I'm homesick. And sad. I've been feeling vaguely unhappy as of late, and the feeling has slowly defined itself over the last couple of days, coalescing into clarity when I told my sister on the phone, "It feels like my house, but not my home." You see, I've packed all my belongings, unpacked most of them, changed my address, hung a few pictures on the walls, and scrubbed the showers, but my soul hasn't settled here yet. The part of me that likes to feel cozy, that likes to belong, is still floating around in limbo, looking for a place to perch.
We moved a month ago, and already we've lived some good life here. We've played with our kids, cut down some trees, entertained family and friends, hosted our small group from church. All the things that we did in our old home, plus some new things, we are doing here. But it just doesn't feel right yet. Maybe it's the lingering smell of......whatever that unpleasantness is. My cabinets smell funny, and Arm & Hammer can only do so much. There's a seemingly endless list of pesky little honey-do jobs that need to be done. There are three old toilets sitting in the garage, waiting to be hauled off (thankfully, they are no longer the three toilets sitting in my bathrooms. Husband for the win!). I've unpacked things and can't remember where I put them. I can't figure out where to hang my pictures (brilliant sister who helped with the living room collage, please come back!!).
Complain, complain, complain.
The way I feel right now reminds me of a story I read of a group of people who experienced incredible injustice and cruelty at the hand of a tyrannical megalomaniac.They had done nothing wrong to deserve this treatment, and they had no one and no where to turn for help. But someone knew of their plight, and because of an old promise made almost half a millennium before, they decided to save them. The process of their salvation was painful for everyone involved. It was also unspeakably terrifying, awesome, and powerful. Supernatural events brought the tyrant to his knees and the poor, oppressed people were allowed to leave their house of bondage to wander into the wilderness of freedom.
You've surely guessed by now that I'm talking about the children of Israel, God's chosen people that He freed from slavery in Egypt in order to take them to the Promised Land. Literally, a land He promised to them through their ancestors. You're also probably wondering what their story has to do with mine.
First let me say that my story is small, and insignificant, and puny when compared with the story of the Exodus. I've known this story for as long as I can remember but thanks to fantastic study material written by Jen Wilkin and the teaching of three godly, capable women, this story has gripped me and affected me in ways that it never has before. Those children of Israel have marched right out of my Bible and brought their weary, sandy selves into my living room. Those Egyptians have been hounding me, breathing threats of revenge and death down my neck, while the waves curled away from my toes. That Passover lamb has looked into my eyes the second before it's throat was cut, and I watched the life drain out of it. This isn't a small story. It's HUGE, in every possible way. My story isn't huge, but it's the one I live every day.
Even though the difference in magnitude between my story and the story of Israel's exodus from Egypt is so vast, I still find myself in that story every time I sit down to do my lesson for the week. I see my need to trust. Daily. No matter what. I see my need to obey. Daily. No matter what. I see my great God. Kind. Majestic. Powerful. Terrifying. Just. And this week, this day, I saw how I, just like Israel, was complaining instead of thanking, was nursing my discontent instead of counting my blessings.
You see, about a month after Israel left Egypt through the miraculous wonders that God wrought, they started complaining. "We're hungry. We're thirsty. We wish we had died in Egypt where they had meat pots and bread." I'm not so sure about the meat pots, but I totally identify with the bread. Even more than that I identify with the underlying emotion, and ultimately the underlying sin. By complaining about my circumstances I'm telling God that He isn't doing it right, that I don't like His plan for me and I want things done differently, preferably right away. I liked my old house that smelled nice and where I could find everything. Maybe I should just go back there and leave this smelly, disorganized soulless shell of an abode. But not really. Israel wanted a smooth transition from Egypt to Canaan. I want to instantly feel at home in this new-to-me house. We both want the same things. We want security, and we want it on our terms.
Thank God He doesn't operate that way. I'm His child, so I can always, without a doubt, know that He is working in my life in ways that will manifest and magnify His glory and will draw me into deeper relationship with Him by making me more like His most precious, perfect Son. He did the same with Israel, His chosen people. He took them through 40 years of uncomfortable and formative desert dwelling before they every set foot on promised ground. Who knows how long it's going to be, and all the things that God will do with me and for me before I feel at home in this house. Maybe I never will. Maybe this longing for earthly comfort isn't such a good thing. I can feather my nest here, but how long will that last? 20 years in this house? Another 50 or 60 years in this body? Nothing here is permanent. And so what I really truly want, and what I prayed for tonight, was that this longing I have for home will be transformed into a longing for heaven, my real home, my Promised Land.
In the end, it's all I really want.
