Hope in the Waiting

“I would have been without hope if I had not believed that I would see the loving-kindness of the Lord in the land of the living.  Wait for the Lord.  Be strong.  Let your heart be strong. Yes, wait for the Lord.”

 Psalm 27:13-14 (NLV)

I spent my childhood moving across Canada and the United States.  My Dad was a pastor and from birth until I married, I started over every two to three years.  It was not the life my parents envisioned for their family, nowhere near ideal, and yet whether through the influence of men or the Call of God, we were modern day nomads.  Going to seventeen schools is part of my story. I look back on my life, and there was a lot of pain in the leaving, but I would not change a thing.  

Uncertainty taught me the importance of a personal faith and relationship with a God who is undaunted by our questions and sympathizes with our weaknesses.  Hard endings and new beginnings forever sealed in me the necessity of family, whether that which we were born into, or those we make our own. 

There are few stories in the Bible that resonate with me deeper than Ruth, a young woman who chooses to go to a land not her own. She’d lost everything; her husband – and with his death her vitality, her acceptance in society, as a penniless outsider – a despised widow.  Yet she remains faithful to her family in all circumstances, no matter the cost. She leaves her home, her traditions and religion.

I love that she is patient and persistently hopeful as she gathers and trusts.  Boaz, a distant relative of her now-dead husband, becomes for her a redeemer. He takes her, as she is – poor. He removes her shame through marriage. He sustains her life and creates life with her.  This redeemer completely changes the course of her story.

God looks down on Ruth, once an alien, with no apparent reason to hope and he sees faithfulness. And what she cannot do for herself, he will do through her. As she has been redeemed by Boaz, so he will use her Descendant to redeem the world.

Ponder that … God saw Ruth’s faithfulness and through her brought redemption through the Hope of the world. 

Today I confess that I struggle with hope.  There are days when I hope to get a shower, to have a quiet moment to enjoy something I want to read.  In my house, it can get loud quickly with four young and very active kids, and I find myself hoping for an opportunity to call a friend without kids crying in the background.  I've hoped to make something of myself, and can often forsake the present with a longing for something different.  I struggle with wishing for the other side of the proverbial fence that is perpetually greener than the grass of my own life.  

During the holidays it is easy to focus on what needs to be done and what we don't have -- we can become consumed with the aches of Christmases past. We feel the void of loved ones who have passed on or with whom our relationship is not right.  Feelings of loneliness and inadequacy seem closer to the surface during this time of year.  It is easy to despair when our hope is placed in these lesser things.  This week, let's trust in the God who bears the weight of our troubles; let's place our hope in the Hope of the World.

"The nations will put their hope in His name." 

Matthew 12:21 HCSB

Slowing Down

It seems we spend our lives waiting. As children we long and wait to grow up, to finish school,  get a job,  get married, have kids ... for people to change, to be healed, to find purpose. Truth be told, we can find ourselves in an endless holding pattern. Just waiting. And it's hard and frustrating, and even when we know all the right answers and we buck up and face reality, it is difficult to make our minds believe what our spirit's know -- when the heart waits.

You may be like me.  I love Christmas; the buying and the baking, the surprises and stories, the planning and the presents, the traditions and the truth of the Gospel.  And since having children my genuine excitement over the celebration has only grown. We spend weeks reading Christmas books, the fantastical and the stories of faith. We become our own little bakery and watch festive movies, and it's all building up to Christmas Eve.  As I wait impatiently to see their faces on Christmas morning, after weeks of secrecy, seeing dreams realized, longings fulfilled, I am reminded of that Gift that was given so many years ago, and the world did not recognize Him. They had been waiting for this moment, but the Gift was unaccepted, barely noticed.

We find ourselves on the outside looking in at this scene so humble, and we rarely see ourselves as part of this, the greatest Story ever told. This could be why we miss the holy moments in the waiting.

Advent is about expectation, preparation, waiting. As we enter this season, I want to slow down and experience the gift that it is.  This year I am challenging myself to lean into the difficult, to see the divine in the commonplace, the unexpected joy in the pain, the beauty in the ugly, the holy in the waiting.  To re-read and experience  people who were contributing to His story without even knowing it and to rest in the knowledge that He is also using me and my experiences ... you and your story, gently and persistently weaving it all together for His glory.

