Unwrapped and Blooming

My desire to nest has been hibernating these last few years.  Living in a house that wasn't mine, knowing we wouldn't be there for holidays, my decorating style came down to this: what difference does it make anyway?

I was so wrong.  It makes a difference.

This year, we are still leasing but something is different.  Maybe it's our commitment to "bloom where we're planted" or maybe it's because we are in a location that is home for me personally, either way the weekend after giving thanks for an entire day with my family...WE UNWRAPPED CHRISTMAS!

As a family, we cleaned the house, agreed on a tree, and dragged out every Christmas thing we could find.  Some of that stuff hadn't seen daylight in years.

It felt good.  It felt right.  We were blooming like a Wal-Mart full of poinsettias, like we were home.

Ten sank down in the backseat in embarrassment as we drove through town with a tree strapped to the top of the car.  We were the Griswold's in Christmas Vacation.  I nearly burst out in song.

The ax flew to ready the tree.  Opinions and tinsel flew as we unwrapped things we loved.

Eight and Seven played wild games with Santa Bears that look like they came from a Coca-Cola commercial.

Today I am surrounded by an explosion of Christmas decor.  Baby Jesus rides a camel as I ponder the less than Biblical nature of our traditional nativity.  I decide I don't care because the kids know the facts and even if there were no wise men at His birth, I want my kids' worldview to be framed by their faith.

I want Jesus to be part of our Christmas.

Christmas isn't about days out of school or shopping and sometimes I feel like I could run away from all the spending and gifts and "X-ing" the Christ out of Christmas.

Other days, days like today, I know that our family is hungry for tradition and I know how valuable these coming days will be as we push back against the world and sow deep, fertile seeds of faith.

This month is a chance, an opportunity, to plant our faith firmly in the center of our lives and let it bloom.  This time is a chance to celebrate our faith loudly as the world around us is a little more open to hearing our beliefs.  It is a chance to say "Merry Christmas" and share a verse on a card instead of going with the Happy flow of the Holidays.  It's an opportunity to put a baby Jesus on our mantle instead of a Santa Claus.  This is the time to share Luke 2 when people are, perhaps, a little more ready to hear.

This is a chance to put our candles in the window at a time when some people are looking for a little light.

So Merry Christmas ya'll and let your light shine,
m

Take the City

Sometimes you just want something.  Call it a goal, dream, need or whatever.  Doesn't really matter. Sometimes the thing you want is the right thing. Sometimes it isn't.

Sometimes you don't really know.

In older times, kings sometimes wanted whole cities.

Maybe sometimes you judge the rightness or wrongness of your dream by how easily it comes.  You know what I mean, if you are meant for it, it will happen.  Doors will open.

If you aren't meant for the path to your dream, doors will close.  There will be obstacles.  Maybe that means you just aren't meant to be--just aren't meant to have--just aren't meant to do--that.

I judge my dreams that way, but I think I might be wrong.

I think that stuff I just said about doors opening or closing, I think sometimes those ideas are trash.  Garbage.

Sometimes you have to work really hard for the things you want.  You have to get over obstacles and open doors yourself.  You may have to do these things when you are exhausted and unsure.  You may have to do these things when no one else understands why you do them.

In older times, kings took the cities they wanted by fighting.

The things worth having do not usually walk up and offer themselves to you.  You must take action.  You must do something.

Doors do not open by themselves.

You open them with prayer and endurance and elbow grease.

My friend, my self, what do you do when the door is stuck?  Do you stay outside?  No.  You find a way to get where you want to be.

In older times, sometimes kings took cities by starving out the people they did not want.

Sometimes you must sacrifice something else.  You cannot be all things to all things.  Maybe you have to starve something out to make room for what is important.  Things do not starve quickly, but if you do not feed it, the unwanted thing will eventually go.

In older times, cities did not usually open their doors and allow themselves to be taken.  At least not without divine intervention.

Sometimes there is divine intervention.  We can't discount doors that fly wide open or obstacles that remove themselves.  Say thanks and move forward.

Sometimes the absence of divine intervention is divine.  Maybe fighting the battle brings the reward of becoming a conqueror.  Maybe you will love your city well because of the battle you fought for her.

Sometimes the thing you want is the right thing.

Sometimes you don't really know.

There is only one way to find out.

Take the city.





