Category Archives: Faith Musings

What Mary was Really Thinking

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garden_statue_maryTonight at our Christmas Eve service, I watched an amazing friend bring some of my musings about Mary, the mother of Jesus, to life. I cried. I laughed. I watched Mary step out of her stained glass, stone-carved perfection and become a real person.

Christmas is steeped in tradition. For me, Mary was a Sears nativity figurine in a blue robe that was always caught in some sort of ceramic breeze. She was beautiful. Untouchable. In my mind, she was perfect – the woman God chose to carry his Son. She knew what she was doing, right?

Then I became a mother, and I realized none of us really knows what we’re doing.

No matter how perfect every picture, every icon, every statue might make her look look, on the night of Christmas Eve, Mary was a scared girl in a cow barn laboring through clenched teeth.

I don’t know where you’re at this Christmas. But maybe you’re like me, wanting to hear an old story with new ears. If that’s the case, my version of a window into Mary’s thoughts is for you. Merry Christmas, friend. Merry Christmas.

****

Breathe. Breathe.

No room. No room? Who says “no room” to a pregnant woman? I know. I know. Census. Travelers. I’m thankful for a roof. But wow. I’m going to have a baby. In. A. Stable.

Breathe. Breathe.

Father God, I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t know how to have a baby. This is my first time. And I don’t know how to handle it. It hurts. Do You hear me? It HURTS. For the record, my mother didn’t say anything about this part. It was all “your sweet little hands” and “just a few pushes.” Right.

Breathe. Breathe.

Joseph told me to lie down. Like it’s that easy. On straw. STRAW. Dry, dusty straw that’s been sitting in a barn for how many months. No thanks. Think I’ll stand.

Breathe. Breathe.

Father God, I don’t know how to be a mom. I mean, I don’t even have any diaper rags along with. How is this going to work? No really. He’s your Son, but he’s still going to need his diaper changed. Everyone says it’s instinct. I’ll see Him, and I’ll know what to do. But really, will I?

Breathe. Breathe.

Why does no one talk about labor? What is it – some sort of secret code? Rite of passage? How long is this going to last? I wonder if anyone left the inn early. I really want to wash without a bunch of cows around.

Breathe. Breathe.

Father God, keep Him safe. Keep me safe. Keep Him safe. Keep us safe.

You wouldn’t bring me all this way to lose your child, right? The angel didn’t say anything about that. He said I was going to have a Son. So it’s going to happen. I’m going to have this baby. Your baby. In a stable full of cows.

Forgive me. It feels a little…strange. Why here? And why me? Wouldn’t it have been better to pick a mother who’s already had children? Who knows what she’s doing?

God, I honestly don’t know where I fit in all this. I don’t know how to be a mother to your Son. I’m not perfect. I lose my temper. What if I mess up? Can I mess up? Are You going to be mad at me?

Breathe. Breathe.

Do you know the hardest part? Ever since I was a little girl, I loved hearing the shouts when firstborn sons were born. The family would get up on the roof and call out, and everyone below would stop what they were doing and clap or dance.

But no one knows we’re here. My firstborn deserves all the shouting in the world, God, but instead it’s going to be quiet on this roof. Silent.

Well, except for the cows.

Breathe. Breathe.

Hush little baby. Mama’s here. Daddy’s here. Father’s here…. Always here… Hush. Please come. Please come soon.

I love you.

In Plenty and In Want

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Thanksgiving came in a beautiful tide, activities and planning washing in and out of our weekend. There was family, there were friends, there were two gallon ziplock bags of the best leftover smoked turkey ever.

Somewhere in the middle of my celebrating, a family down the road from us faced a tide of their own, one that took their daughter away and wouldn’t give her back.

Gratitude is like a beach full of startled gulls, lifting and swooping in unison. They settle and the beach is thick with their presence. They leave and the emptiness is wide. Deafening.

Peru 124Some days, a house is brimming with life and activity. Others, the afternoon sky turns gray and everything falls to sadness.

The awful truth is that we must somehow live with them both.

The times of feasting and fasting.

The places where gratitude washes over our souls with all the goodness in the world, and the places left when the tide goes out, waterlogged sand crumbling beneath our feet.

The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.

Reality gives us no other choice but to accept it. The table is full. The bed lies empty.

But we have a harder time with the next sentence. The one where Job says, Blessed be the name of the Lord. Because whether it’s in plenty or in want, we get overwhelmed. Finishing the phrase is the last thing on our minds.