Sometimes we can see His fingerprints all over the place, and other times He is strangely silent as we wander through life, often only going through the motions, but just like He arrived unexpectedly in that stable, He shows up in the mundane and in the mess and He is doing a work, creating beauty out of ashes, and I don't know about you, but I'm ready to slow down and notice. I want to think about the hard stuff of life and find Him there ... to pray that He would bring redemption and hope, restore love, ignite joy, and breathe peace into our days. Yes, to be anchored in Him this Christmas season.

Even so, come Lord, Jesus, Come!

Just the way you like it ...

In this house, we love coffee ...

Years ago, there was this young girl who was engaged to this great guy and she noticed that every time his grandmother or mom would bring him a cup of coffee they would say "Just the way you like it," and it made no sense since they didn't fix his coffee the same way and it wasn't the way he fixed his own coffee.  So she asked him "How do you like it?" and he said "Brought to me."

When the honeymoon was over and they had packed and left Texas, they woke up that first morning in their tiny apartment on the seminary's campus.  She rolled over and started talking (we're also BIG talkers in this house), only to find him shaking his head. Reading his expression and his hands pantomiming drinking a cup of coffee, she realized that talking wouldn't commence, until he had his coffee, just the way he likes it ...

When Lucas and Bethany were younger, I was teaching part time and when I'd come home in the afternoon we would cuddle, play and have a snack, but as a young mom with babies only 20 months apart, I soon learned that I would lose my sanity if there wasn't  "Mommy time" carved into the afternoon.

I never shooed the kids out of the room, but by three every afternoon, the kids knew that Mom was going to sit down with a cup of coffee and watch the Food Network or HGTV.  I also got pretty good at having a canister of homemade biscotti, so that on really hard days, I could reach in and have a bit of comfort.  That hour before the witching hour (you know ... when you are trying to get the house tidied and dinner made and still look presentable when your husband gets home, but every potty accident, spill, scrape, and fight ensues? Please tell me you do.) became my respite.  I knew that if I didn't take that time, no good could come from me.

I forgot about that once Nicholas and Mary Elena came along.  I don't think Mommy time has existed for a good three years. Until today ...


Were you to stop by today, you would see the sofa piled high with folded laundry, dishes done and table cleared except for a multitude of crumbs, ah -- the crumbs also line the hallway, and despite my best efforts to have all toys picked up, the kids just don't ever finish playing until bedtime. And upstairs you'd see three kids in makeshift tents getting more crumbs on the floor with these s'more substitutes (because Nicholas wanted a cracker and saw the s'mores on the package of grahams and said that the box told us that's how we needed to eat them, and sometimes ... just sometimes, those blue eyes are irresistible and you figure out a way to give in without having to light the fire and run to the store for marshmallows), and then you'd see me in my chair with a cup of espresso with perfect crema, topped with milk textured just the way I like it.

See I was rushing around the house today, doing laundry and dishes, and disciplining and fretting and trying to plan out every second of the day and the rest of my life, when I felt like I was being told to slow down and sit down, and that

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Cor. 12:9a)


and this

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." (Matt. 11:28)

And on other days, with different circumstances, I may have just chalked these thoughts up to adages and not the prompting of a Friend of mine.  It's true I've felt guilty that I haven't made time some days to just be quiet with Him and to be still and know ...

"You will ... find me when you seek me with all your heart." (Jer. 29:13)

But are you really seeking with all your heart, if all you can manage are breath prayers and whispering or crying His Name? I think He knows and He understands and wasn't He  "...a man of suffering, and familiar with pain"? (Is. 53:3b)

Sometimes following is walking with and accepting gentle promptings.  I know that I will get the best of my husband's attention after one (or three) cups of coffee, and the Lord knows that my kids, my husband, my friends and family will get the best version of me when I've been quiet and had a cup of coffee just the way I like it.  