-Ashley
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Useful Beauty
I've been thinking about beauty and functionality lately, particularly as it relates to my dishwasher. Yes, my dishwasher. We recently moved into a 25 year old house complete with the original appliances in the kitchen in all of their 1990 almond-colored glory. In addition to the fact that they looked old, decrepit, and dirty, they just weren't beautiful. So we opted to replace them with new ones (big surprise?). Although the appliances were old the granite countertops were new, so we chose a microwave, range, and dishwasher in stainless steel finished to a slate gray. Gorgeous. The range is a beast, complete with a 5th burner and cast iron griddle pan that weighs more than both my children combined. The microwave pops the perfect bag of popcorn. We're talking 4-5 unpopped kernels every time. (My husband and I are kind of popcorn snobs, and we also don't get out much. Unpopped kernels are big news around here.)
The dishwasher is an entirely different piece of machinery, with her own quirky little personality. For one thing, it sings a little song at the end of the wash cycle. It's a vast improvement over the foghorn-like tone of the buzzer on my dryer, but still a little....strange. But it's the interior where things get really funky. The top rack is much like what I had at my previous house, so no problems there. The utensil baskets hook onto the front exterior of both top and bottom racks, and because of their contour make it difficult to load a bunch of silverware, unless you use those weird grated basket lids. The bottom rack is another thing altogether. One side has racks at a normal height and spacing, but the other side the racks are spread so widely apart that only certain items can easily be loaded there. I'm all about getting the dishwasher as full as absolutely possible before running it, so these racks have really had me stumped.
Okay, I know. Funky dishwasher racks. First world problems. Believe me, I'm very thankful for the dishwasher. Very.
When we purchased the dishwasher we did so for two reasons. First, because we wanted a machine to clean our dishes for us, and we knew it could get the job done. Second, because it matched the other appliances, which looked good with the granite, and in turn made the entire kitchen more appealing. Useful and beautiful.
I realize now that I sacrificed some utility on the altar of beauty. If I had been hugely concerned about the ease of loading my dishes I would've opened the door of every available dishwasher and inspected the racks until I found the one that seemed most functional, regardless of the exterior color, button placements, handle options, etc. But I didn't. I chose the appliances to match the granite, and went with it.
Functionality, usefulness, and practicality are constantly fighting against attractiveness, beauty, loveliness. The more time I can invest in something, the lovelier it can be. For instance, take the posts I write. The creation of each post is a sacrifice of my time, and the reading of it is a sacrifice of yours, two facts that I take seriously. I don't have time to waste on this endeavor. If I'm going to write something, I want it to be good. So I wait until I have something to say, and then I work on how I say it for as long as it takes to make it good enough for me to feel like you might want to sacrifice some time to read it. And when you do, I truly appreciate it. When you leave comments about how you connected with what I wrote, I'm over the moon. Because that's when I know that the beauty I strove for in what I wrote met with usefulness in some small part in your life, and that makes both of our sacrifices completely worthwhile.
All of that being said, I am considering taking on a new endeavor, something crazy that I don't have much time for, which might not result in any beauty or practicality for anyone. I am thinking about joining the NaNoWriMo challenge next month.
If you've never heard of it, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month, which just so happens to be November. The challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel in the 30 days of the month. Doesn't sound too hard, until you start breaking it down. Let's see, 50,000 words in 30 days....that's roughly 1,667 words each day. Still doesn't sound too bad, right? And then you start doing it. And for a little while it goes beautifully, amazingly well. You are soaring along this current of words that come roaring out of your brain and gushing out through your fingers. The novel is writing itself and the exercise is pure fun. But then the doldrums set in. The story stalls, your characters get lost, and you have a permanent ache in your stomach as you try to figure out, "Where am I going with this?" The rest of the process is hard. It's work. You scrape your brain for every single one of those 1,667 words on some days, and you use little cheats like expanding all contractions just so you can meet that final word count. When it's done the relief in your bones is all you can feel, because your brain has permanently seized up in order to accomplish this feat.
For what?
No one is going to read that novel, no one is even going to know about that novel, unless you tell them, unless you offer it to them. There's no guarantee it's any good (for a novel written that quickly by an amateur, you can pretty much bet it won't be). So why go to all of that trouble? That strain? That work? When the product is mostly likely going to benefit no one, and certainly won't be beautiful.
Because some things are neither beautiful, nor functional. Some things just are. They are a self-contained effort that you do just because you want to, because even though it's painful and hard, it's also hugely rewarding. Maybe it's a selfish or foolish waste of time. That's for you to decide for yourself. For me, it's an excuse to indulge in something I love, which is writing just for the pure joy of playing with words, for shaping and being shaped by them. I guess it really is something beautiful after all.
It's time to stop playing with these words for now. My very beautiful daughter needs some practical attention from her mother.
