More Beautiful You

My middle son has a big, funny shaped head, and on it rest one little bitty freckle to the left side of his nose -- it’s my favorite place to kiss him. When he pronounces any word containing the letter “F” he brings his bottom teeth to his upper lip, instead of bringing his upper teeth to his bottom lip, and the words never come out quite right; yet, still, I hang on every one of them. My youngest son’s left front tooth is split right down the middle, and yet, I’d do anything to see it peering out from his crooked smile. My husband has small wrinkles trailing from the corners of his eyes; yet, as they set deeper into his skin, my love for him follows suit.

Imperfections we call them.

But “imperfect” compared to what?

Compared to other, more “normal,” people? Compared to pictures that haunt the check-out lanes of our local grocery stores? Compared to our husband’s favorite actress or his old high school crush? What exactly defines a physical feature as “perfect” or “imperfect”?  

When I look at the people that I love, I see there “imperfections” as anything but.

Yet, I myself seep with envy for her hair, her height, her eyes, her complexion and her more “perfect” body.  

Day in and day out we succumb to the lie that our value, at least partially, lies in long flowing hair, an even skin tone, or a small waist -- and we spend, collectively, billions of dollars a year trying to measure up. We carry around the burdensome whispers that we’d be so much happier if only we could change this, if only we had that -- or worse, the sense that our husbands would love us more if only we had her butt or her breasts, or if only...

If only...

These prerequisites to happiness are such a slap in the face to our Creator.  

When I complain about my flat hair, my chubby cheeks, or my dull brown eyes, aren’t I really saying to the Lord that he is not enough for me? Aren’t I really saying that to be of any real worth, or value, or beauty, I need more? Aren’t I essentially saying, “God, you shortchanged me, and I deserve more”? 

Insecurity and pride: two sides of the same wicked coin. Strange how the most insecure people you know are also the most self-absorbed. Insecurities are born when we look to the wrong place for our worth, when we look to ourselves or other people. We, alone, will never be enough or have enough, but in Christ, we are fully-equipped.  Only when we put ourselves aside and look to Him, do our insecurities begin to melt away, and they are replaced with true contentment.  

Insecurity is a demon child of fear, but if we rest in Him and His perfect Love, all fear is cast out. When we turn our gaze to Christ, we find our daily affirmation is in the surety of our atonement, not the praise of men; we discover our identity in His innumerable graces, not a “perfect” body or face; we understand that our only fame is that we bear His name, not the applause of our audience; we recognize that our only glory is in His grace, not our own gifts; and the Holy Spirit, alone, is our comforter.

Just think about it, if we, as sinful humans, can see the beauty and marvelousness of our own children’s’ form, even with their so-called imperfections, then how much more must we please our Heavenly Father, who is capable of perfect love?  

I’m embarrassed by the time and energy that I have wasted on superficial ends, but I’m also thankful for them, because through their inefficiency to satisfy me, I was driven right into the arms of Christ, and I’ve never felt more beautiful or loved.

Quit comparing yourself to other people -- that is Satan’s impossible game – instead, take comfort in the truth that you were made for a purpose that only you can fill, and there could never be a more beautiful you.

Lord, 

Help us to remember that you are shaping us into the image of you. Help us to remember that we do not battle against flesh and blood, but against powers of darkness, and that those powers want us to believe that we are not valuable and not worthy unless we look a certain way, but we know the truth: that we are ready for anything and equal to anything through you, who infuses us with inner strength. We are sufficient in your sufficiency.  Help us to quit believing the lie that we need more, and help us to be grateful for what you have already given us, because what you have given us more than enough. And most importantly, Jesus, please, reveal to us your deep, unending, unconditional love, because you know we will only be truly free from our insecurities when we understand that all-consuming love. 

          In Jesus name, Amen.

Getting What I Deserve

I fix pancakes for breakfast, his favorite. I holler down the stairs that they’re ready and he gripes back, “But, Mom, I thought you said we could get McDonalds today.” Stab...

