soaking in glory

I have no pictures to share. Sunday held for me one of the most glorious moments of my life.

The (big) girls and I sat in wonder while listening to Pablo Casalas playing Bach. For sixteen minutes we held each other in stillness, listening to overwhelming beauty. My 3 and 1 year olds were silently awestruck, as was I.

The music played only a part in this concert of glory.

We reclined back on a big bed, soft and welcoming. We wrapped our bodies in blankets and then wrapped each other in eager arms. The soft, mid-morning sun poured butter yellow through the curtains, its warm perfume bringing peace and ease to our moment.

It wasn't forced. It wasn't planned.

After a hectic morning with an all-too-tired Momma and 3 all-too-lively girls, I nursed baby Z and put her to bed. Feeling as though my older daughters needed some special cuddles, I turned off all distractions and read them a few stories.

Israel asked, "Momma, can we listen to beautiful music?"

That's what she calls anything with a cello.

And so, this glorious moment was born. It came without pressure. It came without grand expectations or high ideals.

It was a genuine outpouring of 3 female hearts in love with each other, with the music, with all the blessings God had created to simply bring 3 of His daughters incredible joy for 16 unplanned minutes on an inconsequential Sunday morning.

I remember gazing at beautiful new colors the sun was creating in Helen's hair when I thought, "Oh, where is my camera?"

I forced myself to stay.

To be still.

To be present in this moment of glory.

I felt my heart hope the Lord would burn every detail of those 16 minutes into my very fallible brain. The way Israel's hand felt in mine. The way Helen's fingers tickled as she absent-mindedly stroked my arm. The burning warmth on my face as my daughters took turns holding my cheeks in their hands and then giggling wildly for some unknown reason to me, but surely one of those dear little secrets locked up in the hearts of sisters to only be shared with each other.

The smell from their hair was all sunshine and lillies and butter and velvet.

Sixteen minutes of exultation for my soul in Jesus through the closeness of my daughters and the beauty of music.

Enjoy.

Bringing home baby.

I don't blog in the sequential order of my life. I flip through my visual reminders of all my blessings, aka pictures, and write as my heart is moved to do so.

My heart is full of flustered, anxious, at times, bitter emotions. I can't understand where it is coming from (unless it's the usual hormonal roller coaster that accompanies early pregnancy - God, please let it not be so!).

My precious husband, although grating to my menacing inner witch plaguing our lives at this moment, is amazing in his insights and patience. He encourages me through my tantrums to go be alone, pray for someone and take my eyes off "self."

I'm fixing my eyes right now on the three most beautiful creatures God has ever formed.

Remembering the day we brought Z home from the hospital fills my heart with such joy, it becomes a physical force. I can feel it bringing life to my bones, like a spiritual medicine for the of sin ravaging my soul.

We wanted to make the introduction of baby #3 as pleasurable as possible to Is and Helen.

What in all of creation is more pleasurable than a Krispy Kreme donut when the "Fresh Hot" sign is blazing its siren call?

Nothing.

We grabbed a couple fresh-hots for Poppa and Momma and 2 of the most vividly colored sprinkled donuts for the big girls, headed for a quiet, shaded corner in a nearby parking lot (because I was NOT going to wait for the long drive to a park, thereby allowing my "fresh-hot" to cool down to just "kinda fresh-room temp"!) and devoured the goodness.

The smiles. Magical. The sunshine. Glorious.

Zarah slept through her birthday party.

What? It's almost September

?!!!? !!! ??

I can't believe it. Wow. I mean, Wow.

This summer has been a whirl wind to be sure.

3 kids under 3 is hard. Time is short. Patience is shorter.

Blessings are overflowing.

Go see what trouble I managed to scrounge up for Israel's birthday.

More to come. Soon...meaning December, probably.

Shoveling manure seems so romantic after having survived this week.

View of the garden and chicken house through the kitchen window.

After 6 days of fevers, heart-stopping coughing fits, lethargic babies and temperamental temperaments to equal all the chaos, I'm starting to see a light at the end of sickness tunnel.

I hate hate hate watching sickness ravage my children's tiny bodies. Being powerless in the face of sickness weighs on my soul heavily. All is dark when they are coughing so hard they can't catch their breath. I try so hard to keep a gentle smile on my face when they look up at me with pleading eyes, begging for relief and I have none to give. I pray. And pray. And pray.

That's all I can do.

God, this sucks to be powerless as I watch my precious daughters suffer.

I trust You are here, even when I don't "feel" it. But it still sucks.

This brings me to the picture above. Turning the proverbial corner in this slowly dying plague, my heart starts to yearn for happier things to come. Namely, working in the garden.

