Meet Them Where They Are

Newtown

As the first of twenty-six funerals commence today in Newtown, I am giving myself a visual reminder for every minute of this day to keep my heart pointed in their direction. I am hoping with everything inside of me that in some unfathomable way, those precious families are feeling the hands of love, peace, comfort, hope that are being extended to them from around the world.

There are times in life when God is needed near but there is no part of us that wants to look for Him. There is no light in our darkness. All joy, all hope, all feeling has been sucked right out of us and if we are to feel any part of God’s goodness it’s because He has gone searching through our forest of grief to find us.

I will not pretend to know one ounce of what the Sandy Hook families are feeling in the days following their unimaginable horror. I have begun to pray a thousand prayers since Friday morning and each one has stopped short in my throat. God, give them peace. How in this heart-wrenching hell can any mother, father, sister, brother feel peace? God, be their comfort. How does one even think of comfort in the middle of mind-blowing pain? It goes on. Asks of God and every time I start I stop because I have no idea what these families need or want from God. Some may have lost all belief in Him last Friday. Some may have lost belief in Him a long time ago. Some may have never believed at all. And others may be trying to hold on to some thread of belief but the agony of what is in front of them makes stepping towards Him too difficult, impossible even.

And so I stopped asking God to be something for them. I stopped petitioning Him to deliver, to restore, to renew. And I’m simply asking God to find them. Wherever they are, whatever they are feeling, whenever they are ready, just meet them where they are.

Those that just 4 days ago were living in the thickness of joy and dreams and laughter and normal life are now living in the margins, so close to the edge, at any moment waiting for the slightest of winds to blow them right off the cliff. Meet them where they are. That jagged cliff is her home in this moment. Meet her there.

As they clench their fists and scream.

As they sit in silence and remember.

As they accept an embrace.

As they turn away.

As they comfort a sibling.

As they inhale every piece of clothing in their lost baby’s room.

As they memorialize through stories.

As they take a step forward.

As they begin to feel again.

As they allow joy in.

As they throw it all back and get lost in the grief once more.

As they

As they

As they

Meet them there. And I have no asks of you other than that. Because you, God, in all of your great glory have known the agonizing pain of losing a son. You, God, share the pain that these families now carry. And only you can know what they need. As you welcomed their children home, you also took a step forward to where these families would need you to find them. And so, as I sit here helpless, wanting to do something, say something, pray something, I have only one ask able to spring forth. Meet them where they are, sweet Jesus.

I have an Aunt

I have an Aunt Ellen that sends me a card every holiday. All the big ones—Christmas, birthdays, Easter—and the little ones, too—Halloween, 4th of July, anniversaries, and all those in between. She is 90 years old and still takes time to send us love. Her notes are personal and her love is endless. She is a Great Aunt, my grandmother’s twin sister, and she deserves every bit of that capitol “G”. When I visit, there is a fresh Texas Sheet Cake waiting for me and I cook often with a cast iron skillet that she gave me recently. The skillet is over 100 years old and seasoned to perfection. She received it as a wedding gift from her mother. I love to think of all the meals that were prepared for her family throughout these 100 plus years as I use it to prepare meals for my family now. What an honor to have it in my hands and to have her in my life. She makes me so proud to say, “I have an Aunt,” in Ellen Marie Randall.

I have another Aunt Ellen—my mother’s sister—who has a heart filled with so much grace for those around her, I wonder sometimes if she remembers to keep some grace in reserve for herself. I hope she does. We all need a little grace-for-self in reserve. My Aunt makes me feel special in only the way an Aunt can. She is an amazing artist and has allowed me to hold one of her paintings hostage on a wall in my home. I mentioned that I loved it and it showed up in a package on my doorstep a week later. I didn’t intend for her to send it to me but that’s what she does. She sends out love, and it comes in many forms. I wrote a post about hanging on and letting go in October and mentioned Fall leaves in that post. I had a box of her Virginia, Fall-colored leaves on my table that week. She gets me and I love being able to call her Aunt and Friend. I’m eternally grateful that because of Ellen Diane Taylor, I can say, “I have an Aunt.”

