Growing Pains

On and off for the last year Isabel has been complaining of pain on her legs. It wakes her up at night. It is worse after she has had an active day. It is overall uncomfortable for her. Worried mom, I took her to the pediatrician who smiled reassuringly, patted my arm and explained that Isabel is suffering from growing pains. I told her I thought that was an old-wives tale but she assured me they are very real, especially in children of elementary school age.

And these growing pains are a good thing, she said. They mean her bones are stretching, doing their job to make her taller and stronger. Doing what bones were created to do. But, to the suffering little girl, this is only partially good news. Because the bad news is that there is not much to do but let them pass. She can take some pain killers to ease the pain temporarily, but these growing pains are part of the life of a child who is following the natural progression of growth, just the way God intended it. The pain she is going through means a more mature Isabel by next summer, both physically and emotionally.

Lately, I’ve been having growing pains as well. The spiritual kind. The kind that comes after a fruitful season of praying and seeking the Holy Spirit’s movement in my life. Be careful what you ask for, they say. For when I open myself to growth, Jesus begins to prune. And the pruning process is painful. Growth hurts. With each stretch of my spiritual bones and muscles I am uncomfortable. And at first, I protest, try to get away, raise my voice in indignation. Yet these pains are good news. The pains mean I am going through the natural progression of growth, just the way God intended it. The pain I’m going through means a more mature Gaby by next season, both spiritually and emotionally.

Isabel’s growing pains are deep inside her leg, beyond the muscles, right into the bone. My growing pains come from the outside. From dealing with difficult people and keeping a humble attitude. From silencing my pride when it has been injured because someone has stepped on my toes. From apologizing when I am not to blame, for the sake of a relationship. From allowing Him to teach me that my rights, my wants, my comfort are not as important as the greater good of his Body and his Kingdom. From admitting when I am wrong and changing my way or my perspective. None of this comes easy to me. Yet his grace is sufficient to show me just how to get it done. But it hurts. And stings. And keeps me up at night.

Unlike Isabel I have a choice to go through this process or not. I can tell God to forget it, that I really did not mean that I wanted to grow closer to him, that I was fine and comfortable just the way I was, thank you very much. And He would let me be. But just like a child who fails to grow, I would become stunted, underdeveloped, useless for the purposes that He intended for a more mature, strong, healthy me. So all I can do is let this season of growth run its intended course. But I wait actively, abiding in him as I learn from this pruning. Bringing my frustrations to him and letting him comfort me like I do Isabel in the middle of the night when she wakes up hurting.

Growing pains are not enjoyable. Yet like refining fire that purifies and cleanses, this scraping of my rough edges, of my resistance to be molded to his image, is what I need to do just what the Lord requires of me: to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with my Lord. 

**Joining with Jen and the sisters of Soli Deo Gloria ***

Let Freedom Ring.

Can I be honest with you?

I am a people-pleaser. And a peace-maker. They sound like a good combination, right? I don’t like to disappoint or hurt the people in my life and when I do, I have no pride in apologizing to make it right and restore the relationship. But I also often speak without thinking, which means I apologize a lot. And I over-analyze conversations and blame myself for saying things that did not really cause strife, so I often apologize without a real reason to do so. Which leaves me feeling like all I do is apologize.

And I’m a pastor’s wife so I feel the burden, real or imagined, of the implications of the role, impossible as they may be to meet and yet impossible to ignore.  And because I want to be helpful and make people happy, I tend to volunteer to do things I really don’t want/have time/feel called/desire to do.

And I worry. I worry that I am not a good wife. I worry that I’m not a good mother. I worry that I am not a good friend/daughter/Christian/person/name-the-role, I worry. And I worry not only for my sake but for the sake of anyone who may possibly be looking at me for advice, example, or leadership.

Do you ever feel this way? Please say I’m not the only one…

Lately God has bombarded me with a theme…a thought that keeps creeping into my readings of Scripture, blogs, and devotionals…a driving force that threatens to shape my year and direct my path for the next twelve months. And as I wrestle with Sharon Jaynes’ challenge to stop asking God “What do you want from me?” and begin asking Him “What do you want for me?” the fuzziness begins to lift and the word begins to take shape. He has given me a WORD.

Would you be surprised that my word for this year is FREEDOM?

FREE…dom.

Freedom from impossible expectations.

