Holy Father, protect them by the power of your name, the name you gave me, so that they may be one as we are one. While I was with them, I protected them and kept them safe by that name you gave me…My prayer is not that you take them out of the world but that you protect them from the evil one. (John 17:11b-12a, 15)
It’s that time of year again. Time for school bells to ring, time for the intoxicating smell of fresh-out-of-the-box crayons, the glorious feel of newly-sharpened pencils and never-been-used erasers, the eager anticipation of blank notebooks and composition books just waiting to be written in. Time for buses to lumber down our street, quiet in the mornings but bustling with noise and activity in the afternoon. Time for bedtimes and lunchboxes and homework and after-school activities.
For me, it’s also time to pray in community. Nothing is more important – or special – to me than the time I spend interceding with other moms on behalf of our children, their teachers, our schools, and our city. It’s one of my very favorite parts of back-to-school: the opportunity to reconnect with my Moms in Prayer groups.
As moms from around the northeast DFW area rallied to lift up our children on the first day of school, however, I was convicted. I realized I’ve been doing it wrong. Not necessarily the praying part, because at its core prayer is simply talking to God. And being genuine before the throne of Almighty God is what He desires. Rather, I was convicted about what I was asking for my children. Based on the example of Christ Himself, God revealed a better way.
On the most difficult night of His life, Jesus’ response was to pray. John 17 records Jesus’ beautiful and heartbreaking prayer for our benefit. We see Christ at His most human, but also His most divine. We see Him vulnerable, hurting, crying out yet willing, yielding, and surrendering to His Father’s will and His Father’s way. We see Him in all His human weakness and frailty as well as all His divine strength and power. But the key to my conviction is contained in the heart of His prayer for us.
If you reread those verses, you’ll notice the repetition of one word. One word that encapsulates His singular plea on our behalf. One word that emphasizes our greatest need as believers. Do you see it? It’s not faith. It’s not joy. It’s not grace or kindness or love or an easy path or any of those things we elevate in our own minds as hallmarks of the Christian life. No, Jesus didn’t pray for those things for us. He prayed for this: protection. Three times in those three short verses He uses the phrase protect them. He prayed, not for us to be spared difficult experiences, but for us to be protected from them.
That’s where I realized my mistake. I’ve been praying for my children to be spared: from bullying, from teasing, from cliques, from mean girls, from seemingly unfair teachers, from anything that might hurt their feelings or cause them pain or make them uncomfortable. What I should be praying for instead is that God will protect them. Protect their hearts, and not allow bitterness or anger or rage to take root. Protect their minds, to keep them pure and wise in their thoughts and plans. Protect their speech, to keep it good and true and right in the midst of their chaos. Protect their steps, to keep them heading in the right direction, to seek godly counsel, and to be a light that others can follow. Protect their spirits, to keep them from being crushed, to allow these fires to refine them, to slough off the dross and uncover the beautiful, priceless treasure within, to be drawn closer to His presence and made more like Him.
Praying for the hard thing is a hard thing. No parent likes to see their child hurting, whether physically, emotionally, or mentally. No one wants bad things for their child. But as Christ prayed for me before my Heavenly Father, He knew that it is only through those hard things that I discover His character, His nature, and can claim these things for myself.
Convicted, and following His example, I am learning to pray the hard thing for my children: Father, protect them. Let the hard things come…but protect them in the process.
As a baby, I was carried constantly. Swaddled snugly in pink, held tightly with admiration, I knew nothing other than to trust the hands that carried me.
As a toddler, I resisted being carried. “I can do it myself!” became my mantra. But still, there were times when I craved the comfort, safety, and security of the hands that carried me.
As a child, I learned to carry my own weight. Chores, to-do lists, obligations inside and outside our home taught me about being part of a family, a team, a community. But sometimes I required the assistance of the hands that had carried me.
As a teenager, I learned to carry myself. Becoming my own person meant decision-making, exploring relationships, life choices, discovering what I believed and why and learning to live according to those beliefs. But there were times when I needed the guidance and direction of the hands that had once carried me.
As an adult, I learned to carry responsibility. Forging my independence, managing a career, balancing the intricacies of marriage and parenthood and ministry and community service provides an endless emotional cocktail of joy and passion and pain and contentment and striving and stress and pride. But every once in awhile, I still seek the calming reassurance of the hands that had long ago carried me.
Hands now wrinkled and thin.
Hands now unsteady and unsure.
Hands empty and outstretched, longing to be filled.
So I find the tables turned. My hands clasp those hands that once carried me and calmly reassure. My hands hold those hands that once carried me and provide guidance and direction as we navigate a dark and uncertain path. My hands replace those hands that once carried me to assist and do what is now too overwhelming. My hands cover those hands that once carried me and speak safety, peace, love, hope.
