Month: March 2015

I once saw a play (B.C., that is, before children, when we actually had season tickets to do cultural things like that) But…I once saw a play where there was one female actress among a mostly male cast.  She held her own amongst the testosterone ladened banter and she contributed numerous insightful lines.  However, I couldn’t help but notice that she held her post on center stage anchored in the kitchen.  She spent most the play washing dishes or making meals as the men would come and go in and out of the house going about their business doing more interesting things up stage.  There she stood, faithfully washing or drying or putting away the dishes. They had actual running water up on stage, too, to accentuate her continual, repetitive role of rinsing and repeating.  I bet she had actual dish pan hands, too. No make up required for that one.

At the conclusion of the play, I remember thinking to myself, “What a boring role that actress had to play. How the other actors got to do more exciting acting and there she was, staged in the kitchen the whole time.  Couldn’t they have given her some more exciting things to do?”  (Again, I saw this play BEFORE I had children, before I was a stay-at-home mom. Back when I actually had a career and left the house each day to commute to work.)

But these days, I think of that lone female actress often while I’m feeling chained to my kitchen sink. I think of her when I get one load of dishes cleaned up, put away, kitchen counters cleaned off. And then my all male cast returns from playing outdoors or from a day at school and it’s time to feed them again and the cycle starts all over again.  I try to contribute an insightful line every now and again, but I can relate to more than just that actress’s dishpan hands.

I’ve learned, through the monotony of motherhood, that I don’t do well with routines.  In fact, they beat me down.  I know they’re a requirement of the job and a necessity to keep the ship a float, but I struggle  to do and re-do the same things over and over again only to have them quickly un-done.  A meal, once prepared, quickly becomes the next pile of dirty dishes. The laundry, once cleaned, dried, folded and put away, quickly becomes the next pile of dirty clothes. So many other projects that I’d like to tend to are left undone simply that I run out of time – or energy by the end of the day.

Oh, what wisdom was breathed into the Bible when in Ephesians 5: 15-16 it says, “Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of the time, because the days are evil.”  We live in a fallen world and we are constantly attempting to make order out of chaos. I try to remind myself of this as I’m seemingly always trying to bring order into the chaos of our home.  But I’m also learning that if I flitter away my day standing at the kitchen sink or continually sweeping the ever growing mountain of crumbs that accumulate daily upon my kitchen floor or cleaning the messes off the kitchen countertops – again. That before I know it, that’s all I will have accomplished or contributed to the day.  The days are evil.  I must plan ahead. I must step away. I must leave a mess so that I can tend to more important tasks like reading a story to my son who wants to cuddle or playing catch on a nice spring day with a little boy who actually still wants to play with his mama.  These moments are fleeting.  If I’m continually distracted and busy with seemingly unimportant housekeeping tasks, I’m going to miss the significant motherhood moments hidden in each day – what’s truly important that’s growing up and changing right in front of my eyes.

Lord, this is my prayer: please help me not to miss out on these moments. Help me to be fully present. Help me to see the motherhood moments more than I see the messes. Help me to put the tasks of maintaining a house aside for the tasks of creating a home. Help me contribute to their days, pour truth into their hearts not just create a clean home or pour a warm meal for them.  Lord, please give me awareness, patience and energy level that can only come from you. And Lord, please help me to walk through my days wisely.

