It's not safe here.

I'm holding my little guy down so daddy can take out the slivers. He screams throat-tearing protests, while I stroke his wet curls and whisper prayers. “It's almost done, sweetie.” I say as I kiss tears. Except that it wasn't. Daddy found nearly twenty slivers there in the softest part of his tiny foot. How could this have happened?

"Mommy why are you doing this to me?" he screams.

“Oh honey,” I held him tighter, no words to say, only tears, tears mixed with anger and questions. Tears falling for more than just his tiny aching foot.

I hate this place today, Lord! Some guy stealing kids right from their mama's side at the grocery store so he can do awful things to them? A random sniper on the interstate?

And now slivers? Is this supposed to be some lesson to me? Am I supposed to trust you in the suffering, to somehow be OK with the pain from the shrapnel of evil in my heart? It's not OK. If there's a lesson for me to learn, send me an email, or use a felt board or something. My child is suffering real pain, screaming real screams.

This hurts my real heart. 

I do not understand.

Later, I hold his hand tightly when we go to the library-- much tighter than usual. I look to the left and right, again, and again. I notice the other children, the run-down car, the unfriendly face on that man. I keep my son close to me.

It's not safe here.

I am like Sister Bear. Remember her? She was a happy little girl bear who trusts everyone, until one day her Brother warns her about stranger danger. Later, she returns to park-- the familiar, friendly park. But everything is different. People are suspicious. The man behind the newspaper is hiding something. The sky is darker. The birds' beaks are sharper.

It's not safe here.

I know, Father, it's not You that does these things, I know. But why don't you stop them?

I have no answers.

So I set my shoulders back, I clench my hands, and I prepare to fight. I will use my concealed carry permit. I will be more aware, more vigilant. I'll buckle them and warn them and make them wear helmets.

No way, not my babies. I won't stand for it.

I'll stand in front of the wave of evil and absorb it all so it never hits them.

Except that … I can't. I'm not enough.

It's not safe here, and we will not leave this world unscathed.

I will not.

My babies will not.

God did not.

God deals with this broken world in a strange way. Instead of destroying it, He enters it. Instead of abolishing the law, He fulfilled it. Instead of punishing the sinner, He welcomed the full weight of the punishment onto Himself on the cross. Instead of pouring out the cup of His wrath on the earth, He drank it Himself.

Instead of somehow erasing death, He suffered it.

And then He rose.

He entered into our dying, hate-filled world, and He did everything backwards. He loved. He suffered. He died. He lives.

He lives.

And by His glorious resurrection, He proves to us that He is not of this world.

And, by grace, neither are we.

It is not safe here. There are dangers on every hand. The world is suffering, dying, and we share in that suffering. And we scream throat-tearing screams and we ask heart-tearing questions. And we are not OK.

And yet, by grace, we are being made new in Christ.

We are set apart, heirs of life.

Today, we are merely far from home.

We don't belong here.

Praise God, we belong to Him.

photo credit educationdiva

marioarand

frog: eldon cook

how not to handle a dog fight

I’ve lost my temper with the kids twice so far today, and it’s not even 9am.

Yesterday, after a volatile round of bickering, I screamed them all to their rooms while I tried to cool off. Then I gathered them up again and gave them a speech something like this:

“Look at our dogs; you love both of them, right? Now I want you to imagine you just came up on them fighting; you see them wrestling, hear Skip yelp , and notice his ear is bleeding. Then you see Skip take a huge bite of Copper, then Copper smacks Skip across the room and there’s bleeding and whimpering… Imagine how you’d feel if you saw all that. It would be awful, right? Because you love both of them, right? And would it matter who started it? Not at all… it would just plain, hurt, both you and them.

That, kids, is how mom feels when you guys tear each other apart, either with your bodies or with your words. You might think it’s just you all who are involved; but every time you rip and scratch at each other, your hurt your mother too.”

But if you bite and devour one another, watch out that you are not consumed by one another. Galatians 5:15

“I am weary of watching this, you guys. I am frustrated, and I am angry, and I am… just, sad, about what I see happening in this family. Now I need silence so I can think and pray.”