And in the midst of it all, I feel the burden eased. Enveloped in peace. Covered in safety and shelter. Wrapped in love. And as I find rest in this place, I know I’m still being carried. Carried in the everlasting hands of the One who has always carried me…and will never let me go.
And isn’t it just like God’s wisdom
To put grace where He plans to lead
Today I needed grace to find me
And Your words were there to meet my need
–De Garmo & Key, “Never Look Back”
A couple of years ago, I was on my daily run, thinking about nothing in particular other than getting through the misery that is the “sandwich miles” – where you’re too far in to turn around, but not yet close enough to see the finish line – when these lyrics jumped into my brain and woke me up a bit and became my cadence. I was leading a Bible study and wanted to remember that line to share with the other ladies in the group. It was deep, it was profound, it was relevant to what we were studying.
And just the other day, I discovered it’s also true.
This summer, I’ve been thrust rather suddenly into a difficult family situation. A situation with no easy answers and long-term implications. A situation that threatens to disrupt my “normal” and turn my whole world upside down. A situation that has no clear timetable, no defined timeline, and no happy ending. A situation of roller-coaster emotions and perpetual anxiety- and stress-inducing responsibilities. A situation I never wanted, but knew was inevitable.
And at that moment when I realized “this is it”…there was peace. In that instant where fear and chaos swirled around…I had calm. In that place where confusion reigned and I felt the sucker-punch of reality hurling toward me and all I could do was brace for impact…I had strength. Strength to resist the urge to fall apart. Strength to meet the need with grace and kindness and tenderness. Strength to think clearly and act courageously and take charge.
Because God’s grace was there, waiting for me. God knew, in His infinite wisdom, that this moment would come. He knew the journey He had laid out for me. He knew how difficult it would be, how hard the climb, how wearying the load. So He placed His provision – in the form of peace, calm, and strength, wrapped in His grace – right where it would be required. The exact amounts, perfectly proportioned to the depth of my need.
In that moment where I needed to grieve…God provided a friend to meet me at the coffee shop and held me as I cried…even when it got ugly.
In that moment where I needed to find joy…God provided friends to make me laugh until my sides hurt…and then laugh some more.
In that moment where I needed to find direction…God provided wise counsel from other family members both biological and spiritual to keep me focused and alert.
In that moment where I needed rest…God provided a husband who willingly washed the dishes without being asked and held off doing that household project so I could sleep just a few minutes longer.
In that moment when I didn’t even know what I needed…God provided wisdom. Compassion. Time. Resources. Mercy. Confidence. Faith.
Though my path may be uncertain, I can be sure of this: whatever I will face tomorrow – or the day after that, or the day after that, or all the days to follow – there will be a gift waiting for me. It will be a wonderful gift, the perfect gift, just the right size, shape and color. It’ll be “just what I always wanted” and certainly what I will need. And it will be beautifully wrapped in His incredible, unending, amazing grace.
Ah, the classic fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty. We all know the story: a beautiful princess is born, after many years of longing, to the delighted King Stefan and Queen Leah. A joyous celebration ensues, where all the good fairies of the land come to bequeath gifts of talent, beauty, and song…until the unwelcome Maleficent appears and spoils all the fun by proclaiming that before sundown on her sixteenth birthday, Princess Aurora will prick her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and die. The good fairies cannot undo Maleficent’s evil curse, but dial down the danger a bit by stating that Aurora will not die but rather fall into a deep sleep, from which she can only be awakened by true love’s first kiss. Years pass, Aurora pricks her finger, she falls asleep, and eventually Prince Phillip finds her, kisses her, wakes her, and they all live happily ever after. Oh, after he disposes of Maleficent in a rather frightening and unpleasant death scene that is probably too graphic for preschoolers.
Or, at least, that’s what you’ve been told in school and seen in the movies and read on Wikipedia. Well, has anyone ever told you that you can’t believe everything you read? Or that not everything on the internet is true? Or to challenge what you’re taught in school?
In While Beauty Slept, we learn the backstory to one of our most-loved, most well-known fairy tales.
We meet the strong and regal King Ranolf and his beautiful, loving wife Queen Lenore. We learn of the relationship between them and Millicent (the “evil witch” Maleficent), as well as the enigmatic Flora (a conglomeration of Flora, Fauna and Merriweather…but without the round bellies and tiny wings). We are introduced to a wide array of castle characters – knights and ladies-in-waiting and royal stableboys and groomsmen and housekeepers and chambermaids – all through the eyes of Elise Dalriss.