On a less serious note:
Gifts from Cape Hatteras
My Name is Butmommy...
King Robert of the Wild Hair

When You Show Up for the Trip and Get Sent Home

Ever have something you want?  Something you really want and it seems like you could have it, if you just did everything right.  But maybe it isn’t up to you.

Right now, there is something that I want.  I really want this thing.  Well, it isn’t a thing exactly, more like a circumstance.  I don’t mean to be all secretive but I can’t tell you what it is.   I mean, I love you all but some things just aren’t meant to be shared on the internet.  Not yet.

It doesn’t matter anyway because this is about all of us together so you just imagine your own thing because at the end, I am going to ask you something.

Okay, so the allegory goes like this:

I want to go on a trip.  I believe I can go if I just get everything ready.  I get all my ducks in a row, iron (insert muffled laughter here), get the dog and kids ready and five of us hop in the car.  We think, we believe, it is time for the trip.  We all want to go.

We get to the airport, grab our bags and head toward the counter to buy our tickets.  We have the money and all the paperwork.  Everything is as perfect as we can make it.

We arrive at the counter and announce our intention to board the plane.  The agent looks at us calmly.

“No.  Go home.” 

We ask questions.   I plead.

“No.  Go home.”  Nicely, gently, certainly.

I want to know why but there is only one answer.

“No.  Go home.”

Does this mean “not today” or “not ever?”

Have I done something wrong?  Do I wait?  I have done everything that I know to do.  I showed up for the trip and got sent home.  I don’t even know why or really even what the answer means.  I am a woman of faith so what do I do with this?

DO I GIVE UP?  Let go and move on?

When does “no” mean “no” and when does it mean “not now” and most importantly…

How do I know?

HOW DO YOU KNOW? 

Does it even matter if you know?  What do YOU do when you get sent home?

The actual circumstances don’t matter.  If you are going to forward or share this post, please consider doing so after you add your own insight in the comments.  The best way to go the unknown is together.

It is well,

m

On a lighter note...

Okay, so not a lighter note but another big question and the story of the Slidin' Chevy.

When we had a blast at the Tough Mudder...happier than a pig in mud.

My Name is Still Butmommy.

Fall...

Everyday.  I fail and I fall.  And I fuss at myself for failing and falling again.  Seems like I had it together about twenty years ago, like I rarely fell at all.  But I was wrong.  I was falling down every moment and didn't even know it.


Can't learn new things if you don't risk a fall.  Can't learn to walk or ride a bike or ride a horse unless you risk a fall.  Seems like you fall all the time and then you fall less and then you walk and run and fly through the air.  And it's good.  Way better than staying on the ground all the time.


You know, jumping is just falling on purpose.



Everybody falls.  Only one man in all of history that didn't fall.  And then He sort of did only He did it on purpose and He did it for us.  He fell right down on our mistakes.

My kids fall all the time.  I sigh and think, "Don't you get tired of flailing around wild and falling into things and hurting yourself?"  

And then I complain because my life is so ordinary.  

They have the same life I do, only they don't think their lives are ordinary. They make them rather extraordinary.  

But there is a cost for this extraordinary.  

Sometimes they fall.

Joining the blog party over at Lisa Jo Baker's today for five-minute-friday.  Check it out!  http://lisajobaker.com/

"Sure!"

Most of us have people in our lives that inspire us.  Maybe it's just something about them, their attitude, work ethic, kindness, and you find yourself thinking, "I wish I were more like..."

I actually have lots of people like that and I plan to tell you about them in the next post, but for now I want to share just one.

Someone who is very close to me.  He's eight and his name is Nathan.

I write about Nathan quite a bit, not because I love him more than the other two kids, but because he surprises me so often, probably because we are so different.

Some examples:

Me - closed personality, not great at sharing
Nathan - shares a lot

Me - type A personality, with organized canned goods in the pantry
Nathan - tons of favorite things crammed so full into his shelves that they fall out onto his bed where he sleeps with them even though they are sharp and pointy (i.e. Legos)

Me - completely self-conscious about everything from my appearance to my words
Nathan - comfortable with everyone he meets and totally unaware of whether he is even wearing clothes

Me - plans everything including play time
Nathan - life is playtime

Me - multitasking to the point of total ineffectiveness
Nathan - completely immersed in whatever is in front of him

My normal response to other people is, at best, "let me think" and often, "not right now."

Nathan's usual response to other people?

"Sure!"

He says it with a casual tone of voice, real quick like the word is accustomed to jumping out of his mouth.  I love to hear it.  Almost every time, I stop for a few seconds.