I set my alarm thirty minutes early in order to wash his new shirt so he can wear it to his eight a.m. practice. I hand it to him. He complains, “Gross. Why is it still so damp?” Slash...

In between carpooling him to his basketball and her to her softball, they grumble, “I hate when you take this way, it’s shorter the other way.” Slice...

As I serve dinner on plates, he whines, “Why didn’t you put mine in a bowl?” Rip...

I pour my time, my emotions, my finances, my heart, and oh-so many prayers into two children that are not even my own and I hear...well, I don’t hear much. Gash....

These thankless responses cut my pride-filled flesh like knives, leaving me to kick and scream, silently, “Helllo! What about ME?! Hey, look over here! Remember me?!”

I hold it in, teeth clenched, as I pick up another pair of muddy shoes from the living room floor.

Other times, my willpower fails me and my wounds gush with rage, “I just spent two hours cooking this for YOU and you don’t even appreciate it. Next time you can just cook your own dang food!” or “Do you think I WANT to get up and drive you all around town for this or that? No, I don’t, but I do it for YOU anyway. The least you could do is so me some appreciation!!”

Lashing out temporarily releases the pressure on my flesh, but leaves me feeling empty, disappointed, and unsatisfied on the inside.

When people don’t give us the response that we think we deserve, we get so angry and hurt, but why?

Pride wears many masks, often times it presents itself as anger, or fear. Pride is easily offended. Pride is always afraid; afraid of being unnoticed, unaccredited, or unaccepted. Pride only knows three words: me, myself, and I.

And pride never, ever gets what it thinks it deserves; for its thirst is unquenchable.

But I’m so thirsty.

So incredibly thirsty.

I’ve drank from pride’s fountain, and it is laced with salt. The more I drink the more I thirst. I know that if I want to live, I must find another source.

“But Lord,” I cry out, “don’t you understand? My kids ought to be more grateful, my husband should have showed me some appreciation for that, and those other moms should have thanked me! I do so much for these people and they...

“It’s not for them,” the Lord interrupts.

“Not for them?” I laugh, “Then who is it for? Because it sure isn’t for me!”

“It’s for me. Don’t you see?”

“See what, Lord?”

“See me – in everything. I’m in those piles of laundry, I’m in those pancakes you cooked this morning, and I’m in the freshly vacuumed carpet. I’m in the alarm you set thirty minutes early and the ‘atta boy’ you gave your step-son in the car. I’m in the half-a-dozen ‘momma, look at this’s and ‘momma, watch that’s. I’m in the shoestrings you spent five minutes tying just the way he likes them, even though you were running late. I’m in those nine dollar Wal-Mart-special fold-out chairs that get warmed up every single little league game, rain or shine. I’m in it all, watching it all, and it’s all for ... me.”

My phone rings, it’s my husband telling me that he’s on his way home. He’s trying to talk to me about an employee he is having issues with, but I quit listening. Colt needs a bath, the stove just went off, and I have my own list of issues I would like to talk about. I start to rush him off the phone, when I hear it again: “It’s all for me.”

Ok, Lord, I’ll listen.

“...and this is the third time he has showed up late,” my husband continues, “I’ve given him so many chances, and I just don’t know what else to do. The guy nearly cost us five thousand dollars today with some careless mistake he has made over and over. Oh well, you probably don’t want to hear all this. Sorry. I’m just venting. I let you go, be home soon.”

I hang up. His picture pops up on my phone as the call ends. I stare at it until the screen goes black. He does so much for me -- for us. He works so hard. I love him.

I walk into the bathroom and start my baby’s bath water. I run my hand through to test the temperature. It’s just right. As I watch the water rise, I think about what the Lord spoke to me.

It’s all for Him. It’s all for his glory, not mine. Just the thought of it loosens a few of the chains wrapped around my heart. I don’t wake up each morning, wrestle these four children all day, keep the pantry stocked, or even rush to kiss a another skinned knee merely to hear the words, “Thank you.”