Elise comes to castle life out of great personal loss and suffering. In a world where class is everything and women have nothing, Elise makes a bold decision, holds her ground, and keeps her wits about her to integrate herself into the world of nobility and royalty. As she does, she gains the personal confidence of Queen Lenore and becomes privy to all the castle’s goings-on. She comes under the spell of Millicent, befriends the aging Flora, and mentors the young Princess Rose. We see, through her eyes, the prevalent dysfunction of royal families, the political and social constraints of “true love”, and the very real dangers inherent in “once upon a time” life.
I found myself immersed in this story-behind-the-story. With characters so real they were alternately adorable and infuriating, and a setting so well described I felt a part of the landscape, it was easy to lose myself in Elise’s world. In the end, after the magic was debunked in favor of a more plausible scenario, I felt neither cheated out of my childhood fantasy nor disappointed by the alternative.
With a healthy and unexpected twist at the end, what might have been just another medieval tragic love story became the “happily ever after” that produces the satisfying sigh as the final page is turned.
The End of Everything means something very similar: a great summertime read.
In this story we are introduced to 13-year-old Lizzie Hood and her best friend Evie Verver, who conveniently happens to live across the street. Lizzie and Evie are inseparable, both at school and at home, and know almost everything about each other. Almost.
But then, tragedy strikes. Somehow, some way, in the flash of a moment, Evie disappears. Just like that, she’s gone. No one knows how. No one knows where. No one knows anything.
Not in the way of an accomplice, but rather in flashes, in moments of remembering. In bits and pieces, like scraps of paper, Lizzie unlocks the clues that can put her world back together again.
Unfortunately for Lizzie, it’s The End of Everything. The end of her familiar, tight bond with Evie. The end of her tenuous relationship with her own family. The end of her anonymity among her peers. The end of her childhood. The end of her innocence.
Written in bold, prosaic style, Megan Abbott navigates the very grown-up world of the English language while maintaining the very childlike perspective of young women on the cusp of self-discovery. Both entertaining and breathtaking, quirky and tragic, this book provides an often overlooked perspective on a difficult subject.
For Lizzie, it was The End of Everything. For me, it’s the Beginning of Another Summer of Great Books.
God doesn’t call the equipped. He equips the called.
-Mark Batterson, Wild Goose Chase
Eighteen years ago, God called me out of my elementary school classroom and into my very own piano studio. Though I had no idea what I was doing, or how to do it, I saddled up that Wild Goose and hopped on for the ride of my life. Very green and at times very overwhelmed, sometimes fumbling along and sometimes knocking it out of the park, I forged my way into a path that I could never have predicted would be laid out for me.
As with any choice, there were those who mocked me. Those who said I wasn’t qualified and not very good. Those who looked down their noses and held me at arms’ length and lamented the fact that “Wal-Mart teachers” like me were undermining the profession, muddying the waters, and diluting the pedagogical excellence that piano study requires.
But God continued to affirm and reaffirm His plan for Piano by DESign, and by faith I continued to follow. And what happened today was not just an affirmation but a great big bear hug of reassurance and pride from my Abba, my Daddy.
Cue backstory swoosh.
Several years ago, I started teaching a delightful young woman. Her mother had been teaching her for a few years, covering the basics and teaching her the fundamentals of music theory and piano performance. She was a piano teacher’s dream: that perfect blend of love for music coupled with solid discipline to practice and a cheerful attitude at lessons. For four or five years, I worked to nurture that love, that passion, while offering corrective steps in artistry and skill. She quickly progressed out of the methods I was most familiar with and offered a professional challenge as I sought just the right materials to use with her, finally settling on a combination of classical repertoire and lyrical sacred music.
At some point, however, I recognized the need for her to “graduate” from my program into one that could better equip her to reach her goals and fulfill her dreams of studying piano in college. After honestly and openly discussing this with her parents, I encouraged them to begin the process of selecting a new teacher and assured them of my commitment to doing my best to prepare her for the transfer. But I wondered, would I be considered one of those “Wal-Mart teachers” by her new instructor? Was I equipped enough to adequately equip her?
End backstory swoosh.
Oh, the internet. *sigh* Oh, social media. *double sigh* Sometimes I love you and sometimes…well…you make me just a little crazy. Okay, a little crazier. Sometimes that’s a good thing: causing me to think deeply about what I believe and why, challenging my notions about life and health and parenting and marriage, and getting me to consider issues from different points of view. But sometimes…sometimes you make me tired. Like a whiny, demanding child. You beat me down and make me sad and wish I’d never read that article (or the comments), clicked on that link, or scrolled through that news feed.