I think to myself, "I want to be more like THAT."

"Momma, can I have some of your popcorn?"
"Hmmm, I'll have to think."  or "Sure!"

"Michele, can you give me a quick haircut?"
"Really, today?" or "Sure!"

"Momma, you want to play with us?"
"Not today, I have to clean." or "Sure!"

You think Martha's sister, Mary, from the bible was like Nathan? Was Martha like me?

Jesus: "You guys want to spend some time together?"
Martha: "I WISH I could but I HAVE got to COOK in here!"
Mary: "Sure!"

I think Nathan's way is more fun.  I think Nathan's way would be better for the hearts around us.

Do I want to be more like Nathan?

Sure!

surely,
m

Yesterday

Yesterday was a terrible, no-good, rotten, stinkin’ day. 

The kids did not even attempt to listen or show respect to any of my too many words.  Their little bodies mocked my efforts to teach them with constant movement including pinching each other during math, poking during bible study, and jokes of the lowest humor ill-timed as if specifically designed to make me really, really mad. 

As for their minds…totally absent.  I don’t think those kids learned a single thing yesterday.  As a matter of fact, I don’t think they even used their brains yesterday.

This was very frustrating.

I would love to tell you how I performed a miracle of parenting and brought them calmly back to a learning state of mind, successfully saving the day and pouring love and understanding into the little treasure chests of their heart.

I dumped stuff into their hearts alright.  Dumped a whole bunch of stuff into their memories too.

It wasn’t pretty.

At one point I vaguely remember transforming into something big and ugly, not unlike a dragon breathing hateful fire onto three of the most amazing people I know.  I am sure my words were not helpful and certainly not of any use.  The only thing that I might have done right is to stop school and send everyone off to do their chores until I could shed some scales and stop exhaling smoke.  I am supposed to shepherd them but where did I lead them yesterday?  Oh my, it hurts to remember.

So I ask…what do I do now? 

What can redeem a day like that?

Nothing can erase my ugly actions or the impact that their misbehavior had on those hours.  But what we did is no longer the point…now I ask, what can redeem a day like that?

The day was redeemed and by simple things…

We prayed more.

B came home and took that little pack of kids away and he fathered them.  He took them by his side and was just with them.  I took a walk…a few miles in fact.

I was desperately thirsty to read the Word because I desperately needed it.

We were thankful for big burgers and the provision to buy them…in other words TAKE OUT!

Boys at scouts and s’mores, that begins to redeem a day.

Two girls sittin’ on a bed, one big, one little, just being who they are and laughing.

Extra hugs that might not have happened given from a boy who said, “Mom, you need some love.”

These are things that can redeem days like that because all days are blessed and good things grew out of the mess that was yesterday.

Today we woke with a new, beautiful day to start over and we did.  The kids and I talked about yesterday, driving down the road.  Apologies were given, responsibility taken.  Then we decided that we were taken over by aliens.  Robert said it was legal to do that, legal to decide that you had been taken over by an alien.  Legal to apologize and legal to start over.

Indeed.  It is good to start over when you have been forgiven, redeemed.

today,

m

The Porch and a Late Night Thursday...a guest post for you and me

I met Lori Harris one evening at Via Cappuccino at a book study for our local homeschool group.  She said hello right away, to ME, a stranger!  And she smiled like she meant it.  And we keep up through Facebook and we are becoming friends.  "Now," I say to my deeply introverted self, "Now, that is how you make friends!" Because clearly, I have forgotten.  Thank you, Lori, for helping me begin to crack my shell.  Lori blogs over at http://loriharris.me/ and I encourage you to take a minute to read and subscribe if you want more!

Kindly, she has written this guest post for you all, and for me. I hope you enjoy this glimpse of truth and how faith is not always sunbeams from heaven but we must sometimes struggle together in the dark and plant seeds anyway, not even knowing when the sun will rise...

The Porch and A Late Night Thursday

She stands on the front porch of my house, the clock ticking in my head, and she says she's not sure about God.

Or Jesus, for that matter.

It's after 9:30 and the porch lights need new bulbs and so we're standing there in the shadows while she unravels herself in a string of words.  I stand, arms by my side, listening and praying for some words to say.

God gives me nothing and so I just listen.

Cars drive by the house and the street lamps flicker and her words keep pace with her broken heart.   I keep pace with her verbal punches.