Goodness carries us into laughter and revelry, busyness and schedules, making it easy for the heart to forget its praise.

Sadness takes our breath away. We are rocked with confusion, questioning everything, our eyelids burning with salty tears.

In both circumstances, we often find it easier to say nothing.

And then Love steps in.

The party dies down, and friends begin helping with the dishes. Seeing their hands scraping plates draws gratitude back to the table.

A community gathers. Floods a sorrowing threshold with meals and cards. Offers anything. Everything. Slowly, heads are lifted.

Love goes to work, and somehow, our mouths remember the rhythm of the word Blessed.

Because rhythm leads to movement. Movement to awakening.

And Love stretches out its nail-scarred hands, teaching us how to be present to one another wherever we are.

Whole or broken.

Full or empty.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Confession: I don’t get “mommy wars”

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I read a lot of blog posts and articles about “mommy wars.” To be honest, I never really understand. Maybe it’s because I have two feet firmly planted in the passive aggressive soil of the Midwest, where most mothers would rather get the chicken pox again than have a confrontation involving breasts.

Or maybe it’s because the mommy war I’m most familiar with is an inside job. Top secret. One I don’t like to talk about much because it’s a little too personal.

It’s the war of feeling lesser than.

Lesser than strangers. Than friends. Than parents. Siblings. Even a former self.

Last week I wrote about the beauty of social media and its ability to connect us. What I didn’t write about were the times I put down my phone feeling tired, unequal, upset that my situation was a whole lot messier than the coordinated scene that just lit up my screen. Why?

Because lesser than jumps over our mama war arguments of bottles and organic cotton. It sprints past our comparisons on hair bows and sporty yoga threads and designer toddler mocs.

Lesser than settles in our spirits.

Lesser than deceives us into being a half-a$% person because we can’t do it better than X, prettier than Y, tastier than Z.

Lesser than is the great incapacitator. And when we allow that mindset into our day, we stop trying. Stop being our unique and beautiful selves. Stop becoming anything. Harboring these feelings of inequality does more damage than any mommy war over organic snacks ever could.

Call me crazy, but I don’t think anyone has time to deal with it. The business of living out our vocations to the best of our abilities has nothing to do with how someone else could do it differently. For better or for worse, our lives (and the people in them) are entrusted to us.

Thankfully, that doesn’t mean we’re going at it alone.

The New Testament book of Ephesians says, “For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”

057There’s a whole element of the supernatural going on here. I’m honestly reeling as I type. Does this mean God has already prepared the people, the work, the elements of my life for me before I even go into my day?

If so, shouldn’t I feel that much more empowered to approach them with grace and peace, knowing that my life, specifically, has been handmade for me – tailored for my abilities?

There is no room for lesser than here. There’s only the confidence to live my daily life above the arguments. The comparisons. The spirit crushers.

Today, I’m going into my morning knowing that the work that’s before me, from tea parties to flashcards with my girls, has already been planned. And friend, whether you’re holding a tired baby, kissing a sick spouse, plunking away at a work project, or making mac and cheese for the hundredth time this month, I hope you do the same.

Book Review and Giveaway

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Breaking news. I found time to read a book. Second, I finished it in three days. Third, it was a memoir about terrorism, Islam, and Jesus.

Did I throw you for a loop? Sorry – no talk of parenting and kid food and toddlerisms today. I’m a little too ramped up.

cover_bookinfoI don’t normally get so involved in what I’m reading, but Son of Hamas has woken up something in my life that feels like it’s been sleeping a little too long into the morning. It reminded me that God’s word is living and active. That it has the power to change the course of history. That one man inviting another to a bible study in the dusty streets of Isreal can, literally, save the lives of thousands.

These are strong words, but author Mosab Hassan Yousef  thoroughly backs them up with account after account of how his life changed from reading a New Testament and ultimately coming to know God the Creator.

The cover proclaims Son of Hamas a “gripping account of terror, betrayal, political intrigue, and unthinkable choices.” It certainly is that, but there’s another side to the story I wasn’t expecting. Son of Hamas exposes not only the beating heart of a much-feared organization – it exposes the truth about the Isreali-Palestinian conflict. The author realizes firsthand that peace will not come through talks and diplomats and warheads and borders.

Peace will only come through Jesus.

I know. I’m a Christian, and even I think that sounds a little trite. But Yousef made sense. If Hamas did not have Isreal to fight, they would find someone, or something else to be angry at. Someone would be wearing the wrong head scarf. There would be a bad price at the market. The root of their problem was self-righteous anger, anger that they believed Islam supported – by all measures and costs.

