Happy Mother’s Day!

Some of my happiest mothering memories are set in a blue mini-van on the open road as our family traveled cross country for five weeks back in the summer of 2010. With very few distractions, our time together was focused on the beauty around us and the many sights we all shared for the first time.

Setting up the tent each evening, we tried to shave seconds off our previous record set-up time. Camp sites that had a pool AND a laundry facility got bonus points. We found that if we really stretched our arms, our whole family could connect around a giant redwood tree. Side by side, we marveled at wonders both natural and man made: Niagara Falls and Mount Rushmore; Old Faithful and the Space Needle. Our shared focus was outward, and the world was huge and gorgeous.

Maybe the most important secret in fulfilling our wish for a Happy Mother’s Day this weekend is to strive for that outward focus. Disappointment looms large in this season when all the Hallmark movies and cheesy commercials urge us to expect great things from our offspring and devoted husbands. This is the day that’s supposed to make all the sacrifice of the preceding 364 days “worth it,” right?

Realism lands hard in the month of May.

My Mother’s Day wish for you this weekend is the gift of an outward focus. Find a way to show honor and appreciation to a woman who is pouring herself into the lives of others. If your own mum has passed away, adopt someone for the day. Shower attention and love on the woman who mothers your grandchildren and puts up with your son everyday. Call a friend who has made the world richer just because she’s in your life — and tell her so!

“Generous persons will prosper; those who refresh others will themselves be refreshed.”  Proverbs 11:25 (CEB)

Wishing you a refreshing Mother’s Day!

michele signature rose[1]

 

 

 

If you enjoy reading Living Our Days, subscribe to get regular content delivered to your inbox. Just enter your e-mail address in the field at the top of this page.

I link-up with a number of blogging communities on a regular basis. They are listed in the left sidebar by day of the week. I hope that you will take a moment to enjoy reading the work of some of these fine writers and thinkers.

 

Advertisements

A Collection of Books for a Grace-Filled Mother’s Day

In 1914, when Woodrow Wilson signed the proclamation designating the second Sunday in May as a national holiday to celebrate mothers, there’s no way he could have predicted the century of retail hoopla and family angst that would ride on the coattails of his intention to simply honor mothers and their role in the family. Maybe you, the mother in your home, are already feeling the crush of your generational sandwich: the desire to make time for your own mother on that special day while entering into the plans your husband and kids have made for you. And while you’re pondering that, maybe there’s the question of how to best show love to the mother of your precious grandchildren! Then, there’s your mother-in-law . . .

The recipe for this Mother’s Day brew doesn’t even begin to account for ingredients like the heartache of infertility or the disappointment of generational dysfunction.  Maybe the path to a grace-filled Mother’s Day lies in the way we approach mothering as a way of life. What if we made a practice of celebrating year-round the women who have poured themselves into our lives? What if you began to value your own role in the body-and-soul nourishment of fussy newborns and fractious toddlers? How would your life be different if you embraced the high value of those hours spent in a mini-van and your prowess at getting the grass stains out of white baseball pants?

Rejoicing in the Spiritual Practice of Mothering

Catherine McNiel wrote Long Days of Small Things: Motherhood as a Spiritual Discipline out of the experience of her own turbulence in the line of mothering duty. Well aware of the creaturely weakness that plagues her own journey, she offers life-giving practices and  perspective-altering insights. She invites busy mums to attend to the work God wants to do in their souls and to join C.S. Lewis in realizing that “the world is crowded with Him. . . The real labour is to remember, to attend.” (xiii)

Sometimes we need the reminder that motherhood is a window to a deeper understanding of theological truth about the incarnation; that pregnancy is a miracle in which “the unbelievable becomes tangible” in our own flesh and bone, and that we make it through the years of  mothering “one hour, one day at a time.” (149)

In a life that seems to yield not one minute for observing spiritual disciplines, McNiel urges mums to sink deeply into the practice of motherhood with its slow minutes and fast years and the multitude of mindlessly repetitive and yet very necessary tasks. Offered up to God with a heart of worship, the daily duties become a very spiritual practice, crashing through the artificial wall between the secular and the sacred.