I stand on the porch with my big bag of nothing and she punches, over and over again.  She's a heap of hurt and I'm a heap of nothing and for a moment, I know that we stand in a place where Jesus likes to show up.

And so I wait.

Camel crickets hop across the steps.

Another street lamp comes to life.

The guy with the pimped out ride, straight down to the Payday logo on the side, thumps down my street.

And still I wait.

It's dark out.

My people sleep and still, we stand on the porch.  She waits for me to come up with magic words and I wait on Jesus to break her.

She keeps up the painful chatter and in her spewing of ugliness, I hear her heart speak the words her mouth just won't let slip out, and the beauty of it all is that she is unaware of her own breaking on my front porch.

I smile without meaning to and she smiles back at me.  There is nothing left to do but smile at one another.

And so we do.

We make small talk and I thank her for being honest with me, for telling me the truth about what she thought about Ann and all that naming gifts business.  She shoves her hands into her pockets and looks at her feet.  I tell her I knew the whole time.  That her body language spoke volumes and that I understood her.

"I get it.  It's OK," I say.  I swallow my own hurt.  My own pride.  I die a little on the inside and I hear Paul whispering in my ear, "To die is gain."

She looks up at me through her lashes and I look at her.

I really look at her.

And it's not her I see, but the person that Jesus died to save and I feel my heart flutter within my chest.

On my porch, moths cling to light and I cling to Jesus and I know what it means to truly live.

For this is His work in her life, to seek her and to save her, and I just so happen to get a front row seat, late on a Thursday night.

The Truth...and I saw it right there in Sunday School

So, I live this typical, rather mundane existence where I know the names of some of the parents that watch soccer games with me, see the same cashiers at the grocery store, go to church with my makeup on most Sundays, smile, and in the rather current words of Miranda Lambert, "...hide my crazy..."  Life spins so quickly that most days I just go along with this system.

Inside I crave truth.

I have warmed more than a few pews.  I walk down the hall at church with my mind on my new sandals trying to decide if I want a soda or not and I pass exhausted mamas and worry-worn men and maybe your broken heart and I don't even know and I don't even ask.

But I crave truth.  Because, well, if we only knew, your heart and mine, they could be encouraged together, both you and me.  If we only knew.

So, a couple of months ago, our fellowship group (that's Sunday School for us old-timers) leader left the church to begin preparations to start a church in the northeast, a foreign land if there ever was one, at least from my perspective in rural North Carolina.  A member of our class stepped forward and continued the teaching with great humility and sincerity. Sincerity...truth...like medicine.  Anyway, someone came up with the idea of having people give their testimony, church talk for people telling their story about why they chose God.

I expected sweet little stories about vacation bible school and summer camps and youth pastors and prayers  and maybe a couple of wild stories about too much beer in high school and maybe a baptism in a river if things got charismatic.

What I didn't expect was the pouring out of raw reality.  Raw truth from the same people that chat over donuts and Mountain Dew on Sunday morning.

I didn't expect to see scars from old wounds and tears in grown men's eyes and husbands and wives holding each other tighter.

I didn't expect to hear about precious babies in heaven and the strength to air your dirty laundry right there in Sunday School so that someone else can be washed clean too.

I didn't expect for that sassy chick with the red hair to look right at me and challenge me, right there in a a skirt and sandals and give me big ideas, like maybe my husband is right and maybe I do have something useful to say, so that we could both be encouraged, you and me.  If only you knew.

But when all that happened, I wasn't surprised at what happened next.  I have seen it before.  When truth is laid out there on the table, like roses, complete only WITH the thorns, well, people can't help but think it is beautiful.

Once you know truth, you can't unknow it and nothing else will do and so those people, not the ones talking, the ones listening, they wouldn't let it stop.  They laid out truth too until, heaven help us, there was simply no time for the lesson and no one cares that we are two weeks behind on our quarterly because these people are on the hunt.  They have fed on truth and now maybe there is no going back because a grown man's heart is breaking over little girls being sold across the sea and there is a woman waiting for a man of God and marriages 33 days old and marriages 33 years old and new birth growing and a man who dares to say that a husband would go to the cross for his wife and something must be done about these things because people's souls are dying.

We can't unknow these truths.
We can't unknow these hearts, yours and mine.  It's too late.  It's real and alive.  It's truth and life and who knows whose truth will change a life?  And now we begin to know truth and we can be encouraged together, you and me.

