I remember being a child and being left out.  I have vague recollections of other kids having their cliques and not wanting me to be a part.  The looks, the sudden silence, the sometimes outright rejection…those things leave a mark on a person, especially a child.  They forever changed how I interact with people.  They forever changed how I think other people see me.  As adults, most people have figured out how to hide their overt clique-ishness under a thin veil of politeness and propriety, but the lessons I learned as a child were effectively taught and the biggest lesson among them was that I’m not likeable. As much as people might try to tell me otherwise (which doesn’t actually happen very often, anyway), the bluntness of a child’s words and actions are generally more believable, even decades later.

So, when my kids are treated in that same way that left me with a permanent ache in my heart, I get angry…and, honestly, afraid.  I don’t want my kids to turn out like me.  I don’t want them to grow up convinced that nobody wants them around. I don’t want them to find their value in what someone else thinks of them and I don’t want them to be afraid of people.  But, I feel completely unable to effectively shape their perspective so that they turn out differently.

I know that there are a lot of things that complicate even how children treat one another, let alone adults.  I know it often doesn’t come down to simply liking or not liking someone.  And I know that, sometimes, it does come down to simply liking or not liking someone…sort of in the same way that someone might like or not like jazz music.  It doesn’t mean that there’s something about it that is inherently likeable or not.  It just means everyone’s different, and that’s okay.  Or at least, it’s okay as long as it’s not in reference to me, or my kids.  It’s hard to explain incompatibility to a longing heart, especially if it isn’t a mutual feeling.

So, I try to figure out what God says about it, and I find myself making a huge distinction between loving someone and liking someone, because loving can be just a chosen action, but liking means there’s a connection.  Jesus loved everyone, but chose only 12 to be by His side when the crowds left.  I’m not sure what that means, though.  Surely, there were others who would have wanted to be that close to Jesus.  Maybe even some who felt rejected or left out?  I don’t know.

But, I have to be able to say with certainty, that no mistakes were made.  God didn’t erroneously slight anyone.  He knew why He picked the men He did, and He knew why He didn’t pick others.  And it was the best plan for everyone.  It comes down to the same basic truth in our lives, too.  If I love God, He is working everything out for my good.  If my children love God, He will work everything out for their good.  But being true doesn’t make it easy to accept, and if it is often only with an aching heart and crying eyes that I am able to acknowledge God’s sovereignty in relationship, how can I convince my children?  And since I write to sort out my thoughts, I am just now reaching the conclusion that it’s not my job to convince them.  I can teach them what the Bible says.  I can pray for them.  I can do my best to believe and act according to what I know for certain to be true.  And then I can let God do a work in my children that is not for me to do.  Sometimes, though, that seems like the hardest thing to choose to do.

At 5:30 this morning, as I sat holding Ava after a combined total of about 3 hours of sleep, I felt slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of the morning.  Fridays are, generally, the only morning that I get up “early”, because it’s the only day the kids need to be anywhere.  I don’t like time constraints, and when they are first-thing-in-the-morning time constraints, I get stressed.

I thought, this morning, about how nice it will be when my kids are old enough to get up and get ready without my prodding and oversight; about how, at some point, I will be able to sleep in just a little bit more, because me kids will be more independent.  And it was at that thought that I felt the tears well up in my eyes.

I wouldn’t normally say that I want to hold onto these earliest years of my kids’ childhood for as long as possible.  I like sleep.  I don’t like playing with toys and watching cartoons, or reading the same two books day after day, or reminding for the fiftieth time how to properly do a chore.  But, for all the perks that the eventual independence of my children will bring, I don’t think those perks will ever quite replace the things that will be lost, or changed, with time.

The endless chatter that comes with any time away from me, because they can’t wait to tell me about everything that happened. 

The jostling that happens to try to sit in the spot right next to me. 

The goofy jokes and ready smiles and funny dancing. 

And while I know there is value and promise and destiny in what awaits them as they grow older, I decided this morning that I won’t long for those lost hours of sleep or wish away the childhood activities.  There is something priceless and irreplaceable about these kids in this moment that I wouldn’t trade for anything.  I just hope my sleep-deprived brain won’t forget it all.

I have been feeling overwhelmed a lot, lately.  I wish I could say that this is out of the ordinary, but it’s not.  I often end up feeling like I am a complete failure at life and wonder where God is in the midst my inadequacy.  During a moment of my wondering yesterday, I was reminded of the brief story of Jesus visiting the home of Martha.