No, I wake up, I wrestle, I stock, and I kiss all for His glory. It’s all worship.

And worship is the ultimate salve for my wounds. I only begin to heal when I look beyond myself and remember that it is all for Him, by Him, and through Him. 

I bow my head.

“Thank you, Lord, for revealing to me my purpose: to glorify you in all that I do. Thank you for setting me free from the smallness of myself and letting me enter into the fullness of you. I worship you, Jesus, right here, right now. I prepare this bath, all for you, and when I bathe my baby, that’s also for you. And when I dry him off, dress him, and tuck him in for another night’s sleep, that, too, is all for you. Help me to stop believing the lie that I always deserve more, because truth is, you are more than enough.”

I raise my head just in time to see the water run over the tub’s edge and I know it is Him – he always fills to overflowing.

Get what I deserve. The ridiculousness of the thought now makes me laugh aloud. Thank God I don’t get what I deserve. I get above and beyond, exceedingly more than I could ever hope, dream, think or ask for. I turn off the faucet, but my cup still runneth over.  

1,000 Gifts: My Husband's Love

I’m standing bedside, setting my alarm, when my husband comes up behind and places his hands on my waist.

“Hold on, please.” I jerk away and continue setting my alarm.

He walks to the other side of the bed, turns out the light, lies down and ... silence.

I sigh, shake my head, roll my eyes in the dark, and lie down beside him. The room is silent; the only noise is the humming of our fan. All is calm in the physical world, but inside our hearts and minds, storms are brewing.

I know what I should do. What I should do is reach over, touch my husband, apologize for shunning his advance, and initiate intimacy. I feel the Holy Spirit prodding, but my ego shoves harder.

My ego is reminding me, “You’ve had a long, hard day with the kids, his kids, and you deserve to sleep. You are the one who will be getting up with the baby in a couple hours, not him, why should you have to do everything?”

I feel a storm approaching. I begin the toxic habit of replaying in my mind the times I think my husband has hurt me, let me down, disappointed me; all this causing my ego and I to agree even more: Why should I have to sacrifice my sleep for him? What’s in it for me? Why does he even deserve my physical affection? Better yet, don’t I deserve a break?

Just as I begin to feel justified enough in my defiance to fall asleep, the Holy Spirit chimes back in, “Don’t let the sun go down on your anger.”

Although I’m not willing to be fully obedient, I’m at least willing to give this command some attention, or maybe I just want an excuse to talk.  

“Are you mad at me?” I break the silence. What a dumb question. Of course he is mad at me, but this sets the ball in motion.

His response comes so swiftly that it’s evident I barely beat him to speaking first.

“Why don’t you love me like you used to?”

Pain shoots through my body; a golf-ball size pit forms in my throat. Once again, I know how I should respond. I should tell him that I love him more than anything, explain how sorry I am if that’s not coming across clearly, hug him tight, and kiss him longer than ever. I should recognize the pain in his question and I should try to alleviate it. I should...

But I don’t.

“How could you not think I love you?!?” I snap back, “My entire life revolves around sacrificing for you and these kids. I left my dream career, I spend my whole day cleaning and cooking and making this house a place you will want to come home to, and I always make sure we don’t go longer than a couple days without, well, ‘you know.’ All I DO is show you that I love you!!”

Oh really? Then why won’t you show him now? Ugh, the Holy Spirit just won’t leave me alone.  

“Oh, I know,” he explains, “you DO everything perfect. You accomplish everything on the daily “Good-Wife-Checklist,” but I don’t feel like you look at me the same way you used to...”

I say nothing. I’m too busy thinking.

“You’re right,” he starts backing down, probably due in part to mere tiredness, “I guess we just communicate our love differently. I will work on not getting so upset with you. You do a lot for me and I know you love me very much.”

My flesh feels success but my spirit aches.