Just like He is in the business of redeeming, renewing and restoring all that is broken, so He is also in the business of reminding ... that He knows me better than I know myself ... that there is something truly relational about being still with coffee ... that there will always be laundry and that this is a season ... that even when my actions are consumed with having things just right at home, that those breath prayers and whispers and pleading for mercy is evidence of my heart seeking ... that growth doesn't happen without grace. 


And today, that grace is found in sitting still with cup in hand and letting the house be -- real.

Sometimes ... Always

Sometimes the ones we trust the most betray us, the community we depend on abandons us, our very minds rage against us --

There are days when no matter how much we try, things don't turn out the way we planned.  The kids don't do their schoolwork or they forget what you've been teaching them for the past few weeks.

You workout to increase those endorphins, guaranteeing a positive attitude, but it just feels like you're beating your body into submission and moods plummet and showers don't refresh ...

You get caught up on the laundry only to have to use all your rags to clean up mess after mess, and it's only spilled milk, but it feels like your soul poured out -- useless.

Children are taught and encouraged to always include each other, because they've been excluded by others and it doesn't feel good and it isn't right, and you were always the new kid and you've been left out and you never want that for them ... but they run from one another, not toward.

You put on music with lyrics to encourage your spirit and they fall flat, and your heart is hard and how did this happen?

Tears fall and words escape the recesses of your heart and you wonder how on earth you can continue.

We find ourselves in crisis mode and we have no where to turn.

I've been there -- I am here.

I didn't have an idealized perception of what homeschooling would be.  I knew it would be hard. I knew that breaks would be few if any.  Well aware was I that my children and I are so different and they aren't self-motivated and being an achiever myself, I figured that would be difficult for us. There have been good days and bad days and then things were good.

Now things are not.  It is hard and this is Los Angeles and we've tried the public school and it didn't work ... the teachers were great, I volunteered every week but that doesn't change the playground or the little boy running into the bathroom as soon as he gets home, because at school that room is a scary one.

Now here I am in a crisis, and I just want to ask "why?" and I want to run. I have asked and I don't get any answers except this

"The Lord is near the brokenhearted; He saves those crushed in spirit." Ps. 34:18

And I hear it whispered to my heart and I know it is for me and that even when my world is whirling out of control, I am seen ... not invisible. I am heard and understood ... not ignored. I am known ... not excluded.

The wounds are raw on the surface, but the salve of His Spirit is real and refreshing.

I feel crushed between stone and bruised and broken, but I recall herbs and spices ground in mortar with pestle release their fragrance and only when heat is applied do they reach their full potential.

And I must trust.

This place seems so foreign to me -- so different from what I expected and yet there is a calling and a command:

"Build homes, and plan to stay. Plant gardens, and eat the food they produce ... and work for the peace and prosperity of the city where I sent you ..." Jer. 29:5,7

And I remember ... Eucharisteo -- giving thanks -- comes before the miracle.  It's right there on my wall to remind me, and how often I forget, but He is gentle and sent His Comforter who speaks to my spirit and prays on my behalf when this fragile faith of mine fails.

But I will thank Him

for this house

and His church

and these children, fruit of my womb and His faithfulness, answered prayers

the times we've felt wanted, accepted, included

and the times when we haven't and have grown closer to each other

this man that listens to my anxieties voiced and frustrations and loves, always -- just the way He loves His bride.

for new days and new mercies

that as I write this, things calm ... children play ... oldest boy finally does his math and science ... a baby sleeps, but even if chaos persisted He. Is. Here. and He. Is. Strong.

and this, this is true: "'I know the plans I have for you'—this is the Lord’s declaration—'plans for your welfare, not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.'" Jer. 29:11

and that I can always, always rest in the knowledge that He is for me and I can trust Him.

Bigger than mine ...

I wrote this awhile back, and never posted it, but more and more I feel that this is my story and I need to embrace it, especially in this season ...

My story doesn’t begin as one of regret; few stories do, but rather it begins with a twinkle in the eye of a twenty-two year old dreamer.