Typically, I’ve heard it stated that Martha and her sister, Mary, were two different types of women…Martha being more of a “doer”, and Mary, more of a…worshiper?  And at first, yesterday, I wanted to think “okay, I’m just different…some people are a ‘Martha’ type, but I’m not…I would just rather sit at Jesus’ feet, which He said is better, anyway”.  But, I couldn’t quite accept that.  I mean, aren’t there things that need to be done?  Aren’t there people out there who are great at serving and doing, and bringing God glory in the process?  I can’t get away with just thinking that I can avoid responsibility and somehow have that be “better” in the eyes of the Lord.  So, I decided to read the passage.

38 Now it happened as they went that He entered a certain village; and a certain woman named Martha welcomed Him into her house. 39 And she had a sister called Mary, who also sat at Jesus’  feet and heard His word. 40 But Martha was distracted with much serving, and she approached Him and said, “Lord, do You not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Therefore tell her to help me.” 41 And Jesus  answered and said to her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things. 42 But one thing is needed, and Mary has chosen that good part, which will not be taken away from her.” — Luke 10:38-42

And after reading it, I was struck by how much I identified with Martha…not so much the doing part, but the “distracted” and “worried and troubled about many things” parts…and how much I yearn to be like Mary, able to sit at Jesus feet, not missing what He’s saying because I’m so concerned with other things that His words get lost in the shuffle.  It made me think that, maybe, Martha and Mary weren’t as dissimilar as I had always thought.  Maybe Mary’s choice to sit at Jesus’ feet was the better choice because the alternative wasn’t glad service, but distraction, worry and trouble.  When that is the choice, one thing is needed.  No matter what circumstance I find myself in, if I am missing what Jesus is saying, then nothing that I am doing qualifies as necessary.  If my focus is not on Him, it is better for me to drop everything and seek Him than to continue on with my tasks, no matter how important I think they are.

That can be a humbling thing, though, you know?  It means that what everyone else sees is not important.  I would guess that Martha wasn’t the only one who thought that the things she was doing were necessary things. I would guess that others may have thought that Mary was being a bit selfish and lazy.  But Jesus knew their hearts.  He knows my heart.  When I am trying my hardest to do everything right, He knows when that doing has pulled my eyes from Him.  And, when that happens, even if it ends up looking to the world like my efforts are just not enough, He knows that what I need is to stop and rest in His presence.  He makes it clear that He wants our ears and our hearts in every moment.  Compared to that, everything else pales in importance, to the point of Him saying that sitting at His feet is the only necessity.

But, oh, how easy it is to forget that!  How often I strive for order and peace in all of the external things, even to the detriment of my soul.  How often I fail to remember the only source of peace and hope and rest I have ever known.  I am so thankful for His word that reminds me…come to me all you that labor and are heavy laden…come, all you who are thirsty…seek ye first the kingdom of God.  I am thankful for His Spirit that beckons me to stop, and sit, and listen.  I am thankful for Him – this God, who knows my heart and wants… more than anything… for me to know His.

Sometimes, I have a day marked by small gifts that remind me that I have a God who is loving and generous and taking care of me.  Some of those gifts…

…my littlest boy, singing in church, singing at home, singing in the car.  Sweetness that melts this mama’s heart.

…playing a board game with my family, and enjoying it.  I am not normally a fan of board games, and usually even less so when children need to be taught, but today?  Today, I was more than content to sit around the table and spend a couple hours just being with them.

…reading a well-known verse and being unexpectedly overwhelmed by God’s goodness to me.  You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.  Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever. —Psalm 23:5-6  Doesn’t it just make you feel like your heart’s gonna explode with His wonderful-ness?

…a first-time-this-year family walk.

…tulips and daffodils pushing their way through the ground, bringing with them their annual reminder to me of how good God is, that He would grace my home with such beauty despite my ever deficient gardening abilities.  Oh, and there are chives growing, too.  I’m almost giddy.

…worshiping the Lord with my family, knowing they don’t mind me being loud and off-key.

I needed this today.  He is so good to meet me in my need.

Some days, I am so aware of my helplessness.  Without the Lord, everything in me and in life would be a lost cause.  Some days, my need for redemption is glaring and painful and completely impossible for me to remedy.

There is a gap, wide and deep and beyond my ability to cross .

By God’s grace, I may one day be able to look back at life and see a measure of sanctification that has taken place, but there will always be a gap; there will always be a distance I cannot cover in my pursuit of righteousness.

And on days like today, when my human frailty and selfish endeavors seem like too much to ever overcome, I am thankful for the reminder that I don’t have to find a way to bridge the impassable.  I am thankful that whether I am a million miles away, or so close I feel like I’m almost there, my need for a Redeemer is the same, and He fills that need completely, utterly, willingly, knowingly.

I am nothing without Him, even on my best day.

May I never think otherwise.

Because of the cross,

because Jesus took all of my sin on Himself,

because He arose victorious,

because He defeated death and the grave,

I am made new.

Not fixed, not cleaned up, not improved upon.

New.