So much negativity.
So many put-downs.
So much misunderstanding.
So much insulting.
So much shouting.
And not nearly enough listening.
Recent events have only served to heighten this insanity. And I, for one, have had enough. So since this is my blog and I can rant if I want to, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. In a very civilized manner, of course. I am a grown-up, after all. And if you choose to comment or engage in dialog, I would ask that you do the same. Because, really, you wouldn’t like me when I’m
Without going into too much detail, I’ll simply say this: I am NOT a hater. Please stop calling me – and those like me – that. You have no idea what that does to my spirit. What’s more, I believe it’s possible to disagree with someone and STILL LOVE THEM. Crazy, I know. But still, true.
You see, I love my husband. I love him with all my heart. He is, truly, my best friend, my closest confidante, my greatest ally. But sometimes, I disagree with him and the choices he makes. Not just about what tv show we should watch or where to go for dinner, but real stuff. Important stuff. Stuff that matters. There are times when I adamantly believe he is flat-out wrong. When that happens, I’ll tell him so. I’ll share with him my beliefs and my perspectives, and provide a reasoning for my position. But I don’t stop loving him just because I disagree with his choice. I will still walk through life with him. I will still cry on his shoulder and let him cry on mine. I will still hold him when he’s feeling sad our discouraged and celebrate with him when the blessings rain down. I will still laugh at his jokes…okay, maybe that’s going a bit too far.
I realize this is a simplistic example of a complex issue, but I implore you, oh friends of the internet, to please consider that there may be someone just like me who loves you very much but simply does not agree with your choice or decision. I will still share in your joys and sorrows, I will still celebrate the good and commiserate the bad.
Who knows? I might even laugh at your jokes.
Tonight was our monthly Life Group date night: an enjoyable evening of grown-up conversation where all the boys sat on one end of the table and all the girls at the other and enjoyed delicious barbecue and the best peach cobbler this side of the swollen Trinity River. I’m still pondering how that qualifies as a “date” but whatever. The food was great, and peach cobbler makes me happy.
Over brisket and potato salad, we laughed and swapped stories and generally caught up with each other’s lives in this chaotic, swirling rhythm known as “parenting”. And then this happened – one homsechooling mom’s confession of the reality of homeschooling life – paraphrased, of course:
My daughter struggles so much with math. And I realized that I had fallen into a habit of sending her off to do her work by herself while I busied myself with all the other things I had to do. This rarely ended well, as she would get frustrated and then would start the yelling and crying and hitting…and it was a mess.
So I decided to try something different, because obviously what I was doing was NOT. WORKING. For the past week or so, I’ve been intentional about sitting with her while she does her math work. I’m not teaching, I’m not coaching, I’m not correcting. I’m just sitting. Right there, beside her. To let her know she has my attention. To let her know I’m available.
But I get distracted really easily, and I’ve caught myself daydreaming while I’m right there. And suddenly, I notice she’s crumpled up into a ball of tears and I wonder WHY??? Why are you so discouraged? Why are you so frustrated? Why are you trying so hard to do this on your own? Didn’t you know I’m right here beside you? I have all the resources of my knowledge and skill to help you with your struggles. I was just waiting to give them to you! All you had to do was ask me.
It was as if God Himself had spoken those words right to my soul. I looked at my friend and said, “There’s deep spiritual truth there.”
Deep. Spiritual. Truth.
You see, I struggle with stuff, too. I struggle with insecurity and never quite feeling good enough. I struggle with my self-image and wondering if what God created is truly “beautiful.” I struggle with anger and impatience toward those I love as well as complete strangers…most of whom drive along Highway 5. I struggle with wandering thoughts and laziness and deliberate disobedience. And so I go off to fix it…to solve my problems. Because, really, after all these years of life experience, I should know better and do better.
But I can’t. I can’t fix these things. I can’t stop being insecure. I can’t look at myself in the mirror every day and honestly believe I’m beautiful. I can’t always stop those unkind and harsh words from slipping out, especially when I’m forced to drive 35 mph down Highway 5. I’m more often unsuccessful at “taking every thought captive” or working “with all my might” or saying “yes” to God when I really want to say “no.” And so I become frustrated. Discouraged. Crumpled up into a ball of tears.
And right there, next to me, sits my loving Heavenly Father. Waiting. Patiently.
If I’m still, I can hear Him say, WHY??? Why are you so discouraged? Why are you so frustrated? Why are you trying so hard to do this on your own? Didn’t you know I’m right here beside you? I have all the resources of My being and character to help you with your struggles. I was just waiting to give them to you! All you had to do was ask Me.
