Beautiful Rot (A guest post)

A warm welcome to a new friend, Naomi Marks, mother of six and seminarian wife at Ft. Wayne Theological Seminary.

I have a vision. This vision is of my husband and myself ministering together with our whole slew of children – praying together, worshipping together, and meeting the needs of the saints together. 

Where am I right now? Nursing a two-month-old, our first baby. 

So, the question is – how do we get from where we are to where we want to be? 

As I took a walk this evening and watched all the vibrant leaves fall to the ground and get trampled on and dry out, I was thinking that the one thing I know for sure it will take to get where we want to be is death. Yes, death – that nasty, evil, brutish enemy of ours, who has a way of snatching away life. Usually this is a bad thing, but there are some things that the Bible says are better off dying and the one I was specifically thinking about is self.

Self. The old man. The nature of Adam. The flesh. This is the thing we must set out to kill if we want to live a life that bears fruit. Why? Because “unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit” (John 12:24). I kind of feel like my husband and I are acting like the leaves this year, as they slowly detach from the tree and bury themselves into the ground.

What’s getting buried? Our pride. Our desire to not be embarrassed. Our time. Our energy. Our self-absorbed prayer life. Our quiet. Our solitude as a couple. “Ha!” you might yell, “good-bye leaves.” Yes, this is true; good-bye for now. Down they go, into the ground, covered with snow, seemingly never to be heard from. But we know that come springtime, they have fertilized the ground so much that new things grow out of them. Those grains of wheat – they were just planting themselves in order that lovely stalks might grow again.

We might no longer have candlelight dinners. We might not be able to sleep as many hours. We might not have extra time to play games and do what we like. We might not have the luxury of feeling like we know what we’re doing. We might have to spend hours and hours training and teaching and demonstrating again and again what it means to be a servant of God. We will probably feel overwhelmed at times, and frustrated, and exhausted. That’s because we’re dying. Our selves are planting themselves in the ground as we attempt to birth and raise other selves – the ones that are lovely, made in the image of Christ.

And what will grow? I hope it’s another generation. I hope it’s kids who will learn to add 1+1 and read Dr. Seuss and Shakespeare and write letters to the editor and vote against abortion and fill up churches and run for president and eventually have kids of their own, another round of sippy cups and Cheerios and math books. I hope it’s kids who will carry on the vision of their father and their grandfather of opening their hearts and homes and hands to people in need, giving freely of what they have to help others. Generation after generation who will study God’s Word, preach the law and the gospel, receive forgiveness of their sins, baptize THEIR babies, and give food and water to the poor and hungry of the world.

Sometimes as I sit and hold Jonah, I think about what he might turn into. As I sing to him, I pray “Lord, make this child strong and faithful.” As I bring him with me to take muffins to our older friend from church, I think to myself “see, Son, this is what we do. This is how we BE the gospel to the world.” I hope he catches on. I hope he sees through the Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed to know that the Hope of the World is living in our hearts. I hope the smiley faced pancakes show him the face of Jesus and his homemade overalls show him the covering Christ offers for his sins. I hope as I rock him and sing to him, he feels the hands and voice of Jesus. I hope my whispers of love are the echoes of the Holy Spirit's.

I will gladly trade my year-old title of “bride” for that of Mom, because I trust that sooner or later this death will bring forth a new title – “mother of the bride” and then “grandmother of the bride”. It’s that death that brings life.

So, goodbye old self. Bury yourself in leaves and dirt and yesterday’s Frito bag in the yard. I can’t wait to see what you’re going to turn into. 

When you come by my house, you might hear Skinnamarink and the state capitals and maybe occasional disciplining and the hum of the dishwasher. But I hope what you smell is rot – compost. And I hope, if you check back in 20 years you will hear Skinnamarink in my daughter’s house next door. 

another test flight...

A toddler screams, begs mom not to go, but she has to leave, to work, for the sake of the little one who cannot understand.  She prys him from her leg and makes a mad dash for the door, apologizing to everyone she sees on the way out.

“It’s ok,” I remind her, “he will be fine in about sixty seconds.” And he was. “It’s good for him to learn that he can do things even without mom around.” And it is.

My teenager-in-bloom smiles and says, “I get it, kid! Don’t let go of your mommy until you absolutely have to!”  I smile and sigh.  We are close, she and I, and thanks to our unconventional high school choice we have become even closer.  Yet, these are days of preparation for the next stage, and I want her to be able to let go, to learn and to grow without mommy around.

She’s in Florida this week with her grandparents helping out with Hurricane relief efforts.  She left before I got home from Outdoor Ed (a field trip with 5th and 6th graders.) It will be almost two full weeks of not seeing her before, Lord willing, she is home safe once again.

It’s a little letting-go, a practice for the bigger ones coming.

