Song of My Heart's Devotion

sometimes it takes a funeral

Sometimes it takes a tragedy to make us wake up and serve others who ache with hurt and grief, as fellow believers filled with grace and compassion.

Sometimes it takes a suicide to make us regret our insistence on pretending everyone is fine and mental health is not an issue for "real" believers.

Sometimes it takes the loss of a precious little one to make us treasure the teachable moments as we wipe runny noses and sing the favorite song again.

Sometimes it takes an overdose to make us realize that the prince of darkness stalks our quiet little town just like he roams any big city, seeking whom he may devour.

Sometimes it takes a fight to help us find the gratitude to truly appreciate what a steady, faithful partner we have in our spouse or the relationship with our grown child.

Sometimes it takes a funeral to make us realize we didn't even know this sister or brother in Christ that we smiled and greeted pleasantly for years.

I don't want it to take a funeral or a tragedy to make me learn to be the feet and hands of Christ, but those deeply sorrowful moments, inevitable in life on this earth, are tools God uses to grab our attention and refocus our scatterbrains on souls headed for an eternity in one of two places.

How little anything else matters beside that fact!

And every single bit of sorrow in the world comes paired with a choice, to choose love and hope and faith over despair and depression and hopelessness.

"I call heaven and earth to witness against you today, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing. Therefore choose life, that you and your offspring may live, loving the LORD your God, obeying His voice and holding fast to Him, for He is your life and length of days..."  Deut. 3:19-20

Gracious God our Father, Blessed Controller of all things, we ask that You would help us greet earthly sorrows with renewing of faith.The wickedness and grief of the world takes our breath away and our eyes off You. Yet every instance of tragedy is a chance to choose life and good or death and evil. Give us the courage to choose aright. Help us to learn the lesson in small ways, on small days, so that when the great and terrible trials come, we are strong people already strengthened for the fight. On sure footing let us greet the blows and billows. On Christ the solid Rock we stand. Amen.

a house I'll never have

We were on a cleaning kick, spurred by a summer unexpectedly off-track. Canceling our trip to Thailand with just one week to go left us with an awkward, three-week hole in the middle of our summer. We handled it in different ways. For my son, it was three weeks to spend with his nose in a book, having just been introduced to Ray Bradbury and Mark Twain both. For Mike, three weeks to catch back up with his cycling, which had to be set aside for a while due to throwing his back out earlier this year. For me, three weeks to try to catch my breath, start talking to someone, and make some health changes.

We did not fill the weeks with plans.

My daughter, the social butterfly, did not see the three weeks as a gift. I encouraged her to clean her room so she could have friends over, a motivational tactic that almost always works like a charm. And I gave her a box and told her to put any outgrown toys in there for delivery to charity.

Five boxes and two garbage sacks later, I caught on to the fact that my daughter was at a crossroads during this summer of thirteen. And she was ready to take a more grown-up path. And no matter how I resisted admitting it, as I painted two coats of "Apple Creek" aqua blue over the pink and white daisies that I painted on the nursery walls of a certain precious baby, it was time. My heart had more cracks in it than the old plaster walls, by the time we hung the hot-pink sparkly sheers and plumped the turquoise chevron throw pillows.

She keeps exclaiming how nice it looks and how much larger the room feels. It really is amazing how much good it does the spirit when a room is brightened and freshened.

I told her it's a lesson she'll never forget, and practice for the day when she's putting together her own place and trying to make wise decisions about space and light and movement. How she loved that. I love that her eyes light up at the thought of being a wife and mom, of the little oasis of calm and love she'll build for her family. I love that she thinks I have done that for ours. Someday all too soon she'll begin to see where I've failed at that mission, but today is not that day, and I hear her humming happily as she puts just the very best pictures, posters and trinkets back into their places.

Her zealous purging is infectious. Her brother contributes outgrown clothes and asks for some new, non-Star Wars bedding and curtains. It doesn't hurt so much when he does that, because we've already been through the removal of the Thomas the Tank Engine theme from that bedroom. And when your child towers over you, you accept the inevitable a little more with every gangly hug. It still hurts a mother's heart, but it's such a slow ripping-off of the band-aid.

Mike begins to clear out his books and sell them on Amazon (if you're looking for obscure historical tomes only a history professor could love, you know now where to find them). The stacks by our computer area grow and shrink on a daily basis and he gets his steps in by walking to the post office. And I add odd kitchen things, outdated decorations and unused clothes to every box I tape shut to be carried out to the car, from thence to a charity shop and hopefully into hands that will make better use of them than we have.