Freedom to accept that I am doing the best I can every day. I am prayerfully, carefully, thoughtfully, analytically the best mother/wife/friend/daughter/person/Christian that I know how to be. Freedom to seek to grow, and to learn, and to change but only as He guides, believing that who I am is enough for today and letting go of the worry and the guilt.

Freedom from trying to please everyone.

I have a big heart, a big mouth, and a lot of flaws. I am deeply loyal and deeply selfish all at once. But I was fearfully and wonderfully created as were you. You may like me or love me or not be able to stand me but Christ is giving me the freedom to live to please the only One whose approval matters, believing wholeheartedly that as I do, I will love you, treat you, and commune with you in the ways that He intended.

Freedom from over-extending myself.

Freedom to prayerfully consider opportunities to take on ministries, volunteer for causes, and accept invitations. Freedom to say no without feeling like I’m letting you down, or damaging our relationship.

Freedom from my need to control my world.

Freedom from my own self, from my need to plan, to organize, to make sure everything is in place, to control my environment. Freedom to let go of the fears that affect my relationships and rob me of joy. Freedom to find the beauty in flexibility and the trust that it implies not to always know what will happen next but to know the One who holds my tomorrows.  

Freedom to explore my relationship with Christ on his terms.

It is not a checklist, it is not a set of dos and don’ts. It is a relationship. An intimate, loving, peace-full relationship. Freedom to find out what He has in store for me this year without worrying about doing it “right” or getting it “right.” Freedom to let Him define what "right" means for us.

Freedom to fully explore the question that started it all:

Lord, what do you want FOR me this year?

Has God given you a word this year? If you want to read more about 2012 WORDS read what these four amazing women have to say.

Heather at Every Day Evans has chosen to serve.

Natalie at Mommy on Fire is seeking self-control.

Sarah at The Best Days of My Life is also praying for freedom.

Michelle at Graceful is learning about surrender.

Life in A Glass House in 2011: A Year in Review

Dear friends,

This is a year in review, a virtual Christmas letter if you will, to look back at the best of 2011 in our family's life, as recorded in this blog. I'm linking with Mama Kat this week, who provided the prompt for her Writer's Workshop.

Isabel was born in January. Her birthday always stirs in me a mixture of joy, pain, and gratitude. Perhaps because of the monumental decision her birthmother made, I felt compelled to write on a topic I would rather leave to better writers, or deeper thinkers. I prefer encouragement to discord but January saw me a little braver and able to take a stand. So in honor of my children, I wrote this.  

At Christmas I was given one of my favorite gifts of all time: my first sewing machine (or musheen, as Isabel calls them). I loved it so much I named her. Sally Maria Brother. 

Had I known the grief and frustration she would cause me as I tried to learn to sew, I would have named her Child of Satan. I wrote this in February after completing my most challenging project yet: a quick-sew-but-nothing-quick-about-it, make-in-two-hours-but-it-will-really-take-you-weeks fleece jacket for Noah. 

March brought me a crisis of discontent. We had gone through yet another infertility treatment, against our will, by doctor's orders, and, as usual, it failed. So I lost all perspective and, like a whinny child, began to complain about the things I lack. Patient as always, the Lord reminded me gently of his love and provision. This is what came out of my heart that day.  

On my birthday, in April, I experienced an overwhelming feeling of being loved, thanks to the magic of Facebook which allowed so many happy wishes from so many people in such a short time. It inspired me to think about the impact I can have in someone’s day by just taking one minute out of mine and I wrote this.  

Isabel started her first season of YMCA soccer in May. She was unsure and scared but she was blessed with the most wonderful coach we’ve ever known. This gentle man deserved his own ode here.    

In June my husband and brother in-law talked me into going camping for the first time in my life. On the beach. In a tent. But the experience began on the way there with a stubborn fly inside our van. Read about it here.  

I learned a hard lesson in July. One that I needed to learn and one that was embarrassing to admit, but one that is foundational to loving my neighbor as I’ve been commanded.  

In August we joyfully announced our new paperwork pregnancy like this. I have not updated much yet for the process is boring to tell, but when we have exciting news I will shout it to the four winds (and the blog world!).

I got my feelings hurt like a silly child in September, and, after crying and pouting, I turned to the Lord for help. Here is what I learned about his compassion.  