Good Days and Bad Days

Can't believe I wrote this six years ago.  I still remember those times, and honestly miss them, however I can't imagine how we made it through.  Certainly wasn't on my own strength...

Today was a bad day.  I didn’t get anything done. We had to get flu shots at the clinic at church so they had to take a nap before we go.  

They wouldn’t go to sleep.  I got one child down in my room, bounced the crying baby on my knee and repeatedly eased the other one back down on his pillow.  Just when he got drowsy, the other mobile child appeared at the door.  He wanted to sleep in his own bed where I was trying to put his brother.  He never wants to sleep in his own bed.  I got both boys into one bed while still bouncing the crying baby. 

Then, I accidentally made Superman fall behind the bed post.  I apologized while promising to get him out from under the bed when they get up from their nap. 

It wasn’t good enough. 

Robert cried because he wanted Superman, Nathan cried because Robert was crying and the baby just cried.  I put the baby down causing her to cry louder.  Then I used a plastic kitchen spoon that I found under the bed (what?) to try to reach Superman.  Either my arm or the spoon was too short. 

So, I cried.  

Then I got up, moved the mattress, returned Superman to his owner, tucked Nathan in and gave him a reassuring kiss, picked up the baby and swayed with her in my arms until they all fell asleep.  

Today was a bad day.

Today was a good day.  We went to the playground at our church getting some wonderful, fall sunshine.  We ate Chinese at a buffet and got lo mein all over the carpet requiring a generous tip to ease our guilt.  

We made cupcakes and decorated them with sprinkles.  Then we ate them.  After that it was easier to give baths than to actually clean up.  

I left all of the dishes in the sink and rocked my baby while wonder-daddy got the boys ready for bed.  

Robert, who is three, asks me, “Are you happy Momma?” 

Two glasses of spilled milk, one new clean pajama shirt and one more diaper later, they are in bed with their music playing.  Now the girl is in her daddy’s arms and we anticipate getting to watch one of our favorite shows.  They just look precious.

Today was a good day.

It was the same day…

And yes, Robert, I am happy.

Michele Simmons

October 25, 2006

Care to share how you made it through the hard days?

Blessedly Ordinary

I want to write, to have interesting things to say, maybe make a difference to someone.

But I am really, really ordinary and most of my days are not interesting at all.  My day, on paper, would not inspire.

I lie in bed thinking about how little I have to say and how ordinary I am.  I long for beautiful words to spill from my fingertips out to you.  Surely there is something of worth in my mind, right?

I have no idea about the worth of my own mind but I know where my worth is found and it has nothing to do with what I may write...or not write.  I begin to see that blessed are these ordinary days.

Blessed is the heaviness of a blanket and two quilts on a cold morning.  What I mean is…it simply feels good to wake to warmth and physical comfort.  You know, warm, heavy blankets feel good on my legs.  That’s it.  Simple.  Good.

Blessed is the sound of my sons playing quietly in the next room.

Blessed is my daughter still wrapped up, completely sideways, sleeping in the bed that belonged to my grandmother.

Blessed is the donut shop and every bite of that Boston Crème and I don’t care how many calories it is because today it made me happy to be there and it made my kids happy to start our morning like this, in a donut shop and you know what?  Judge me irresponsible but those hot chocolates with all their wonderful sugar, that was blessed too and we WILL do that again.

Blessed is a lunch of simple leftovers where everyone chooses what they want and we eat yet another simply boring meal…together.  Blessed is the laughter that goes with it.

Blessed is the sibling rivalry.  I am not sure how but they worked it out and perhaps taught each other lessons about doing unto others that my preaching could never accomplish.

Blessed are library books and the worlds they bring to our ordinary, slightly dingy red couch which, by the way, the dog licks when we are gone.   Seriously, he licks the edges of the couch.  I don’t know why.  Just thought I would throw in that boring little bit of reality.

Blessed are knee socks and veggie trays with ranch dip.

Blessed are the many conversations we have had today about the plot of The Magician’s Nephew and The Horse and His Boy and Legos and how Aquaman had the money to buy the elaborate mansion that Six and Seven built for him and did you know that when Anakin isn’t fighting battles he has pet snakes and a dry cleaning establishment?  I am grateful to know these things inside the minds of those I love.

Blessed are vacuum cleaners and all the dog hair that they remove from my life.  Blessed is our good dog who really does not care what his kids, my kids, do to him.

I anticipate that our ordinary dinner of hamburger stroganoff with I don’t yet know what else will be blessed because sweet daddy (my husband) will be home tonight. 