I first put words to that dream as a senior in my historical research class when the professor asked each of us about our plans following graduation.  I confidently expressed that I would be going on to get my masters and PhD so that I could expertly write historical fiction or write anything, really.  When he told me that I could skip the graduate degrees and just begin writing, I decided it was another Texan male letting me know that my place wasn’t in academia or in publishing.  After all, wasn’t it the reflection of that pretty little diamond on my left ring finger creating the sparkle in my eye?  And don’t all good southern girls pine away, desiring to get married, create a home, have children?

A few weeks later when I got a letter in the mail offering my graduate school experience tuition-free, I smirked thinking, “I’ll show you, mister.”  Of course, I had to turn down the offer as my soon to be husband and I had already mutually decided that upon graduation and marriage, we would move to California to pursue his graduate studies.  Still, I longed for the day when he would graduate, get a job, and I would begin in hot pursuit of my dreams.

I got a “for now” job, preceded by several “this is all I can find and we don’t want to go into debt” retail jobs.  So I taught, because what else would a girl with an undergraduate background in English and history do?  Along the way I did the best I could, surrounded by teachers who were living their dreams.  Meanwhile, I was living between my ears, ruing the day I had given up the fast track to my dream, but knowing I would be next.

All this time, working at least two jobs, I was suffering daily pain from endometriosis, a condition which can inhibit fertility.  At twenty-four, we were told if we ever wanted to have a chance at biological children we needed to begin trying to conceive.  The doctor couldn’t promise positive results; in fact, if I were to get pregnant she predicted a six to twelve month period of trying with medical intervention to up my hormone levels. 

A little less than thirteen months later I was sitting in a hospital room holding a tiny stranger, who had made my body his home for the past nine months.  Though I loved my son, mothering did not come easy or naturally to me … it is laying down your desires, your time, your personal space moment by moment to care for a little being that is entirely dependent on you.  It is hard.

Five weeks passed and I tearfully dropped him off at his first childcare provider’s home.  One year later, I found I was pregnant with our daughter.  Returning to work after her birth, I discovered the once unfathomable – I loved being a mom.  After much discussion, I decided to teach part-time the following year.

In this is a conundrum – I love my identity as mother.  It gives my life such purpose and I would not trade the experience or my children for anything in the world, but for years I allowed underlying tension to fester in my relationship with my husband.  In moments of frustration, in the midst of complaining about his abandoned socks by our bedside or my favorite coffee cups left at his office, I would throw my disappointment in his face.  “I gave up my education and my dreams for you – for this.  To work a job I don’t love and to come home to pick up after all of you, wipe poopy bottoms, and forever smell like spit-up.”

We can feel things and never express them, but thoughts verbalized can never be taken back.  For ten years I have lived, first patiently waiting, then persistently working, now begrudgingly missing out on my dream of being a well educated, well dressed, impressive at least, admired at best author of best-selling historical fiction. 

My journey out of disappointment and toward wholeness marches on from a few days forever etched in my mind.  March 18, 2009 found me staring at two pink lines.  Anyone who has seen those lines knows that brief moment encapsulates much – surprise, joy, promise.  The evening of March twenty-first found me staring at a pool of crimson and in like fashion innumerable emotions coursed through me – fear, pain, devastation, loss.

In the months that followed, leading me from that fear-filled precipice into this journey of valleys and mountains, I came to know that my dream was holding me prisoner, deeming me incapable of truly living.  What is life if it is not spent realizing the wonder of moments all weaving their threads into the beautiful tapestry of an individual’s existence?

Since that day in 2009 I have been privileged to see those two pink likes two more times (plus a half dozen to make sure this was indeed happening) and bring home another baby boy and another baby girl.  After previously delivering naturally three times, it took having a necessary c-section last February to understand first our loss and then how amazing these four children really are. Not only do I have endometriosis on the exterior of my uterus, causing much pain, similar scar tissue has ravaged its interior.  Most women with both conditions are unable to conceive, let alone carry a pregnancy to term.

The discovery of this miracle was just one more step in my process of recovery and rediscovery.  

Sometimes the dream we are clinging to is not the dream we were destined for.

