Wooed

Cool, wet breeze wafts through the cracked window, swaying the curtains.  The lightness of lilac sweetness and Spring mud floats in on it.  My husband breathes deep beside me.  The children's room is quiet, enrobed in overcast morning coziness.  I hear a creak as the wind checks the house's solid walls.  Satisfied, it moves on.  The home is at peace.
I shift my bulging tummy and try to settle it against a pillow.  It kicks back at me.  The clock stands sentinel.  A few minutes after 5.  It's Saturday.  Homeschool is over for the year (as much as homeschool can ever be, at least.)  No one need rush this morning.  White sheets are so soft.  They fit around my lumpy edges.  I am warm.  Breathing slowly.  Languid.

But why am I awake?  Had there been a noise that brought me back to consciousness?  I hear only pattering rain and a faint tick from the downstairs clock.  I heave my body over awkwardly.  The boys' room door is still.  Did someone call me?  Long minutes pass.  My eyes close as I wait.  No voice.  Nothing audible.  But there is a sense.  I am being called.

Maybe it's just the coffee pot.  I stir and sigh.  Maybe.  But it's more than that.  Nothing tangible.  Nothing loud enough for my ears to detect.  But deeper than I can hear.  I am being called.

A line from an old Nora Jones song echoes in my brain.  It seems to come from far off.  "Come away with me..."  I heave me legs over the bedside.  The floor is cold.  "Come away with me... I'll never stop... loving you."  The stair sighs under my weight.  I hold my breath so I'll be lighter.  Hope the children don't hear my heartbeat quicken.  But nothing stirs.

Downstairs.  The clock ticks loudly now.  The refrigerator hums faithfully as I cross the kitchen threshold.  I click on the coffee pot.  The spicy warm smell of brown liquid quickens my mind, anticipating the caffeine.  Both hands clutch the familiar mug as I pad on bare feet to the sofa by the window.  Pink azaleas outside it have mostly passed.  Rain has made everything so green.  I lumber onto the cushions and settle with my Bible.  I am awake now.  Still I can almost but not quite hear.  I am being called.      
          
"Daughter.  Child."  It's not the voice of children.  It's older; more familiar even than my own offspring's tremulous calls.  "You have come."  I pull a small blanket over my feet.  Warmth spreads through me in welcome.  Is it from the coffee?

The pages of the big Book swish lightly.  I'm heading to Samuel.  To the book written by a prophet of God.  So long ago.  He was called.  He thought it was Eli, the aging man in the next room.  His mentor.  Samuel was young.  His ears were sharp, his body quick to react.  He jumped up from his bed and responded.  But it wasn't Eli calling him.  
It was God.

I scan the page to find where I left off yesterday.  The chapter I recognize; probably one of the first Bible stories I ever heard.  One of the first I told to my children.  One of the favorites.  Good guy verses bad guy.  Classic.  I'm tempted to gloss over to avoid repetition.  But no.  Soon I'm immersed again in the drama.  David.  Young, sunburned, indomitable, vivacious David.  Goliath.  Brazen, defiant, bullish, impatient Goliath.  Humble and untested stared up at contemptuous and seasoned.  They had no comic books to base their hopes on.  I try not to make a movie of it in my head.  This was real.  Everyone expected David to die.
His big brothers groaned.  If they lived till tomorrow, how would they ever tell their father they had allowed his youngest to battle that foul-mouthed behemoth?  His blood would be on their hands.  Where was God to save them from this reckless, impetuous, poor little brat?

His king sulked.  Tall and muscular, leader, accomplished warrior, he knew he should have accepted the Philistine challenge himself.  But shadows made him jump these days.  The men whispered together when he forbid his own brave son to battle the giant.  There must be some large but foolish brute within his army who could at least put out a decent fight before they met their doom, and he himself could flee to some cave before they were all made slaves or roadkill.  This musician boy was not what he had in mind.  How embarrassing.  Where was God to reject him and allow his kingship to be represented by a measly shepherd kid?        

His countrymen trembled.  As if they hadn't been on edge for a month, hearing the taunts and jeers from the giant echoed across the valley from the entire enemy army.  Men had been deserting daily, slipping away in the night when they could bear no more.  Endless waiting under the scorching sun as the sordid enemy beat down their morale.  This day, they hardly made pretense of secrecy or shame.  Increasing numbers of shadows darted over the hills behind the encampment.  This boy represented their proud military?!?  He had neither armor nor sword.  Where was God to stand by and let this injustice continue?  

God was waiting.  Waiting for someone to answer His call.
"Son," David heard in the recesses of his mind as he stooped to grab a handful of stones.  "You have come."


