Giving Feet to My Faith

I pause in the midst of packing boxes and I marvel. At how I got here. At how my life has changed so much in one summer.

Three months ago, I was a third grade teacher.

And to be honest, I was very happy. Teaching was my passion, my purpose. It involved early mornings, long hours spent on lesson plans, and bringing home papers to grade every night, but it was fulfilling. Rewarding. Gratifying.

And then? God called me away from teaching. He began whispering to my heart in the middle of my sixth year in the classroom. It was no more than a hint, really, about how I could stay at home to raise our son. But that hint, that whisper? It didn't go away. Even when I insisted that I loved my job. Even when I worried about how we would make ends meet without my income. Even when I reminded God that leaving the classroom might mean never coming back.

Still the voice remained. Calming my fears. Urging me to respond with faith and trust.

So, I listened. With more worry and what-ifs than I care to admit, I told my principal I wouldn't be returning for another school year. I packed up my classroom and turned in my keys.

I gave up my plans for His promise. And He has been more than faithful.

Three months later, I'm surrounded by boxes. Memories filed away in crates. Life confined to Rubbermaid containers. And my house? It's a mess. Odds and ends litter every available surface. Cupboard doors gape, threatening to spill their contents. My type-A side screams to restore order, to correct the chaos.

And yet in the midst of the mess, I hear it. That familiar whisper. That recognizable call. To give up my plans and embrace His purpose. And this time? I'm ready.

You see, we're moving. We're leaving behind our little shoebox home, packed from rooftop to basement with love and laughter and more joy than three people deserve. And that whisper? It's inviting us into a new adventure. It's calling us to leave our home and move in with my grandmother. To pour out our lives for a widow with dementia.

If I'm being honest, this new adventure makes me a little nervous. Because I have no experience caring for someone with dementia. And I also have a very busy three-year-old to look after. What if my grandma needs more care than I can provide? What if she feels overwhelmed by the fast pace of life with a toddler? Really, I could list so many what-ifs that you and I would both lose sleep tonight.

But for the most part, I am excited. Because this life? I get to live it exactly once. And I want this moment and every single moment thereafter to be poured out in love for my Savior.

A life well-lived? It's no mystery. I make this life count when I love others. 

I live well when I love well. 

And I don't mean the Hollywood version of love, all cheap pick-up lines and happily-ever-afters and empty promises.

I mean the get-your-hands-dirty, put-others-before-yourself, reach-your-limit-and-keep-on-giving kind of love.

And although I have been called to love everyone in this way, God has given me a specific call to love widows. James writes, "Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress" (James 1:27). Paul also weighs in on the topic, stating, "But if a widow has children or grandchildren, these should learn first of all to put their religion into practice by caring for their own family and so repaying their parents and grandparents, for this is pleasing to God" (1 Timothy 5:4).

So this call to care for my grandma? It's a way to give feet to my faith. It's an opportunity to write a love story to my Savior with my moments, my days, my life. 

I know that if God is calling me to this life of leaving home and loving others, He has a plan for me. And how amazing, how absolutely breath-taking is it to realize that the God of the universe - the One who spoke the cosmos into being - wants to use me to do His work!?

Once again, God has called me to forfeit my plans to pursue His promise. That familiar whisper, that recognizable call is urging me to follow Him. And so my feet step forth in faith.

Asher's Third Birthday Party

Rainbow pancakes. Striped candles. Yellow and black construction-themed decor. Thoughtful gifts. Loved ones in every corner of our teeny-tiny house. "Happy birthday" on the front porch while great grandma holds the cake. 

I'm in love with this little life. 

 

Dear Asher

Dear Asher,

Three years ago, a silver-haired doctor placed you in my arms for the first time.

I was exhausted, worn thin from hours of panting and pushing and praying.

You were perfect, with wrinkly toes, dark hair, and impossibly deep eyes.

That first meeting? It is the only time in my life when I have believed in love at first sight.

You were brand new, yet I felt as if I had known you my whole life. 

Tomorrow you will be three years old. 

     You love garbage trucks and playing outside.

     You ask for Johnny Cash or Mumford and Sons whenever you ride in the car.

     You are Pai's little shadow and Mommy's catcher-of-spiders.

     You live and love and play out loud.

     You rarely meet a stranger.

     You see God in sunsets and bugs.

     You are kind and compassionate. And stubborn and headstrong. Sometimes in the same moment.

You complete our family in the most wonderful and unexpected ways. We love you. Like crazy. From the tips of our toes. Forever and ever.

Happy birthday!

The Mission of Motherhood

Yesterday was just one of those days.

I had a ticker tape to-do list. Mow the lawn. Mop the floor. Make appointments. Manage a two-year-old. And those two cups of Diet Coke I drank before 10:00 a.m.? They didn't even scratch the surface of my exhaustion.

It was the kind of day that tests a mommy. Measures her mettle. Plumbs her patience. Weighs her worth.

And yesterday? Let's face it. I didn't measure up.

On the surface, it was a productive day. By bedtime, I had crossed off every item on my to-do list. And I even managed to squeeze in a few extra chores that have been clamoring for my attention. But looking back? I missed the mark. By a mile.

You see, that to-do list? It was my mission. My motivation. And in my hurry to clean up and cross off, I became frenzied. Frazzled. Frayed.

I was a picture of un-grace. 

Let's face it, "hurry" and "toddler" are mutually exclusive. Like opposite sides of a coin. And because they cannot coexist, a choice must be made. Between to-do lists and toddlers. Between routines and relationships.

     Between hurry and heart. 

Yesterday? I chose to hurry.

Sure, I completed my list. But at the end of the day, I had lost more than I had gained.

Because hurry? It corrodes. It corrupts. It is a joy-stealer, a hijacker of happiness. 

     It puts the words "I'm busy" before the words "I love you."

     It puts my tasks before your needs.

     It puts responsibilities before relationships.

Hurry hastens through hours, makes short work of minutes, and scrambles through seconds without acknowledging the miracle of this moment. The stunning beauty of the here and now. 

And hurry? It doesn't jive with my mission as a mother.

You see, I've been given this little person for a little while. And in this time - this moment, this blink of an eye - my mission is to point my son to his Maker. 

Yesterday? I was ruled by my to-do list when I should have been governed by grace. I was impatient. I scolded. I was quick to say "I'm busy" and "not right now."

In short, I failed my mission. Miserably.

Because how can I tell my son about a Savior who welcomes little children when I push him away? 

And how can I show him the intimate, personal care of an Almighty God when I ignore his pleas for attention? 

And how can I show him the patience of a forgiving Father when I snap at him for getting in my way? 

And that's when it hits me. I have nothing to offer my son except Jesus. 

The thought stops me in my tracks. It liberates, emancipates, relieves. This haste? This striving? This mad dash to clean up and cross off? It doesn't have to be this way.

I don't need to hold it all together

     because I can lead my son to the One who holds the world in His palm.

And I don't need to have a spotless house

     because I can guide my son to the One who can give him a spotless heart. 

And I don't need to rush through this day

     because I can direct my son to the One who holds all of our days in His hands. 

My mission in this moment is to be the hands and feet of Jesus to this little human. 

Everything else will just have to wait.