In a neighborhood bible study, Yousef details the first time he realized that the cure for anger could be found in the teachings of Jesus. Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous” (Matthew 5:44-45).

Yousef references this verse after he returns to prison for the second time, noticing with shock that since reading Jesus’ teachings in Matthew, he no longer harbored anger at his captors. As the book progresses, readers see the author basing more and more of his decisions on what he’s read in the Bible instead of the teachings of Islam, and how God blesses him for it.

green-princeI’m not a political junkie, but as the book progressed past its slower, historical background beginning, even I started to recognize names and events. However, what I recognized even more was the quiet yearning that stood off the page as Yousef realized how much his life was changing simply by reading a New Testament.

As a whole, the book read more like non-fiction than memoir (a fact that I attribute to knowing that English was not the author’s first language) but still kept me turning pages past eleven o’clock, which is a pretty big deal in my world. AND, it’s now a documentary called The Green Prince. Intrigued? You should be. The trailer for this movie was what sparked me to read the book in the first place.

Now it’s your turn! Do you need something new to usher in your fall book-reading season? My giveaway for Son of Hamas starts today and ends Sunday. Follow the link below to enter the drawing! (And keep your fingers crossed that I figure out how to use Rafflecopter.)

Son of Hamas Rafflecopter giveaway

Son of Hamas was provided to me for review by Tyndale House Publishers as part of their blogger network.

Two months ago, I asked God for a mentor. His response was one I didn’t expect. Start a mentoring program at your church.

I was torn. The idea was strong, but so was my understanding of my own shortfalls. I don’t have a lot of free time. I’m scattered. Loose. Willing, but not necessarily able all the time.

God said that was okay. God said He had able covered.

So I took a deep breath, and one Sunday after church, I shared my idea with our pastor’s wife, Linda. She lit up. Yes, she said. We should do this.

I hammered out a framework late one night when the girls were in bed. Linda and I met for lunch. Yes, she said again. You’re on the right track. She gave me a mentoring how-to book. I read it, and got overwhelmed.

I wanted this to be simple, I told my husband. So keep it simple, he said, and kissed my forehead.

018 (661x800)Simple worked. Sign-up sheets went up at church. Names were collected. Surveys sent. Matched prayed for, and made.

Then another hurdle. Put together a training session. Lead it. I felt a little like Moses. Me God? I’m about as qualified as a snail.

I said something similar to Linda and to Jan, a pillar in our church’s women’s ministry. God will anoint you. Just watch. He’ll show up, said Jan.

Somehow, that was comforting. Anoint sounded foreign, but I knew what it meant to show up. I also know God does that. He shows up. And often, all I have to do is ask.

I asked. I prayed in tired, run-on sentences on Saturday night as I made labels and stuffed folders. It felt a little like my former job prepping for Board meetings, and suddenly, I woke up. I was gathering. Preparing. Listing and checking. Saving files and wrapping up all the details I could remember.

Give me the right words. Clear ideas.

And suddenly it was Sunday afternoon, and there they were. The names from the list turned into real live women, and I got excited. This was happening.

017 (800x518)The next two hours were a blur. I spoke the things that had been in my heart – things that made sense to me in the context of mentoring and being mentored. I talked about Naomi and Ruth, and respect and expectations and willingness. Jan read a letter from Linda, who couldn’t be there. We all went into sugar bliss from the outpouring of homemade treats. I sat down with my own amazing mentor, and felt a light click on in both our spirits.

At the end, I watched two women talking and laughing in the parking lot. Around them, the late September wind was warm and dry, and every angle of the landscape reverberated orange and red and yellow.

I know it sounds weird to say, but I tangibly felt their happiness. It was as if the space itself around them was alive and full of connection.

It brings to mind the chorus from Channels Only, a ridiculously old hymn that comes to me sometimes, as songs from growing up in a small country church are apt to do.

Channels only
Blessed Master
But with all Thy wondrous power
moving through us
thou canst use us
every day and every hour.

This was never about me. This was about a group of women who all felt the same way I did, and simply needed a pair of hands and a voice to connect them. Channels only.

When it’s time to broaden your focus

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For the past three years, I have been paring down parts of my life that required regular, scheduled time. Babies do well with one schedule – their own. After I realized this, I started letting things go.

Volunteering. Grad school. Worship team. Work outside the home.