It is catching, and it feels good. But I hang on to more than I give away. And as my hands open closets and drawers and my eyes scan the contents, time and time again I happen upon things I have saved for a house I'll never have.

Vinyl verses for the walls in a different house, with an actual dining room.  A shower curtain and towels for the downstairs bathroom that never was. Picture frames, wall organizers, a huge cork board for the office of my dreams. Antiques and vintage linens for a home large enough for steamer trunks and pie safes and cedar chests. A second Christmas tree with no where to be put up.

The dishes alone, that I have saved for some glorious future china cabinet and fancy sit-down dinners, take up so much space in my kitchen that there isn't room for the everyday utensils. I have never actually used the tureens, the platters, the pasta bowls, but I bought them for a house that doesn't exist.

Oh, someday it might. But for right now, they are all silent reminders of ingratitude, discontent, and money that should have been spent elsewhere. We have tried to put our money where our priorities are: Christian education, college funds, family trips, world travel, sacrificial giving to our two favorite charities, and missions through our local church.

I thought I was a cheerful giver, but my little unopened, unused treasures stashed in every closet, drawer and tote give away the fact that I long for a mansion not over the hilltop in heaven, but right here on earth where moth and rust corrupt.

My life NOW, cluttered with things I've hoarded for the future. Things that take up space both physically and emotionally, out of place in a life that should be lived lightly and purposefully. Suddenly I feel the weight of all these things I have gathered to myself, hoarding them for a life we do not live, in a house we do not own.

And it's time. Like my daughter, over-ready to leave childish things behind, I am suddenly ready, too.

not what you signed up for: to my spouse

I know this is not what you signed up for.

I didn't sign up for this, either.

On good days, I know you know that.

On bad days, I'm convinced I've ruined us. That my weakness is going to spell the end of your love for me. That no marriage can survive these bouts, these see-sawing seasons of up and down, happy and sad, well and unwell.

That your long-suffering, incredibly patient and loving nature will finally reach the point of no return and you'll come to the conclusion that whatever you saw in that laughing girl long ago is irretrievably gone. My panic disorder has changed nearly everything. It must have changed your love for me. 

I wonder constantly what you really think. I am on high alert for exasperation identification in your voice. I imagine a tinge of impatience coloring your words. I read into everything you say. Is it now? Is now the time when I've finally exhausted the love of my spouse? Is this it? The beginning of the end?

All this brings home to me the miraculous love of Christ for His bride the Church. He DID sign up for pain and suffering, betrayal and death. He knew in advance His people would wander, play the whore, turn to idols, lose faith and disobey at every turn, and yet He still signed on the dotted line.

There was no vague line about "in sickness and in health" or "for richer, for poorer" in His vow.

There was no naive ignorance of what the future held.

There was only, "I love you so much I'm going to defeat death itself to save you." 

You have the harder job, my love. My job is to to love you and respect your role as the leader of our home. Dearest, you make it so easy.

But your job is to love me as Christ loves the Church, to the point of dying to redeem her (Ephesians 5:25.) Loving me more than your own life (vs. 28.) That kind of love blows the mind. We both know no human can ever live up to that. But I see the seeds of that kind of love in you, a clearer kind of picture lived out right in our home. Each marriage intended to be a living example of Christ's unselfish, undying love for His bride.

Honestly? I have a hard time trusting the God of the universe to have my wellbeing at heart. I have an even harder time trusting any human to truly, honestly put my needs above their own. But over and over, time and again, your choice to wake up next to me and face whatever comes together quiets the voice in my head that tells me I broke us. The one that would have me believe there is a bottom to the well of your love, and the bucket has surely scraped up the last drop for the last time.

Be patient with me, beloved. Keep telling me what is true when I can't trust my own thoughts. When old demons rise to re-fight battles I thought I'd already won. I feel so guilty for being part of what God is using to refine you. Let my season of weakness be a tool for both of us, to bring us closer to Him.

No, this is not what we signed up for. And I long for the day when it all makes sense because we're finally in blood-bought, blameless fellowship with Him, face to face, the veil gone and at last in complete accordance with His plan. So clearly the only way it could have worked. So plainly motivated by a love beyond comprehension.

When God shows us what HE signed up for, and we all marvel at the perfection of His plan.

just a cottage below

Sadly, if you know me, you also know I live in a little house. Why do I say "sadly?" 

Because I've chosen to dwell on it. I've mentioned it when it didn't need to be mentioned. And I've said more than necessary about it, when it was germane to the conversation.