Sometimes, often times, in a marriage, we allow little drops of resentment to rain into our heart’s buckets. We carry these buckets around with us, trying not to spill them, struggling to keep them balanced as we run errands, go to work, eat dinner, and watch television. Yet, despite our best efforts, they get tipped, and the water falls out. Sometimes just a dribble, a sarcastic remark, a murmur under our breath, and other times the entire bucket turns on its side, the water gushes out, and falls from the inner corners of our eyes. 

I lay my head on his chest and let the tears silently fall.  He drifts off, but I’m wide awake – angry. Not with him, but with myself.

“Why can’t I just let go, Lord? Why am I still holding on to all this control and pride? Why would I rebuff the advances of a man who has vowed his heart to me forever?” I pray.

Why is it that, as wives, we would rather scrub the mildew from the tubs, spend hours cooking a meal, or planning a party for our husbands, than simply say yes to his wooing? After all, isn’t physical intimacy the main attribute which separates the marriage union from all other relationships?

Here I am, the woman with the “gratitude wall” in her home, the “gratitude journal” in her purse, and the blog that’s even titled “Eucharistero,” literally meaning “to give thanks,” and I just spewed ingratitude and entitlement all over the best earthly gift God has ever given me: my husband.

Where did it come from? In the midst of all my gratitude reading, thankfulness teaching, and Eucharistero blogging, how did I allow myself to overlook gratefulness for my own husband, even to the point of denying him my love when he gestures for it? Was he becoming so familiar that he was losing his “specialness” in my eyes?

I am reminded of a quote I recently read that says, “Familiarity breeds boredom only to the blind.” Am I blind? Blind to what a gift my husband is, blind to what a great opportunity the Lord is giving me to honor him with my affection, blind to the joy of unselfish, Christ-like, marital intimacy.

I lie there on his bare chest, eyelids shut, heart-lids opens.

I run my hand across his torso, it’s hairy, and I’ve always liked that. I slip my hand into his, it’s calloused and rough, and I like that. I hear his heart beat and I know it beats for the Lord, for me, for our children, and I love that.

What a gift he is. What a gift it is to honor him with my love, however he wants it – whenever he wants it. Whether it is taking care of his children, cooking his meals, cleaning his clothes, listening to him when he speaks, laughing at his jokes, or stopping everything that I am doing, to let him kiss me, it is all a gift from God. It’s all grace. This revelation makes me smile.

I can’t help but whisper aloud, “Thank you, Lord,” as I fall asleep in the arms of my gift.

If we want a fulfilling, joyful life, then every day we must retrain our brains to see the world through a lens of gratitude, remembering that all is grace, and that even Christ our King didn’t come to be served, but to serve. 

Love Will Save the Day

Hanging in my living room is a three dollar, five by seven, wooden plaque, which claims, “Love will save the day.”

           

            Countless times I’ve crossed its path.

            

            I’ve angered in front of it. Envied, worried, and wrestled only one room away. I’ve strived, labored, stewed and festered in its presence.

            

            I’ve paced across its face. Restlessly, back and forth, back and forth.

            

            Yet, the whispers of this wooden plaque never change, never cease -- never abandon their mission.

            

            “Love will save the day,” it beckons.

           

             My children stretch my patience, exhaust my self-control, and track mud across the kitchen floor.

            

           “Love will save the day,” it calls.

           

             I lose my temper, I make another commitment – only to later break it, I mistreat the ones I adore the most, and my best intentions fall short -- again.

            

            “Love will save it the day,” it pursues.

            

            Tragedy on every channel, prodigals who have yet to come home, marriages dying, and hearts, everywhere, hardening.

            

            “Love will save the day,” it woos.

            

Relentless.

Romantic.

            

Rapturous.

            

              I can no longer resist its lure. Love’s lure. His lure.

            

             “Love will save the day,” he promises.

            

             “But will you let it? Will you let me?” He asks.