When my four sons were all very young, I knew that my role consisted of the intensely physical routines of helping:  trimming 40 finger and toe nails, pulling shirts on over tousled heads, tying shoe laces, and making sandwiches. Now that all my boys are taller than I am (and in many ways more competent!), my role is different, but my offering to them is still the same. Mothering is the pouring out of a life, one drop at a time, in an often unseen sacrifice and surrender that captivates soul, spirit, and body. The relationships that were forged in those early mothering days are the gift that helps me to pray with knowledge as I fold towels for the son who is going to carry them off to college in a laundry basket. The heart connection is what makes family gatherings and frequent phone calls so precious as I hear firsthand fresh stories about the lives they are building in other places.

The life-giving practice of motherhood is carried out over a lifetime as we present ourselves to God and to our children, over and over again, in a multitude of offerings that bind us to our families and strengthen our connection with God.

More Books for a Grace-Filled Mother’s Day

Christina Morley likens the process of writing Happy Moms, Happy Homes: Empowering Moms to Live in Victory to the preparation of a 25-course meal. In bite-sized portions, she serves up twenty-five aspects of the mothering life, beginning with the need for empowerment by a God who pours His own love into our hearts.  Morley lays a theological foundation for mothering that discourages perfectionism, sets a course that listens for the voice of God, and focuses on relationship rather than rigid routines in the pursuit of God.

Because mums are “quick to take care of our kids and slow to take care of ourselves,” Christina shares her own journey of embracing self care and balanced living, and declares that Super-moms actually cheat their families out of the opportunity to learn and become well-rounded by performing routine tasks for themselves. (Amen!)

Gratitude and joy are the lubricant that keep the gears of motherhood from grinding and sticking. Happy Moms, Happy Homes takes readers on a whirlwind journey with the grumbling Old Testament people of God to demonstrate the wisdom of receiving God’s gifts without lamenting the things He withholds in His wisdom.

Mothers need a vibrant spiritual life based in “prayer without ceasing,” so they can do battle for their families in the spiritual realm where “the weapons of our warfare are mighty through God.” The investment of all our resources for the benefit of our family demonstrates faith in God to provide.

Healthy relationships within the family depend upon forgiveness and a working partnership between husband and wife. Parents who are “relationship builders” tend to pass that trait on to their children by example, and the Kingdom of God is advanced!

I’m still in the process of taking grace for this mothering gig, and one huge encouragement along the way is the shared experiences of others. Jamie Sumner is also a mother who walks on the tightly-wound side, and Unbound: Finding Freedom from Unrealistic Expectations of Motherhood is a memoir of her mothering journey in which she allows her own story to tell itself, while weaving in fresh re-tellings of the familiar life stories of biblical women. Read my full review here!

Unseen: The Gift of Being Hidden in a World That Loves to Be Noticed is the product of Sara Hagerty’s collision course with the beautiful “waste” of a poured out life that hides behind hardship, disappointment, challenging circumstances, or the simple routine of an obedient following. We will never know the comfort of God as our “refuge and strength” until we come to a place in our lives in which we need to take refuge.  It’s clear that “our hidden places aren’t signs of God’s displeasure or punishment,” but rather places in which God intends to teach our hearts to sing. (33) I reviewed Sara’s book here.

Courtney Reissig’s personal illustrations and the vignettes shared from the lives of her friends encourage me to lift my eyes from the all-consuming “what” of my daily list and from the pervasive “how” (as in “how am I going to get all this done?”), and to fix my eyes on the one beautiful question:  “Why?” Glory in the Ordinary: Why Your Work in the Home Matters to God (Gospel Coalition) serves up the truth that the work of home is the work of spreading God’s glory throughout the world.  By entering into the reality of that today, we leave a mark on those we serve and prepare our hearts for a future of greater work and greater joy when we will see that there has never been a mundane task without purpose in God’s incredible universe in which nothing goes to waste. You can read more thoughts on Glory in the Ordinary here.

In First Ask Why: Raising Kids to Love God Through Intentional Discipleship, Shelly Hunt Wildman turns a laser focus onto the subject of parenting, inviting her readers into an intentional practice of envisioning the kind of family we want and then, by God’s grace, doing what needs to be done to make that vision become a reality. Fortunately, Shelly is writing from a place of self-awareness that prevents her from sounding off as a “parenting expert.” With honesty about her own shortcomings and failures, she shares her own goal of greater mindfulness with the voice of a fellow-traveler on this bumpy road of parenting. I happily served on the Launch Team for First Ask Why, so you can read my review here.