I’m not crying in my soup about it. These were my choices. Some were easy, while others required a little coaxing. Last year I let go of my last remaining scheduled time, and spent every waking moment with my babies.

For me, having twins and a toddler called for that. I physically could not do anything else.

This July, Gabby and Lucy turned one, and Ellis turned three. And just like that, the baby phase was done. We closed shop on breastfeeding, put away all the bottles, took down the swings and bouncers. I remembered that one-year-olds should probably wear shoes.

Life has taken on shades of normalcy. The twins sleep from 7 pm to 7 am most days. Ellis is on a similar routine. Within reason, we know what we can expect from them.

I also know I can expect a little more from myself.

Complete and sole focus on my little girls has been a huge blessing. But I’ve also felt the quiet ache that comes from boxing up pursuits your heart really loves.

As wonderful as motherhood is, there are other people in the world besides the three I gave birth to. And if I’m going to teach my three how and why we should love others, I need to get back to doing the same.

Menomonie CMA peeps hanging in our tiny house.

Menomonie CMA peeps hanging in our tiny house, 2005.

This fall, I’ve decided to start volunteering as a high school youth leader again. Call me crazy, but I love the wild and formative years in a girl’s life. They are gifted with passion, with focus, with feeling. When they stake a claim on something, they mean it.

I’ve seen it over and over. In Ames, IA. In Hopkins, MN. In Menomonie, WI. In St. Croix Falls, WI. God is fiercely doing battle for the minds and hearts of emerging young men and women. And when they are encouraged, loved, and empowered, they grow able to do things far beyond what they could even imagine.

Things that matter most – things that moth and rust cannot destroy, that set their minds on things above, things that do not change like shifting shadows.

Maybe you’re there too, feeling that stirring, that readiness to wake up a part of your life you’ve put to sleep for a while. Say yes. Don’t put it off. Don’t be scared of the commitment, the time, the practice it takes. God’s love is wide enough to cover every life you reach out to, and strong enough to cover your insecurities.

Go. Do. Live in love.

And let me know how it goes, eh? I’d love to hear what you’re venturing into this fall, and connect you with others that might be doing the same thing.

Romance vs. Reality – how we *almost* got a dog

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Some people test drive cars. This weekend, we test drove having a dog.

I’ve wanted a dog since we got married. I have stubborn, animal-loving streak in me (horse girl alert) and for some reason, our farm-yard seems a little IMG_4155 (800x533)empty without a furry caretaker.

But we have this problem. Well, ten problems to be exact.

The chickens.

Don’t get me wrong. I love our chickens. I love fresh eggs and bright yellow yolks. But apparently dogs and chickens tend to be incompatible unless there’s some significant training going on.

A normal person would get a puppy. But I have to admit that A. I don’t know anything about puppy training, B. I’m not particularly patient enough for puppy training, and C. I don’t have consistent time to commit to puppy training.

I thought the answer was getting a dog in the middle of his puppyhood– one that had been given a head start so that we could just come in, finish the job. Enter, Snoopie.

Snoopie was a beautiful guy – a seven month old goldendoodle newfoundland (breeder’s oops, I’m assuming) with long lines and an easygoing disposition. He was medium-sized, black and white, and loved people.

Sigh. Turns out, he also loved chasing our chickens.  And barking. There were also the mammoth-sized piles of waste, and the constant attempts to get in the house. And then this: the realization that I’m more in love with the idea of having a dog than I am with the actual logistics of keeping one.

You know. The romance of an idea vs. the actuality of it.

Because it seems so easy. The beautiful, well-behaved dog. The woman in high-heeled shoes. The basketball player’s arching jump shot. Never mind the hours of training. The years of callouses. The thousands of shots that bounced off the rim.

Romance is not reality. Reality is hard work. Reality is hard-won. And gracefulness is realizing you’re not in a place to put in the time.

No anger. No bitterness. No need to keep wanting something that’s not possible right now.

I know it’s much more trendy to tell people to chase their dreams, reach for the stars, all that business. But what about the times when that’s just not possible? What about the days, months, years when we have to wait?

What about the desires that have to be patiently brought back to bed, time after time, until they finally fall asleep?

What can we learn from knowing our limitations, instead of cursing them?

Snoopie went back home to his family last night. It was a quiet ride, me second-guessing myself, my ability to commit to things. Afterwards, I stopped on the way home for Chinese food. I listened to someone else bang pots around in the kitchen. I let someone else take my plate.

