Love Anyway

We got the call today, the one that we don't ever want to get. The one that says our most valiant efforts are not enough. The one that says we have to let go and entrust precious ones into the hands that entrusted them to us in the first place. 

The ache comes...slowly, then building, building, building. Like waves crashing, beating against the shore. What do we do? What do we say when our best is not enough? When our greatest efforts to protect and love cannot keep the storm at bay?

"Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify you" (Psalm 63:3).

I kissed his sweet cheek the other day, praying over him the promises of God. May you be loved and cherished, knowing how precious you are to the Most High God. As I hear of his departure, I whisper the same prayer, trusting that he and his chubby little brother will know this love that is better than life. 

I cannot weather the storms he is about to face for him. I can, however, hand him to the One who calms the storms with a word of spoken power and authority. I cannot stand in the way of the danger that might come his way, but I can release him to the One whose body broke for all mankind. I cannot sing over him at night when he struggles to fall asleep, but I can entrust him to the cradling arms of the One who "will rejoice over [him] with singing," the One who "takes great delight in [him]" (Zephaniah 3:17). 

I did not look for this passionate fervor that God breathed into my bones. Rather, it found me. Days like today only serve to throw gasoline on the fire, no matter how much I wish it could be extinguished with the ache. I know this One whose love is better than life, though, and I know of little ones who need such a love. I press on, then, as one driven by the fury of a forest-fire-sized passion. 

What do we do when our greatest efforts to love and protect are not enough? We love and protect anyway, because we have been called by the One who loves bigger and protects better than we ever could. 

Enough is enough

My blood boils deep and my fingers burn on this keyboard with the steam from it all. My little sister gets married Saturday, and on that day, with microphone in hand, I will tell her things about the sacredness of sisterhood and family. But today I question the truth of it all. Because sisters stand up for each other, and families link arms against forces that oppose them. And yet, the life blood drained from family last night, and a little sister was forced to play dead to keep hers. Meanwhile, we get up and sip coffee and are able to live as if nothing happened because I don't have to fear evil hatred against my pale skin. 

A girl is thrown to the ground and sat upon while she cries for her mama. Meanwhile, we make excuses and say "well, maybe we don't know the whole story." I agree, we don't. How could we possibly understand a world where little boys have to be taught to fear the ones charged with protecting us? We know nothing of the oppression, and we choose to live in ignorance. 

Enough is enough. We are family, and families fight for each other. Desmond Tutu said, "If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor." We are oppressing family...sisters and brothers. We are turning a blind eye to injustice against family, even making excuses and justifying the injustice. Enough is enough.

I'll admit...I don't always know how to fight for family. I have watched siblings hurt while I wept because I was helpless and did not know how to alleviate their pain. But I wept. I ached with everything inside me, praying and longing for a day when all that is wrong will be made right. Today, I don't know how to fight for my brothers and sisters with brown skin. But I will weep. I will ache with everything inside me, praying and longing for a day when evil hatred will be defeated forever by the One who is making all things new. I will stand up against the oppressors and say enough is enough. 

Jesus ushered in a kingdom that declared, "There is neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, nor is there male or female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus" (Galatians 3:28). #blacklivesmatter because we are family, and families link arms against forces that oppose them. 

Either join the fight...weep and pray and speak up against injustice...or stay silent and know you are standing with the oppressors. 

Hard does not mean wrong

I think it was around mile seven that I very clearly remember thinking, "This is going to be HARD." I remember thinking how funny it was that I was thinking that. I mean, I don't know that I ever thought running the 13.1 miles would be a piece of cake. But I found myself reassured, almost as if someone was yelling the truth of it over me from the sidelines, that the last six miles would be a battle. 

There is a certain monotony to running. That study cadence, the motion that repeats for minutes and hours and...well, as long as you tell it to continue. Toward the end of that race, every muscle in my body hurt, and no amount of adrenaline or fear could have forced me to speed up. I was done. And yet, I couldn't quit, so I lost myself in the cadence. Left, right, left, right, thump thump thump. 

As I waddled across the finish line, I thought of Paul's comparison of the Christian life to a race. It is an easy analogy to make...so many parallels to be drawn. The one that stuck with me that day, though, was the HARDNESS of it all. The moments of aching until you think you won't be able to go on, the weariness that leaves you dreaming of the nap that will most definitely follow, the  watching other runners zoom past you and longing to have the kind of endurance and energy they seem to possess in immeasurable quantities...the race is just flat out HARD. And so is following Jesus. He didn't try to sugarcoat it, and I won't either. It is HARD. There are moments of physically or emotionally aching until I don't think I can go on. There is often a weariness that leaves me dreaming and longing for eternity...for eternal rest. There are the times when I get caught up watching others seemingly fly by with success and ease I cannot find. It's hard. 

But the hardness does not make it wrong. In fact, I wonder if ease is an indicator that something might be out of balance. Because carrying a cross is certainly not easy, and yet that is exactly what Jesus tells us to do. 

