on accepting

We try to make ourselves behave how we know we should. Our children, too.

Motivated by goodness and honor, we try to be who we know we ought to be and we push them with the same standards.

     They pull toward us looking for guidance, yet push us away in rebellion.

We stand with contorted faces expressing confusion and we forget how we do this, too.

Rebellious of the try-hard efforts we push/pull like crazed maniacs. More than an arm wrestle, the days can tend to be an all out brawl. A battle of wills.

Shouting spews forth from our fearful selves as we struggle to maintain control, angry at our weaknesses, and afraid that we might not win the battle in even us.

We tear through our lives with an intensity to somehow find a way to fix ourselves. 

     Who should we tell our secrets to be freed?

     What should we read to make ourselves better?

     When should we move from here and step toward the dream?

     Where should we go to make ourselves positioned for more right and honorable behavior? 

     Why should we have hope when we do these things we don't even want to do, yet we do anyway? 

     How should we align our days to avoid the temptations?

We stuff ourselves as if we're chasing after the prize on the bottom of the Lucky Charms box, all the while consuming more and more empty-calorie questions.

: : : 

God knows that we fall short.

He designed us knowing full well that we will do what we dare not, wish not, hope not, and try not. That we will fail to fulfill the obligatory good-girl behavior.

He's so not afraid of the suffering that we will endure or the depths of the valley of sin. And He knows just how far to take us for our lives to be flip-flopped from ugly to beauty.
   
He allows us to be -- as we are -- for His glory. 

It is He who will give sight to the blind. And it is He who makes radiant from the raw. Ashes to gold.

It isn't our goodness that leaves a legacy. Not our own behavior, or our own good parenting, or our own child's conforming. This kind of trying only serves to crush. Stifle. Suffocate.

Might we accept the truth that we (and they) will fail and flop.

     That sinful behaving is inevitable. That we're human, after all.

Let's loosen our grip and stop trying so hard. Instead let us live, love, lighten up, and let Him move in us, choosing to accept ourselves (and our children) as the dearly loved ones that we are.

     However you need to, play us out to reflect you. Less of us and more of you here in this day. Amen.

this is our worship. 

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Truth

So much about my life is all about me.

I'm prideful. And selfish. Controlling. And stubborn.

The things I criticize others for are the exact things I sometimes do, too.

Certain struggles continue to be wrapped around me like a vine.

Even though I know what is wrong, I still do.

I don't evaluate my capacity and measure it to reality.

Unspoken expectations make unrealistic demands of myself.

The truth is, I am human.

Planned for a place in today. And prepared to fulfill a role.

Most importantly, purposed to know love.

Broken, selfish, messy, chaotic, shifty . . .

A Hand-selected rock meant for this story. His story.

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sister-story

I feel adopted in many ways.

Yet, so far removed that I only peer in from a distance.

Two sisters exchange love.

And I'm one of theirs, too -- we're three -- yet I'm so not like them.

I'm not a part of what they have as two.

Years have healed me and I'm okay. Still, I ache.

I watch them.

It feels like I'm standing behind an imaginary line that divides us.

Hands wrapped around eyes to get a good, close look from a distance of miles and miles in between.

I see beauty in them and through them.

Growing hearts and maturing minds. Beautiful creatives.

I love them. Yet, I hardly know them.

Our stories are just beginning. On Earth, and with each other.

I trust this to be true.

Though I'm a decade a half older than them each (and then some for one), they are a part of me.

Sisters of the same father.

The "us" feels strange. Complicated. And I feel clumsy.

I'm taking steps to pursue adopting, and I can't help considering this dynamic we have.

I deeply massage a thought about what my own story might reflect to another.

There's purpose in what I've lived and continue to live. I trust this.

He'll use every part of our sister-hood.

For me. For you. For the ones who come after us and in between us.

And even for the ones who came before us.

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Really?

The Boy-Man took a hard hit in the chest during lacrosse practice . . . 

I had shared this personal story on Twitter and the day afterwards a question permeated my thoughts:

     What if . . . He didn't? Would I still think God is good, then?

The truth is, I might not.

It was ten years ago on the same day when my son could have died from the direct hit by a lacrosse ball, that a routine ultrasound discovered the nearly five-month-old baby growing inside of me no longer had a heartbeat.

The first thing my groom said to me that day as we were sitting in the doctor's office was, "Talk to me. Keep talking to me." He sensed this could drive a wedge between us. God gave him discernment that this part in our story would have a huge impact on our relationship. And the next day when I delivered her, he allowed the space between us to fill with quiet and prayed for peace in the silence.

So many people tried to shrug off the magnitude of that experience, commenting about how normal and common miscarriages are. Nothing anyone said helped. No one knew how I felt.

I tried to conceal the gut-wrenching ache and stuff  it down as I felt shame for my pain.

How dare I feel sad when there are women who carry full-term and deliver dead babies?! 

I cried on my way home from work every day for exactly two weeks, and then lived in a stupor with crassness searing deep into my attitude for months. I hadn't realized the length to my grieving, nor had I considered that some people might assign a time table to grief, when suddenly a loved one spatted at me to "get over it!"

That I would ever get over this was something I dismissed as impossible. I wasn't sure I'd ever heal from the wounds of all those years ago.

Slamming the door shut, I kept friends and even family out of my heart and my life. I tortured myself as I assigned blame that wasn't mine for the taking. Even after birthing a healthy miracle, I still found myself searching for an answer.

It took nearly eight years for a tipping point, a moment when I was ready to hear God and for my perspective to shift:

That baby had purpose. Her story still has purpose. 

Greeting our 8 year-old Boy-Man as he awoke the morning after his scary lacrosse incident, I hugged him a little longer, and that question filled my heart:

     Would I'd still think He's good if . . . ? 

The truth is, God's grace wins, no matter what. All can be counted as a gift.

     Even if . . .
     Even when . . . 

I can trust this is truth. And this I must believe, for my spirit aches with a knowing that it is.

That moment when my groom responded with an immediacy to the prompting he had to pull me tight and plead with me to stay near him . . .

     and then . . .

All those moments that have stood between us like a thin and fragile rope, as though our whole story of togetherness was dangling in the wind and poised to be shredded apart . . .

     and even . . .

The moments of not even being sure I liked him or wanted to stay . . .

With all of this, there has been purpose.

I can be sure He's grown us closer to His heart, widened our faith, and stretched our ability to comprehend truth . . . in the happy, even ugly, and especially brutally painful, parts of our story.

And even when I don't see it or believe it, the truth remains: All. Is. For. Purpose. 

All.

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I made a statement for a lot of my life that a good friend encouraged me to stop saying.

Where I was at the time she spoke truth into my life is seared into my memory and really that isn't the point. Except, that her truth-telling is a part of my altar-building.

Every time I remember her words I am honoring {Real} truth. Living out worship in the remembering.

Every time I pause and choose not to say, "I am just an average girl . . . average at every thing," I am declaring truth that I was created to be different. We all are.

Ordinary doesn't exist. I really don't think it does.

When you start seeing God, really seeing Him, you begin to notice that He is in every thing. And I mean Every. Thing.

You start declaring how truly All. Is. For. Purpose.

Beauty blossoms from the rottenest places and it's so astounding you just have to talk about it.

There isn't room for ordinary when it comes to God.

He makes things out of what seems like nothing. Hope grows where doors were once bolted shut.

Today's post was part of my friend, Lisa-Jo's fun challenge each Friday to take five and Just. Write.

     "...for five, short, bold beautiful minutes... unscripted and unedited...

     without worrying if it's just right or not."

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