The night air was full of haze and dew when I left. I was tired, but content. The decision to return the dog was the right one. The reality of my life doesn’t leave me with time for extra right now.

To everything a season.

Grow or Die

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Gabby slideThere’s a strange theme running through my summer. It’s everywhere – in the stems of the sugar snap peas that faded from bright green into a tired tan, in the hanging basket that didn’t appreciate our extended vacationing, in the suddenness of my daughters’ ability to do new things.

Things either keep growing, or begin to die.

Ever since midsummer’s solstice, I’ve been reminded how every year is a build-up to the longest day, the day when the sun stretches itself into eighteen hours of light here in the Midwest. And then after that?

This current shortening of daylight, a slow slide from life to dark.

Meanwhile, the twins are crawling, yelling, reaching, wanting, and there are days I don’t know what to do with all this NEED. The only thing that calms me down is a gentle reminder that if they weren’t growing, something would be wrong.

They have to grow. The converse is unthinkable.

But I can’t help but wonder. What about you? What about me? What about us, here, in the pleasant middle of life? The only growing I’m doing is the kind around my midsection that I try to prevent. But that’s not exactly dying, is it?

Or is it?

Now that the girls are one, I find myself trying to set a new list of goals. We survived year one. Go us. So many twin parents say that the hardest year is the first one, so this makes me feel like we accomplished something. (Exactly what, I’m not sure. I’d say mastering the art of carrying two babies up and down the stairs, but I tripped this morning and ruined my record. No one was hurt, btw.)

But I don’t just want to write down five lines of cutely bulleted things to accomplish next year. I don’t want the next phase of our family’s life together to be some sort of stylized bucket list.

I want us to commit to growing. I want to see my babies learn to speak. I want to watch my three year old start loving an instrument. I want to start a female mentoring program for all ages and all walks of life at my church. I want to memorize more of the Bible so I have a better chance at holding my temper and catching my tongue. I want to firm up those places, physical and emotional, where carrying and caring for babies has left me changed.

***

On Monday night, my parents were visiting. The girls were in bed. My husband and father were sitting in the hot tub, and my mama and I relaxed by the dormant fireside. I attempted a set of sit-ups; she caught up on email. After a while, she asked if I wanted to hear a blog post.

I sat up, knees tucked, toes spread quiet on the rug. She read author and blogger Ann Voscamp’s most recent post, How to Get Really Living Instead of Merely Existing. (A must read. Please check it out.) And it struck me, there on the rug, that there really is no middle ground. I really do have to strive to grow in that which I love, or face the fact that I immediately start to wither.  

This principle is in my faith – to grow in understanding, or lose meaning. In my marriage – to grow in love, or risk falling out of it. In my children – to grow in stature, or worry something’s wrong. In my self – to reach toward my goals, or watch them waste in silence.

Grow or die.  There’s no other way to say it. There’s no other way to live.

Why writers need groups…and voices in our heads

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Hey guys, today my writing group compatriot and dear friend Jackie Sommers is breaking down the necessity of writer’s groups. She should know. Her new book Truest will be published by Harper Collins and out on the shelves in 2015 – much of which saw its first reading in our group discussions.

I’d love for you to head over to her blog and see just why it is that writers like me to do the group thing.

Here’s the intro to get you started.

My Writing Group’s cropped-orangeheaderThoughts on Writing Groups

Today, I’m going to introduce you to a few of the women from my writing critique group here in the Twin Cities. We meet once a month to catch up with one another, to provide feedback on each others projects, and to be a sounding board for any writing-related headaches we’re experiencing. That, in fact, is one of the things I love most about my writing group– that it is full of talented, whip-smart women who are flexible enough to be whatever I need them to be: sometimes I need brutal critics, sometimes I need shoulders to cry on. They do it all.

Keep Reading…

 

writers-toolboxAnd if writing is your thing, but you want a few new ideas and voices to kick you in gear, go check out my friend Addie’s post about her favorite tools of the trade – aka the books she keeps in her writer’s toolbox.

Here’s her intro…

10 Books in my Writer’s Toolbox

Because I spend a good deal of my time writing or thinking about writing or avoiding writing, it’s only natural that I’d have a stack of books on the subject. I thought I’d take a minute to introduce you to some of my favorites.

There are lots of amazing books on writing out there, and the ones that are precious to me are influenced by the kind of work I do. Because I am a Christian, and because I am forever trying to figure out my faith, books that explore that strange and stunning intersection between faith and art are important to me. Because I’m interested in the careful mining my own memories and experiences in the form of memoir or creative nonfiction, a lot of my favorites explore the power and potential of that genre.