And spotless, without blemish, holy, righteous, perfect.

Even if I see a thousand things in me arguing why that can’t possibly be true, it is true nonetheless.

What an amazing, powerful, loving God He is, that He would be made sin for me, so that I could be made righteous before Him.

Words can’t describe how thankful I am.

Some memories from birthdays past…

:: The first birthday I remember was either my fourth or fifth birthday.  I got a pretty purple and white bonnet and little-girl purse.  I loved them.  I also seem to remember my parents painting the room we were in as I opened the gifts.

::  When I turned 6, I asked my mom if I could have a birthday party…like the day before my birthday.  We had moved to a new home, a new school, only a couple months before so I didn’t really know anyone, but my mom called the parents of most of the kids in my class to invite them to a party the next day.  I think five or six of them came and I was happy for that, but at the end of the day, I remember feeling like I had imposed greatly on these people that didn’t know me…and I was amazed that my mom did something [that I thought was] so scary like calling up people she didn’t know for me.

:: For my tenth birthday, I got my hair cut – above shoulder length, with poofy bangs.  And I requested and received a meatball sub for dinner.  Obviously, my sophisticated taste started early.

:: My twelfth birthday was only a few days before Easter, so I took my birthday money and bought Easter candy for my siblings, since my parents didn’t have money for candy.  I was sick Easter morning, but I got up early and, with one of my brothers, divided the candy into bowls (we didn’t have baskets) and hid them around the house.  Best thing I ever did with birthday money.

:: On my fourteenth birthday, a friend (who wasn’t a Christian) gave me a mug that had a little cartoon on it and the caption “God, kicking some serious butt on Jeopardy”.  It was funny, and it mattered to me that I had managed to communicate what I believed without being offensive…if that makes sense.  I think I still have the mug.

:: When I turned sixteen, nobody wished me happy birthday until my Mom got home from work at 5pm.  My sister and I ate lunch together at school that day and she didn’t remember.  I was obviously upset, so she asked what was wrong.  I replied with “if you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you”.  Yeah, I was mature like that.  I am probably still mature like that, sometimes.

:: The next year, my sister felt bad.  She was away at college, but happened to be on her way to Albany (I think?) on my birthday with a friend, so she took a detour to our house to drop off a gift for me.

:: On my nineteenth birthday, I was at college.  The temperature was 80 degrees.  A friend made me lunch and strawberry shortcake (my all-time favorite dessert).

:: For my twentieth birthday, a group of friends threw me a surprise party…under the guise of going shopping, but needing to stop at someone’s apartment to get something.  I was a little suspicious, but thankful for the effort.  I was bothered, though, that Tim chose to go to a rugby game instead of be around for my birthday.  This was when he was pursuing me and I was realizing that my heart toward him had changed.  I think I told him that night, once he was back from his game, how I felt.

:: My roommates threw me a little party on my twenty-first birthday.  I had strawberry shortcake again.  Is it weird I remember food better than other things?

:: My twenty-second birthday was the first as a married lady.  Tim left flowers for me in my car, to be discovered when I got out of work.  My boss also let me leave work a little early.

:: On my twenty-third birthday, I was at a new-ish job.  I got a very noticeable run in my stockings early on in the day.  I made a huge mistake on payroll.  I think my mother-in-law called me at work to wish me a happy birthday.  I don’t remember anything else…just the important stuff.

:: I had my twenty-fourth birthday off of work (a nice perk of my job at the time).  Tim and I went to lunch…I had a honey mustard chicken sandwich.  He had to work late that night, though, so I went out to dinner with his mom.  We went to Red Lobster, but I don’t remember what I ate.  I guess my memory is starting to go in my old age.

::  Caedmon was not yet 2 months old on my twenty-fifth birthday.  I remember nothing from the first 3 months of his life except lots of walking with a crying baby in the middle of the night.

:: My twenty-seventh birthday was the worst ever.  I was alone in a hospital room for most of the day, recovering from my second unwanted c-section.  My baby girl was in the NICU and I didn’t know for sure whether she would live.  Tim was at home most of the day with a fever, Caedmon had hives all over his body – a reaction from an antibiotic given after he had a peanut removed from his lung a week earlier.  But, I did get a mini birthday cake from the hospital with my lunch.

:: I don’t remember twenty-eight or twenty-nine.  My thirtieth birthday, I remember getting chocolates.

:: I got a pair of earrings with Elijah’s birthstone for my thirty-first birthday.  This was normally Tim’s Mother’s Day gift for me, but I guess he didn’t want to wait that year.

:: For my thirty-second birthday, I had told Tim I didn’t want anything, and meant it…and he believed me, and I was hurt.  We ended up going out to dinner, where he’d had flowers delivered and waiting at our table.  Sometimes my rational side and my emotional side don’t agree and cause problems.