I’m having one of those days today, where I wish I were more OCD.  I feel like I’m always late, always over budget, always running behind, never able to complete anything…  My desk is always a mess, my  to do list is usually M.I.A. and there’s no time to catch up or catch my breath. I want to learn to play the piano, but there’s never time to practice. I want to write, but there’s never a quiet place. I was trying to explain to one of my single friends why I can’t get together for coffee until April. From her perspective, all I do is go to the grocery and meet my kids after school at the bus stop.  Really, when I look at things from that perspective, I wonder why I’m all tangled up in knots? But time is so elusive and seems to slip away.  Field trips and homework projects aren’t just assigned to them and when I get behind on any part of our schedule, it’s like train cars crashing into one another.  If I miss doing laundry for a week, six laundry baskets crash into one another and all of us notice. Same with if I neglect going to the grocery or take the night off from cooking dinner. I’m lucky if I can get a workout in, a shower and a grocery run and then before I know it, it’s bedtime! And time to wake up and do it all over again!  I feel like a failure most the time. I wish I were more OCD-  one of those women who loved routines and doing the same thing over and over again.  The type who color codes her sock drawer and got a thrill out of organizing and inventing systems.  Honestly, I think the only way I survive is that I’m not OCD. I mean, I literally just wiped my youngest son’s mouth with a dirty sock that I found on the floor in the mud room because he wanted me to help him tie his shoes to go outside and had just finished the last of his pb&j from lunch and it was hanging on his cheeks like peanut butter whiskers. All the while,  I’m hunched over a laundry basket in my laundry room/office typing and he’s incessantly asking “Can I go outside? Can I go outside? Can I go outside?” until he finally gets my attention by slapping me on the bum.  Now they’re all outside and I’m listening to the whoosh of my washing machine, with papers scattered all around the surface of my desk.  I could take the time to stop writing an organize my desk (which is what I probably should do) or I could finish writing and see where this leads? And here in lies my problem.  But God knows this about me… that my strengths lie in doing original tasks, joy, for me, comes from a blank page, the freedom to choose how to fill it.  But we don’t always get to choose how to fill our days, or our pages. Many tasks in life are chosen for us, requiring what is required of us to complete the task.  Let us work as though working for the Lord, for in fact, we really are.  Let me organize and tidy, clean out and throw away to the best of my ability for the glory of the Lord.  Let me do my best, even in the despised tasks – in fact, even more so. Let me lift them up as an act of Agape love and serve Him first, then my family second.  And my prayer is that perhaps in the newly created white space on my desk I will be able to find more white space in my days.

My husband and I had just touched down in the airport from a little get-away trip, just the two of us, to escape the winter doldrums. A day or so before we left, I had just had my annual mammogram. This was my third or fourth year of having that done and I know the drill; you go and experience one day of pain (ok, more like 15 minutes) then you get a follow up letter in the mail the next week saying you’re in the clear for another year.  Except this year, as soon as we touched down on U.S. soil and my phone spoke the language again, I noticed I had a missed call and had a voice mail message from the nurse at the radiology group waiting for me. They had found an abnormality in my scan and wanted me to come back immediately. My heart sank.  It was late on a Friday night and I couldn’t do anything about this until Monday morning.  Welcome home to reality.

Just moments before I’d retrieved that message, we’d indulged in some Southern Style Beef Brisket at the Carolina Pit BBQ kiosk. It was delicious! As we went through the line, the cheerful African American Southern gal behind the counter said, “I got ‘ya!”when I asked for the BBQ sauce on the side and she laughed heartily and showed her huge grin when she asked if I wanted corn bread with my supper I replied, “Is there another way?.” But when my hubby came through the line behind me, he gave her a little grief for her hot-potato two step dance she was doing behind the counter. She told him she had just dropped some hot meat on her foot. But instead of yelping or screaming out some expletive instead she said “Oh My Jesus!” really loudly. Not “Oh my toe!” or anything else but “Oh my Jesus!” It struck me that they are one enough that she exclaimed “Oh My Jesus!” when she hurts.

That image is still fresh in my mind as my thoughts are now swirling about the uncertainties of my recent scan and the impending doom to which I’m returning home. I started praying the moment I got the voice mail message but I prayed differently, having just seen this Southern Soul Sister call out to “our Jesus” in such an intimate, real way.  It wasn’t just a “Help me Jesus!” flippant kind of prayer, but a reflection of their intimacy- if I hurt, He hurts, reciprocal kind of prayer – like He was a part of her, an extension of her.

So I tried it.  Not that praying is a new thing for me, I’ve long believed that I could call out to the Lord and he hears my prayers and I’ve even felt his responses. But this time, I tried my Southern Soul Sister’s method of prayer.  Not just calling out to the historic Jesus I’ve read about in the Bible in a distant, formal, “In Jesus’ Name” kind of way but, instead, I prayed in a way as if I could reach out to MY Jesus and touch him, I could call upon MY Jesus and He’d hear me, and I would know that when I hurt, He hurts and he feels things as intimately as I do kind of way. The same Jesus who called Peter out of the boat to walk with him on the waters, the same Jesus who knew everything about the woman at the well. The same Jesus who called out to his Heavenly Father to let this cup pass from him in the garden. He’s the one I know I can call out to and He’s right there with me, holding me, keeping me from sinking, knowing my every thought before I even say them out loud – My Jesus.  So I prayed that “we” wouldn’t have to walk this path together, that “we” would be spared this journey.