I remember when the girls were tiny, when our stay-at-home days opened wide before us.  They were my shadows as I learned the art of motherhood. We took many of our first steps together.  I remember huge brown eyes full of questions and wonder at the wide world around them. I remember how Lorraine would fall, and before she even cried she’d look to me to see how I reacted, to interpret her experience for her. I learned to hold in my own fear and my gasps, and to smile encouragement at her- even when I was afraid she actually hurt her sweet little knee.

I remember the courage it took me to let her sleep in the top bunk, and how we sang our bedtime prayers together. I remember her sweet little-girl voice and tiny hands imitating me as we sang goodnight to God:

Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost

As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end, Amen.

How far she has come from those little-girl days, from needing me to fill her sippy cup!  How far she has come since that uncertain squawky mommy voice that led her in that song!  

Now, she is the girl whose mom still can’t even read music, and yet she can play piano and handbells and clarinet.  I remember when she played handbells, last spring, with her peers: she was just one blooming flower among many, playing her part to the glory of God, but my, how she shone.  And the complicated piece lifted my soul to heaven and spoke to me about the love and work of God.  As it ended with the familiar “Glory be to the Father,” I saw her in footy pjs singing with me, then growing so quickly into her womanly glory, and I marveled at the works of God.

God took that awkward song we sang together when she was little and he has made it richer and deeper for her; He has connected her with His church and His people, and given her a place to shine to His glory within it, and she does it with such joy!  How amazing is this God who multiplies the blessings He gives!

She is not mine, and the more beautiful she becomes the more I realize how little I have had to do with any of this. And yet, by the grace of God I have played a part. I have been given sweet days of nurturing and tending the garden where she and her siblings grow.  What better use can there be for this brain and this body, but to be poured out for their sakes?  

And so, I will continue to smile encouragement in her direction, despite my fears, and I will ask God to remove the selfish clinging and ugly sense of ownership from my mommy heart.   I pray that God will take care of her, without mommy around, and I can’t wait until she tells me exactly how He did just that.

And with the help of God I will let go, and I will celebrate with her, even when she is transplanted out of my home and my garden…

but not until I absolutely have to.

God, grow me up as you grow them up!

Fall (ing)

I’m not used to the tiny cars any more.  I feel vulnerable as we drive on the expressway.  There is a boy, barely 16, jammin’ on his steering wheel, going 80 on our left; an old man drives his truck slowly to our right.  So many variables, cruising down the expressway; if just one gets out of order it’s twisted metal and mangled bodies. I pray, as I often do at high speeds, for angels to guard our way, for protection that I don’t deserve, that He hasn’t promised.

He hasn’t promised protection, not in the way I’d like Him to. He hasn’t promised to navigate us through this broken place and not let it touch us; we will break, too.  

My eyes are drawn to the fire-red trees against the October blue sky, bursting bright with glory for a moment.   Then, brake lights flash red and we slow quickly.  Black smoke billows up ahead.  It does not look good.  Folks heading to the football game to tailgate, happy campers, semi drivers just doing their job: we are now in line for a funeral, it seems.  Traffic slows to a stop; it seems fitting, if a life has stopped.  But we didn’t sign up for this in our travels today, and each one copes in his own way. Some turn up the music, check their phones, hide their faces. One girl fingers the rosary beads that swing from her rearview mirror.  One taps the steering wheel impatiently; one gets out of his car repeatedly, too restless to sit and wait, perhaps trying to avoid the reality in which he sits.

45 minutes later we pass the skeleton of a burned out car- wait, no, it’s a minivan, black and gray and completely torched. Oh God, no. Were there babies in there? I will not think of burnt children; I look at the trees instead.  We are back to high speeds. He giveth and He taketh away, but still today for us He giveth. And I receiveth, with fear and trembling.  We will break too, but not right now, and when we will do we will break only to be put back aright by His hands.

Well He knows what best to grant me;
All the longing hopes that haunt me,
Joy and sorrow, have their day.
I shall doubt His wisdom never,--
As God wills, so be it ever,--
I to Him commit my way.

TLH 425

This ground.

I am learning to know and to love this ground.

This summer, I ate the first Eastpointe zucchini ever grown in my garden; with butter and pepper, and it was delicious. Grown from the rich soil in a bed put there by Skurda Landscaping with care and good humor; under the cherry tree that bore much fruit last year, the tree we climbed and picked with Sunny.  We shook the branches and caught the bounty on sheets while Peter ate himself sick.  This year it is diseased and everything that grows is rotten or fuzzy.  Sunny, she says,  “In my country we paint white I don’t know name-- white something-- up and down the orange trees every year and we not have problem; my family every year all lotsa lotsa trees and I need find english word I don’t know what they call name but I be find and you be see.”  But the tomatoes grow, and the squash spills out over the garden beds, and the cucumbers.  The raspberry patch is taking root, and this is multi-layered grace to me: a gift from church friends, and the fruit itself full of childhood memories.