The dishwasher is an entirely different piece of machinery, with her own quirky little personality. For one thing, it sings a little song at the end of the wash cycle. It's a vast improvement over the foghorn-like tone of the buzzer on my dryer, but still a little....strange. But it's the interior where things get really funky. The top rack is much like what I had at my previous house, so no problems there. The utensil baskets hook onto the front exterior of both top and bottom racks, and because of their contour make it difficult to load a bunch of silverware, unless you use those weird grated basket lids. The bottom rack is another thing altogether. One side has racks at a normal height and spacing, but the other side the racks are spread so widely apart that only certain items can easily be loaded there. I'm all about getting the dishwasher as full as absolutely possible before running it, so these racks have really had me stumped.
Okay, I know. Funky dishwasher racks. First world problems. Believe me, I'm very thankful for the dishwasher. Very.
When we purchased the dishwasher we did so for two reasons. First, because we wanted a machine to clean our dishes for us, and we knew it could get the job done. Second, because it matched the other appliances, which looked good with the granite, and in turn made the entire kitchen more appealing. Useful and beautiful.
I realize now that I sacrificed some utility on the altar of beauty. If I had been hugely concerned about the ease of loading my dishes I would've opened the door of every available dishwasher and inspected the racks until I found the one that seemed most functional, regardless of the exterior color, button placements, handle options, etc. But I didn't. I chose the appliances to match the granite, and went with it.
Functionality, usefulness, and practicality are constantly fighting against attractiveness, beauty, loveliness. The more time I can invest in something, the lovelier it can be. For instance, take the posts I write. The creation of each post is a sacrifice of my time, and the reading of it is a sacrifice of yours, two facts that I take seriously. I don't have time to waste on this endeavor. If I'm going to write something, I want it to be good. So I wait until I have something to say, and then I work on how I say it for as long as it takes to make it good enough for me to feel like you might want to sacrifice some time to read it. And when you do, I truly appreciate it. When you leave comments about how you connected with what I wrote, I'm over the moon. Because that's when I know that the beauty I strove for in what I wrote met with usefulness in some small part in your life, and that makes both of our sacrifices completely worthwhile.
All of that being said, I am considering taking on a new endeavor, something crazy that I don't have much time for, which might not result in any beauty or practicality for anyone. I am thinking about joining the NaNoWriMo challenge next month.
If you've never heard of it, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month, which just so happens to be November. The challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel in the 30 days of the month. Doesn't sound too hard, until you start breaking it down. Let's see, 50,000 words in 30 days....that's roughly 1,667 words each day. Still doesn't sound too bad, right? And then you start doing it. And for a little while it goes beautifully, amazingly well. You are soaring along this current of words that come roaring out of your brain and gushing out through your fingers. The novel is writing itself and the exercise is pure fun. But then the doldrums set in. The story stalls, your characters get lost, and you have a permanent ache in your stomach as you try to figure out, "Where am I going with this?" The rest of the process is hard. It's work. You scrape your brain for every single one of those 1,667 words on some days, and you use little cheats like expanding all contractions just so you can meet that final word count. When it's done the relief in your bones is all you can feel, because your brain has permanently seized up in order to accomplish this feat.
For what?
No one is going to read that novel, no one is even going to know about that novel, unless you tell them, unless you offer it to them. There's no guarantee it's any good (for a novel written that quickly by an amateur, you can pretty much bet it won't be). So why go to all of that trouble? That strain? That work? When the product is mostly likely going to benefit no one, and certainly won't be beautiful.
Because some things are neither beautiful, nor functional. Some things just are. They are a self-contained effort that you do just because you want to, because even though it's painful and hard, it's also hugely rewarding. Maybe it's a selfish or foolish waste of time. That's for you to decide for yourself. For me, it's an excuse to indulge in something I love, which is writing just for the pure joy of playing with words, for shaping and being shaped by them. I guess it really is something beautiful after all.
It's time to stop playing with these words for now. My very beautiful daughter needs some practical attention from her mother.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
What is that smell?
It's early Saturday evening. I'm sitting in a restaurant with my family, trying to juggle eating a rice bowl and coaxing my daughter to eat as well while she stands on my lap. I've not felt well all day, and that feeling of un-well-being is only compounded by the bodily and mental tiredness brought on by an afternoon of shopping with a 4 year old and 1 year old for diapers, toilet paper, and paint hardener (we are moving and need to dispose of our ridiculous number of leftover paint cans). This moment with my daughter standing on my lap, dropping bites of rice and chicken on me while crumpling a quesadilla in her chubby fist is not what I want to be doing. It's not where I want to be. I want to be looking pretty and riding alone with my husband on our way to a movie. Or shopping for something that I can't find in a home improvement store. Or just asleep. I just don't want to be Mommy right now. Because right now being Mommy is unpleasant and messy and just plain hard.