Gloria Furman celebrates both mothers and mothering in Missional Motherhood: The Everyday Ministry of Motherhood in the Grand Plan of God, and she immediately grabs her readers’ attention with the truth that there is so much more to this nurturing life than the quest for the perfect macaroni and cheese recipe and the indoctrination of perfectly-behaved children. The heart of the matter for all mothers is . . . our hearts.  Our brokenness, our mixed motives, and our innate selfishness get in the way of our ability to realize all that we dream of when we envision our call to mothering.  Missional motherhood is a term that embodies this “glad-hearted, life-giving” work of pouring ourselves into the life of another. I shared a full-length review here.

Somehow, Seth Haines knew the gift his wife needed for the Christmas following the birth of their third child — so he put out the word.  Friends, favorite authors, and bloggers were asked for a contribution of hope, a letter from the heart of a mother.  The response far exceeded Seth’s expectations, and he was able to present to his wife, Amber C. Haines, a collection of stories:  joyful accounts of tiny people and huge love; tales of grief and estrangement; recollections of disappointment and of celebration. Now the gift is being multiplied in The Mother Letters: Sharing the Laughter, Joy, Struggles, and Hope , an exquisitely bound and illustrated gift book that fosters community while it celebrates the beauty of borrowed strength. Here’s a link to more information about the book.

It’s a privilege to begin the Mother’s Day party with you here today! Thanks for reading, and may you find that a heart full of gratitude for the joy of mothering and the recognition that you have been mothered according to God’s plan for you fill your celebration with joy!

Blessings and love to you,

michele signature rose[1]

 

 

Each book in this collection has been provided by the author or by the publisher for the purpose of my review which is, of course, freely and honestly given.

I  am a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by advertising and linking to Amazon.com. If you should decide to purchase any of the titles listed in this post simply click on the title (or the image) within the text, and you’ll be taken directly to Amazon. If you decide to buy, I’ll make a small commission at no extra cost to you.

 

If you enjoy reading Living Our Days, subscribe to get regular content delivered directly to your inbox. Just enter your e-mail address in the field at the top of this page.

I link-up with a number of blogging communities on a regular basis. They are listed in the left sidebar by day of the week. I hope that you will take a moment to enjoy reading the work of some of these fine writers and thinkers.

Caregiving: Wisdom for the Sandwich Generation

I heard her footsteps on the stairs one night — jolted out of a sound sleep and into the familiar world of worry.

Step, click, pause.

The foot, the cane, the balance check.

Exhaling in the dark, I realized . . . no.  I had been dreaming.  She’s not here anymore.  She’s walking in safety now, through hallways with sturdy rails, assisted by M.A.’s and C.N.A.’s and an alphabet soup of helpers who tend to her every need.

That transition from our home to a long term care facility was heart-wrenching. Today, the first anniversary of my mother’s passing, I’m sharing some reflections on that season of care giving at The Perennial Gen.

As difficult as it was to have Mum in our home, it was even more difficult to make the decision that she needed more advanced care. In His mercy, God gifted a peaceful and painless passage to Mum, and in the year since then, I’m thankful to find that the memory of hard days and relational tension is being swallowed up in healing and forgiveness.

For those who are walking the tightrope of parenting your children while giving care to an elderly parent, please know that your sacrifices and struggles are seen by God, and He will give wisdom and strength — even for the decisions that feel as if there is no right answer.

I’m sharing our family’s story of grace with the folks at The Perennial Gen today. Join me?


If you enjoy reading Living Our Days, subscribe to get regular content delivered to your inbox. Just enter your e-mail address in the field at the top of this page.

I link-up with a number of blogging communities on a regular basis. They are listed in the left sidebar by day of the week. I hope that you will take a moment to enjoy reading the work of some of these fine writers and thinkers.

The Perfect Vacation for an Imperfect Family

We arrived at our campsite well after dark.  The rodeo had been a much-anticipated highlight of our cross-country trip, and no one was in a hurry to stop talking about it — or to crawl into our sleeping bags.

It’s a good thing, too, because standing where our tent should have been was a small gathering of fellow campers.  One was setting up our lawn chairs and three others were headed in our direction, dragging a pile of fabric that looked like . . . our tent.

The six of us piled out of the mini-van into the glow of our headlights.  My eight-year-old took my hand.