            

             Ah, but that’s just it. Do I trust enough to let go? Every hour, in my own living room, I read that “Love will save the day.” I confess with my mouth that I believe it to be so, but my emotions speak the opposite, with anxiety, doubt, and control.

           I recently read that all fear is but the notion that we do not serve a loving God. Does this mean that when I keep my fists clenched, when I fret over my busy schedule, when I wonder if things will ever change, that all I am really saying is, “My Lord doesn’t love me”?

           Oh, but he does. I re-read his love letters to aid my memory. And there it is, His Love, dripping off of every page:

What heights, what depths (Ephesesians 3:18); He loved us first (1 John 4:19); a love that surpasses knowledge (Ephesians 3:19); I have loved you (John 15:9); the Father loves you (John 16:27); He gave himself for you (Ephesians 5:2); and on and on.

              I close His giant Love Letter and look around. He is writing His love for me all over the room. I hear it in the sound of my children’s laughter, I see it in the blooming of my orchid, I smell it in the brownies baking, I feel it in my husband’s caress, and I taste it in this glass of sweet tea. It’s underneath me, above me, it’s inside of me.

              I inhale deep.

            “Forgive me...” I exhale. I inhale again. The air is lighter, cleaner, less burdensome.

             How easily I forget His love. What amnesia I have when it comes to the Lord’s faithfulness.

            I glance over the rim of my laptop’s edge and read the plaque again. This time I can’t help but giggle aloud.

I am loved.

I AM loved.

I AM LOVED.

            A veil was torn, the earth shook, rocks split, and Love, forever, saved the day. (Matthew 27:51)

The Upside-Down Kingdom

Captivated,

but no longer bound by chains.

Love sick,

in this upside down Kingdom,

Where

            I

               must

                        descend

to ascend;

Where I can only hold on, by letting go;

Where I can only mature, by becoming like  a little child;

                                                                

Where I only live, by dying daily,

Where I can only stand, when I'm on

                                                             my

                                                                  knees,

Where I only feel full, when I am most empty,

I’m but dust and ashes, 

yet the world was created 

                                          for 

                                               my 

                                                    sake.

1,000 Gifts: Out of the Mouth of Babes

Today, during our morning Bible lesson, Jon's assignment was to write down 5 gifts that we receive when we become children of God. He got the first couple pretty quickly and without my prompting: Heaven and Forgiveness. He needed a little nudging to come up with the last three: Friendship with God, Answered Prayers, and Peace. I explained to him that we have Peace because we know God is ALWAYS with us and that we are never alone.

As he was writing down number five, Peace, he blurts out, "So he was with all the kidnapped kids, and murdered kids, and all the raped kids?"

I answer without thinking, "Yes!"

Uh oh, I immediately realize that I'm going to have to now explain my answer. My mind races for the best way to word my response. This is a big moment. How I answer this question could shape his faith for a long time.

I do my best, trusting God to guide my words, "We serve a good God, Jon, but, there IS evil in the world. And sometimes God allows evil things to happen, but we can trust that even in the hard times and the painful times, that God has a GOOD plan for our lives..."

He interrupts me, "Like Jesus."

I'm confused, "What do you mean, son?"

"Look at all the painful stuff that happened to Jesus. It was all part of God's good plan."

I feel a tear coming up, but I hold it back. "Yes, like that."

We didn't discuss it anymore. He got it. He gets it. It's taken me 25 years to even BEGIN grasping this concept, the concept that God is present even in our pain, and that the pain may even be a part of his GOOD plan for us, but here is my 9-year-old son, getting it.

I add two more gifts to my list...

#19. a 9-year-old asking the tough questions.
#20. a 9- year old answering the tough questions.

Digging for Treasure

As I watch my "little treasures" dig for treasure, I pray over them. I pray that they will treasure Jesus more than anything this world has to offer, even more than themselves.  This is my #1 prayer for them because I know if they treasure Christ above all, then everything else will fall in place for them. Keep digging for treasure, my little men, but Momma can already assure you, the richest treasures can only be found in Him.