:: The day before my thirty-third birthday, Holly drove here from Michigan to surprise me, and brought me a hyacinth plant and took me out to breakfast on my birthday.  Then, we (me, Tim, the kids and Holly) went out to lunch.  Tim made me strawberry shortcake.

::  Every birthday that I have had as an adult, my mom has called me in the morning to wish me a happy birthday.

:: Tim has attempted some sort of birthday cake most years.

…and I think that exhausts my birthday memories.

Seven years ago, Bethany made her entrance into the world.  It was a hard day, followed by a few more really hard days.  I can remember two things that brought me peace during a time that was anything but peaceful.  The first was a line of the song In Christ Alone that I had heard while in labor that stuck with me through those days…”from life’s first cry, to final breath, Jesus commands my destiny”.  The second was what God spoke to my heart over and over and over again…”she’s not yours, she’s Mine”.

When I couldn’t hold her or touch her or feed her, when I was told she might not live, there was such comfort in knowing that her life was in God’s hands, not anyone else’s.  But, while some of those moments seemed agonizingly long, in 10 days she was home and all issues were resolved.  It is sometimes easy for me to forget the heartache of those moments, but I have often reminded myself of those promises that I clung to so fiercely.

As she has grown, that hope [confident expectation] that God will work in her life even in spite of my insufficiency has continued to bring me peace.  In a lot of ways, I think the person that God made Bethany to be – strong-willed, stubborn, tenacious – helped her get through those first few days of life as well as she did…and I think those traits can be of great value to God as she learns to temper them and bring the under His authority and direction.  But, in the meantime, raising her has had lots of challenges and failings and more moments than I can count of praying for God to do the work in her that I/we clearly were not cut out to do.

Through these seven years we have seen Him working in her heart, to begin to reign in her iron-will, but also to bring out other wonderful qualities that make her unique and beautiful.  She is compassionate and forgiving and generous and joyful.  She is curious and brilliant and creative and (mostly) fearless.  She still has trouble walking in a straight line (funny, but entirely true), but can do a perfect cartwheel.  She is exuberant in most things she does, and though she sometimes struggles with discouragement in difficult tasks, with encouragement (or, sometimes, reprimand) she will keep trying until she succeeds. I am thankful for God’s working in her life, and for the depth of character that He is establishing in her.  She is a blessing and a joy to our family, and we love her so.

There was a word of encouragement this morning at church about God’s love. It was more detailed than what I can recall at the moment, but that’s not really important to what I want to say.  What is important is that I know that if I had heard this particular word at any point in my life, even up to a few months ago, I would have had tears streaming down my face.  Instead, I found myself a bit taken aback by my certainty that this word, this time, was for someone else and not for me.

As I heard the exhortation that God was wanting someone, or possibly many someones, to believe in His love for them personally, I took an inventory of my own heart.  Instead of finding doubt and fear at the thought that God could love me, do you know what I found?  I found assurance, confidence, certainty in His love for me.  I was kind of stunned.  There have been times in the past when I thought I was sure – times when I would have said that I knew – but even in those times, hearing someone else say it would have brought to the surface all of the reasons why I thought I really shouldn’t trust His love.  I’m not exaggerating when I say that this is the first time in my entire life – the first time –  when there’s been no question, no hesitation.

I can’t pinpoint any one thing that made the difference in my heart.  There was no singular moment of hearing it and just finally believing.  It has been God faithfully pursuing me, answering me, reminding me, pouring out His love to me in my most undeserving moments.  It has been a winnowing out of the truth from the lies I have been prone to believe.  It has been Him challenging me to believe His word…what it says about who He is, and what it says about who I am.

And it is an answer to prayer, this knowing that God loves me.  There is a yielding in me where there was once only resistance.  I don’t feel like I am fighting Him anymore.  I trust Him and His goodness to me, even when I don’t understand.  I can rest in His love.

So, I am thankful.  I am thankful for the word today that wasn’t for me, but somehow, still was.  I am thankful for years of not knowing that make knowing so much more meaningful.  I am thankful for an eternally good and faithful God.  I am thankful that He loves me.  And I am thankful that I know.  So very, very thankful.

I am dust.  The only life in me is what God breathes in by His mercy each moment.  The only good in me is that which God, in His creativity and power, can bring to bear in this otherwise unlovely, unremarkable, incapable stuff that I am.

And He is the only One who can decide what is good.

I may want to be something beautiful and graceful – intricate in form and prized by others, but if He instead makes me something ordinary, utilitarian, stored in a closet or garage rather than set on display, I need to trust that the form He gave me has value to Him.

Maybe, someday, there will be a blizzard, and I will be happy to be a snow shovel instead of a precious gem.   Maybe.