Kind neighbors informed us that while we were gone a tornado had swept through the campground throwing tents and camping equipment in every direction.  Our tent had been completely uprooted, leaving behind all its stabilizing ropes and anchoring pegs, and landing in a heap several sites away.

Beside me, a small voice quavered, “Does this mean we have to go home?”

Cobbling together a plan on the fly, my husband and I tag-teamed a way forward:

“We’re going to gather our sleeping bags . . .”

“We’ll pack up all our gear . . .”

“And we’ll find a hotel in town, back where we watched the rodeo!”

“Tomorrow we’ll buy a new tent, first thing.”

By the time we had loaded the last cooler, everyone was visualizing the luxury of a hotel shower.  (Especially me!)

Apparently when you show up in a hotel lobby at 1 a.m. with four dusty kids, they’re willing to bend the rules about maximum occupancy.  We arranged ourselves somewhere on or around two king-sized beds and, amazingly, we slept.

Fortified by a quick breakfast of yogurt and bagels, we bought a tent at a big box store and hit the road, because now we were not merely travelers.  We were tent-tornado survivors, and we would persevere.

Earlier in the trip, teenage squabbles might have derailed us.  Slow-drying beach towels twirling in tired campsite laundromats might have dampened our spirits.  The perennially squashed hot dog buns in our crowded mini-van might have seemed like an impossible hardship before, but post-tornado, we began to see ourselves as adventurers on the open road.  For this privilege, we could eat the odd squashed bun.

We had started our vacation behaving as if there was a “right way” to do this cross-country journey, a perfect itinerary to follow, and a “correct approach” to the family road trip.  We read every word of the historical markers, looked in every corner of every museum, and collected brochures for future school projects.  Please understand that this was not a matter of capturing teachable moments – this was a case of ambushing them and wrestling them to the ground.

Sometimes it takes a tornado to make you realize that you are driving your kids (and yourselves) crazy.  Intentionally, we backed away from perfect.  We began to get off the highway more often.  As our mini-van devoured the miles, we spotted our first cactus on the way up Scott’s Bluff.  We stalked cicadas that sounded like artillery fire in the muggy southeastern darkness, and we marveled at mockingbirds that apparently spend every waking moment fine-tuning their repertoire.

We made crazy Hail Mary phone calls to camp sites, hoping at the last minute to be able to pitch our tent near a place we had fallen in love with.  After all, if Mt. Rushmore is stunning at sunset, what will it look like in early morning light?

The unclenching of my fists around the idea of the perfect vacation signaled the opening of my hands to The Given.  Designed by a wild, incomprehensible, and totally-other God, we are, nonetheless, a family of imperfection – and delight!

We are museums, and we are rodeos.
We are McDonald’s hamburgers, and we are fresh Washington state cherries eaten alongside the road.
We are wild, whirling winds; and we are dark, peaceful night skies announcing that God really did “hang the earth on nothing.”

Our vacation was not perfect, but neither are we.

We had brought ourselves along for the journey.
And we were glad to have us.

//

Photo by Jason Blackeye on Unsplash

//

If you are planning to read Wendell Berry’s  Jayber Crow  and to join us in the discussion, we’ll begin tackling chapters 1-3 on September 7th.  I’ll be sharing the full schedule on August 31 in my end-of-month musings post.

One of the prevailing themes of the book seems to be the nature of calling.  Jayber’s life takes some unexpected twists and turns, but even so, he had this to say:

“I have been unable to shake off the feeling that I have been led — make of that what you will.”

 

If you enjoy reading Living Our Days, subscribe to get regular Bible studies and book reviews delivered to your inbox.  Just enter your e-mail address in the field at the top of this page.

I link-up with a number of blogging  communities on a regular basis.  They are listed in the left sidebar by day of the week.  I hope that you will take a moment to enjoy reading the work of some of these fine writers and thinkers.

The Meeting Places

Some mornings the new mercy arrives at 4 a.m., looking like a slice of lemon yellow sunrise behind ragged lavender clouds.  My early morning drive to the hospital sent me due east.  Not knowing what I would find there, I thanked God for the mercy of ambulances and strong men who lift gently and answer questions with thorough patience.  When I arrived, I thanked Him for a thoughtful son who showed up unexpectedly and stood in a cramped, curtained room waiting for inconclusive test results.  There were no windows in this meeting place to announce daylight’s arrival, but this one thing I know:  by the time the coastal mist had burned off and blue sky had chosen the morning, Mum was already in heaven.