My father’s sister, my Aunt Betty Jo, lives in Ohio and I haven’t seen her in at least 20 years. But as a child, she was one of my favorite people in the world. When we visited my dad’s family in West Virginia, I always wanted to stay with Aunt Betty Jo across the river in Ohio. She lived in a tiny house and raised dogs. I can’t tell you what kind of dogs, I just remember that as a young child I would walk beside this woman that could throw a 40-pound bag of dog food over her shoulder like it was full of feathers and watch with joy as she let me get dirty right alongside of her cleaning the dog cages and holding the new puppies. They also raised Emu’s and my uncle was small enough to be able to ride these big birds. My cousin and I would laugh and laugh, telling each other stories of him being on the Swiss Family Robinson beach racing these birds for fun. My Aunt Betty Jo taught me that being a woman didn’t mean being weak. Mother used to tell me I looked like my Aunt Betty Jo and that gave me pride. She was one of the first truly funny ladies I can remember being around and she makes the world’s best chocolate gravy. A little bit for the gravy, but a whole lot for the strong, funny lady she is, I love being able to say, “I have an Aunt,” in Betty Jo Goss.

I have an Aunt Monty that feels like a kindred spirit. Her house has always been warm and welcoming. She is a country lady in every sense of the word and I love her for every bit of country she has exposed me to. Food is meant to be fried and milk is meant to be chocolate. I have many childhood memories of the woods around their house. We spent a lot of time there when it was safe for kids to roam the woods until mom whistled us home. Aunt Monty has an infectious laugh and a compassionate heart. She is sister-in-law to my mother but they share a friendship that really takes the in-law out of the equation. Monty Ellis is beloved in my family and it’s a privilege to see her and say, “I have an Aunt.”

My Aunt Sunday is one of the sweetest women I know. I’ve never heard her raise her voice, though I’m sure one of her four daughters just might be able to say that they have once or twice. She has shown me that patience and love aren’t always easy to maintain firm grips on but when you turn around and look back at the journey you’ve made, you’ll be so glad for the determination you had to just hang on. She’s raised four girls that share a bond only sisters can understand. She married my mother’s brother, so she’s technically an Aunt by marriage but God brought her into our family and there she will always remain. I’m thankful that in Sunday Graham I can say, “I have an Aunt.”

These women in my life that I am blessed to call my Aunts have left permanent marks upon my life. They’ve been the source of wide-eyed wonder as a child, taught me and my sister what the laughter of women can really do for the soul, and have shown me how an awkward girl can grow into a graceful lady. Each one has given me a picture of the kind of Aunt I want to be. I’ve never taken the time to give them these words of how they’ve touched my soul, but I want them all to know that they have each played a part in making me the woman I am today. A woman I hope makes them proud to say, “I have a niece.”

Changed for Good

I hate rejection. I hate how pitiful I feel when I’ve been snubbed, forgotten, pushed aside. I hate how all I want to do is tell the person who wronged me all the ways in which they did so. But no amount of eloquence makes the words sound any less desperate to be wanted than the heartbroken lover on her knees begging to be taken back.

The sight of a beggar makes me cringe. Someone hanging on the edge of misery and desperation, the ledge their fingers grip requiring them to let go of all pride in order to hang on to what once was. What they so desperately want to be once more.

And yet, I’ve found myself there. Here.

I’ve been the girl once included in the game only to be left looking on from the sidelines.

I sat in on the secrets, the planning, the excitement, and then had to watch it all play out from afar.

I walked with them, talked with them, rejoiced with them, and in the end had to hear about them through the broken lines of a telephone game.

The love, the friendship, the togetherness we shared is now but a fleeting memory of what once was.

And now, as I allow the freshness of hurt to seep out from its dark, hidden place and let it be seen in the light by someone other than myself I feel the desperation clinging to me yet again.

Why must honesty about hurt and pain come across as desperate and pitiful? As if the person standing beside me has never felt the disillusionment of a relationship ended, a heart betrayed.

Why must we continue silently through the sting of rejection and disappointment as if we never really cared at all? As if the shrug of the shoulders is enough to shake off the heavy hurt that weighs us down.

The truth is I did care.

The truth is I did give it my all.

The truth is I did get hurt in the end.

But the bigger truth is this: that love? that passion? that person that caused the hurt? It was never all for nothing unless I allow it to be so. Pain needs our permission to cripple us.

The cut may have been deep enough to leave a scar but that scar represents healing and doesn’t that permanent mark upon the skin also tell of its even bigger mark upon the soul?