Allowed it to taint my joy in decorating, cleaning, and caring for my home. Allowed it to be an excuse for not extending hospitality to friends and family, let alone strangers or angels unaware.

I've chosen to let it bother me--over, and over, and over. I name-drop my small house all sorts of places--Facebook, church, business conversations, this devotional blog.

My house is about half of the average American home size, according to people who track such things. Yet it's still twice as large as the average home in many developed nations, and a palace compared to undeveloped and Third World countries. It contains far fewer people inside that space than the world household size average. It would make a lovely and even spacious apartment in any city anywhere.

So why isn't it enough for me?

If I'm honest, this is the area in which I'm most bludgeoned by discontent. Would I like a fancier car? Yes, but I don't go online to look at them, compare features and calculate monthly payments. Would I like a nicer wardrobe? Yes, but I don't shop excessively and rarely spend more than $40 on an entire outfit. Would I like a phone with more bells and whistles? Perhaps, but for now my modest Samsung S4 is working just fine (and never catches fire, either).  I do occasionally long for household help, but if I get off my lazy duff and do it myself, it doesn't take very long to clean a 1000 square foot home.

But this house thing. This is my big, Green-Eyed Monster-Making thing. The thing that makes me bitter that I don't have it, and others do. I am fascinated by history and would love nothing better than to spend my days caring for some gorgeous old Victorian dripping with gingerbread trim. When I see a neglected one, I want to take the owner by the shoulders and shake them. Don't they know what they have? Don't they know what I'd do for a house like that?

I think there's probably a (Green-Eyed Monster-Making is sooo wordy) GEMM issue like that for every person on the planet.

The one thing that just really pushes them over the edge into... sin? For sin it is.

Ouch.

A well-meaning Christian friend once told me there was nothing wrong with longing for a different home so I'd have more space for my business and my family. But you know what? That isn't true, for me at least. My longing far surpassed a simple sigh now and again when I spotted some fantastical three-story turreted beauty with a For Sale sign on the lawn. My un-checked longings led me straight to sin, every time. It led me to tears of futility every time we "lost" a house we had looked at. It led me to hours of web-surfing, looking at houses "just a little bit" out of our price range. To make unwise business and time choices in an attempt to force a change in our finances. To fighting with my precious husband and to an ungrateful attitude that bled over to my precious kids.

(That's what the Lord often uses to bring me up short. I don't even realize I am passing that attitude, those values, along to the next generation, until I hear my own discontented words parroted to me from the back seat of the van. Double OUCH!)

This "harmless" desire for a good thing to be replaced by a better thing crosses right over into sin, in very short order.

And sin, my friend, is NEVER harmless.

Everyone--literally everyone!--told me it was only a matter of time. That God would give me the "desire of my heart" eventually. That I just had to be patient and it would be my turn for the miracle answer to prayer. That they'd help us move in and we'd all laugh and praise Him for providing. All signs point to Happily Ever After.

I love my friends and family, but that was unwise counsel. Yes, God could bless us with a bigger floor plan or a better neighborhood. But He doesn't work that way. Not everybody gets what they want, if they just want it long enough. I could have the very purest motives and the patience of Job--no matter. I can pray until I turn blue, with a long list of legitimate reasons I "need" more space, and never leave this block.

And God would still be good.

You see, the very worst thing my unrestrained longing led me to was unbelief in the ability of God to provide what we need, when we need it.

I knew what was best for our family, and He wasn't getting with the plan. The simple audacity of that sentence takes my breath away. I know better than God. We're supposed to be in the Clyman Street historical district, or a few blocks west in the Washington Street neighborhood. or maybe in the brand new development near the church. Instead we're in the old Irish District with a postage-stamp sized yard and a persistent mouse problem. How can we be looking at our 15th year in what was supposed to be a "starter house?"

Cue the GEMM entrance music.

What my continued discontentment is saying is that I know my needs better than my Creator does. And He is not meeting them.

I'm reminded of the New Living Translation phrasing of Isaiah 45:9: "What sorrow awaits those who argue with their Creator. Does a clay pot argue with its maker? Does the clay dispute with the one who shapes it, saying, 'Stop, you're doing it wrong!' Does the pot exclaim, 'How clumsy can you be?'

Sorrow indeed--envy, bitterness, poisoned relationships, and unbelief. What a price I will pay for continuing down this path. Look at what seeds my discontent has sowed.