For the last year, I have been laboring and dreaming and planning and working toward a vision I believe in to the core of who I am. I believe in the vision of Safe Families for Children. I believe in keeping families together where possible. I believe in coming alongside parents who are struggling. I believe in loving and folding kids into families. I believe in it. But don't misunderstand me...it is HARD. It is hard to share the vision with others in a way they will understand. It is hard to empower and equip families to join the call and open their homes to kids who need a temporary home. It is hard to look around and wonder why other ministries seem to be finding so much more response and success. It is hard to have meeting after meeting and vision cast until I am blue in the face, but have people trickle into ministry rather than pour. It is hard. 

If I am gut-level honest, I sometimes (often?) question if the mission is worth it. I ask myself, "How much do I give before it is too much?" Tonight, as I have prayed over this weariness that blankets my soul, Jesus convicted me to my toes. I want the easy life. I want the quick fix, the cheap solution. 

I say I am willing...but I define the parameters. 

I say I will be patient...within the confines of my time table. 

I say I will take big risks...as long as I control what they are. 

I say I will give up my dreams...if I can have something better. 

I operate on conditions I name, and call it  following Jesus. And yet...that's not how it works. Jesus defines the parameters, and they are usually far beyond any we would set for ourselves. 

What about you...are you living in the comfort and ease of your own parameters? Or are you allowing Jesus to define the call and set the pace? The race is never easy...but it was never supposed to be either. 

Dear Motherless child,

I think about you sometimes. I wonder where you are, and who is with you. All these days of in between, of being an auntie and practicing the art of sacrificial love...these days are spent in anticipation of the days yet to come. When I hold someone else's babe, I wonder if someone is holding you. When I cut up a kiddo's meat or pour his milk, I pray you are getting all the sustenance you need. When I drive to work where I will administer vaccines and care for sick children, I wonder if someone is comforting you in your pain. When I watch beloved friends nurture their babies through sleepless nights, I wonder if someone is there to cradle you in loving arms when the going is tough. I wonder, and I pray. I pray you know love, a love that will model the fierce, undaunted love the God of the universe lavishes on you. I pray this love surrounds you until I can. 

I am not a mother, and you are not a son or daughter. Yet. And while today is all about celebrating moms and the ways they change the world, I am thinking about you all the day long. Me, the childless woman, and you, the motherless child. One day, I pray we will find each other. You will make me a mother, and I will make you a chosen daughter or son. 

Mothers deserve honor, so much gratitude, and a thousand medals. But I would guess mothers find their greatest reward to be the kind of love that curls up on your lap and wraps chubby fingers around your neck. That kind of soul-shaping embrace is worth more than all the honor and medals and gratitude in the world. Today, I wonder how many motherless children long to celebrate their very own mama, to curl up on her lap and weather the storms of life in the embrace of another. I want to remember those faces today, and the mothers who will one day find them and make them sons and daughters. Those are moments of which I dream. 

Motherless child, I am thinking of you today...hoping and wishing and praying that someday you might have a mother to honor. I dream of a day you will have reason to celebrate Mother's Day, to write a scribbled "I love you" on handmade cards and serve burnt toast on a platter and give sloppy kisses to a woman who will make you a son or daughter. You are the bravest, motherless child, and I honor your courage in the face of loss and uncertain future. YOU are treasured and loved. 

I want my life to be a fairytale

I began this post several weeks ago and just returned to it today...I am reminded of this familiar ache as the world news once again screams of heartbreak and tragedy. 

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Last week, my mom and I went to see Disney's latest remake of the timeless tale, Cinderella. The theater was packed with little (and not-so-little) girls, oohing and ahhing as the beautiful Ella, who had been used and abused by her wicked stepmother (yet somehow managed to maintain her courage and kindness almost effortlessly), joyfully waltzed off with the charming and handsome prince (having known him only two days) and received the ultimate justice and repayment for all that was broken in her life. Even as a not-so-little girl, I noticed myself getting carried away by the magic and enchantment of a story I have heard a hundred times in a hundred different ways. What is it about these stories that capture us so? 

I am enchanted because I want my life to be a fairytale. I want everything that is wrong or unfair or sad to be made right. But it doesn't work that way, does it? There is death and deceit and selfishness and greed...and often no justice. Life is hard, and there is no prince come to carry me away from the hardness (at least not yet anyway... ;-). I can find myself wooed by fairytales because my life is not one and yet there is a deep, guttural, and very real longing in me for the wrong to be right. 