I didn't plan to fight giants today.
I changed diapers, and scrambled eggs, and wiped questionable-smelling mud off of boots.
I read library books, dashed through puddles with a two year old balanced on my 6-month-pregnant belly, ate leftover peanut butter bread.
I sopped up spilled milk, wiped tears, searched for marbles lost.
I chased three week old chickens so my disabled son could hold them.
I ate a nasty cheeseburger.
I buckled.
I unbuckled.
I went to the grocery store on a rainy Memorial Day weekend with four hungry kids right before supper.
I consoled a child who tried to clobber the friendly groundhog with a plastic hockey stick and couldn't decide if he was more upset that he didn't kill him for supper or might have hurt him and left him to suffer.
I told another child he couldn't wear all five of his favorite pairs of underwear to bed.
I made another child eat his broccoli even after he spit the first chewed bite out.    
I made another child cry when I removed the bowl of rice he was deliberately spooning into the recesses behind his booster chair.
I killed a spider.
I brought my husband a surprise coffee at work (and a lot of kids who wanted him to buy them stuff.)
I protected children from the scary automatic flush toilets in a public restroom.
I chased a train in the rain (in the van) just to watch it go over the bridge.
I said yes.
I said no.
I said just be quiet I can't hear myself think.
I said I love you.
I kissed a hurt toe.
I kissed a hurt forehead.
I removed scotch tape from a stuffed animal.
I did dishes.
I vacuumed.
I tucked and re-tucked in.
I blogged.
I survived.



And, somehow, though I didn't expect it, the giants are dead.

He called.  I answered.  I'm so glad I did.

Pray away

Why do we pray?  Does it really do anything?
Doesn't God do what He will regardless of what I say to Him?

I know sometimes He does answer prayer, very clearly.  We can argue, I suppose, that God was going to do it anyway, but the Bible says that we are to pray, God hears us, mountains can be moved, so we ought to.


Elijah was a man with a nature like ours, and he prayed earnestly that it would not rain; and it did not rain on the land for three years and six months. 
James 5:17

What fun and trouble a little mouth can get us into!

Sometimes, though, He doesn't answer my prayers.

Often, I have prayed for wisdom to say the right thing.  Conversation is not my strong point; I am regularly at a loss for what to say that would be helpful, right, or meaningful.  So many times over the years, I have asked Him for a less tongue-tied connection between my brain, heart, and vocal cords.  It just isn't my gift.  I can make more sense on paper than jabbering idiotically in person.  How nice it would be to have the words when I need them!

But He's never really affirmed that desire.

I know only that when I pray, instead, I have a little check on my speech.  Instead of more words, He seems to give me fewer.

In a discussion with my husband over something he was struggling to fix, I was was ready to spout off an innocent suggestion on my idea of how to try it.  That odd little thought nudged my brain as the words were forming in my throat, "Don't say it."
"Really? What harm could sharing my idea do?"  I argued with my quiet conscience.
There was no answer in the milliseconds this took.
Odd.
But I didn't say anything.  I just stood there dumbly.
He looked at me curiously.  Returning to his work, he decided to try the very thing I had never said.  You know what?  It failed miserably.
I patted myself on the back for letting my conscience keep me out of trouble.

An hour later, it happened again.  I had another brilliant idea, but, somewhat cowed by the previous lesson, when I again felt the funny little nudge to remain silent, I obeyed.
Again, he went out and came up with the very suggestion I hadn't gotten to offer.
This time, it worked.
He was beyond exhilarated at having conquered the difficult task.  I wondered why I had been told to keep quiet, when obviously it was a good idea.  But that evening, having completed that work on his own, he laughingly wrestled a long time with the boys before bed, all stress gone.  Later, he scooped me a bowl of ice cream and we snuggled on the sofa, comfortably chatting.
As I lay in bed that night replaying the scene, I smiled.  My marriage was better off that day because I kept my mouth shut.  Yes, sometimes that's obvious.  That day, it was because I hadn't said two seemly innocuous comments.  I wouldn't have known to be still if I hadn't been asking God for wisdom in my speech that week.
    
Its still true.  After spending time with the Lord, I suffer less from a sore jaw - the kind that comes from sticking my foot in my mouth too much, and from my tongue getting stuck in my cheek.  I still don't often have the right words to say, or know what would be smart or helpful conversation to build someone up or to challenge them.  It simply isn't my gift.  Perhaps that's yours.
 

Didn't Benjamin Franklin say it is better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool than to open it and remove all doubt?

Or maybe God did first.

Even a fool is counted wise when he holds his peace; [When] he shuts his lips, [he is considered] perceptive. 
Proverbs 17:28

God of the Practical

I love mountaintops.