I’m choosing to learn the lesson set before me from the pain that is behind me. I’ve learned the true meaning of Grace and Kindness, both capitalized here because they should be capital actions in our lives. I’ve learned to see the good, especially when seeing it requires so much searching for it.

When it is oh so easy to see the bad and distasteful, I’ve learned to taste and see that the Lord is good.

He has given me a taste of His love and compassion and I’m left with the wonder of how I ever lived beside people without really seeing them. Not for how I could make them better but for how He has already made them best.

And so, in the end, there is no other choice for me but to be thankful for the hurt, for the pain. It’s the shaking of the fault lines in my heart that becomes the quaking of my soul. Shaking me awake to that which brings breath to my lungs and blood to my veins. To that which brings me life.

As i move on from situations of hurt and pain, I take the lessons in love that I’ve been gifted, for they are great and they are many, and I continue on, letting go of the bad that has changed me for good.

When “Jesus Rules!” turns into a list of Jesus rules

I grew up one of those kids that could buy into any hype. I’m still that way, actually. Don’t even come near me with your MonaVie, Pampered Chef, or Thirty-One sales pitch. I’ve bought into all of that, only to fizzle out and be left with the rules of how to keep the pyramid growing. And that’s a little how my spiritual life was as an impressionable teen.

As soon as I turned twelve and could count myself an official member of the church youth group I wanted to be at every event. Whether it was a party or a church service, I was there. Jesus freak and jean skirts. DC Talk and Carman. Loud and proud. Count me in. And then when I was 15 I went on my first out of town church trip to a national youth conference. There were over 10,000 like-minded young people in attendance and I was in awe. In awe of the common Jesus-thread that ran among us. In awe of the way I was able to walk through throngs of young people and feel like we were one in our love for God. In awe of the worship that poured out of these 10,000 plus souls packed in to that arena.

On our first day in Little Rock, walking from our hotel to the arena, I was admiring two girls walking ahead of us. Dressed to the nines. Hair curled to perfection. Teeth gleaming as they laughed. I didn’t know them but I envied them. They were beautiful. And as we walked, one of the girls in my group, one that was in a position of leadership over us, began dissecting all of the ways these girls I was admiring were wrong. Anything she could see—one girl’s skirt was too short, the other’s was too tight, they both had on too much makeup, and the list went on of all the “rules” these girls were breaking. Jesus rules. How had I missed this? I knew there were things we did and didn’t do as Christians, but I was now seeing that if I ever went against the grain, there were people waiting by the sidelines to tear me down. It wasn’t long after returning from this trip that my awe of worship turned into a fear of judgement.

Everything I once saw as Biblical principles to follow had, in my mind, become a list of rules to be enforced and I started to push back. I spent the next several years pushing against the church flow. I wanted answers to my questions of why we did this and didn’t do that. And it was pretty rare that a question was met with a scriptural answer to back it up. I’m not saying scripture wasn’t there to reinforce the rule in some way, but the explanations given were more often than not based on man’s instruction rather than God’s. The focus seemed to be on the rule, not the guiding principle behind it. Instead of getting answers, I heard more rules, experienced more judgement, and, ultimately, fostered more resentment. My “Jesus Rules!” attitude changed drastically when I saw all the Jesus rules I had to follow in order to somehow earn my place in the Kingdom.

It took a long time to reconcile my genuine love for God with the Biblical principles (they are no longer “rules” for me) He has given us for living this life. It took years to be able to separate the people that judged me from the people that loved me. And it is still an ongoing challenge not to care what the “judgers” are saying. But the fact of the matter is that God’s word does have principles for us to live by as Christians. He does ask certain things of us. But they aren’t “rules” sent down by an angry God waiting for us to stumble and fall so that someone else can laugh and judge. All that He asks of us starts and ends with Love.

It’s been 16 years since that moment of discovering the righteous judgement around me. Lots of soul-searching and God-grasping has happened to bring me back to a place of “Jesus Rules!” and, in a twisted turn of events, I am now in a position of leadership in our church. Erick and I have led the youth group for seven years and if there is one thing we have fought for our young people to grasp is that God never intended us to be so hung up on the law that we fail to see the love. It’s not ever our place to extend judgment to anyone. For anything. Period. If I feel sure about the “right and wrong” of something, then it is my responsibility to live out that truth for me. But I have to trust that the person standing beside me is in the midst of their own searching and is living out their truth the best they know how. Even when—especially when—their truth looks different than mine. Isn’t that what we are all doing? Just the best we know how?