I guess ordinary can be pretty great.

Blessedly ordinary,

Michele

King Robert of the Wild Hair

Robert’s Hair is wild.  It is a little coarse, curly, about 50 different colors ranging from platinum to light brown and there are bushels of it.  Robert likes his Hair.

It all started around the time we watched Blue Hawaii starring Elvis Pressley.  Either that or when he started reading books with pictures of Superman.  Either way, you get the picture.  He twists a curl in the middle of his forehead unconsciously and it looks just like the curl Christopher Reeve sported with his red cape.  

All summer when his Hair was wet from the pool, he ran his fingers through those curls, standing them on end a fabulous three or four inches from his scalp and they did stand straight out…it’s impressive!

Robert is nine.  His soul and his wit are about 15.  This causes an interesting dynamic sometimes.  Robert doesn’t yet crave opportunities for rebellion, but like most teenagers, he will.

I love the Hair short so I can see his big eyes and his close-cropped daddy sometimes suggests that he cut it.  I used to pester and nag until Grandma Jan suggested that we leave him alone, that he, the person who is Robert, really likes his Hair the way it is.

He isn’t proud about the Hair.  As a person, Robert is a very no-nonsense personality.  He isn’t vain about his Hair or any aspect of his appearance.

He isn't silly about things, okay sometimes he is.  He is the kid who will squish bugs who unfortunately choose to live in the house.  He does this as a matter of business, without sentimentality or squeamishness.  He is the boy who will fish toys or barrettes out of the toilet.  He once rescued a sister’s prized marbles from a rotten pumpkin full, and I mean full, of gnats.  He patiently dug through the stinky yuck, on a mission, no a Quest for his sister’s happiness, while a tornado of angry black insects swirled around his wild Hair.

Rebellion.  Ugly word.  Ugly from the beginning of time.  I don’t want to think of any of these beings that came to life before I even held them, rebelling against my crazy mother-love.  I don’t want to imagine the inevitable hurt of word or deed that will come.  I don’t want to see my sweet boy, maybe twisted in anger that neither of us will understand.  Yet I walked that path that seems to be in some degree part of our nature.  Some rebel a little, some more and some rebel early, some later.  Either way, rebellion seems to have played a part from the beginning.

So the kid likes his Hair big.  There is no rebellious intent in it unless we draw a line in the sand.  He isn’t vain about it.  He keeps his Hair clean.

What is It really all about?  Life, love, souls, eternity…what is It all about?  I am certainly only a spiritual child but I can tell you this…it is NOT about the Hair. 

Is It about how others see or esteem us?

NO…For the Lord does not see as man sees; for the man looks at the outward appearance but the Lord looks at the heart.  1 Samuel 16:7b

Is It about church traditions?

NO…From Acts 8, the eunuch said, “See, here is water.  What hinders me from being baptized?” Then Phillip said, “If you believe with all your heart, you may.”  And they blessedly pulled that chariot over and he was baptized right there, because he believed with all his heart and for no man-made reason.

Is It about obedience or going through the right motions?

NO, that isn’t enough, you need a sincere heart…Bondservants, be obedient…in sincerity of heart, as to Christ. Ephesians 6:5 NKJV

Is It about knowledge or spiritual power?

NO…And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have love, I am nothing.  1 Corinthians 13:2 NKJV

Is It about good works?

NO…And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor…but have not love, it profits me nothing.  1 Corinthians 13:3 NKJV

It’s all about the Heart…

For as he thinks in his heart, so is he. Proverbs 23:7b NKJV

GOD wants your heart…The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit, a broken and a contrite heart—these, O God, You will not despise. Psalms 51:17 NKJV

It’s all about the Heart…

I don’t think I want to draw a line in the sand about the Hair.  I think I will save my energy for the Heart…starting with my own.  However, my own Hair could use some work. 

Besides, the Hair is, well…kind of growing on me.

Michele

Such as These...Nathan and the Bell Ringers

Okay, so I am going about the mundane things of life during the holiday season.  The swanky grocery store in this small town has those red buckets with bell ringers at both entrances.  We don’t go to the swanky store all the time, just for small things that the more affordable store doesn’t carry.

I admit, I am getting lost in the hustle, trying to hold onto the reason for the season but things are getting a little overwhelming.  To many places to be, a few too many gift exchanges, a blessedly busy hobby and one kid that has been sick long enough that it nags at the heart of this mom and dad.