After eight months without a working stove, in October we finally bought a new one; only to have a frustrating and scary encounter with the Sears’ collection department. But we learned about God’s mercy for us in spite of our mistakes and because of our obedience, when He intervened here.  

Half-way through the first year of officially homeschooling my children, the constant questioning about homeschooled children’s social skills finally got under my skin enough to prompt me to write this in November. You be the judge!  

After a wonderful and full year, December brought our eleventh wedding anniversary. While this has been an amazing decade as Matt’s wife, as I looked back on it, I realized our life has not become what we thought it would be. Yet, it is so much more than we ever imagined: we embody a Proverb! This one.  

Have a happy new year and may your 2012 be filled with the love of family and friends, and many blessings. Above all, may you grow deeper in your relationship with Christ and, if you don't yet know him, may you come to know him and love him as He loves you. 

The Johnson clan.

A Snow Memory

I have not linked with Mama Kat's Weekly Writing Workshop in a while, but I could not resist this week's prompt: A poem about a snow memory. The first time I saw snow is engraved vividly in my mind, so please bear with my rhyming and poor stanzas. I have never written a poem in English before... 

It does not snow in my homeland

At least never in my city;

It does in the snow-capped mountains

That fill the Andes with their beauty.

So for a girl of sixteen

Who had never seen a snow fall,

The anticipation and excitement

Could barely be contained at all.    

           

It was very cold that first winter

We spent in this, our new territory,

But snow was taking its time,

Hiding its white, fluffy glory.

Finally on a week day morning,

While solving equations in math class,

Someone shouted, “Hey there, Gaby!

Look outside that window’s glass!”

They were soft, gentle and quiet,

They were dancing, swirling, and twirling,

The little snow flurry crystals

Were teasing and were enticing.

Pleadingly I looked at my teacher,

For I was sitting clear across the room

And the snow beckoned me to touch it,

To feel it, to taste it, and soon.

I must have looked very desperate

And I didn’t want to miss a flurry,

For the teacher smiled and motioned

And I was at the window in a hurry.

I stuck my hand out the opening

And marveled at the sensations on my fingers;

I stuck my head, my tongue, both arms,

And laughed at how snow in dark hair lingers.

It is a happy memory during a bitter-sweet time

Of leaving, struggling, changing,

Of growing up away from familiar,

Of expanding, of growing, and learning.

That first year in our new country

Was both exciting and painful.

For the new life I’m delighted

For the snow-memory, I’m thankful. 

Lessons on thanksgiving from a pile of laundry

At the end of the day I was exhausted. I spent the morning teaching my two kids. I spent the afternoon grading papers and answering e-mails and phone calls for my online job. In the evening I made dinner for company, did the dishes afterwards and started some laundry. It had been a full day and later that night, as I was lugging a load of laundry to the den to start folding, my internal dialogue began to unravel.

The kids are loud and messy. The house cannot stay clean. The laundry is never-ending. The dog sheds all year long. The husband can be inconsiderate. I have to work part time to stay home full-time. And after I teach the kids all morning, work at my job all afternoon, make and clean up dinner, I still have laundry to fold. The day is long and full of fires to squelch and by the time I get to bed each night I am exhausted.

Grumbling and complaining under my breath I began to fold the freshly washed clothing,  taking each piece out roughly. As I folded a little skirt my mind went back to the pain of infertility and the emptiness in my heart when I first learned we would not be able to conceive naturally. The little flowery dress reminded me of the wonder of a Friday five years ago when a tiny girl was placed in my arms by the social worker. A small pirate shirt brings me back to the night, a year and a half later, when the phone rang and we were told we had a son.

And as I folded these tiny items I began to smile.

I got to the big button down, collared shirts that I never iron and the polo shirts of every available color he owns and I remembered the coldest day of that December when I vowed to love him forever before many of our friends. I pondered how there is no such thing as a prince charming and that I don’t believe in soul mates, but how often I think if there ever was one absolutely perfect for me it would be him.

And I folded more gently.

I went back over the day I had just had. I remembered Isabel’s excitement at the new book she was able to read and Noah’s smile when I handed him his very first school book. I thought about the paycheck I get for such a stress-free job that keeps us from having to worry month to month. And I remembered the delicious dinner, the good conversation with a dear friend, and the gentle man who spent the evening bathing and putting the kids to bed so I could have a few moments of quiet in the kitchen, even if washing dishes.