And then for some reason I lean toward my daughter and sniff her arm. Her smooth, pudgy, warm little arm. And that smell changes my entire demeanor. Her sweet baby smell disappeared a long time ago and was replaced by her own special scent of toddler. Her whole life is right there on her skin. Body wash and snacks and sheets and dirt and everything else. Her gorgeous little being is right there, right beside my face, and when I breathe it in I don't want to be anybody else doing anything else. Because how empty would my heart be without this little girl who is joyous and joyful, even with her occasional (okay, sometimes frequent) fits of temper and stubbornness? Who could I love as much as I love her handsome blue-eyed brother across the table, with his own amazing gifts and challenges and quirks? His charming absurdities and qualities that make him one of the most delightful people I know?
Knowing what I know now, and knowing who I know now, these precious little people, how could I really un-wish that for myself? Being in this moment is all I ever really wanted or planned for in my life. Okay, I didn't really plan on queso on my jeans and having to do a balancing act just to eat my dinner. But I also didn't plan on the intensity and depth of love I feel for these two. Because I didn't know. I couldn't know.
Kids have plenty of smells associated with them, most of which are unpleasant and unwelcome. But sometimes those smells are sweet and endearing, reminding parents why we wanted this in the first place, why we wake up everyday to it, why we would do it all over again. Sometimes, a smell can change a moment and save your day.
-Ashley
And then for some reason I lean toward my daughter and sniff her arm. Her smooth, pudgy, warm little arm. And that smell changes my entire demeanor. Her sweet baby smell disappeared a long time ago and was replaced by her own special scent of toddler. Her whole life is right there on her skin. Body wash and snacks and sheets and dirt and everything else. Her gorgeous little being is right there, right beside my face, and when I breathe it in I don't want to be anybody else doing anything else. Because how empty would my heart be without this little girl who is joyous and joyful, even with her occasional (okay, sometimes frequent) fits of temper and stubbornness? Who could I love as much as I love her handsome blue-eyed brother across the table, with his own amazing gifts and challenges and quirks? His charming absurdities and qualities that make him one of the most delightful people I know?
Knowing what I know now, and knowing who I know now, these precious little people, how could I really un-wish that for myself? Being in this moment is all I ever really wanted or planned for in my life. Okay, I didn't really plan on queso on my jeans and having to do a balancing act just to eat my dinner. But I also didn't plan on the intensity and depth of love I feel for these two. Because I didn't know. I couldn't know.
Kids have plenty of smells associated with them, most of which are unpleasant and unwelcome. But sometimes those smells are sweet and endearing, reminding parents why we wanted this in the first place, why we wake up everyday to it, why we would do it all over again. Sometimes, a smell can change a moment and save your day.
-Ashley
Saturday, August 1, 2015
Straight to Grace
It's a rare morning in summer. Rare because there is a breeze, and the sun isn't broiling my skin (yet). My husband is mowing the yard, and I am spending time with the kids on the driveway, pulling them in the wagon, helping the littlest play on her brother's ride-on firetruck. Because my daughter is occupying her brother's toy, I decide to pull out his tricycle so he will have something to ride on as well.
There's a history with this tricycle. It's still shiny and almost new, with a minimal layer of dust and only a tiny bit of rust. That's because since we gave it to our son at Christmas two years ago he has ridden on it a grand total of, say, 5, maybe 6 times. The art of pedaling has up to this point eluded him, and he doesn't seem interested enough in riding it to apply himself to learning how to do it. My husband and I have the base line opinion of: It's okay. Riding toys just aren't his thing. He would rather run anyway. All of those things are true. But what is also true is that it bugs me, A LOT, that my son still doesn't, still won't ride the tricycle. So every now and then I get the brilliant idea to drag the thing out of the garage, plunk his butt in it, and give him a lesson in how to ride a tricycle. It usually ends in frustration and tears. This morning was no different.
In the moment, when he was sitting there, grasping the handle bars, whining, protesting and crying, I told myself the problem was with him. That he just needed to suck it up and try harder. Tears don't get you anywhere, I said. He whined some more. I got angrier. By some miracle he finally managed to ride a few more feet and I decided that was enough for today. He hadn't learned anything about riding a tricycle, but he had learned plenty about his mother.
On the one hand, my son certainly needs to learn to keep trying something, even when it is hard, especially when it is hard. He needs to know that there is value just in the trying, whether he succeeds or not. And he definitely needs to experience the pleasure that comes with overcoming a difficulty, solving a problem, learning a task.
But those weren't the lessons I was teaching him this morning. By acting harshly and speaking angrily, I was teaching him that success is all that matters. I was teaching that lesson at the cost of his tears, of his joy, of his desire to try something new. He will probably never ride that tricycle, unless I tell him to, because every association he has with it is bad. But the tricycle isn't really the point at all. The point, the problem, really, is that I am so caught up with my own frustration, my own desire for him to do this one thing, that I completely lose sight of the fact that he's a little boy who needs encouragement, and patience, and love. He needs to see me smiling, helping, motivating, not scowling and belittling.