Here there and everywhere and in a glow of Christmas Spirit, I decide not to pass the bell ringer with just a smile but here, let me dig out my change.  There is a bunch of it weighing down my purse anyway, right?  The kids love putting the change in the bucket and maybe if they observe me giving, they will grow up giving too.  Right?

A few days later and that swanky store is right next to the post office which makes it handy.  Another friendly bell ringer and I think, glowing warmly inside, “I will just try to give something every time we come by, isn’t that a noble goal?”  Yes, noble, and I dig in my purse while surely a mother in some part of the world is watching her cold, hungry kiddo, wishing she had my change.

And another trip or two and the change keeps on coming, handing it out to three happy kids who stuff  it into the red bucket while the bell ringer smiles and says, “Merry Christmas, every bit helps.”  Are they trained to stay cheerful in the face of so many that walk on by?

So, a week ago, on Friday, a friend of my children happens to give a Christmas card to my boys.  In the card is two dollars for Nathan.  We get in the car and ride the two minutes to the swanky store.  I just have to run in and get milk and bread. As we pull in, we pass the bell ringers, two men chatting by the red bucket.  I park, grab my purse and start digging out change…let’s give something each time we go in, you know?

From the back seat, the uncontainable sound of a joyful voice, “I KNOW.  I can give them my two dollars.”

Distracted by trying to dig out quarters, nickels and pennies, “Are you SURE you want to do that?  I have change that you can give…”

“I can give my two dollars!  They need real money too!  I want to.”

I begin, “Are you…” then something, surely not my own heart, but something, stops me and I fight misty eyes and I tell him that would be wonderful.  For once I understand not to steal his joy and what a beautiful, simple joy it is and I remember words, words about a kingdom for such as these, words about not hindering the children to come to Him.

This boy, who always has a list of Legos that he’s saving up for, this boy who has had this found money for less than five minutes, is giving it away because they need money, too.  And he runs up to the red bucket and stuffs his two dollars in before I can even get there with the other kids and the bell ringers, they thank him.  But I have a problem, watching this giving joy pour out of him and knowing that boy the way I do, and I am nearly crying in front of the HT.  So, I try to explain and I want them to understand because this kid didn’t give money from his momma’s purse, he gave his own two mites that he had only two minutes.

These two bell ringers, men older than me by a bit, with their friendly faces, they see my feelings on my face and they see his pure smile and he’s hopping next to the bucket.  They pause and they try to convey that they know how really cool this moment is…and we say goodbye and we go inside.

Milk and bread and life goes on and I am treasuring these things in my heart.

We head out the door and those bell ringers, they stop us and ask his name.  Nathan can’t answer. His mouth is full of free sugar cookies from the balloon station.  They can’t leave their bucket but they have paused in their ringing and they want to talk to him, to make an impression on him like he has made an impression on them and they say so.

They tell Nathan that he has touched their hearts, giving all of his brand new two dollars, these two men giving their time because they must be the kind of people whose hearts are already touched enough to be spending an afternoon in the air ringing a bell and watching people like me scoot by or explain that they don’t carry cash anymore.

They have it ready, a $5 bill for each of my children and I don’t know how to handle this and I point at the bucket because I am tearing up again and they make it clear that they want these kids to have something for themselves.  Those men give Nathan the money and ask him to hand it out to his brother and sister and he does so, dutifully, unaffected by his sudden increase in wealth and his mouth still full of sugar cookie. They explain that they want Nathan to know that he touched them that day and they are pleased to meet all three of them and I am still not sure about the money but again, something stops me and I think I should not mess with this moment but let it be.

At home I call Nathan to me and I ask him if he understands the consequences of his gift.  I tell him that his sweet heart and his two dollars blessed me.  Then it blessed those men enough that they wanted to give back and I am sure that whatever they wanted to put in the bucket is right there in the bucket.  Their giving blessed Nathan and Robert and Nora and it isn’t even about money but about the heart.

I don’t know what Nathan will do with their gift but I know that my heart grew two sizes that day.

Merry Christmas

Michele

Stone Soup...a confession

I want to be good, to make Jesus happy.  I remember thinking those thoughts as I left the pew in my little church as a child and went forward toward a rather ordinary-looking grace that would change my life, hinder it though I may.  I went to Pastor David and told him I wanted to be saved, I wanted eternal life in the presence of God. When he asked me why I said that I wanted to make Jesus happy.