What in the world do I have to complain about?

I stopped for a moment and considered this question. All the things I think I have a right to complain about are the very things the Lord has given me to be thankful for. I had forgotten what it would mean not to have those small, seemingly annoying daily frustrations: being alone, single, childless, jobless, friendless. Because relationships are messy and to have the rewards you also have to deal with the irritations and extra work they can bring.

But mostly what I forgot is that they are reciprocal. 

I can be difficult, unlovable, prone to temper. Beyond being thankful for the people God has placed in my life, I want to remember to be thankful that they want me in theirs, for I know many a day I have given them plenty of reasons to grumble.


Happy Thanksgiving, dear blog-friends!

The Eye of the Beholder

Joining with Lisa-Jo on her (slightly longer than) Five Minute Friday for: Beauty.

Is beauty really in the eye of the beholder?

On a bad hair day, when my curls won’t stay, when the make-up no longer glides smoothly on less-than-firm eyelids, when the skin does not glow like it used to, she looks at me while I try to work magic in front of the mirror feeling less than successful, and she exclaims with admiration I cannot understand:

You are so beautiful!

She observes me, she imitates me, she marvels at me. She wants to look like me, smell like me, dress like me. She asks to borrow my perfume, my jewelry, my shoes.

I am the princess in her fairy tales, Beauty and Cinderella, the belle of her ball.

And I believe her.

In her eyes I’m beautiful. She doesn’t know about perfect weight, perfect features, perfect hair. She loves me and her love transforms me into the lovely creature she thinks I am.   

And she has changed me.

I no longer complain about my hair.

She is listening.

I no longer fuss about my weight.

She is watching.

I no longer berate my features.

I want to teach her the One who made us both makes no mistakes.

I know this awe I inspire in her won’t last forever. She is only five. But for now, I don’t have to look in the mirror to see beauty reflected back at me.

I just look into her eyes.

All because of a fly

There was a fly in the van.

It was the last survivor of a three-fly army that stormed our car when we opened the doors of the van to leave on our road trip. We conquered the first two driving out of town with a couple of strategies. One succumbed to a well-placed whack of my husband’s cap. The second one promptly understood that an open window meant freedom and took the first chance it could. This last one fought a good battle, dodging the hat and stubbornly, or stupidly, refusing to take the window exit we kept offering.

So we quit. But the fly would not.

It would terrify my three-year-old germ phobic who, strapped to his car seat, could only shriek and flail. It would buzz past my husband who was driving and fly around his head. It would land on my daughter’s leg causing her to scream and kick the back of my seat.

I was trying to read a sweet book on adoption stories that a friend had loaned me the previous night to enjoy while sitting at the beach on our trip. I was in the middle of a tender story about a young orphan who had just met her adoptive mother when I saw it. It landed right by the closed window and it sat there, rubbing its tiny legs, gearing up for the next round of terrorizing my family.

I decided to open the window to force the fly to leave. I would use the book to create a barrier between the fly and the rest of the car so the insect could not do what it had been doing every time it was confronted by a wide open exit: retrieve to the back of the car. I figured a fly that, against all logic, flew away from the freedom of an open window could not be very bright. So I, being of the smarter species, would help usher it out and liberate us all from the pest.

I carefully opened the window. The fly did not move. I posed the book open as a backdrop. The fly still didn’t budge. Then I gently and slowly moved the book towards the bug to force it to fly, while holding the book open and lifting it to create a wall. It was going well until the pages of the book caught the wind coming from the open window of the van going over seventy miles per hour. In less time than it took for me to say “shoo, fly” the book was out of my hands and flying towards the semi several feet behind us, as the reflection in the rearview mirror told me. The book managed to miss the truck and landed on the side of the busy highway, thankfully not causing a multiple car pile-up.

I quickly closed the window and sat there speechless and wide-eyed. I looked at Matt and he looked at me, both of us trying to figure out what the heck had just happened and why I was now bookless, when the blessed fly flew from the back of car and landed in the console right before me.

I swear it was smiling.

Lessons from a piano

When I was sixteen I walked into my room one afternoon after school and found the most perfect present I had ever been given: a beautiful, oak-color, upright Yamaha piano. And just as quickly as it came to me I had to sell it when we moved to the USA shortly after.