That afternoon, three generations gathered around spaghetti and salad and pictures from my mother’s albums.  Remembering and wondering and making ten thousand phone calls filled in the spaces of that whole day, but this is a homeschooling family, so the following sunrise was succeeded quickly by breakfast as usual — and trigonometry.  My graduating senior will tell you that trig has a language all its own, but what I see in these days of comings and goings is a charming branch of mathematics that assures me that there is a relationship among all the parts. If I know the measure of an angle and the length of a couple of sides, I can figure out the whole triangle.  This is oddly comforting on the morning after an abrupt departure that followed a mere three hours in the emergency room — a flight that somehow connects the vast horizon of heaven to the granite outcroppings and furrowed garden soil that comprise my everyday world.

Momentous Milestones

Poet Luci Shaw compares the death of a parent to standing on the top rung of a ladder.  Suddenly there you are, at the top, hands grasping at nothing, “no one above you to compass the wideness of space.”  Mum had long ago ceded the role of family matriarch to me, her older daughter, but even so, the generational ladder is filling up behind me and every milestone feels momentous.  For example, this year marks a perpendicular line that perfectly bisects the span of my days.  At the age of 27, I married an unreasonably patient man, and this month marks our 27th anniversary.  Finally, I have been married for as many years as I was single, my life folding over onto itself with a neat center crease like a greeting card — or a church bulletin.

This intersection of halves has set me to wondering:  would the single me even recognize her married counterpart, all settled into gardening and homeschooling, and happy to spend any amount of time alone with a book and a pen?  At the same time, my married self looks back with astonishment at all the energy and emotion that was spent like water in those early decades.  Surely there’s some way to capture and recycle it?

Of course, all this comparing and contrasting of the two halves is one more evidence that I “see in a mirror dimly.”  So, as I grab my cuff and vigorously wipe away as much of the fog as I can, the clearing surface reveals an aging faith along with this aging face.  The girl who loved theology — but was pretty sure she wasn’t smart enough to declare it as a major —  would be astonished at all the reading and re-reading of sacred words, the taking of notes and the building of outlines that goes on in this graying head.

The Truer Meeting Place

Paul writes about this kind of growth in a letter to the Ephesians that emphasizes wholeness and a maturing process that is endless, for today it is incomprehensible that I could be “like Christ in everything . . . so that we will grow up healthy in God, robust in love.” (MSG)  Meeting myself in the middle and saying goodbye to my mother allows all that is past to strike a sympathetic chord with the future.  I’m encouraged to move forward, mindful of my weaknesses and stubborn sin tendencies — but not defined by them.

Madeleine L’Engle once said in her later years, “I am still every age that I have been.”  She may have worked that out through her career as an author, but with my mother’s departure, I’m seeing it happen in real life.  Already the past ten years of cantankerous demands and stubbornness are being swallowed up in memories of better days when she laughed at her own jokes and answered the phone with a high pitched “hallooo” (that my sister and I always made fun of).  Her older grandsons remember stale Oreos and boxed macaroni and cheese served with joy while they watched Teletubbies on her t.v.

Perhaps this miracle of memory foreshadows a truer meeting place that will become reality once faith has become sight; when the energy of the twenties; the ambition of the thirties; the settled contentment of the forties; and the ripening wisdom of the fifties and beyond all meet, join hands, and dance in a full-hearted, completely mended consummation of a life, “fully mature . . ., fully developed within and without, fully alive like Christ.” (Ephesians 4:13 MSG)

//

Mum, my curly haired baby sister, and me — probably in 1965.

If you enjoy reading Living Our Days, subscribe to get regular Bible studies and book reviews delivered to your inbox.  Just enter your e-mail address in the field at the top of this page.

I link-up with a number of blogging  communities on a regular basis.  They are listed in the left sidebar by day of the week.  I hope that you will take a moment to enjoy reading the work of some of these fine writers and thinkers.

Start Where I Am. Use What I Have.

When my thrifty mother-in-law made mincemeat, she would start with the venison roast from a deer who may have had the audacity to nibble on her tulip leaves.  From there, she would improvise, adding whatever needed using up on that particular day:  a batch of jam that didn’t “set up” just right or an over-abundance of applesauce.  Somehow, the mincemeat always simmered fragrant and delicious.