I guess the question I face in this moment is whether or not I will start to take my sin seriously, sincerely asking for forgiveness, and throwing the covetous thoughts back on the pyre every single time they arise? Or will I continue to treat it tepidly, fizzing with sparks of frustration every time another hot lead bites the dust, exasperated at the slowness by which my Maker is fulfilling the to-do list I've made for Him?

Father, I want to be the kind of woman who is satisfied with "just a cottage below," knowing my treasure is laid up in heaven, secured by the promise of Christ's righteousness and Your forgiveness and acceptance. You know my innermost thoughts and feelings, and it is useless to pretend my sin is anything less than an act of rebellion against You. When I struggle--for I will struggle, please grace me with immediate awareness of what I am truly saying with my "harmless" desires and longings, so that I may repent and redirect to praise You. Through God-granted faith, help me make the right choice, to trust Your Will in every area of my life. Help me dwell on Your attributes of wisdom, perfection, immutability and goodness. Fill all my vision, Lord! I am overwhelmed by Your provision and Your mercies. You alone are God, and You are goodness personified, abundant and overflowing. Help Thou my unbelief! Amen. 

traveling light

This past spring Michael and I spent two weeks in southern Europe, the wildest of all our wild travel-related dreams come true. The airfare and the first week, a Mediterranean cruise with stops in Spain, Italy and France, were paid for through my company's incentive rewards program. But the second week we were on our own, on foot and by rail, bus and gondola, traveling and eating and as cheaply as possible. It was one of the highlights of my entire life.

History lovers that we are, we learned so much before, during and after that trip. I don't think it would have been humanely possible to soak more up or fit more in. I'll be grateful until the end of my days that God allowed my health to hold out. With a few exceptions I was able to keep up with Mike (he's like the Energizer Bunny, seriously)  as we both tried our level best to walk the soles of our feet off. We went from sun-up to sundown for fifteen days.

But one of the greatest lessons I came back with was not historical or cultural. It had nothing to do with what we came to see or learn about. It wasn't to be found in any of the cathedrals or museums. It wasn't about our relationship with the fantastic other couple we traveled with, or about our own marriage relationship exposed in moments of travel tension or tiredness.

When we first began laying out the itinerary, it became clear that traveling light was the only option. We could not be encumbered with massive rolling suitcases on these cobblestone streets and tiny alleyways. There would not be room in the economy flights and trains, in the teeny European-size cabs and packed city autobuses. We needed to fit everything into two backpacks and two carryons. Ok.

I'm a great packer and I love an adventure, so I relished the challenge. Months in advance I purchased the appropriate adapters, blow-up pillows, anti-theft wallet belts, travel-size toiletries and compression socks. I watched YouTube videos on what to bring and what to wear. I bought Rick Steve's packing cube system. I combined vast amounts of paperwork into one amazing printout and dug out the passports to check the expiration dates. I tried on every outfit, pondered every shirt's washability and drying time, and systematically broke in every pair of shoes I hoped to take.

Finally, with two weeks to go, I brought up the two carryon suitcases, laid everything out on the bed, and began to pack.

I got the idea that I had too much stuff when I zipped the first one closed and saw the pile of items remaining on the bed, that were supposedly going to all fit in the second one. No packing cubes in the world were gonna help me there.

I jettisoned extra shoes, backup shirts, medicines and toiletries we could purchase there if we had to. Still not even close to zipping. I chucked a scarf, a shawl, all but one simple set of jewelry, my extra tote bag. We decided we would manage with five days of underthings and wash in the sink. I purged my makeup kit to the barest of essentials. We could wear our jacket layer on the travel days. I took way fewer snacks and protein bars than I was comfortable with.

Finally, the task was done. The bags were zipped and buckled, backpacks bristling with every clip and pocket put into play. Every single item examined and weighed in the balance.

And you know what? It worked great. All the effort paid off. We zipped all over Italy footloose and fancy free and didn't regret our decision for a single moment. We put our money into experiences rather than things, with complete mental permission not to accumulate souvenirs along the way. We came home with two gallery books, some candy for the kids, a small statuette of the Pietà, and a gorgeous original watercolor painting rolled up in a tube, for which I pitched my tattered tennies on the final night in order to fit.

Everything we actually needed fit in those bags. What didn't fit, we didn't need. It was exhilarating and so, so satisfying (although I admit I was a little tired of my five shirts by the time I got home).

These days I'm traveling light in a different way. Health issues have caused my calendar to slowly cover with cobwebs. My streamlined life, pared down out of necessity, allows for no extraneous baggage. It's back to the basics for me as I relearn Self-Care 101, a class I apparently failed out of twice now. Drink plenty of water. Walk every day. Get some sleep. Don't skip meals. Have a quiet time. Learn to say no. Take your vitamins. Take naps. Be kind to yourself.