The Bible study I’m currently doing dives into the relationship between living in the flesh (our own strength, our own bright ideas, our own natural tendencies) and living in the Spirit (God’s strength, God’s wisdom, God’s character). As I prepared for my meeting this week, these words jumped off the page and into the scenario I had just experienced over a warm and crunchy bowl of melt-in-your-mouth-delicious peach cobbler:
Like the original humans, you will choose moment by moment whether to lean into Jesus or trust your flesh. You will decide whether or not you will live in an altar’d state. But knowing how close Jesus is – in all His power and His readiness to step in and take over every burden or situation – will change the minutes of your days. (Altar’d by Jennifer Kennedy Dean, p. 51, emphasis mine)
Dry those tears. Uncrumple yourself. And look to the One who has the answers, the strength, the victory to overcome any problem. Even fifth-grade math.
Oh. My. Goodness.
I’m wiping drool off the keyboard as I write this. Seriously. That. Good.
Matt and I journeyed back to the Beach after a 30-lb. hiatus. Now that I have time to cook again, and I don’t have to be around any other people while I de-carb my body for two weeks, we figured it was a good time to dive back in. I dug out my newly-arrived Taste of Home magazine – which I have found terribly disappointing this time around – and figured I’d give it the old college try. Come to think of it, I never had salmon in college. I didn’t even like salmon in college. So I just gave it the old try.
This was my first attempt at making any kind of sauce using cucumber. I’m not sure if I got it completely right, but the moment that cool, spicy sauce with the sizzling hot salmon introduced itself to my taste buds is a moment I will cherish forever. I’m getting all dreamy just thinking about it. *sigh* My husband and I kept looking at each other and reapeating, “This sauce is REALLY good.” “No. Really. This sauce is REALLY good.” as we inhaled another bite. Our children weren’t as convinced, but they loved the salmon so it ended up being a win-win all the way around. Except for the poor salmon.
1 T grated lime peel (I used lemon)
1/4 C lime juice
2 T olive oil
2 T rice vinegar or white wine vinegar
4 t sugar (I used Splenda)
1/2 t salt
1/2 t ground coriander
1/2 t freshly ground pepper
1/3 c chopped fresh cilantro
1 T finely chopped onion (I used minced onion)
2 t minced fresh gingerroot (I used regular ground ginger)
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 large cucumbers, peeled, seeded, and chopped
Place all ingredients into a blender or food processor. Cover and process until pureed; refrigerate until serving. Or just grab a spoon and start eating.
Ginger-glazed Grilled Salmon:
1/3 c minced fresh gingerroot (I used regular ground ginger)
1 T lime juice
1 T olive oil
1/2 t salt
1/4 t freshly ground pepper
10 salmon fillets (6 oz. each)
In a small bowl, mix ginger, lime juice, oil, salt and pepper. Rub over flesh side of salmon fillets.
Moisten a paper towel with cooking oil; using long-handled tongs, rub on grill rack to coat lightly. Place salmon on grill rack, skin side down. Grill, covered, over medium-high heat 10-12 minutes or until fish just begins to flake with a fork. Serve with cucumber-lime sauce.
Fat: 20 g (4 g saturated fat)
Cholesterol: 85 mg
Sodium: 372 mg
Carbohydrates: 7 g
Fiber: 1 g
Protein: 29 g
Diabetic exchanges: 4 lean meat, 1 1/2 fat, 1/2 starch
Today, you turn 15. As I write this, you’re not *quite* 15 yet, although you were hard at work to make your grand appearance. To think that 15 years have passed since that unforgettable day – that day when my whole world changed, when my dreams became reality, when suddenly everything I’d ever wanted was snugly wrapped in a soft white blanket and placed in my arms – doesn’t seem possible. But I look at you – now taller than me – and I know it is not only possible, but reality.
To think that you’re 15 kind of blows my mind. And yes, it freaks me out a little, too, though probably not for the reasons you think. I’m less freaked out about you getting your learner’s permit than I am about the fact that you are only three years away from adulthood. I’m less freaked out about you being old enough to hold down a “real” job than I am about the knowledge that you are closer to living under your own roof than under mine. I’m less freaked out about you being taller than me than I am about the realization that pretty soon my voice will no longer carry the weight it once did, that other, more important voices will be the ones demanding your attention and guiding your decisions.
And so, while I still have even the slightest bit of influence over you, while you still reside under my roof and are compelled to listen to my voice, I want to write this letter to you. Because these are the things I want you to know. Because these are the things I wish and dream and hope and pray for you. Because these are the things you need to carry with you. Because, no matter how old you get, these are the things that will always – always – be true.