I stinking miss it. I miss the dirt and the fresh air, the sweat and the toil, the digging and the weeding and the constant battle against the curse on the land. I'm quite sure I "miss" the curse because I've been cooped up inside for far too long and I'm afforded too much time to romanticize all the toil of gardening.

There is something so deeply satisfying to my soul to see dirt under my nails. To eat the food that I grew (by God's grace) is immensely, well, cool. I have been citified for far too long. Depending on a grocery store for my food instead of my own 2 hands feels like a jail sentence now.

I even miss the smelly chickens. (When are those useless creatures going to start producing eggs? That reminds me, we have a rooster to dispatch of.)

Still chewing on yesterday.

Cuddling with Z in a house full of silence, but for the occasional crash of thunder.

I've been chewing on yesterday like a piece of over cooked steak.

Seriously, Jesus. What does it mean to fall in love with You? To be swallowed up, consumed, real, true, full of the love of God?

What does it mean to really say, "Gain!" when I look death in the face with the promise of Christ?

How could I ever love anyone like Paul talked about? To wish to be cut off from Christ for the sake of my brothers and sisters who are lost? I can't fathom that kind of love.

I'm terrified. I'm full of ecstacy. At the thought of being wholly consumed by You.

Nope. I'm terrified.

Nope. I'm dying for it.

I don't want to be religious. I want to be Yours. I don't want a list of do's and don't's. I need a relationship. I need to know God. I need to be known by God. I need the love of Christ.

Narnia moment

Sitting in the quiet of my room, reflecting on the last 4 hours of the day. How did I survive those?

How did the girls survive those?

What utter hell. I'm sure part of the problem is the current plague Is and Helen are suffering from. Sick children tend to equal rotten attitudes. That equation works for adults, as well now that I think of it. Our day went as well as can be expected with fevers and congestion and coughs and runny noses. I made smoothies for breakfast (always a winner). We cuddled in my bed, watched movies, the girls took a long nap, watched more movies and then it was time to cook dinner.

I sent the girls the play area and told them to play and read while I fixed dinner.

WW3.

Spankings and tears and rebellion and prayers and tempers and more spankings. As if I had commanded them to clean the toilet with their tongues! Since when did I get the "Horrid Mother of the Year" award for telling the girls to go play?

Then my beloved husband comes home! Oh, what joy and relief flooded my soul! My best friend, partner and comrade in the trenches has come home to help me fight the good fight for their little hearts and keep me from loosing my freaking mind.

Oh. Wait. You have a mission meeting at 7 you forgot about? Ok. No problem. Allow me a moment to chose my poison. A shot of tequila or the pretty blue cyanide pill I have stashed away for a day such as this.

We quickly scarf down the meal I had prepared (and burned while trying to nurse Z and maintain order at the same time - not possible, I've concluded), bathe the girls, put them to bed and he jumps in the shower to then turn around and run out the door.

My heart is so broken at the way this day has ended.

Looking for a ministering effect on my battered soul, I go to a favorite website and click on "Popular items." Here's what I ended up on:

Think Hard, Stay Humble: The Life of the Mind and the Peril of Pride

Sure, I'll watch this. I've already established I'm a self-absorbed, prideful-as-a-peacock Pharisee. I'm already feeling bruised from the beating I got out of the day. Why not seek out a little more punishment?

The message is delivered by Francis Chan. Never heard from him.

This guy is so real. He is so in love. With Jesus. You can hear it, see it, almost taste it from the moment he starts speaking.

I, on the other hand, am so in love. With myself. My life. My goals. My desires. The way people perceive me. Am I a good homeschool, hippie, bake from scratch, organic gardening, natural childbirth, breastfeeding, baby wrap wearing, pro-spanking, pro-gun, pro-life, physically fit, modest to a fault, conservative homemaker? As long as someone is watching.

As previously discussed, I don't pray often. But I bet my theology and doctrine is more sound than yours! And did I mention I read philosophy and bake my own bread and make my own cheese and yogurt and volunteer for charity and my husband is a missionary. I don't even have a tv.

I'm so holy I can hardly stand it.

Oh, God! Save me! Save me from my religion.

I like the things I do for my family. I like the work my hands have been tasked with...today a little less than others, but life goes on. What I don't like is my piety. In fact, I hate it. I despise my sin of self-righteousness. I abhor my unwillingness to get down on my knees every morning (if only for 5 minutes) to confess to my Holy God I'm a desperate sinner in need of His provision and strength.

Some of this is fear driven. What if He doesn't show up? What if I'm left there, talking to myself?

I live with enough fear to choke a horse. Fear of God's rejection, fear of failure, fear of falling short, fear that I'm not enough for God. Suffocating.