Why not put the judgement aside and practice the art of truly loving your neighbour? No agenda. No sales pitch. No Jesus rules. Only Jesus love.

Because of You

Stanley Loe
March 20, 1921 – September 28, 2012

Because of you…

We know that the strength of a man goes beyond his physical capabilities and truly lies in his ability to lift up the ones he holds dear, letting them rest in the strength of his love.

Because of you…

We’ve seen that sacrifice comes on the battlefield and the home front. That a commitment to serve is a commitment to be honored, whether beside a soldier or a son, you stood tall with loyalty and respect and make us want to do the same.

Because of you…

Your children have a heart to serve and hands to help and they’ve taught their children to do the same. We’ve seen those less fortunate have their needs met and their spirits lifted. We’ve watched you be a friend, a confidant, a leader, and a pillar of strength and grace when those around you needed it most. We’ve learned how to trust, protect, provide, and love…all because of you.

Because of you…

We know the warmth of Mexican blankets and the sweetness of Texas jelly beans.

We know that strategy counts, whether playing cards or carving a turkey.

We know the joy of laughing till we cry and hugging till it counts.

We know the comfort of a protective father and the sweetness of a nurturing grandfather.

We know that it’s ok to take two desserts and it’s a “dirty bum” that would say otherwise.

We know there is a time and a place for everything, even a good ole “Jimeny Christmas!” and “Holy Mackeral!”

We know how to feed fish from the dock and eat oysters from the half-shell.

We know that camping is fun in a tent but really should be done in an RV.

We know how to organize a garage and manicure a lawn with the best of them.

For all the joy, the love, the strength, and devotion this family has…we have it all because of you.

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First Sentence

I thought my story was over the day I lost my leg, but I realized it was only just beginning when my dad brought home a new horse with a prosthetic leg just like mine.

My 10 year old niece wrote that last week for a “First Sentence” writing contest. The winner of the contest will be invited to write the rest of their story, to be printed in a national children’s magazine. I’m trying to get her to finish the story anyway. Tell me how it ends. How the little girl and her horse start their new journey together. Tell the world how there were so many obstacles, fears, unknowns that they both had to face to get to a place of trust in each other. She, trusting the horse to hold her, protect her, not stumble beneath her weight. The horse, trusting her to be gentle, know her limits, moving forward only when both are ready.

And I can’t help but wonder how many of us have these “first sentences” hanging out there with the rest of the story just begging to be written.  Isn’t it true that we look at a sentence like, “I lost my job today and I have nothing to fall back on” and we let it just sit there, sad, depressed, alone.

“My mother has cancer.”

“My husband cheated.”

“My son is failing all of his classes.”

“I lost my best friend.”

Whatever it is that tells you “I thought my story was over the day I…” needs more from you. Our lives  are begging for us to keep writing. There is ALWAYS an “until I” waiting to finish that first sentence. But too often I feel like I’m waiting for someone else to invite me to write the rest of my story. Someone to inspire me. Tell me I won the contest. When all I really need to do is pick up the pen and start writing it on my own. No invitation. No wins or losses. My story.

There have been several times in my life when I felt like the story was over. The story of love. The story of health. The story of spirit. But every time, no matter how long it took for me to find that pen and paper, I just kept writing. Just kept showing up. Some days the words flowed and I could feel the love creeping back in. Some days I sat in silence feeling like I was staring at a blank piece of paper that would never see words again. But I kept showing up with faith that something would happen. And something eventually did. Love found its way back. Peace came. Faith flowed.

It’s true that our stories don’t always feel like they have happy endings but I don’t think that’s the point of writing out our lives. We aren’t meant to live in this world always seeing rainbows and butterflies. We are meant to just keep going. Living out our stories so that others can have the courage to live out theirs. It’s an ebb and flow. Lows and highs. The tides of our lives coming in and out. But, like ocean waves that follow every receding tide with an incoming wave, so must we look at a situation of loss, hurt, fear, and allow it to be followed by peace, forgiveness, grace.