But I have a confession.  I don't make Jesus happy.  I bear bad fruit sometimes.  I want to do better.  I want to BE better.  I am showing my children how to grow bad fruit and that makes me sad.  I thought if I shared a little reality, it would help, sort of like a step-program...I confess to you.  I...I...I can't do it by myself, what I really need is a new heart.  Luckily, that is possible.

A deep breath in my soul and here it comes:

Judgement.  That's my sin.  At least the one I am most aware of today.

Perhaps my opinion of myself is low and so I feel better if I think I am achieving more or doing it better than someone else.
If I have a cleaner house then maybe I am not the worst person?
If my kids don't swear (yet?) then maybe something I do is worthy of righteousness or on the sliding scale of sin that is a total lie, I am not as bad as others and therefore I must be better than some?
If I manage to get make-up on and you didn't then I am a better wife right, even when I nag because it is all about the skin right?  Or is it the wallet?  No...that's not it either.

For whatever reason, I judge.  I look around and I think, "My ____ isn't perfect but I would never do that or at least my kids don't _____."  Hateful and there it is right on the ground between us.

But what should I do when I look around and see with truthful and loving eyes, see others in sin?

When the Jews ran to Jesus, dragging their guilty victim, talebearing in their hearts and on their tongues, our sinless King said,

"He who is without sin among you, let him throw a stone at her first."  John 8:7

Would I throw a stone at Her?  Who Her?  A beloved friend?  I would never! Right?  A relative or sister or some other precious, sinful Her like me?  Surely I would not.

But I do throw stones.  I throw them every day.  I throw them at my neighbors and people I see at the gas station.  I throw them at you and I throw them at my church and I throw them at myself.  And I hate those stones and they lay there accusing ME and calm moments like this when I can see into my own heart, I hope you don't even know and those stones hurt me.

Now comes the scary part, and the scary big promise right from the mouth of the King himself.

"For with what judgment you judge, you will be judged; and with the measure you use, it will be measured back to you.  And why do you look at the speck in your brothers eye, but do not consider the plank in your own eye?...Hypocrite, First remove the plank from your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye."  Matthew 7:2, 3 and 5 NKJV

That's me in verse 5, Hypocrite with a plank in her eye.  This makes me fear deep in my soul and I am not talking about the watered down "reverential trust" kind of fear that your modern bible translation might offer, I am talking about respectful fear of Creator God who looked down on pre-flood mankind and was sorry He made them.

BUT, gracefully, the tide turns when you dive into the Word and learn about the God who does good for us because he loves us and for no other reason than that he chooses to love us, He who planned to love us from the very beginning.  Read Moses speech to Israel in Deuteronomy 7, 8 and 9, and though we aren't Israelites, you get deep insight into His mind and motives, "that He might humble and that He might test you, to do you good in the end." (Deuteronomy 8:16 NKJV)

And Moses relays God's message over and over in these chapters that it is not because of their righteousness that GOD SET HIS LOVE ON THEM.

Oh my, take a knee if you are able because He set His love on us.  We can only stiffly resist with our proud necks or let ourselves be crushed by the love that He set on us.  Crushed by His love.  May it be, My God, give me a new heart and let me be crushed by Your love, crush all the stones in me and soak me right up and accept my gratitude for this promise in your word...

"Therefore be merciful, just as your Father also is merciful.  Judge not, and you shall not be judged.  Condemn not, and you shall not be condemned.  Forgive, and you will be forgiven.  Give and it will be given to you: good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over will be put into your bosom.  For with the same measure that you use, it will be measured back to you."  Luke 6:36-38 NKJV

"For every tree is known by its own fruit."  Luke 6:44 NKJV

I have only to look at my fruit to see what kind of tree I am and we don't even want to go there...because God's word is not silent on the fate of trees, but it is full of promise, and the Word bears grace and it does not bear stones and so I want to leave my stones on the ground right here.

My sinful heart is broken and that is the only sacrifice that I really have anyway but luckily, it is not my sacrifice that matters...

And the promise in Luke, the warning and the promise that whatever measure we use it will be measured back to us and maybe not even equally, but in good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over and it will be put right into us but we need help.  

I can't change by myself but the Spirit, the Spirit can bear fruit right out of me, I am grafted onto something good and that is the fruit I want and I don't deserve good but the God of All went and set His love on me and poured out grace and there is literally and blessedly...nothing I can do to change that.

Blessedly crushed,
M