A refreshing stiff climb.  The mysterious feeling of boldly going where few feet have ever touched virgin heights before.  Spectacular views to match soaring emotions.  Fresh air and freedom.  Awe.  Exhilaration.  Renewal.

My husband.  A while back.  In the Alps.

But, always, I then have to climb down.  Down in the valley, my muscles ache, the air is hot and sticky, and the roads are crowded and noisy.  Multitasking clouds my focus.  The dirt on my boots leaves tracks through the kitchen.  I have to mop.

Was it worth that climb only to return to the dreary level again?  The Lord of the heavens and earth seemed so close and accessible up there where the horizon circled me.  I felt renewed up there, near to Him.  But down again on the other side, too soon, I can't find Him so clearly in the drudgery of the every day habitual life.  Or at least, I don't expect to.

"I lift up my eyes to the hills," said the Psalmist, "from whence comes my help?  My help comes from the Lord, Who made heaven and earth."

Have you ever hiked a mountain with a kindergardener, a preschooler, a toddler, and a baby?  My back aches after a "quiet" day around the house with them; mountains are out of the question.  It may as well be Everest for all the impossibility.  Leaving them in the hands of a capable babysitter so I can set off upward alone is nearly as improbable.  If I had a day by myself, fighting gravity on a long dirt path for hours just wouldn't top my to-do list.  But even if I wasn't after a physical mountain, the idea of spending a day alone soul searching and refocusing just isn't that feasible.  It sounds wonderful, but so does Cinderella's castle, and Narnia, and an unhurried shower; it just isn't reality.  Not now.

Ever imagine what it might have been like to hear Jesus teach?  How incredible it would have been to hear the sermon on the mount first hand!  To sit near Jesus as He spoke, looking down over the undulating hills of Israel, must have been awesome and life changing.  Biblical in proportion!
But after challenging and renewing the focus of everyone up there on the mountain with Him, Jesus went down.  He didn't live on the mountain top, after all.  He hitched up his robe and plodded back down the slope to the hot, dirty, crowded life on the lower ground.  He spent several chapters up on the mountainside, in the clear, bright air, but in Matthew 8, Jesus went back down to the daily grind.
First person He's recorded to have met?  An outcast.  A leper.  Contagious, diseased, dirty, and desperate.  A man who couldn't have gone up the mountain, probably; it would have been painful or physically impossible, and he wasn't allowed to be near people anyway.  He couldn't have heard Jesus teach up there.  But suddenly, there was Jesus, in front of him, at the bottom of the mountain, in the middle of his path of regular life.

"If you are willing, you can make me clean."  The sinner in the broken body knew His Savior.
"I am willing." Said Jesus.  And He healed the man of his incurable disease.
Then he raised a dead servant back to life.  He cast demons out of people and healed a lot of sick folks.  He even healed his friend's mother-on-law's headache, so she got up and made them all lunch!
There, right in the midst of the normal, the daily, the real, the painful, the hum-drum and drudgery, Jesus was willing to be.
Willing to rub shoulders with the dirty folks.  Willing to tenderly fix the hurting folks.  Willing to eat a fish sandwich with Peter and his mother-in-law!  Jesus put Himself right there in the middle of run-of-the-mill reality.  The leper, the dead guy, the demon possessed, Peter's wife's mom - they weren't up there on the mountain to hear Jesus' words of exhortation and comfort.  They couldn't be.
So Jesus met them in the midst of their ordinary.
Did that mother-in-law grumble when Jesus and His friends left muddy footprints all through her house?  Well, maybe.  At least, she probably figured Peter should have known better.  But the Creator of the world was standing in her kitchen, choking down warm fish and stale bread (since she probably hadn't baked any that day, being out of Motrin and stuck in bed with a fever and all.)  He had come to her.

He likes to do that, I think.  Even still.

Aromatherapy

We stink by nature.
I'm currently in a search for the perfect deodorant that will (a) not leach chemicals into my body daily and (b) actually work.  I shower regularly to remove my own smells as well as all the ones from the baby's lunch regurgitated on my shoulder, the nasty science project gone awry, the spitting bacon grease, the garlic that loves my fingernails.  Of course the kids stink too.  They love dirt, they love to wrestle till they sweat, they have no qualms about crawling on the floor at the grocery store.  Oh, and diapers.  Savor that thought for a moment.  These are aromas not shared with the general population, when possible.

The content of my thoughts and attitude mostly stink too.  All that goes on in my head while baby re-shares his lunch, when the science project is spilling, when the grease hits my (white, of course) shirt, and the day after I cut garlic - its not pleasant.
Milk spilled on the floor tonight from Henry's cup.  (It had a cover; he thought he'd rather drink it without one.  And while lying down.)  I didn't think good-smelling thoughts all over him.