Yes, I know I was laying it on thick. But I just don’t think I am going to make it, if this keeps on going as it is. God, help us!

---

Next day, it’s 9am and I’ve screamed at them twice, screaming boiling rage over their stupid, stupid little arguments and how they just refuse to bend to one another, refuse to let the littlest things GO for the sake of peace and quiet and their mother’s sanity, refuse to keep their bodies in check for 60 seconds while I go to the bathroom.

And my outpouring hits a relatively innocent bystander, and she starts crying.

We hug and I apologize.

I walk out the front door, tearful, telling them all I’m taking a walk.

--

This house is a training ground for me, too.

And often, a painful part of training is realizing what you can’t do. It’s failing, hard.

Praying, thinking, walking, avoiding eye contact with neighbors.

I consider the prayer I have learned to pray when facing other temptations, and how perhaps, before I scream next time, these words might be the lifeline I need, a mental grasping for the help of God when I’m up against that which I cannot handle on my own...

“Into your hands I commit my spirit. Free me from bondage that I may do Thy will. Place your yoke upon me and make my burden light.”

It feels epic when it’s time to turn around, when I must retrace my steps back to the house, back to the battleground, back to the place where I fail so often. I think, “He set his face towards Jerusalem,” and pray for his help to set my face towards my tiny, yet still impossible cross.

I discover they have done spontaneous, helpful things while I was on my cry-walk. I find the other one to whom my apology is owed. I cannot speak for the tears. Good thing he just needs a hug.

I gather them again, and when I can find my voice, I say, “Guys, remember how I talked about the dogs fighting yesterday and how your fights can be like that? Well… sometimes when I come on those situations I just start kicking both dogs, just to make it all stop. And that’s not OK, and I’m sorry.”

I receive hugs, quiet apologies, and even a soft comfy pillow that she says helps her when she is sad.

They kindly give me leave to finish my prayer/crying/writing in my room. And as I sit here, I realize I cannot wait out the emotions until I am ready to go back to the battle- that I will never be fully ready, never be capable in myself to manage it all with perfect love and wisdom.

God help me do what I am unable to do in myself!

Into your hands I commit my spirit. Free me from selfish impulse that I may do Thy will. Let Your love be the love with which I love these children. Amen.

Sunday Brings out my Sin (Grace for the Good Girl)

Does Sunday morning ever seem to bring out the sin in you, or is it just me? Getting the kids ready for church, actually attempting to do my own hair and makeup for once, and then going out in PUBLIC with my crew...

It is hard work, and I do not always go to church with a shining halo.

Last Sunday was no exception.

-----

What a morning. It was actually going pretty well until that last few minutes before church.  The fighting and the fighting, and then suddenly the sharpie on the couch. 

WHAT!?  Sharpie on my SUEDE couch!!!

And my tongue loosed hellfire on them, on the big brother even more than the guilty 2yr old because he had the marker in the first place. 

And then they leave for church and again (AGAIN!) they fight and I am ANGRY and I give them the what- for.  My lecture was loud and long and complete with immature statements like “You guys have SO many sins to confess when you go to church today!” 

I suddenly realize it’s Sunday morning, and quiet, and we are outside, and my voice might be carrying and I am ashamed.

I am near tears, and yet the anger is not gone nor are the constant irritations.

Church next, and there it gets worse.

Their wiggles make me want to smash them.

The sermon is on humility, and taking the last seat instead of grabbing the first.

Great.

Pastor calls up the children and they gather around him for the children's sermon. I try to act like I think they are all so cute, and I listen.

And my God does work on my heart.

Again, I am shocked  at myself.

For two reasons.

One – the rage is a symptom of my ridiculous pride.

I shouldn't have to deal with this. I shouldn't have to help you guys work out your problems all day long. I should be able to have a couch without marker on it. I should be able to think without being interrupted by your NEEDS.

Two- even my tearful worry about this is pride.

That one really hurt.

How do I know that even my burning tears were pride? 

Because my tongue lashes out like this daily, but only this day am I upset to the point of tears about it. And suddenly I see: I am upset because I almost got caught. Because my rage came out in public, and I may or may not have been overheard, and if I WAS overheard, then… what do they think? 