I started playing the piano when I was three. I was given a toy piano and a love affair began. I was not able to start formal lessons until I was about eleven and, until that day on my sixteenth year, I always had to practice in borrowed piano classrooms.

Playing the piano was my escape during the difficult teen years and when we moved and I had to leave my world behind, one of the most painful things I left was my wooden friend.  I vowed I would own another one as soon as I could afford it.

It wasn’t until I had been married three years and we bought our first house that we had the space to put a piano, although not the funds. So I started saving my birthday presents, doing odd jobs to make some extra money and after about a year I had a modest thousand dollars. A thousand dollars for an upright Yamaha is merely pocket change. But Yamaha had the piano that had my heart so Yamaha is what I wished for.

So armed with my pocket change I started searching. Nothing. What I had saved was not enough and I was despairing.  At one music store a great salesman almost sold me one for three times what I had, swearing the payment plan would not be bad. Still, Matt and I were tight and a piano payment was like another car payment. Heartbroken I walked away.

Disappointed and eager to get back to playing I had decided to lower my expectations and buy any brand of a piano in semi-good shape that I could afford because I did not want to wait another year or two.  One afternoon I spotted an ad in the paper for an upright Yamaha for two-thousand dollars. The owner was moving soon and was motivated to sell. Still, it was double what I had. But I asked Matt to call the man see what he had to offer. We left a message and waited.

It was a beautiful day, so I went outside and laid on my hammock for a while. I started to pray something like this:

Lord, I realize I’m being way too specific with my request, but Yamahas are what I’ve always known and it has been my dream to own another one since I had to sell mine. I also know, Lord, that money is tight and that it would be irresponsible to buy one on payments. I have a thousand dollars, Lord, and I am going to be a good steward of what you have allowed me to save. If a Yamaha is not what I need, then Lord, please send me to the right place and I will buy what I can find for what I have.

And then I must have fallen asleep because Matt woke me up with a look of triumph on his face. You probably know what came next:

“-I just talked with the piano guy. I only told him we were interested in his piano and he blurted out that he was ready to move to Las Vegas and that, while he had listed it for $2000, he will give it to us for $1000 if we can go get it today!”

You bet we did. And I was not worried one bit about the condition of the piano. I knew what I would find when we arrived, and a piano tuner confirmed it about a week later when he told us my beloved new purchase would sell for around three grand at a retail store.

This is a good God, a loving God that cares even about these small dreams and hopes. But it was more than that.

Not only has this piano brought me hours of enjoyment and relaxation, but it became very useful a few years later when I became the piano player in both of the churches we have pastored and I needed to practice at home.

Not only has this piano brought me joy but now I am teaching my little girl how to play and care for this beautiful  oak-colored upright Yamaha so much like the one that sat in my room for too short a time.

Last week I wrote about God going before me a decade so I could stay home with my kids one day. This week as Isabel took her piano lesson I was reminded that I have journal after journal of stories of how the Lord has taken care of my needs, present and future, silly and meaningful, big and small.

In just one minute.

Last week was my birthday.

It was a busy birthday. Like all Wednesdays it was full, it was fast, and a little furious. Teaching three-year-olds in the morning, ballet class and errands in the afternoon, Bible study at night, praise practice to end the day.

It was a blessed birthday. The kids made me cards, signed their names and drew their marks. Matt gave me a sewing organizer that I desperately needed and a set of headphones for running that actually stay in my funny-shaped ear holes.

It was a good birthday.  My hubby and I had some time alone to grab lunch thanks to a dear friend, and spent an hour talking and walking down the mall aisles hand in hand, without counting heads and holding little hands.

It was also a humbling birthday and one to learn a good lesson about loving well .

You know how Facebook declares your birth date to the world? Mine was posted as well.

And this year I was overwhelmed with the amount of people from all of the paths of my life who took time off their busy day to write a happy birthday note on my wall.

See, the thing is you can see a birthday and you can choose to ignore it. I know I often do. I also know it only takes a minute to click on someone’s wall and wish them a good day.

But that’s just it: it takes a minute and, in my busy day, a minute is gold.

It is a minute less I have to browse through my close friends’ pages and catch up on their lives.

It is a minute less for me to think of a clever status to post so that I get lots of comments.

So it's a lost minute.

It is a lost minute to wish that person I had not seen/talked to/interacted with in ages a happy birthday. Will they even notice or care if I don’t? I wonder.