Now thanks be to God who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and through us diffuses the fragrance of His knowledge in every place.

II Corinthians 2:14

This thought has fascinated me recently.  Diffuse the fragrance of Christ.  I don't want you to smell me.  I'm gross.  But I would love you to smell the aroma of my Savior.  Chances are, however, you might catch a whiff of my sulfuric attitude sometime when you're nearby.  Sorry, in advance.
How is this supposed to work?

Well, the million-dollar candle companies may have some idea.  They put strong chemicals in wax.  Hard wax.  What do people do to get that smell out?
Heat the wax.
Wait for the smell.

Now He who establishes us with you in Christ and has anointed us is God, who also has sealed us and given us the Spirit in our hearts as a guarantee.

II Corinthians 1:22

God sealed Himself into our hearts the moment of our salvation.  We can be confident of Him in us.  How does the aroma of Christ diffuse out?  

Heat the wax.

Melt the hard heart.

Wait. 

The longer and stronger the heat, the more fragrance is released.  It isn't pleasant to be near a flame.  It hurts.  We - well, I - ask why, and complain, and mope about the heat.  But later, after some of the wax has burned down, I go back into the room and notice the aroma.  Sweet.  More pleasant than it was before.  Maybe the good is even so potent that the diapers and onions that were bothering me aren't so noticeable any more.

God will remain in us; He's a guarantee.  He leaks out a bit of His sweet perfume.  

To remind us of His sweetness.  

To let others around us know He is in us.  

To glorify Himself though us.  

He uses us to diffuse Himself. 

Sealed, but leaking.

Not a good byline for a diaper company.
But the mark of a servant of the Lord.



And a reminder to find better deodorant.

The desert's backside

They wiggle.
Dressing three children in winter-worthy attire takes about 20 minutes and really makes a mom long for spring.  Of course, at least one will be back inside within five minutes, having lost a mitten, or a boot, or having sneezed and needing a serious tissue.  I don't know how preschool workers stand it.
"Stand still!"  I ordered the last time, trying to zip Shiloh's coat.  "Mommy, I can't!" He replied.  What an impossible supposition when the great outdoors are calling!  Stop moving, just for a minute.  Do what must be done first.

Have you ever had one of those beautiful lucid moments when it seems, just for a long moment in eternity, you can see with the clear eyesight of heaven?  The tangible here and now stops clouding your view.  For a moment, you see things as they truly are.

God took Moses out of Egypt and spent eighty years of his life preparing him for such a moment at the backside of the desert.  Moses was busy thinking about good pasture for his flock, maybe the price of fleece among Midian merchants, maybe the last fight he'd had with his wife about washing the goat smell off before he came in for dinner.  Suddenly, God broke into his muddlings with a bright vision of clarity.  "Moses."  God spoke.
"Here I am." Moses responded.
"Take off your sandals, you are standing on holy ground."
Was this a path Moses had walked before?  Did the rocks or bushes look any different that day (Ok, other than the one that looked like it was burning)?  Did he look down at the dirt, look back up and say, "No, this can't be holy.  The sheep and I tromp through here all the time.  It gets muddy, and dusty, the animals leave things... This can't be holy.
No.  Clearly, that moment, it was holy, purified by the One who stood with him there.

I breezed into the kitchen last week on a mission, probably to the laundry room or the sink with a dirty washcloth.  Probably I had an entourage, asking for something.  Probably I had a school lesson on my mind, or I was pondering why the baby seemed so fussy that day.  Probably there was a Cheerio crunching under my feet.  Probably the phone was ringing.
I stopped in front of the woodstove.  Midstride.
The place on which I was standing was holy.
It was.  I knew it.  Clearly.
There, in my kitchen, stocking feet with holes in the heel, I stopped.
Awed.
The Lord was hallowing my linoleum.
I realized I was in His presence.  Whoa.
No, I didn't see Him in the flames behind the woodstove window.  Sure, vivid; the knowledge hit me.  He was with me.  There in my little drafty kitchen.
He's always with me; He promised never to leave me or forsake me.  But I don't dwell on the thought of His presence often.  For a moment it was so joltingly clear and sweet.  I know my relationship with God is much more than the sum of my emotions and feelings.  But then, I am female; He made me capable of intense emotions, high and low.  He isn't absent when I am dulled by depression or busyness any more than He is dwelling more fully with me when I am excited or singing a hymn.  Wasn't it just nice of Him to remind me, there, then?
"I AM" here, with you, now.

Stop wiggling, He might be saying.  You may go back to your daily ablutions and responsibilities in a minute.  Be still and know Me.  Have a real moment in your day.