! You did it again!

No. It can't be too late.

Neither do I condemn you, Beloved. Leave the sin here, with me. Just remember this: Feed. Love. Lead.

Tomorrow.

You can visit my personal blog at A Path Made Straight.

Whatever is True

Today. I wrote. And deleted. Wrote...and deleted. I gazed out the window, watching the leaves flutter. Shook my head and focused again. Wrote. And deleted.

And so my husband, watching this sluggish scenario, shared with me a story.

Several years ago, while preparing his sermon, our minister-friend, Daniel, found himself searching for something profound to say. Something that would knock the socks off of the congregation.

But nothing came.

He tried to wring it out. He wrote. And deleted. Wrote...and deleted. And then…

What can you say that is true?

A still small voice.

The only words worthy of speaking, the most profound revelation of all, comes in the truth from Scripture.

So today. I’ve wrung it out. I’ve written and re-written, both mentally and on this computer. Yet nothing comes. Nothing, that is, except a whisper of pure, precious truth.

At one time we, too, were foolish, disobedient, deceived and enslaved by all kinds of passions and pleasures. We lived in malice and envy, being hated and hating one another. But when the kindness and love of God our Savior appeared, He saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of His mercy. He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit, whom He poured out on us generously through Jesus Christ our Savior, so that, having been justified by His grace, we might become heirs, having the hope of eternal life. This is a trustworthy saying. And I want you to stress these things, so that those who have trusted in God may be careful to devote themselves to doing what is good. These things are excellent and profitable for everyone. (Titus 3:3-8, emphasis mine)

The story of God’s great love for us, poured out in the sacrifice of His own Son, set into motion so long ago when the agony of being separated from His creation was too great, is simply too wonderful not to share. Too marvelous to add to with any of my own words today.

Read those precious words, again and again, for they are as silver tried in the furnace, and purified. Hide them in your heart, but do not leave them there, speak of His faithfulness and salvation. Repeat them to yourselves throughout the day, when you wake, rise before dawn to cry for help; when you sleep, rise at midnight to give thanks. Repeat them to others whose souls thirst for it, for it is like cold water to a weary soul.

These things are trustworthy, these things are beneficial. To everyone. Salt and Light.

Speak the truth. It stands forever.

Much longer than anything else I might have shared today.

*Edited to turn off comments - letting the Word stand alone today. Thank you!

Humble Pie With a Dollop of Grace

It was a lovely evening.

We sat around my in-law's dining room table and laughed while Corban and Micah filled their plates yet again with turkey, cranberry jelly and mashed potatoes. It was funny because we had just eaten Thanksgiving dinner at my brother's home, not quite an hour before! But they are growing boys, so we just sat back and watched, remembering a time when we could eat whatever we wanted.

The conversation flowed over slices of pie and coffee. It really was enjoyable, but I found myself irritated that I had needed to remind the boys several times to say "Thank you!", and "Yes, please!" instead of "Yeah!"

They know these things - I've taught them to be respectful their whole lives! Are they on politeness overload from this long day of visiting family? I grumbled to myself, wiping the baby's nose and handing her the toy she'd dropped. Yes, Mama was on overload as well.

"Kevin, would you like a slice of pecan or pumpkin pie?" my mother-in-law asked him as he eyed the delectable pastries on the table. "Or perhaps a slice of both?"

He leaned in closer, licked his lips, and said, "Yeah!"

I couldn't stop it.

"Yes, please!" I hissed.

Horror.

I clapped my hands over my mouth. My father-in-law did the same, but his eyes were twinkling. My mother-in-law burst into laughter, and my sweet husband winked and smiled at me, putting his hand on my arm in reassurance, instantly extending his loving form of grace.

I felt the blood rush into my face; I'm a terrible blusher. I honestly wanted to sink into a hole and disappear. Or at least to rewind the last five minutes.

I'm always extra anxious about behavior and manners when we're at my in-laws' home, but this was a new low for me. I had let my concern about appearances rule my mouth, and in so doing, had demeaned my husband, in front of his parents; in front of his children.

Oh, was there ever a woman more wretched than myself? I wash my mouth out with foot more often than I care to remember. I strive to be everything God wants me to be, and fall so short.

"So the trouble is not with the law, for it is spiritual and good. The trouble is with me, for I am all too human, a slave to sin. I don’t really understand myself, for I want to do what is right, but I don’t do it. Instead, I do what I hate. But if I know that what I am doing is wrong, this shows that I agree that the law is good. So I am not the one doing wrong; it is sin living in me that does it.
And I know that nothing good lives in me, that is, in my sinful nature. I want to do what is right, but I can’t. I want to do what is good, but I don’t. I don’t want to do what is wrong, but I do it anyway. But if I do what I don’t want to do, I am not really the one doing wrong; it is sin living in me that does it.
I have discovered this principle of life—that when I want to do what is right, I inevitably do what is wrong. I love God’s law with all my heart. But there is another power within me that is at war with my mind. This power makes me a slave to the sin that is still within me. Oh, what a miserable person I am! Who will free me from this life that is dominated by sin and death?
Thank God! The answer is in Jesus Christ our Lord. So you see how it is: In my mind I really want to obey God’s law, but because of my sinful nature I am a slave to sin." (Romans 7:14-25)

I affectionately (and perhaps innapropriately) call this the "doo-doo passage". (There are a lot of "do's" there, people.) But Paul's struggle mirrors our own, doesn't it? And even though I would love to blame sin for everything and say that it is too powerful to resist, I know that I have been freed from that trap - thank God - through Christ. The sin is mine to claim, and release. No longer does it carry the blame while I skate perilously close to the edge.