I am now at stay-at-home, home-schooling mom and full time manager of this little family of six.  We are living what once I would have dubbed a bohemian dream in the heart of Los Angeles.  I will admit that every day is not pastoral and many are peppered with “what ifs” but I am striving to find little flashes of blessing within the chaos of raising, educating and loving four kids.

This journey has taught me so much about who I was and am, but more importantly it’s unraveling the mystery of dreams and becoming.  When I look back at that twenty-two year old, slightly feminist girl in a lecture hall, I want to tell her “Just try to be breezy … you really don’t have it all figured out.”

If I could talk to the twenty-four year old teacher, I would tell her “This might be your ‘for now’ job, but these teenagers are making a mark on your life more than you can imagine.  Continue to invest in them.  This is part of your story. “

Were I to visit that overwhelmed first time mom, I would say “Relax.  Savor this.  It is one of the few times in life you will ever be unconditionally loved.  Give the same to him, always.  The other stuff, you’ll learn together.”

To that mourning mother alone in the cold, sterile hospital room, I’d whisper, “You don’t have to grieve in silence.  This baby will forever be in your heart and is a part of who you’re becoming.  You will think of her often.  Allow yourself time to heal.”

And to the frightened mom who has known loss and is hesitant to be excited about the next two pregnancies, wondering/knowing something will go wrong, still dreaming about what might have been, I’d say “These babies will bring you more joy and fulfillment than you ever thought possible.  Collectively the four will cause you to re-evaluate, re-imagine and re-discover a new realm of possibility and potential.

What I’ve learned about myself is that my dreams, like my life, are fluid and that by holding on to one perspective, by using lost dreams as arguments’ ammunition, by not being present in the here-and-now, I am not dreaming or living at all. 

It is only in relishing life’s simple graces, by marking and being marked by others, in flexibility and adapting to life’s beautiful surprises that I truly dream.

"We know that all things work together for the good of those who love God: those who are called according to His purpose" (Romans 8:28 HCSB)

I'm Bringing Home My Baby Bumble Bee

We have a huge basil plant in front of our house.  What started as an easy means for bruschetta on a whim has turned into an unruly bush.  A bush that I have asked to be uprooted many times.  A bush that I have replaced (though Matt has yet to remove it from the yard) with a smaller, prettier variety.   If you like herbs, and I do, it smells wonderful.  If you hate bees, and I do, it can cause going out to water the plants or checking on the kids to turn to a nightmare.  The bees love the basil.  My kids love the bees.

What?

"The kids don't have a healthy fear of bees," I said to Matt the other day.

"And by healthy, do you mean they ought to run away screaming with their hands in the air every time they see a bee?" (insert sarcasm)  This from the man who once pinched multiple bees between his fingers rather than leave his bee infested deer blind, lest he frighten away the deer that never appeared that morning.  My Texan husband.

Um ... yeah.  Obviously.

I had put this conversation out of my mind until yesterday, when Lucas came into my kitchen holding a bee by the wing.  We chose the color called "sanctuary" for our kitchen walls, but in that moment I found little refuge in that room.  I shooed him out and simply requested that the bees stay outside (and by simply, I mean I frantically listed all the reasons why bees should not be inside, as he calmly listened while holding the bee).  

For the next hour, the kids played with the bees, making little habitats for them and observing them.  I was making dinner when Nicholas, my sweet two year old, came in with his hands cupped around something I assumed to be a flower, as he loves to make Mama smile.  When I asked if I could see what he was holding he proudly showed me his little friend, who had been squished between his loving hands.

I remembered that song that I sang as a little girl, laughingly, because who would ever be brave enough to actually bring home a baby bumble bee, and yet he did.  

I should mention that all three of the older children have been stung by bees in the past, but it obviously wasn't significant enough for them to give up playing with them.

I have always been a fearful person, and I do not want this to be my kids' reality.  I love their innocence.  I love their trust.  I love that other than being scared of The Cat in the Hat, they are rather fearless.  