When I make mincemeat, I follow a recipe – to the letter. But it is likely that if any of my daughters-in-law find a need for that particular pie filling, they will just buy a jar off the shelf.
(Or I will give them one of mine!)

I’m well aware that generational change is a given, but having BOTH a graduation AND a wedding on my spring calendar this year brings it to center stage.  Good and exciting things happen quickly once our kids hit the double digits, so I’m braced and on board.  Change is on the menu whether I like it or not.

I’m choosing to like it.

However, here just below the 45th parallel, where the sun rises in its own good time, spring is still weeks away.

The majestic evergreens and the kindness of low  bushes that turn a deep red after they drop their leaves are all that rescue my mid-winter landscape from a panorama of sepia and gray.  Last night, Venus and the waxing crescent moon were veiled in mist, and the damp cold that is seeping into my bones today tells me that change is on the way.  And I welcome it.

If it’s got to be winter anyway, then let it be cold.  Let the ground stay hard, and let the sky send a fresh, clean blanket of white every few days to relieve the monotony of all that has expired.  Better to walk on frozen ground or across the crunch of snow than to sink into the mud of mid-winter acedia.  Better to bring my mittens, my shovel, and my small resiliency to a beautiful world than to mourn the slow and uncertain advent of spring.

In this season of slow sunrise and early dark when the daffodils snooze and the robins make angry phone calls to their travel agents, I will make fish chowder and fill up the empty spaces around my table with people who need the full feeling that comes from a hearty welcome.  After all, no matter how earnest my intentions, I cannot make less than six quarts of anything.  (And I can’t shake the idea that if Jesus had walked the frozen fields of New England instead of the dusty roads of Galilee, He would have worked His way with a metaphor around an abundant kettle of steaming chowder.)

With sons coming and going, who knows how many bowls I will need to put on the table?  This ever-changing count provides a concrete measure, a confirmation of the vague sensation I carry that someone, somewhere has thrown a lever, releasing a huge gush of life from this busy and crowded home.

This season of change includes Driver’s Ed — Round 4. This time, I’m certain that the boy behind the wheel was napping in his crib just yesterday, while I weeded green beans and scribbled in a journal.  Today, I handed him my cell phone (which he immediately silenced) and told him to call me when he needed to be picked up.

My first cellphone had a tiny antenna on it.  It rang infrequently, but when it did, I usually missed the call anyway, because, buried in my purse, it sounded like a distant chainsaw in the woods.

I still keep my phone in my purse, despite the “fervent counsel” (i.e. nagging) of my children.
Them:  “Where were you?”
Me:  “In the garden.”
Them:  “Why didn’t you take your phone with you?”
Me:  (momentary silence while I try to adjust my wording and tone to be kinder than I am feeling)  “Because I carried a baby monitor around in the garden for ten years.”

Is it a sign of progress that, now, when I hear a distant chain saw in the woods, I run for my cell phone?

A more urgent question:  Am I willing to “outgrow” my crankiness and claustrophobia about technology in order to connect with the important people in my life?

Facebook updates me on the steady advance of the cancer that is tunneling its way through one more friend.  Closer to home, dementia is stealing the self-hood and the memories of yet another precious personality whose creativity and warm laughter are forever lost to this world – while she wanders a locked-down ward and curls up on the wrong bed for her afternoon nap.

Thanks be to God that the offset of all this lament comes in celebration of the full-body smile of my adorable grandson who has absolutely no idea how much joy he adds to the world just by inhabiting his own tiny skin,.  And while it is true that it is the voice of the Lord that “strips the forest bare,” it is also true that when “winter is past [and] the rain over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth . . . and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.  The fig tree ripens is figs, and the vines are in blossom; they give forth fragrance,” (Song of Solomon 2:11-13).  I will bring what I am learning about patience from this cycling of the seasons to my navigation of a life of perpetual change.

I will start where I am with my full days and my inconsistencies and my pitiful mixed motives.

I will use what I have, putting it all in the pot to simmer, and somehow, by the grace of God, I believe that it will be enough.

//

If you enjoy reading Living Our Days, subscribe to get regular Bible studies and book reviews delivered to your inbox.  Just enter your e-mail address in the field at the top of this page.

I link-up with a number of blogging  communities on a regular basis.  They are listed in the left sidebar by day of the week.  I hope that you will take a moment to enjoy reading the work of some of these fine writers and thinkers.