Until I was that person.

I don’t know why this year in particular the response was so widespread. I really don’t. But I do know this: I felt loved, remembered, cherished, blessed.

Amazing how that one minute these people took to click, write, click again made a difference to a stay-at-home mom who sometimes wonders if she has disappeared from the face of the earth now that she is not “out” in the world.

And it made me think that perhaps I pass on opportunities daily to take one minute to make someone’s day with a quick e-mail, a short wall message, a comment on a blog, a brief card in the mail.

Just to say: I remember you, I love you, I cherish you, I've been blessed by you.

It only takes one minute to remind someone they matter to the world.

Do you have a minute today?

When He goes before you.

Last week I wrote about waking up to the new life God had dreamt for me more than a decade ago. Here is the other side of the story...

Quit your job, he said.

Lord, I hear you but…the budget does not add up.

Quit your job, he repeated.

You know best, Lord but…we would have to have private health insurance and that is expensive and no dental insurance and that is scary.

The time has come to stay home with your babies, he prodded.

I want to, Lord…but in this economy?

It took another year of praying, discussing, adding, subtracting, saving, finding faith, and getting courage for us to realize that yes, the budget would not add up; yes, we would have to get personal health insurance and lose our dental one; yes, this is scary but yes, the Lord spoke and we must obey.

So I quit.

After six years of teaching high school, the only grown-up job I’ve ever known, I walked away. I was near the top of my pay scale, I had a position of leadership, I had great benefits.

But I quit.

At a time when other people were desperately looking for work, I purposefully resigned. It was not easy and it was terrifying and many friends were puzzled and many others were frustrated with our seemingly illogical timing.

Still, I quit.

It seems to me that after walking with God for so many years, having experience after experience with his faithfulness and his provision I had finally learned to trust that He has a plan, that his ways are truly higher than my ways and that, when He requires we have faith and obey, He has begun working on what the future will hold.

I just quit.

But this God, this God will not be explained, this God will not be controlled, this God will not be fully known. While I sat comfortable in my knowledge of him, He had yet another lesson to teach me about his Holy character, his incredibly organized mind, his deep understanding of our journeys, and his perfect, oh so perfect, timing.

I entered my freshman year in college with the idea of becoming a journalist. After taking my first journalism class I dropped the major. It simply was not for me.

With not many ideas and little direction, having a love of theatre, public speaking, and teaching, I decided to major in Communication Education. It was a prayerful decision and I felt comfortable declaring the major.

I knew I wanted to teach but I had the opportunity to further my education before entering the workforce. With a student visa about to expire, with the threat of having to return to Ecuador before I was ready, and with an offer to earn my master’s degree for free by teaching undergraduate communication courses, I enrolled in a master’s in Communication Studies program at a large state university.  My elective courses were spent taking Spanish-related classes to enhance my teaching license.

Two and a half years later, with two diplomas in hand, and a state license to teach both communication courses and Spanish courses, I left for South Carolina with my newly acquired husband.

I never found a teaching job that required my communication knowledge. I was quickly hired as a Spanish teacher and, while my master’s did help me to climb the pay scale, my two diplomas were put away in a box in the attic, never to be brought out again. When people would ask what one does with a master’s in communication studies I would shrug and say: “beats me.” For years I taught Spanish, loving every minute of it.

Quit your job, God said six years and two kids later. 

I closed my classroom door for the last time in May of 2009. In faith, we began the journey of living with one income, of making ends meet, of re-arranging our priorities.

In June we took a trip to Ecuador and we spent time praying about how our lives would be different when we returned to the States.

In July I received an e-mail from an accredited, well-known online university. They required someone with a master’s in Communication Studies, with two years of experience teaching at the college level, who spoke Spanish, to teach from home. This job was made for me. Perfect. The pay is equal to what I was making before, the work is less demanding.

In September I was hired. God spoke again.

I’m glad you quit your job; I had better plans for you.

As He always had.

He knew what I would need right when I needed it. All the things He guided me to do all those years ago that I could not understand were part of a plan I could not see coming.

When I quit my job I knew He would be faithful, I knew He would provide, I knew He would come through.

I didn’t know He had already been faithful, He had already provided, He had already come through for this very moment, years ago.

This is the dependable God, the Creator of the Universe who still has enough time to worry about where I have been, where I am, and where I will be all at once; He understands my every need and orchestrates it all just as it needs to unfold. All I have to do is trust and obey.