And I practiced another discipline I’ve learned from reading and absorbing the daily “Jesus Calling” devotions:  Anytime anxious thoughts would creep to mind or steal my faith I’d try to exhale, “I trust you, Jesus.”

When we got home I also called in some back-up reinforcement calling upon some prayer warrior friends of mine among my group of Soul Sisters.  Just knowing that others were lifting me up in prayer helped give me peace to get through the long wait of the weekend.

Late Sunday night, I carved out some time to sit and be still and had my Bible in hand when I accidentally dropped it on the floor.  It feel face down and I carefully lifted it up to the open page, knowing that God would most likely reveal a nugget of wisdom for me from that page, I was just praying it was good news!

And then I read the words that were previously underlined in my Bible on that page from Exodus 9:16:
“But I have raised you up for this very purpose, that I might show you my power and that my name might be proclaimed in all the earth.”

I wasn’t too sure how to interpret that verse.  I was actually a bit nervous reading them, again, calling out to “My Jesus” that this cup could please pass over me and that my having to face cancer wouldn’t be the purpose for me or the way He might be proclaimed.  More anxious thoughts were brewing.  But then one overriding reassuring thought swept over me: that I’d just have to wait until tomorrow for the test to confirm what God already knew. So in this present moment I could trust Him and continue trusting him, regardless of the results.

I was able to get one of the first available appointments Monday and had a dear friend willingly step up to watch my kiddos so I could attend at that time. I’m so thankful to report that the Lord graciously allowed this cup to pass from me and the re-scans confirmed that the abnormality was non-cancerous and non-worrysome (at least to the professionals!).  Tears stung in my eyes as the doctor sat down and calmly reassured me this was just a precaution and they really were not concerned.

“Thank you, MY Jesus!” my heart called out as I skipped out of there, hopefully, until next year.

But that verse from Exodus still hung curiously in my mind.  “For what purpose?,” I kept wondering. A few weeks later, during a sermon at our church, as we’re going through the book of Romans, that same verse from Exodus came up again.  In Romans 9:17 it is re-quoted “For the Scripture says to Pharaoh: “I raised you up for this very purpose, that I might be proclaimed in all the earth.” and it goes on to say in verse Romans 9:18 “Therefore God has mercy on whom he wants to have mercy and he hardens whom he wants to harden.” Which, I learned, is a reference to a verse in Exodus 33:19 when Moses has asked to see God’s glory. And the Lord said, “I will cause all my goodness to pass in front of you and I will proclaim my name, the Lord, in your presence. I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy and I will have compassion on whom I will have compassion. But,” he said, “you cannot see my face, for no one can see me and live.”

Now, much of this is too complex for this feeble mind to comprehend, but our minister explains it in a way that begins to open my mind and I feel I have a glimpse of the meaning. (Comprehension and re-telling it are two different stories! But I’ll try…) I took it to mean that in these verses in Exodus, God was revealing himself – his glory – to Moses. But not just physically allowing his goodness to pass by Moses, but also proclaiming his identity. This was God, Yahweh, the “I AM” of the Bible, proclaiming that another facet of his identity is He is the One who can choose to have mercy on whom He chooses and the One who can choose to have compassion on whom He chooses to have compassion. And that this same God is the one who is MY Jesus and who hurts when I hurt.

It’s been three weeks now since my negative test results (negative equals positive in this scenario) and again, hearing this verse, tears stung in my eyes.  So grateful that the Lord choose to give me compassion and mercy this time – and so many times previously.  He has allowed his ‘goodness to pass in front of me’ in so many undeniable ways.

I can’t begin to comprehend how? Or why? And why not me? Or why others don’t get passed over? Or don’t receive what we would consider His compassion and mercy?  All I can say is “Thank you, My Jesus!” and I keep clinging to Him regardless.