I know this season won't last forever, but it's been remarkably freeing. Just like globe-trotting with only a rolly bag was. Traveling light is my only option right now. It's just me, no trappings, no crushing schedule, no burden-filled baggage too heavy for any one person to carry. It feels good. It feels planned, like this is more like the way it was supposed to go. There is an honesty and a clarity in this that I haven't felt in a long time. 

It makes me want to unpack the rest of my life, to get rid of what weighs me down. There is just SO. MUCH. STUFF. It's truly crazy when you start looking around your own home, let alone considering the state of debt and consumerism in our country. Luke 12:15 tells us that "a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth." If we believe the truth of that verse, we sure are giving a good imitation of someone who doesn't.

Maybe we all ought to live out of a little suitcase for while every year?

Father, I come before You with convicted heart. How I have placed my commitments, my schedule, my possessions before You. How I have loaded myself with baggage that is not mine to carry.  How often I have said yes when You would have had me say no. How often I have mis-used the resources You've given us as I surround myself with unnecessary things, closets-full of evidence that I have been careless with Your abundant provision for our family. And then dared to be discontent and complain as our little cottage bursts at the seams. Forgive me! Help me release all the trappings I have loaded onto my life. Forgive me for thinking that life consists in anything but You. Thank You for the lessons You so graciously teach in our times of weakness. Amen.

 

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precious in His sight

I recently took on a newly created position as Life Ministries event liason at our church. I adore party-planning fun wedding and baby showers and I really enjoy setting up for wedding and anniversary receptions. I'm thrilled to be back in the saddle after a two-year much-needed hiatus caused by a royal case of burnout and physical breakdown.

Someday I'll share that journey with you, because I know I'm not the only one. And my heart hurts for those just beginning that painful period of depression and guilt. For now, just know there IS healing... there IS grace... and there IS mercy... and it is sweet. And if I had to go through that valley to experience it, it was worth it.

Anyway, almost any major life event in our church that needs to be celebrated now passes through my hands to some extent or the other, and I love that. I get to rejoice with them that rejoice (Romans 12:15). I get to hold the warm little squishy package of newborn and press a soft kiss on his head as someone reads verses of wisdom and prays a consecration over his life. I get to ooh and ahh over the unwrapping of wedding presents and giggle over funny-but-true advice to the bride, then bow my head in prayer as we ask God to bless her with a lifetime of joyful service and a marriage that truly pictures Christ's love for His bride.  

I love that. Not gonna lie. I'm all about the parties.

However, part of my duties also include funerals.

I wasn't thrilled when that lot fell to me, I will admit. It's always sad, but even more so if death was unexpected or took someone far too young. It's much quieter service, all behind the scenes. It's sudden, without warning, often at inconvenient times, and the preparations are certainly made without that sense of joyful anticipation.

Pinterest is not involved. I don't blog about the centerpieces. I go in, do my work, and get out.

But I realized this week, during the most recent call, that my heart had changed in the last few months. I actually welcomed the task set before me, and looked forward to having the chance to help.

To be in a position to set everything up so that the luncheons run smoothly, without any inconvenience to the family who should be focused on each other and not the details.

To create a restful area where their needs have been anticipated and they can retreat and regroup after visiting the cemetery.

To create a small and tasteful arrangement for the tables, something with flowers or colors that were special to the loved one and meaningful to those left behind.

To pray for grace and peace as I unfold the linens and smooth the snowy billowing tablecloths down neat and straight, tuck a lighter handy right near the candles, put boxes of tissue around the room.

I welcomed it. I even wished I could have been there to perform those small acts of kindness for other funerals, for friends standing bereft in faraway places, for dear ones in sad times whom I can only serve in a prayer sent through the mail.

What a heart-change.

Death is just as much a part of life as any event to welcome a new baby or celebrate a new marriage, and just as precious in His sight (Psalm 116:15). Just as much an opportunity to serve God by caring for His beloved saints.

Father, thank You for the opportunity to minister comfort to my fellow believers in this small but necessary way.  We pray that You would open our eyes and our hearts to be able to recognize the privilege we have been given to weep with those who weep, as well as rejoice with those who rejoice. Use me to be Your hands, Your feet, this week and next week and every week from now until You come. Comfort those in sorrow, Father of Lights. Cause them to know and to feel that Your loving, everlasting Arms are surrounding them with grace and a peace that passes understanding. You have not left and You will not forsake.