I kind of hate that tricycle, because it seems like such a lighting rod for some of the worst acts of motherhood that I commit. A big part of me would like to throw it in the trash can and be done with it. But that wouldn't teach my son to persevere. And it definitely wouldn't get rid of the real problems, which are my own pride and selfishness, my unkindness and anger. If only it were so easy as throwing them in the trash can and being done with them.
This is a moment when I have to preach the gospel to myself again, and hope that next time I will remember it first, and respond with grace to my son. I need to remind myself that Jesus died because of my pride, selfishness, unkindness, and anger, so that I can be free of them. No single effort on my part can effectively kill those ugly sins that spring so easily from my heart. But Jesus is my Savior and so again today, I know that He has saved me from those things. And He will continue to save me from those sins, because I am His.
After I told my son he could stop riding the tricycle I hugged him. I told him I loved him. And I apologized to him. I wish I could undo all the unkindness that came before, but by God's grace I was able to make it right after the fact. Maybe next time I will remember to skip all the ugly and go straight to grace.
-Ashley
There's a history with this tricycle. It's still shiny and almost new, with a minimal layer of dust and only a tiny bit of rust. That's because since we gave it to our son at Christmas two years ago he has ridden on it a grand total of, say, 5, maybe 6 times. The art of pedaling has up to this point eluded him, and he doesn't seem interested enough in riding it to apply himself to learning how to do it. My husband and I have the base line opinion of: It's okay. Riding toys just aren't his thing. He would rather run anyway. All of those things are true. But what is also true is that it bugs me, A LOT, that my son still doesn't, still won't ride the tricycle. So every now and then I get the brilliant idea to drag the thing out of the garage, plunk his butt in it, and give him a lesson in how to ride a tricycle. It usually ends in frustration and tears. This morning was no different.
In the moment, when he was sitting there, grasping the handle bars, whining, protesting and crying, I told myself the problem was with him. That he just needed to suck it up and try harder. Tears don't get you anywhere, I said. He whined some more. I got angrier. By some miracle he finally managed to ride a few more feet and I decided that was enough for today. He hadn't learned anything about riding a tricycle, but he had learned plenty about his mother.
On the one hand, my son certainly needs to learn to keep trying something, even when it is hard, especially when it is hard. He needs to know that there is value just in the trying, whether he succeeds or not. And he definitely needs to experience the pleasure that comes with overcoming a difficulty, solving a problem, learning a task.
But those weren't the lessons I was teaching him this morning. By acting harshly and speaking angrily, I was teaching him that success is all that matters. I was teaching that lesson at the cost of his tears, of his joy, of his desire to try something new. He will probably never ride that tricycle, unless I tell him to, because every association he has with it is bad. But the tricycle isn't really the point at all. The point, the problem, really, is that I am so caught up with my own frustration, my own desire for him to do this one thing, that I completely lose sight of the fact that he's a little boy who needs encouragement, and patience, and love. He needs to see me smiling, helping, motivating, not scowling and belittling.
I kind of hate that tricycle, because it seems like such a lighting rod for some of the worst acts of motherhood that I commit. A big part of me would like to throw it in the trash can and be done with it. But that wouldn't teach my son to persevere. And it definitely wouldn't get rid of the real problems, which are my own pride and selfishness, my unkindness and anger. If only it were so easy as throwing them in the trash can and being done with them.
This is a moment when I have to preach the gospel to myself again, and hope that next time I will remember it first, and respond with grace to my son. I need to remind myself that Jesus died because of my pride, selfishness, unkindness, and anger, so that I can be free of them. No single effort on my part can effectively kill those ugly sins that spring so easily from my heart. But Jesus is my Savior and so again today, I know that He has saved me from those things. And He will continue to save me from those sins, because I am His.
After I told my son he could stop riding the tricycle I hugged him. I told him I loved him. And I apologized to him. I wish I could undo all the unkindness that came before, but by God's grace I was able to make it right after the fact. Maybe next time I will remember to skip all the ugly and go straight to grace.
-Ashley
Thursday, June 25, 2015
The Business of Summer
When catching up with friends lately, it's been typical for each of us to ask, "What have you been up to this summer?" They have great answers like, "I'm having a baby!" and, "I'm going on a mission trip!" or, "We just bought a house!" When it's my turn to reply, I blank. Completely. Vacation was almost two months ago and I'm still harking back to it. "Well, you know, we traveled the first week of May..." Lame.
The truth is that nothing very exciting or earth-shattering is going on for me this summer. The things that do happen look pretty much the same from day today, until I get right down on eye level with them, and hold my breath, and don't blink, and then I see some things that are amazing.