The trouble is not with my desires, for they are right and good - cherishing my husband, being a good mama, an upright disciplinarian, keeping a clean home - the trouble is with me.

I will fail.

And when I do, God reaches out his hand, lays it reassuringly on my arm, and gives me a wink and a smile. And I start again. Same desires, same goals, same struggles, even the same outcome more often than not.

So, would I like some forgiveness, or some grace? Or perhaps a helping of both?

Yes, please.

Meetings with God

This mama doesn’t get out of the house very often (which is fine with me!), and so the lessons the Father teaches me are most often found in my everyday life, my children and their spiritual development. I’m so grateful that He meets me where I am!

Today, it finally happened.

I’ve been waiting and waiting. Hoping. Longing.

Eliana brought me her slipper.

It fell off when she was pushing her baby in the stroller, and from where I was in the kitchen, I watched her stop, pick it up, and contemplate it for a moment. Then a light bulb seemed to click on, and she looked around anxiously until she spotted me at my post, where I pretended I wasn’t watching and stirred the pot nonchalantly.

Quickly she made her way over to me, making a nonsense sound that ended with a question mark, and held out her pink butterfly slipper.

I swooped down to her level. “Oh, you lost your slipper! Do you want me to put it back on for you?” I asked. She clapped her hands (her sign for please) and plopped down on her fat diaper.

As I slid the slipper back on to her tiny foot and watched her toddle back to her toys, the significance of the moment was not lost on me.

Usually, the baby who lost her slipper either (a) didn’t even notice, or (b) screamed and threw a fit when she couldn’t get it back on by herself. I had been waiting for her to recognize that instead of wailing and carrying on, she could just ask me for help.

As the day passed, she brought me her empty water cup, her baby whose hat would not stay on, and patted my leg, signing the word “Lovey”, for her special rag. There wasn’t a tantrum to be seen, nor did I spy any indifference to her plights. She asked, and I helped.

How is it that Eliana has known me as her food source for sixteen months, and yet when it came to something she could not do on her own, it took her that long to figure out I was also a source of help?

Like a chant, the words ask, seek, knock began to trail through my mind. And like so many other moments in this Mama’s life, I sensed the Father was showing me something.

Beloved, I’ve always been here. You needn’t carry on so; I will help, if only asked.

"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened.
"Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him! So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets. (Matthew 7:7-12)

His is the food source above all others. I know this. But so many, many times, I fumble about on my own, and carry on in frustration as I struggle to get by, rather than asking for help and trusting that He will come to my rescue.

In asking for and receiving His aid, I am learning how to live and lead, just as Eliana will soon learn how to put on her own slipper, just by mimicking my motions. It’s so much more, really, than receiving help; it’s accepting guidance that will lead us into His will for our lives.

And for you, I pray that your eyes may be opened to the beautiful sight of the Father, coming to meet you where you are.

Martha, Martha...

I want to be a Martha...

Now hold on, I know what you're thinking! Let me finish.

I want to be a Martha who has been lovingly reprimanded by the Savior.

She is not the same woman she was before! She now seeks the joy she was lacking before Yeshua spoke those sweet, painful, truthful words; "Martha, Martha! You are worried and upset over all these details! There is only one thing worth being concerned about. Mary has discovered it, and it will not be taken away from her." (Luke 10:41-42)
The story doesn't end here!

He knows she loves Him, but that in her rush to serve Him with the best she has to offer, she has lost the true meaning behind His definition of the word servant... sacrifice. Yet, when He looks at her, she knows He does not ask her to stop her work; only to be aware of what is most important about her work.

She is feeding a roomful of people who desperately want to soak in everything He has to say, knowing that there may be a time He will not be with them. Her error is not in overseeing the meal, or preparing the guest rooms for the numerous people that will be staying with them because of the presence of the Master; her only error is in demanding the help of her sister, who has chosen to join the dinner and listen with rapt attention. Certainly the absence of Mary in the kitchen cannot have made such a difference in the presentation of the meal; but I can see Martha's heart in my own.

"Why should I do all the work? She's just sitting there! She's as much a part of this household as I am - how dare she leave it all to me!" But Martha loves her position in her household as much as I love mine! Does it make that much difference? No. And there's the rub.

She slips into a corner of the hallway and dashes tears from her eyes. The words are piercing, and angering, and truthful. Deep breath.

Shall I stop what I'm doing and join the group in the dining room? No. I will finish preparing and serving the meal. But I will do it with a servant's heart this time. And when I enter the room to serve the Master, I will listen to His words and smile at my sister, and soak in what I can. I will use my position as the overseer of this household to make this time with His friends peaceful, and good. And instead of seeing my position and the resulting work as my due, I will find joy in my days, instead of obligation.

How do I know that the story doesn't end with verse forty-two? Because Martha goes on to give one of the most complete definitions of who Jesus is and Who sent Him in the book of John; ""Lord," she told Him, "I have always believed you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one who has come into the world from God."" (John 11:27)

She no longer finds herself so wrapped up in what she does that she cannot see what is important. She knows.

Oh, He speaks to me in these passages - I don't stop! I fret over needless things. I throw my hands in the air in amazement at how busy I am, yet I don't take a good look at what my busy-ness is costing me. My joy. He has given me the sweet role of mama, wife, caretaker. There will be moments where I fail in my duties. But He needs me to do what I do - and He needs me to do it with a servant's heart. To make things better for others. To make things easier for them, welcoming for them, comforting to them. To be His hands.

We need Martha's. Without them, there might not be a meal to laugh and discuss over. Without them, there might not be inviting guest rooms to relax in on our journeys. Without them, the household wouldn't flow as smoothly.

Are you a Martha?

So am I.

Praise God. Let's find our joy.