If you need a friend’s hands to help you get started, grab them. Trust them. Allow them to help you find your footing and start moving forward when you are ready. Grab the pen and just start writing. Maybe you have to cross a few lines out and start again. So what? Just keep going. Every one of us deserves to see our full story written out. Those first sentences are desperate for a second and third and before you know it you’ll have a paragraph, a chapter, a full circle story to call your own.

And they rode off into the blazing sunset, her horse finally trusting the leg that was not his own, allowing it to carry the weight of the girl that now carried his heart.

Unrefined, Unpressed; Redefined, Redressed

I want to be unrefined.

The unrefined ladies draw me in with their too-loud laughter and lack of concern for the prim and proper. They let their hair down and walk out in the rain, face up to the sky. They roll their sleeves up and dig down in the dirt, hands one with the earth.

The unrefined know the moments of life that require ankles to cross but live for the moments that beg for feet to dance. Oh, that the joys of this life would flow through me with unrefined abandon and that the children in my home would know to put napkins on their laps and elbows off the table but let them ask what’s the fun in all this dancing through life if the dance has to be refined?

I need to be unpressed.

Work presses me in the day. Chores press me in the evening. The loves of my life are left with an over-pressed mother who loses patience too easy and an over-pressed wife who finds solace in silence rather than comfort in dialogue.

How do we press back against the demands, the requirements, the necessities of life? How does is become bearable, doable, and dare I dream it to be loveable? I want to unpress the pressing. Simply stop. Step away. And come back unpressed.

I long to be redefined.

I’m redefining time-well-spent to mean laughter with my babies, dates with my husband, and prayers with my God. Too often we find ourselves simply trying to meet the demands of life and while the laundry, and dishes, and work are spitting out their demands, the people wearing that laundry and eating off those dishes and benefitting from the money that work produces are missing the quality of our time. They get the hand held up while we take a call—I’ll be there in a minute—or the date rescheduled for next week—when things will be less busy—or the prayers pushed back till bedtime—woke up late…again—and when will time-well-spent mean that it is spent on the ones that matter most?

This life begs to be redressed.

Raincoats in the sunshine because the forecast says thunderstorms. Tank tops in the cold because the weatherman warns of  a heatwave. Boots on the beach and flip flops in the snow because the other is where we will be walking tomorrow. Preparations for the next can make the now so uncomfortable and when did I start looking at what the next day, week, year may require and ignore what this current moment is offering?

He asks me to be clothed in righteousness but this current wardrobe feels more like worry, judgement, envy, and distrust and why do I allow all of this to sit in my closet and be pulled on each morning?

How is it that our faces can wear a smile while our chests heave under the weight of a burden-bearing overcoat? I know the days can’t all be clothed in morning glories and evening breezes but don’t we have some control over how we dress our life and don’t we know the One that can clothe us anew in grace and mercy each day?

Redressed. Perhaps the hardest one of all. The burdens on our shoulders and the weights around our ankles are there and on some level will always be. That is life, after all. But this life, this brutiful life, begs to be redressed in a way that allows us to move, to run, to dance beneath it all. That coat has buttons and those shoes have laces so that they can be taken off once in a while. I’m taking them off today and putting on something a little lighter. Perhaps they’ll be slipped on again tomorrow. Who knows.

But for today, if only for today, I’m choosing to be unrefined, unpressed, redefined, and redressed. Let’s dance.

Remember This

He walks in to the kitchen and asks for music. He wants to dance with mama in the kitchen. I turn the stove off and the radio on. His hands find mine as he tilts his head to the side and begins to move his feet. He laughs. And we dance. I say to myself, remember this.

She waddles in to the living room and takes the clothes out of the laundry basket, leaving little piles of clean clothes on the rug. I bend to clean up and she giggles, climbing into my lap. She wants to cuddle with mama on the couch. I leave the clothes on the rug to pick her up instead. And we cuddle. I beg myself to remember this.

He comes home from a long day of hard work and kisses his wife. I have been on his mind all day and he on mine. It feeds my soul something sweet that he seeks me out when he enters our home. We are finding our groove. Everyday the groove gets better. I want to always groove with this man. He looks at me with a love that no man has ever given me before. His tired body leans into mine. I give him my arms as a refuge as I will these arms to remember this.