Keep reading…

 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAMeanwhile, here on the farm… it’s Jason and my 10 year anniversary today. Yep. Ten years. Here’s us on our honeymoon, rocking a little mountain laundromat with our coolness and dirty hiking socks.

I’m so glad I married my best friend. Enough said.

Ten years is a big deal, so tonight we are headed out  sans kiddos (thanks grandma and grandpa) to wander and eat our way through some new downtown Minneapolis spots we’ve had our eyes on.

Butcher and the Boar, we’re looking at you…

 

On asking the Shepherd to #bringbackourgirls

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s_500_opednews_com_0_nigeriangirls-jpg_14934_20140502-68It is somewhere after five A.M., and my twin daughters and I lay in a puzzle of arms and legs in the old blue arm-chair. They will not give up this nursing session, and I’m never in the mood to force them. Not yet. Soon enough they won’t tolerate one laying on the other, wrapped in and under the warmth of my arms.

We sit in the chair long after they finish. I drift in between sleep and prayer, rhythmically rocking with one toe. Such movement for so little force. Lift, drop. Lift, drop. God, protect my little ones. Lift, drop. Give us patience with one another. Lift, drop.

My thoughts meander to a recently read article about the state of the missing Nigerian girls. 276 faceless names. Probably more. Girls whose mothers used to mumble the same prayers in the blue state of half-wakefulness.

God, please bring them home.

Lift, drop. Lift, drop.

And the media argues about publishing names and using images for the stolen girls, and leaders in Nigeria can’t seem to find the right words. It’s almost been a month, but no one knows the exact number of the missing and this is a source of contention. Identity and misrepresentation muddy the search waters. Meanwhile, the world looks on with interest as more and more people post #bringbackourgirls into the rippling tide of their social media oceans.

This too becomes controversy, arguing for the sake of arguing. Whether it’s pressure on the government, ransom offers, troops, hashtags, awareness – no one can say what, or who, or how the stolen girls will come running into the shaking arms of their loved ones. What’s important is that they do.

More than likely, the grieving mothers and fathers of the stolen girls know little about the interest the world has taken in their plight. They do not see the maelstrom gathering on our screens. Perhaps they journeyed to the capital to be a part of a protest, fists and arms and voices finally having a place to let out frustration. Anger at the empty bed in their house. A daughter lost in the unknown, a place where possibilities unraveled into tangles of fear.

And then they went home. Waited. Ached. Searched with other parents. Compared notes. Spent long nights by flickering light. Spent longer days wanting every movement, every sound to be a daughter reappeared.

A video surfaced today. It is purported to be a group of the missing girls, now dressed in black hijabs. Everyone wants to talk about how the girls have been forced to become Muslims, but all I want to do is stare at those beautiful faces – faces that are moving, eyes that are alive.

They are not lost. They just haven’t been found.

So I talk to God as I shake out the wrinkles in my laundry, piling shirts and prayer requests in the old blue basket. The girls stay in my thoughts as I feed my own daughters pancakes for lunch. As I sweep the scuffed up kitchen floor. And then God reminds me of something.

He is many things. Creator. Healer. Father. Shepherd.

And I have been that sheep, lost and found, carried and close. I know the reality of still waters. Of being restored.

I know that shepherds always care for their lost.

11 “‘For this is what the Sovereign Lord says: I myself will search for my sheep and look after them. 12 As a shepherd looks after his scattered flock when he is with them, so will I look after my sheep. I will rescue them from all the places where they were scattered on a day of clouds and darkness. 13 I will bring them out from the nations and gather them from the countries, and I will bring them into their own land. I will pasture them on the mountains of Israel, in the ravines and in all the settlements in the land. 14 I will tend them in a good pasture, and the mountain heights of Israel will be their grazing land. There they will lie down in good grazing land, and there they will feed in a rich pasture on the mountains of Israel. 15 I myself will tend my sheep and have them lie down, declares the Sovereign Lord. 16 I will search for the lost and bring back the strays.– Ezekiel 34: 11-16 (emphasis added.)

I know I can trust this Shepherd to be at work, searching out His scattered. I can keep praying, lift and dropping my thoughts with dogged regularity. And if I ever have a chance to be half way presentable after my littles go to bed, I’ll post my own hashtag pic. Until then, these words will do just fine.

#bringbackourgirls