I am learning to temper my responses to their exploration of the world around them.  It sometimes does end in an injury, but I would rather have them taste and see that the world was wondrously created; to know what their little bodies can do, even if falls happen; to feel like they can do great things, rather than be crippled by fear.

I'm learning from them.  I am learning that respect is necessary, but fear is not.  It is no wonder that as a fearful person, it is difficult for me to trust.  My trust in the Lord continually increases, because He has proven ever faithful, but I envy my children because they've never been burned ... never really even been let down.  And so they trust.

But Jesus called the children to him and said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.  Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it. (Luke 18:16-17)

And as I watch my children trust, this makes sense to me.  As they trust that the bees are worthy playmates, so they trust that Jesus is who He said He was.  

In the same way, I never had to earn my kids' trust.  From the moment they were born, I was comforter, nourisher, safe place.  When I think of how much I love my children and how much they trust me, I wonder at how great the Father's love is for me ... how He is for me, and no matter what circumstances I find myself in, I can trust Him.

School of Grace

So we're in a new season over at the Price place, and instead of embracing the change as I would love to, I've been bemoaning what sometimes seems a huge loss. See, we decided last Spring that we would take over management of the education of our children. I began researching different schooling methods and approaches to home learning lessons, so that I could un-school the kids in order to capture their hearts and begin filling their minds with wholesome literature, promises, virtues and knowing them better than a class room teacher ever could, approach their learning of the classic subjects in ways that would be tailored to their own styles of grasping and retention.

 No small feat, but being the romantic I am and having taught for eight years, I just knew that this would be a panacea for all things that had spiraled out of control in our family. 

Perfect, I thought.

 Crazy, I discovered.

And in this discovery of craziness, I have come to know and expect that we will have a good day, followed by a bad day, a great day, followed by a horrible day and then a pretty good day. Even though, in the four weeks we've been schooling I've noticed this trend, those bad days shock me every time and really get me down.

Today started as a bad day. I slept in, and for a former teacher and a bit of a time warden (ok, a HUGE time warden) this can throw me for a loop. Lucas had a bad attitude. Bethany was talking with a baby voice. Nicholas only wanted toast with nutella instead of the eggs that the toast was merely a compliment to. Mary Elena woke up early. My hands were full, my own attitude which should set the tone for the day was plummeting. But when I looked out the window I noticed it was overcast.

I love the Fall. I love the rain. The former is redefined by living in Southern California. The latter rarely happens where we live. So to have a taste of both on this September morning was like a breath of fresh air.

God knows me so well. And God, in His sovereignty can redeem anything.  ANYTHING.

He redeemed my attitude, which enabled me to let the toast thing roll off my shoulders. Allowed me to speak with soft words to the boy with the 'tude and draw his sweetness out. Helped me remember that the older girl is only five, and sometimes it's okay to let her be my baby girl again. Made it possible for me to cuddle my Mary-girl while helping with Math.

Because He is the Redeemer, I can look on the fact that I'm still in my pajamas as a blessing of comfort on this dreary day, instead of a side effect of being an overworked stay-at-home mom. And just like that, without me even asking or expecting it, He redeems my perspective.

The romantic notions are only somewhat mangled. They are just different.

This home stuff isn't easy. I will not always get it right. The "it" may not always meet my lofty expectations, but it was no accident I felt prompted to call this experiment School of Grace. Instead of learning from their mistakes by being reprimanded, they are learning that there are no wrong answers, just moments to learn by.  Instead of punishing them for wrong behavior, I am creating space for them to learn right behavior.

When I, one of them, or all of us have a bad attitude and say hurtful things, they are learning about regret, repentance, humility and grace as I lead by example. I cannot hold my high expectations over them when so often I get it so wrong. First time obedience is not what the Lord has expected of me. His grace is much greater than that, and through the leading, teaching and molding of these little lives, He is leading, teaching and molding this bigger life that still has so much to learn.

I am so grateful for the promise that I wear around my neck along with the names of my precious children. The promise that encapsulates his redeeming grace in my own life and in this experiment. The promise that reminds me of His gentle way with me, so that I can be gentle with them.

"He gently leads those that have their young." Isaiah 40:11