She walks beside me through the halls of the nursing home. We enter the room that is now the home of the man that taught her life. His eyes register recognition with the love that only a father can give. I watch as my mother feeds him, embraces him, talks to him. Even when he can’t eat, can’t hold her back, can’t remember the stories she tells. She is there. She is his. The world has asked so much of her. Taken so much of her strength. And she has given it willingly. Again and again I see her give her strength away. And now I watch her as she cares for this man that needs her. And I tell my heart to remember this.

He lays in bed accepting her care. Breathing words slowly. Does he remember the strong man he once was? Does he remember his granddaughters playing with wooden blocks on his living room floor? Does he remember his life as we go about ours? I sit on his bed and take his hand. His great-grandaughter is on my lap blowing him kisses. She will never know the man I knew. He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, leaving the love of a kiss on the tips of my fingers. Dear God, let me remember this.

This life. This beautiful life. Remember this.

This post was written in response to Sarah Bessey’s post, “In which we are saved, right now {a synchroblog}“. These remember this moments are what save my life. From hurt. From chaos. From others. From myself. Remember this.

What is saving you?

This One’s for the Girls

Sarah and Jasmine. So much love for these girls.

This post is one I’ve been struggling to write for some time now. I knew the message behind what I wanted to say. I wanted to make sure that our graduating girls know that they are “girl enough” to do whatever they want to do and go wherever they want to go. I wanted to drive home the message that God has already made them into the beautiful, incredible women that they ARE.

I tried to start this many times but felt like I kept coming up short on what I really wanted to say. Then I came across a blog post by Rachel Held Evans that reflected much of what I was trying to get out of my heart. So, in the name of full transparency, my post below was, in part, inspired by this post by Rachel. Read hers, too. Obviously, I think it’s great.

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This year I have the distinct privilege of speaking to a senior class of only girls. Girls who have been faithful members of our church and youth group. Girls who love God and love His people. Girls who consistently stand in service with arms outstretched, worshiping a God that made them beautiful, kind, graceful, funny, loving, generous, and holy. He made these girls to be all that they are. Not all that they one day will be; but all that they ARE.

We live in a world that bombards young girls every day with ways in which they should be measuring their worth. Any look through any magazine provides a wide array of advertisements and articles that question our beauty, body image, hair quality, eye color, personality, intelligence, and anything else that makes us question our overall worth. And it really doesn’t take much for us to start believing that these marketers are right. If we take what the media has to offer us (which, in all of its glory is material and shallow) then we begin to buy into the thought that our bodies must look like the airbrushed girls on the magazine covers and that our lives must reflect the perfect balance of humor, wealth, and romance played out in any number of movies and tv shows.

But as our graduates take this next step in life, my wish for them (and, all of our girls for that matter) is that they will turn away from what the media tells them they should be measuring themselves against with the full realization that they are already all that they need to be.

Proverbs 31 lays out a guide for us, as women, to strive for throughout life. It is the flawless picture of what a virtuous woman looks like. A woman who is trusted, takes care of her family, does good works wherever she is needed, sacrifices sleep in order to meet the needs of her household, manages and invests her money wisely, and keeps her mind and body strong. She knows how to work with her hands and uses those talents to keep her husband’s buttons sewn on and her kid’s pants patched up. She actively participates in community service projects and consistently meets the needs of the poor around her. When it snows, her family is clothed in warm coats. When it rains, everyone has rain boots on their feet and umbrellas in their hand. Her husband is well-known and she makes sure he is prepared when he leaves the house each day. She is wise, kind, honourable, funny, and productive. And through all of this that she does for others, she makes sure that when she leaves the house, her hair is fixed and her clothes are pressed. In short, she encompasses all, more perhaps, that any woman could ever hope to be.

Overwhelmed yet? Feeling “less than”? Even the Bible gives us a picture of womanhood that, if we took it in its whole form of things we must be doing, is impossible to measure up to.

But, let’s not forget that this Proverbs 31 lady that we use as a descriptive model of the woman that we should be is nameless. There is no woman in the Bible that we can look to as an example of someone that actually achieved all of this in her lifetime. The first verse of this chapter tells us that these were words given to King Lemuel by his mother. The kind of woman his mother told him to look for. Perhaps knowing he’d never find this lady, she gave him this description as a means to keep from having to give her son up to another woman. And honestly, as I look down the road to another girl taking my place in Vaughn’s life, I kind of like ol Lemi’s mama!