I have been home for almost two years now and this is right where I need to be. As I think about how God’s handprint shows up even a decade ago to make my today what it is, I start to understand what Moses was trying to teach Joshua in the 31^st chapter and the 8^th verse of Deuteronomy:

"The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you" (emphasis mine).


**Linking up with Jen and the Soli Deo Gloria sisters this week. Visit to see what other wonders God is doing in their lives**

On Waking Up

It is Five-Minute Friday again. I'm liking up with The Gypsy Mama. You have five minutes. Period. Now write!

Then…

I used to wake up to an alarm. I used to snooze two or three times dreading getting out of bed. I used to have a hard time opening my eyes, get going, get motivated and energized for the day.

I used to wake up to blaring noise in the radio and in my head.

 I used to wake up already stressed, jump in the shower, put on my clothes, put on make-up, be out the door by 6:15 to be at work by 6:30. I used to be tired all day from too little sleep. I used to fight waking up.

I used to wake up only to want to sleep again.

Now…

I wake up to the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen. I wake up to a day to spend with my children. I wake up to teach Isabel to read and Noah to behave.

I wake up and look forward to the day.

I wake up to a child jumping into my bed and snuggling with me. I wake up to tickling and kissing and calls for help with breakfast.

 I wake up to love and laughter.

I wake up to the Holy Spirit’s gentle nudging to get up before anyone and spend some time in prayer and the word. It will be a long day. You will need it.

I wake up to be in his presence.

Now I wake up to the sounds and smells of the life God dreamt for me more than a decade ago.

More on this next week…

Five Minute Friday: When I look in the mirror...

I'm linking this to the Gypsy Mama's Five Minute Friday. Five minutes to write. Period.

When I look in the mirror I see a woman who feels younger than she is; who still sees a young girl even though the world says she is an adult and often struggles to act like one.

 I see a mother who looks nothing like her children and who often has to explain why.

 I see a wife who shows the signs of ten years of marriage: laugh lines and worry lines intermingled but would not change a single minute of it.

I see a child who loves her momma and still needs her.  I see a friend who is deeply loyal. I see a prayerful sister in Christ.

 I see someone who speaks before thinking, acts before measuring the consequences and often has to take back, undo, and eat words. I also see a big heart who grieves with each of these situations.

I see someone who has made many mistakes in her life but has received much forgiveness and grace. And I see someone who has learned to forgive in equal measure.

I see a person who has much more to learn and much room to grow and who is trusting that “He who began the good work in her will be faithful to complete it” as He has promised.

I see someone who has learned to like what she sees when she looks in the mirror by the love and mercy of the God who created her in His image.

Sally Maria brother

This is an uncharacteristically long one. Have a cup of coffee?

I have a foe. Her name is Sally Maria brother. She is my nemesis and we spend days wrestling and struggling. I call her names, she retaliates. I attack her with fury; she gets me back every time. I complain loudly to my husband about her behavior, she sits in quiet smugness and simply and passive-aggressively refuses to comply. She baffles me with attitudes and results I cannot understand. She gives me trouble that leaves me confused and not even the handy manual that came with her can help me out of the frustrating mess she sometimes makes.

Before you judge this pastor’s wife for having an enemy she loathes so passionately you must know who Sally Maria brother is. SM is my sawing machine. My very first one. And at this rate, my last one too. One of these days, SM will find herself hurled out of the window of my dining room to an untimely death in the oblivion of the curb on trash day.

When I became a stay-at-home mom I found the joy of certain hobbies I had always thought I had neither the time nor the ability to do. For the most part I have found the time, but not the ability. However, that has not deterred my stubborn, persistent nature from trying and trying and trying until some type of result has been achieved. So far, I have marginally successfully learned to cook, bake, and crochet.

Since I taught myself to read a crochet pattern I thought...If I can read a crochet pattern, how difficult can a sewing pattern be? I must have been thinking out loud because the next Christmas my mother-in-law presented me with Sally Maria brother. To the machine’s credit, it is a beauty. My mother-in-law shops the sales, so it is a very nice machine for a rookie. She came with all these gadgets and thingy bops I had never seen and had have no idea how to use.