What am I doing this summer? Here's what I wish I could remember to say.
I'm watching my baby girl learn to walk in that hurtling, crashing, forward motion full of hope that she finds my arms before she hits the floor. She does. And then one day, really soon, she's not going to launch herself into my arms. She's going to push off from them. And that part of the business of summer will be done. She will officially know how to walk, and all her life will change.
I'm watching my son run, run, everywhere in shoes that surely belong on a circus clown and not his feet. How he doesn't trip and fall all over himself, I don't know. But he doesn't. He runs and jumps and moves like the deer that venture into my yard, wrecking my roses and somehow still making me thankful for a glimpse of them. And when they appear, the nervousness so obvious in their twitching tails and flaring nostrils, I call to my boy to come, quick, but be very quiet, and we stand together and watch these beautiful, destructive creatures. For a moment he is still, and then he's off again, springing away on those skinny little legs, bounding with energy. No one told me that part of the business of parenting is learning that you will constantly watch your child moving away from you, in tiny steps, then leaps and bounds.
I'm being amazed by the magic of witnessing a hummingbird feeding from the blossoms on my hosta plants, which have exploded into a riotous entanglement of leggy stalks and broad leaves all along the front of my house. Just watching those plants grow a little (or a lot) each day has been a small but sure pleasure since those first strange purple fingers began clawing their way through the soil into the sunshine. And now to see these enigmatically beautiful birds coming right up to my window and passing from flower to flower is a moment pregnant with wonder and amazement, bred in my grandmother's living room as everyone stopped whatever they were doing in order to watch the "hummer" at the feeder outside the window. The business of appreciating beauty, no matter how small or momentary, is best learned early.
I'm working with my husband every day to keep our family fed, our house clean, our souls and minds and bodies nourished with love and forgiveness and gospel and grace. I'm doing the mundane, the boring, the essential to keep life here afloat. Most days I think a lot about what I do, and don't spend nearly enough time thanking the ONE who allows me to do it, who gives me the strength for it, who pours grace all over me and my family when I fail. Which I do. A lot. A nutrient rich breakfast is nothing if it's served from a surly, closed hand. So this summer I'm learning, and learning, and learning, the business of loving, because I'm loved.
So the business of my summer is growth. Growing flowers. Growing kids. Growing awareness of grace. Everywhere, in everything, there is a way to grow in grace.
-Ashley
The truth is that nothing very exciting or earth-shattering is going on for me this summer. The things that do happen look pretty much the same from day today, until I get right down on eye level with them, and hold my breath, and don't blink, and then I see some things that are amazing.
What am I doing this summer? Here's what I wish I could remember to say.
I'm watching my baby girl learn to walk in that hurtling, crashing, forward motion full of hope that she finds my arms before she hits the floor. She does. And then one day, really soon, she's not going to launch herself into my arms. She's going to push off from them. And that part of the business of summer will be done. She will officially know how to walk, and all her life will change.
I'm watching my son run, run, everywhere in shoes that surely belong on a circus clown and not his feet. How he doesn't trip and fall all over himself, I don't know. But he doesn't. He runs and jumps and moves like the deer that venture into my yard, wrecking my roses and somehow still making me thankful for a glimpse of them. And when they appear, the nervousness so obvious in their twitching tails and flaring nostrils, I call to my boy to come, quick, but be very quiet, and we stand together and watch these beautiful, destructive creatures. For a moment he is still, and then he's off again, springing away on those skinny little legs, bounding with energy. No one told me that part of the business of parenting is learning that you will constantly watch your child moving away from you, in tiny steps, then leaps and bounds.
I'm being amazed by the magic of witnessing a hummingbird feeding from the blossoms on my hosta plants, which have exploded into a riotous entanglement of leggy stalks and broad leaves all along the front of my house. Just watching those plants grow a little (or a lot) each day has been a small but sure pleasure since those first strange purple fingers began clawing their way through the soil into the sunshine. And now to see these enigmatically beautiful birds coming right up to my window and passing from flower to flower is a moment pregnant with wonder and amazement, bred in my grandmother's living room as everyone stopped whatever they were doing in order to watch the "hummer" at the feeder outside the window. The business of appreciating beauty, no matter how small or momentary, is best learned early.
I'm working with my husband every day to keep our family fed, our house clean, our souls and minds and bodies nourished with love and forgiveness and gospel and grace. I'm doing the mundane, the boring, the essential to keep life here afloat. Most days I think a lot about what I do, and don't spend nearly enough time thanking the ONE who allows me to do it, who gives me the strength for it, who pours grace all over me and my family when I fail. Which I do. A lot. A nutrient rich breakfast is nothing if it's served from a surly, closed hand. So this summer I'm learning, and learning, and learning, the business of loving, because I'm loved.