There was a stump by our gate that the trustees were going to take out someday. I wasn’t here long before I realized the workload of the trustees and the low priority a stump would have on the list so instead of waiting to plant in that area, I embraced the stump and we painted it “The Cooks” and made it pretty.  Then I surrounded the “art” with God’s flower art and some bean vines. This year, I let Lorraine paint it, and she and a friend wrote a lovely quote about friendship over distance. The flowers grow there again, and this year, sweet peas, and they taste just like the ones I grew in Indiana.

A sidewalk passes our house, and those who walk on it are manifold: high school kids, the homeless man with the Aldi bags, the woman and her dog, the friendly guys from the car lot next door, a man in a suit on a bike, the man without a shirt, the mom and her toddler waiting for the bus, and us, of course, on our way to work, or taking our dogs on a walk.

We have memories in this house now: That time when we got locked out; when we had that big party; where we lost our bird and gained a puppy; when the bike got stolen; when the kids came to play on the trampoline; the nerf party; the bleary-eyed morning devotions; where we come and collapse after traveling to faraway sporting events. It is the place where we have danced and fought and yelled and cried and sang and grown together.  It will be our third winter with a fireplace; we hope for more snow this year, and I can’t wait to get out the box of Christmas books.

Once again, we live next door to the place where the saints are laid to rest.  The children walk through this garden on their way to school, past those who have worked to give them their heritage, through the pine trees that have grown tall and strong. I do not know all the names on the stones in the cemetery, nor their histories.  Those roots grow rich and deep, and while my family enjoys the fruit of their labors daily in the church and school buildings, we have not yet learned to trace exactly the path God used to give them through the saints gone before.

But I know one saint buried there would have turned sixteen this year.  I imagine she would have been friends with my teenage daughter as I am friends now with her mother.  Her father and mother walk this property often, in work and pain and grief and hope, remembering her each in their own way.  She is sorely missed.

I have come to love more than one dear gray-haired saint whose spouse is buried here.  “I wish you could have known her,” one says to me with a sad smile, and I wish it, too. Someday, Lord, will there be time for knowing all these saints and all their stories?  I do hope so; I hope we will be able to see and trace the work of Your hands in each life, and in my own life, too.  But right now, there is not enough time- new shoots are growing here, and new families are being gathered in like we have been- it is time for watering and nurturing and praying to God for growth.  It is time to “take and eat,” to receive from God in this place, and to come alongside those who have grown here for decades and now pray with trembling hands.

It is fall now, and the breeze of October stirs up wet leaves and pine needles and layers of Michigan memories.  We gather beauty from the grounds and make them into oil candles so the inside of our house smells more like outside (and less like boy shoes).

The six lane road that passes our house has been freshly paved. The flowers that hang from the lights along the street are almost done blooming, but soon the posts will be wrapped in lights and ready for Season’s Greetings. I love how the trees and lights look covered in snow.

We greet the next season with gratitude for daily gifts and daily strength.  As the days get darker, we pray for God’s light and warmth to sustain us.  Apart from Him, all is winter (and never Christmas,) but in Him, we welcome the next season with hope and expectation of his provision. We pray on this ground, that the work of God will continue to be done in this place; that He would sustain His shepherds and His servants, that His Word would ring out like the daily church bells and lift eyes and hearts upward and into faith in Christ.  

The Lord looks down from heaven;
   he sees all the children of man;
from where he sits enthroned he looks out
   on all the inhabitants of the earth,
he who fashions the hearts of them all
   and observes all their deeds.

Behold, the eye of the Lord is on those who fear him,

   on those who hope in his steadfast love,
that he may deliver their soul from death
   and keep them alive in famine.
Our soul waits for the Lord;
   he is our help and our shield.
For our heart is glad in him,
   because we trust in his holy name.
Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us,
   even as we hope in you.

From Psalm 34

still young enough

"...and the younger three get to stay home with me tonight."
"I'm not young," says the oldest of the youngest.

"Of course you're not young, son, I just mean you are young-ER than the older ones. Sorry, but it's going to be that way forever."  He scowls, and I know he's plotting to find a magic age-defying potion somewhere. 

A night at home with the younger three boys is an unusual event. I've been feeling nostalgic for our stay-at-home days lately, so I decided to make good use of our time together. Turns out, it's still pretty fun (and exhausting) to hang out with these three. 

They're old enough to know that if they are going to wake me up from a nap, it's better to say "Can I snuggle you?" instead of "What's for snack?" But they're still young enough to snuggle.

We made chocolate chip cookies because nobody's ever too old for that. We ate a hearty amount of raw cookie dough together, too. They're old enough to stir and measure and crack an egg, but young enough to think I won't see them sneaking chocolate chips the whole time.  They thought it was perfect- three boys, and three things that needed to be licked (Two beaters and a spatula.)