I wonder if this longing is the truest part of me, the part that whispers of a time long, long ago when everything was right...before brokenness interrupted and altered the course of eternity. Perhaps this longing speaks about a God-man who came into the brokenness as a squalling bloody mess sent to pursue our battered and bleeding hearts. Perhaps this longing serves to remind me of the long road Jesus traveled to pick up every bit of my shame and fear, heaping it upon himself as he willingly faced the brutal force of all evil head on while God's face turned from him. Perhaps this longing reminds me of that moment when he breathed his last and the curtain ripped straight down the center, giving humanity unfettered access to divinity for the first time since all had gone wrong so many years before. Perhaps this longing reminds me of the empty grave, of the Savior who not only died a brutal death so that I did not have to, but also defeated death by proving it incapable of restraining him from Glory. Perhaps, in a time when tragedy can strike in an instant and decimate an entire country without causing the rest of the world to pause for more than a heartbeat...perhaps this longing reminds me that things are not as they were intended, and that God mourns the disparity between what is, what was supposed to be, and what one day will be. 

I love the picture painted in Psalm 56:8--

"You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book." 

Such an intimate, loving portrayal of a God who can often be cast as the distant, uninterested killjoy who fails to maintain order in our depraved world. I have known this God who collects my tears, and I want you to as well. One day, tragedy may knock at your front door, and what I want you to know in that moment is that God is not a distant, all-powerful (but uninterested) being. God sees all that is (no matter how ugly or broken), mourns with us over what was supposed to be (even in the thickest clouds of grief), and plants in our hearts a longing that points to what one day will be (no matter how far off that day might be). Perhaps C.S Lewis said it best: "If you find yourself with a desire that no experience in this world can satisfy, then the most probable explanation is that you were made for another world." Yes, that. 

Yesterday, I found the end of me.

It has been a month since I last visited this place, which can only mean one of two things. Either A, life is so incredibly abundant and beautiful that I cannot put my heart into words, or B, I am not healthy. Because writing is sustenance to me. 

I am all kinds of messed up. If I ever wondered where the end of me was, I found it yesterday. I have worked so diligently over the last year, trying to process and uproot old patterns of striving and busyness, learning to care for my heart and body in ways that free my spirit to love and serve more authentically. I was finding new levels of peace and learning how cherished I am by the God of the universe. I was getting healthy...not just in the way of the world, but deeper than that. I was discovering creativity and playfulness and intimacy. Then I forgot. 

I forgot to make self-care a priority. I forgot to frequently say "NO"  to doing and "YES" to being. I started the slow slide into old patterns, finding myself dumping, dumping, dumping myself with no refill. Yesterday, I was empty. Exhausted, spent, broken. My creativity, playfulness, deep capacity to love? Shot. Zippo. Nada. 

Friends, we were not created for the kind of life this world tells us to live. This busy, striving, bigger, better, louder life? I am convinced it is all a ploy of the Enemy to drain us of health, creativity, love, wholeness, and the ability to produce beauty. It is not healthy, for us or for our families. While I convince myself that I am not giving my best when I choose rest, while I tell myself I will let people down if I say "NO," it is all a big fat lie. Because my best self is a deeply rested, playful, creative, healthy self. Not a sick, spent, exhausted but always present self. The temporary no is a planted yes that will blossom and bloom where it will become the most beautiful. 

I will learn. I will slowly grasp the necessity of making rest a priority, and practice the art of gracefully saying "NO" when necessary and sometimes even when inconvenient to myself or others. I will integrate rest, and play, and try new things just for the heck of it, and laugh. Not because I can, but because I need to, and you need me to as well. 

I extend the same challenge to you...practice and learn rest. It is not a luxury, it is a necessity. 

For the one who is tired of living the mundane

Some days don't feel profound. Some days feel like the monotonous mundane. Some days I feel like I am a gerbil on the wheel of life, spinning to nowhere. Some days I have no words of substance to add to this space.

I have come to find, however, that "some days" become the days when I know my God the best. Because God is here, in this mundane. In the early mornings when I struggle to drag myself out of bed to face another day. In the overwhelm of the workplace that gets more of my time than anyone or anything else. In the relational labor of pursuing and being pursued by broken people. In the management of money and time and passion. In the falling into bed at the end of it all, anticipating the early morning to come too soon, once again. God is in this mundane, making it glorious even in its monotony. 

I think I often buy into the lie perpetuated by our culture that says if something (a job, a relationship, an act of service...) does not yield immediate and grand results, it must not be worth our time or effort. And so I discount the mundane as unholy or unworthy of my continued faithfulness. What I read in Galatians 6:9, however, is this: "So let's not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don't give up." 

Don't get tired, friend, of pursuing that broken and world-hardened person who is hard to love. Don't get tired of driving to that workplace where you have invested yourself for months or years or decades. Don't get tired of washing dishes or rocking your sleep-deprived babe. Don't get tired of the mundane you are living, because at just the right time you will reap harvest. It may not be harvest you will even see in this lifetime, but it will come. 

There is glory in this mundane, in the quiet pursuit of a God who loves you forever and always, who seeks out your heart even in the drive to work or the dishwashing and babe-rocking. Who sees your faithfulness in that difficult relationship or seemingly fruitless act of service. Be encouraged...You are not hidden, and your steadfastness in the mundane is reaping a bountiful harvest.