Judaism teaches that Abraham wrote verses 10 – 31 as a poem for Sarah’s eulogy. In this case, it’s a lovely remembrance of how he viewed his late wife. However, we know from their story that Sarah didn’t quite measure up to this, either. I’m pretty sure that her asking her husband to sleep with another woman because she was growing impatient with God (and then throwing that woman and child out on the street) removes her from the list of eligible candidates in the running for who this passage describes. In the end, Sarah may have been a good lady, but she wasn’t the Proverbs 31 lady.

My point is, this passage of scripture is a lovely list of ideals that we can strive for, and I don’t want to diminish the importance of any of these attributes, but all too often we get caught up in the minutia of Proverbs 31 and forget the message at its core: Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain; but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised. It all boils down to this: We can be outwardly beautiful and have favour with those around us but what truly matters in the end are the efforts we pour into our walk with God.

This nameless Proverbs woman receives the high praise of “woman of valor!” and often we leave it at that. Because she received such high praise, this is who we think we should strive to be. But here’s a lesser known fact. Ruth is also a woman in the Bible that received this high praise of woman of valor. She is actually the only woman in the Bible noted to have been called this. And Ruth did NOT fit the bill of the Proverbs 31 woman.

Ruth was a foreigner, which should have prevented men from seeing her as a potential wife. She was a childless widow. And she was poor. So poor that she went into the fields every day to collect scraps of food that could serve as some kind of meal for her and Naomi. It’s also notable that while Ruth went into the fields looking for scraps, she was also hoping to gain notice from the field’s owner, Boaz. This desperate act to be noticed is one that certainly would never have been needed by our lady of Proverbs.

By all accounts, when you look at her from the outside, Ruth was nothing that resembled the wealthy, well-dressed, surrounded-by-a-happy-family woman that Proverbs 31 lays out. The real beauty of Ruth’s story is that God called her a Woman of Valor before she achieved status as a prominent woman of wealth in her city. She didn’t need to get married or be a mother or make a name for herself through material acquisitions before God saw fit to call her great. She was a woman of love and grace that left her family behind to commit her life to serving the mother of her late husband. Whatever it was that she lacked in the world’s eyes didn’t compare to all that she was in God’s eyes.

Rachel Held Evans recently wrote about being enough and her post reminded me that “the brave women of Scripture–from Ruth to Deborah to Mary Magdalene to Mary of Bethany” serve as examples that “there’s no one right way to be a woman, and that these images of perfection that we are confronted with every day are laughable to those of us who are in on the big secret: We are already enough.

And so, to Sarah and Jasmine – You are enough as you step into this new chapter of life because God says you are enough. Because even through the small acts of kindness that you might think insignificant, God sees greatness. He sees a woman of valor in the girl that stops to help someone pick up the pile of books they just dropped. He sees a woman of beauty in the girl that woke up late and rushed out the door wearing a shirt that isn’t freshly pressed. He sees a woman of love and grace in the girl that offers a smile to the outcast. He sees perfection…in you…his child.

My hope today is that you see that perfection, too. That you take this next step with confidence that this world has nothing of lasting significance for you. That God created you as you are. And, though He does have great plans for your life and wonderful new adventures in your future, all that you are right now is enough. In fact, it is more than enough to take on all that He has in store for you.

Congratulations to our beautiful graduating class of 2012.

Defining My Words

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I’ve run into a snag in parenthood. Trying to define the words I use is making me stumble awkwardly down the path of educating through dialogue. I believe in open communication with my children to the point where I even bore myself sometimes with all the communicating. You see, Vaughn, the butterflies come into our garden because of the nectar-producing plants. Nectar is a sweet juice that…zzzzz. I find myself in moments of explaining why or how something happened and realize I don’t know what words to use. Having to stop my explanation to my 4-year old of why people are mean sometimes to define words like kindness and forgiveness ends up losing us both on the many rabbit trails I find.

So last month I decided to focus on a new word each week. Figured it would be good character-building to introduce patience, grace, generosity, etc in at-home speak and it will help my kids keep up with the conversation when I’m in the car trying to explain why we need to be kind to everyone, even when we feel like screaming and hitting (like you just did to Timmy). You know, visions of me explaining, and them absorbing everything. Most likely it will be me explaining, and them zoning out completely. But my vision wins for now.