My A+ theology and doctrine tells me in a far off, clinical voice, "You're not enough and that's the point. God's grace is sufficient." I don't need my knowledge right now. I need God's love. I need to feel it, to share it, to experience it, to give it and live by it's power (not my own).

Here's where the Narnia moment happened. Watching and listening to Francis, I start thinking, "Father, I want what He's talking about. I'm dying for it." All the while knowing in the recesses of my mind, "I can never really get "there" where Francis is. That requires a life swallowed up in Christ. A life lived for Him not me. I can't do that. I can't even get up and talk to Him for 5 minutes in the morning."

And then the mental image of Aslan talking to Jill Pole flashed in my mind. Their dialogue was audible in my ears.

"Are you not thirsty? said the Lion. "I'm dying of thirst," said Jill. "Then drink," said the Lion. "May I - could I - would you mind going away while I do?" said Jill.

The Lion answered this only by a look and a very low growl. And as Jill gazed at its motionless bulk, she realized that she might as well have asked the whole mountain to move aside for her convenience. The delicious rippling noise of the stream was driving her nearly frantic.

"Will you promise not to - do anything to me, if I come?" said Jill. "I make no promise," said the Lion. Jill was so thirsty now that, without noticing it, she had come a step nearer. "Do you eat girls?" she said.

"I have swallowed up girls and boys, women and men, kings and emperors, cities and realms," said the Lion. It didn't say this as if it were boasting, nor as if it were sorry, nor as if it were angry. It just said it. "I daren't come and drink," said Jill. "Then you will die of thirst," said the Lion. "Oh dear!" said Jill, coming another step nearer. "I suppose I must go and look for another stream then." "There is no other stream," said the Lion...(They talk about how she came to be in that world.) "You would not have called to me unless I had been calling to you," said the Lion.

I feel like Jill. Unwilling to bend down and drink deeply for fear of what the Lion will do. What is God going to do to my life if I drink deeply and live fully for Him? As if it is even my life. As if I own anything. As if it is not God's to give and take as He wills.

What is going to happen if I fall head over heals for Jesus?

6 am and a cup of tea

This morning, Jake went back to the grindstone. Coal plants. Yuck.

Since I was up making his food before he left for work, I decided to make a cup of tea and have some quiet time with Zarah before the dynamic duo awoke at 7. This quiet time with Z ended up as quiet time with J...Jesus, that is.

I am so very guilty of not praying nearly enough (but can one ever pray "enough"?). Most of my prayer is in the form of an arrow and shot up only in times of desperation. So dumb, I know. And yet, I resist the change. For some reason I think I have to be on my best pharisaical behavior before I can talk to my Father. Again, so dumb. I have a knack for completely missing the gifts of grace. It's my bent as a Pharisee to twist amazing grace into the filthy rags of self-righteous good works.

Aaaanyway, I'm going to blame the Holy Spirit for this, but something was pushing me to sit in the dark and the quiet and just talk to God. I didn't even feed Z on time this morning (shock and horror for breaking the sacred schedule!). I just sat. Talking. To God, no less.

To my amazement, I think Jesus met me there in the stillness. Different people and needs kept coming to mind and I just talked to the Lord about anything and everything for about 10 minutes. Big whoop, right? !!10 minutes!!

That's pretty long for me. And I actually want to do it again tomorrow. I enjoyed asking God to meet these different needs that I am powerless to provide. I enjoyed seeking His grace on my life, my daughters' lives, my dear husband and other people around us.

After praying, I nursed my sweet Zarah and opened the email while sipping on some good ole black Irish. It just so happened, ahem, that I received an email update from Desiring God (the ministry of John Piper).

"I'm already on a role this morning! I'll listen to a sermon on top of praying and then I'll be really good for God. Dammit. I hate my self-righteousness. Wait, did I just curse, too? Crap. Please forgive me, Father. Ok...moving forward. (sigh)"

This was the sermon:

For Judgement I Came into This World on Desiring God

Another gift of grace, dropped in my lap - or email box. Whichever you prefer. Just last weekend I asked Dad in passing, "So, why does Jesus talk in riddles? I don't get all the passages that talk about His desire that none would perish and how they stand up to passages that talk about him leaving people without understanding. Like, when the Bible says, 'He said this so they would not understand.' Can you help me out?"

Dad, "I sure wish I could. I don't really know either."

Frustrating, because Dad knows a lot about his Bible. But God heard my question and sent me an answer in a (humanly) timely fashion. How stinking rare! God rarely, if ever gives me what I'm wanting, but He always manages to give me what I'm needing. So cool.