So the business of my summer is growth. Growing flowers. Growing kids. Growing awareness of grace. Everywhere, in everything, there is a way to grow in grace.
-Ashley
Monday, May 11, 2015
Lessons Learned
My vacation last week provided a lot of material for me to write about. There was the glorious reality of the beauty of the ocean that I already expected from pictures on the Internet. The joy of sharing lunch with my daughter under an umbrella on the sand. The realization of my infinite smallness and infinite worth as I gazed at those tiny coarse grains, knowing that God's children are innumerable to me, and intimately known to Him. More practically, I came away with several food experiences to share, some good, some bad. Big Al's Diner on Roanoke Island has the best guacamole I've ever tasted, and Duck Donuts is worth every penny you spend there. Goombay's and The Rundown are over-priced and under-seasoned, though the koi pond at The Rundown was a treat (and a hazard!!) for the kids.
As I lived through these experiences and mulled over them during the (very long) ride home, I had trouble deciding what aspect of the vacation I wanted to write a post about. Writing about each one would help me to process through them and see them more objectively, but would probably bore you to tears, my dear readers, or scare you away forever. After all, this isn't an online diary. What a scary thought, indeed.
The part of my time away that had the biggest impact on me was the book I took with me. The Hardest Peace: Experiencing Grace in the Midst of Life's Hard by Kara Tippetts was an unexpected gift from my mom, who recently began following Kara's blog, Mundane Faithfulness. Mom joined that community of readers right before Kara died of cancer. Knowing the outcome of Kara's fight profoundly changed how I read her book. Instead of enjoying a breezy read in the warm, beachy sunlight, I found myself curled next to my husband on a deck chair made for one, weeping at the harsh realities of this woman's life, and marveling at her steady commitment to know and experience Jesus and His love ever deeper through it all. In each chapter, Kara unflinchingly told her life story, beginning with childhood and continuing on through her salvation, marriage, diagnosis, and treatment. I've never read anything more real.
Every chapter was like a one-two punch. The hard truths of finding herself with a husband, 4 young children, and cancer. The glorious shining of her faith in Jesus, her reliance on Him. I was saddened. I was convicted. I was made hungry to know Jesus more. I was terrified that this could happen to me, another young mother of young children with dreams and plans and health.
I was also emboldened. In writing this blog I feel both the desire and the burden to be complete. To have my life together, to know what I'm talking about, to be full of wisdom and gracious speech. My reality could not be more different. I'm a believer in Jesus Christ and His finished work on the cross, but many days I struggle to keep my head above the water and continue to believe the gospel. I begin to look at my life so myopically and see my imperfections looming so large that I forget I am looking at them in the shadow of the cross. Wisdom and graciousness is what I want to be true about my life. Anger, selfishness, pride, and a deep need for continuing grace is the truth.
What I learned from Kara is that if I am going to write something I must be honest about it. I must look at things as they are, and not try to gloss over the rough edges, or turn a blind eye to realities that I just rather not see. I learned that to write from a place of strength is really to write from a well of weakness, a well that is open and ready to receive the strength of Jesus, the only true strength that there is. If I am going to write on completeness, I must write in honesty. Honesty that acknowledges I am a daughter of the King, imperfections and all. It wasn't my goodness that drew Him to me, it was His grace that drew me to Him.
I've been freed from the need to present a pleasant, cleaned-up, holy facade. That doesn't mean all my dirty laundry gets hung out in my front yard, but it does mean I won't pretend to be something I am not.
I'm not perfect.
Neither are you.
Jesus is.
I love Him.
That's my reality.
-Ashley
As I lived through these experiences and mulled over them during the (very long) ride home, I had trouble deciding what aspect of the vacation I wanted to write a post about. Writing about each one would help me to process through them and see them more objectively, but would probably bore you to tears, my dear readers, or scare you away forever. After all, this isn't an online diary. What a scary thought, indeed.
The part of my time away that had the biggest impact on me was the book I took with me. The Hardest Peace: Experiencing Grace in the Midst of Life's Hard by Kara Tippetts was an unexpected gift from my mom, who recently began following Kara's blog, Mundane Faithfulness. Mom joined that community of readers right before Kara died of cancer. Knowing the outcome of Kara's fight profoundly changed how I read her book. Instead of enjoying a breezy read in the warm, beachy sunlight, I found myself curled next to my husband on a deck chair made for one, weeping at the harsh realities of this woman's life, and marveling at her steady commitment to know and experience Jesus and His love ever deeper through it all. In each chapter, Kara unflinchingly told her life story, beginning with childhood and continuing on through her salvation, marriage, diagnosis, and treatment. I've never read anything more real.