Anywho, I started with patience. My definition was “to wait with a happy heart”. I was so stinking proud of that one. Off with a bang! Over the course of the week I found so many opportunities to tell Vaughn, “I need you to be patient right now. And that means to wait with a happy heart”. And he bought it! That would stop him in his whining tracks. I actually started finding other things to do when he asked for something just so that I could give him an “exercise” in patience. You want a peanut butter sandwich? I realize it may look like I’m just sitting on the couch watching RHONJ for the 3rd time this week but I was actually just about to fold this laundry that’s been sitting here for two days so, “Hang on, son. Be patient for mommy. Wait with a happy heart.” (of course, I didn’t actually do the laundry) A little sick, I know. But I was character-building.

Week 1 done. Patience learned. I’m such a great mom.

That was last week. This week I chose grace. Definition: sharing or giving with a loving heart. I made a mental note to have all of my definitions circle back to the heart. The big lesson at some point down the road being that character is made up of things we do with our heart as our guide. Man, I am good. Mental note #2: maybe next week’s word should be pride. Nah.

Monday: I started by telling Vaughn that the iPad belongs to Mommy and I love it. I use it a lot and it’s something that is very valuable (rabbit trail here to define valuable) to me. I have games, books, and movies on it for you because I love you and I want to share this valuable thing with you.  I allow you to use it because I love you. And it’s with a loving heart that I share this thing with you. And that is an act of grace from Mommy to Vaughn. He smiled and said, “Ok, can I play with my iPad now?”. Um, I think you may have just missed my point. We’ll try again later.

Before bed that night I took one of Vaughn’s silkies (little silk blankets he’s slept with since he was a baby) and tell him about grace once more. I explain that this silkie is something that he loves and it would be a big act of grace to let Ellie sleep with it tonight. To share something you love with her and have a loving heart while doing that would be very graceful of you. He said he would think about this during story time. Side note: I looooove this age. Watching the thought process and reasoning happen is incredible to me in such a young person. I look at him as a baby still and then he has these moments that remind me of his personhood and I fall in love with him over and over again. Fast-forward to end of story time. He tells me that he loves his silkie and he loves his Ellie and he wants to be grace. (We’ll work on how to use these words later. The point right now is what it means, and CHECK, he got it!) He hands her the silkie. I’m blown away but try not to show surprise at this huge act of love. It doesn’t matter that there are three other silkies laying beside him. What matters in this moment is that he chose grace. I really want to be all ram-in-the-thicket and give it right back to him saying it was all a test and YAY! You aced it! Because honestly, Ellie has silkies of her own and doesn’t really know the difference yet between hers and his. And I’m just so darn proud of him. But I let it stick and put Vaughn’s silkie in the crib with Ellie.

This morning, however, he came to his senses and saw her with it, promptly forgot all forms of grace in his morning stupor and snatched it out of her hands. A work in progress. All of us.

But I realized that this exercise of word defining is teaching me more than Vaughn. Over the past two weeks, I’ve sat in waiting rooms (there’s a reason they are called waiting rooms, not patience rooms. I DO NOT have a happy heart when I’ve been sitting for an hour after my appointment time with no end in sight. There is waiting with a happy heart and then there’s waiting. BIG difference.) and had my patience tested more than I would have liked. But because I’m consciously trying to teach these things to my kids, I’m trying to live them out as well. Teaching a word and living a word is also two vastly different things. Mental note #3 to write about that sometime.

I also had the opportunity to extend grace to my new friend, Faith, this week with my Monkees and she began telling me of a community service project she got involved in last week as a result of the help she had received from us over the past month. She said, “Everyone needs something. And everyone has something to give. It doesn’t matter who you are. We are all called to be faithful servants of God’s love. And that means that we give His love consistently to everyone we meet, no matter who they are. Rich or poor, healthy or sick, man or woman, child or adult. It’s not our call to judge; it is only our call to love.” Faithful servants = loving consistently. Hmmm…

I’m astounded at the ways in which God is teaching me how to love. I may have a little bit (a lot) still to learn as I try to parent my children to be givers of love but I’m so thankful for people like Faith that have been brought into my life to teach me. To show me that no matter how I try to define all the “big words” of life for my kids, the only words that truly matter are those that circle back to the heart.

Next week’s word: Faith. What better way to teach it to someone else than try to learn it myself?