They're old enough to try to slide the cookies off the hot pan; but young enough to have to be told ten times, "BOYS you need to stop wrestling by HOT THINGS!" They're young enough to want to watch the cookies bake, to drool, and to make potty jokes about the brown blobs of dough. And yet, we made it through with no burns and no major spills- we are all definitely getting bigger.

We went for a walk with the puppy and kept our eyes peeled for our runaway cockatiel (last spotted in the tree in our backyard). My noticer noticed the heart shaped leaves and collected the prettiest ones for me. My manly man noticed the odd leaf stains on the road and thought it looked like splattered remains after an epic leaf war.  The youngest held my hand.  The puppy did his business and the boys giggled about it while I picked it up. As we walked, I kept trying to slip the bag of poo into one of their hands without them noticing. I am young enough to think this is funny.

Little boys are inspired by tasty things, and they were willing to work for another treat: applesauce. They are old enough to try to peel apples: it was terrifying, inefficient, and dangerous.  It was fun.

We got out the juicer and juiced the skins.  These boys were babies when I was on a juicing kick; they are not afraid of oddly colored juice with a little bit of thickness to it. They love putting the skins in the machine and watching the juice squirt out. It came out brown, but they were brave enough to try it- we were all AMAZED at how sweet and wonderful it was- no need to add sugar!

We had a "whatever meal" for dinner (whatever you can find- just no sugar because we're having more cookies later!) and each plate involved some form of melted cheese.  Then, the countdown to technology time began- I told them I'd play MarioKart with them later. "Mom, why do you want to play technology so much? Do you really like it too?" said the littlest one.  It is weird, indeed. Normally I am the technology regulator, not the instigator.  I said to him, "It's not that I like technology so much, but I do love my boys, and I know you guys love it, so I wanted to do something with you that you really love." Suddenly the other son burrows his head into me and says, "I really like this day, mom."

I liked it too, even though just like my stay-at-home days, it was a day intermixed with mommy chores. 5 loads of laundry, a bjillion socks, and the typical discoveries that led me to holler for the boys: "Are you kidding me? Get down here and wash out this lunch box, it smells like the yogurt has fermented!"  and "I know I told you to put those shoes away- now you have to clean up all the shoes!" and "Find me hangars boys, this pile of uniform shirts is so big it's starting to tip over!" They are old enough to sass, and I am smart enough to send them on laps or give them extra jobs when they do.  But I also gave them new batteries for the Wii remotes, and warm applesauce just because.

They are old enough to beat me at Mario Kart, except for the youngest, who is young enough to cry when he loses to everyone Every. Single.Time. The oldest of the youngest played two games at once: he'd stop racing to play Clash of Clans on his ipod, where he was apparently fighting his sister-- she wasn't home, but she was playing remotely from dad's truck!  Wow, fancy use of technology!

Finally, bedtime. They are old enough to read before bed, and they can turn out the lights without my reminders. They don't even need a nightlight any more, but they do need each other, and at least one dog, to feel safe.  As for me, I was sound asleep before 9:30.

Thank you God for little big boys.

The little sinner

A little boy stands wide-eyed before his father.  His dress pants are wrinkled, and he is wearing no shirt.  Morning rebellion, pride, anger, and unrepentence sent him to an early nap.  Now, he must stand before his Father; he must give account for the actions that sent him to an early nap.

Father is stern, and he lists the complaints against the boy.

“Son, I’ve been told these things. Are they true?”
One by one, Father speaks accusations, and the little boy nods.  He bites back tears, and he nods, nods.

It’s true, it’s true, it’s all true.  

Mother watches, cringes, prays. She aches with the truth of it, she aches with the declaration of consequences, given for his good. (TV and technology banned. Mother does share the burden.)

Finally, Father takes those tiny boy hands, stained, naughty hands, and he guides them, folds them between his.  It’s time to pray.  “Son, you must pray.”

His tiny voice shakes as he prays, “Dear Jesus, please help me to be good.”

The trembling voice, the words, they pierce the heart of the boy’s mother. She wants to hold him, but instead she holds his prayer; the desires of her heart wrap around his. Dear Jesus, please help us to be good.  

Sniffles and silence.

Then, the tiny prayer is built upon, added to- and oh, the importance of this addition!-- that which cannot be known by nature or by effort; more than a desire for improvement, for virtue; Father adds grace. He adds Jesus.

The goodness that is lacking has been covered.  

Jesus; Forgiveness; God with us; Christ for us; these Words are poured out on the little boy with the red eyes and wrinkled pants.  

When the prayer is over, the boy is free.  

Reconciled to God, he turns to his mother, and her hug is a joyful extension of grace-filled Word.  

The little sinner, he is loved.

For further reading
Law and Gospel in the Home

originally published on 9/6/13