 I could not wait to take SM out of a run. First I went to the web, my source of all education, and tried to find patterns to use. I tried a couple in vain and then decided to go to the big dog: Hancock Fabric. I must have looked like a deer in the headlights my first time there because three different attendants surrounded me quickly and starting all talking at once.

I managed to leave there with a pattern, buttons, thread, and a cheap cut of fabric to try my hand at an “easy” jumper that should have taken two hours, according to the pattern cover. Four exhausting days later, a million hours logged into Google looking up terms and how-tos, Isabel wore the jumper exactly twice before it fell apart in every seam I had painstakingly sewn.

Undeterred by my clear lack of sewing ability I went back to Hancock and bought a more expensive corduroy to try the “easy” jumper again. Thank goodness practice makes perfect because this time the jumper held. You can still tell it is homemade, but it is no longer disposable.

With the jumper success fresh on my mind, I figured I would tackle a bigger and better project. One with sleeves and buttonholes and let SM show me what she could do. I still had not realized that in sewing there is an intimate partnership between seamstress and sewing machine. It takes two to tango here and if one is a temperamental, difficult, and moody dancer the result is an angry Argentinean dance. When they both are, the result is…war!

 SM heard me talk about my new project and decided I had been too dense to get the message she was sending me with the poorly constructed jumpers. The silk gloves came off and SM put on her fighting gloves. This time I would hear her loud and clear: I don’t like you, rookie!

I have a theory that SM is angry that she ended up with me. I think she feels she was destined to belong to a great seamstress like my sister-in-law, Kristina, who would partner with her in making amazing little outfits and beautiful, fashionable getups. Instead, fancy SM is stuck with me. A rookie. Someone who lives by the little manual that came with her and cannot even change the color of the thread without looking up the directions. So she rebels every time I want to work with her. She is teaching me who is boss. I am humbled with every project. I need a sewing machine whisperer!

Which brings us to our latest epic battle of wills. For the last week I have been cutting, measuring, basting, and sewing a little fleece dinosaur jacket for Noah. This particular boxing match between SM and me had four rounds and several trips to Hancock.

Round one started with the sleeves. They were certainly tricky and SM was vicious. What the internet said she should do, SM refused to acknowledge. I had almost decided to make the jacket into a vest when I sought the advice of more experienced fighters and I prevailed finding a way to attach the sleeves in an almost seamless way. Round one went to me.

Then it came time to make the button holes, a new adventure for SM and me. By the end of the second round the jacket had a hole, true, but it was not where the button hole should go and it was not stitched on the sides like a buttonhole should be. It was just a hole. So I retaliated with an ingenious strategy to make the hole into a button hole. I won round two as well. After all I have a brain and SM doesn’t…I don’t think. The jury is still out on that one.

The third round came when it was time to sew the actual buttons. I had wisely bought six buttons when I only needed four. SM decided it would be fun to break them one by one. No matter where I placed them, how I placed them, what I adjusted, crack…the button would go. I ended up sewing the left over ones by hand and I had to go back to Hancock for a couple more. She won that round.

Round four came when I realized I had put the button holes on the wrong side of the jacket so now the cute little pocket was covered up when the jacket was buttoned. Off came the pocket but it was not possible to place it on the other side. I decided to make another pocket and place two at the bottom on each side. A pocket is simple. You cut the rectangle, you hem the edge and you stitch to the garment. SM fought like a banshee. One by one I would cut a pocket only to discard it because SM would chew it up and spit it back at me in shreds. She would tangle the thread. She would use up all the thread on the bobbin. She would eat the material deep into her bowels. I ended up cutting five different pockets, all thrown away.

Matt came, took every screw out, could not find anything wrong. Of course whenever he was around, flirty little thing would behave like a dream. As soon as he left, she would act out again. But after a long afternoon of fighting I won that round. I successfully sewed two pockets, a little crooked and uneven, but functional nonetheless.

After several exhausting days of wrestling with this obstinate piece of metal with an attitude I was ready to put her away in the attic and give up as soon as this project was done. You win, SM: I will never be a seamstress…

But then at lunch yesterday, when the jacket was finally finished and hanging on the shoulders of its rightful owner I was handed the final score card: I had lost a couple of battles, but I had won the war. I knew it when Noah bowed his little head in prayer before our meal and he thanked Jesus for the dinosaur jacket mami had made for him.

Oh, Sally Maria brother, for such a prayer I will gladly spend my days in battle with you.