Every chapter was like a one-two punch. The hard truths of finding herself with a husband, 4 young children, and cancer. The glorious shining of her faith in Jesus, her reliance on Him. I was saddened. I was convicted. I was made hungry to know Jesus more. I was terrified that this could happen to me, another young mother of young children with dreams and plans and health.
I was also emboldened. In writing this blog I feel both the desire and the burden to be complete. To have my life together, to know what I'm talking about, to be full of wisdom and gracious speech. My reality could not be more different. I'm a believer in Jesus Christ and His finished work on the cross, but many days I struggle to keep my head above the water and continue to believe the gospel. I begin to look at my life so myopically and see my imperfections looming so large that I forget I am looking at them in the shadow of the cross. Wisdom and graciousness is what I want to be true about my life. Anger, selfishness, pride, and a deep need for continuing grace is the truth.
What I learned from Kara is that if I am going to write something I must be honest about it. I must look at things as they are, and not try to gloss over the rough edges, or turn a blind eye to realities that I just rather not see. I learned that to write from a place of strength is really to write from a well of weakness, a well that is open and ready to receive the strength of Jesus, the only true strength that there is. If I am going to write on completeness, I must write in honesty. Honesty that acknowledges I am a daughter of the King, imperfections and all. It wasn't my goodness that drew Him to me, it was His grace that drew me to Him.
I've been freed from the need to present a pleasant, cleaned-up, holy facade. That doesn't mean all my dirty laundry gets hung out in my front yard, but it does mean I won't pretend to be something I am not.
I'm not perfect.
Neither are you.
Jesus is.
I love Him.
That's my reality.
-Ashley
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Vacation Plans
My little family is planning a vacation. It's our first big time away since our daughter was born a year ago, so of course I am concerned about remembering to pack all of the required baby paraphernalia. To be honest, I'm a bit of an obnoxious uber-planner whenever I travel, baby or not, complete with extensively detailed lists of everything we could possibly need. If my husband were in charge of the packing he would throw a few outfits and a pair of shoes into a bag for each person, grab some diapers and the formula, and be ready to go without any attendant anxiety. Bless his heart. How I envy him.
But I'm the one in charge of packing, so everyone in the house is stuck with Psycho-Planner Mommy until the moment we leave. I probably owe my son an ICEE from Target at this point.
Even with all of my forethought and notes and lists, there is one elusive, but very important item, that I am consistently forgetting: the joyous fact that we are going on vacation!!! It's so obvious that I completely overlook it, or just bury it beneath the mound of work that I impose on myself in order to get ready to actually go. Because not only do I like to wash all the laundry in order to be able to pack whatever I want/need, I also like to clean my entire house so I come home to a nice fresh space. And all of that busyness and planning and doing and stressing makes me feel necessary, important, indispensable. What it actually makes me is tired, tiresome, and trying.
Since we started planning the vacation and the initial excitement wore off, I have been swallowed up in details. For maybe one minute I have stuck my head above the fray that I created and realized how exciting it is to experience a new place with the three people I love the most and find the most joy in spending time with. I haven't concentrated on the fact that I get to introduce my daughter to the beach, and watch my son wade out into the ocean with his dad (the OCEAN?!). Even the car ride has potential. Sure, it could be miserable. The mini's in the backseat might fuss and whine the entire way, and that would be unpleasant for all of us. But bathroom stops are inevitable, and that's always a chance to see a few cool spots off the interstate in some little town in the middle of nowhere. The ride could be a lot of fun (especially since I stole all the cool toys and am saving them expressly for that purpose). Maybe we will find a great rest stop with trees and grass and space for my son to run off some energy. Or we might stop at an ice cream shop with wrought iron tables and chairs and brightly striped umbrellas out front, and I can introduce my girl to the deliciousness that is butter pecan ice cream. Who knows what adventures are out there?!?
What I am realizing now, as the preparation is at a fever pitch and departure is imminent, is that I have forgotten to be thankful. This vacation is a gift to me, from my husband, and I have chosen to turn it into a chore. It's a chance to give my kids new experiences, good, bad, and everything in between, and I've focused on what they are going to wear. Why did I bury my head in all of those petty details? Sure, we've got to wear something, but is it a life or death issue if it's cute, or even matches? Sheesh. The smallness of it all, in the face of such a grand and loving gesture. But my husband is good at this. He's been doing it for almost ten years now, extending grace and love to me in the face of my ungracious thanklessness. He learned it from our Father, who has done the same for him, and me, over and over again.
I'm about to go shopping to buy a few last minute necessities. But I think I can try to keep my head above it all and operate under thankfulness now, instead of being driven by the need to plan every last detail. I think that now I can extend a little grace to myself and enjoy this experience that we call vacation.
Maybe I'll stop by Target and get that ICEE after all.
-Ashley
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)