My reputation! Oh my poor reputation!  And so the tears.

Not the children. 

Not the fact that my rage wounds those that I “love,” but my reputation. 

That’s what I really care about.  

Exposed. Proud in anger, and proud even in ‘shame’ about that anger.

My heart, Lord. 

You have SO much work to do on this heart of mine.

Lord, have mercy.

And again, He does.

I apologize to the kids right there in whispered words in the front pew, and they whisper grace back to me.

“I forgive you mommy. And I’m sorry, too.  Here, I drew you a picture.”

His grace reconciles us sinners, and His grace makes even someone like me lift my head.  

I am found. I am forgiven, and I am loved.

Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.

Behind the mask: an angry, needy girl who is NOT fine.

“I taught people around me that I had no needs 

and then I was secretly angry with them for believing me.” 

Grace for the Good Girl, p. 13

This seems to be a problem for “good girls.”

We work hard, we meet needs, we do the job in front of us, and we do it well.

We do it with eager hands and a smile, or we try to, and when we don’t feel like smiling we smile anyway. We get done whatever needs to be done. We are the responsible ones, the strong ones, the ones people come to with their problems. We like this reputation. We love living up to this expectation. We love encouraging, helping, and coming through in a pinch.

We love making peace, putting people at ease, and lifting burdens.

We hate the opposite.

We don’t want to be involved in conflict.

We definitely don’t want to be the ones causing it.

We don’t want people to be uncomfortable or angry or upset about anything. We make peace at all costs.

We especially don’t want people to feel angry or upset at us, so we morph like amoebas to avoid others’ unhappiness.

We don’t like seeing people with burdens that we can’t lift. We pile them on our shoulders.

We don’t like to add to anyone’s burdens. We pretend we have none of our own.

Ever.

We’re fine.

And we’d really like to be fine. We are trying very hard to be fine. We don’t mean to be dishonest… we just really, really don’t want to be anything other than fine. And we hope if we pretend to be fine for just a little longer, we really will be fine.

When we are alone in the dark, we might whisper a prayer to God for help, but if He tries to provide help by sending us an actual person for us to lean on, forget it.

Too uncomfortable.

Too hard.

We don’t want to be a burden.

So we hide. We wear masks. We ache.

We get angry when people don’t realize it, when they believe the masks we wear.

But we don’t know how to take the masks off.

As the author describes,

“Our desire to be the good girl, the good Christian, 

the good wife, and the good mom becomes the number one priority, 

and Jesus isn’t even in the room.” P. 32

Jesus isn't even in the room.

 What does that even mean?

Photo by Shalinee Kohli Murishwar:

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If He were “in the room,” wouldn’t He just be standing shoulder to shoulder with that “good girl” in my head, that perfect version of myself that I never am? Wouldn’t He be standing there with His arms crossed, glaring at me like she does, telling me to do better, to try harder?

Wouldn’t He take her side?

No, He wouldn't. And this makes all the difference.

Jesus has compassion on us.

He opens his hands to tired, tangled “good” girls, and invites us to just come. Rest. Receive.

He sees through our masks right into all the ugliness, and still He says, come.

He takes our failures, our Fs, and our sins and buried them deep in His wounds.

He gives us His own robe of righteousness to wear, and He gives us His A +.

Our stubborn insistence to do it all on our own, in our way, on our strength, begins to be washed away in the flood of His love.

We learn to receive love from Him and from others, and we receive so much more than we give.

It comes down in a shower of grace, and we are refreshed.

Jesus Christ came to save sinners, to pour out his mercy on all people.

He came for you, and He continues to come for you, that you may have life and have it abundantly.

Father,

Forgive us for chasing expectations and guarding our reputations, 

for people pleasing and making ourselves slaves to guilt, 

and for doing even "good" things out of fear, not love.

Our works are filthy rags.

Refresh us with your mercy, and teach us to rest in Your goodness.

Help us to see the ways you care for us, 

in Your Word, 

and through the people you send into our lives.

We dare pray these things because of Jesus alone.

Amen.

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