 

 

The Season of Yes

“You can say ‘no.’”

Immediately, my guard went up.
It was Christmas time, so my planner was bulging its squares with lists of things to buy and to wrap and to bake.  What was my husband going to propose that required this ominous-sounding, front-loaded disclaimer?

Well, it turns out that there was this puppy . . .

A St. Bernard puppy – the dream puppy of my youngest son’s heart.

Could I really say ‘no’?

Well, sure . . . I could have, but how much cuteness would I have missed at the sight of a small boy’s head resting on a big dog’s sprawled body?  How much joy and laughter would be absent each Christmas without Tucker’s howling descant that floats atop our seasonal singing?

It seems to me that many of life’s loveliest gifts come with a built-in refusal clause:

“Be still and know that I am God, (Psalm 16:10 NKJV).

I can say no to stillness.  I am free to fill my life with activity and noise            that drown out the whisper of God’s Spirit.

“In all your ways acknowledge Him and He shall direct your path,” (Proverbs 3:6 NKJV).

I can say no to His direction.  I can bulldoze my own path through life.

“With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation,” (Isaiah 12:3 NKJV).

I can say no to eternal abundance.  My bucket can hang out to dry while I   search for joy in ways that leave me parched and exhausted.

Or I can trust God and make room in my heart for the risk that comes with a yes.

The “yes” that bubbled to the surface on the Christmas that Tucker joined our crew was a gift to my family, but it was a gift to me as well, for I learned that I don’t have to play it safe in my love for my family.

Acceptance of inconvenience stretches the boundaries of my heart, while my yes becomes a reminder that Jesus Himself ushered in The Season of Yes with His embrace of God’s great rescue plan for the human race.  Early in His ministry, He made His mission clear:  “I have come down from Heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of Him who sent me,” (John 6:38 NKJV).

This is deep teaching that we revisit every Advent season, but as my sons grow into men, our Advent traditions are no longer about teaching them the message of Christmas.  No, they’ve celebrated with stories and carols for so many years that now Advent has become a time to remember known truth and to rejoice in it together; to offer up our hearts as a family in an echo of God’s resounding YES that came when Jesus poured His glory – and His obedience – into a small body and entered time and space.

Jesus brought with Him the Promise, the Mercy, the Forgiveness, and the Welcome that lie at the heart of what we celebrate every Christmas.  His big, beautiful obedience opened the way for my heart to accept His grace and truth — and sometimes . . . to move outside my comfort zone in this glorious Season of Yes.

//

Find more inspiring Christmas reading at BCW’s Christmas Blog Tour!  Click here for the next stop on the tour!

Photo credit

An Announcement for January

Most of us have a favorite C.S. Lewis book, whether it’s the incisive practical theology of Mere Christianity or the glorious story-telling found in The Chronicles of Narnia.  It turns out that C.S. Lewis’s favorite of all his books was Till We Have Faces.  One Lewis scholar calls it his “most subtle treatment of the relation between good and evil.”

Till We Have Faces is a novel, based on the mythical tale of Cupid and Psyche, and in it, Lewis explores themes such as the selfishness of human love, the limits of reason, the corrupting effects of self-will, and in Lewis’s own words, “the havoc a vocation or even a faith works on human life.”   I’m planning to lead a discussion group about the book starting in January, and am hoping that many of you will join me, so here’s a quick overview of the plan:

  1.  The pace will be leisurely at three chapters per week (about 30-ish pages), which will take us into the beginning of March.
  2. I will be posting weekly starting January 5 (Thursdays) with introductory material and a detailed reading schedule.  My hope is that the comments section here at Living Our Days will become a comfy living room where we can discuss our thoughts on the book.  If you blog, PLEASE plan to include a link to your post about the week’s reading so that we can all benefit from one another’s impressions with more detail than is possible in the comments.  If you don’t blog, no worries.  Just share your thoughts in connection with the weekly reading here, and be sure to visit and respond to others.

More details to follow!

If you enjoy reading Living Our Days, subscribe to get regular Bible studies and book reviews delivered to your inbox.  Just enter your e-mail address in the box at the top of this page.

I link-up with a number of blogging  communities on a regular basis.  They are listed in the left sidebar by day of the week.  I hope that you will take a moment to enjoy reading the work of some of these fine writers and thinkers.